A Rare Bird

England, 1510

“The eight of cups.” Margery says, laying the card flat before me. I look to her eyes, hoping they’ll tell me if that’s a good sign or not. But they only show concentration. She was always good at putting up a mask.

“There’s a sense that... somethings missing.” Margery’s amber eyes flicker to me. “This card suggests a need to escape, to free oneself of disappointments..”

Ha! Disappointments, indeed.

When I married Barnaby Boville, I was no longer able to be myself. I was too indulged in my girlhood, my new husband told me. I had been too free to wander and read whatever I pleased. As a married woman, I must behave. I am to give him an heir or die trying. But I have heard too many stories, known too many women traumatized or left dead from childbirth. And yet, it is our duty. It is my husband’s will, and damn my own, apparently.

If I am to be a good wife, which is all I might ever be allowed to be , then I have to be quiet and get with child. I am to forget the passion I once had of reading, of learning. I can no longer ride horses wildly or shout when I’m angry. I am to shrink into the carved statue of the virgin mary that peered down at me on my wedding day in disappointment.

And so I am to no longer be Agnes Selwyn. After stepping out of that church, I became a stranger named Agnes Boville.

“I’d like to get some air.” I stand, and half wonder if Margery will join me, but she has lost herself in the cards again.

I leave the quiet, stuffy room, and flee down the hall, out to the front yard. And then I remember. Barnaby has put a gate on our front path, a looming iron beast that towers into the sky. And I do not have a key.

There is the caw of a crow, somewhere up on the roof. The call of a wren, and then a sparrow. I focus on these comforting, familiar sounds and try to block out the red anger that threatens to rip into me. Birds have always been fascinating to me. Comforting, fascinating, incredible beings. I take a few steadying breaths of the late afternoon air, and then go back inside. This time, I make my way slowly. A small squawk from my husband’s study makes me pause. The sound… there’s something familiar in it. Not the sound exactly, but more like the feelings behind it.

Grief. And a little hopelessness.

I straighten and push through the door to the room.

There is a cage. It can only be a cage, though a sheet lay over it. My heart beats like wings within my chest.

I cross the room on silent feet, and stop before the cage, reaching out a hand. I lift the corner of the sheet. I cannot stop the gasp of delight and awe that escapes my lips.

A very large bird of the most brilliant and bright colours. Red, blue, yellow, orange. Intelligent, curious eyes study me.

“Hello, there.” I whisper.

“Hello, hello.”

Instinctively, I jump back, dropping the sheet.

“Hello, hello.” the bird squawks again.

A talking bird. I’ve read about them, heard that King Henry has one, and some of Barnaby’s more noble friends as well. But to actually see one!

I creep forward once more, and lift the sheet, folding it back so the large, colorful bird can see the room. We just look at each other for a moment, it’s gentle black eyes holding my own.

“You must be from very far away.” I say to the bird, watching its colourful feathers as it stretches its wings. “Somewhere over the sea, in the new world perhaps.”

The bird moves her head this way and that, trying to understand me.

“I should name you. I know my husband wouldn’t have bothered.” No, he would only think of how it might make him look rich and interesting, to have such an animal. Like a prize. A rare, captured creature. My stomach jolts with the familiar though. Yes, Barnaby does like to collect his rare birds. Including me.

I tap my fingers against the desk.

“Hope.” I say, and the bird lets out a squawk that sounds light and full of joy.

My heart is dancing a reel, and I can’t begin to think straight. But something is bothering me, something that nags at the back of my mind.

I’m a falconer’s daughter. I’ve always loved birds. Barnaby knows this, surely. Surely…?

And yet, why would he not tell me? It can’t be a gift. My birthday was last month.

The bird shifts on its feet. My gaze catches upon the small, golden lock hinged onto thee cage door. Before I know what I'm doing, I reach for it.

“What are you doing in here?”

My hand freezes halfway to the cage. I know that cold voice.

I turn, and there is my husband, staring at me from the doorway. His face is contorted into rage.

In an instance, I become Agnes Boville again.

“I’m s-sorry, Milord. I heard the-”

“You know very well you aren’t allowed in here.”

“Yes, but-”

“Enough! Run along, I need some quiet. I certainly can’t get that with you around.”

I blink, and then move toward the door. But I glance back at the cage, stopping as I catch the eye of the bird.

“What species is it?” I ask, surprising myself. My husband blinks at me.

“Out.”

I stride down the hall, trying to master my anger, hold it down before it rattles at its bars. Margery is still sitting at the little table with the cards before her.

“Six of wands.”

She looks up at me, her eyes bright. “Courage. Strength.”

I pause in the doorway, an idea whirling through my mind.

I wait until my husband has gone out to his gambling, and then I sneak back into his office.

Hands shaking, I lift the sheet once more on the bird’s cage.

“Hello, hello.”

I smile. “Hello, Hope.”

I walk to the bookshelf, running a finger along the spines. Barnaby has his books sorted by topic, and I quickly find the small section on birds.

There!

Tropical birds. I pull down the thin book and leaf through the pages. Not a moment

later, I find a picture of the bird before me.

“You’re a Macaw.” I say breathlessly.

I read on, passages about the green jungles and lush rainforests where the Macaw lives.

But my heart catches when I come to a paragraph about Macaws being social animals. They often live in groups. And this poor bird, here all alone…

“One day, they’ll be endangered..” Margery says, standing in the doorway.

I look up. “Endangered?”

“They’ll be in danger of going extinct.” Margery says. “Some types of Macaw will go extinct. It’s no surprise, really. One day, their jungles will be destroyed. And more and more people will want them for a pet.”

“Is this… have you had a vision about them?” I ask. Margery comes into the room, stopping before the cage.

“Isn’t it strange?” She asks, “That we claim living things as our own?”

I think of my husband and his straining voice, his hand gripping onto my wrist. I think of the bird’s cage, locked tight.

“Yes. I think it is, rather.”

“There’s a ship.” Margery says now, turning to me. “A ship bound for the place where that bird came from.” Her eyes are ablaze. “It leaves tonight.”

I breathe in and out. Sure, and decided. Like Agnes Selwyn.

“Then so do Hope and I.”

In my chest, there is a bird that soars on the open wind, free and wild once more.