Shield of Three Lions (30 page)

“Ah, that’s better,” he groaned. “This is one of those insufferable southern summers. Is there any wine left? Baldwin soaks up the grape like sand. Good, pour one for each of us and let’s see what you absorbed of the night’s conversation.”

He sprawled naked on his bed, half sitting, half lying, and gestured me to come close as I had that first night. I was not so shocked as before at seeing him naked, but still sufficiently disturbed to spill a red trail across his navel.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” I said again, reached my hand to mop, then withdrew it, tried not to look below his waist.

He laughed softly. “Don’t be sorry, it cools me. Well now, how do you fare? Which horse did you choose?”

I was concentrating so hard on what Mercadier had said, how Ambroise had responded, that for a moment I knew not what he meant. “Oh, the gray, aye, the gray. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“You’re welcome.” He bowed his head. “Does he have a name?”

“Thistle.”

“This-tell?”

I had to explain, for it seemed the king knew not one word of English.

He rubbed my tunic between his thumb and forefinger. “And you have an adequate garb at last. Much better fit than that bulging tunic in Chinon.”

My heart jumped and fell in a dead heap, then ran rapidly again.
He’d
noticed the bulge—had he also ordered Sir Gilbert to test me? I was suddenly so cold that my skin bumped. Surely he didn’t guess that I was a girl! But no, or he’d not appear naked or take me on a Crusade. My heart became regular again.

“I thought—I thought that Ranulf de Glanville showed diplomatic skills,” I began, to prove I’d been listening, then stopped when the king waved his hand and I fetched another glass of wine. When would he let me go? Soothly he seemed not to want to discuss the evening.

“I had a surprising interview with a Scot in Chinon, a young knight from a noble family in the highlands. Do you know whom I mean?”

I frowned. “Aye, Enoch Angus Boggs.”

“Dubbed by the Scottish monarch, I believe, when he earned his spurs in some clan war. In any case, I was curious as to your relationship. What is he to you?”

Again my innards began leaping. I wanted to say “Nothing, an impostor after my land,” but that would cross the king who’d already made the Scot my guardian. Best be tactful for now.

“He said you were brothers.” The king nudged me.

Anger at the traitorous Scot gave me strength. “Not really brothers, My Liege. He protected me—I think I mentioned that I’d met a Scot—and he insisted upon going through a ritual. Sucking …”

“Sucking?” the king repeated with sudden interest. “What do you mean?”

Vastly ashamed, I described the whole odious business of becoming the Scot’s blood brother.

“God’s feet, I thought only the Saracens believed in such savage rites. What was the nature of your oath?”

Rapidly I rattled the terms, to be faithful till death, to help each other in all things, not to interfere in matters of love …

“Ah,” the king interrupted me. “That’s different from a knight’s oath. And do you permit the Scot his lovers?”

I thought of my attack upon him and Gladys Stump and flushed.

“Not at first, but afterward, yes,” I mumbled.

“Why not at first?” He lifted my chin.

I wondered at his examination of this dour topic, but must answer.

“I didn’t understand what he was doing. I’d never … and I thought he was killing her.”

The king choked on his wine, spilling more than I had across his chest and this time he gestured that I should clean him. I looked
around helplessly, not wanting to use the soggy towel from earlier. Finally I put my hand delicately to his skin and rubbed so that the wine dribbled down his side to the floor.

“Again,” he ordered.

’Twas most inefficient. The king guided my hand with his and I became hot with embarrassment though I tried to be casual. He released me, smiling.

“That will do. What about you, little Alex? Does he permit you your lovers?”

I caught the teasing note but had to answer. “Oh, I’m sure he would except that I’m … I can’t … that is, I haven’t yet passed rule six.”

“Rule six?”

“The Rules of Love,” I reminded him.

“Oh, of course, that a boy must be … Well, that applies to becoming a lover, but you can still be the beloved of course. How about it? Are you someone’s beloved?”

I thought of Isabelle. “Possibly …”

“If the Scot permits you. Tell me, Alex, do you like the Scot’s ministrations?”

Much as I detested Enoch, I dared not lie. “He takes good care of me, I believe. Fights, feeds me, keeps me innocent.”

“How innocent? Didn’t you just tell me you had a lover?”

I was finding his questions made me breathless and couldn’t understand his fascination with my personal life. “A friend, which is not the same.”

“No indeed. So you’re still innocent.”

I thought of Satan’s toute-ass and flushed deeply, almost grateful that Fat Giselle had made me promise not to tell. “I believe so.”

“Only believe?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be innocent.”

He burst into laughter. “Checkmate! Well, ’tis a relief, I can tell you, and I’ll rest better knowing that you’re
innocent.
Now the hour’s late, time to kiss me good night and be on your way.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

I hesitated, waiting for him to rise, but he stayed supine. Balancing
precariously, I leaned to peck his lips in the civil kiss, but he clasped me with his free arm and I fell heavily so that my lips pressed as hard as Isabelle’s had pressed mine, both hurting my teeth and stimulating my liver to wild gyrations. When I stood, it was with pounding heart and I was almost too weak to move.

“Yes, the Scot will be kept busy.” He smiled through bright half-closed eyes. “I was much pleased with your service tonight, Alex.”

“Thank you.” I flourished, bowed and somehow stumbled into the arched corridor where I leaned against the door and wondered what I’d done wrong that he hadn’t tested me on policy.

Inside I could hear him laughing to himself.

AS IT HAPPED, NO ONE PAID ME ANY HEED ON THE long ride to Lyon-sur-Rhône for each Crusader was concerned with his own problems. First there was the rain, for it poured each day as if preparing for the flood, cleared muggily by night so the mosquitoes could feast, then returned with another onslaught at daybreak to assure black sticky mud for men and beasts to slosh through. As for my finding privacy for my ministrations, I had a much easier time than my suffering fellow soldiers who’d been tempted by fruit orchards along the way. Peaches, plums, apples and apricots dangled golden and red on the branches and I reached hungrily along with the rest. Enoch squeezed a peach, slapped my hand away, and pronounced the entire crop forbidden fruit.

The slow progress, the sickness and stench, the angry tempers confirmed what Enoch had predicted and the kings pushed hard to reach the point where they could separate their armies. On the seventh day we arrived at a bridge on the Rhône above Lyons and decided to camp until stragglers had caught up. The rain then stopped, but left us in a quaggy mire and the kings thought to cross the bridge to the higher meadows on the eastern bank. Philip went first, followed by his army above the churning waters of the flooded river.
King Richard ordered that only his household should follow him until the French army had departed; the rest of the English would have to founder in the mud, which they were now used to. Enoch and I got into single file, for the bridge was narrow, Thistle in the lead. The rushing foaming water below made me toty but the fresh spray felt good.

“Where shall I go?” I called over my shoulder.

There was no answer. When I turned farther, I saw that I’d been the last to cross. Through some error several of the king’s household had been held on the western side. Uncertainly, I guided Thistle along the bank and stared across the swirling mists from the rapids. Then I saw Enoch almost opposite. He cupped his hands and called but the roar was too great. Finally he waved encouragement and I waved back. Well, there was naught to be done. I turned Thistle to where the royal pavilions were being raised and watched the pattern of the encampment: long carts were being positioned like spokes of a wheel around the pavilion centers, each space between reserved for special lords and their men. Priests were setting up altars and everywhere food was beginning to cook. I sighed for Twixt more than Enoch; this was one night I would go hungry. At least I’d kept my goatskin from Wanthwaite and could sleep on that.

Then by good fortune Ambroise discovered me sitting alone and invited me to share his bowl which I gratefully accepted. Later I again missed my comfort. The stars and mosquitoes were both out in such droves during the night that I looked forward to sleeping in our little leather tent on the morrow.

The morning broke bright and warm with birds welcoming the change of weather in a bright scolding chatter. The French royal pavilion was struck, the French army made ready, and the two kings rode away together, for King Richard was to see Philip courteously on his way toward Genoa. Enoch and I again waved, again tried to shout, but ’twas hopeless over the churning waves. He pantomimed eating and I nodded, pointing to Ambroise. Then King Richard returned and gave the sign that the English should cross, for it seemed our road to Marseilles also lay somewhat to the east. Enoch was first
in line, Firth and Twixt held firmly together. I squatted in the tall grass to watch them come.

The horses objected to the narrow pine planks, the swirling water below, but one by one they were forced and the slow progression began until there were a hundred mounted men on the span. Enoch was now close, his grin broad. Then I saw his expression change—both Twixt and Firth fell to their knees. I jumped up and ran forward. Enoch was now looking downward, his face frozen in horror as the first pine arch slowly splintered and gave way. Horses and men slid helplessly forward and sideward, Enoch the very first to go!

“Enoch!” I screamed.

Now everyone saw and the shouts and neighs echoed above the waters roar as the entire bridge collapsed. People on shore stood paralyzed until the king leaped forward.

“To the rescue!” he cried. “Ropes! Lances! Everyone
move!”

He tore off his robes and dashed half-naked into the river sinking instantly to his armpits, then shouted for his lance.

“Grab hold!” he yelled to a floundering knight.

Soon everyone followed suit and the water was a melee of drowning and rescuing.

“Enoch!” I yelled and waded waist-deep with my saddle rope in hand. My scream was lost in the chorus of shouts, whinnies, cries! Knights were racing and yelling in utter confusion. Trumpets sounded for order but no one heeded. The fast current knocked me down and when I stumbled to my feet again I saw Enoch’s hairy face bobbing fifty yards downstream, going fast as an arrow.

“Enoch!”

I scrambled up the slippery bank, clutching at grass, then ran along the river in the direction he was being carried. Beyond a turn the Rhône gained speed over a small weir and already a few heads floated in the backwash, but not Enoch’s. I dashed on as rapidly as I could, trying to keep pace with the current by watching a tumbling branch, but it was so fast! Finally my breath gave out and I had to sit to let pains in my chest abate. The cries behind me sounded eerily in
the calm day, as if the infernal pit had opened momentarily to swallow a few souls for breakfast.

Surely I’d missed him, for no one else had drifted this far. Surely he was safe on shore by now, looking for me. I trotted back, examining every snag and crest, for he might have struck his head. The river by the bridge was still pandemonium, but a few horses stood dazed on wobbly legs, a few men gasped in their own puddles. A quick survey showed that none was Enoch. Richard still worked hard with others to use stretched ropes, while hardy swimmers were diving below the surface to pull up half-drowned Crusaders. Enoch
couldn’t
have swum back to this point; he must be somewhere downstream.

Again I ran down past the weir, beyond where I’d been, stopping and starting, determined not to turn back. The sun was low in the west before I gave up.

All the horses had been saved; only three men were unaccounted for. King Richard was elated and went from man to man, congratulating each on his survival or his help. The priests said a special Mass of gratitude for our escape from tragedy. ’Twas a good omen for God’s soldiers.

When the moon rose full, I mounted Thistle and retraced my steps, for sometimes objects show more clearly in the water’s afterglow. Several times I called his name, waded out to handle rocks or snags, all to no avail.

The next day the river disgorged two bodies, mangled and torn almost beyond recognition. Almost but not quite: neither was Enoch.

Now the king’s only remaining problem was how to transport his army across the Rhône without a bridge. After a few fruitless scouting expeditions to discover another bridge, Richard devised an ingenious scheme of lashing fishing boats firmly together and thus constructing a floating bridge for the stranded men. ’Twas tedious labor, hazardous when done, but it worked. In two days we were ready to march again.