Shield of Three Lions (14 page)

I slumped against the wall, completely worn out. Then I felt my jaw and wiggled it tentatively: not broken. The blood came from my bitten tongue and I ran that injured member over my teeth to be sure they were all there. Even if they hadn’t been ’twould have been worth it to have thwarted the murderous Scot. And yet—she’d claimed she’d wanted him. The pounding subsided in my head as reason returned. Perhaps I should leave before Enoch returned … just in case I’d erred a bit. I crept to my annex and gathered my goatskin and bundle, then took Lance to spend the night in the stable with Twixt.

Snuggled in the dry straw, I thought on my farewell to Enoch. What a gullible fool I’d been to think I should try to ease the wrench from such a criminal oaf. For he was greedy and lickerous, no matter what. I hated him, hated him.

’TWAS A BLUSTERY NIGHT OF WIND AND RAIN, BUT the straw was sweet and dry. As my shock wore off, I became more and more aware of my injuries: a badly bruised shoulder, a sprained neck, and a head that ached in every bone. I tried to remember every dreadful curse I’d ever heard to lay on the Scot and might he hang by his beloved killer-organ for striking me.

The rain and dark abated around Matins to be replaced by such a fog as I’d never seen. ’Twas dense silvery swirls of some stuff such as damp dandelion fluff, insubstantial yet engulfing as a shroud, for when I stretched my arm forth my hand disappeared, likewise my body from the waist down. When I was ready to leave, I hardly knew which way to step for all was without center, sounds which might be fore or aft or far or near, shapes which might be real or illusion. At least the mist gave me the cover I needed.

Walking my fingers like a crab along the wall, I turned left at the corner of the inn to go to the Strand. Once there, I again turned left toward Westminster. I could hear the wash of barges slapping against the shore on my river side while more and more hurrying shapes loomed in the street. After a long, slow meander, I reached out blindly and caught the garment of one.

“Please, sir, be this the way to the hamlet of Charing?”

“Let go your manhandling,” snarled a woman’s voice.

“You’re entering Charing now,” said someone else.

Jasper Peterfee had said it was half an hour’s walk from the inn to the north gate of Westminster, but I felt I’d been on the road a week by the time I arrived. The swirls of fog were now separated by clear spots and I stood before a high stone wall with a double-doored
wooden gate which was open to traffic but carefully guarded by four sergeants-at-arms who checked every person at entry. I leaned against a tree and watched for a time to discover a strategy. Fortunately ’twas easy, for one kind of person came and went without question, young boys carrying pies and ale. When two came out together who’d been frequent porters I followed them down the street. They led me to a large kitchen on the Strand crowded with merchants and sailors. Taking their lead, I stood in line for fresh capon pies and bought three. Quickly I gulped down one for strength, then carried the others aloft as I ran after my guides back through the gates.

Inside, all was confusion and I lost them. At first I thought some catastrophe had befallen to judge by the bustle and stir of the place. Valets were polishing spears and armor, grooms were brushing magnificent coursers royally caparisoned, huntsmen were exercising wolfhounds, coursing dogs and vulperets while serious soldiers hurried til and fro on urgent business. The court was big as a large park and I had no notion of which way to turn until an angry clerk pushed me to the right.

“Don’t clutter the entry, boy. Make your delivery on the east and be gone.”

I followed after him in what I supposed was an easterly direction through a second gate leading to a smaller court, then another gate beyond that and found myself in a spacious garden. The clerk’s black robes were just disappearing down a graveled path and I ran after him. He went amazingly fast for a portly man and had already crossed the bridge over a rapid stream when I arrived on the near side, but after that there seemed only one way to go and I joined several others who were entering the portal of a square tower abutting a palace.

Inside, the vestibule was small and dark, the floors besmottered with muddy footprints, and the only way led up a steep stairs. I clung to a stone balustrade and followed hurrying men whose deep voices echoed hollowly. Once on the upper floor, I continued with the mob through a series of chambers that functioned as a hall leading after a great time into the very last, where once again I took a long winding stair into a chamber crowded with people.

The room must have been cheerful when unoccupied, for the
ceilings were low and turret windows admitted much light (as well as rain), which illuminated red canvas wall hangings emblazoned with the royal arms. There were no furnishings, however, no benches for sitting except in the deep recesses of the windows, and the rushes which looked fresh laid were nonetheless already soggy with water and animal messes, for dogs abounded underfoot and there must have been two falcons for every man there. I sought a window corner where I could observe and survey the area, and finally squeezed beside an ancient man in the habit of a canon who was gazing at the wherries and barges now visible on the river below.

At first the babbling crowd was a single blur, but gradually some distinctions became possible. Aside from such differences as those who belonged to religious orders from those who were nobles or knights, there seemed two groups: those who were fixtures in the place and had set up small folding tables for chess or bones, and those who were constantly entering and leaving a small door on the opposite side for what was clearly immediate business. After a long period of waiting, a clerk emerged from the door and called a name. One of the regular fixtures detached himself from a game and answered the call.

“Did you bring those pies for Master Walter Map, boy?” the canon asked suddenly. “For I heard him order capon.”

I gazed into piercing brown eyes under furrowed brows. “Aye, that I did, but I don’t see him now.”

“Nay, perhaps not from your low angle but you can surely hear him well enough, for that bitter voice is the most venomous in the court. Hear how he argues with my lord of Ely whom he hates worse than a Jew or Cistercian.”

I listened but heard only blithering. “Would you like a pie? I have two, you see.”

“Thank you.” He accepted it gratefully but didn’t offer to pay. “I’m known as Richard de Monte and work in the Treasury.”

“Alexander Wanthwaite,” I said. “You must know much about the court and its proceedings. Could you tell me, please, if—”

“Hush.” He put up his hand as two courtiers dressed for travel brushed by, talking rapidly.

“Count Richard and King Philip are even now laying siege—”

“But the fog lies low there as well. Surely the king …” And they were gone.

The old man seemed despondent. “Count Richard. Henry mixes him too much with the Young King, but the men have different temperaments entirely. Richard cannot be manipulated by evasion.”

“Aye,” I said to give him comfort, for he was sore perplexed.

Another old man, but this one wiry and small with a lean face, came from the king’s inner chamber and immediately men clustered around him nervously. Richard de Monte and I strained to hear what was said but could catch only a few words.

“—will burn all in his path.”

“Count Richard is a traitor …”

“King of England—”

“Barons are departing, especially those of Maine …”

“Tours! They wouldn’t dare.”

If the conversation was unclear, the anxiety wasn’t, for it swirled thick as the morning’s fog. All the men looked near breaking, their eyes sleepless.

“That was Ranulf de Glanville,” my companion said when the lean man went back inside the chamber. “All the news must come to him.”

“Why not the king?” I asked.

Before he could answer, one dog in the center of the room attacked another and soon the courtiers crushed back to allow a wide circle, for the curs meant to kill. The growls and barks, blood and bone-crunching made such a distraction that ’twas impossible to think. As I watched the owners try to control their beasts, I happened to raise my eyes to the door just as Magnus Barefoot walked in!

Magnus Barefoot?
He must be a vision made from one part fog and one part my own obsessive dread! But no, neither fog nor fear nor the Devil’s dead could be as real as this. As I moved behind Richard de Monte and peered at my enemy round the old man’s sleeve, I saw that he was followed by Sir Roland de Roncechaux.

My skin became damp and my bones went to rope so that I thought I might faint. Roncechaux was no longer in his rusty mail, but elegantly turned out to meet the king. He wore a deep cherry robe edged in vair and dashing green boots, but nothing could change his saturnine face with its heavy hooded eyes and cynical mouth. Confidently he strode to the door of the antechamber and spoke with the sergeant.
Benedicite
, I
must
see the king before him or I would find that my estate had already been given away.

Desperately I turned to the old man. “Excuse me, Sire, do you know any way I might see King Henry right away?”

His lips spread over his yellow snag teeth. “Aye, lad, if you’re a good swimmer.” And he laughed at his own wit.

“What mean you?”

“I mean that the king’s across the Channel where he’s been since November last. Know ye not that the Angevins think more of their European possessions than they do of England? Though this Henry is better than most.”

“Please, Sire, ’tis of utmost importance. Where is this Channel? Can it be forded?”

“What an ignorant boy you are! Where have you lived that you don’t know about the English Channel, such a treacherous sea-path that even strong sailors dread for its sudden squalls? On the far side lies a series of domains, Normandy, Anjou, Maine, Brittany, Poitou, Aquitaine, all ruled by our king but with homage to the King of France. You heard the courtiers just now. My guess is that King Henry is in Le Mans fighting King Philip of France and his own devil-son, Richard.”

He rose abruptly and walked away without another word, leaving me exposed to the room just as Magnus and Roncechaux who had not gained entry to the inner chamber were turning around. At that moment the contentious wight called Walter Map approached, deep in argument with another courtier, and I joined them as they strode, almost creeping between Walter Map’s legs in my fear.

“Good Lord, who’s there?” he cried. “Do you want to trip me up?”

I shifted my position, so that I was hidden by the courtier’s cape.
However, ’twas necessary to constantly adjust as they turned at corners or stopped to make a point.

Then, to my horror, I suddenly missed a turn and was left stranded in the center of the room. Instinctively I looked at my enemies and, as if fated, Magnus Barefoot looked at the same time.

“Alix!” I heard as his finger pointed.

I rushed out the door like one possessed. Coming up the stairs was a bearded personage whom I recognized as the Bishop of London. He went through the door and blocked the way of my pursuers for a critical moment as I flew through one chamber after another, knocking people this way and that, ducking under legs and robes.

Outside, I dashed into the wooded park, for the cover was better there than in the open courts. I could see the Thames glinting faintly through the trees but when I reached bottom I was confronted with a high wall again. I ran along it seeking a gate, found one that was closed, continued running as my lungs burst. Finally I saw the outline of an ancient Saxon abbey and ran through a low doorway into a dark hole. I groped my way through a passage and found myself inside a hall where Mass was being conducted. I edged my way to a far door on the other side where I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Roland de Roncechaux topple two kneeling priests in his haste to get to me. A high arched way offered an exit from the room and when I reached the other side, I was on a London street again and the fog was gone.

Before me stretched the Thames and a busy loading dock. Sailors sang chanties in a strange tongue while wharfmen pulled on ropes and pushed heavy carts loaded with fish. The waterside was too open; I turned the other direction into the city. Breathing hard, I ran up a sharp incline onto higher ground where commerce of all kinds crowded the way. I dared not look behind me for I knew that Roncechaux must be close and I couldn’t spare an instant from my pell-mell thrust forward. In and out I went, into a smithy’s shop with bellows heaving and out the other side, into a copper-pot shop with hammers ringing and through it, into an inn and out behind its stables. People started and tried to grab me, but on I went.

I sobbed with the pain in my ribs and still ran on. My mouth was
dry as parchment and I passed wells without stopping. I knew not where I went nor cared, so long as I got away from the sure death behind me. Once I made the mistake of entering the open court of a palace and was almost caught, for Roncechaux saw me and shouted, whereupon he was joined by Magnus, and they tried to stay my exit by going to different gates. I fooled them by entering the palace—flying by the astonished guards—running to the roof, out to a balustrade and over the wall, dropping ten feet or more onto soft grass. And on I ran.