“I hope you’ll be very happy,” I raised the goblet and stopped, fighting a gagging in my throat, “with the choice of your heart.”
“I’m still waiting for you to drink, Alex.” His brows were high, his smile bemused.
I poured the noxious liquid down my gullet where it landed like lead. The goblet tasted of rust.
“Good, now I’ll tell you a secret. You’ve just imbibed from a magic cup, for that was King Arthur’s own goblet, excavated from his tomb in ’fifty-five.”
I felt his vibrant expectancy and stayed silent. A pox on all kings and their goblets.
“And I want to give it to you for your very own.” His sentimental voice.
Before I could stop myself I asked suspiciously, “Why?”
The question caught him off-guard. “As a gift, of course. I enjoy giving presents to …”
Our eyes suddenly locked as they had on the sand and he stopped. Cast back into that mood of intimacy with this new ugly knowledge between us, I became reckless. I would not be a “whore,” bought off by old cups!
“I don’t want a gift—Richard.” I saw his dangerous flush but didn’t care. I banged the cup on the trestle.
“There’ll be no discussion,” he said angrily. “Take it!” He put it back into my hands.
“Thank you. Is that all, Your Majesty?” I was equally choleric.
“No.”
Again I watched his feet, saw him go for another glass of wine, return.
“Look at me, Alex.”
I did, found his face no longer jocular or sentimental, but troubled.
“You know that I don’t want to hurt you. What you heard today has nothing to do with what I feel …” He smiled ruefully. “I am a king.”
“I know that, Your Highness.”
“I doubt it, but at least try.”
His voice and words were both extraordinarily soft for his person and had a devastating effect upon me, for my anger melted to a grief I felt I couldn’t bear. If I didn’t escape at once, I would burst into tears.
“May I please be excused?” I barely managed to choke out.
“Not yet, not until …” His hand fell lightly on my shoulder. “What can I do to make you happy?”
“I want to go home!” I sobbed. “Please, Your Highness, give me another writ—just for me and not the Scot—and send a note to your justicier. I want to go back to Wanthwaite!”
I saw the consternation on his face. “And leave me?”
“I have no role in the Crusade,” I implored, “and I’m only a nuisance to you. You have to worry about me when you have so much to concern you. And besides, since … I mean, now that you’re…” But I couldn’t bring myself to mention his marriage.
He didn’t answer at once, seemed to consider. I held my breath.
“You would be perfectly safe if I put you with the queens.”
Aye, put all his women together, I thought bitterly.
“No, please, Your Majesty, I don’t want to travel with the queens. They have a reason—a purpose—and I haven’t.”
“You have exactly the same reason that they have,” he replied coldly. “Namely that I want it so.”
And I knew I’d lost, but I had to go on.
“But you also want me to have my estate, have often told me so, and I could begin my life again. You’ve already given me so much, taught me so many arts—I’m sure I could do it. Please!”
“God’s balls, have you no respect? Not another word! You’ll do as I say! I mean that, Alex, and if you want your precious Wanthwaite, you’ll obey.”
I gave up, lowered my head, woebegone.
He put his hand under my chin, made me look at him again. “You seem to have forgotten that murderous Osgood of Northumberland …”
“Osbert.”
“Osbert, a ruthless scoundrel as I remember him. That hasn’t changed, Alex, nor has my promise. I swore that you’d be reinstated and you will; I swore that you’d be educated in my household up through your winning your spurs and you will; and you will crusade.”
I didn’t answer, lowered my eyes.
“And yes, I also remember that I swore to protect your innocence. And I have. Since my scourging, I, too, am innocent in God’s eyes. We start anew, little Alexander, and I swear you’ll be safe—even from me.” His words were firm, but not his tone. I caught a lack of resolution masked by his strong oath, the way I sometimes go too far in a lie. He’d also sworn that he loved me and would see me again. His image blurred in my gush of tears.
“Christ! My Eros,” he groaned as he lifted me to his shoulder, “don’t remind me of what I’ve renounced. Do you think I don’t know?”
I breathed deeply of sweet woodruff and didn’t answer. His hand stroked my head.
“Nor is the irony lost on me. Alex, Alais—even the names are similar.”
“How can I survive in a war? With all those men?” I asked brokenly.
“I’ll put the Scot with the women as well; he knows what to do. Besides, no one dare touch you when I …” His voice trailed off. Then he pulled me back so we looked at each other. “Shall we kiss goodbye?”
He cupped my head in his hand and drew me into a passionate embrace which stirred and confused me utterly. If Berengaria was the choice of his heart, what was I?
“Now go, before I forget my scourging entirely.”
He dropped me and I ran out the door.
And was nearly stabbed in the stomach by Enoch’s raised thwi-tel!
“Put that silly thing down!”
I half-slid down the ladder to our dark corner below as the Scot scrambled after me.
“WHAT HAPPED IN THERE? Why was King Philip wrathful? Why did ye stay afterward?”
He was stunned at the tale of Alais and King Henry.
“Such a hizzie as that,” he marveled. “I’d rather make houghma-gandie with a broom. Still, there’s no accountin’ fer a king’s cardiacle passion.”
But ’twas the announcement of Richard’s forthcoming marriage that intrigued him most. Again and again he had me repeat every word till I was sick of the subject.
“The choice of his heart. Hmmm. It mun be true yif she’d nocht rich nor bonny nor powerful. What elsit? I mun have him wrong.” And he waxed cheerful, whistling and humming.
The strain of the last few hours and the telling of it now took their toll on my vital spirits. I curled on my goatskin and felt Enoch place a squirrel cover atop me.
“Be as be may,” he said softly “’tis good news that the king be gang to take a decent wife to breed an heir fer England.”
“Aye.”
“And that he’s put us on the dromond with the queens, a buss round and flat as a lily leaf. We’ll float to Jerusalem safe as yif we were in our mothers’ arms.”
My eyes were already closed. When I opened them again it was to hear my own voice sobbing and screaming. A fearsome nightmare had sat on my face and I thought I would die. Enoch cradled me in his arms, safe, I thought, safe in my mother’s arms, and I clutched him by the shoulders, then had to laugh when I got a mouthful of beard. If he were my mother, I was a bear cub.
Nevertheless, in the morning I still felt uneasy and vulnerable.
“Here,” I said abruptly, “I want you to have this.”
He held King Arthur’s cup with awe. “Nay, bairn, I canna take such a valuable gift. ’Tis yers.”
But he’d take half of Wanthwaite.
“I want you to have it and there’ll be no further discussion,” I echoed the king.
“Wal, yif ye’re sure.” He rubbed the dull metal. “’Tis the mast highlich gift I e’er received and I’ll treasure it always.” His cornflower eyes were moist and before I could stop him, he leaned forward and smacked me on the lips. An honest kiss forsooth with no insinuating tongue wagging inward.
“Howsomever, Alex, now that ye’ve made yer decision I mun tell ye that King Arthur would be happy yif he knew. Aye, fer he were one of the greatest lairds that e’er came out
of Scotland.”
“He was Scottish?”
“That he were.” He leaned over confidentially. “And I’ll tell ye summit more, betwixt us twa, he were bore close to our clan. Aye, Alex, I canna swear but ’tis said that he were a MacPherson! But we mustna crack boast …”
“Perhaps it will bring us good fortune,” I said moodily. “He looked for the Grail; we look for Jerusalem.”
He contradicted me sharply. “Nay, bairn, we look for Wanthwaite and this Crusade be a necessary diversion, that’s all.”
Then, in my tinty state, I made the mistake of confessing to Enoch that I’d asked to be excused from the Crusade and how the king had replied.
“Withouten me?” he asked.
“Of course not,” I lied. “I asked for both of us.”
“Hmm.” He narrowed his eyes. “He doesna want to lose control of Wanthwaite, for there’s money to be made. Especially to pay for his Crusade.”
“Do you think we’ll ever return, Enoch? Tell me soothly.”
He placed a heavy hand on my knee. “I plan that we shuld, but I canna guide our stars, sae listen. Yif anything haps to me, I hae sent our writ to Malcolm in Paris.”
“When did you do that?” I flared.
“When we ferst come to Messina. One of my clansmen carried it fer us. I gave Malcolm instructions to guard it well, but he would give it to ye yif I were gone.”
“Would it do me any good without you?” I asked. “You know I’ve not read it.”
“Well, ye mun have a guardian but Malcolm will see to that. We’ll keep it in our clan, ne’er fear.”
“And if something happened to me, could you use it?”
His eyes were cold as the grave in spite of his grin. “Not yif King Richard knew, but I’d see that he didna learn aboot it.”
I understood him well, him and the king too, both my “protectors.” The king would protect me so long as I went on his Crusade, would give me Wanthwaite on his own terms and otherwise keep it to himself. Enoch would protect me so long as my presence helped him gain Wanthwaite, but if I perished he would move on his own. To give the Scot his due, I no longer thought he would kill me himself or permit someone else to do it, but I knew that he would marry me off to whomever he pleased when he learned I was female.
I was caught between the suck and pull of two powerful forces, Enoch and the king.
THE KING’S WEDDING DAY, 12 MAY 1191, IN THE CITY OF Limassol in Cyprus, whence we had been diverted by storms. Day bright as diamonds, blue sea baubled with gay galleys, air filled with music. Feast day of St. Pancras, St. Nereus and St. Acilleus.
And my thirteenth birthday.
I stared balefully at my three companions, Enoch where he lay snoring and the two red-bellied lizards that crawled across our faces in the dark. All the king’s household had been summoned to serve on this great occasion or nothing could have stirred me, for my head beat like a clapper. I dragged myself from our mean dank hole onto the balcony that o’erlooked the jungle garden, a paradise for reptiles and insects with its festering piles of rotting fruit. To think we’d spent weeks at sea, only to be blown to this miserable backwash. Soon I minced through the slapping leaves and fetid water leets to a giant water wheel where I could bathe in my leisure. By the time Enoch stood yawning above, I was the king’s own fastidious page preened in special finery to serve the new queen.
Together the Scot and I walked through meandering reeking paths to a Roman villa where the first part of the ceremony would take place. There we separated, he to check with the horsemen, I to strew flowers on the trestles. Varlets were still clearing vegetation from the garden here and throwing rushes on the dank ground. Ambroise barked orders to musicians while bishops supervised the arrangement of their altars and tapers. A goodly number of lords arrived before we were ready, their polished armor mirroring the rising sun and adding to my head’s throb. Then long horns sounded in the distance to announce the approach of Berengaria’s train.
Enoch rejoined me to stand in respectful line with the others. My head drooped a little, but I could still see through my lashes: two fat gentlemen in black and yellow, ambassadors of Sancho VII, King of Navarre; Queen Joanna in Plantagenet red and Sicilian green; and Berengaria, bride to my king. How woodly to have dreamed that I might have stood in her place now, when even she was considered too low of rank, too poor for a king. But at least I was beautiful and he loved me.
“How would you describe the future queen?” I asked Enoch softly.
He stroked his beard. “Her hair hangs on her head richt smertly.”
“Do you include the hair on her upper lip?”
“Alex, dinna be snell. ’Tis namore than a shadow from her nose.”
“Which is too long forsooth. If I were writing with Ambroise now, I’d tell of her moonish pallor and cowpat eyes.”
“For shame, to backbite with such privy invy.”
Aye, for she was the choice of Richards heart. And she was magnificently garbed, better than I’d ever seen her, I’d grant her that. Her tunic was blue silk semé richly embossed with fleurs-de-lis, girdled with jewel-studded gold, draped with a gold mantle banded in heavy orphreys of embroidery and sparkling gems. On her head she wore a flower circlet of verbena intertwined with gold, from which fell a white veil as long as her flowing dark hair.
Shrewd, I thought, to cover her face.
Then a gasp went through the crowd. The king had arrived, surrounded by splendid lords and clerics, but who could see them? Richard blazed alone in this company, the rest of us mere ornaments in his frame. His rose-colored silk-satin tunic sparkled with silver and gold spangles cut as suns, stars and crescents, over which was draped a scarlet robe heavily embroidered with gold with the Plantagenet lions in snarling stance; both garments were clasped by an elaborate plaque belt encrusted with jewels. On his head he wore a snug scarlet cap embroidered in gold and a fleurs-de-lis crown. Add to all of this his dazzling smile, his sapphire eyes—what need to say more?
We all moved forward at the chaplain Nicholas’s signal to witness the first part of the ceremony during which Richard and Berengaria knelt silently before the altar as the wedding contract was passed for representatives from England and Navarre to sign. Next the guests were asked for donations. During this period I had a perfect view of the king and gazed on him with wonder. Was it true that he’d once held me in his arms and said he loved me? This greatest and most beautiful of men? A woodly fantasy. Father Nicholas stepped between us for a moment and whispered to the pair, whereupon they exchanged rings. Then Richard raised Berengaria’s veil and gave her the ritual kiss. I leaned forward, agonized, trying to see if he’d used his tongue. I couldn’t bear it. A signal was given at the door and the crowd outside shouted acclamation: Berengaria was queen! And my world was shattered.
But she still must be crowned. Father Nicholas stepped aside as the Bishops of Evreux and Auch took their places before the royal pair who now stood and faced each other. Speaking in Latin, King Richard gave his wife the whole of Gascony south of the Garonne as well as vast holdings in his empire. His voice was low, his gaze serious (but not adoring as it had been with me) as he made Berengaria the most powerful woman in all of Europe.
Thus ended the civil service. Now to the church.
We formed a procession to march to the Latin Church of St. John where the great apostle’s bones were interred. ’Twas claimed that Lazarus also lay there, which must be an error since I’d seen his jawbone in Marseilles. To the rhythm of sacred bells and chants, we wended a slow way past wattle-and-daub huts, now hung with curtains of flowers, crumbling earth walls covered with silk, and trod on Oriental carpets to protect us from camel droppings. Another crowd awaited us at the church and there a full half of our guests would have to wait outside, for the edifice was small. Fortunately I went with the king’s personal household, but Enoch had to stay behind.
Black and musty as a tomb, the church’s interior gradually shimmered with ancient elongated saints caught
in the tapers and an anguished open-mouthed Christ emerged above the altar. Male voices rose from the shadows to chant the antiphon Missa pro Regibus as I knelt on the floor, clutched by an awesome chill at the holiness of this ancient tabernacle, the closest I’d yet come to the Holy Land. The Bishop of Evreux sat on his episcopal throne before the rood-screen, flanked by cantors with staves held high, while King Richard and Queen Berengaria prostrated themselves full length on the floor at his feet. Then the royal pair rose, sat on faldstools before the bishop, Berengaria the closer. The chorus changed to a swelling Salvum fac Reginam as Berengaria carefully removed her veil, dropped her cape and opened her tunic to reveal her dusky breasts to the bishop, small pendulous pouches with large nipples the color of figs. Benedicite, if I couldn’t grow better than that.
When the queen was bared, the bishop dipped his fingers in an ancient Grecian urn by his side and marked a cross on her forehead in oil, then a cross on each breast. Another priest carefully removed the oil with a linen, then burned the cloth on a silver platter. After the fire had subsided, the Bishop of Evreux placed a gold scepter in the queen’s right hand and intoned:
“Accept this symbol of royal authority.”
During the fifteen prayers that followed I was sure that Richard’s eye flicked downward to those breasts at least once and I thought I detected a slight shudder at what he’d purchased.
The bishop placed a rod topped with a cross in her left hand.
“Accept this symbol of royal justice.”
He pulled her clothing back into place, placed a fleurs-de-lis crown similar to Richard’s on her bare head, repeated the Benedic Domine fortitudinem and made Berengaria Queen of England in the eyes of God. But not in my eyes, never in my eyes, this usurper of love who’d never set foot in England. The king took her hand, smiled, turned to the door and they passed solemnly through it to a great shout, “Vivat reginam! Vivat reginam!” Hail to the queen indeed.
Sir Gilbert gave me a sharp nudge to get me on my feet. “How did you like the ceremony, Alex?”
“’Tis a glorious occasion,” I said. Then shuddered. Alais Capet’s words long ago in Chinon. Well, the king himself had said that our names were similar, likewise our fates.
Alix of Wanthwaite 01 - Shield of Three Lions Page 33
