Shield of Three Lions (67 page)

“That’s a record of your expenditures and a bag of silver with the exact amount.”

Quickly he produced a notched stick of his own and held the
two sticks side by side. “Why do ye not have this dent?” he asked, pointing to a notch on his stick.

I studied it. “That’s the period when you were with your hussy Poll, by the Rhône River. I was with Richard and Ambroise.”

He turned choleric red.

“However,” I continued, “you’ll note that I am willing to pay for crumbs you gave me even when I served the king and supped most often with him.”

He flung the sticks down and pounded the bed so the silver jumped. “I doona want yer paltry payment! I canna run Wanthwaite on buckets—I mun go to the well!”

“Go to the well where you drew a thousand livres to purchase my estate!” I shouted, jumping to my feet.

He jumped as well, inadvertently pulling the silver so it spilled on the floor. “And it’s now mine! I’ll permit ye to live here and grub, but ye’ll pay yer way, by God!”

“I have!” I cried. “Haven’t I just offered you a small fortune?”

“I won’t take it!”

”’Fine. I’ll take it back then, but never accuse me of stealing from you again.”

I bent to collect the coins; just as quickly Enoch stooped as well and we bumped our heads with a mighty thump.

The next thing I knew, I was lying cradled in Gruoth’s lap and was surrounded by a circle of faces, Enoch’s in the middle.

“Where is …?” I tried to raise my head. The silver had disappeared. One look at Enoch’s bland innocent face told me where it had gone. He grinned like a cat licking cream from his whiskers, but the predatory gleam in his eye told me that he wouldn’t be satisfied till he’d eaten the pet bird as well.

Three days later thirty-eight men and women departed for Scotland in order to avoid the winter snows, leaving Gruoth, an older woman called Matilda, their husbands Donald and Dugan as well as six other knights, Enoch and me to contend with the elements here in Wanthwaite. Now the work began in earnest.

Our foremost problem was food. We all hunted every day.
Gruoth and Matilda rode with bunched skirts, arrows over their shoulders, and both brought home at least a squirrel every time out. The men used Scottish deerhounds to go after the hart and managed to bring down three in as many weeks. For expedience, I donned my Plantagenet boy’s outfit to hunt and often went alone for wild goose and duck, plover, curlew, crane and dottrel. Oft I thought of burying my mothers vial and my fathers sword, but dared not go to the silver trove for my father’s sword, lest Enoch see me.

I took a certain wry satisfaction in noting Enoch’s eyes flicker after my boy’s garb. Twice he was so surprised that he called me “bairn” before he caught himself. Yet in the privacy of our chamber where I slept on the bed, he on the floor, he spoke not at all. I mused on the discrepancy in his behavior. He might jangle all he pleased about my deception and selfishness along the road, but the hard fact was that he forgave the boy, condemned the girl. ’Twas passing strange. I knew Enoch didn’t suffer from Richard’s malady, nor was he overly respectful of the Church, but he seemed subtly influenced by both: like Richard, he put brotherhood and chivalry among men far above the relationship between the sexes; like the Church fathers, he acted as if I carried the obscene Gateway to Hell whereby men lose their virtue. He even reflected Andreas Capellanus who claimed in his
Tractus de Amore
that women are sullied by greed, are slaves to their bellies. I was willing to admit that I would do most anything to eat, but so would the men about me.

Twice Enoch and I rode forth to meet with our villeins. I said little but lent my presence to give the Scot authority. Such forays were tense to the extreme. We learned the dreadful condition of the renters firsthand which depressed us both. Most of the tension, however, came from Enoch’s hostility toward me.

When I felt a twinge of guilt for not digging into my wealth to purchase whatever was needed—not that there was much to be had from a ravaged countryside—Enoch stopped me by his churlish attitude. Formerly I’d mourned because people, including the Scot, loved me only because of my estate. How naive I had been! They’d never
loved
me, only curried favor because I had something they wanted. Now Enoch controlled Wanthwaite and I was hardly more than a serf
to my own soil. If my plan of annulment should fail, the treasure was my escape of last resort: I would buy my way into a nunnery.

One night Enoch and I were suddenly wakened from a deep sleep by a pounding on the door and Father Gerald rushed in, a wax lantern held high.

“Did you call for me, Lord Enoch?”

Enoch pulled himself upward and stared at the priest. “Yif I had, surely ye could wait till marnin’.”

“I thought you were ill unto death,” Father Gerald answered, a faint note of defense in his voice. He glanced quickly at me, back to Enoch on the floor, grasped our bedding arrangement. “I see that—er—I was mistaken. Do forgive me. Unless—are you all right, Alix?”

“Aye, Father, thank you.”

“Who tald ye I war sick?” Enoch asked bluntly.

“He was mistaken. Well, good night.”

“Wait, Father Gerald,” I said. “Please sleep by our fire for the rest of the night. The way is too dangerous.”

“Thank you, dear, I believe I shall.”

Mumbling apologies, he left.

Enoch spoke from the dark floor. “Who war his informant, Alix?”

“How should I know?”

“Mayhap he got wind that ye war gang to put poison in my broth.”

“Don’t be daft.”

I pulled my pelt high, much pleased. I had a witness of undeniable repute; it had gone just as Dame Margery and I had planned.

DAME MARGERY URGED ME TO ACT while the even was still fresh, for if we waited Enoch might claim that that particular night had been an exception in our sleeping habits. I hedged, saying I needed one more witness. Unexpectedly the winter gales came to my aid.

“’Tis time to bundle,” Gruoth informed me. “Privacy mun give way.”

’Twas said in front of Enoch and the others; no one demurred.

I’d heard of bundling oft on the road, but had never done it to
my knowledge and wasn’t sure exactly what it meant. ’Twas very simple: we would lie in a close human heap for warmth. Human flesh is very hot and many lives have been saved by bundling. Unfortunately lusts are also hot and not likely to abate under such conditions.

“’Tis why most babes be born in September and October,” Matilda told Gruoth and me. “I’m hopin’ Dugan comes through this time.”

“’Twill help you as well,” Gruoth informed me, for despite my balking on my wedding day, she thought I yearned for Enoch.

It would, but not in the way she meant. A circle of furs was placed near the fire and we all lay down close as pups in a litter. Naturally husbands and wives were next to each other, though hardly alone. Enoch was too proud by far not to stay by me, though a wight called Charles was just as close on the other side. Soothly I was grateful for the custom on many counts: now all the Scots would be witness to my chastity; for the first time in weeks, I was warm enough to sleep.

During the first night of bundling everyone was discreet, but thereafter Dugan and Donald exercised their conjugal rights regularly within sight and sound of the whole group. Their activity didn’t arouse comment, but Enoch’s lack of interest in me certainly did. I caught the furtive looks, the occasional pitying or wondering words that a lusty groom would neglect his duties.

After two weeks of this situation, Gruoth took me aside one day. “Alix, do ye see any change?”

“In what way?”

“In Enoch’s—his interest.”

“You’re with us every night, so you know.”

“Do he never invite ye up to yer chamber? I thought mayhap …”

“Never.” I was pleased at her noticing. “Why?”

Her red face got redder. “Well, I been putting a love philter into yer slops.”

Enoch and I had been sharing a bowl and I’d thought the last batch of stew tasted like toads boiled in witches’ brew.

“What’s in it, Gruoth?”

“’Tis a staunch recipe, has never failed: entrails of bulls, fish scales, nail parings, human blood and mandragory. Think you it could be because I’m somewhat lacking in ground loadstone?”

I didn’t answer, for soothly it had worked all too well—but on the wrong person. Lying close against Enoch, I’d been kept wide awake all night because of my treacherous liver which zoomed like Greek fire through my body.

Be as be may, there was no longer any reason to tarry I had all the witnesses I was likely to have, and Gruoth’s use of the philter substantiated that Enoch was at fault, not I. Dame Margery assured me that the villagers would move in with me for protection if the Scots left, so I had no excuse whatsoever. Nevertheless, ’twas almost the day of the Nativity before I broached the subject. By some miracle the Scots were out seeking holly for the hall, leaving Enoch and me alone.

“Enoch, we must talk,” I began.

Just as he raised his lugubrious face from watching the fire, there was a sharp rap on the door.

“I’ll see who’s there.” I ran to the entry, relieved at the interruption. “Hello, Archie. Who’s this?”

Archie Werwillie stood with a fat wolf pup in his arms. He handed me the woolly babe and stepped inside.

“’Tis a present for ye, Alix. Maisry once said as how ye like them.”

“How thoughtful! Aye, I love their wild eyes. Don’t you?” I traced the pup’s silver mask with my finger, staring into his tilted topaz eyes, as innocent as honey.

“We doona need another mouth to feed,” Enoch growled ungraciously.

Archie flushed and shifted his weight awkwardly. “Well, I don’t want to bother ye. I’d best be going.”

I stood at the open door and chatted a bit to ease his leavetaking, thanked him again, and when I returned to the hall I was in the choleric humor necessary for my discussion.

Enoch, too, was choleric. “Doona ask me for bones, whan ye’re too selfish to support yer own home wi’ the treasure.”

“I’ll feed him from my bowl,” I answered. “But I’m glad you admit Wanthwaite is my home, for that’s what I want to talk about.”

“My
home!” he shouted. “Mine! Paid for by money! Paid for by suffering yer presence all these years! Fram the time I took ye and the ferst Lance on the road, I’ve had no peace. I’ve
earned
this cursed hall.”

I put the pup down. “This one will not be called Lance.”

“Whatever ye call him, mayhap I doona want him in
my house!”

“You want an appropriate name? Very well then, insofar as Wanthwaite is about to revert to the crown, I’ll call him King Richard.”

I saw Enoch’s foot swing back but I moved too slowly to save the pup. In an instant the babe was hurled against the stone wall, fell to the floor, a lifeless pile of fur.

“Oh my God, my God!” Enoch cried in a frenzy as he rushed to the beast. “Alix, I didna mean to … forgive me!”

And I lost my sanity!

“Forgive? Aye!” I lunged at his middle with my fist forward to knock breath from his chest, but missed. “I’ll kill you, you demon!”

“Stop it! Stop it, I say!”

He grabbed my wrists and I bit his thumb near to the bone.

“Damnatioun! Ye fanged tiger! Stop, or I’ll beft ye!”

I attacked his knees, toppled him like a horse, jumped on his shoulders, sought a poker to finish the job, was thrown off and he was on top.

“Aye,” I hissed. “Get prepared to live tangled like snakes forever—for if I get one finger free, you’re dead!”

“Alix, I’m sorry. I’ll get ye another wolf, I swear. Shall we make truce?”

“Truce! Truce! So you can find some other way to steal from me? Deprive me of every coin so that I couldn’t even enter a convent!”

“Ye in a
convent?”
He howled with derision.
“Sister
Alix! Be there a convent fer heilie harlots?”

“Let me up, you
pimpreneau.”

“You won’t try to murther me?”

I promised and soon we were facing each other, both of us torn and bruised. The Scot was glowering, his face perplexed.

“Why did ye call me
pimpreneau?”

“You know very well—but that’s not what I want to discuss.” I took a deep breath, tried to recall my plan but was much shaken. “You remember when Father Gerald came?”

“I remember, boot yif ye want to talk aboot that, ye mun tell me why
pimpreneau
, or I’m mum as an oyster.”

Our eyes locked, his demanding, mine refusing. Then I shrugged.

“If you insist, though ’tis a subject I’d think you would want to avoid.”

“Nay, I want to hear all yer fantastick mind can invent. ’Tis becoming my hobby. Gae on:
pimpreneau.
”

“Very well. Ambroise told me on my last day in Acre.” Then I reconsidered. “Actually King Richard hinted as well, and Sir Gilbert said the same. So you see, I have three sources.”

“Sir Gilbert? What died?”

“He may be dead now, but he was very much alive when he put poison in our meat.”

Recognition crossed his face. “Very well, the varlet sayed that I war a
pimpreneau.
For whom?”

“For me,” I replied with deadly quiet. “You made a contract to sell me to Zizka. You procured.”

He turned a greenish pallor. “I—
quhat?”

“With Fat Giselle and Zizka, you agreed to sell me to Ambroise.”

He looked sick. “But ye war there, heard it all, sae much fer each performance …”

“Except that I was too
innocent
to understand what you meant by
performance.
I was to be the king’s pretty boy! To … do … you know.”

“Ye dare say that aboot me?” Now his face was purple and I hoped someone would come in at once. Why had I been so foolish as to talk of this dangerous topic?

“That’s not—not all,” I stuttered on despite myself. “Richard paid you even more when he wanted me in his tent. Aye, gave you the earldom of Northumberland … and other favors as well. And you concealed it all from me. Kept me ignorant. Speak not to me of deception!”

“Lies! Lies! All lies!” he bellowed. “Made up by Sodomites to save their own skins! I tried to protect ye!”