Shield of Three Lions

by Pamela Kaufman

  Back at the Roman villa, solemnity ended as everyone strove to become merry and drunk as fast as possible. Every oven in Limassol had been called into duty for the festivity and I spent hours carving sheep, goats and lambs. Wild turnips and beets were piled high as a man’s shoulder, loaves marked with crosses were heaped on the tables, but most important were the goatskins of fine Cypriot white wine for the repeated toasts. When our meat was ready, the cor l’eau sounded, ewerers passed towels and the merry guests took their places, Berengaria for the first time climbing to the highest dais to share the king’s bowl. Lutes, pipes and drums vied with church bells in a noisy clamor; glittering conversation and laughter drowned both as we took platter after platter of viands to the tables. Then the earnest drinking began and soon drained goatskins made a wall for our open kitchen but there were plenty of full ones to bring on and we continued to serve throughout the entertainment. Aye, and to serve ourselves as well, one sip for the page for every goblet filled, and the sips mounted up rapidly.

  Ambroise had brought us our first Turkish dancers, though we’d heard of them since Paris and Dangereuse had claimed that one of her choreographies was Oriental. Not so. I stopped on my rounds to gaze open-mouthed at the sight of ladies dancing on their hands, their skirts overhead, their smiles upside-down moons. Soothly ’twas not merely the acrobatic skill, however, that made them such marvels, for they were as graceful as bending flowers no matter how contorted, their toes miracles, their gyrating bellies, even their nasal whines as they jerked their heads to punctuate their rhythms. ’Twas strange, exotic, exciting.

  By the time they were finished, our own company was sufficiently drunkalewe to take the floor. The smiling king leaped lightly to the center and held out his arms to Berengaria. Shyly she followed, her black eyes dew-bright, and I swallowed the better part of a goatskin of wine. Berengaria was back on her throne and the king reached for Joanna. Both were skilled dancers and so matched in beauty that the court applauded loudly when they finished. One after one in proper order the king gave each delighted lady a turn as the other men waited. Then everyone danced in joyous abandon as I steadily tippled.

  “Jine the fun!” Enoch shouted as he whirled by. “The best nakryn noise with pipe I’ve heard since Scotland.”

  Magically his doxy Barbara was in my arms and we floated a foot off the earth, I trowe, both of us giddy as larks. Then we tippled, pressed our dripping lips together and she was gone with Sir Roderick. Swaying slightly, I asked one of Joanna’s ladies called Blanche for a turn and was surprised when she accepted. I’m a bonny dancer, I thought, lithe as a cat, light as a bird, and soon we were having a merry spin. She kissed me in gratitude and we drained another goatskin together. Then she was off with a knight and I sought another partner and another, getting so dizzy and gay that I could hardly speak, but I could still dance. Tapers were lit and I hadn’t noticed when it got dark.

  With the darkness came greater abandon. We danced closer, rubbed our bodies and the Devil take us, and I noted that the ladies appreciated my hard prick which had grown stiff and unyielding in the dry climate. ’Twas toty to be a mock-boy and merry and what did it matter? I could seduce as well as the next, up to a point, and I laughed giddily at my own secret wit. Now I was struck in the eye by a piece of bread. Everyone had loaves, everyone threw chunks in a silly game, laughing and laughing. We were drunk as mice, happy as canaries. And all this time I watched the king.

  Now began a kissing game. We English were often teased for our custom of kissing and this night we deserved the jibes. We kissed when we danced, when we met, when we passed one another, when we separated and for no reason at all. Now there was no discrimination between men and women, all kissed all. No one is as great a lover as I, I thought, and I kissed with lips slightly parted as I circled the floor. Barbara, Beatrice, Sir Gilbert (before I saw who it was), Helen, Queen Joanna, Barbara again, King Guy, Robert of Leicester, Sir Roderick (where I lingered).

  And King Richard.

  “Well!” He kissed me back. “Is that a congratulatory kiss?”

  “Aye”

  “Thank you, give me another.” But he was gone.

  After that I was forced back to the wine to restore my spirits. Betimes I was still kissed but didn’t participate much. Once I was grabbed so hard that teeth clinked with teeth like goblets.

  “Yell ne’er win fair lady wi’ fangs!” Enoch cried. “Now this be a breme kiss!”

  And he lifted me as Richard had done formerly to give me a sample of his successful technique.

  “Soothly you’re good,” I admitted, my eyes wide with surprise.

  He laughed. “That’s sae ye won’t accuse me of forcin’ myself on the wenches. Yell soon be enjoying yer own conquests, I can see, and I’ll tell ye my secrets, share and share alike.”

  He was off as the stars turned in wheels, flames shimmered and I laughed and laughed and laughed or wept and wept and wept.

  Lewd figures crept from the corners, beat tambourines and stroked their huge mock-pricks. I admired their creations, thinking that soon I would make mine in like manner, then was pulled with the company as we all stumbled up the stair to the bedchamber. Here the lascivious songs and movements were more bawdy and I felt myself heat along with everyone else at those shooting tongues, those fondlings. They advised the king to enjoy his “merry fit with a hot iron” but to stay on top, warned of the monarch of old who’d pricked so deep that he’d disappeared in the ditch and was ne’er heard of more, told Berengaria to fill her cup, that many a pole be staked on an ale. The king was there with his queen, laughing and laughing. And they went into the lighted chamber where we could see the bed strewn with flowers. He took off her cape and flung it to the floor, turned and laughed as the bells jingled. With horror, I saw that he was lost forever. Forever.

  He kicked the door closed.

  And I pissed in my braies.

  Benedicite, no warning at all! No twinge! Never since I was a babe! Mortified, I clutched my knees tight and fought not to look downward for fear others would look too. I could feel the warm liquid on the inside of my legs, atop my feet. Was there a puddle? Finally nonchalantly I dropped my goblet and bent down to pick it up.

  Across my right foot was a streak of bright blood!

  NOW COMPLETELY SOBER, I CROSSED my legs and inched my way into the shadows to outwait the frolickers. Not till all were yexxing so hard that they could no longer sing did the crowd gradually disperse. When the last taper had rounded the corner, I bent forward like a hunchback to better squeeze my parts and hobbled to my room knock-kneed and pigeon-toed.

  Deus juva me, what a mess! Everything besmottered. I tore up my outgrown Plantagenet tunic and began to repair the damage, but ’twas a long, tedious, nauseating task complicated by sharp pains in my cod as if the flux were coming on which it finally did. Deo gratias that Enoch was distracted by his doxy, for I needed privacy this night. And for many to come. That long-ago preview on Dere Street had finally flowed to a genuine deluge. I tried to remember Magnus’s song about Eve’s curse: a few days once a month? Well, no difficulty remembering this date, and if I could get through the next few days I would have four weeks’ grace. But then some decision would have to be made, for I could not foresee disguising my condition long—especially from Enoch.

  I’d just emptied the slops and tidied the evidence when the Scot stumbled in at dawn, still drunk as a mouse.

  “Come, bairn, fer the second day of revelry be aboot to begin. ’Twill be murrier than the first fer we start foredrunk.”

  The wedding celebration was to go on for three days all told, but for me ’twas finished.

  “Please make my excuses, Enoch, and tell Sir Gilbert that I’ve got stomach cramps and cannot serve.”

  “Waesucks, I hope ye didna drink the water.”

  That I most soothly had not.

  “I’ll send ye sum hot broth later.”

  “Thank you, Enoch.”

  Listening to the pipes and kettle, t
he gay laughter of the dancers, I laundered my money belt and when it was dry sewed an additional hammock in the middle on which to place my rags. Finally I curled up and slept. Though I felt weak and sweaty I wasn’t ill. When the hot broth arrived, I felt better than ever. Nevertheless, I was glad that Enoch stayed away a second night as well.

  On the third day I rejoined the party and found a stunning deterioration in the mood. Slack mouths, blood-veined eyes and foul breaths revealed bilious cods and aching heads, though once sufficiently jug-bitten the guests grew merrier again. Most of all, I was astounded at King Richard and Berengaria. She sat on her dais alone, a stricken effigy, pale, her eyes staring marbles. By contrast the king was edgy, pacing back and forth, not drinking, talking to his knights about Isaac Comnenus, the ruler of Cyprus, who still hid in the mountains and whom they must conquer. Neither looked at the other; neither made merry.

  Benedicite, if this be the result of conjugal love, I’ll take my chastity vows forthwith.

  The pattern of eating, drinking and entertainment repeated throughout the day, except that everyone turned cups a little earlier and a little more heavily so that by midday there wasn’t a sober Englishman in the court. Except for the king.

  He approached me where I sat on a low wall. “What, not tippling today, Cupid?”

  “No, Sire. I’m not accustomed to such luxury.”

  He glanced around moodily. “Many a sour gullet and rancid breath here today.” He turned his haunted eyes my way again. “How are you feeling? Did you get the pomegranate juice I sent?”

  Startled, I said I had. “I’m sorry—if I’d known, but I thought Enoch …” But of course the Scot had sent broth.

  “He told me you were ill.”

  Again he stared, his eyes dull moonstones. He seemed to want to say more, then didn’t. The look became long, uncomfortable. My unruly liver heated exactly as if the king weren’t married, and I saw how weak I was.

  Shortly thereafter a messenger broke into the party and went directly to the king where they conferred briefly. Then the king signaled the music to stop, raised his arms to make an announcement.

  “My lords, arm yourselves at once!” His face lighted with new exuberance. “The tyrant Comnenus has been trapped in the mountains close to Nicosia. Meet me on the strand within the hour.” He smiled and spread his arms in mock apology. “Ladies, forgive me for ending our celebration so unexpectedly I would never forsake you, if I had a choice, but we must conquer this island for future security in Jerusalem.”

  He didn’t glance at his queen.

  Abruptly ’twas done. Lords and knights found wits to tramp back to their quarters while the ladies collapsed forlornly. I went back to my own dank cell. There I had an awful shock. The red-bellied lizards had smelled my blood and were squirming atop my discarded rags! I kicked and flailed till they’d scurried into corners, then threw away the attraction. ’Twas a timely lesson, for shortly Enoch came to arm and I realized that my condition required utmost discretion.

  I WAS LEFT IN LIMASSOL WITH the women and a skeleton staff while the men, including Enoch, fought in the mountains close to Nicosia. At first I was glad for the privacy which gave me the opportunity to construct a new prick, necessary because the old one was worn out and also fouled with blood. It occurred to me I would have to do this every month henceforth. It also occurred to me that I couldn’t. Somehow, I must leave the Crusade before my secret was discovered, and the most probable person to find me out was Enoch.

  He was gone four weeks, the longest we’d ever been separated, and for a while I felt so normal again that I began to hope that this instance would prove a false warning, as the time on Dere Street had been. Then I began to have two strange itchings on my chest, as if I’d been bitten by some giant invisible insect. Scratchy and painful, the bites drove me mad. One day as I was rubbing myself, I felt hard round bumps. Breasts! I jerked my tunic up and stared. Aye, nipples growing like beansprouts! I clapped my hands hard on the offending bulges. What could I do?

  One day when Berengaria was out of her chamber, I sneaked in to gaze at her French looking glass. Benedicite, soft pointed triangles, mountain peaks where there’d been a flat plain only yesterday! Was it possible? Then I noticed the queens soiled laundry in a basket and picked up the top garment, a bandeau. Tentatively I placed the strip of cloth around my chest and saw what its purpose be. So this was how women controlled their bobbing bosoms. By nightfall I wore one as well, pulled so tight that it constricted breath. At least it reduced my expanding mounds to proportions that could be covered by blousing my tunic.

  The mirror also gave me a second shock. My face seemed to be changing, growing more oval, delicate, and my eyes appeared huge. Was that also a symptom?

  At the end of a month Enoch returned and so did the bleeding.

  I greeted him nervously. “Did you capture the tyrant?”

  “Aye, anely Roderick war wounded.”

  “No! Seriously?”

  “I think nocht, because I keered for him. He took an arrow in his right leg, but it didn’t sliver the bone.”

  I didn’t construe Enoch’s statement as vanity, for we’d both learned about hygiene from Ibn-al-Latif Then I became aware that the Scot was staring at me.

  “Waesucks, ye’ve changed.”

  “Changed?” I laughed, a high-pitched whinny. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Neither do I.” He touched my cheek. “Mar pearly …” His eyes narrowed speculatively. “Boot ye should …” He touched his own cheek which bristled with beard. “Mayhap ye’re beginnin’ to—though ye look mar pasty than ever. And yer voice be higher …”

  “The men in my family mature late,” I asserted hastily.

  “Aye, I see that. Anely …”—he groped for thoughts or words, I wasn’t sure which—“anely, ye’re maturin’ in the wrang direction.”

  I made up an excuse to get away before he could notice more, for I’d become keenly aware of my own female odor; whether it actually existed or whether my fear made it so, I wasn’t sure. In any case, I’d practically bathed in oil of cinnamon to cover it.

  Aye, I must find some way to escape.

  Almost at once, an opportunity arose which solved my immediate problem of exposure to the Scot. Father Orlando sought my help in caring for King Richard who had contracted a severe case of the fever which had swept through the entire army. Could I relieve the physician at night?

  I entered the chambers at sundown, just as a sneering Sir Gilbert was leaving. He, too, had a touch of fever, however, and could remain on duty no longer.

  “The king is prepared for the night,” Father Orlando told me. “I’ve given him juice of the poppy for sleep and I don’t think he’ll wake. If he does, however, offer him wine or fruit; bathe his head if he’s hot. I’ll be in the next chamber.”

  After he’d left, I checked the sleeping monarch whom I’d seen only from afar since his return. He looks thin, I thought, and the lines in his face are sad. I pulled my pallet to below the window, then opened the shutters to the night air which was against Father Orlando’s orders, but I was following what I’d learned from Ibn-al-Latif who scorned Christian healing methods. Then I dampened a cloth and gently bathed the king’s forehead. He muttered, opened his eyes briefly and slept again. After a time, I stretched onto my pallet and was soon asleep as well.

  I woke groggily to the sound of argument. At first I thought it came through the wall from outside but as I became more alert I realized ’twas the king’s voice. But with whom could he be arguing?

  I took a taper and went to his bed. His waxy eyes glared upward; veins in his temple swelled like roots of an oak.

  “I’ll not tolerate double dealing!”

  Still not thoroughly aroused, I sought his contender in the shadows.

  “You cheated me! Sacrificed my oath for humiliation! Made me a man and have unmanned me! Call Yourself God?”

  Awake at last, I almost swooned at his blasphemy. “Hush, Your Highness,
you’re dreaming. I’ll go for the doctor.”

  But his great hand caught me in a vise.

  “Deus absconditus! So be it! Richard abscondito!”

  “No, no, take back your words. He doesn’t mean it!” I looked upward to God. “God has not abandoned you, My Lord!” Nor had the king abandoned God, as he swore. Wasn’t he on the Crusade?

  I made a sign of the Cross before his face to ward off the Devil.

  “He has betrayed me!” insisted the anguished king, beating his head on his pillow.

  “You are on your Crusade and have fallen ill, but you’ll soon be well again. ’Tis only a passing—”

  “All fathers betray their sons!” The king drowned my plea. “Did not even God forsake Christ when He needed Him most? Yet I was foolish enough to trust Him! But never again! Never!”

  By now he was sitting upright and shouting. I dared not leave him but hoped Orlando would hear and come to my aid.

  “You’ve met Your match in Richard! Never again will I go whimpering to a cross! I have loved You and served You, only to be stabbed by Your own spear! But no more! If You doubt that I can deal with fathers, look to Henry!”

  I clapped my free hand over his mouth and implored him. “Please stop, you have a fever and know not what you say! Oh please, Your Majesty.”

  At last he leaned back on his pillow, but his eyes rolled upward alarmingly and he would not be silent. He pushed me roughly aside.

  “Did I not cry out my sin? Did I not crawl at the feet of those milksop priests? And still my lust burns unquenched. Alive on wood but dead on silk, all ludus lost.”

  His words were ever wilder, though I thought he must refer here to his wooden bed and silken quilt.

  “How can the ax strike without its blade? How can the piper make music without his pipe? God has a sense of humor, you see.”

  At last he acknowledged my presence by turning his glazed eyes upon me.

  “Riddle: How can a king scorch God with a thunderbolt?”

  “I know not.”

  “By wasting creation.”

  He laughed hoarsely at his own wicked wit.