Shield of Three Lions (65 page)

“Women!” I cried so that she jumped. “We need men! Aye, and perhaps horses. This work is too much for a few women.”

Now she was equally astonished. “These be knights, Lady. They hunt and fight, but doona grub on the floor.”

“They’ll work if they want to sleep here,” I said sternly.

She was too astounded to reply, so I gave her instructions about where the water and pails might be found, if the latter still existed, and she called her women who volunteered their own spades and axes to the piles of filth. Together we lugged the battered rats into the court where several of the knights took their ease in the declining sun.

“With a heave and a ho,” I imitated the villagers, and flung the slops where the viscous stuff accidentally stained a few boots.

After the first shock, the offended knights jumped up and attacked a few innocent women with fierce fury, hitting and smacking like savages. No pallid demoiselles, these brawny northern Amazons clawed back.

“Quhat do ye think ye’re doing? I’ll throw ye into the schitgong!” Enoch bawled.

“Tell them to get off their toute-asses and
work!
I believe that’s what you used to say to me! Aye, and what the Crusaders
did!
”

“Because we had no women along, you fool!” he shouted.

I know not how it would have ended if a sandy-haired wight hadn’t come between us. “The lass has right, Enoch,” he said. “My Gruoth tells me that we mun all bend our backs to the rats or we’ll have no peace this nicht.”

Enoch’s spleen cooled somewhat, though he muttered an unintelligible curse at me as he turned to the scrapping Scots.

In short order, the men had joined us in the battle against rodents.
We finished toward sundown and looked like executioners, but the great hall was somewhat restored. For a moment I forgot my unwelcome comrades and gazed around me, gripped in memory.

“Get yer fresh tunic, Alix,” Gruoth said. “We mun dip and clean ourselves.”

“Aye.” I had no clean female tunic—only my boy’s garb.

Carrying my clothes fastidiously at arm’s length, I joined the roaring, laughing Scots as they ran toward the river. I thought we could collect water in pails and heat it for bathing, but no; the north-men plunged into the icy current like playful seals, men and women naked together.

“I can’t do that,” I said to Gruoth, horrified.

“It doesna feel cold if ye beat hard and doona stay too long. Cum, ye’ll love it.”

Well, I couldn’t remain as I was, besmottered and stained, so I reluctantly peeled off my clothes.

Benedicite!

With a howl of laughter, Gruoth shoved me in! With equal speed, I shot right out again! I’d never been so shocked in my entire life, hot blades puncturing every pore.

“Stop shaking, Alix!” Gruoth yelled, still laughing so hard that she yexxed. “And I’ll rub ye dry!”

I could see myself turning dark blue, hear my teeth rattle like castanets in my ears. Then my heart gave a twitch as if a giant needle turned on a saucer therein, and I looked over my shoulder. Enoch had just emerged, stood in a trance gazing on me. He was under the shadow of a thicket and may not have realized I could see him as well, or he was too hypnotized to care. He ogled my curved shape, my small breasts, and a spasm shook his face before he turned away. Hastily I slipped on my braies and tunic, but I was most confused by what I’d witnessed. Enoch’s expression had been a mix of wonder—mayhap desire—and, aye, nostalgia, as if he hoped against hope that under my robes I was still Alex!

Every muscle ached; I didn’t dare think of that odious writ or my own future—but ’twas the Scot’s disturbing reaction that still clung to my consciousness as I rolled in my goatskin close to the others before
the fire that night. Poor Enoch, mourning the loss of Alex. Poor Alix, competing with the Alex who’d never been, first with Richard, now with the Scot.

Except that I didn’t want their affection on any terms. I was glad I was female and if Enoch pined for Alex, let him construct a false prick to carry, for that was the only part of Alex which hadn’t been Alix forsooth.

I WOKE, desperate. For once I could think of no way to escape and still hold Wanthwaite.

“I cannot marry that thief,” I announced to Dame Margery when she appeared that morning, her head splitting. “If you knew …” But I couldn’t say that he’d sold my body. ’Twas too shameful.

“No, of course not,” she concurred. “How will ye avoid it, lambkin?”

“I’ll not participate in the vows, won’t answer the questions.” It seemed so weak. “Or if I have to, I’ll never permit consummation.”

She bit her lip. “Go see the king again; ask him to change his mind.”

Her awesome ignorance was almost ludicrous. Go find Richard on the plains between Acre and Ascalon? Get him to change his mind?

“Or wait.” The dame turned crafty. “Go through the ceremony to obey the law, and afterward I’ll use the hemlock on him.”

I thought of the mootpit. God knows I had good reason to hate the Scot but I would never permit her to slay him. Unlike Roland, Enoch had not raped or killed.

We sat in my parents’ chamber in dismal silence. Below us, we could hear the Scots singing and japing as they decorated the hall for the occasion.

“What will ye wear?” Margery asked.

What a woodly question. “My pageboy garb.” I laughed hollowly.

“Come,” she said, and took my hand.

I followed her into my parents’ garde-robe which had been only partly cleaned. In the corner was stacked a pile of armor mixed with tools. Margery tugged at the lot, peeling off layer after layer to reveal a flat wooden chest.

“My mother’s?” I asked with wonder.

“Aye, I covered it the first day and kept adding as I could. Mayhap Roland never found it. Let’s look.”

We opened the heavy lid to the mixed scent of cedar and roses, and there lay my mother’s gowns, the ruby tunic folded hastily on top. My throat tightened as I stroked the materials which had last caressed her body. It seemed a desecration to use her clothing for such a bitter occasion, but I yearned to put her robe next to my skin. Finally I selected a lavender and silver laced gown, amazed that it almost fit. There was even a small crown of amethysts.

The following morning Gruoth banged on the door and the reality of the occasion was upon me. Dame Margery smoothed my hair, pulled my bodice a little lower, licked her finger to rub my brows and told me how beautiful I appeared, while all the time I felt like a puppet being moved by an unseen hand. Dazed, I tried to think how to escape this manipulation, but was strangely compelled to take the next step, then the next as ordered, hoping something would occur to me at the last moment to make me my own mistress again.

“Waesucks, Alix,” Gruoth gasped in admiration, “Ye’re the mast bonny winsing bride I never did see.”

“You’re lovely yourself, Gruoth,” I answered courteously.

Soothly the lass was striking with three bold plaids doing war on the vast mound of her belly, chicken feathers bristling from her matted hair, leather jewelry studded with garnets hugging wrists and ankles, a heavy rank skin fastened to her shoulder. Indeed, she looked like the legendary orphan brought up by bears.

We walked through a hall laden with red gorse and holly, its fresh green rushes scented with laurel, and then mounted two gentle mares to ride to the church. We were followed by the Scottish women, my own personal gaudy escort, and as we rode from the court our bridles jingled with silver bells. At an unseen signal, the women burst into savage song. Their words were incomprehensible but even in my burning rage I was aware of a strange barbaric beauty.

Then we were across the river, across the fields, riding inexorably
to Dunsmere church with its small spire hurtling into a lapis sky, met there by the villagers who raised an excited shout of welcome.

“Hail to Lady Alix!”

“Welcome to our baroness!”

“May you always be happy Alix!”

I waved back and glowered. Yesterday they’d been my army; today they willingly accepted the Scottish yoke. People don’t appreciate freedom; aye, the Church was right to call us sheep.

We stopped at the door of the church where Father Gerald stood waiting. Helping hands lifted me to the ground, guided me to my place in the morning sun, for we were to be wed outside in the open. Children were pushed to the front to watch, as is the custom, so they can record in their long memories the truth of our marriage. A mangy border cur rushed forth, jumped up joyfully, then sat beside me, leaning his shedding coat against my knee. Fingers snapped and voices wheedled to no avail; the dog had elected to be part of the ceremony.

Now came the familiar drone of the pipes as the men approached. I strove to keep my eyes on the dog, but as the drone became louder, and the smell and sound of the horses were upon us, my lids quivered, my eyes rose against my own will, and through my lashes I gazed upon Enoch. Magnificent in scarlet and white, he was indeed a swan among ducks this day. Then my heart chilled at the comparison as I recalled my dream on Dere Street when the Scot had appeared as a swan.
Deus juva me
, that dream must never come true! Now he, too, had dismounted, had walked to the door and taken his place opposite me. He was heavily scented with sweet woodruff.

The service began. Father Gerald addressed Enoch first, asking if he would be my husband in the eyes of God, if he would be faithful all our days together, if he would honor and protect his chattel.

Honor and protect.
I listened to Enoch’s low assent with outrage, thought of his contracting me as a “weasel” for the royal bed, and bitter bile stung my lips.

Now the priest turned to me. I felt a soft pressure on my back
and
realized
that Gruoth’s stomach was pushed against me.
Lady Alix, do you take Lord Enoch as your wedded husband?

“I do
not
!” I said in a loud clear voice.

A murmur ran through the crowd and a baby started to cry. I looked into Enoch’s storm-blue eyes, caught his faint frown to the priest, felt the hard stomach press closer. Then something thin and cold moved under my ear. Enoch leaned forward and touched my neck. When he drew his hand away, he turned it so I could see the stain of my own blood! Startled, not believing my eyes, I gazed again into his angry orbs and believed.

Father Gerald gazed from one to the other, then stated again: “Lady Alix, do you take Lord Enoch to be your lawful wedded husband?”

I put my trembling hand on the dog’s head. “I do take
the cur
as husband,” I replied weakly.

’Twas a small gesture but all I had. Thus we were married.

DRUNKALEWE AS A MOUSE, I SWAYED morosely that night on the improvised dais in Wanthwaite’s great hall, rising and falling like a bucket in a well, going round and round like a whirlwind in chaff, bibulous on bile or ale, I know not which.

“Cum, my buxom burdie, lat’s fling a foot!”

Strange red hands pulled me from my perch and set me to the floor, where I began to jiggle frantically to the pipers beat, still a puppet on a pole, as my partner skirted around me in a blur of gaudy feathers and sporrans.

“Ho-la, gae aft, lass! Gi’e a hap, stap and lowp, than a curchie!”

Toty as a beheaded hen, I tried to hop, skip and leap but fell forward when I dipped.

“Grab her hurdies!” cried the merry voice.

“She flies like a gonnet, Enoch! Best clip her wings!”

And I was thrown into my
husband’s
arms.

“Time to gi’e her the skean dhu!” screamed the Scots.

To my besotted horror, Enoch placed a small wicked dagger between his lips. “Dinna make blather,” he growled. “’Tis anely a custom.”

Whereupon he began a headlong scamper around me, twisting and kicking like a demon in smoke, crouching, pouncing, jigging in ever more fiendish pace as his audience of devils howled approval. Then he glowered over me and hissed, “Take it!”

I knew not what he meant, lifted my hand for the knife, but he struck it aside and put his mouth on mine, carefully transferring the ugly weapon to my teeth. I stood like a surprised dog who’s caught a bone, not knowing if I would be struck or petted for my trick. Enoch sprang back and whirled into the sulfurous mist as I slipped the sharp steel up my sleeve.

“Swill the yil-caup!” chanted the swarthy legions around me. “Bouse at the nappy.”

Needing no further urging, I drank eagerly from a large cup of ale. Then the traitorous false-friend Gruoth grabbed my arm.

“Cum, lass, ’tis time to be wed.”

I pushed her away and waved my skean dhu. “Don’t dare touch me, Gruoth. I’ll have no more weddings at the point of a knife!”

“’Tis Enoch’s orders,” quoth she, as if citing Scripture. “Ye mun be handfasted befar it has meaning.”

Even in my jug-bitten state, I comprehended she was saying that in some manner I was not yet espoused.

“I’ll not do it,” I proclaimed loudly. “Kill me dead if you will, but I’ll not be wed more.”

I might escape my fate yet.

But I was scooped up in strong arms, hoisted atop a sea of knarry shoulders and rode my human raft toward the river. In front of me sizzling pine torches showed the outline of Enoch who rode his own litter down the steep spinney. Yellow smoke rose from the torches and wound around the fingery branches. Suddenly we were by the river, water dark as a black cat’s blood.
Ah
, I thought, we’ll wed under water like monsters of the deep. Better that than nuptial bed. I was placed on a wide flat rock that jutted into the river. On the opposite side, Enoch was put down on a comparable spit that almost closed the tide. Only a narrow rill separated us, though a gulf as wide as the sea was between us in spirit.

Enoch sucked his thumb and thrust it toward me.

“Put yer thumb to yer tongue and touch his,” Gruoth ordered.

I did so. His thumb was as ice-cold as all demons’ are.

“Alix of Wanthwaite, I noo do handfast thee as my wife as lang as both shall live,” Enoch boomed in the stilly night.

“Now ye mun say the same,” Gruoth whispered, her eyes dead oysters in the dark.

“Never,” I said firmly and yexxed.