“Ambroise, I must know about Enoch. Did he take money for my contract with Zizka and you?”
“I believe not at first in Paris, beyond perhaps stealing some from you. Zizka surmised that the Scot was too gullible to see our—purpose. Naturally Zizka encouraged ignorance.”
“The Scot is shrewd,” I objected.
“So he proved in Chinon, but he didn’t approach Zizka again. I believe he went directly to the king, getting his payment in the form of concessions along the Scottish border.”
“What did Richard concede?”
Ambroise’s pale eyes shifted away. “Some estate in the north.”
Wanthwaite!
He turned to the door.
“Wait! That’s not all he offered the Scot.” I stopped him. “When Enoch dug his mine to blow up the wall, something else was offered. Do you know what?”
Ambroise sighed with relief. “Yes, the earldom of Northumberland. Bishop Hugh of Durham is a very old man and the king plans to put Enoch in Hugh’s place as Northumberland when the time comes.”
My heart shriveled. Enoch had traded my body for a title! This was the “brother” devoted to protecting my “innocence”? No wonder he’d been dismayed at discovering my true sex—he’d been undermined in the most venal contract ever made. I wanted him dead.
Ambroise brought me back by a touch on my shoulder. “I, too, must say one thing, hurried though we are. Alix, think kindly upon the king.”
I was almost too angry to heed.
“List to me well, for I’ve been with Richard more years than I care to tell. He loves you. No, wait, don’t interrupt. I know what you think, but it’s not like that. Richard is a giant in every way: physically, spiritually, emotionally. But he’s never been able to find a vessel worthy of his emotions. Until you appeared, Alix. You have the mind, the character, the person—everything to delight him. I believe you’ve been a revelation to him.”
“Hardly that, since he thought I was a boy.”
“Are you sure?”
I recalled his shock. “Aye, indubitably.”
“Yet … he loves you. ’Tis true he was once seduced when he was a lad like you—’tis common in the military, has been since the Greeks. ’Tis also true that an inclination grew to an alternative, and finally to his only possible expression. Witness his difficulties with Berengaria.”
“Why doesn’t he change?” I cried.
“You know how he’s struggled. After all, sodomy is a sin in the eyes of God, and Richard is a Christian king. Even the Saracens put a man to death for the act. Perhaps God is testing Richard in some way. For all his determination, the king so far has failed. Unless … perhaps … you.”
I hung my head, remembering.
“’Tis impossible, of course, here, now … but if you could leave a message?”
Ambroise’s honeyed words couldn’t erase my shock of last night, Gilbert’s revelations—the dead emirs.
Or Northumberland.
“Please, Alix?”
“I once did love him,” I said grimly. “Once …”
“That’s enough,” he interrupted hastily. “I can embellish a little. And you left because …?”
“I had no choice. Embellish that as well.”
He turned ashen. “I’ll say—that a nobleman gave me the message, but he doesn’t want to be identified.”
Or something even more convincing; I wasn’t worried about Ambroise protecting himself.
At dusk we rode through Acre’s back way to the port. There the black outline of Philips borrowed galley loomed against the clear evening sky a wax lamp on deck reflecting in jagged lines to the shore. There was great activity as Frenchmen loaded their gear. I waited in the shadow of the Tower of Flies as Ambroise waddled up the plank and identified himself. Soon he was back with the equally portly Rigord de St. Denis who carried a blue cloak of France to drape across my shoulders.
Ambroise and I stared at each other in the dim light.
“I’m sorry Alix.” He leaned forward and kissed me.
Angry as I was, I felt moved by his kiss. We’d been through much together. Then I led Thistle onto the lower deck and when I looked to the dock again Ambroise was gone.
I waited below decks until the movement above had ceased, then climbed up and took a post at the rail. The wind had died, the bright stars hung low and tracked the black sea. In the distant hills, fires burned in Richard’s camp. Ambroise would wait till I was far at sea before he told his story, but the king already knew that I was not returning to his pavilion, had not brought the writ. I imagined his wrath, wondered how long it would last. Richard of the Angevin temper, a valiant warrior, a chivalrous king who lied and deceived when it suited his purpose.
Enoch.
My heart boiled to think of him. Monstrous traitor, hypocrite, thief, pimpreneau! My legs grew weak; my palms sweated where they clutched the rail. I swore to beat the Scottish snake yet. I had no writ, no army at my back, nothing but my bare wits, but that was enough. I hadn’t come to Hell and back for nothing—I’d learned much from the treacherous rogues along the way.
Dawn came bright and breezy. I slipped down to hide with Thistle once again, but heard the sailors’ shouts, the sail crack in the wind, felt the roll of the waves.
I was on my way home.
Perhaps a god will yet restore,
By happy chance, our bliss of yore.
HORACE
GOD FAVORED THE FRENCH WITH A STEADY WARM breeze and we skimmed o’er the lapis plain as easily as a sea gull. I knew not what Richards troubadour had told Rigord, but the French historian hovered over me protectively, announced me as his new scribe and gave me parchment to copy his words as proof. Despite my gratitude, my spleen boiled in rage as I read his nefarious lies about King Richard, for he’d made my monarch the Devil incarnate, a bragging, vainglorious, ruthless traitor to God and King Philip, who had poisoned Philip’s wine and forced him to quit the Crusade. I briefly considered editing the tale toward the truth, but what could I do? My very life was now in Rigord’s hands and I must conform.
Deo gratias that King Philip suffered from seasickness. His keen baleful eye would have discovered me at once although I believe we’d not spoken a single word to each other. As it was, I was spared all but his groans and retching which rent the air day and night.
When I wasn’t scratching Latin on vellum, I went below decks to be with Thistle, as planned. Both his familiar presence and his safe stall comforted me in my terror of the French nobles around me, many of whom I recognized. If I were discovered, first I would be questioned, tortured if they thought I was a spy, then made a prisoner until they could ransom me to Richard. A fate so painful that I dared not dwell on it. Every time a knight came to check his own horse, I buried my face in Thistle’s mane till I was alone again.
One afternoon as I half-dozed with my arms around Thistle I o’erheard a most disturbing conversation between two nobles standing by the rail directly above my head.
“Vexin will fall easily,” said the first.
“And give us a clear march through Normandy,” said the second.
Just what Mercadier and Richard had always predicted. I missed something, then heard:
“Not before spring at the earliest and we’ll be waiting.”
“Or if not in France, he’ll be captured in Austria where Leopold will be waiting.”
“Think you that Count John will protest?”
“When we are putting him on England’s throne? Hardly. But I hope the Whore-Queen Eleanor dies beforehand. She could make trouble.”
“Women.”
On another hot day while everyone slept, I sat below Thistle’s belly and cautiously took off my money belt to remove some coins for my trip back to Wanthwaite. How clever I’d been to outwit the Scot about money, and I’d see him in Hell before I’d give him a farthing now. Let him eat his title of Northumberland if he hungered; he’d been more than compensated for the bit of cocky-leeky and haggis I’d forced
down my gullet. As for our lodging in Paris, that was matched by the palatial rooms King Richard had given us. Aye, on that score we were even. But when I toted all his evil gains at my expense, nothing short of my conquering Scotland could make us even. So far, of course, his victories were only fancies and not yet in effect; therein lay my hope. If I could find Bishop Hugh first—assuming he was still alive, Deo volente—I would make a strong plea for my right to Wanthwaite. Certes Roderick’s uncle was a just man and would support me, but only if the deed was done in Assize—and before he saw Enoch’s royal writ.
Our galley blew apace toward Marseilles but not fast enough. Betimes I crept to the stern and squinted from one side of the horizon to the other. Every small movement made my heart quake till I saw that ’twas a fish’s dorsal fin or a bird flying low, not a ship.
EXACTLY TWENTY DAYS after leaving Acre, we landed in Marseilles without incident. I thought surely that King Philip would disembark for Paris but Rigord informed me that the king planned to continue his journey by sea despite his infirmity for he’d inherited the land of Artois from the Duke of Flanders and wanted to claim it against possible contenders. The historian kindly invited me to join them on their way through the Straits of Hercules and up the Atlantic coast to Boulogne where I could catch a ship to Dover; ’twas faster than land and, besides, Ambroise had paid my way Much as I was tempted by the speed, I was more eager to get away from the French where I suspected that one nobleman had recognized me. Reluctantly I declined.
I was on the waterfront two days later buying salted eel for my lone journey northward when a large galley swung into port.
“’Tis one of Richards!” someone shouted. “Look to the three lions!”
Wildly I lunged into the shadow of a portico of a stewe, and I could see knights crowd around the lowering plank.
One by one, they descended. Holy Fathers, most of them. Then a few wounded, then …
Enoch!
My heart belched, my mouth turned to dry cotton. I pressed deeper into the shadow, tried to make myself invisible as a fish by a riverbank. I know not how long I stood so but suddenly ’twas night and I’d been there since early morning. The Scot had stayed near the ship awaiting Firth and Twixt; I watched him eat a fish stew from a barrel, relieve himself into the sea, rub his hands and bend his knees to limber his body, and the more I watched, the more I hated. How unfeeling he was to look so red-cheeked and bright-eyed when he’d lost me. Well, there’s no elixir like greed, that was obvious; already Enoch was counting my acres.
Finally he mounted Firth, took Twixt’s bridle, and whistling his loathsome “Murriest May” song, rode past me close enough to touch with a lance. I waited a long time, then ran to the palace where King Philip’s household was staying and asked the guard for Rigord. The historian was already in bed but came at my summons, a torch high o’er his hoary locks.
“What’s wrong, Alex?”
“Forgive me, Sire, but is it too late to change my mind about going with you?”
He leaned forward to peer at me and I could smell that he’d dined on a strong garlic soup. “I believe not. Many nobles have chosen to ride directly to Paris, so we have deck space.” He reached for my arm. “Come, you’ll sleep in my chamber tonight. There’s nothing to fear, boy.”
I was sure that Enoch hadn’t tarried in Marseilles, for he was on his way to Paris to pick up my writ; nevertheless I hid in Rigord’s hot chamber until our ship was loaded and ready to sail. ’Twas with a great sigh of relief two days later that I saw Marseilles shrink to a shimmering cluster. That city was my nemesis and I prayed fervently that ’twas the last time I’d see it or be stung by its mosquitoes.
King Philip’s contradictory fortune held, good in Zephyrus’ hot steady breath, bad in his wretched mal de mer. The Straits of Hercules were known for their treacherous storms but we puffed past their awesome rocks and eddies with ease. Then we hugged the brown shores of Spain and Portugal, resisting the pull of the Atlantic and the unknown. But when we put in at Boulogne, the French king left to ride overland and took his good fortune with him—for the wind fell, the mists rose.
“I still have gold from Ambroise,” Rigord said in farewell, pressing coins into my palm.
I watched him ride away, oddly moved to lose this last connection to the Crusade. Now I was alone, without Dame Margery, Enoch, Richard or Rigord. Well, I would just have to look after myself henceforth.
I joined the channel boat. We sailed for England with a heavy mist over the water which the captain assured us would soon burn off. However, the fog closed in quickly after midday and we had to use our oars as the captain studied his needle floating on a dish and the bell rang constantly to give warning. Our first sight of England came just before dawn the next day, the lamp burning atop Caligula’s lighthouse, and a giant cheer of relief rose from the passengers. We could hear the screaming of the gulls, the steady pounding of surf; then the sun rose behind us and there were the chalk cliffs crowned with the jade forests of England.
I clutched the damp rail to watch. So many countries, so many miles, and all the time England was here waiting, the true land of milk and honey as poor Roderick had said that night outside Tyre. Somewhere in those rosy clouds floated the spirits of my parents, earthbound until I could release them. Somewhere far to the north Wanthwaite still stood.
BY THE SECOND AFTERNOON ON the London road I was so weary I could hardly stay awake. I’d lost a nights sleep on the Channel boat, had rested only a few hours in Canterbury. When I reached the crossing point at the Thames, opposite London’s glowing sprawl, I realized that we would be landing on the strand close to Jasper Peterfee’s inn where I’d left my wolf Lance. I decided to indulge myself with a good night’s sleep in his company, though I knew ’twould be foolhardy to try to take the wolf on the road north. ’Twas like coming home to clop along the strand with its many fine kitchens and enthusiastic hawkers. I yearned for a fresh pigeon pie, a good sleep on my old goatskin, a cup of English ale. I saw the sign of the Red Fox readily enough, led Thistle into the court and reined tight.
There, still loaded with gear, stood Firth and Twixt.
In a flash I turned Thistle back to the strand and galloped toward Ludgate.
DAMNATION. I WOULD HAVE TO SLEEP IN THE FIELDS outside London this night and risk outlaws, rogues and bandits. How had the Devil-Scot gotten here so fast? On his broomstick, I thought sourly.
I rose at Matins, while it was still dark, and began the upward climb on Icknield Street. By the time it was light, I’d left the rich mansions behind and was in open country. Briefly I wondered where Gladys Stump was now, recalled her raucous “Caaa! Caaa! Caaa!” and Enoch’s ridiculous enthrallment. Would he had married the hussy.
I stopped that night in a village inn, and inquired to see if there was a northbound group I could join. Fortunes Wheel helped me, for I linked myself with a company of Benedictine monks heading for Durham, led by Father Thaddeus. He warned me that we must travel with all speed and take our beds as we found them: the whole country was embroiled in civil warfare—to linger might prove fatal. I assured him that I too sought speed.
Every step thereafter carried us into more hostile country. The fathers were alert to danger e’en though they pretended to ignore it and I felt especially conspicuous with my scarlet robes, a cardinal among crows, the one person who might be carrying gold. Therefore, I borrowed a black cape from the fathers.
Villages were now infrequent, as were houses. Occasionally we passed a mean thatched hut with a fetid pool before the door where wretched families watched our passage sullenly. Others were hostile, shook fists at us and called us “Bishop’s lackeys.” One morning we rode for many miles without seeing any sign of human habitation when all at once we came to a stop.
Father Thaddeus raised a hand to signal silence, though no one had spoken a word for hours.
Nonetheless we stopped obediently and virtually held our breaths. In the distance we could hear shouts and the clang of s
words; I judged that an army of about thirty was coming our way.
“Into the woods!” the father whispered harshly.
We needed no second order, but rode into the thick brush, dismounted some distance to our right, well out of sight but still able to see one portion of the street. Now the sounds grew in volume: taunts, screams, the clash of weapons. Then my educated ears told me ’twas over, one side gave chase to the other. In no time a gaggle of harried men rushed by low to their horses, their outfits a mixed motley, many of them bleeding and ashen of face. Still we waited. Almost on their heels came their victors, a group just as wounded and poor as the first except for their exultant shouts. Finally, cautiously, and after a long silence, we made our way back to the road to continue our journey.
Around the next bend we came upon the grisly sight of seventeen men hanging from the oaks which lined the street. Though their eyes and tongues bulged in death, the fathers rushed to cut them down, for their flesh was still warm. One lived a short time but the others were dead. We stopped to say a death Mass, tried to dig shallow graves in the frozen turf, had to settle finally for covering them with leaves and branches against ravening beasts.
“They’re more sinned against than sinning,” our holy father said. “Treason is abroad in the land.”
As if the day’s events were not enough to bloody our fantastick cells, we could find no inn by nightfall and were forced to sleep in the open under an icy drizzle which penetrated our very marrows. We couldn’t rest comfortably without a fire, yet were terrified of what its light might bring us. We huddled around a tiny circle of smoke and prayed through chattering teeth for God’s mercy, which for the holy fathers meant we should go to Heaven if slaughtered in our sleep, and for me meant that we should not be slaughtered at all.
Although we knew God was with us in this valley of death and repeated the psalm to prove it, we forced ourselves to a new pace and hardly stopped to eat or sleep. I gave Thistle handfuls of precious grain from my saddlebags when we paused for water, but it barely sufficed. However, I didn’t complain. Danger was palpable and I was as eager as Father Thaddeus was to avoid it.
Alix of Wanthwaite 01 - Shield of Three Lions Page 44
