Shield of Three Lions

by Pamela Kaufman

  “Joanna and I saw you from the hills and wondered what you were collecting.” He picked up the shell.

  “You may keep that as a gift if you like,” I mumbled. “’Tis called a king shell.”

  “Thank you, I’ll cherish it.” He blew through it, making a hollow tone, then sat on my hummock pulling me down with him. I bent my knees so that my willow receded somewhat. I was toty with embarrassment, happiness and I know not what. Flowings and poundings shook my body, the bees buzzed on the yellow blooms around us as I tried desperately to think of something interesting to say.

  “And what’s this one called?” He picked up the first shell I’d found.

  “It belongs to the sea snail and changes color if you hold it in the light. See?”

  “Ah, you’re right. May I have it as well?”

  I nodded, beginning to breathe normally again.

  “’Tis a perfect house for the king of sluggards, which is what I am called, you know.” He looked at me brightly. “Tell me, Alex, do you mind our long delay in Sicily?”

  “Oh no,” I lied fervently, “I love it here—and I’m learning so much.”

  “Refreshing,” he said. “Tell me about your studies. Have you tried the crossbow?”

  I blushed furiously. “I meant my studies with the Arab philosopher.”

  “Sit still, you have a tick on your leg.” He leaned forward and picked an opal beetle off my leg, then rested his palm on my thigh. “What subjects?”

  I gazed at his tanned hand, his carbuncle ring on his forefinger, the squared nails. Though I was hot, my skin had goosebumps, A bee landed on the carbuncle ring but the hand stayed put.

  “What interests you the most?” he prompted.

  I looked at him blankly, trying to remember the question. His eyes … I must say something.

  “Well, the body, aye the body, I mean they know …” But I didn’t want to tell what they knew, wondered why I’d brought up the subject.

  “Know what?”

  “The stars, astronomy not astrology, from Egypt or Greece and the world is round,” I hurried.

  “I’m interested in the body.” He looked at my legs. “Does he explain why you have such pearly skin?”

  I gazed at his hand, a branding iron.

  “No, but he showed us a drawing, a map of the body inside and out and …” I blushed again.

  “The curve of your legs is quite feminine.”

  My hair prickled. “Then how the blood is made like the water of the sea.”

  “Your bones, delicate, like your namesake.”

  “My namesake?”

  Again his eyes.

  “Alexander the Great. You looked so like him that first night in my chamber. He’s my own personal hero, you know. My God, how I idolized him when I was your age. Do you have a hero?”

  “Aye,” I breathed.

  We looked at each other and somehow couldn’t look away. He had never been so vivid, eyes blue and dazzling white, golden skin, lips.

  “Your eyes,” he murmured. “I can’t fathom them, traceries shifting, like snowflakes. What are you thinking?”

  I forced myself to look away before he guessed.

  He continued to study me, I knew, but I said nothing.

  “Such a balmy day, peaceful after Messina. I could lie here forever.”

  He lay back against the hummock and gently pulled me with him, thus stroking his hand straight across my willow!

  “Oh!” I shot back up, heart bursting.

  “What’s wrong? Another tick?” He leaned solicitously forward and put his hand on my leg again.

  “No-no, a thorn in the sand.”

  “There.” He brushed the hummock with his free hand, pulled me back and again his hand stroked my prick! Aye, stroked!

  “Tell me more about your studies.”

  His teeth translucent blue at the edges, seven grains of sands like jewels on one brow, eyes pale and dark triangles with me in their black mirror centers.

  “Aristotle—biology—the ocean—chemistry, but no demons.”

  “We know there are no demons, don’t we?” He moistened his lips and waited, but I couldn’t reply. After an unbearable silence of just looking and breathing, he said, “I should go back.”

  “Aye.” I sighed deeply, nearly swooning with pleasure. “No, don’t.”

  “Are you ordering me to stay?” he teased.

  I shook my head, couldn’t speak, gripped by an illusion so strong that I must hold it forever. My father—going away …

  “Alex, what ails thee?” A hand gripped my shoulder. “Are you ill?”

  “My father—father,” I whispered.

  The king grew very still. “Do I remind you of your father?”

  “Aye. No. You’re very like. Only not really.”

  “Go on, don’t be shy,” he encouraged softly.

  I wasn’t shy—’twas the mix of pain, poignant grief and joy together. Memory. Lying in wait, all that still lived of my father.

  “When I was little—” I faltered. “When I was little, my father rode me in front of him for the hunt. Inside his arms everything was still, outside everything moving, the sky, the earth. I was so frightened and … stirred. Then afterward he brought me to a cave on our river. Our place, he said. And he lay on the grass, lifted me high …” And I stopped, thinking.

  “Go on.”

  “’Tis silly, I know, but not to us. He tickled me, called me his Tickle-Bones, and we worked out a secret kiss, just for us.”

  Time moved forward. “And the last day … he held me so … and if I’d only known …”

  The colors of the sky pooled crimson.

  Then gold, and I was looking downward, held high in the king’s long grasp as he lay back on the sand, my father, not my father. My breath grew shallow.

  “Oh, please, Your Highness, don’t … I didn’t mean … and I’m too heavy.”

  He lowered me slowly to his chest.

  “You’re as light as a This-tell.”

  I lay without moving, heart palpitating, and I hunched my back slightly so my willow wouldn’t dig into his stomach. His eyes were half-closed but alive.

  “Tickle-Bones.”

  Hands under my arms, fingers exploring.

  “Ah—I can’t help—” And I convulsed breathlessly.

  “There? There?”

  One hand moved, the other held me firmly into his body as I thrashed wildly, stabs of delight shooting through me.

  “Oh! Oh!”

  I squirmed helplessly but he wouldn’t let go. I cried mercy to deaf ears as he rubbed and dug at all my spots. I rolled this way and that, shrieking with laughter.

  Then he ceased but still held me tight. I was gasping, sprawled, legs spread and my willow punctured me, so must touch him as well but I could do nothing about it.

  “Wait, that’s not all. Now give me the kiss.”

  I raised my head, startled.

  “Tickle-Bones.” He moistened his lips.

  Again my heart raced as I bent to obey. Forehead, cheek, cheek, chin.

  Lips.

  Lips open, a touch of flame. I raised my head, eyes.

  “You’re a very strange boy, Alex,” he whispered. “Do you know that?”

  “No!” I denied quickly, heart thudding. Benedicite, I had finally revealed myself in that kiss. “In what way?”

  ’Twas as if we were both bewitched, our lines rehearsed, for I sensed the next words that came had been said before. “For one thing, you’re old for your age …” Aye, twelve instead of nine. “Sensitive, delicate in your feelings …”

  A girl, if he but knew. My breath stopped.

  “And there’s this.” He shifted his body subtly so that my willow dug us both. I stared with uncomprehending eyes.

  “I don’t understand—Your Majesty.”

  He raised his brows. “I think you do, Alex.”

  And I did. Anyone feeling my prick dig so must recognize that it was false.

  “You …”
—I could hardly speak—“… know?”

  “Of course.”

  “But how? When?”

  He smiled. “You sound like one of my sister Marie’s courtly lovers. Well, let’s see. Since you bent your sweet smooth backside and farted in my face?”

  I lowered my crimson face onto his chest. Of course! That flimsy Cupid attire, and I hadn’t worn my fortune belt, hadn’t yet constructed my false prick. He’d known I was a girl since the beginning! I felt a fool for my long pretense and had a thousand questions about why he’d waited so long to reveal what he knew, but I was too mortified to ask.

  “Don’t be shy, Alex. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I raised my head. “You’re not angry?”

  “God’s feet, why should I be?” His smile was faintly cynical. “I’m hardly in a position to cast stones—I, too, dissimulate.”

  But he wasn’t a girl forsooth.

  “And you’re not going to—do anything? Not going to tell?”

  “I assure you that telling will be the last thing I do. We have a secret, just we two.”

  “Aye.” I felt so strange I knew not what to say or do. The king knew I was female, had been privy to my disguise all these months. I could only conclude that he’d accepted the fact because of his generous heart. However troublesome it might be to take me with him, ’twas safer than leaving me with some unknown husband.

  He cupped my face with his hands. “So you think of me as a father.”

  “You … you … no.”

  “But I could be, am old enough certainly.”

  “Aye.”

  His eyes were serious. “And you’re young enough to make conversation difficult. Different. I don’t usually … I mean, I care about you, Alex. Cherish your—delicious sweetness—don’t want to hurt you. Do you understand?”

  I didn’t really but knew he was complimenting me. “Aye, Your Highness.”

  “I wonder.” He shook his head again. “When we’re alone, call me Richard.”

  “Yes, Ri-chard.”

  His eyes made me toty. “Will you kiss me again?”

  He held my face, closed his eyes.

  Parted lips, soft as vair, moist within, then his tongue. Startled, I tried to draw back but he held me firm. His tongue pushed gently, his teeth on my lips, then his tongue on my teeth, deeper, deeper, I felt I was choking, but it went on and on and grew easier, sweet as honeysuckle, deeper and moving. His hands slid to my hips as our mouths held and we began to move, sway to the sibilance of the sea, pounding together.

  “Do it to me,” he whispered.

  And my tongue was in his mouth, strange sensation and I let him guide me as we tossed ever higher, engulfed, frantic to get closer and I felt his hands fumble with the knots in my wet tunic, then there was a great shudder and the king groaned, seizing me so that I couldn’t breathe, kissing me passionately, hurting, then he pulled my head into his damp shoulder and held me very tight, speaking in langue d’oc.

  We lay a long time as the sea roar receded; our breathing became normal again. I watched the broom through his hair, the bees. Then he raised my head and we looked at each other.

  ’Twas more shattering than ever, as if we were naked. His eyes …

  “Alex?” he said again. “I am a powerful and aging king, you are a nine-year-old page and I love you. Can you understand that?”

  I nodded.

  He smiled ruefully. “So can I, but no one else would. I love you.” And his smile turned to pure joy.

  I smiled as well.

  “And you?”

  I put my forehead on his cheek so he couldn’t see me. “I love you,” I whispered.

  He clutched me hard, then released me.

  “Now we must go before your Scottish sheepdog comes herding, or Mercadier rides out to see if I’ve been devoured by Griffons.” He bit my ear gently and whispered again, “I love you.”

  We both beat the sand off our clothes. Then the king bent to give me a lingering kiss of farewell.

  “I promise that we’ll be together soon, my jeune premier. I miss you already.”

  And he strode toward the abbey, paused at the promontory to wave, and was gone. I unknotted my tunic which now came undone easily, gave my willow a vicious whack in the process and gathered my shells. This is the turning point of my life, I thought dizzily: the king knows I’m a girl and he loves me. ’Twas what I wanted above anything and didn’t want at all. I loved him, aye, I knew I did, and he’d said he loved me. But did we mean the same thing by love? Would he abide by the rules? I thought of his arching man’s body, those shudders, and had to sit again from weakness. A bird beat in my throat as I remembered. Benedicite, he couldn’t … wouldn’t …

  I thought I must die.

  ENOCH MIGHT NOT KNOW OF THE KING’S VISIT, BUT I feared he would guess what had happened by my face. I must have changed; my guilty excitement must show in every pore. With wan-hope of concealing what had transpired, I skulked like a dog who’s devoured the chickens, my head and belly both low. Then the Scot carped and I changed my tactics.

  “Time fer treacle and halwei,” he said, “before thee faloweth to a burdie.”

  “What?” I asked, for I’d been thinking of Richard.

  He spoke more clearly. “I say, time fer medicine and herbs because ye’re droopin’ like a young girl.”

  Instantly I went back to my old ways, swaggering and speaking boldly in Enoch’s own manner, and he was satisfied. Inwardly, however, I was wet and warm as Richard’s tongue, now tingling with pleasure, now shriveling with fright. I lived that scene on the beach a thousand times: thrilling, heating, pulsing. For now ’twas enough: it sufficed. Then—I know not when—I began to yearn for more. I played in my head new kisses, new words, new movements between our bodies. Yet I balked at the memory of that hand fumbling with my wet tunic. If the king had gotten it loose … and next Saturday … here my liver burst and spread hot lead through my body, whether of fear or desire I couldn’t say.

  Then Saturday came and went and no king. He’d said that he would return soon; something urgent must have kept him. Another Saturday, another, another. My spirits drooped. Yet he was king, I must remember that. Many things—indeed almost everything—must be more important than I was, though he had declared he loved me. What could be more important than love?

  Then I thought he must be making arrangements for me to travel with him as a girl. That must be it’t was too dangerous for me to continue my disguise! He needed dispensation from the pope, of course. But would he get it? Yes. For wasn’t Joanna traveling with papal dispensation?

  Betimes I worried about Wanthwaite. Benedicite, what must my father’s spirit be thinking? ’Twas one thing for the king to find me a husband, another for him to take me as his own lover. Yet I was sure that Richard would honor his word about my castle, now more than ever.

  And more Saturdays. All my arguments failed. With slow horror I faced the obvious fact that the king had toyed with me. Kissed me, sugar-talked, almost seduced me, all as a game. He’d dallied by the rules, all right, and I’d succumbed like a fool, though I was forewarned. I was hurt, humiliated and ashamed. Of all the fancies I had imagined, this was the only one I’d omitted: that he would forget me! Finally I could no longer dissemble to Enoch and was forced to swallow his tonic, though I discovered by the taste that it was gillyflower juice and feared that this time the foul liquid would make my breasts grow.

  When I finally received the king’s order to come back to Messina, I was so deep in my slough of despair that I didn’t want to go.

  ’TWAS A BITTER CHILL DAY TOWARD the end of February. Enoch and I stared upward at the forbidding wooden tower Richard had constructed called Mategriffon, or Kill-the-Greek. Both of us were reluctant to enter.

  “’Tis not an inwiting donjon,” the Scot observed soothly. “A good war engine, for ye see it can be wheeled to a wall for archers to shoot into the enemy’s camp, but a strange place for the king to live.”

&nbs
p; “Aye, but no worse than that palace he had before, and possibly there are no rats.”

  Whereupon we entered. Inside, pine torches hissed from the walls, filling the dank space with more acrid smoke than light or heat. Listless knights lounged everywhere, dressed in fustian and furs for warmth, their armor rusting in careless heaps beside them. Sir Roger told us to report to Sir Gilbert on the fourth floor above: the king’s chambers were on the fifth. We climbed a ladder-stair with rope banisters and found the pages in a small chamber at the back of the tower. Sir Gilbert told me with his usual malevolence that I’d been summoned solely because the two new Pisano pages, Antonio and Giorgio by name, didn’t yet know the protocol. I gazed with surprise at the Pisanos for they seemed Sir Gilbert’s choices and I’d thought that the king took a personal interest in his attendants. However, I could make no claim of knowing the king’s ways at this point and the two Pisanos were extraordinarily comely, if a trifle coarse in my opinion.

  “Is there some special affair?” I asked Sir Gilbert.

  “The French king and his court will arrive soon for an important parley.” He glanced at my tunic. “I hope you’ve bathed recently.”

  I refrained from reply. He could see that I was clean and fragrant as a spring flower, and I’d made myself a new woolen tunic of very pale gold edged discreetly in the king’s red. In truth, I wanted to impress my lord, Deus juva me, in spite of his ill treatment of me.

  I saw him the instant we entered his chambers. He was dressed in white wool trimmed with vair, a gold clasp at his waist, a plain gold crown on his hair which was once again to his shoulders. He was talking to the Archbishop of Rouen and didn’t turn around though my heart pounded so loud in sorrow and yearning that he must hear it. Sir Gilbert shoved me rudely toward a series of trestles so magnificently appointed that I knew that the forthcoming conference was of first importance. The wooden walls were likewise dressed in tapestries and thick furs for both beauty and warmth, but naught could withhold the sea wind which billowed the hangings and swayed the entire structure. At least what heat there was in the tower rose to this room.

  Quickly the chamber filled with nobles in King Richard’s train, the Viscount of Château Erald, the Castellan of Bruges, Count John of Seis, Robert of Leicester and many more. All bowed to the king, exchanged a few words and made room for still others pouring through the door. Sir Gilbert pushed us pages til and fro with wine and cakes while porters brought trays from below, yet with all this activity never once did my eyes leave the king. Several times he turned and each sight of his face tugged my breath as if I were on a gibbet. He had changed, looked more serious, glowed but in a different manner from when he lay on the hummock, more ascetically, aye, that was the word, a white flame in his simple dress and burning expression. Fanfare sounded below and somehow the Norman-English crowded themselves into one side of the chamber to make way for the French. Richard stood on his throne platform alone.