Shield of Three Lions

by Pamela Kaufman

“You’re a fool, Alex,” Zizka almost snarled. “’Twas foolish to dissemble, even more so to confess your identity. Ambroise would have taken care of you, trained you well, kept you out of battle, protected you! Knowing what I told you about Richard, you still put yourself at his mercy! Frankly I doubt you can survive! Do you have any knowledge of fighting? Of what Richard expects?”

  “You dare speak to me of dissembling?” I shot back. “Or of the dangers of the Crusade? You who cold-bloodedly committed me without a word! And you too knew the king—you could have warned me of his plans. If I die, ’twill be on your head. As for Richard, he will be fascinated at your treasonous remarks!”

  And I ran from the tent. Knowing I must go to Sir Roger, I nonetheless dashed first to seek Isabelle, for I had to see her at least once more, my only friend. We almost collided at the gate to the women’s court for she was coming in equal haste to find me.

  “Oh, Alex, have you heard about Princess Alais? Is not the king a monster? She may be an old sop, but prison! My lady Marie is fair besotted with anger, for you know they’re half-sisters.”

  “I heard it first.” And I told her about my interview. She sank to a bench and gazed at me with eyes wide, flatteringly impressed.

  “You are a baron?”

  “Aye.” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her I was a baroness, a twelve-year-old maiden the same as she was, but I refrained. Not until I told the king, my father’s instructions recalled.

  “Where is Wanthwaite? Is it a large holding?”

  “The largest barony in Northumberland, soothly a wonderful estate. I wish I were returning right now.” My voice shook a bit.

  “Oh no, I’m sure you don’t. To go on the Crusade in the king’s personal service, why, ’tis an honor to dream upon.”

  “Do you know much about the Crusades then, Isabelle? Except that King Richard goes now and his mother went in her youth, I know naught of their purpose or how they’re conducted.”

  Her pearly teeth took her lower lip as she thought. “’Tis not a subject that ladies speak much of, but I believe Jerusalem be fearsome far away, close to the original Paradise, I trowe. A priest once described the Holy Kingdom to us: ’tis on a verdant plain bright as emeralds, and trees bloom there with strange sweet fruits which grow as quickly as you pick them. Rivers flow with honey instead of water and cows give forth only the richest cream. The city itself can be seen from afar and you must remember to shade your eyes lest you be blinded with its splendor, for God makes it to shine like diamonds and the streets be paved with gold.”

  “In sooth?” I asked, awestruck.

  “So said the priest and he would not lie.”

  We sat silently a short while more.

  “In the king’s personal service. La!” she said at last. “You’ll be a great man someday.”

  “Aye. I really should go see to my outfitting.”

  “Wait, I have something for you.” She held out a soft vellum book of a few pages. “Tractus de Amore, writ by my Countess Marie and her queen mother.”

  I took it, much awed. “Thank you, but it’s so valuable.”

  “I hope you benefit from its instruction,” she said archly.

  She took me in her arms and kissed me, I think passionately for it hurt my teeth, though did nothing to my liver.

  “God be with you,” she whispered.

  “And with you.”

  I left her finally to see Sir Roger about my appointment.

  SIR ROGER KEPT ME WAITING A long time at his desk as he served several ahead of me. When he finally gave me his attention, ’twas in a surly manner. “So you’re to be a page. I wish the king would tell me when he takes someone new. Gilbert and the others are pages enough in my opinion, and Gilbert’s served the king long. And at such short notice. There be no way to put you in his chamber before Vézelay; I can’t train you nor can Gilbert. Get properly outfitted at once; go to the keeper of the horse where two mounts have been put aside and ride close to the household through Tours. I can’t give you room there, for the city is tiny You’ll have to camp alone.”

  He waved me aside and I left with sinking heart. To ride alone with the rabble, to camp in the wilderness of tents. Where would I e’en get a tent? Was food provided or was that up to me? I went to collect Plantagenet garb and my steed.

  Back in our leather tent, I donned the smaller of my two scarlet-and-gold outfits and rolled the other into a bundle. Later I planned to use the padded vests to make a new harness for my treasure. Then I went out to care for my sweet dappled stallion, giving him of Twixt’s grain to eat. I would call him Thistle because of his gray color.

  Enoch found me fast asleep when he returned in late afternoon. The tent was muggy hot and my head felt to be in a vise.

  “Waesucks, bairn, come outside. There be not enough air in here for a flea.”

  Groggily I stumbled after him.

  He put his hand to my forehead. “Be ye with fever? Or is’t the tent? Be ye hungry?”

  “Aye,” I said, thinking I’d best gorge to prepare for the fast ahead.

  “Haly St. George, whar cum that purple horse?”

  “He’s not purple,” I cried, stung to anger. “He’s dapple gray and his name is Thistle.”

  “Best call him Stem, for the prickly Thistle rides on top.”

  We both busied ourselves preparing our fowl while the Scot whistled cheerily. Aye, he was pleased to be rid of me, even if the price were foregoing Wanthwaite, I thought with a pang of self-pity. I wondered if anyone would ever like me just for myself again, or if my estate would always be the lure. Then I remembered that Enoch had just seen the king.

  “What did you talk about?” I asked cautiously.

  “The castles he returned to the Scottish king, somewhat of my family which he remembers.”

  That piqued my curiosity but I let it pass for the moment.

  “Anything about me?”

  He spat a bone into the fire. “Aye, I set the record straight about our bein’ blood brothers.”

  My heart leaped in dismay. “What did he say? Did you mention Wanthwaite?”

  Enoch belched from his heart, then held up a rolled parchment.

  “Aye, he gave me yer writ fer safekeeping.”

  “My writ! Let me see!” I grabbed but he held his arm aloft.

  “Not sae fast, bairn. Ye’ve shawn yerself to be a lump when it cums to protectin’ our estate, sae I’ll take care of it.”

  “Can’t I just see? What does it say?”

  “I dictated the terms myself,” he said coolly. “Ye can rest easy.”

  “As you dictated my contract with Zizka!” I cried bitterly. “I’ll be lucky if I end with so much as a grave plot!”

  “Nay, Alex, when have I e’er done ye wrong? ’Tis not perfect, but ’twill do. Remember: Qui in uno gravator in alio debet relevari.”

  “If I’m aggrieved on one point, I can’t be relieved by having you steal what is mine!” I shouted in contradiction.

  “Well, I tried to learn ye but ye be summit tinty In short: I be appointed yer legal guardian and I will manage yer estate till ye be of age.”

  “If I become of age, you mean,” I wailed close to tears. “For you know very well that I’m likely to die on this Crusade.” Aye, the odious king had betrayed my hopes in two ways, by sending me on this woodly trek to the Holy Land and by placing the Scot in legal authority over me. Then I had a second thought. “If I perish, who takes over Wanthwaite? You or the king?”

  The Scot picked at his teeth with his dagger. “Such a possibility ne’er came up in our discussion, but now that ye ask I believe the king would prefer that a trusty Scot be in command sae far north.”

  I was stunned at the possibility yawning before me: I would be sucked into the abyss of the Crusade, Enoch would hurry back to London and claim me dead, take Wanthwaite and that would be that. If I survived at all ’twould be much too late.

  I turned my back on him, thanking God that at least this was our last n
ight together, and said as coldly as I could, “I hope you enjoy your victory. I hate you and I hate the king, both of you. Taking advantage of my cruel loss to line your own pockets.” I put my head to my knees. “And sending me on this journey to be sure I’m out of your way.”

  “Now, Alex.” His hand shook my shoulder. “The king be not sae bad as ye think.”

  “Not to you!” I cried. “But ask Alais! Or me!”

  “Nay bairn, stop grucching and sniveling long enow to listen. The king be most particular that ye fare well on this Crusade. That’s why he asked … turn around and see fer yerself.”

  He forced my head to turn and I gazed uncomprehendingly on his gaudy sark: over its plaid was sewn a crude jagged cross.

  “Ye see, bairn? The king made me guardian on condition that I take good care of thee. I be gang with ye on yer Crusade!”

  I WASN’T FOOLED BY THE KING OR ENOCH WHEN THEY said that they wanted me protected on the Crusade, for I kenned that the king needed the Scot’s good will in the north and that Enoch needed the king’s support to his claim for Wanthwaite: I was merely the expendable pawn in the middle. However, for the moment I didn’t care. I was so relieved that Enoch and I could continue as before that I could have kissed him—but didn’t. Already my mind was racing far ahead to the time when I would steal my writ while he slept, slip away alone now dressed as a girl so neither the Scot nor the king would know how to find me, go back to London and make my own deal with the justicier before anyone knew I was gone. Toty with optimism, I prepared to ride out on the morrow.

  Enoch had already gone to the wardrobe and the keeper of the horse and had a fine Plantagenet uniform (which he refused to wear) and a horse named Firth. His assignment as I understood it was somewhat ambiguous: he was to ride with me, protect me on the road, supply himself with food whilst I would be fed by the king after Vézelay He was also a mounted soldier, mayhap a knight though I didn’t know if he’d won his spurs, and was supposed to aid the keeper of the horse in some way. His first task was to put in supplies for our journey to Vézelay and we worked together throughout the night to load Twixt down with staples of all sorts. I won’t say we stole, but hens, eggs, loaves and cheese gravitated fatally to our tent that night.

  The last thing I thought as I put my head on my goatskin was that the Scot had also relieved me of my immediate nightmare of discovery. Certes a girl in a rough army is not as safe as that same girl among jongleurs and I’d not given myself much more than a week in such company. But crawling into Enoch’s tent was entering a lion’s lair and I doubted that anyone would be tempted to follow.

  Enoch was busy working with sticks, dried seeds and cords when I rose. Amazed, I asked him how he could play at games at such a time, to which he replied that this little instrument might be more important than a gaveloc, for ’twould keep us informed as to the numbers moving and their demands on the countryside.

  “’Tis called an abacus,” he explained, “a Chinese invention. Logistics be the problem, Alex; ’tis logistics what whipped the old Crusaders and ’twill be logistics again this time. But not fer us Scots.”

  By Matins we had mounted our steeds, with Twixt on a rope behind us, and edged as close to the royal quarters as we could get. A hundred lords or more were organizing their own companies of trained knights to follow the king; pennants of every color and design were held high to show the knights where their lords could be found, and the numbers spilled from one yard to another. High above us a fanfare sounded as a mighty cheer rose to the king, but we had only a glimpse of his scarlet cape and sun-struck crown as he waved from the tower, then lost him as he descended to take his place at the head. Horses pawed nervously and everyone asked everyone else what was delaying us. Suddenly we learned that the king had already departed, whereupon Enoch grabbed my bridle and guided our three animals forward to the gate.

  As we crossed the moat—perilously close to the edge—we saw that the king was indeed far in front, his gold silk canopy bobbing in a sea of red as his guards fought back eager Crusaders from the fields who wanted to march close to him. Several knights rode back and forth along the lines—Brabantians, Enoch called them—and acted as ushers to keep order in the ranks. Once we were clear of the moat and had a place, we again came to a momentary halt and I looked back at Chinon. Several of the jongleurs had assembled on one of their carts by the roadside to view the departure, and Dangereuse broke free to run after us.

  “Enoch! Enoch!” she wept, clutching at his knarry knees, then babbled on in her strange tongue that no one could understand.

  “Why don’t you stay with her?” I asked. “She needs a guardian.”

  “Aye, that she does, fer Gitanos be namore liked than the Jews, but she isn’t of my blood as ye be.” And he bent to pet her head kindly as if she were a dog, his farewell to a devoted lover, for I knew well he’d shared her pallet for months.

  Zizka stood in a black cape, glowering like Mars, and beside him Brise-Tête. High above on the walkway I saw the small green figure of Isabelle waving with both arms, only this time there was no Princess Alais beside her.

  As the ranks began to swell behind us, soldiers of the Cross chanted a marching rhythm, “St. George, Aie! St. George, Aie! St. George, Aie!” while others sang “Wood of the Cross” so that the air vibrated with the excitement of voices and pounding feet behind, golden fanfare and Te Deum before! Enoch took out his pipes and wheezed counterpoint. For the first time I sensed the awesome magnitude of the holy quest.

  Yet by midday the voices had silenced under a hot vaporous sky and we heard complaints that we were moving too fast, that it was all very well for the quality on horseback but what about the poor foot? On a slight rise we looked back again and saw that the fore of the army was a sleek head while the rear fanned like the straggling tail of a molting peacock. Enoch shifted his beads til and fro, then announced that we were about seven thousand men, that the first would reach Tours before the last had left Chinon. Be as be may about Chinon, Enoch and I first saw Tours under a pale green sky with Venus hanging bright o’er the wall. As in Chinon, the fields were crowded with new Crusaders come to join the king.

  Despite Sir Roger’s order, Enoch squeezed us through the city gates before they closed, for he said he didn’t want Twixt’s store of food to be attacked. There was no place to camp inside, so we laid our mats out in the city square which turned out to be a fortunate choice, for we were directly in front of St. Martin’s chapel, and therefore managed to witness the king officially begin his Crusade the following morning.

  We were pressed against the back wall of the chapel and Enoch lifted me to his shoulders so I could see over the heads of the glittering assemblage of noblemen, knights and churchmen in full regalia to the altar with its large golden cross and relics of the blessed St. Martin. Finally the Gregorian chant was begun and the sonorous solemn sounds quieted the waiting audience. Archbishop Bartholomew, who had given Richard the cross three years ago, came and knelt before the altar, then rose, arms uplifted to welcome the king. We all turned to watch King Richard enter and walk slowly down the center aisle to the altar. He wore a heavy jeweled crown with raised points, a robe which glittered as it moved, but ’twas his face which outshone all, for ’twas afire with joy and inspiration.

  “Why are ye tremblin’?” Enoch whispered.

  “I’m not.” And I marveled that he could e’en ask.

  After the king had knelt, Archbishop Bartholomew started his Mass, beginning with “Quasi sponsam decravit me corona, et quasi sponsam ornavit me monilibus.” Richard was taking the Lord as his spouse and I thought bitterly of poor Alais in her tower. When would she become his spouse as well? The archbishop went on through the Kyrie eleison, the Gloria Patri which was sung, the Gloria in Excelsis Deo, the Pater Noster, and the king rose to face him.

  The archbishop now spoke directly to Richard, naming him the first monarch to answer the pope’s call when Saladin took the Kingdom of Jerusalem, the most blessed among kings fo
r his valor and reverence, the hope of the Christian world. Then he presented the king with his official emblems of the Crusade, a pilgrim’s scrip and a tall ashen staff.

  The king faced his audience, his emblems held high for all to see, his face transfigured with holy zeal. “I herewith accept these insignia of God’s blessing for our Crusade! And in His Name and for His Son, we shall succeed!”

  The words rang like bells, his eyes flashed blue fire and he brought his staff to a thunderous crash to underscore his vow.

  But the staff broke!

  The audience gasped in horror. The king staggered as the staff gave way and would have fallen if two knights had not leaped forward to help. All saw alike what this must mean, and stifled moans swept the chapel. Before the panic could grow, Richard held up both pieces of the broken staff and smiled exultantly, his face glistening, his voice suddenly hoarse:

  “Two staffs are better than one! God has blessed us with double strength!”

  “God bless King Richard!” someone called and others took up the cry. “God bless King Richard!” The music started again and the king walked forward to the door, a staff in each hand, his smile still exultant. As he passed near us, however, I saw a small trickle of sweat flowing down his temple from his crown, a muscle jumping in his lower cheek which held the smile steady.

  Outside the door, the king immediately mounted and our march to Vézelay continued via the city of Tours and out through the opposite gate from the one we’d entered. ’Twas hard to say whether we were suddenly joined by vast numbers of Crusaders or whether our camping army behind us now entered the city, but what started as an orderly line quickly became a mob. We were jammed two and three abreast into narrow streets with steep walls which made every horse’s hoof sound like thunder, every voice like a hundred. Babies screamed in terror and angry crowds called to us to move. Yet ’twas impossible to round corners, to ride forward or back, and the inhabitants surrounded us in a diatribe of hatred. I could hardly believe my ears as I heard us cursed and reviled, called the filthy long-tailed English, murderers and thieves! Horses reared and a little boy was badly kicked by flying hooves.