Shield of Three Lions (44 page)

“Aye.”

“And that he’s put us on the dromond with the queens, a buss round and flat as a lily leaf. We’ll float to Jerusalem safe as yif we were in our mothers’ arms.”

My eyes were already closed. When I opened them again it was to hear my own voice sobbing and screaming. A fearsome nightmare had sat on my face and I thought I would die. Enoch cradled me in his arms,
safe
, I thought,
safe in my mother’s arms
, and I clutched him by the shoulders, then had to laugh when I got a mouthful of beard. If he were my mother, I was a bear cub.

Nevertheless, in the morning I still felt uneasy and vulnerable.

“Here,” I said abruptly, “I want you to have this.”

He held King Arthur’s cup with awe. “Nay, bairn, I canna take such a valuable gift. ’Tis yers.”

But he’d take half of Wanthwaite.

“I want you to have it and there’ll be no further discussion,” I echoed the king.

“Wal, yif ye’re sure.” He rubbed the dull metal. “’Tis the mast highlich gift I e’er received and I’ll treasure it always.” His cornflower eyes were moist and before I could stop him, he leaned forward and smacked me on the lips. An honest kiss forsooth with no insinuating tongue wagging inward.

“Howsomever, Alex, now that ye’ve made yer decision I mun tell ye that King Arthur would be happy yif he knew. Aye, fer he were one of the greatest lairds that e’er came out of Scotland.”

“He was
Scottish?
”

“That he were.” He leaned over confidentially. “And I’ll tell ye summit more, betwixt us twa, he were bore close to our clan. Aye,
Alex, I canna swear but ’tis said that he were a MacPherson! But we mustna crack boast …”

“Perhaps it will bring us good fortune,” I said moodily. “He looked for the Grail; we look for Jerusalem.”

He contradicted me sharply. “Nay, bairn,
we
look for Wanthwaite and this Crusade be a necessary diversion, that’s all.”

Then, in my tinty state, I made the mistake of confessing to Enoch that I’d asked to be excused from the Crusade and how the king had replied.

“Withouten me?” he asked.

“Of course not,” I lied. “I asked for both of us.”

“Hmm.” He narrowed his eyes. “He doesna want to lose control of Wanthwaite, for there’s money to be made. Especially to pay for his Crusade.”

“Do you think we’ll ever return, Enoch? Tell me soothly.”

He placed a heavy hand on my knee. “I plan that we shuld, but I canna guide our stars, sae listen. Yif anything haps to me, I hae sent our writ to Malcolm in Paris.”

“When did you do that?” I flared.

“When we ferst come to Messina. One of my clansmen carried it fer us. I gave Malcolm instructions to guard it well, but he would give it to ye yif I were gone.”

“Would it do me any good without you?” I asked. “You know I’ve not read it.”

“Well, ye mun have a guardian but Malcolm will see to that. We’ll keep it in our clan, ne’er fear.”

“And if something happened to me, could you use it?”

His eyes were cold as the grave in spite of his grin. “Not yif King Richard knew, but I’d see that he didna learn aboot it.”

I understood him well, him and the king too, both my “protectors.” The king would protect me so long as I went on his Crusade, would give me Wanthwaite on his own terms and otherwise keep it to himself. Enoch would protect me so long as my presence helped him gain Wanthwaite, but if I perished he would move on his own. To give the Scot his due, I no longer thought he would kill me himself
or permit someone else to do it, but I knew that he would marry me off to whomever he pleased when he learned I was female.

I was caught between the suck and pull of two powerful forces, Enoch and the king.

THE KING’S WEDDING DAY, 12 MAY 1191, IN THE CITY OF Limassol in Cyprus, whence we had been diverted by storms. Day bright as diamonds, blue sea baubled with gay galleys, air filled with music. Feast day of St. Pancras, St. Nereus and St. Acilleus.

And my thirteenth birthday.

I stared balefully at my three companions, Enoch where he lay snoring and the two red-bellied lizards that crawled across our faces in the dark. All the king’s household had been summoned to serve on this great occasion or nothing could have stirred me, for my head beat like a clapper. I dragged myself from our mean dank hole onto the balcony that o’erlooked the jungle garden, a paradise for reptiles and insects with its festering piles of rotting fruit. To think we’d spent weeks at sea, only to be blown to this miserable backwash. Soon I minced through the slapping leaves and fetid water leets to a giant water wheel where I could bathe in my leisure. By the time Enoch stood yawning above, I was the king’s own fastidious page preened in special finery to serve the new queen.

Together the Scot and I walked through meandering reeking paths to a Roman villa where the first part of the ceremony would take place. There we separated, he to check with the horsemen, I to strew flowers on the trestles. Varlets were still clearing vegetation from the garden here and throwing rushes on the dank ground. Ambroise barked orders to musicians while bishops supervised the arrangement of their altars and tapers. A goodly number of lords arrived before we were ready, their polished armor mirroring the rising sun and adding to my head’s throb. Then long horns
sounded in the distance to announce the approach of Berengaria’s train.

Enoch rejoined me to stand in respectful line with the others. My head drooped a little, but I could still see through my lashes: two fat gentlemen in black and yellow, ambassadors of Sancho VII, King of Navarre; Queen Joanna in Plantagenet red and Sicilian green; and Berengaria, bride to my king. How woodly to have dreamed that I might have stood in her place now, when even she was considered too low of rank, too poor for a king. But at least I was beautiful and he loved me.

“How would you describe the future queen?” I asked Enoch softly.

He stroked his beard. “Her hair hangs on her head richt smertly.”

“Do you include the hair on her upper lip?”

“Alex, dinna be snell. ’Tis namore than a shadow from her nose.”

“Which is too long forsooth. If I were writing with Ambroise now, I’d tell of her moonish pallor and cowpat eyes.”

“For shame, to backbite with such privy invy.”

Aye, for she was the choice of Richards heart. And she was magnificently garbed, better than I’d ever seen her, I’d grant her that. Her tunic was blue silk semé richly embossed with
fleurs-de-lis
, girdled with jewel-studded gold, draped with a gold mantle banded in heavy orphreys of embroidery and sparkling gems. On her head she wore a flower circlet of verbena intertwined with gold, from which fell a white veil as long as her flowing dark hair.

Shrewd, I thought, to cover her face.

Then a gasp went through the crowd. The king had arrived, surrounded by splendid lords and clerics, but who could see them? Richard blazed alone in this company, the rest of us mere ornaments in his frame. His rose-colored silk-satin tunic sparkled with silver and gold spangles cut as suns, stars and crescents, over which was draped a scarlet robe heavily embroidered with gold with the Plantagenet lions in snarling stance; both garments were clasped by an elaborate plaque belt encrusted with jewels. On his head he wore a snug scarlet cap embroidered in gold and a
fleurs-de-lis
crown. Add to
all of this his dazzling smile, his sapphire eyes—what need to say more?

We all moved forward at the chaplain Nicholas’s signal to witness the first part of the ceremony during which Richard and Berengaria knelt silently before the altar as the wedding contract was passed for representatives from England and Navarre to sign. Next the guests were asked for donations. During this period I had a perfect view of the king and gazed on him with wonder. Was it true that he’d once held me in his arms and said he loved me? This greatest and most beautiful of men? A woodly fantasy. Father Nicholas stepped between us for a moment and whispered to the pair, whereupon they exchanged rings. Then Richard raised Berengaria’s veil and gave her the ritual kiss. I leaned forward, agonized, trying to see if he’d used his tongue. I couldn’t bear it. A signal was given at the door and the crowd outside shouted acclamation: Berengaria was queen! And my world was shattered.

But she still must be crowned. Father Nicholas stepped aside as the Bishops of Evreux and Auch took their places before the royal pair who now stood and faced each other. Speaking in Latin, King Richard gave his wife the whole of Gascony south of the Garonne as well as vast holdings in his empire. His voice was low, his gaze serious (but not adoring as it had been with me) as he made Berengaria the most powerful woman in all of Europe.

Thus ended the civil service. Now to the church.

We formed a procession to march to the Latin Church of St. John where the great apostle’s bones were interred. ’Twas claimed that Lazarus also lay there, which must be an error since I’d seen his jawbone in Marseilles. To the rhythm of sacred bells and chants, we wended a slow way past wattle-and-daub huts, now hung with curtains of flowers, crumbling earth walls covered with silk, and trod on Oriental carpets to protect us from camel droppings. Another crowd awaited us at the church and there a full half of our guests would have to wait outside, for the edifice was small. Fortunately I went with the king’s personal household, but Enoch had to stay behind.

Black and musty as a tomb, the church’s interior gradually shimmered with ancient elongated saints caught in the tapers and an anguished
open-mouthed Christ emerged above the altar. Male voices rose from the shadows to chant the antiphon
Missa pro Regibus
as I knelt on the floor, clutched by an awesome chill at the holiness of this ancient tabernacle, the closest I’d yet come to the Holy Land. The Bishop of Evreux sat on his episcopal throne before the rood-screen, flanked by cantors with staves held high, while King Richard and Queen Berengaria prostrated themselves full length on the floor at his feet. Then the royal pair rose, sat on faldstools before the bishop, Berengaria the closer. The chorus changed to a swelling
Salvum fac Reginam
as Berengaria carefully removed her veil, dropped her cape and opened her tunic to reveal her dusky breasts to the bishop, small pendulous pouches with large nipples the color of figs.
Benedicite
, if I couldn’t grow better than that.

When the queen was bared, the bishop dipped his fingers in an ancient Grecian urn by his side and marked a cross on her forehead in oil, then a cross on each breast. Another priest carefully removed the oil with a linen, then burned the cloth on a silver platter. After the fire had subsided, the Bishop of Evreux placed a gold scepter in the queen’s right hand and intoned:

“Accept this symbol of royal authority.”

During the fifteen prayers that followed I was sure that Richard’s eye flicked downward to those breasts at least once and I thought I detected a slight shudder at what he’d purchased.

The bishop placed a rod topped with a cross in her left hand.

“Accept this symbol of royal justice.”

He pulled her clothing back into place, placed a
fleurs-de-lis
crown similar to Richard’s on her bare head, repeated the
Benedic Domine fortitudinem
and made Berengaria Queen of England in the eyes of God. But not in my eyes, never in my eyes, this usurper of love who’d never set foot in England. The king took her hand, smiled, turned to the door and they passed solemnly through it to a great shout,
“Vivat reginam! Vivat reginam!”
Hail to the queen indeed.

Sir Gilbert gave me a sharp nudge to get me on my feet. “How did you like the ceremony, Alex?”

“’Tis a glorious occasion,” I said. Then shuddered. Alais Capet’s
words long ago in Chinon. Well, the king himself had said that our names were similar, likewise our fates.

Back at the Roman villa, solemnity ended as everyone strove to become merry and drunk as fast as possible. Every oven in Limassol had been called into duty for the festivity and I spent hours carving sheep, goats and lambs. Wild turnips and beets were piled high as a man’s shoulder, loaves marked with crosses were heaped on the tables, but most important were the goatskins of fine Cypriot white wine for the repeated toasts. When our meat was ready, the
cor l’eau
sounded, ewerers passed towels and the merry guests took their places, Berengaria for the first time climbing to the highest dais to share the king’s bowl. Lutes, pipes and drums vied with church bells in a noisy clamor; glittering conversation and laughter drowned both as we took platter after platter of viands to the tables. Then the earnest drinking began and soon drained goatskins made a wall for our open kitchen but there were plenty of full ones to bring on and we continued to serve throughout the entertainment. Aye, and to serve ourselves as well, one sip for the page for every goblet filled, and the sips mounted up rapidly.

Ambroise had brought us our first Turkish dancers, though we’d heard of them since Paris and Dangereuse had claimed that one of her choreographies was Oriental. Not so. I stopped on my rounds to gaze open-mouthed at the sight of ladies dancing on their hands, their skirts overhead, their smiles upside-down moons. Soothly ’twas not merely the acrobatic skill, however, that made them such marvels, for they were as graceful as bending flowers no matter how contorted, their toes miracles, their gyrating bellies, even their nasal whines as they jerked their heads to punctuate their rhythms. ’Twas strange, exotic, exciting.