Shield of Three Lions

by Pamela Kaufman

  “Three bezants! For England and St. George!” the king shouted.

  “I’ll enter Acre today or die trying!” a brave knight cried as he spurred his mount forward.

  “Albert de Clement,” Richard said. “He’ll triumph if anyone can.”

  We watched Albert scramble on foot down the moat, somehow emerge on the other side, start a hand-over-hand ascent up the sloping stone. Reach the top! Go over! Moments later a Saracen appeared wearing Albert’s helmet. The king took careful aim and shot him through the heart.

  “Four bezants!” Richard cried.

  Our arrows brought down so many Saracens that the moat began to fill with dead bodies.

  “Use the bodies as a bridge!” the king called.

  Darkness fast descended. Trumpets sounded the end of the battle and knights retreated for well-earned rest. But not Richard. He sent me to his pavilion to fetch refreshment while he conferred with his captains.

  The moon floated full o’er the scene of carnage and despair. One by one, silent Saracens appeared on their parapet, let down ropes to descend so they could collect their dead. One by one King Richard and his knights picked them off and slowly, slowly, the moat was filled. Guards were placed to make certain our bridge of corpses remained in place, and the king finally retired.

  AT DAWN THE SICK KING WAS again in place.

  Mategriffon was pulled to the edge of the mushy ditch. Finally the mules were whipped, the monstrous structure crunched o’er human bones and gore right to the wall’s edge. Tun after tun of Greek fire struck the piss-soaked hides to no avail, and now the Crusaders could shoot directly into the city.

  Then there was fanfare behind us! From the hills thundered white clouds of Arabs on their magic steeds. “Aid for Islam! Aid for Islam!”

  For a moment the Crusaders quailed, were thrown off balance. What we all dreaded more than anything: Saladin attacking our rear!

  “Take heart and fight, you cowards!” the king bellowed hoarsely.

  E’en so, ’twas a scene of panic. Drums throbbed without end, horsemen leaped howling through smoke o’er the heads of foot in the trenches, green banners flowed. All kinds of strange men: dervishes whirling like madmen in their red skirts, Egyptian mamluks in mail, black Kurds with long shining scimitars and painted shields, saffron-cloaked Halka. Everywhere a melee of noise, confusion, cries, the clang of sword against sword, animals neighing in terror, the pound of stone on stone.

  “Christ and the Sepulcher! Christ and the Sepulcher!” chanted the foot as they took deadly aim at the horses’ bellies when they leaped the trenches.

  “Islam!”

  “Christ!”

  But our king had anticipated the fearful tactic and now waved his banner thrice to waiting knights on Toron Hill. Men of steel, lances held horizontally before them, rode in tight formation as one body down into the fray. The Saracens were trapped. Now mayhem intensified. Through rolling clouds of dust we watched the panicked white eyes and bared teeth of stalwart destriers as they took mortal wounds, great knights slowly tumble to the ground in clattering heaps, and everywhere the flow of blood. At last, hours later, the Saracens regrouped the remnants of their gaudy forces and limped back o’er the hills whence they had come. And we turned once more to the wall.

  Richard sent the signal to intensify the battering of the tower where it leaned as if jug-bitten. One great belier tower after another was put into action, drawn closer to increase the damage; another shudder and ’twas down! A roar filled the skies!

  Hour after hour the fighting continued without letup, ever fiercer, ever deadlier. Then King Richard rose from his pelt.

  “My horse!” he demanded.

  Nothing could stop him. Followed by Leicester, Hugh le Brun, Andrew de Chauvigny and the Bishop of Salisbury, his great figure rode into the swirl and scream of the battle. I didn’t breathe for an hour as I watched. His long arms turned like windmills, his shield in one hand, his broadsword in the other, as heads rolled at his feet. Never had anyone seen such a sight! E’en the Turks paused, awed by his invincible prowess. On and on he rode, right up the wall I trowe, a powerful god-king and no one could stop him.

  Into darkness he fought as bodies piled high in the moat, towers pulled to the wall one after the other, stones peeled away like fish scales. Then there was a giant shout in the darkness!

  Acre had surrendered!

  It was July twelfth, almost exactly one month since our arrival. King Richard had kept his word.

  RICHARD PAID FOR HIS MAGNIFICENT LEADERSHIP with a brief relapse in his health, but he was still able to dictate the terms of peace. He ordered all Turks to leave Acre forthwith except for three thousand emirs who volunteered themselves as hostages until Saladin should fulfill Richards demands for a huge ransom of gold, a return of Christian prisoners and the True Cross. However, our wise king set a deadline for the sultan so we would not be bogged down in Acre forever.

  I was witness to these exciting negotiations as the king now kept me near him in his pavilion. Once his hot eyes beamed from his pale face and he whispered, “We’ll have a palace instead of a tent, Cupid.”

  Then that same day a runner arrived from Tyre with the news that the queen had left Cyprus, their buss was expected at any moment. Caught utterly off-guard, the king’s face became suddenly unmasked and for a fleeting moment I witnessed such childish terror as I’d never seen before in the most timorous soldier. ’Twas gone in an instant but left an imprint like that from looking directly into the sun.

  Quickly he recovered and expressed his pleasure, saying that a suitable palace must be found for the royal couple, glancing at me as he gave the order. For days afterward, I pondered that panicked expression, much perplexed. That the king might be repelled by his queen I could understand, or irritated, or bored, or resentful. But fear? From a king notorious for not knowing the meaning of the word? How had poor little Berengaria managed to strike such terror in a lion’s breast?

  FOR ONCE THE KING’S FAVORITE ADAGE “As we are seen, so are we esteemed” couldn’t apply to our entrance into Acre, for we marched through empty streets. Enoch and I rode directly behind a group of bishops who broke into loud sobs as we passed the many churches in this Christian city Pointing to whitewashed walls, they bemoaned the mosaic saints lost under the paint, or they keened loudly for the empty altars, or the rounded minarets set atop Christian towers.

  “You’d think they’d found quhat they expected,” Enoch commented dryly. “Circumcision blood in the baptismal fonts and worse on the altars.”

  “Maybe you’re just not as Christian as they are.”

  “That I’m not,” he agreed cheerily. “’Tis said King Richard canna be Christian because he’s from the pagan south, you and I canna be Christian because we’re from the pagan north, which leaves the field to those in the middle.”

  “I’m Christian,” I asserted, not liking the association, “even if the Scots are not.”

  For the first time in days he laughed aloud. “Ye? Ye’re naught but a pagan Celt once removed, ready to worship a tree or a stone as quick as a saint, and believe in kaelpies and kongons.”

  I didn’t want to argue the matter. Soothly I would agree that most of the Crusaders were more interested in lechery than praying, for our ranks were e’en now being depleted as the men broke to run to the port where ’twas rumored that boatloads of women from Tyre had just landed.

  Also, I must admit that I was more intrigued by Richard’s reaction to his queen than I was by the reaction of any bishop. Berengaria rode a fine roan mare next to Richard on his Fauvel, and she had the bearing of royalty if not the beauty. Her sharp chin thrust upward, her close-set eyes dropped demurely downward. She gave no glance to her husband but I saw his uneasy eyes fall obliquely on her as the telltale muscle in his cheek quivered. A spiritual malaise cloaked his victory and subdued everyone’s joy.

  IT WAS THE REST PERIOD AFTER Haute Tierce and the king was alone. Silk curtains gave his chamber a pearly luminesce
nce and I had the giddy thought that the king looked like the scarlet streak of blood inside an egg.

  “Come close, Alex, I’m not asleep.”

  But he should have been, for his eyes were deeply shadowed. I placed the mail pouch beside him.

  “Ambroise sent these, Your Highness. I believe ’tis mail from England.”

  “Let me see.”

  I noted that his new nails had grown back very pink after his illness, that his hands trembled.

  “Ah, a letter from my queen mother. Suppose you read it to me while I rest.”

  Breaking the seal on the rolled parchment, I watched him covertly. He had lost his symptoms but appeared under mental strain. Berengaria. Had she spurned him? ’Twas rumored around court that she preferred her ape Alphonso to the king. I didn’t believe it. If anything, ’twas the king who did the spurning.

  “Alex, are you gathering wool?”

  “I’m sorry, My Lord; I’ll read.”

  “No, wait. Come here, love.” He held out a hand. “I daresay you think I’ve forgotten our conversation in Limassol, don’t you?”

  “No, Your Grace, I know you’re much occupied, and now …”

  “The queen is here,” he finished dryly. “Yes, just so. However, let me assure you that nothing’s changed, just postponed. And not for long. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “I pledge to give you fealty, disinterested affection, and now love.” His deep voice throbbed. “Tell me it’s the same with you.”

  My lips parted, breath became shallow, heart raced. “Aye, just the same except …”

  He frowned and waited. “Go on. Another confession?”

  “Aye, in a way. Nothing important but it’s worried me since I want to be truthful, as you wist. My father thought I was too small for my age, too small for a boy that is, so he suggested that I say I was three years younger than I soothly was.”

  “Three years?” The king grinned, more sunny than I’d seen him of late. “So you’re really …?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Thirteen! I’m delighted and feel somewhat less guilty. Is that all?”

  I nodded, my heart light.

  “Then let’s kiss on it and you’ll read.”

  I leaned over him and he clasped me so I fell upon his chest. We kissed over and over, a dozen, two dozen times, abandoned and happy.

  Then he placed me upright again. “Now, read.”

  “To Richard Plantagenet, King of England, etc.

  “I plead with you to quit your Crusade and return to England.’”

  “What?” The king leaned forward. “Let me see the script. God’s feet, ’tis Eleanor’s all right.”

  “Shall I continue?”

  “Yes.”

  A bare foot touched the tiled floor as he propped himself higher.

  “‘Come quickly before this once rustic isle disintegrates to a refuge for every scoundrel in Europe and turns to a nest for insurrection, banditry and usurpation.’”

  “‘Usurpation’?” the king exclaimed. “She must mean John. Damnation!”

  “‘But to specifics. The injustices of William Longchamps have pressed the common people to the point of mutiny against the Crown. Indeed, ruffians rule the forests and roadways in the name of “civil order” and many commoners are grown to prefer their rough justice to that of the appointed justicier.’”

  “Where’s John in all this?” the king exploded. “He’s the canker in the body politic.”

  I waited, then continued.

  “‘Obviously the only noble with sufficient stature to offset Longchamps’s acts is Count John. Need I recount his methods? He has seized Tickhill Castle, refused York entry into England and in various ways antagonized all the great barons who now see themselves caught between unacceptable factions.

  “‘Therefore have the barons finally been forced to unite themselves as a third power in this triangular struggle.’”

  The king interrupted grimly. “Those traitors!”

  “‘My own fear resides with this last group, for I can see how you might defeat Longchamps or John when the time comes, but if your lords challenge the very concept of kingship, then that is a battle of new dimensions and one that will not easily be won.’”

  “Which guarantees civil war for a hundred years!” Richard exploded.

  “‘Such chaos must attract outsiders who will prey on our weakness. Therefore you cannot be surprised to learn that your brother Count John is in constant touch with King Philip. We have intercepted six of John’s letters confirming that they conspire against you, though unfortunately we know not the direction of their plans. Poor John is such a fool. To think that Philip would do aught for him, after his plots against Henry, his betrayal of you.

  “‘Richard, the case is urgent. No one knows better than I your commitment to Jerusalem, but you have no choice. Send me word by the next ship that you come. Send me as well news that your queen is with child. Such an announcement is gravely needed in your beleaguered nation which sees itself threatened, with the king fighting a perilous war and no heir to carry on.

  “‘I await your missive with God’s blessing. Yours…’”

  And she signed off with the usual formalities.

  I rerolled the parchment as Richard tapped his bare foot. I dared not look at him after the last directive. After a time, he sighed and spoke to himself.

  “If I can get Berengaria with child, that should purchase me four months of grace. With God’s help, I could take Jerusalem in that time. Or at the worst, I could secure the coast cities for a later try.”

  There was a sharp rap at the door.

  “Court is convened, Your Highness,” a voice called.

  “Help me with my shoes, Alex. Philip has chosen this ungodly hour to insist he has something of great import to relay. Would I could show him this letter.” He made a sour grimace.

  As I followed the king, my own mind was tumbling with thoughts. Only four more months if he could get Berengaria with child.

  “Hssst, bairn, hssst!”

  Startled, I looked o’er my shoulder and saw the Scot gesturing wildly from a niche. I was at the end of Richards train as it marched toward the chamber to meet King Philip; I slipped away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Enoch held a tin plate of cocky-leeky wrapped in fig leaves. “Did ye eat part of this?”

  “Not yet. I had to read a letter to the king.”

  He sighed deeply with relief.

  “’Tis laced with monkshood.”

  “But which—?” I gazed, comprehending now that ’twas not a single incident, but a plot.

  “Quhich of us be the intended victim? Aye, that’s the question. Then we’ll know who. Put yer mind to it, Alex.”

  “Aye,” I gasped. “I have to go now.”

  I ran after the king and spent the first part of the next hour turning the problem in my mind.

  TWAS THE LARGEST most ventilated chamber in the palace but ’twas oppressively hot at this hour, especially with so many people crowded together. All the great lords had been summoned for this auspicious occasion. They stood languorously, their eyes heavy, their hands waving palm fans to move the air. King Philip was already on his throne.

  Kisses were exchanged between the monarchs, a prayer recited, and we all settled to see what King Philip would say.

  “Richard, I am an ill man. Very ill. So say my physician and my astrologer.”

  Richard’s disgust was palpable.

  “I don’t want to contradict your stars, coz, but I tell you plain that your counselors do you wrong. However, if you think you suffer, please accept my sympathies.”

  He then sat back and endured a long harangue of symptoms as courtiers buzzed around us. I heard one say that if Philip died in the Holy Land, ’twould be of fright. Richard looked inward as he waited, his face suspicious.

  Suddenly Philip brought everyone back to sharp attention: “Therefore I have written to the pope.”<
br />
  “To Celestine?” Richard leaned forward. “To send you an elixir for your gripes?”

  “Don’t scoff Richard. I’m serious!”

  Richard waited, alert.

  “I asked a release from my vow to crusade.”

  Richard leaped up, his face apoplectic! “I’ll kill you with my own hand before I permit such perfidy!”

  Two bright red spots appeared on Philip’s cheeks but he sat firm.

  “I am leaving Acre forthwith to return to Europe.”

  “You may deceive popes,” Richard cried, “but never me! That you suffer from cowardice I believe! And of treason!” His voice had risen to a howl of rage.

  “’Twas not I who threatened to kill you.” Philip shot back. “Nor was it I who bled my country of gold in order to purchase loyalty.”

  “Are you speaking of Champagne?” Richard demanded. “Tell him, Henry, how he cheated you!”

  Before Champagne could utter a word, Philip continued. “And the Pisanos, the Genoese. You bribed them to follow you.”

  “Paid them, sir, when they’d gone two years without wages.”

  “And you wasted weeks of valuable time and countless lives in order to plunder the Kingdom of Cyprus.”

  “Kingdom you call it? A tyranny! As for plunder, it’s all going for the Crusade!”

  “Truly? Then who purchases your splendid raiment that you wear like a peacock? What gold underwrites a fleet of hundreds? I, too, could sail in golden poops if I wished to be a pirate.”

  Both men were now standing nose to nose, their counselors helpless to stop them.

  “To what purpose would you sail so?” Richard cried. “You prefer to manipulate like slime. You order your puppet Conrad of Montferrat to thwart us at every turn! Did he not starve Acre last winter by refusing to send wheat? Why did the two of you refuse me entry into Tyre?”

  “To force you to fight! You would tarry, would ride through streets with flourishes, anything to preen yourself with adulation.”