Shield of Three Lions (39 page)

THREE DAYS LATER QUEEN JOANNA AND HER TRAIN LEFT our palace to live in the Abbey of Bagnara which Richard had taken for her. At first I was relieved to have her away from the king but soon suffered from the same ennui as every Crusader in Messina, for we were all prisoners in this hostile territory. Enoch reported near mutiny in Richards ranks.

“Sum say the king be under a sorcerers spell cast by the Antichrist and canna move. Most of the lot sold all they had to crusade and they dinna keer to spend it wintering in this pissmar.”

“It’s not winter yet.”

“Aye, on the sea ’tis winter. The next fair breezes come in March. That’s as soon as we can sail.”

I, too, was impatient and nervous. Other Crusaders might be spending money, but I was spending something much more precious: time. For me, getting older each day promised disaster. I examined my body anxiously several times from morning to night, terrified if I found an insect bite. How could I be sure? It could be unwanted hair coming on, or—worse—a bulge.

Fortunately the king was mindful of his promise to govern my education and I attended classes in chivalry and courtesy given alternately by Sir William de Courcy and Sir Jordan de Homez, and Sir Roger taught me such arts as carving meat with my left thumb against the haunch, but time hung heavy.

Therefore I near swooned with delight one day in late autumn when Sir Roger summoned me to accompany the king on a rare sojourn into the countryside to exercise his horses. Enoch went too to watch the prize destriers, but he rode separately from us. There were several lords, however: our instructors in courtesy plus Wigain de
Cherbourg, Geoffrey Rancon, Aymeri Torel and others I couldn’t name. I was astonished that King Philip’s most valued lord, William des Barres, also joined us. He was a dashing nobleman, almost as tall as the king and garbed in dazzling raiment of peacock blue. He smiled affably but everyone was uneasy to have King Philips best friend in our midst, almost as if he were a spy.

Copper-green hillsides rose above the sedgy marshes and the citrus was tinged with gold from the low autumn sun. Our Roman path lay under the purple shadow of Mount Etna so that we felt winter’s nip, though Enoch said there would be no snow. The jingle of the bridle bells, the friendly rumble of men’s voices and the very fact we were no longer within Messina’s hostile walls put everyone in festive mood.

After the king had gifted me with his radiant smile, he rode with his peers and I was left to listen and enjoy by myself. We didn’t pause until Haute Tierce when we reached a small level plain by a Greek amphitheater, apparently our destination. I served the king while the others ate whatever they had carried with them. There was easy jangling and japing as the knights lounged on the seared grass. Then, after a pleasant rest, one noticed a growth of canes behind a column.

“Look you,” he called. “Canes such as we used to joust with when boys. What say you to a game?”

Some demurred, still too sluggish from their food, but others mounted and began a leisurely imitation of tilting spears. Then the French William des Barres spoke to the king.

“We hear, Your Highness, that you have a boy you’re grooming for your court. Has he yet been trained with the quintain?”

The king glanced in my direction and smiled. “He’s too young.”

“I began when I was only eight,” des Barres insisted. “What say you that I fashion the quintain and you instruct your young charge what he should do? ’Twill be a useful and pleasant diversion.”

Richard sensed a note of challenge and bowed to the French lord.

“Come, Alex, let me speak with you.”

So I walked slowly to the king who smiled reassuringly and described
the technique of placing the lance in an adversary’s chest-spoon.

“’Tis a formidable weapon, much too heavy and long for you to handle, but we’ll fashion a light facsimile of cane, and the quintain is simply a pole dressed as a man, not a moving target and in no way dangerous. The worst that can happen is that you’ll miss. Are you ready?”

“Aye, Your Highness,” I said, my eyes swimming with pleasure at his attention.

As Richard carved the cane, he also talked: the lance was used principally in tournaments, for in actual battle it was good only for a single thrust, then must be replaced by the sword or mace. Of course the Saracens fought in a different manner but that need not concern me. The lance could be eighteen feet long, was made of oak and steel and had to be manipulated by one arm only. In the spurt toward the enemy, ’twas necessary to hold it against the body for balance, then at the last minute to raise it and thrust it toward the chest, by no means using one’s own body as ballast as that would be suicide. The impact of the strike was taken in the stirrups, so I should throw my feet forward and upward with my knees straight. Therefore the skill was in speed, aim, free thrust—all to be coordinated as one act.

The lords remembered their own training and lined up to urge me on in my first ride. Though the lance was only cane, ’twas awkward to an extreme and shook in my grasp. I pulled Thistle behind my line, placed the cane against my side, took aim against the quintain now dressed as a “man” with a stick “arm” to which a broadsword had been tied for verisimilitude.

“Go!” called the king.

I knew at once that I wouldn’t succeed: my start was tentative, my gait wrong. I didn’t even bother thrusting but turned back to try again. Now I was excited and wanted desperately to please King Richard.

“Go!” he called.

This time ’twas right. The wind whistled steady in my ears, the lance rose like a falcon and hit. I was thrilled at the contact, right in the chest!

“I did it!” I shouted.

Then was struck myself from the rear as the world went black! I lay on the ground face-down and wondered dazedly what had gone wrong. I was still conscious but too stunned and breathless to speak.

“God’s feet, what happened?”

“Air ye hurt, bairn?”

Hands tried to lift me and I screamed in agony.

“Don’t touch me!”

This time I did swoon, though only for a moment. Then feebly I beat away the hands that were trying to tug down my baggy pants.

“No, no, don’t,” I wept.

And they stopped.

“He’s been struck by a broadsword on his lower back!” the king cried. “Let me see that quintain. Who put it on a swivel?”

In a great distance, I heard a mix of laughter and denial.

“It was the accepted method where I was trained,” William des Barres’s voice claimed. “If you’d warned him, it could not have happened.”

“Because I thought you
chivalrous
, such a warning never occurred to me,” the king answered hotly.

Des Barres became offended. “Be careful, Your Highness. I cannot accept a slur to my chivalry.”

“You are a disgrace to chivalry and henceforth are barred from our Crusade! I should have known when you broke the pledge of parole in Aquitaine last year, and now a second offense. To arms!”

Still lying on my stomach, I saw that Richard and des Barres now both held canes which they were using as spears, but in deadly earnest. The lords’ faces were pale and worried as they saw Richard thrust, then thrust again with such accuracy that des Barres had to drop his cane and cling to his horse’s neck. The king loosened his own saddle with his blows and quickly jumped upon another steed to continue the fight. ’Twas the Angevin temper in action and for the first time I was convinced that he was from the Devil after all. His face was fixed in madness which must end in death, his own or the Frenchman’s. Finally the other lords tried to intervene, the Earl of Leicester to the point of grabbing the royal reins. Richard whipped him savagely and screamed, “Leave me to deal with him alone!”

At last William des Barres understood the depth of his wrath and rowled his spurs in a fast retreat!

“Get thee hence!” the king shouted after him. “And take care that I see you no more! From this time I am enemy to you and yours forever!”

A profound silence fell upon our company only that I thought I heard an ancient wailing howl through the arena from the old gods.

’Twas the last sound I heard clearly until we were in Messina where I was waked by my own voice screaming. I was in dreadful pain but that wasn’t the reason I cried: I didn’t want anyone to remove my clothes.

It started with Enoch who tried—gently—to pull down my braies and look at my buttocks. He retreated when I threatened to kill him if he touched me. However, I agreed to piss into a cup he left by my bedside.

Then came King Richard. He knelt on the floor so that his face was level with mine where I lay on my stomach on a bench.

“Alex, you must believe me, this injury will be avenged if it’s the last thing I do.”

I believed him.

“The Scot says you have no blood in your urine, so I know you’ll recover soon. Nevertheless, I’ll send my own physician, Orlando, to examine you.

“Alex?” I felt his hand on my cheek. “I’m sorry that you have to suffer on my behalf.”

“Your behalf—?”

“By being my Achilles heel.”

“I don’t understand—Achilles.”

“Achilles was a great warrior who was dipped in water so he couldn’t be harmed, but the god held him by his heel. Therefore his enemies attacked him on his vulnerable heel and eventually killed him.”

I gazed uncomprehending, vaguely insulted to be called a part of a foot even if ’twas Richard’s foot.

He saw my puzzlement. “You are my heel because I care for you, and whoever harms you harms me as well.”

Warmth flooded through my tortured body. Then his face came close, his lips brushed mine, and he left. The Scot replaced him.

“Quhat hermis ye hermis me as weil!
Quhat schitten bullar, say I! Ye tal me quick and ye tal me plain what the king meant.”

“He feels grateful because I saved his life!” I shouted, then groaned at the pain and grunted out the rest. “’Tis more than you feel though I saved your life as well!”

“Ye
saved the king?
Ye
saved me? ’Twas my burly brand that saved the twa of ye yif I recall!”

“Aye, but you spied on us and you know it! I saved you by weeping and pleading or you’d be dead!”

His eyes narrowed to blue slits. “Why would I spy on ye?”

“You tell
me
quick and plain. I think you’re afraid the king will give me another writ. Besides, you’re jealous.”

“Jalous? Jalous? Have
I
e’er told ye to pour my nappy? Or serve my farls?”

“Enoch, please, not now,” I implored. “If that pisspot Orlando touches me I’ll die and it will all be your fault! Tell him he’s not to come near.”

The Scot’s broad furry face bent close. “Ye carry yer woodly modesty too far. ’Tis nocht seemly to be so ashamed of yer terse; ye mun learn to live with yer deformity and not advertise it to the world. After all, there be many a wight canna crack boast about the inchwarms ridin’ their stones, but what of that? Such shame be a form of vanity.”

“You don’t understand!” I bawled hysterically. “My terse be longer than yours for all I’m a wee boy. But I cannot disturb the relics I carry between my legs on fear of death!”

“Relics, be they! Waesucks, Alex, ye’re worse touched than I thought. All men be summit bewitched by their own balls but donna call them haly relics!”

My face broke into earnest sweat for at that moment I honestly believed what I was saying. “My father—I have relics of my father and mother in a special belt I made to carry them with me always. Vials of blood, scrolls, hair and much more. The last thing my father said before he died was that if I disturbed them for any reason, he
and my mother would go straight to Hell and I would soon join them there. Here, feel for yourself.”

I led his hand to my inner thigh and placed his palm across my quilted pad.

His eyes misted with sympathy. “Aye, bairn, I ken yer problem. A dying man’s words be the same as a curse. Try to sleep now and I’ll head off Orlando.”

He left; I collapsed.

He woke me and ’twas already dark. “’Tis settled, bairn. I hae talked wi’ King Richard hisself and convinced him that I were physician enow. And here’s the best of all: he’s sending us to Bagnara whar we’ll be safe with Queen Joanna. We can go abroad thar when we wist and I’ll find some Arab Infidel to learn us his tongue in case we’re captured. What say ye now?”

I smiled weakly and said naught. Part of me was much relieved to be leaving this prison-palace crawling with jealous churls; the other, my faithful liver, quivered and chilled at the thought of being away from Richard.

THE MEAN JAPE OF THE QUINTAIN was not the only way des Barres had insulted the king: Richard brooded over his taunted omissions in my education. Therefore less than a week after we were established in Bagnara the king arrived with a young knight called Sir Roderick of Penrith to teach me the military arts.

“Sir Roderick has great skill,” the king said. “He won his spurs last year when he was only fifteen. Besides that, he’s blessed with patience and a sweet temper.”

The knight hung his curly brown head and blushed deeply at the praise. Instantly my fickle liver began to warm. I liked tanned skin that was lightly freckled and the English turned-up nose.

“You’re from Penrith?” I asked. “I believe that’s not far from my home near Dunsmere village.”

He raised his head and smiled, his teeth as small and pointed as daisy petals. “Aye, close on Dunsmere.”

He spoke Saxon!

“I want the boy to become adept first with the sword, then the
mace. We’ll wait on the lance. Test his horsemanship and see to it that he rides several hours daily. Practice with the bow as well, though he’ll rarely use it.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Roderick promised.

“Good. I’ll check his progress each Saturday, time permitting. Now, Alex, come give me a tour of your living quarters, for they must be suitable.”

I led him to a suite of sunny chambers where we found Enoch carving a wooden ball. The king greeted him with strained civility.

“I see that you are living in luxury,” he said. “Certainly better than my cramped, infested quarters.”

“Aye, ’tis adequate, Your Highness,” Enoch answered with equal strain.