Shield of Three Lions

by Pamela Kaufman

  Enoch and I sat on our cramped deck-space aboard the king’s ship, the Pumbone, on a bright windy day and heard the bells tinkle for Mass throughout the twenty galleys and buzas surrounding us. The King raised his mighty arms and shouted “Annuit coeptis” and we were off! Sails whipped like laundry waves dashed, sailors sang in joy We had barely gotten used to the roll and pitch of our deck when we dropped anchor to camp at Nice; the king planned to sail only a few hours each day in hopes that his own fleet might o’ertake us.

  We put ashore for two days in Genoa where the king visited King Philip who was sick with the gripes. Richard returned in a black rage; Philip had again raised all his querulous complaints about Alais, the Vexin, and even about the weather. Furthermore, he’d ended his vitriol with a demand that Richard give him five of the Pisano galleys, then threatened to leave the Crusade when Richard offered only two.

  Again we sailed southward, and this time ’twas a marvel that we moved at all, so glassy the sea, so lethargic the breeze. The shore rolled by us magically, as if on silent wheels. It took us two weeks to reach our next port, Salerno. Here King Richard planned to stay ten days, for he was determined to conquer his chronic physical ailments before he launched his campaign in the east. Therefore he rode off with his counselors to the Salerno Medical Academy, the finest institution in the world.

  When the king returned, his eyes were as tragic and hollow as those of the cursed heroes of that southern land. Never had any of us seen him in such melancholy humor, almost a sickness of the spirit. Naturally we were exceedingly curious to know what had brought about such a plunge in the king’s mood. Then Ambroise told me that the great doctors had diagnosed Richard’s ailments as a curse from God: two ancient curses had tainted his family and thereby destined Richard himself to become the Devil incarnate. No wonder the king was desperate. However, there was hope. The doctors were sure that in time they could cure the monarch, rooted in the past though his disabilities might be, by the powerful tool of exorcism.

  And gold.

  The king spent two silent days brooding, then announced that he would go hunting. However, he cast cold eyes around the company and added a fateful word: alone.

  Pandemonium followed. Even knowing the king’s choleric humor, the lords protested vehemently. ’Twas unheard of for a great monarch to risk his life by venturing alone amidst hostile people, they said, meaning that the king’s mood virtually guaranteed some dire incident.

  “These rabble are insurrectionists, mark me well,” warned the Bishop of Evreux. “They would delight in bringing down their overlord.”

  “I don’t believe there’s a true knight in the entire country,” Baldwin of Bethune added. “Therefore they will attack in a pack, as wild dogs. Chivalry is unknown here.”

  Richard listened impatiently. “I want to be alone, and that’s an end to the subject.”

  Even Mercadier could not prevail. “I can follow so discreetly that no one would know I am there.”

  “I would know, Mercadier, which is all that matters.”

  The whole company fell into a deep gloom.

  Richard gazed around himself, rattled. “I see what I must expect in Jerusalem—an army of women. Well, I will appease your fears just this once. I will be protected by my page.”

  He pointed to me.

  For one brief uncomfortable moment, I was the center of scathing attention. Then the counselors conceded to Richard’s wishes.

  “Alex, arm yourself well against my enemies,” the king ordered, so everyone could hear. “Meantime we’ll see if we can find you a little gerfalcon, in case you’re not in combat the whole time.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” I said happily.

  Soon Enoch had pulled me to our patch of deck and was whispering furiously in my ear. “Ye’ll nocht go forth into this treacherous trap with the king alone.”

  “You heard. No one can stop him.”

  “Hark to what I say: someone can stop ye.”

  “Are you advising that I disobey the king?”

  “Nay—and neither will I,” he said mysteriously.

  Let him squirm and let the others deride my assignment. I might not be able to fight off attackers, but I had a plan to save the king nonetheless. Fate had decided that I was to accompany the monarch; fate had therefore decreed that I cure him. I twisted my mind to the purpose, devised and discarded a dozen plans before I found the perfect one. Now all I needed was a period of peace and quiet with Richard, and he would be a new man.

  King Richard looked healthy and happy as we pranced away at dawn. Dressed in hunting green with no royal insignia, his skin tanned, his hair streaked gold from the sun, mounted on a shining black courser, he could have been a magical monarch from elfland. I, too, had shed the Plantagenet red for my heather tunic Pax had made me, and I trowe that our “disguise” did give us a great sense of freedom as we splashed along the verge of the retreating tide. I pressed Thistle to keep apace with the king’s doubled image in the water, for he urged his stallion to a gallop.

  Then he turned inland, leaping over ditches and hedges before the eyes of startled peasants where they bent to tend cane and grapevines. We thundered across fields, down lanes, past villages, faster and faster. ’Twas midmorning by the time we climbed a narrow mountain valley cut in twain by a roaring fall. Although the sky was bright overhead, half the valley was already cast in gloom deep as night and we stayed on the sunny side. ’Twas as unlike England as the bottom of the sea. Black-trunked knarry trees twisted out of rocks, then sprouted leaves more gold than green and the air was filled with a luteous haze. Strange flowers abounded in tiny crevices, and in the meadow delicate pastel stars clustered on miniature bosks.

  Below us we spotted a blue heron fishing in a stream at the bottom of a ravine. King Richard removed his falcon Penchant’s hood but held his jesse. Then he let forth a mighty shout as I beat sticks against a hollow tree, and the heron took wing!

  “Track, Penchant!” The king flung his bird.

  The heron lowered its head, its stout wings pulling its weight slowly aloft as it tried to outfly the hawk, but Penchant’s swifter pinions cut the air like butter as he rose easily above his prey, flying in tight circles till he was exactly positioned. Then the stoop! Struck like lightning in a volley of feathers and blood! Tangled bodies dropping into the pines as we edged our mounts down to bag the bird.

  Richard grinned like a boy. “Your turn, Alex. Let’s find another waterfowl if we can. If one is here, there must be others.”

  He hooded Penchant again and I made the little gerfalcon ready, biting my lip in excitement. We rode for some time without seeing anything but warblers, when of a sudden, a huge white bird rose from the trees.

  “Track, Skyrow!” I shouted with a fling.

  My valiant little hawk streaked like an arrow up the steep, easily topping the prey. But then the white bird gave forth a raucous cry, turned a red beak sharp as a sword.

  “Alex, it’s a crane!” the king called. “Careful, he’ll—”

  The crane thrust his head straight to his body and forced the hawk to give chase. Twisting and turning at sharp angles, the crane soared and dipped as the sturdy falcon followed close. Below, we urged our horses to follow the chase over the uneven ground. For a half hour or more we raced so. Finally the gerfalcon prepared to stoop, but by this time the crane was three hundred feet at least, a dark blue spread being attacked by a silver dot! The dive! The crane swerved—a miss! The gerfalcon fought to recover, climbed again—the crane was out of sight.

  “What a heart!” the king cried. “A worthy little bird, but outclassed. Cranes are wily quarry, hard even for Penchant.”

  Keenly disappointed, I accepted Skyrow back on my leather glove and attached the jesse.

  The king hugged me briefly. “Come, let’s go to a lower meadow for warblers. There you’ll see what a staunch hawk you have.”

  In a short time I’d known the thrill of the kill many times over and could hardly believe it when
the sun shone directly overhead and I saw that our bags were full. We prepared to find a meadow where we could build a fire. The king rode forward while I trailed behind, a warm suffusion spreading in my chest-spoon that I suddenly recognized as happiness.

  Then the king stopped and waited. Without a word he took my hand and we continued slowly together through the unpathed forest. Fragrant pines mixed with large-leafed planes and twisted black oaks to create a green mystery pierced occasionally by a slanted ray of sun. Unseen in the boughs a bird traced our passage with a four-noted song like a thin fife playing. The king whistled a contrapuntal tune as our horses’ heads bobbed in rhythm.

  Suddenly we emerged on a high promontory overlooking the sea, a calm stretch of glitter under an intense sky. We sat there a long time, our spirits in perfect communion. Again we rode slowly into the shade, the air so pungent that it made me toty We were rocking on our horses as tangled limbs moved overhead.

  “Wait,” said the king, “I think I hear a stream.”

  We dismounted, trod on a carpet of small blue flowers toward a cluster of rocks. I followed the king where he squeezed between boulders and we were in a perfect enclosure of stones and trees cut by a stream with a small weir. In the mist above the fall, a rainbow arched.

  “Too perfect to be true,” Richard said. “Almost makes me believe in my sister Maries fancies. Come.”

  He sat on the flowers, hypnotized by the rainbow, and gradually his happy mellow humor turned melancholy. I respected his silence, but felt more and more anxious. Finally, he was overcome by despair and stretched out on a sunny patch beside the brook, covered his face with his arms as I gathered wood for a fire, cleaned the birds and plucked them, improvised a spit. Soon a thin line of smoke rose to the intense blue above, the birds crackled on the flame, and my stomach grucched happily. Let him sleep for now, I thought, and we’ll talk later.

  When the first birds were done, I shook him gently and handed him the juiciest woodcock on a stick. He pushed it away.

  “Get me my wine, on the saddle.”

  He drank deeply from the leather flask, leaned back and closed his eyes again.

  After a short hesitation, I ate the three birds that were cooked, and put on more. I took care to eat silently, not sucking or smacking, so the king could sleep. The second spit was ready—should I wake him?

  Suddenly he sat up. “Did you hear something?”

  “There are squirrels in the trees.”

  He lay back down, but I knew he didn’t sleep because the muscle jumped in his cheek. Still, best not disturb his thoughts. Yet his thoughts disturbed me forsooth; I felt them like a cold draft chilling my spirits. Possibly this opportunity would be lost after all. I berated myself for arrogance, the sin of pride. How could I have thought I could reach the king—earn his eternal gratitude—when no one else could?

  He spoke without opening his eyes. “Do you know the hour?”

  “We’re out of range of bells, Your Highness, but the sun runs midway past Nones methinks.”

  He sat again, sighing, brushed leaves from his hair. “I’m loath to leave.”

  “We could t-talk,” and I cleared my throat to take the wobble out. “Enoch and I’ve seen many wonders since you’ve been gone. Would you like to hear about them?”

  I took his lack of reply to mean that he didn’t mind at least.

  “A guide told us about a Greek hero named Oedipus, whose ghost lives in a theater here. Well, ’twas a most interesting tale for it treated on a … a …”—Deus juva me—“a family curse.”

  His hard eyes raked me, but still he didn’t speak, so I faltered on.

  “It seems that the pagans believed in curses, as some do now, only I think that betimes such curses cannot be true. ’Tis like the relics, you see, where one contradicts another.”

  “No, I do not see,” he said coldly. “What are you trying to say?”

  My head was beginning to sweat under my hat. “Well, for instance, if the Devil appeared to someone on a particular Friday and someone else far away said he’d seen the Devil at the same time, one of them would be wrong, that’s what I mean.”

  He lost interest because of my meandering, drank from his flask again and prepared to lie back. I rattled on with shallow breath.

  “Some doctors claim that a person is the Archfiend because he comes from a cursed family with witches as ancestors, and therefore this person gets ill—to pay for all the sins.”

  The flush began at his throat and worked upward, a faint line of whelks appearing at his jaw, and I spoke rapidly before he could stop me.

  “But I say that this person couldn’t possibly be the Devil because I personally have seen the Devil. Therefore, you see, the doctors are wrong!”

  His choler suddenly subsided, an encouraging sign that I was making headway.

  “You’ve seen the Devil?” he repeated slowly, brows up.

  “And he looked nothing like you,” I affirmed boldly.

  “And therefore—forgive me if I seem slow but I’m overwhelmed by this information—the doctors of Salerno are mistaken in their diagnosis and I need no exorcism after all?”

  “Aye, that’s correct. They may think you’re the Fiend, for I’m sure they’re honest men—but I am witness to their error. I saw Satan—very close to, touched him.” I shuddered.

  The king smiled briefly—instantly relieved, I trowe—but then became solemn again. “So you say, but you, too, might be mistaken. Tell me the details.”

  But I’d divulged all I could and still keep my own soul intact. “Forgive me, My Liege, but I’m sworn to secrecy. On my honor as a baron I swear to you that I speak the truth: you are not the Devil for I have seen him in person.”

  “God’s balls, Alex, you can’t tease me so! I’m your king!”

  ’Twas the first time he’d sounded normal since his sojourn and I thrilled to think that my plan was working. How lively those blue eyes, how twitched the lips!

  “I command you to tell.”

  Caught between duty and Hell, I ventured a little further, for this might not hurt. “Well, have you—do you know Fat Giselle? Or maybe have heard of her?”

  “Fat Giselle?” He caressed the name. “No, I believe not. Should I have?”

  “Well, Dagobert said that everyone in France knew her. And then of course she knows all about you, even your thoughts.”

  “Whaaat?” He bent forward, now fascinated by my revelations. “Good God, I hope not. How does she know?”

  “She is a—she has—certain powers,” I said lamely.

  A chill returned to his manner. “Is she by chance a spy for King Philip?”

  “Oh no, not at all.” Though I did recall her speaking to the other witches about some sort of protection they received from the King of France.

  “She’s more a sorceress, you might say, with second sight.”

  “A witch?”

  Averting my eyes, I nodded. Deus juva me, I hoped I was not going too far, for ’twas not part of my plan to lose my soul in the process of saving the king.

  “And that’s how you know about the Angevin curse?”

  Again I nodded.

  “How my great-grandmother flew out of the window on a broomstick? Yes, well I don’t want to demean Fat Griselda, but ’tis common knowledge.”

  “Giselle,” I corrected him. “Anyway, that’s how I know you’re not Satan.”

  “I’m glad that my own private soothsayer thinks so well of me,” he said dryly, “but I confess I’m surprised that the topic was raised. I mean, imagine, dear Alex, if I should say that your Scot had assured me that you were not the Archfiend from Hell.”

  For a moment I thought he might be mocking me, but no, ’twas much too serious.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  “She didn’t exactly raise the topic,” I mumbled.

  “Ah yes, you said that you’d touched the Devil.” He reached forth and caressed my cheek, making me quiver like one of the poplar leaves overhead. “Now that w
ould convince me and only that, if you’ll tell.”

  “If I do—Fat Giselle threatened that—”

  He removed his hand. “Well, for a moment I hoped, but I see I was wrong. You’re like all the others, love me when you want something—in your case, Wanthwaite—but otherwise care little for your king and his suffering.”

  Again a brief bitter smile twisted his lips, but was instantly replaced by an expression of such wanhope that it broke my heart.

  Farewell, immortal soul. “’Twas because I wanted to meet with you that I went to that awful place on rue de Gratte-con.”

  “Gratte-con?” Now his lips soothly twitched and I hurried on.

  “Aye, where Fat Giselle and Zizka live, for she said she could get me an audience with you. However, the thunder o’erwhelmed my knocks on the door and I fell backward into her chamber where a coven was in progress.”

  ’Twas hard to get to the point, for the king insisted that I repeat every word the witches had said, how they’d looked and behaved. I’d forgot the exact invocations but remembered the gist.

  “But all the time I sensed we were not alone because of the smell. There was incense and the sweet spice of my wine but something else, evil and pungent, but also familiar.”

  “You tantalize me. Was it Satan?”

  “Aye, behind a black curtain. When they brought him forth, I recognized the stench at once for ’tis the same as most goats.”

  “Satan was a goat?”

  “Aye.” I was surprised at his surprise, for everyone knows that Satan often appears as a goat.

  He bit his lip, his eyes sparkling eagerly. “Go on, I must hear more.”

  I felt my face heat and I stared at my feet as I talked, o’erwhelmed by fear and humiliation at my heretical act.

  “We lined up on all fours to—”

  I told of each witch’s prayer, then came to myself.

  “I gazed straight into the pit of Hell and thought I must swoon. ’Tis not easy to be wicked.”