Soon after, he took his leave while Sir Eduard remained to instruct me about the wine.
“Tonight you will use the gold goblets—placed here—the finest Jews’ work, and keep the wine cool. You see how I’ve submerged the flask in cool water? If the guests are late, you may have to freshen the water.”
He then pointed from the window to the well in the garden hid by my clump of willows.
“How many guests will there be?”
“We’re told three, though one never knows. I’ve put out five goblets which should suffice.”
I counted the goblets, a woodly thing to do.
“Most important is to serve according to rank. Do you understand?”
“The king first …”
He nodded, smiled and was gone.
Left to my nervous solitude, I gazed through open windows at a glorious sunset, somewhat marred in its effect by my compulsion to test the water. Three times I descended the steps and sloshed up with the heavy pail to keep the wine temperature perfect. The sky had deepened to a crystalline aqua with Venus again suspended like a sapphire. Suddenly I heard footsteps and voices. I shifted the goblets around, then put them on a round tray, but the tray was uneven so they didn’t stand upright, and I took them off again.
The king shouted, “If King Philip wants to quit the Crusade, let him!”
Did that mean we weren’t going to crusade after all? I strained to hear an answer, but the king strode in and I bowed and flourished.
“… tenting with a crocodile.” King Richard waved his hand at me.
Mercadier, Algais, Louvart—the king’s mercenary captains—Ambroise and the king, five people exactly. I poured a heavy jeweled goblet full to the brim, then couldn’t carry it so full, tried to pour a little wine back into the flask and spilled it into the water, glanced around furtively to be sure no one had noticed. Now the goblet was wet. I wiped it on my new tunic and carried it carefully to the king. Benedicite.
Now I poured a second goblet and looked around helplessly. Who was next of rank? Ambroise nodded subtly at Mercadier.
The captain took the drink and said, “If he stays in France, Philip will march through the Vexin straight to Normandy. The Vexin territory is essential for your defense.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” The king’s face was contorted with fury. “And despite Philip’s claims, the Vexin is legally mine, a part of Princess Alais’s dowry.”
The flasks were not very large, so I put a second one to cool in the water, emptied the dregs of the first to make my third goblet. Deus juva me, the king was finished with his already. I must work faster. I took the royal cup, poured the third for Louvart and managed to carry two at once. I was getting better.
Except that the king had just taken off his crown and cape. I rushed to his side, getting there just in time. But where should I put them? As I stood, bewildered, Ambroise smoothly poured two more goblets of wine, one for himself, one for Algais, and smiled at me.
“His popper in his pouch would wither if you spat on it,” the troubadour said dryly.
Did he mean my popper? It took all my will not to touch my new prick.
Then Richard answered, “Except that it’s a long spit from Jerusalem.”
I let out my breath in relief; they were still speaking of King Philip.
Then I lost all interest in their argument, for the king began to undress.
Horrified, I watched him unlace his long over-robe and let it drop at his feet. ’Twas not so much that I didn’t know by now the anatomy of a male (better than a female as I’d recently discovered), but the king! He wore a sorcot, underpants and braies same as everyone else, yet I stood hypnotized as one by one he discarded each piece while his diatribe against the French king continued unabated.
I felt a slight shove. “Pick them up, Alex,” Ambroise whispered, smiling, and I turned violent red for I’d been gazing on the king’s parts which were as huge as the rest of him.
I scurried to scoop the clothing into a basket, then reached for the magenta robe. By now the king’s milk-white body was bent over the basin where he scrubbed himself thoroughly and I stumbled over a trailing braie as I saw that his backside was covered with hard red whelks. Riding sores? I stood on tiptoe as he leaned down to slip into his fresh robe.
“—won’t fight if I know the scoundrel, but will be on hand to collect the spoils,” he said as his head came through. “Damn his greedy soul! He’ll suck me to a husk.”
And I let out a long breath of relief: the king was dressed.
I took the basket from under the table and stuffed the dirty robes into it. But I dared not put the basket back where it would be in full sight. I looked around for a likely spot and saw only one. Casually I dumped the robes back onto the floor close to the bed; then, pretending to straighten the cover, I kicked the offending garments under the bed. I stood, pleased with myself.
“Wait till Messina,” Mercadier advised, “where you’ll sap his will. Then you can deal with him as you like.”
“Hush.” Richard held up a warning hand. “I believe my guests arrive.” He raised his voice in what was obviously mock rage. “How dare de Sabloil translate my orders to his own liking? I wrote the command and meant it to be taken literally: sailors who take knives to one another must be tied together and cast overboard. Send a runner and see that ’tis done, Captain Louvart.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The three captains brushed close by the men who were entering, causing gracious apologies on both sides though the Archbishop of Canterbury held the same derisive expression at the company that he’d turned toward me at Chinon. I was most awed by his companion, Ranulf de Glanville, the author of England’s book of common law which Malcolm had oft praised. Then I realized I’d seen him briefly before at Westminster, a slight man with a strong nose and chin and dark intelligent eyes. His nephew, Hubert Walter, showed a family resemblance but hadn’t as yet developed as much authority in his face.
However, ’twas the king’s face that made me forget my duty, for ’twas a reversal of the gruff, caustic soldier he’d been with the captains. Now he was again the lambent painted saint, glowing, courteous, almost unctuous. Zizka himself could not have changed so rapidly.
A nudge from Ambroise brought me out of my reverie; he nodded and frowned toward the dirty bath water. Benedicite. I must empty it of course. I picked up the basin and again looked around. Certainly this couldn’t go under the bed. I considered the open window and dismissed it as too obvious. But if not there, where? There was only one possible place: I poured it into the wine water.
“My lords, welcome to our cramped quarters. Please take your ease and forget cold ceremony Alex, the wine, please.”
I jumped guiltily, fearful of the reprimand which might come later because of my laxity. Aye, ’twas easy to be king and snap your fingers, but I had no goblets! All had been used. Quickly I gathered the glasses and wondered if I dared serve from dirty cups, but no, one was the king’s; he’d never forgive me. Now sweating, I looked to Ambroise but he was addressing Ranulf: “I say the king is not a bit too harsh.” And I submerged the glasses into the wine water.
Then almost swooned! ’Twas floating with dirty suds from the king’s own parts! What should I do? I turned my back, quickly dried them on my tunic which was getting quite damp by now.
Ambroise came close. “I’ll help you serve. The archbishop after the king.”
I smiled at him weakly, more grateful than he knew.
“A loyal subject should obey his king without question,” Ranulf said, and took his wine.
Not so easy to do, I thought grimly.
Richard’s eye sparked dangerously. “Except methinks when it applied to my late father. Becket dared disobey.”
What did that mean? Then I had a brilliant thought: King Henry had made Ranulf Queen Eleanor’s jailer—and he should have disobeyed. How I hoped the king would test me later so I could share this insight, with proper modesty of cour
se.
“Vengeance for Eleanor is understandable but not good politics,” Ranulf was saying and I’d missed something. I hoped it wasn’t important.
“Alex, are you serving cakes tonight?”The king again!
“Yes, Your Highness. At once, My Liege.” I blushed and stammered and fought tears. Would he tell that horrible Sir Gilbert?
There was a short silence as I refilled the cups and arranged the cakes on a platter. Then Hubert Walter changed the subject to the division of spoils. Here the issue was how to define the enemy, whether the Crusaders fought the Saracens only, or whether their mission included heretics. To my surprise, the archbishop considered anyone who wasn’t a Roman Catholic a heretic. I knew that the Crusaders had been invited to Jerusalem by the bishops of the Greek Orthodox and Byzantine Churches, which I’d always thought were Christian. However, since I still couldn’t tell one order from the other in the Church, I had no call to have an opinion. Then I was vindicated by Ranulf
“I’m shocked! Are we going to destroy our sister Greek Church? Prey on it as the Infidel?”
“’Tis not my order,” Archbishop Baldwin protested, “but comes from Pope Clement himself. There are former Crusaders in the Holy Land who have become corrupted by marriage to the Infidel, many of them accidie or pagan by now. Then certain Byzantine Christians choose to give aid to the Saracens.”
“One can almost see why,” Glanville commented dryly.
King Richard was amused by the interchange. “Well, Glanville, you’re learning the difference between civil and canon law I believe. In England it is illegal to attack the rich; in God’s domain it is legal to attack the rich, provided one proves heresy later.”
“’Tis a most cynical view, My Lord. I’m surprised you go forward if you believe so.”
“There are as many reasons to crusade as there are men to do it. The Church exports troublesome aggressors and beggars in exchange for wealth and power. I go for the simplest of reasons: for the glory of God.”
“So do we all, so do we all,” rasped the archbishop. “The king is a tease, Glanville, and means only half what he says.”
By this time Glanville was openly staring at King Richard as if he saw him for the first time. I would have given much to read his mind.
Baldwin was now impatient to be gone and in a short time the interview was finished, much to my relief, for the wine was getting low and I knew not where the supply was kept. By the time the door was closed, I, too, was ready to depart.
The king caught my arm. “Not so fast, page. We are not done with you yet. ’Tis protocol to wait till you’re dismissed.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” I mumbled. The hot evening and my own nerves made me to sweat profusely, for I couldn’t recall what Sir Gilbert had said I should do after the conference. I soon saw. King Richard lifted off his crown, unlaced his cape and tunic, held forth his arms to be disrobed.
“Ah, that’s better,” he groaned. “This is one of those insufferable southern summers. Is there any wine left? Baldwin soaks up the grape like sand. Good, pour one for each of us and let’s see what you absorbed of the night’s conversation.”
He sprawled naked on his bed, half sitting, half lying, and gestured me to come close as I had that first night. I was not so shocked as before at seeing him naked, but still sufficiently disturbed to spill a red trail across his navel.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” I said again, reached my hand to mop, then withdrew it, tried not to look below his waist.
He laughed softly. “Don’t be sorry, it cools me. Well now, how do you fare? Which horse did you choose?”
I was concentrating so hard on what Mercadier had said, how Ambroise had responded, that for a moment I knew not what he meant. “Oh, the gray, aye, the gray. Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“You’re welcome.” He bowed his head. “Does he have a name?”
“Thistle.”
“This-tell?”
I had to explain, for it seemed the king knew not one word of English.
He rubbed my tunic between his thumb and forefinger. “And you have an adequate garb at last. Much better fit than that bulging tunic in Chinon.”
My heart jumped and fell in a dead heap, then ran rapidly again. He’d noticed the bulge—had he also ordered Sir Gilbert to test me? I was suddenly so cold that my skin bumped. Surely he didn’t guess that I was a girl! But no, or he’d not appear naked or take me on a Crusade. My heart became regular again.
“I thought—I thought that Ranulf de Glanville showed diplomatic skills,” I began, to prove I’d been listening, then stopped when the king waved his hand and I fetched another glass of wine. When would he let me go? Soothly he seemed not to want to discuss the evening.
“I had a surprising interview with a Scot in Chinon, a young knight from a noble family in the highlands. Do you know whom I mean?”
I frowned. “Aye, Enoch Angus Boggs.”
“Dubbed by the Scottish monarch, I believe, when he earned his spurs in some clan war. In any case, I was curious as to your relationship. What is he to you?”
Again my innards began leaping. I wanted to say “Nothing, an impostor after my land,” but that would cross the king who’d already made the Scot my guardian. Best be tactful for now.
“He said you were brothers.” The king nudged me.
Anger at the traitorous Scot gave me strength. “Not really brothers, My Liege. He protected me—I think I mentioned that I’d met a Scot—and he insisted upon going through a ritual. Sucking …”
“Sucking?” the king repeated with sudden interest. “What do you mean?”
Vastly ashamed, I described the whole odious business of becoming the Scot’s blood brother.
“God’s feet, I thought only the Saracens believed in such savage rites. What was the nature of your oath?”
Rapidly I rattled the terms, to be faithful till death, to help each other in all things, not to interfere in matters of love …
“Ah,” the king interrupted me. “That’s different from a knight’s oath. And do you permit the Scot his lovers?”
I thought of my attack upon him and Gladys Stump and flushed.
“Not at first, but afterward, yes,” I mumbled.
“Why not at first?” He lifted my chin.
I wondered at his examination of this dour topic, but must answer.
“I didn’t understand what he was doing. I’d never … and I thought he was killing her.”
The king choked on his wine, spilling more than I had across his chest and this time he gestured that I should clean him. I looked around helplessly, not wanting to use the soggy towel from earlier. Finally I put my hand delicately to his skin and rubbed so that the wine dribbled down his side to the floor.
“Again,” he ordered.
’Twas most inefficient. The king guided my hand with his and I became hot with embarrassment though I tried to be casual. He released me, smiling.
“That will do. What about you, little Alex? Does he permit you your lovers?”
I caught the teasing note but had to answer. “Oh, I’m sure he would except that I’m … I can’t … that is, I haven’t yet passed rule six.”
“Rule six?”
“The Rules of Love,” I reminded him.
“Oh, of course, that a boy must be … Well, that applies to becoming a lover, but you can still be the beloved of course. How about it? Are you someone’s beloved?”
I thought of Isabelle. “Possibly …”
“If the Scot permits you. Tell me, Alex, do you like the Scot’s ministrations?”
Much as I detested Enoch, I dared not lie. “He takes good care of me, I believe. Fights, feeds me, keeps me innocent.”
“How innocent? Didn’t you just tell me you had a lover?”
I was finding his questions made me breathless and couldn’t understand his fascination with my personal life. “A friend, which is not the same.”
“No indeed. So you’re still innocent.”
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I thought of Satan’s toute-ass and flushed deeply, almost grateful that Fat Giselle had made me promise not to tell. “I believe so.”
“Only believe?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be innocent.”
He burst into laughter. “Checkmate! Well, ’tis a relief, I can tell you, and I’ll rest better knowing that you’re innocent. Now the hour’s late, time to kiss me good night and be on your way.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
I hesitated, waiting for him to rise, but he stayed supine. Balancing precariously, I leaned to peck his lips in the civil kiss, but he clasped me with his free arm and I fell heavily so that my lips pressed as hard as Isabelle’s had pressed mine, both hurting my teeth and stimulating my liver to wild gyrations. When I stood, it was with pounding heart and I was almost too weak to move.
“Yes, the Scot will be kept busy.” He smiled through bright half-closed eyes. “I was much pleased with your service tonight, Alex.”
“Thank you.” I flourished, bowed and somehow stumbled into the arched corridor where I leaned against the door and wondered what I’d done wrong that he hadn’t tested me on policy.
Inside I could hear him laughing to himself.
AS IT HAPPED, NO ONE PAID ME ANY HEED ON THE long ride to Lyon-sur-Rhône for each Crusader was concerned with his own problems. First there was the rain, for it poured each day as if preparing for the flood, cleared muggily by night so the mosquitoes could feast, then returned with another onslaught at daybreak to assure black sticky mud for men and beasts to slosh through. As for my finding privacy for my ministrations, I had a much easier time than my suffering fellow soldiers who’d been tempted by fruit orchards along the way. Peaches, plums, apples and apricots dangled golden and red on the branches and I reached hungrily along with the rest. Enoch squeezed a peach, slapped my hand away, and pronounced the entire crop forbidden fruit.
The slow progress, the sickness and stench, the angry tempers confirmed what Enoch had predicted and the kings pushed hard to reach the point where they could separate their armies. On the seventh day we arrived at a bridge on the Rhône above Lyons and decided to camp until stragglers had caught up. The rain then stopped, but left us in a quaggy mire and the kings thought to cross the bridge to the higher meadows on the eastern bank. Philip went first, followed by his army above the churning waters of the flooded river. King Richard ordered that only his household should follow him until the French army had departed; the rest of the English would have to founder in the mud, which they were now used to. Enoch and I got into single file, for the bridge was narrow, Thistle in the lead. The rushing foaming water below made me toty but the fresh spray felt good.
Alix of Wanthwaite 01 - Shield of Three Lions Page 22