Shield of Three Lions (34 page)

“Air ye claimin’ that the king did such? But why?”

He pointed at me. “Ask the licker there. The king guards him with one of his mercenary butchers. Watch your stones, that’s my advice.”

As he reeled away, Enoch slowly lowered his weapon and looked at me.

“Well, we ha summit to talk about.”

“He acts as if he’s the abused one!” I protested hotly. “They tried to kill me, right there by that barrel of fish, and would have too if Mercadier hadn’t happed to come by.”

“Happed?”

“Well, he was looking for me.” And I told him every detail of that awful evening, making it clear that it was actually his fault for deserting me so. All the time he kept a queer look as if wondering about something else. When I finished he took my arm and led me
back to the little garden behind the square where there was some privacy.

“Alex, tell me sooth, befar Mercadier come upon ye—did those scoundrels touch ye?”

“Aye,” I whimpered, “they pushed me and pulled at my clothes, kicked at me as if I were a mad dog.”

He sat entranced, whistled, looked upward, whistled again, then spoke in broad Scots which meant he was upset. “I dinna knaw exactly hoo to put this, bairn. Ye say they kicked ye lak ye
war a dog.”

“Aye. A
mad
dog.”

“But—think befar ye jangle—did they touch ye like ye war
a weasel?”

“A
weasel?”
I
gazed
on him with wonder, remembering my fathers pet weasel at home named Sly. “You mean wrapped me around their necks?”

“Nay.” He looked pained. “There be an ancient saugh:
As nicht turns to day on God’s easel / Swa boys chaunge to girls in the weasel.”

A cold wind blew straight from the firth to my innards. How had the Scot guessed my secret?

“I’m a boy,” I whispered.

“Aye, I knaw ye’re a boy,” he said impatiently, “but …”

“But what?” I sat on my hands to conceal their shaking.

“But whar there’s a hole there’s a worm.”

His words were significant, enigmatic, and he looked at me as if I were sick.

“I haven’t eaten any apples. Didn’t you tell me they were too green?”

He sighed heavily. “Boy, thar be men and women as ye ken.”

Why wouldn’t he leave this dangerous subject? “Aye.”

“And they mun gae twa by twa, na matter quhat happed to yer mother and friend; ’tis in the way of nature.” He scowled darkly. “But when men don’t have wenches to satisfy their call—wal, betimes they dig ore in black earth.”

Something stirred in my memory. “The Albigensians?”

He was vastly relieved. “Aye, ye ken my meaning then.”

Aye, Buggers from Buggeria.”

He began to stand. Anxious as I was to be finished with this threatening subject, I couldn’t quite let it go.

“What does it mean?”

Again he sighed deeply.

“I dinna knaw exactly hoo to tell ye.” He put his arm over my shoulder. “Ye see, in Scotland we hae no such evil wights.”

“Soothly?” ’Twas the first good thing I’d e’er heard of Scotland. “Why not?”

“Wal, ye shuld knaw a wee bit of our history. The ferst man to conquer all of Britain—this be in the olden days—was naturlich a Scot. He should hae ruled the whole island, England as well except … that he war a sinner in the manner we’re speakin’ of. Sae God sent him to Scotland and sayed as hoo the Scots mun be ruled by England until they could get rid of this sin in their blood. And that’s why we have no such sinners today. Do ye follow?”

Not at all. I’d never been so confused in my life.

“You mean like Adam was thrown out of Eden?”

“Quhat a thing to say!” he cried, outraged. “Ferst, Scotland
be
Eden and, second, Adam’s sin war normal, whereas that king … God doesna like kings who …” His voice trailed off, and he looked at me, speculatively. “Alex, ye sayed the king took care of ye.”

“Aye. He, Ambroise, Sir Eduard—all were kind. But the king most of all, of course.”

“How so? Tell me facts.”

“I slept in his pavilion, he held me …”

“While ye slept?”

I thought about it. “Only once, the first night.”

“Now think carefully. How war ye both dressed?”

Again my skin bumped. That same question. “In my clothes, which were wet as I remember. The king was as most men, without clothing.”

“And ye slept. Air ye sure?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?”

“I hope
I’m
wrang, bairn,” he whispered, “or I be slow as a snail in a snowstorm. I’m thinkin’ aboot what that varlet said.”

He kicked at puffballs in the grass, bit his lip in vexation, studied
me in silence. Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me up purposefully.

“Where are we going?”

“Cum to the church. I need to thank old stick-tooth fer a miracle myself.”

WHEN WE RETURNED to the palace, we ran into Sir Gilbert under the arch.

“Well, Alex,” he purred, “I hear you had a bad experience down by the waterfront, and after I explicitly warned you about the place. Next time you’ll heed me.”

Before I could sputter reply, Enoch put himself between us. “There’ll be no next time fer ye, ye envious viper. I’d take great pleasure in defanging yer smirking mouth. Do ye take my meaning?”

Sir Gilbert paled. “No need to threaten me, especially when you dump your brother into my lap. Look after the whelp yourself if you’re so concerned.”

The page turned as quickly as he could and shuffled away.

“Thank you, Enoch,” I said.

He set his mouth grimly. “’Tis anely the beginning, bairn.”

RICHARD ARGUED WITH THE WILY PISANOS FOR A week about the price of his hired fleet, though everyone said the ship merchants of Italy were worse than the Jews when it came to money. Whatever the final settlement, the king was visibly relieved to announce that we would be sailing on August seventh. Half our company, led by Ranulf de Glanville and the Archbishop of Canterbury, would sail at their own expense directly to the Holy Land; the rest of us would proceed at a leisurely pace toward Messina in Sicily where Richard hoped to pick up gold and supplies inherited by his widowed sister Joanna, Queen of Sicily. There, too, we would combine forces with France again.

Enoch and I sat on our cramped deck-space aboard the king’s ship, the
Pumbone
, on a bright windy day and heard the bells tinkle for Mass throughout the twenty galleys and
buzas
surrounding us. The King raised his mighty arms and shouted
“Annuit coeptis”
and we were off! Sails whipped like laundry waves dashed, sailors sang in joy We had barely gotten used to the roll and pitch of our deck when we dropped anchor to camp at Nice; the king planned to sail only a few hours each day in hopes that his own fleet might o’ertake us.

We put ashore for two days in Genoa where the king visited King Philip who was sick with the gripes. Richard returned in a black rage; Philip had again raised all his querulous complaints about Alais, the Vexin, and even about the weather. Furthermore, he’d ended his vitriol with a demand that Richard give him five of the Pisano galleys, then threatened to leave the Crusade when Richard offered only two.

Again we sailed southward, and this time ’twas a marvel that we moved at all, so glassy the sea, so lethargic the breeze. The shore rolled by us magically, as if on silent wheels. It took us two weeks to reach our next port, Salerno. Here King Richard planned to stay ten days, for he was determined to conquer his chronic physical ailments before he launched his campaign in the east. Therefore he rode off with his counselors to the Salerno Medical Academy, the finest institution in the world.

When the king returned, his eyes were as tragic and hollow as those of the cursed heroes of that southern land. Never had any of us seen him in such melancholy humor, almost a sickness of the spirit. Naturally we were exceedingly curious to know what had brought about such a plunge in the king’s mood. Then Ambroise told me that the great doctors had diagnosed Richard’s ailments as a curse from God: two ancient curses had tainted his family and thereby destined Richard himself to become the Devil incarnate. No wonder the king was desperate. However, there was hope. The doctors were sure that in time they could cure the monarch, rooted in the past though his disabilities might be, by the powerful tool of exorcism.

And gold.

The king spent two silent days brooding, then announced that he would go hunting. However, he cast cold eyes around the company and added a fateful word: alone.

Pandemonium followed. Even knowing the king’s choleric humor, the lords protested vehemently. ’Twas unheard of for a great monarch to risk his life by venturing alone amidst hostile people, they said, meaning that the king’s mood virtually guaranteed some dire incident.

“These rabble are insurrectionists, mark me well,” warned the Bishop of Evreux. “They would delight in bringing down their overlord.”

“I don’t believe there’s a true knight in the entire country,” Baldwin of Bethune added. “Therefore they will attack in a pack, as wild dogs. Chivalry is unknown here.”

Richard listened impatiently. “I want to be alone, and that’s an end to the subject.”

Even Mercadier could not prevail. “I can follow so discreetly that no one would know I am there.”

“I
would know, Mercadier, which is all that matters.”

The whole company fell into a deep gloom.

Richard gazed around himself, rattled. “I see what I must expect in Jerusalem—an army of women. Well, I will appease your fears just this once. I will be protected by my page.”

He pointed to me.

For one brief uncomfortable moment, I was the center of scathing attention. Then the counselors conceded to Richard’s wishes.

“Alex, arm yourself well against my enemies,” the king ordered, so everyone could hear. “Meantime we’ll see if we can find you a little gerfalcon, in case you’re not in combat the whole time.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” I said happily.

Soon Enoch had pulled me to our patch of deck and was whispering furiously in my ear. “Ye’ll nocht go forth into this treacherous trap with the king alone.”

“You heard. No one can stop him.”

“Hark to what I say: someone can stop ye.”

“Are you advising that I disobey the king?”

“Nay—and neither will I,” he said mysteriously.

Let him squirm and let the others deride my assignment. I might not be able to fight off attackers, but I had a plan to save the king nonetheless. Fate had decided that I was to accompany the monarch; fate had therefore decreed that I cure him. I twisted my mind to the purpose, devised and discarded a dozen plans before I found the perfect one. Now all I needed was a period of peace and quiet with Richard, and he would be a new man.

King Richard looked healthy and happy as we pranced away at dawn. Dressed in hunting green with no royal insignia, his skin tanned, his hair streaked gold from the sun, mounted on a shining black courser, he could have been a magical monarch from elfland. I, too, had shed the Plantagenet red for my heather tunic Pax had made me, and I trowe that our “disguise” did give us a great sense of freedom as we splashed along the verge of the retreating tide. I pressed Thistle to keep apace with the king’s doubled image in the water, for he urged his stallion to a gallop.

Then he turned inland, leaping over ditches and hedges before the eyes of startled peasants where they bent to tend cane and grapevines. We thundered across fields, down lanes, past villages, faster and faster. ’Twas midmorning by the time we climbed a narrow mountain valley cut in twain by a roaring fall. Although the sky was bright overhead, half the valley was already cast in gloom deep as night and we stayed on the sunny side. ’Twas as unlike England as the bottom of the sea. Black-trunked knarry trees twisted out of rocks, then sprouted leaves more gold than green and the air was filled with a luteous haze. Strange flowers abounded in tiny crevices, and in the meadow delicate pastel stars clustered on miniature bosks.

Below us we spotted a blue heron fishing in a stream at the bottom of a ravine. King Richard removed his falcon Penchant’s hood but held his jesse. Then he let forth a mighty shout as I beat sticks against a hollow tree, and the heron took wing!

“Track, Penchant!” The king flung his bird.

The heron lowered its head, its stout wings pulling its weight slowly aloft as it tried to outfly the hawk, but Penchant’s swifter pinions cut the air like butter as he rose easily above his prey, flying in tight circles till he was exactly positioned. Then the stoop! Struck like lightning in a volley of feathers and blood! Tangled bodies dropping into the pines as we edged our mounts down to bag the bird.

Richard grinned like a boy. “Your turn, Alex. Let’s find another waterfowl if we can. If one is here, there must be others.”

He hooded Penchant again and I made the little gerfalcon ready, biting my lip in excitement. We rode for some time without seeing anything but warblers, when of a sudden, a huge white bird rose from the trees.

“Track, Skyrow!” I shouted with a fling.

My valiant little hawk streaked like an arrow up the steep, easily topping the prey. But then the white bird gave forth a raucous cry, turned a red beak sharp as a sword.