Shield of Three Lions

by Pamela Kaufman

  “Second riddle: Where lights the Angevin eagle when he’s stripped of his beak?”

  “I know not, Your Highness.”

  “On Jove’s hunter.” Again he laughed.

  “Riddle: Where lives the Angevin lion when he loses his fang? Answer: In the cave of the hyena.”

  ’Twas dreadful to see a great mind break so and I tried once again to pull from his grip so I could fetch the physician, but he held even harder.

  “Tell me, are you Ganymede, Jove’s cup-bearer?”

  “Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

  “Then fill the Holy Grail; it’s drunk to the dregs.”

  Suddenly he released me and I quickly poured him a cup of wine which he accepted without drinking.

  “Tell me what you think of this ditty. ’Tis to the tune of a jig I made up long ago:

  “I confessed and was wed;

  I was wed and was dead,

  Lost my polyhedral head:

  Sole son of my mother,

  Sworn foe to my brother,

  Despised by my father,

  L’homme sensual non pareil

  To all but Berengaria;

  Thus my acroterium crumbles,

  Thus England’s king tumbles!”

  He smiled with bright expectancy.

  “’Tis a passing brilliant verse, Your Highness, but methinks your judgment wanders and you need help. May I get Orlando, please?”

  “Oc e ne. Oc, I need help, ne, you may not get Orlando. I believe you lied to me.”

  “Me, My Liege? Never!”

  “Oc, you said you were Ganymede when I myself baptized thee Alexander the Great. I dub thee, Alexander!”

  And he poured his wine o’er my head, then laughed fiendishly to see it drip.

  “Now we begin again. Are you Alexander?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” I gasped

  “Good, and I am your lord who henceforth will not deny you. I now give you permission to cure me.”

  Almost too terrified to speak, I yet must try. “Yes, Your Highness. What can I do for you?”

  “Erect me again. Give me a Greek column, a swollen entasis which will not fall. Will you do that, Alexander?”

  “You know I’ll support you, Your Highness.”

  “Good, then there can be no issue. But the Devil’s will be done. We ride our incurable disease to Jerusalem, there to capture the Cross and perish on wood, for I’ve eaten too many rabbits. So be it, teste me ipso.”

  Whereupon he turned fretfully away and was soon asleep, leaving me to cope with my besmottered tunic and brain as best I could. I finally concluded that the king in the grip of his fantastick cells was keener than most men with all their wits. There seemed an underlying pattern of profundity in his wild utterings, if I could but decipher the language.

  THE NEXT MORNING FATHER Orlando sensed that something had gone amiss and questioned me carefully about the king’s state of mind. Richard was sleeping heavily by then. Faltering, I told the physician that he’d raved a little but that his mutterings had been too outlandish to understand.

  “’Tis the leeching methinks,” Orlando said. “Betimes it has that effect upon fevered brains. The demons become angry and howl forth in their demented tongue. Think you that his utterings be sacrilegious?”

  “No,” I lied. “I could not understand much but I know he twice addressed God the Father.”

  I was then dismissed to rest, though my own fantastick cells were much agitated. When I came back on duty Orlando reported that the king had been rational enough all day to receive reports of his fleet’s preparation. Again His Majesty slept.

  Or so I thought. As I pulled the shutters from the window, I heard, “Thank you, Alex. I daresay the air is putrid in here.”

  I walked to his bed.

  “How do you feel, Your Majesty?”

  “Better.”

  Indeed he looked much improved, partly because he was groomed. His hair was clean, his eyes wide open, his scent better under a heavy layer of sweet woodruff.

  “Do I repel you?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Your first lie, for of course I do. I repel myself.”

  Soothly my heart raced and my breath grew short as I tried to reassure him. Yet I dared not reveal my true feelings.

  He was gazing out the window. “The watery star weeps tonight. Do you know why?”

  I followed his glance. “You mean Venus?”

  “She weeps for the loss of her son Cupid who is interred in Famagusta.” He looked back at me. “I can sympathize with her grief.”

  There was naught I could say, but I pulled hard on my stomach muscles to control my liver.

  He reached for my hand. “You promised last night that you would cure me.”

  I was amazed that he remembered. “Aye, if I can.”

  “Oh, I think you’re my chosen physician, all right. As the poet says, A cock has great influence on his own dunghill.’”

  He smiled but I saw no humor in the comparison.

  “Every good physician begins with a diagnosis. What is wrong with me, Alex?”

  “You have the fever.”

  “A symptom, but not the disease. Come, don’t hide behind your tender age. You have a head, two eyes, a tongue.”

  A tongue—aye, well he should know. I saw that I’d overestimated his improvement: he was still in manic disposition.

  “You have the disease that everyone has, a plague, but I know not its name.”

  He released my hand, folded his arms behind his head.

  “Let me help. Listen, ’tis a song my great-grandfather wrote:

  “Do I sleep or do I wake?

  Only you can tell—

  My heart will soon break

  For I am not well,

  And I care not at all.

  “I am sick and will soon die—

  My heart will cease—

  Only one doctor can stop my cry,

  My illness appease

  When I am not ill at all.”

  His low voice faded into silence. I cleared my throat.

  “A very provocative lyric. Is it another riddle?”

  “A paradox. I am not ill but seek a cure, for the cure is worth the pain when that cure be pleasure. I can no longer defy necessity.” He pressed my hand so hard that I winced.

  “If you tell me what to do, then I will do it,” I promised again, much confounded.

  “What more can I ask?” His brows shot up in their old cynical pattern. “If I choose the supple body, can I also expect the subtle mind? Well, so be it. I’m no philosopher, but I can read. Alex, I am my own holy trinity: flesh, air, and the part which governs. You will treat the governor: in short, we are to be lovers.”

  I gasped and pulled back. He couldn’t mean it!

  “But doesn’t it go against—? And your queen!” I cried involuntarily.

  “Enough, Alex. Such matters are my concern, not yours.”

  I nodded, swaying with shock.

  He lay back and closed his eyes. “I should think you would be flattered to find yourself so irresistible,” he said bitterly. “As for me, well, I suppose every general must face one defeat. Richard, felled by a delicate child—nine years old?”

  “I’ve just turned ten.”

  “Ten! God help us.”

  As I writhed at my own lie about my age, wondering if I dare admit the truth, he took my hand and opened his eyes. To my amazement, they seemed to glisten, almost as if filled with tears, but no doubt ’twas some trick of light. He raised my hand to his lips, kissed it and smiled wryly.

  “At least if I were ten as well, I would say I had good taste, for I believe you are a rare combination of intelligence, integrity and warmth. And that you love me for myself. Am I right, Alex?”

  “Soothly I love you for yourself.”

  “Good.” And he forgot me again in his own dark thoughts. “In any case, we do not choose our destiny but follow our stars.” He sighed, pressed his lips. “Once I a
m fully well and in the field, you will move into my pavilion and live with me. Do you understand?”

  “Aye.”

  “Oddly enough, the confusion of battle makes a perfect cover for us, but in any case we have Ambroise, Mercadier and the other captains as our honor guard. Naturally we’ll be discreet and you’ll be quite safe from discovery.”

  “So they know that I’m—?”

  “Of course.”

  Strangely, that was a relief.

  “Should I tell Enoch?”

  The king rose to his elbows. “Enoch! By no means!”

  “But ’twould make it easier,” I protested unwisely.

  He became agitated and tried to rise. “I order you not to tell that suspicious cur!” He added coldly, “Whatever our relationship, Alex, I am king. Your king and lord as well as your protector.” He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, frowned. “I will get rid of Enoch.”

  Get rid of Enoch? A chill frisson shook my vitals and I was sore afraid.

  “Don’t be upset, dearest.” He carried my captured hand to his lips. “We have turned our corner at last and will not look back. I need not your diagnosis to know my disease: ’tis simple, I do love thee.”

  Deeply offended, I pulled my hand away. To be called a disease! The king reached his fingers to my face and smiled.

  “Sorry, Alexander, I amend my words. ’Tis not my love per se which has caused my sickness, but my perception of it as a sin.”

  He continued to stroke my cheek in silence as I pondered his ominous words. I couldn’t stop my heated liver from leaping, but my vital spirits trembled with fear of this sinful passion. Sin. Was it also a crime?

  “Go on now, Alex, and let us sleep.” He kissed my hand.

  I curled on my pallet and listened to the king’s even breathing, but I believe I slept not at all that night.

  THE KING’S INTENTION to make us lovers complicated my own plans. I didn’t take care of him after that night, so had no opportunity to ask him exactly how he planned to conceal my emerging sex traits. Nor did his peremptory tone invite questions. And how was I to explain the whole matter to Enoch? Wouldn’t his beginning suspicions about my sex be compounded by the king’s carnal interest in me?

  Benedicite!

  The test came immediately when Enoch learned that we were now to sail on the Trenchemer with King Richard instead of the buss with the queens.

  “That’s a fightin’ galley. Why do he nocht take sum older page to serve him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Air ye servin’ him in the field as well?”

  “I believe I am, aye.” I squirmed, uncomfortable, twisting myself to hide my breasts, and trying at the same time to ascertain the wind’s direction so he wouldn’t smell me.

  “Do ye hae worms, Alex?”

  “Oh no!”

  “Then sit still and listen.”

  I did, but he was quiet a long time, then sighed heavily.

  “Ye war e’er a winsome bairn, but now ye be pretty. I doona like it.”

  Neither did I, I agreed fervently.

  Deeper than the problem of discovery was the very fact of consummation. I thought of my airy fancies in Bagnara as if they belonged to a different person, a child. What I faced now was reality and I had a good example of what that meant in Princess Alais. The possibility of a bastard babe, a life of secrecy, a ruined character if I ever wanted to marry, the king’s tiring of me, the loss of Wanthwaite.

  If I truly loved him, would any of this matter? For the first time, I wondered. I was no longer a child, so couldn’t deceive myself with fantasies of unconsummated love—especially with the king’s statement still ringing in my ears—but I seemed not to be entirely adult either, for consummation frightened me. I was drifting in my own Limbo, neither one thing nor the other. Or perhaps I could have loved more easily if I’d felt secure in Richard’s affection. But how could I when we didn’t live in the same sphere? He was powerful and mercurial; I was a young, lowly damsel, completely at his mercy.

  I BOARDED THE SHIP TO LEAVE FOR THE HOLY LAND with great trepidation, for the time for departure couldn’t have been worse: I was bleeding again. Was the rest of my life to be measured out in segments between bleedings? Were all great events to correlate with this loathsome monthly horror?

  King Richard straddled the metal ramming beak of the Trenchemer as it rose and fell on the waves.

  “See what I mean?” An oarsman nudged his mate. “Looks to be his own prick.”

  “Stiff as a poker, hot as a forge.”

  “Clinks all night it do, striking ore.”

  “Aye, poor queen. All night and all day too, swives her bolt upright.”

  “No wonder the poor wench looks so pale and with them black circles.”

  “But marriage agrees with him, our merry king, God bless him. Could almost pity the Antichrist Saladin. He’s met his match in Richard.”

  At that moment the king stepped down and waved.

  “Heigh-ho, Your Highness! Good health to thee!” The delighted sailors waved back.

  But Richards smile was fixed on me where I sat cross-legged on a cask of herring. I tried to resist, but lifted my hand as well. Enoch watched the exchange with murder in his eye.

  Sometime later, our eagle-eyed lookout called from the mast, “Land ahoy! Holy Land to the luft!”

  We all scrambled quickly to the rail for the first sight of God’s home, but we saw only a smudge. An hour later we discerned details. Shading my eyes against a searing glare, I looked beyond bare dunes to wave after wave of windswept sand. On the distant horizon, forbidding rocky hills cut the sky.

  “There be the land of milk and honey,” Roderick commented dryly. “Fields like emeralds,” I said.

  “To think that God could have chosen Scotland,” Enoch added. “Mayhap He didn’t want Jesus to like His home on earth too much.”

  Most of the Crusaders seemed as disappointed as we were at this first view of the Holy Land, though a few muttered that every country had its barren spots, that surely the area around Jerusalem would be beautiful beyond words. Only the king was undismayed.

  We danced along the dead shore all afternoon on our way to Tyre. King Richard could not stand still for three heartbeats together but rushed from one end of the galley to the other, talking incessantly, touching his men. I had my share of touches and comments but as the day waned I felt alienated from the euphoria of crusading. Perhaps it was because I was a girl, or because I wanted to go home, or mayhap ’twas because of Roderick.

  Enoch and I worked hard on Roderick’s leg which had developed a seepage. We combined a mix of Enoch’s former experiences in battle and our lessons from Ibn-al-Latif in our treatment. Enoch washed the leg with sea-water, then wine, then sewed it as neatly as Dame Margery could have with wine-soaked thread. Finally he placed it where the sun would dry it and prepared a poultice of herbs and lemon-juice for the night.

  “I’ll carry ye ashore,” he promised the poor knight, “for ye mun give the stitches time to heal. Yif there be a stick of wood in the city of Tyre, I’ll make ye a cane to use in Acre.”

  “Thank you,” Roderick groaned. Then when Enoch went to empty the slops, “Your brother’s a saint, Alex.”

  “A saint!” I brayed. “Then Saladin be the Angel Gabriel!”

  Roderick shook his head and reproved me. “For shame, Alex. Everyone notes what a devoted brother he be to you. I’ve heard it said that never did a man love his own child more than the Scot loves thee.”

  “The Scot may love me, but he loves my land more. He’s stolen my writ from the king so he can claim my castle alone. I tell thee true, Roderick, that he stays with me only to usurp my title and land—if that be love.”

  Roderick shook his head, still toty from the wine I’d poured into his gullet for pain.

  “Well, be as be may, you’ve both been friends to me and I’ll ne’er forget. Later you must tell me more about your estate. My uncle is a powerful man in the north and mayhap
he can help you.”

  By this time Enoch was back and our conversation ended. Then the exuberant king drifted close and sat with us a few minutes. We should put on our best dress, he explained, for we must make an impression upon Tyre. The governor there was Count Conrad of Mont-ferrat who wanted to be King of Jerusalem once Richard had won it back.

  “He’s bound to give us a royal welcome,” the king prophesied, “and we must display our power to establish future authority in this area.”

  He’d already alerted others as well, to judge by the knights’ sudden efforts to shave, comb windblown locks and make themselves neat. As we are seen, so are we esteemed.

  God dropped our wind directly before the port of Tyre. For the first time we saw signs of human habitation in one of these great forbidding fort-towns, for the water bobbed with boats of commerce, and camels waiting to be loaded lined the quays. King Richard sent his priest Nicholas, the Earl of Leicester and Baldwin of Bethune to convey the king’s greetings and ask permission to enter the city As we waited impatiently for their return, Richard ordered the musicians to strike up a sweet air to celebrate our entry into God’s land. It seemed an eternity before we saw our small craft row toward us alone.

  “God’s feet, did he send his emissary with our men?” the king asked his counselors. “I expected a small fleet.”

  Then our own messengers were back on deck, all red-faced with anger.

  “Count Conrad regrets that he cannot permit the English king to enter this city,” Leicester reported in a voice of steel.

  “The count cannot permit the king?” Richard repeated, all euphoria gone. “Explain yourself.”

  Baldwin continued. “He says he takes his orders from King Philip of France, My Lord. It seems that King Philip sent a runner from Acre with strict orders that on no account was Conrad to permit you the hospitality of his city; and Conrad says he does homage to France, not to England.”

  There was a long silence as Richard’s lips pressed thin and white with anger, and his voice chilled the furnace air. “Mark me well: This Conrad will never become King of Jerusalem. As for King Philip, God help him.”