The usher-knights continued to try to guide us, not hesitating to strike our beasts and push us rudely to keep us controlled. The one with a black fringe and wicked scar which pulled his lip upward, had the greatest authority: Captain Mercadier. I shrank as I passed, more afraid of his dagger than the mob’s fists.
“Don’t answer! Keep courteous! We’re in King Philip’s territory and must hold our tempers. The king’s orders, keep calm there!”
“Aye, and King Philip be our partner. Think of what less friendly countries will be like,” Enoch grunted, pulling Thistle’s muzzle close.
Some people were less hostile but e’en more upsetting. They were the families come to say farewell to their loved ones and the rumor rippled through their ranks that the staff had turned into two serpents, that we were doomed men marching straight to our graves. They hugged pimply young boys and balding husbands with screams of anguish, prayers, sobs, desperate embraces and cries of “Dix nous aide!” By the time we went through the far gate, we all felt like marked men and wondered what insanity had led anyone to join such a cursed endeavor.
Fortunately reactions during the rest of our march to Vézelay were just the opposite. In Luti, Mount Richard, Celles, Chapelles and Dama we were the greatest heroes alive, holy men with magic in our touch. Well-wishers lined the roads and screamed their love and hospitality, offered us food and drink, as much as we wanted. Enoch quickly responded to their kind generosity and we picked up cheese, flour, bacon, smoked eel and wine to strap to Twixt. And in all those villages we gathered more men as well as supplies.
At Vézelay we halted outside the city walls to await the French king who would ride forth to welcome Richard. Mercadier and other captains organized the royal household into parallel lines facing one another along the road. Enoch and I were in the lower ranks, too far to get a good look at King Philip but with a fine view of Vézelay. ’Twas an ancient Roman city with a pagan white-and-gold basilica, now a Christian church, rising above gray stone houses. Then royal fanfares blared and the French royal party rode forth. Philip from this distance appeared to be a slight man, his hairline receding, his nose sharp, and he sat poorly on his horse. The barons around him, however, were a magnificent group, elegantly clad in very short tunics and tight hose, their beards trimmed neat and square, some woven with gold threads. Enoch called them all fops. We followed the fleursde-lis through the city gates. Here Enoch sought Roger for decent quarters as he’d promised; here I would first serve King Richard. We found Sir Roger rasping at the stewards, but he took a moment to tell us where we might sleep, and to order me to report for instructions from the head page, Gilbert, tomorrow morning. All the time he talked, he stared at my Plantagenet uniform with distaste.
Before we could wander the streets to see the sights, Enoch dragged me up the steps to the top of the wall to study our situation. Truly ’twas an astounding panorama we saw stretched over the country, men and horses as far as the eye could reach. Enoch began muttering and pushing his seeds back and forth as I broke a stick into parts to indicate how many thousands. After a time, he’d calculated that King Philip’s army numbered about forty-three thousand, which with what the English had accumulated brought the total close to one hundred thousand.
“Impossible.” He closed his eyes. “It canna be done.”
“What can’t, Enoch?”
“The country can’t feed so many. There mun be pillaging and fighting ahead, mark my words. Only about one-third appear to be trained for the field—aye, ’tis a swart time ahead.”
I could see his point but my mind had sunk to a lower level. How could I possibly remain undiscovered in such company? How could I perform my private necessities? None of my former ploys would work in this great army. I was confounded by the awesome logistics which no abacus could solve.
’Twas a vexing problem but one I would have to defer to another time, for now I must report to the abbey where the king resided, there to receive my first instructions from Sir Gilbert and the other pages. With considerable trepidation, I stood before the low-built structure, told my name and business to the guard. Inside was a severe white chapel with a columned court beyond, and beyond that the private chambers. Here I was ushered into a magnificent room hung with rich tapestries which I recognized from the king’s chamber at Chinon. Two young men stood working at a long trestle.
“You must be Sir Alex,” the shorter of the two said pleasantly. “My name is Sir Eduard, and this is Sir Gilbert.”
I greeted each in turn and received opposite responses. Sir Eduard was a seductive fellow in his late teens with a delicate jaw, dark liquid eyes and a satin skin; I liked his gracious manner and low cultivated voice. Sir Gilbert, the undisputed authority, was so aggressively rude that I could hardly believe my senses: I thought I must be mistaken because of my own uncertainties. In my opinion, Sir Gilbert was odd-appearing though with his huge almond eyes and rosebud mouth he might be deemed handsome by some. He was quite tall, as tall as the king, but seemed not to know how to move his long, soft body which apparently lacked both muscles and joints, leaving only bones and flesh connected by tendons. His back humped slightly, his shoulders drooped, his feet turned inward toward his ankle-bones. I suspected that he’d been a beautiful child who’d grown up poorly. He tried to compensate for this lack of grace by elegant clothes, and both his subtle perfume and delicate gold laces bespoke great care in grooming. Therefore, while all of us wore the Plantagenet red and gold, Sir Gilbert was in a class alone, the king of pages. His face was smooth, slightly puffed with full jaws, his eyes saffron yellow, his mouth well curved over perfect teeth, his smile constant but never touching his eyes. He didn’t greet me directly but made telling verbal blows in my direction which passed for instructions.
“So you’re the new page, Alex, that we’ve heard so much about. Such a pity that you must begin tomorrow night with the king when this is obviously a meeting requiring the greatest finesse, the most delicate discrimination if the whole thing is not to collapse from blunders emanating from a crude mind. How old did you say you were?”
“Nine, sir.” Though I hadn’t said.
“Nine.” He gave a faint frisson of disgust. “What can the king be thinking of, to bring his distinguished guests into a nursery? And not just any child but a wizened barbarian from the wilds of England. I wouldn’t be surprised to see the entire Crusade fail before it can get started when such momentous conferences are attended by an idiot. What is your secret, Alex? Come, you can tell us. How did you worm your way into the king’s good graces? You look like a weeper to me: yes, that must be it. Tears would do the trick where talent or intelligence be lacking. What sentimental tale of woe did you use, my dear? Come, don’t be shy, repeat it to us. Don’t expect us to cry, of course, but we do enjoy a good laugh.”
All this was delivered in a jocular offhand manner as he moved busily setting up the trestle, as if the words were not downright insulting.
Sir Eduard put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t mind Sir Gilbert, Alex. He likes his bit of fun.”
“Au contraire, Alex, you’d better mind Sir Gilbert for I won’t let the king’s household deteriorate, whatever his whims. Tell me what you know of serving wine, the king’s favorite vintage, the protocol relating to great personages. Go on, share the wisdom that made you indispensable to His Majesty.”
“I believe I am not indispensable,” I said, trying to placate him. “I am his ward because of my parents’ death, and this is simply his easiest way of caring for me. That’s what he said.”
Sir Gilbert put his hands to his hips in mock-amazement. “You are not indispensable! Did you hear that, Eduard? Note the humility, the implied ignorance of the boy. Well then, you’d better pay close attention, for what the king meant by ‘easy care’ was to thrust the unwanted burden upon me. Now, listen carefully, for I’ll not repeat. The king will come to his chamber first to bathe and change his garment. You will have his water ready, his fresh tunic laid out, will help him disrobe,
dry, take away his old clothes. Is that clear?”
“Yes. Well, not totally. What should I lay out? Where is the basin for water?”
“Come, Alex, let me show you.” Sir Eduard shot Sir Gilbert a wasted disdainful look and carefully elaborated upon the instructions,opening the king’s wardrobe, pointing to the basin, the basket for dirty linens, and explaining the process.
Sir Gilbert plunged ahead in his scornful diatribe of how to serve wine, how to keep it cool (water from a well below, surrounded by willows), the order of service according to the guests’ ranks. My head swam and I almost wished myself sealed in a pastry again. Then Sir Eduard enunciated the rules of discretion, for I would be privy to state secrets. “To talk outside is treason,” he finished. “Yet you must listen withal, for the king may test you afterward. We are his unwritten records of events.”
“I understand.”
“Don’t worry, Alex. I’ll come tomorrow before the meeting to be sure you’re prepared,” Sir Eduard comforted me.
We were then dismissed, except that Sir Gilbert suddenly held me back. “Stay a moment, Alex. I must speak with you privily.”
I watched Sir Eduard go through the door, then turned back to Sir Gilbert who made no effort to smile now. His eyes were hard as agates, his full lips twisted in contempt.
“I have no idea what trumpery you used to fascinate the king, young faker, but I want certain things clear between us. First, your body odor is a disgrace. Do you have the flux?”
I was startled out of speech and just gasped. Actually I hadn’t washed my treasure belt since Wanthwaite and there had been one small accident—two if you count the dysentery in Paris—and I knew I should clean it soon.
“I believe the king must have had a cold when he met you for I can’t explain otherwise his tolerating such a foul stench. Then there is your appearance. Call you that mess a uniform?”
I looked down at my large drooping outfit; ’twas not my fault that I was too small for their issue.
“Fix it at once,” Sir Gilbert continued in his icy tone. Then he moved closer. “And do not be presumptuous.”
Before I knew to step back he reached down, grasped my treasure where it bulged in front and twisted it viciously. Of course it didn’t hurt a twit but I recalled perfectly Enoch’s howl of anguish when I’d pulled at his terse and I understood Sir Gilbert’s intentions.
Tears filled my eyes and I jumped back. “Why did you do that?” I cried.
“To show you that you’re not the man you think you are, little weasel. Try to insinuate yourself into our circle and you’ll feel worse, I promise. Now get you gone and look to yourself.”
He pushed me so that I almost fell.
Blinded by fright, I stumbled into the street. I was now supposed to go with Enoch to the basilica to see the kings together, but I detoured first to the wardrobe where I asked for shearers, needle and thread. I’d been meaning to replace my treasure belt for some time and knew now that I mustn’t postpone it more.
Now late, I ran to the Basilica of Ste. Madeleine and found it already filled. My Plantagenet colors admitted me but I was then pressed by a crush of bodies into the wall and could see naught.
“Alex! Here! Come forward!” Enoch bellowed unceremoniously.
Excusing myself this way and that I edged to where the Scot had saved a narrow space for me on the bench beside him.
“Whar were ye?” he now whispered. “The kings will soon be here.”
I squirmed and didn’t answer. We were so close—did my stench bother him? Or the priest on my other side? I crossed my legs and hugged my arms tight, hoping to contain my own noxious emanations. The priest glanced at me once with a wrinkled nose which made me push harder against Enoch.
“Do ye need more room? Shall I hald ye?”
I shook my head dismally, glad he didn’t seem offended by my person, but fearing to risk his lap.
My musings were cut short by a fanfare of trumpets: the kings had arrived. A procession of archbishops and bishops preceded the royal persons down the central aisle as the musicians played a solemn accompaniment to the chanting choir. First came King Philip of France and his train, then King Richard and his. The two monarchs turned to face the congregation before they sat on their thrones. Both were exceedingly grave, though it seemed to me that Richard’s mien was exalted while King Philip’s was plain dour. I studied the French king with great interest. He was a short slender man, youthful in body and face except for his crabbed posture and closed expression. His eyes were close black dots like a ferrets, albeit one appeared a bit milky his nose long and pinched, his mouth a slash set close to his nostrils, his chin a spade. Not a handsome man nor a pleasing one, though in all fairness he might be more amiable somewhere apart from King Richard. Even from here I could see that Archbishop Baldwin had been right: King Philip was angry at Richard. If I gave forth foul gases, King Philip exuded rage. He sat listing slightly away from Richard, as if an invisible sword rested between them.
King Richard was lucent as a saint by comparison. He cast an enraptured gaze upward as if he had a private vision which led him forward. Yet I noted that he respected the invisible sword as well. Neither king looked at the other.
In full contradiction to what I observed, the Archbishop of Canterbury was at this moment reading the list of agreements reached here in Vézelay between the two “brother” kings. On the long journey ahead they promised on pain of excommunication to be loyal to each other, to be fierce in battle, to share and share alike all treasure won from the enemy. Their route had also been agreed upon: they would begin together as far as Lyons-sur-Rhône, and there separate into two armies. Philip would march to Genoa, thence to sail to Messina; Richard would meet his fleet in Marseilles and sail to meet him there. The next rendezvous was set for September, whence they would proceed to Acre together.
The points were simple but the spinning long and again my attention wandered. This time I was arrested by a page in King Philip’s train who wore a most interesting costume. Unlike our English tunics which were cut midcalf, his reached only to the knee and was slit up both sides to the waist into gonnes to make riding easier. Naturally this would have exposed his braies in indecent manner but he’d o’ercome this problem by winding his braies to above the knees where they met with baggy pants. The more I studied, the more excited I became, for such an outfit would o’ercome a multitude of difficulties for me.
Finally the covenant had been read, the benediction said and we all trailed into the sunlight.
“Enoch, you go see the sights without me. Sir Gilbert has told me that I must alter my garb to the king’s specifications.”
He left without argument and I ran all the way to a well I’d spotted from our window where a clump of willows grew. Using my father’s dagger, I cut off several stems of varying girths, went quickly to the scribner’s and begged a sheet of parchment, then ran back to my room where I tossed the stems on the floor to sort according to size.
My plan was to make myself a prick.
Before I could proceed with the cutting of willow and parchment, however, I had to create a design which would fit snugly on my parts so that I could piss through it and fool anyone who watched. The problem rose when I tried to discover exactly whence my water dropped for I was amazed to find that I was a stranger to my own crotch. Did it flow from a sensitive piece of skin on my front? Or from the hole somewhat deeper that I could feel but not see? Or my anus? Promising myself to scrub well afterward, there was nothing to do but explore. After a few puddlings, I knew my source and it couldn’t have been more difficult in terms of design. I would have to form an organ the span of a hand and a half with a wide slantwise opening against my body tapering to the tiniest hole at the tip. No one willow sufficed, so I set about whittling and joining till I worked up a sweat in the effort. Then none of the pieces was sufficiently flexible and I must choose between forever drooping downward or lifting upward. Knotting my thought, it seemed to me that ’twould be m
ore convincing if it turned up so that I could arch my stream. I had to drink wine till I was toty to refill my bladder for trials, but finally ’twas done: adequate but unconvincing, e’en to my prejudiced eyes. Never had man nor beast been plumbed with such a skinny long pipe, but ’twould have to do.
I was able to compensate somewhat with the parchment which I oiled to make waterproof. I anchored the willow in a broad double pad and cushioned it gradually to shape like a member and began to feel pride in my work. Now I stitched the whole into the quilted money belt which I fit inside my thighs so it wouldn’t bulge. This went smoothly and soon the whole creation was in place.
Now there remained only the short tunic with its gonnes where I could slip my hands to hold my “prick” without exposing it, my baggy pants, and ’twas done. Quickly I bathed, threw away my old garments and dressed. The prick pushed against the tunic like a tent-peg, but after a few futile attempts to make it lie flat, I decided it didn’t matter. From what I’d seen of men, a prick which was too long and erect would not be a handicap.
BY THE TIME I RAN UP THE CURVING steps to the king’s quarters the next afternoon, I was as carefully groomed as a French fop from my scented curls to my polished boots. Both Sir Gilbert and Sir Eduard awaited me and although Sir Gilbert took in my new appearance his manner was still waspish.
“Why are you late?”
“You’re not late, Lord Alex,” Sir Eduard interjected smoothly. “It’s just that Sir Gilbert came especially to show you what to do.”
Sir Gilbert pointed to a magenta-and-rose brocade robe stretched across the bed. “They must be put just so. These have been tested for freshness for the king is fastidious about cloth next to his person. Here is a basket for the robes he removes; put it under the table till later. The water has been poured into his basin, the soap—so—and the towel. You should have done this yourself.”
Alix of Wanthwaite 01 - Shield of Three Lions Page 21