“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.
While all this was going on, I continued my search in desultory fashion. My reason told me ’twas futile but I was too stubborn to quit altogether until my body weakened for the task. Finally I sat on a mound apart from the camp and watched the knights and foot accomplish their slow exodus across the treacherous waters, Enoch’s grave.
I was stunned to a stupor by grief. Still, I wondered at my woe. I’d hated Enoch, had often dreamed that he’d expire in some hideous way, and now I couldn’t bear it. My depth of feeling was akin to the loss of Maisry whom I’d loved. Were love and hatred so close then? Aye, in that they gave reason to live. I saw clearly now how fortunate my meeting with Enoch had been on Dere Street, for my empty well of love had been instantly filled with hatred and I’d been sustained. Now I was empty again and felt I must collapse inward upon myself.
Without Enoch, the whole pattern of my quest was revealed as lunatic. I’d told Dame Margery I’d be back in a week and I was in my second year; I was supposed to travel north and I was going ever deeper to the south; I wanted to rescue Wanthwaite and I was committed to saving Jerusalem. Aye, ’twas as pointless as the wanderings of the Jew. Yet Enoch had given it reason, had pushed his abacus and come up with figures to account for the madness.
Well, Enoch was dead. And at last, so was I: killed at Wanthwaite, now ready to lie down.
I couldn’t go on.
No one paid me any heed as the fanfare sounded and the slow march began. E’en so I took certain care to conceal myself behind a bush. I put Thistle to graze free, then curled tight to sleep.
“ALEX, WAKE UP. YOU’LL BE LEFT behind.”
Blearily I gazed upward at Ambroise’s face, half-hid above his fat belly.
“Go on without me,” I mumbled. “I’ll catch up.”
“I thought the Scot was looking after you.”
I heard my own mad cackle. “Aye, at the bottom of the river. He’s calling me to suck eels.”
His footsteps retreated. Instantly I fell asleep again, vaguely feeling ants crawl over my ears; then hands wedged under me to lift.
“No!” I flailed weakly. “I want to stay here!”
I was tied onto Thistle’s saddle, water forced down my throat, a honey-teat put in my mouth. Ambroise rode on one side of me, Sir Eduard on the other. As from a great distance I heard the creak of saddles, men’s voices talking and laughing, felt the flick of Thistle’s tail as he struck at flies. Still encapsulated by my stupor, I was beyond experience, beyond anguish.
Then drops plopp
ed around us and I brushed my face irritably; there were more, and more. Our three-day respite of fair weather had ceased, rain had returned. But this was no ordinary rain. Lightning cracked on the gray horizon and thunder growled ominously above as a giant began to stir. Our army plodded forward, the men covering their valuables with blankets and leather as best they could. I tried not to think of the swollen river raging behind us with a torn body battered somewhere against its current. Steamy rain washed hot tears from my cheeks.
Ambroise leaned across Thistle and said something to Sir Eduard, then galloped forward alone. Another crack, closer this time, and the sky blanched a deadly silver-blue. Then another, another, and suddenly the drops turned to a tide and we were engulfed in a furious driving flood of water. Everyone was now pinned to wherever he stood as the elements flailed from all sides and volition ceased. I lay my head against Thistle’s neck, breathed deep of his warm horsy smell, thought of Enoch. Enoch.
Then a hand pushed me back into sitting position and my reins were pulled forward. Thistle stumbled after our guide, a rounded shape which must be Ambroise. Like snails in ooze we inched forward until a shattering flash revealed a pile of high rocks by the roadway. Here I was lifted from my perch and passed from one set of hands to another, finally to be engulfed against a body smelling of sweet woodruff.
“Is he hurt?” I heard the king say.
“Only in his heart.” There were mutterings. “He’s dazed, which is just as well.”
“He’ll stay with me.”
“I’ll care for him, Your Highness. He is my charge.”
“Thank you, Sir Gilbert, but I believe he is my charge first of all,” the king answered.
And I was aware enough to feel gratitude.
Thereafter the king settled himself into a position that was somewhat dry, whether under a tent or a rock I didn’t know, for I kept my eyes closed. I knew only that he leaned back against something solid with his knees bent and held me wrapped in his cloak against his half-bare chest as if I were a babe. He talked to people around him concerning our whereabouts as I lost all sense of time, and he occasionally patted or stroked me. I felt his warm sticky flesh against my cheek, listened to the strong thump and swish of his heart, felt his voice rumble both in my ear and in the resonance against my face. He was my sanctuary.
I may have slept. When the king stood, I woke and saw that it was dark. The rain had abated but still fell in a steady drizzle and the king’s pavilion had been raised.
“Well, Alex, you had a good rest,” he said as he placed me on my feet. “Come, you’ll stay with us tonight.”
He led me into the pavilion where Sir Gilbert and Sir Eduard were busy setting up the trestle and the king’s bed. Sir Gilbert shot me a venomous look and I hid behind the king’s tunic, but Sir Eduard came and asked how I fared. I tried to say all right but found I still couldn’t speak.
“Lay a pallet for the boy at the far end,” the king ordered.
Sir Gilbert moved to obey and, as he brushed by, bent and whispered, “Congratulations, you’ve outdone yourself. You’re a weeper par excellence but I warn you, don’t overplay your hand.”
The tragedy of my loss was too great for me to respond.
Lanterns were lit; the king supped and drank wine; bishops and great lords gathered around the trestle to talk of strategy. How hard the king works, I thought, as I watched his serious eyes dart this way and that over a map, his underlit features softened in the waxy light. He seemed the most intelligent, the quickest, the most energetic of men. It seemed to me that he labored half the night, though my own stricken senses were not reliable timekeepers.
Finally all lights except one were extinguished and even Sir Gilbert had departed. Only then did the king turn to me again. His huge white-robed form approached, knelt in the dimness, and he wiped my forehead free of beaded sweat.
“Alex, I didn’t know till this afternoon about your brother-Scot. I’m very sorry, boy; I understand your loss.”
Again my words of gratitude came out as a strangled sob.
“That’s all right, child. There’s no disgrace in honest grief. We all feel it for departed brothers. At least he’s assured of direct entry into Heaven since he died for God’s cause. The pope granted absolution for all martyrs to the Cross.”
The comfort was lost in the chilling finality of his words: Enoch was dead.
Richard leaned close to kiss me good night and felt the tears on my cheeks. He sighed deeply and picked me up again.
“Come, Alex, this is no night to be alone.”
He carried me over to his own large bed and placed me on it, though my clothes were still damp. Then he dropped his robes and climbed in beside me, put his arm across me and pulled me close. ’Twas strange, I knew, that a twelve-year-old girl should be sleeping with a naked king in his bed, but it didn’t seem strange at all. His kindness, his warmth and his marvelous strength made it the rightest thing in the world.
When Sir Gilbert woke me in the morning, I was back on my pad and the king was dipping his bread, already garbed for riding.
I WAS INSULATED BY DEEP DESPAIR. Vaguely I saw we had entered a part of the country where it looked as if it had not rained for a year. Under a blazing sheet the earth parched and reflected upward so that we were caught in a double anvil. Knights peeled to loincloths, heaping armor, mail and winter clothes onto spare horses or their squires. Less fortunate foot soldiers staggered under their own heavy gear, many dropping to the ground and sitting sullenly as we rode past. I saw men retching and squatting by turns as their cods collapsed, some lying in their own filth. Two shook their fists at us and announced they were quitting this mad march into Hell.
Then my hand was lifted from my side. I looked up to see that King Richard rode beside me. He smiled, said nothing. So we rode for miles and miles. Then he put my hand back to my rein, squeezed it gently, and cantered ahead where an archer sat staring at his bleeding feet. By the time I was abreast of them, the king had poured water from a flagon on the feet, bound them with a silken sash torn into bandages. As he rose, the archer said something I couldn’t hear but I could see the adoration in his face.
All day long I watched the king ride the lines til and fro, now leeching, now listening to plaints, now praying with some weeping Crusader. He loves them, I thought with wonder. In late afternoon, he returned to my side, edged his courser closer, placed his arm around my waist as we jogged. His presence made me break down again. I made no sound, kept my face forward as I wept and wept, unable to stop e’en though I knew he was watching.
That night as I placed my goatskin before Ambroise’s tent, King Richard was suddenly before me, a huge nacreous shadow against the night.
“You’ll sleep in my pavilion from now on.”
Soon I lay in his silken tent as big as a hall, fenestrations admitting a slight breeze, and listened vaguely to the parley among the counselors about tactics in the Holy Land, how to reach there with all due haste. We must march to Marseilles within the week, the king said, for the fleet is waiting. March two hundred twenty-one miles in this heat? There won’t be any army left, said someone else. And I dozed.
The next day I dined on beef broth and bitter brew of ox testicles to restore my strength. Again the king answered calls all along the line and gave freely of his ministrations, but ’twas late afternoon before he came to me.
“How do you fare, Alex? Are you stronger?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” I glanced shyly. “Thank you for everything.”
A radiant smile and again he took my waist. After many miles he withdrew his arm, and I missed his touch.
“Alex, no one can or should replace your Scot, but I hope you will think of me as your protector from this point on. You are my ward, I am your king: that very fact makes us closer than brothers, believe me.”
I knew not what he meant but believed him anyway How could I not? His eyes, his smile, his touch all testified to his truth. And that night I was able to help the pages ser
ve wine to his counselors when they came.
After they left, the king himself picked me up and cuddled me for one moment, then lay me gently on my mat.
“Good night,” he whispered. When he kissed me, I responded to show my gratitude.
And I was grateful, e’en though I cried myself to sleep.
THE COUNTRYSIDE GREW EVER more fiendish, marked by grotesque rocks pushing upward, their sheer drops pocked by ancient cave-dwellings. The sun, too, continued its relentless glare, a topaz heat enclosing the ravines in eerie light. Occasionally the wilderness was broken by a sudden thrust of past splendor—Roman aqueducts, theaters, bridges—in startling contrast to the savagery. I was vaguely aware of passing through villages, some abandoned by their citizenry who fled our locust army, others white-baked hamlets lined with a blur of shouting people: Vicaina, Mount Galonte, St. Bernard, Valence, St. Paul of Provence. Then one day I heard someone say we were in Montelimar. The town was prettily planted with plane trees which cut the roadways with black shadows. Not till we’d entered did we see the populace lurking in the obscurity.
Then I saw a white arm, an object flying!
“King Richard! Careful!” I screamed.
He veered sharply and just missed being hit by a large rock.
“Antichrist! Killer King!” a woman shouted, and cast a rotten melon at him.
A whole crowd took up the chant as ugly missiles of all kinds filled the air. “Pope-lovers!” “Plunderers!” “Vatican wolves!” “Read your Bible!” “Turn your other cheek!”
Alix of Wanthwaite 01 - Shield of Three Lions Page 23
