Shield of Three Lions (35 page)

“Alex, it’s a crane!” the king called. “Careful, he’ll—”

The crane thrust his head straight to his body and forced the hawk to give chase. Twisting and turning at sharp angles, the crane soared and dipped as the sturdy falcon followed close. Below, we urged our horses to follow the chase over the uneven ground. For a half hour or more we raced so. Finally the gerfalcon prepared to stoop, but by this time the crane was three hundred feet at least, a dark blue spread being attacked by a silver dot! The dive! The crane swerved—a miss! The gerfalcon fought to recover, climbed again—the crane was out of sight.

“What a heart!” the king cried. “A worthy little bird, but outclassed. Cranes are wily quarry, hard even for Penchant.”

Keenly disappointed, I accepted Skyrow back on my leather glove and attached the jesse.

The king hugged me briefly. “Come, let’s go to a lower meadow for warblers. There you’ll see what a staunch hawk you have.”

In a short time I’d known the thrill of the kill many times over and could hardly believe it when the sun shone directly overhead and I saw that our bags were full. We prepared to find a meadow where
we could build a fire. The king rode forward while I trailed behind, a warm suffusion spreading in my chest-spoon that I suddenly recognized as happiness.

Then the king stopped and waited. Without a word he took my hand and we continued slowly together through the unpathed forest. Fragrant pines mixed with large-leafed planes and twisted black oaks to create a green mystery pierced occasionally by a slanted ray of sun. Unseen in the boughs a bird traced our passage with a four-noted song like a thin fife playing. The king whistled a contrapuntal tune as our horses’ heads bobbed in rhythm.

Suddenly we emerged on a high promontory overlooking the sea, a calm stretch of glitter under an intense sky. We sat there a long time, our spirits in perfect communion. Again we rode slowly into the shade, the air so pungent that it made me toty We were rocking on our horses as tangled limbs moved overhead.

“Wait,” said the king, “I think I hear a stream.”

We dismounted, trod on a carpet of small blue flowers toward a cluster of rocks. I followed the king where he squeezed between boulders and we were in a perfect enclosure of stones and trees cut by a stream with a small weir. In the mist above the fall, a rainbow arched.

“Too perfect to be true,” Richard said. “Almost makes me believe in my sister Maries fancies. Come.”

He sat on the flowers, hypnotized by the rainbow, and gradually his happy mellow humor turned melancholy. I respected his silence, but felt more and more anxious. Finally, he was overcome by despair and stretched out on a sunny patch beside the brook, covered his face with his arms as I gathered wood for a fire, cleaned the birds and plucked them, improvised a spit. Soon a thin line of smoke rose to the intense blue above, the birds crackled on the flame, and my stomach grucched happily. Let him sleep for now, I thought, and we’ll talk later.

When the first birds were done, I shook him gently and handed him the juiciest woodcock on a stick. He pushed it away.

“Get me my wine, on the saddle.”

He drank deeply from the leather flask, leaned back and closed his eyes again.

After a short hesitation, I ate the three birds that were cooked, and put on more. I took care to eat silently, not sucking or smacking, so the king could sleep. The second spit was ready—should I wake him?

Suddenly he sat up. “Did you hear something?”

“There are squirrels in the trees.”

He lay back down, but I knew he didn’t sleep because the muscle jumped in his cheek. Still, best not disturb his thoughts. Yet his thoughts disturbed me forsooth; I felt them like a cold draft chilling my spirits. Possibly this opportunity would be lost after all. I berated myself for arrogance, the sin of pride. How could I have thought I could reach the king—earn his eternal gratitude—when no one else could?

He spoke without opening his eyes. “Do you know the hour?”

“We’re out of range of bells, Your Highness, but the sun runs midway past Nones methinks.”

He sat again, sighing, brushed leaves from his hair. “I’m loath to leave.”

“We could t-talk,” and I cleared my throat to take the wobble out. “Enoch and I’ve seen many wonders since you’ve been gone. Would you like to hear about them?”

I took his lack of reply to mean that he didn’t mind at least.

“A guide told us about a Greek hero named Oedipus, whose ghost lives in a theater here. Well, ’twas a most interesting tale for it treated on a … a …”—
Deus juva me
—“a family curse.”

His hard eyes raked me, but still he didn’t speak, so I faltered on.

“It seems that the pagans believed in curses, as some do now, only I think that betimes such curses cannot be true. ’Tis like the relics, you see, where one contradicts another.”

“No, I do not see,” he said coldly. “What are you trying to say?”

My head was beginning to sweat under my hat. “Well, for instance, if the Devil appeared to someone on a particular Friday and someone else far away said he’d seen the Devil at the same time, one of them would be wrong, that’s what I mean.”

He lost interest because of my meandering, drank from his flask again and prepared to lie back. I rattled on with shallow breath.

“Some doctors claim that a person is the Archfiend because he comes from a cursed family with witches as ancestors, and therefore this person gets ill—to pay for all the sins.”

The flush began at his throat and worked upward, a faint line of whelks appearing at his jaw, and I spoke rapidly before he could stop me.

“But I say that this person couldn’t possibly be the Devil because I personally have seen the Devil. Therefore, you see, the doctors are wrong!”

His choler suddenly subsided, an encouraging sign that I was making headway.

“You’ve seen the Devil?” he repeated slowly, brows up.

“And he looked nothing like you,” I affirmed boldly.

“And therefore—forgive me if I seem slow but I’m overwhelmed by this information—the doctors of Salerno are mistaken in their diagnosis and I need no exorcism after all?”

“Aye, that’s correct. They may think you’re the Fiend, for I’m sure they’re honest men—but I am witness to their error. I saw Satan—very close to, touched him.” I shuddered.

The king smiled briefly—instantly relieved, I trowe—but then became solemn again. “So you say, but you, too, might be mistaken. Tell me the details.”

But I’d divulged all I could and still keep my own soul intact. “Forgive me, My Liege, but I’m sworn to secrecy. On my honor as a baron I swear to you that I speak the truth: you are not the Devil for I have seen him in person.”

“God’s balls, Alex, you can’t tease me so! I’m your king!”

’Twas the first time he’d sounded normal since his sojourn and I thrilled to think that my plan was working. How lively those blue eyes, how twitched the lips!

“I command you to tell.”

Caught between duty and Hell, I ventured a little further, for this might not hurt. “Well, have you—do you know Fat Giselle? Or maybe have heard of her?”

“Fat Giselle?” He caressed the name. “No, I believe not. Should I have?”

“Well, Dagobert said that everyone in France knew her. And then of course she knows all about you, even your thoughts.”

“Whaaat?”
He bent forward, now fascinated by my revelations. “Good God, I hope not. How does she know?”

“She is a—she has—certain powers,” I said lamely.

A chill returned to his manner. “Is she by chance a spy for King Philip?”

“Oh no, not at all.” Though I did recall her speaking to the other witches about some sort of protection they received from the King of France.

“She’s more a sorceress, you might say, with second sight.”

“A witch?”

Averting my eyes, I nodded.
Deus juva me
, I hoped I was not going too far, for ’twas not part of my plan to lose my soul in the process of saving the king.

“And that’s how you know about the Angevin curse?”

Again I nodded.

“How my great-grandmother flew out of the window on a broomstick? Yes, well I don’t want to demean Fat Griselda, but ’tis common knowledge.”

“Giselle,” I corrected him. “Anyway, that’s how I know you’re not Satan.”

“I’m glad that my own private soothsayer thinks so well of me,” he said dryly, “but I confess I’m surprised that the topic was raised. I mean, imagine, dear Alex, if I should say that your Scot had assured me that you were not the Archfiend from Hell.”

For a moment I thought he might be mocking me, but no, ’twas much too serious.

“Well?” he prompted.

“She didn’t exactly raise the topic,” I mumbled.

“Ah yes, you said that you’d touched the Devil.” He reached forth and caressed my cheek, making me quiver like one of the poplar leaves overhead. “Now that would convince me and only that, if you’ll tell.”

“If I do—Fat Giselle threatened that—”

He removed his hand. “Well, for a moment I hoped, but I see
I was wrong. You’re like all the others, love me when you want something—in your case, Wanthwaite—but otherwise care little for your king and his suffering.”

Again a brief bitter smile twisted his lips, but was instantly replaced by an expression of such wanhope that it broke my heart.

Farewell, immortal soul. “’Twas because I wanted to meet with you that I went to that awful place on rue de Gratte-con.”

“Gratte-con?” Now his lips soothly twitched and I hurried on.

“Aye, where Fat Giselle and Zizka live, for she said she could get me an audience with you. However, the thunder o’erwhelmed my knocks on the door and I fell backward into her chamber where a coven was in progress.”

’Twas hard to get to the point, for the king insisted that I repeat every word the witches had said, how they’d looked and behaved. I’d forgot the exact invocations but remembered the gist.

“But all the time I sensed we were not alone because of the smell. There was incense and the sweet spice of my wine but something else, evil and pungent, but also familiar.”

“You tantalize me. Was it Satan?”

“Aye, behind a black curtain. When they brought him forth, I recognized the stench at once for ’tis the same as most goats.”

“Satan was
a goat?”

“Aye.” I was surprised at his surprise, for everyone knows that Satan often appears as a goat.

He bit his lip, his eyes sparkling eagerly. “Go on, I must hear more.”

I felt my face heat and I stared at my feet as I talked, o’erwhelmed by fear and humiliation at my heretical act.

“We lined up on all fours to—”

I told of each witch’s prayer, then came to myself.

“I gazed straight into the pit of Hell and thought I must swoon. ’Tis not easy to be wicked.”

“No?” the king drawled.

“But I knew I must see you—must get Wanthwaite. So I closed my eyes, held my breath and kissed his fud.”

There, ’twas done, I stared glumly at the heavens waiting for
them to crack, and sure enough heard a dreadful thumping and ripping as the Devil bent to take me.

But he took the king instead!

Shocked out of my wits, I saw Richard tumble flat to the ground and go into a fit!
Benedicite
, what had I done? He choked, gave forth strangled cries, beat the ground with his fists, kicked his feet. I threw myself on him in terror.

“Oh stop, My Lord! Please! Should I get some wine?”

He continued to rant breathlessly, then rolled to his back, his face bright red, his eyes full of tears, two poplar leaves sticking to his wet lips, and he couldn’t breathe.

“I’ll get some water!” I scrambled to my feet, but a gesture stopped me.

He continued to pant, beat the ground, screwing his face till his eyes closed. Then I realized that he was
laughing.

I settled back on my haunches and waited, amazed. He went on and on until I thought that it must be the ague after all, only a peculiar form I’d never seen before.

I shook his head gently to help him recover. “I don’t think you heard me aright, Your Highness. I made obeisance to
Satan.
”

At which he went into wilder paroxysms, so I could do naught but sit grimly and watch him curl, uncurl, clutch his sides, howl and collapse. Finally he gasped out a request that I tell the whole tale again, omitting nothing.

Stiffly, I tried to oblige though he interrupted constantly.

After a very long time, he was exhausted and had to stop. He then sat and hugged me tight.

“Alex, you’ve helped me more than you know. I’m convinced that you really did see Satan and I know as fact that you’ve never kissed my fud, so I couldn’t be Satan.”

I froze like ice at such a dreadful statement and was glad he couldn’t see my face.

“And I’m well on my way to health again, enough at least to feel a ravenous hunger. Are there any birds left?”

I watched him greedily devour three wizened robins and hoped I’d been right to make such a sacrifice. Certainly he did seem better,
though he’d missed the point of my confession. Well, God works in mysterious ways, the priests say, and if I could be an instrument in his salvation even at the price of my own soul, I guessed that on the Heavenly ledgers ’twas a small price.

Inwardly I couldn’t help worry about my mother and father, however. They wanted to meet me in Heaven, that I knew, and now we’d never see each other again. I was moved by a dreadful woe where my soul used to be. But at least I’d get them out of Purgatory, thanks to the king, and therefore ’twas important for their welfare as well as mine that he stay alive. As for my own descent into Hell, I would think of that later.

The king finished his repast, washed his face and prepared to leave. He lifted me to put me in my saddle, but held me a moment.

“Thank you, Alex, for your confidence. Laughter is both cheaper and less painful than exorcism, I believe, and probably more effective. Put a high fee on your services; you deserve it.”

And he kissed me, all the fee I wanted ever.

We had come inland farther than I’d realized and now trotted through Mileto, then on a dusty path toward a mud-colored village, and beyond that in the distance the band of blue sea. Richard called to a passing shepherd and learned that the village was Gioja.