Shield of Three Lions (22 page)

Utterly confused, I tried to sort out her words but ’twas made difficult by my unruly liver. I groped toward what for me was the central issue. “You say that your Countess Marie and her mother Queen Eleanor wrote this tome. Tell me then, does King Richard adhere to its rules? Does he believe in the importance of love?”

“King Richard? Who can say? Of course he believes in chivalry, which is related to the rules, and courtesy.”

“Yes, but I mean in marriage, when he assigns marriages.”

“I don’t know. Besides, it doesn’t apply.”

I thought of my father and mother, for one transfixed moment thought I heard one of their voices, then lost it.

I was sore perplexed. “I don’t understand. Can’t man and wife be lovers? Must marriage always be—brutal?”

She laughed scornfully. “You must have been born in a bluebell. Why do you think Eleanor and Marie devised the rules? Certes they’d both like happy marriages, but their experiences have taught them the odds. ’Tis too unequal—the man rules his chattel while
love
must be free.
Hear me, Alex, I’m to be wed to a smelly old man, Count Conrad. Think you that I love him? But I want to love …”

She looked at me with burning eyes. “Alex, have you passed rule six yet?”

“What is rule six?”

“A boy cannot love until he’s reached maturity.‘”

My mouth went dry. “I believe not.”

“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. We can still be friends.”

She turned and ran, her green train slithering at her heels like a snake. I returned to the camp where I could see Enoch pacing in front of our tent and impulsively I, too, ran toward a small copse of poplars where I threw myself on the new grass to think.

My senses were much addled by Isabelle’s odd information: I was excited and depressed together. Sap ran in my veins akin to the whispering silver leaves above me and I near swooned at the power of my natural spirits. My boiling liver was all ablaze and if Isabelle hadn’t told me ’twas impossible I would have said that I felt desire. Not love, for there was no one to love; not lust, for I hated the impulse which had brought about my mother’s and Maisry’s rapes; but
something.
And that
something
demanded that I not be assigned to some dreadful revolting Conrad of my own. I pressed my hot forehead deeply into the cool grass and prayed to the Blessed Virgin to help me, to influence King Richard’s heart.

Everything depended upon the king.

NOT MORE THAN AN HOUR LATER, Lady Isabelle shouted from the step, “Alex, he’s coming! Follow me to the wall!” Then she turned and ran. I dropped the gold sandals I was polishing and dashed after her.

“Alex, where gang ye? Wait!”

Carrying her train high, Isabelle dodged among flowers all the way to the women’s court, then straight to a high wall and a narrow stair which led to a walkway. Enoch and I followed her upward.

“You can’t really see him yet because he’s beyond that crest, but his fanfare was heard.” She looked at Enoch.

“Who are you?”
“I’m yer friend’s brother,” he said dryly, “what tries to look after him.”

Then we all noticed a fourth person: Princess Alais stood quietly staring into the distance just a few feet from us.

“Your Highness.” Isabelle bowed, as did Enoch and I.

“Please, Lady Isabelle, take your ease with your friends. ’Tis a great occasion, is it not?”

Her expression belied her words but I knew ’twas a great occasion, one that would decide my fate.

“I think I hear a trumpet!” Isabelle cried.

“No,” I said, “’tis a bee on the yellow bloom.”

Enoch shaded his eyes. “No, methinks the Lady Isabelle be right, for I can see dust directly in line with that bit of tile roof in the treetops, there.”

We all strained to see where he pointed and, aye, one of the dark cloud-shadows hanging over the valley seemed to have direction in its movement, then glints of light coruscating in its center: reflections on shields! My liver blazed and my hands shook so that I had to press them hard on the stone. At last, oh, my God, at last! Oh, surely he would grant me Wanthwaite! Surely assign me a fine knight!

“There, I
was
right!” Isabelle laughed over her shoulder as we all heard a faint silvery snarl from the cloud.

At the sound, the slumbering fields below suddenly shook themselves awake as people burst from the turf and ran in circles like ants.

“The king is coming! Get a place on the road!”

“Where? Where? Let me see!”

“The cross, put on your cross!”

“Move those cows!”

Behind us we heard the heavy groan of the castle doors swinging open, then the echoing clatter of hooves as a host crossed the moat to meet the king. They rode below us, archbishops and their companies, Countess Marie in green and gold and her son Count Henry with a hundred barons in their train, each with colorful banners flying. Foot soldiers lined the roadway with archers behind as the men and young boys who’d been waiting in the fields crowded to get a
glimpse of Richard. All were united in that they wore bright crosses on their shields or shirts. Yet none, I trowe, was as excited as I was!

Now the cloud became a sinuous, undulating line creeping over the edge of the world and we could distinguish tiny horses bouncing brightly in the fore. And finally the sound! A slow rumbling roar, a catapult spewing stone from the earths stomach, as the beat of hooves, the thin whine of horns combined with the deafening shout from the common human voice: “Richard! Richard! Hail to the king!”

Trumpets blasted nearby as Marie answered her brothers fanfare, then a choir of men’s voices chanted the
Te Deum
, and holy tapers were lit to give God’s welcome.

“I can see him! I can see him! Is that not the king, Princess? Under the canopy!” Isabelle jumped up and down.

“Yes, ’twas his father’s,” Princess Alais answered, “the silken canopy of Plantagenet scarlet and gold.” A faint pink flushed in her cheeks.

“They’re takin‘ it away so he can be seen by the crowds,” Enoch said. “Look ye, Alex, the one in the center on the big cream destrier. That be yer king.”

Now they were approaching rapidly, the king clearly visible on his Spanish stallion, his red cross set with jewels so that it sparkled like diamonds in the sun, his long crimson shield emblazoned with three golden lions. He was surrounded by magnificent coursers rid by the highest dukes and bishops in the kingdom, but all paled in his roseate light. Closer, closer, borne on a wave of shouted love, answering with a gracious wave of hand, his face turning this way and that, his narrow ruby crown sitting like a halo on his golden hair.

“Hail to King Richard! Hail to the king!” I heard myself scream.

Then for a short time only, just as he reached our side of the Vienne, I was able to see him clearly albeit still somewhat far away. He
was
a god, nothing more nor less, taller, more beautiful, more touched with glory than any mere mortal could be. Like the stone carvings on the cathedrals, he showed his greatness first in size, for he was the largest man I ever remembered, dwarfing all those around him, yet was he well proportioned. His face was oval, his cheekbones
high, his chin chiseled, and his wavy hair deeply burnished in the troughs, gold in the crests. But most of all his manner marked him: imperious, strong and gentle together with the confidence of one who knows his infinite power. Then he disappeared in a copse, to reappear directly below us where we could see only the top of his head and his horse.

“Hail, King Richard!” I screamed again, but he didn’t look upward.

“Come!” Isabelle cried. “Let’s see him in the courtyard!”

She and Enoch ran ahead and somehow I became tangled in Princess Alais’s train.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness. There now, you’re free.”

“Free?”

Our eyes met and held. For the first time, I was aware of an intelligence working. Somber, cold, desperate. Then the moment passed.

“’Tis a glorious occasion,” she said dryly.

“Aye, glorious.”

And I hurried down the stair to find Brise-Tête awaiting us. We were to return at once to begin preparations for the great feast tomorrow. At last my moment had come.

AT DAWN THE NEXT DAY A LARGE wooden tub was placed in our tent by Zizka and Pax, the animal trainer, who was to help me dress.

“I’ll bathe myself, if you please,” I said firmly.

’Twas the first time Pax had applied my make-up and she was obviously confused at this strange request till Zizka whispered into her ear that I was unduly modest because of my youth, and they both withdrew. Carefully I tied the tent-flap behind them, put a long blanket over my shoulders and disrobed beneath it. Still holding the blanket like a cocoon, I slipped my treasure belt into a declivity I’d dug beneath my pallet. Poor Enoch! If he knew of my riches! He kept an accounting of all he spent on me and someday I planned to repay him, but not from this hoard which represented my only security. Quickly I jumped into the tub with a toss of the blanket, then sank completely under to get my hair clean. After much soaping and rinsing,
I dried under the blanket and pulled on the undergarment of my Cupid costume, flesh-colored tights which barely spanned the distance from waist to top of legs and made me appear naked, as Zizka wished. I put aside the rest of the costume to don after I was painted, and slipped on a splattered smock.

“Did you remember your teeth?” Pax asked critically when I emerged.

Soothly I’d forgot and pulled hazel shoots and wool between them, then dipped pumice in a mix of barley flour, powdered alum and salt mixed with honey for a thorough polishing. When I’d finished, we sat on opposite sides of a plank loaded with exotic paints and powders.

She cupped my chin in her hand, her eyes narrowed. “Can’t improve on this much. Yah, to be young again. E’en so, such delicacy fades in artificial light so we’ll enhance nature just a little, sugar-lips. Bah, alabaster powder’s too white—you’re not Brise-Tête. Wait here.”

In a short time she returned with a basket filled with various items and whipped up a concoction of powdered chickpeas, egg white and lukewarm rosewater which she spread evenly over my face, neck and shoulders and the side of my chest that would be exposed.

“Good,” she muttered, “just a touch of sandalwood for the cheeks, turnsole to the lips—press together tight and hold—enough. Now close your eyes: heliotrope on the lids. Wait, I’ll take some off, too blue. We’ll leave your brows and lashes as is. Now I think we’re ready for the hair. Still damp? Good.”

She mixed olive oil, alum and honey in equal parts to quicksilver, combed it through my locks, then turned them around a warm poker to make ringlets in the Greek manner.

“Want to see?” she asked, handing me her precious sliver of mirror, a rare French glass backed with silver.

Moving it from one side of my face to the other, I saw that my skin glowed a pearly pink, my lips a parted rose. Then I saw that my shadowed eyes were my own father’s luminous gray irises staring back and I almost dropped the glass! Gazing into one probing orb after the other, I silently promised him that I
would
succeed, I
would!

Alone in my tent again, I slipped on a tiny bit of gauze fastened
on one shoulder, a shameless garment but what Zizka claims Cupid really wore. Then a narrow gold belt, gold sandals laced up my smooth legs, my bow and quiver of arrows, my mask and my wings.

“Zizka!” I screamed. “Come here!”

After a long time he appeared, his black brows drawn down. “Alex, you’re not the only one who has to get ready. What’s the matter?”

“These wings,” I said angrily. “They stink.”

He sniffed, bellowed, “Tue-Boeuf!” Then, when Pax’s husband came, “Tell that imbecile cook Julian that this flesh has turned rank and maggoty. He’ll have to kill another swan. And at once!”

When Tue-Boeuf had trotted off, the jongleur examined me carefully, turning me all around. “Well, I must say that Pax has excelled herself. As pretty a morsel as will be served this night.”

“When will I have my audience?” I asked anxiously. “Have you arranged it yet?”

“Audience?” He laughed grimly. “Not I. That will depend on how much the king likes your performance.”

I looked up, both appalled and disbelieving. “My performance? What has that to do with my interview? I’m not auditioning to be the king’s troubadour; I have important business to discuss.”

“That’s your affair,” he drawled, “if he chooses to see you. So take care that you sing sweetly and true; watch your high tones which tend to go flat.”

“You promised in Paris. Fat Giselle said absolutely that she could get me an audience, that she was the only one, that …”

“Complain to Fat Giselle, then. I said I would bring you to Chinon and I have.”

“But your friend Ambroise?” I would have wept except that I was afraid of smearing the heliotrope.

“Of course, but Ambroise is a troubadour, not a sorcerer. He can hardly persuade the king to see you if you don’t impress him, can he? Perform as splendidly as you look and you’ll have no worries.”

“But I
can’t,”
I wailed. “You say yourself that I’m no singer. You promised!”

“I said I’d get you to the king and that I
thought
Ambroise could
arrange an interview, but there’s nothing in your contract. Come on, let’s go for those wings ourselves.”

“I don’t believe you,” I insisted as he wrapped me in his cape. “Enoch said he would put everything in writing: he must have told you that I should have audience with the king and you cheated him.”

Zizka looked at me, bemused. “You overestimate my abilities and perhaps Enoch’s intentions. I remember distinctly what he said: ‘I will then be able to meet with the king,’ and that’s all. I supposed he was representing your interests. But come, you’ll do well and get your precious interview, and such talk now will only upset you.”

In that he was right, but he should have thought of it sooner. As I trotted beside him, I hardly knew whom to blame more, Enoch or myself. How could I have been so dim-witted? To have let him make the terms of the contract! And now, here I was,
auditioning
for my audience like a lowly jongleur—except that I had less talent than a croaking frog. ’Twas an ordeal of single combat which I’d entered with no arms. No wonder Zizka had rehearsed me so unmercifully—I’d
needed
it!