Shield of Three Lions (33 page)

I shook my head mutely.

“He’s himself again,” Algais said. “Best take him to the king now.”

Mercadier stretched his mouth in a thin smile. “When the king learned you were on the streets, he sent us looking. He wants to see for himself that you’re all right. Can you come?”

I nodded.

The king was being leeched by his physician when we entered the royal chamber. I was sufficiently recovered to note that, although pale, Richard was better.

“Alex, thank God! Where was he?”

“By the docks,” Mercadier answered, then went on in the langue d’oc, a tongue I cannot follow. The king glanced at me from time to time during the recital, his face horrified. He asked Mercadier a few questions, then lay back and closed his eyes.

The physician removed the basin of blood and bandaged the king’s arm. “You must rest now, Your Highness.”

“Impossible,” the king said sharply. “If I don’t rent ships, we’ll rot in this mosquito swamp. The Pisanos come soon to bargain. But leave me now—I want to talk to the boy.”

They turned to go. “Oh, Mercadier, we thank you.”

The captain flourished and went out with the others.

With deeply shadowed eyes, King Richard studied me, then held out his bandaged arm. I stumbled close, was gathered against his body which smelled like my own father, and felt tears rush down my cheeks. He crooned in his strange language and I didn’t need to follow the words.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he said finally in French. “First, how did you happen to go to such a dangerous part of town? Didn’t anyone warn you about the waterfront?”

I felt a surge of anger but shook my head. Let someone else expose Sir Gilbert; I didn’t want a writhing, eyeless figure on my conscience.

“’Twas a mistake. I was looking for Sir Eduard and got lost.”

Gradually I tried to repeat what had been said. When I got to the “king’s boy,” I saw Richard’s angry whelks return.

“They said that of me?”
His body trembled. “Did you understand them, Alex?”

“No, Your Highness. I—I never sold wafers, have not even been an altar boy.”

There was a shadow of a smile. “I see your Scot succeeded well. In future I, too, will be more vigilant, but I am a very busy man. Therefore I want your word that you’ll not go abroad alone henceforth, not even to church without telling Sir Eduard or Sir Gilbert.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Sir Roger then entered to announce that the Pisano ship captains had arrived and I was dismissed. As I left, I saw Richard’s face again go through one of his remarkable transformations as he turned a beaming welcome to the guests.

I HUDDLED IN MY MOSQUITO-infested room through a long sleepless night. What had that sailor wanted? And
why?
Over and over I relived those few moments and prayed for a rush of tomorrows to erase memory.

Never had I missed Enoch so much. I’d grieved for his sprightly companionship and the provision he’d given, but not till this very hour had I fully appreciated the protection. Because I’d never understood the danger. Well, now I knew. Horrors I couldn’t fathom, as strange and dreadful as the rape I’d witnessed of Maisry.

Oh, Enoch, Enoch.

By morning I was sick with apprehension, afraid to venture out, yet unable to stay in my fetid privy-pit of a chamber another instant. The king had graciously dismissed me from duties that day, but
where could I go? I stood in the arch and stared at the teeming street. At the next square I saw the towers of a church and decided to seek sanctuary there, where God might give me comfort. I told Sir Eduard that I was going and sidled gingerly along the cobbles.

The familiar mildew smell and dank shadows of the church made me feel a little better almost at once. ’Twas a huge edifice with many niches and chapels and I didn’t know which saint would be best for my purpose. Fortunately a chubby priest stood collecting alms and noticed my hesitation.

“May I be of help, child?”

“Yes, Father. I’m sore troubled by the evil in the world and …”

“… and? Don’t be afraid, my boy.”

“The loss of my brother.”

“A loss indeed. How did he die?”

“He drowned—in the Rhône River.” I had a hard time saying it.

“Drowned?” The priest became excited. “Did you see him die? Bury his body?”

“Well, no, but he drowned e’en so. I did see him float away and we searched for four days.”

The priest put down his money plate and clasped both my shoulders. “God has led you to the right place, child. I’m certain we can help you as we have hundreds of others. You know, of course, about St. Lazarus …”

By now he was guiding me along the dark nave and talking in a whisper so that he wouldn’t disturb the faithful who were at prayer.

“The man Our Lord raised from the dead?”

“The very same. After he was raised, he sailed to Marseilles and became our mayor for forty-seven years, dying at the advanced age of ninety. He became famous as a miracle-worker in his own right, for he raised the dead again and again. Especially, because of our location on the sea,
sailors who’d died of drowning!”

I shivered with awe under the mysterious vaults. “Do you think …?”

“’Tis for the Lord to decide, but you should try.”

We turned and walked through a cloister, then into a small chapel where the father stopped me.

“St. Lazarus is buried here in that crypt. His jawbone is on display and is without doubt the most powerful relic in Christendom. It will cost you two deniers to see it.”

How I wished Enoch could have witnessed my readiness to part with silver for his sake! The priest opened a dull metal box and I gazed on a brown moldy bone with two broken snags.

“Those are the teeth that smiled at Our Lord Jesus,” the priest told me. “I’ll leave you here to pray.”

I knelt on worn stones and tried to think what to say. Certes I should pray for Enoch’s entry into Heaven, in case the absolution didn’t apply in his case, for he hadn’t been a zealous Crusader. On the other hand, what would he do alone in Heaven? For I was sure there would be no other Scots in that hallowed place. I supposed there was no harm in praying for a miracle, though I hated to waste my deniers on such a fruitless mission. Still, that was what the father had instructed.

While I was trying to formulate my words, two older women came and knelt behind me. I listened to their mutterings and realized they were saying a variation of the Rosary. I would do the same.

“Hail St. Lazarus, I pray for the return of Enoch Boggs; hail, St. Lazarus …”

The drone of my own voice and the comforting coolness of the place made me happy to pray for hours, except that the women kept nudging me. Finally I instinctively reached back my hand and pushed, just a little and very politely.

“Alex! Alex!”

Again I elbowed back—then the use of my name struck me!

And the voice!

“Enough, I say. Ye havena turned monkish on me, have ye? Cum, I’ve muckle to tell ye.”

I whirled, faced a blinding light in which stood the living soul of Enoch Angus Boggs!

“I did it!” I screamed.

And fell in a dead faint toward him.

AFTERWARD ENOCH TOLD ME THE troubles he had with the hysterical priest who claimed that his return was miracle number four hundred three. The two ladies who’d been praying agreed, saying they’d heard my plea and that was that: Enoch’s name went into the books.

As for me, I was near toty as the priest. People crowded around to see the “angel-boy” who’d brought back the dead, for an innocent “little child shall lead them” and “come ye as a little child to enter the Kingdom of Heaven” and I was perfectly willing to testify that ’twas true. Hadn’t I seen him sucked under the waves with my own eyes? Hadn’t I looked for him for four days?

Finally even Enoch agreed and dragged me out of the church, protesting that if he’d been dead almost three weeks, ’twas time for a good haggis. He led me to a small garden behind the square where Firth and Twixt were tied, brought back from the dead as well though I’d forgotten to pray for them. There he unwrapped a haggis, warmed it over a small fire and told me his tale.

“That war a swift current in the Rhône sure enow, but not to a Scot what learned to swim in the gorges and tarns of the highlands. ’Twas the beasts that detained me, fer they couldn’t get footing and kept shooting ahead like greased arrows. ’Twas ten miles or more before a villager helped us walk out.”

My excitement waned somewhat. “Only ten miles? Why didn’t you come straight back?”

“Ten miles, aye, but two days and a night. ’Twas a long time, bairn.”

“You were struggling in the water for two whole days? Without stopping or eating?”

His bright blue eyes oped wide. “I’m surprised myself that we made it, now that ye point it out. O’ course, I war plannin’ to rush back but Twixt war a bit lame.”

I frowned. “E’en so.”

“Well, thar was another reason. We’d lost all our supplies. Now ye saw yerself how mean the Crusaders be when they’re hungry. I thought to myself, I’m in virgin land; I’ll fill the coffer fer young Alex.”

The word “virgin” roused a suspicion.

“What was the villagers name? The one who helped you.”

He was caught off-guard. “Poll.” Then hastily. “That be Paul.”

“Poll, Polly. A pretty wench, I trust.” I pushed away my haggis.

He let out his breath. “Aye, but also helpful. She gave up her best layers for our larder and e’en slew a lamb for haggis.”

I got to my feet, trembling. “So you did all this for poor little Alex, wallowed in some hussy’s pigsty while I was near starving on the road, traded my safety for that miserable Gateway to Hell.” And I brought forth the vocabulary I’d learned from him. “You tikel pisspot, you lickerous erse, sour-breathed sticked swine, drunk nose, crocked routing … Go back to your bawd! I don’t need you any more!”

He grabbed me hard. “Alex, ’tis not seemly that ye be jealous! A man’s a man, ye should knaw that!”

“Jealous!”
I bawled. “Jealous! Of
you?
Nothing would make me happier than if you’d settle down and marry one of your foul dancing girls. Didn’t I tell you to stay with Dangereuse? You’re right, jealousy be a toty idea! But you’re my sworn
brother!
Blood comes first! You’re a disgrace to the MacPhersons!”

’Twas the ultimate insult and he blanched.

“Waesucks, lad, ye have reason. I swear I didna mean to desert ye. I knew Ambroise was wi’ ye, and the king has taken ye into his household. Tell me, did ye suffer?”

“Aye, I suffered sorely but I didn’t die.” And I suddenly saw his purpose.
“That’s what you wanted
, isn’t it? You left me to die so you could take Wanthwaite! I’ll bet you didn’t lose the writ!”

His telltale hand flew guiltily to his vest.

“I see through you, Enoch Boggs. You came down to Marseilles hoping to be told that I’d fallen by the wayside.
I’m
the miracle! I’m the one who survived a living death! So go back to Scotland! I don’t need you any more!”

“Ye’ve tinted yer reason! To tell ye true, I didna think of ye at all—at least at ferst. Ye’re anely a wee lad wi’ no understandin’ of a man’s lust, but …”

I blazed out: “Don’t understand lust!
Me?”
And I brayed without mirth. “Don’t talk to me of lust!”

I threw down my food and ran blindly into the empty midday streets. Back to the palace and the privacy of my hot stinking hole. I didn’t look up when Enoch walked in a short time later, knelt in front of me. I buried my hands under my arms so he couldn’t hold them.

“Look, bairn, I knew ye’d be safe wi’ the king.”

I still didn’t look up.

“I belave ye’ve forgot our oath of brotherhood—that we would permit each other freedom in love.”

I glowered at him under my thick fringe of lashes, then turned away and refused to talk more.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING ENOCH was summoned to the king’s chambers. He wasn’t there long, but when he emerged his face was as red and wet as a boiled lobster.

“What did he say?” I asked eagerly.

The Scot was too angry to speak and struck the wall viciously, thereby jarring a thousand mosquitoes from their daytime sleep.

“Did you tell him about Polly?” I prompted.

“Kape yer stupid mouth closed,” he growled.

We walked into the street. I waited, knowing he couldn’t be quiet long.

“He claims that he assigned me to look after ‘his royal charge,’ that be ye in case ye wonder, and I hae neglected my duties. As yif I didn’t knaw ye long before the king!”

“True.” I was grimly pleased. King Richard had given him what he deserved.

“He laid out rules lak he doon fer his sailors: yif I don’t obey, overboard wi’ Boggs. Or Mercadier will be turned loose on me.”

And I was no longer pleased; this was serious, for I knew well that my slightest complaint would be translated into sure death. Certes I was furious with the Scot, and I had reason. Still, given a choice of having him alive or dead, I’d learned the past few days that
I needed him more than ever, treacherous unfaithful beast that he was. I would simply have to take care: threaten Enoch with the king’s wrath if he got out of control, but say naught to Richard.

I’d been puzzling so hard that I hadn’t noticed where Enoch had led us till my shin brushed a fish barrel and I saw with horror that we were on the waterfront. Immediately I tried to hide behind the Scot’s kilts, but I was already too late. A drunken yeoman reeled directly at me with upraised fist!

“May you burn in Hell!” he cried.

Instantly Enoch’s thwitel was out, his legs braced to fight.

“Git gang or ye’re a dead man.”

“Put down your popper, Scot. The pretty boy don’t need the likes of you, not when he’s got the king. Just watch to your own pouch, that’s my advice.”

Enoch kept his dagger poised. “What do ye mean?”

“I mean ye can have yer stinking Crusade. John Little will not serve no king what cracks nuts for a waferer.”

“That be a woodly thing to say, dangerous as well.”

“But true. They cut Pat’s balls off, threw ‘em to the sharks. Jamie’s as well.” His voice broke and tears streamed down.