Shield of Three Lions

by Pamela Kaufman

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Sir Roger then entered to announce that the Pisano ship captains had arrived and I was dismissed. As I left, I saw Richard’s face again go through one of his remarkable transformations as he turned a beaming welcome to the guests.

  I HUDDLED IN MY MOSQUITO-infested room through a long sleepless night. What had that sailor wanted? And why? Over and over I relived those few moments and prayed for a rush of tomorrows to erase memory.

  Never had I missed Enoch so much. I’d grieved for his sprightly companionship and the provision he’d given, but not till this very hour had I fully appreciated the protection. Because I’d never understood the danger. Well, now I knew. Horrors I couldn’t fathom, as strange and dreadful as the rape I’d witnessed of Maisry.

  Oh, Enoch, Enoch.

  By morning I was sick with apprehension, afraid to venture out, yet unable to stay in my fetid privy-pit of a chamber another instant. The king had graciously dismissed me from duties that day, but where could I go? I stood in the arch and stared at the teeming street. At the next square I saw the towers of a church and decided to seek sanctuary there, where God might give me comfort. I told Sir Eduard that I was going and sidled gingerly along the cobbles.

  The familiar mildew smell and dank shadows of the church made me feel a little better almost at once. ’Twas a huge edifice with many niches and chapels and I didn’t know which saint would be best for my purpose. Fortunately a chubby priest stood collecting alms and noticed my hesitation.

  “May I be of help, child?”

  “Yes, Father. I’m sore troubled by the evil in the world and …”

  “… and? Don’t be afraid, my boy.”

  “The loss of my brother.”

  “A loss indeed. How did he die?”

  “He drowned—in the Rhône River.” I had a hard time saying it.

  “Drowned?” The priest became excited. “Did you see him die? Bury his body?”

  “Well, no, but he drowned e’en so. I did see him float away and we searched for four days.”

  The priest put down his money plate and clasped both my shoulders. “God has led you to the right place, child. I’m certain we can help you as we have hundreds of others. You know, of course, about St. Lazarus …”

  By now he was guiding me along the dark nave and talking in a whisper so that he wouldn’t disturb the faithful who were at prayer.

  “The man Our Lord raised from the dead?”

  “The very same. After he was raised, he sailed to Marseilles and became our mayor for forty-seven years, dying at the advanced age of ninety. He became famous as a miracle-worker in his own right, for he raised the dead again and again. Especially, because of our location on the sea, sailors who’d died of drowning!”

  I shivered with awe under the mysterious vaults. “Do you think …?”

  “’Tis for the Lord to decide, but you should try.”

  We turned and walked through a cloister, then into a small chapel where the father stopped me.

  “St. Lazarus is buried here in that crypt. His jawbone is on display and is without doubt the most powerful relic in Christendom. It will cost you two deniers to see it.”

  How I wished Enoch could have witnessed my readiness to part with silver for his sake! The priest opened a dull metal box and I gazed on a brown moldy bone with two broken snags.

  “Those are the teeth that smiled at Our Lord Jesus,” the priest told me. “I’ll leave you here to pray.”

  I knelt on worn stones and tried to think what to say. Certes I should pray for Enoch’s entry into Heaven, in case the absolution didn’t apply in his case, for he hadn’t been a zealous Crusader. On the other hand, what would he do alone in Heaven? For I was sure there would be no other Scots in that hallowed place. I supposed there was no harm in praying for a miracle, though I hated to waste my deniers on such a fruitless mission. Still, that was what the father had instructed.

  While I was trying to formulate my words, two older women came and knelt behind me. I listened to their mutterings and realized they were saying a variation of the Rosary. I would do the same.

  “Hail St. Lazarus, I pray for the return of Enoch Boggs; hail, St. Lazarus …”

  The drone of my own voice and the comforting coolness of the place made me happy to pray for hours, except that the women kept nudging me. Finally I instinctively reached back my hand and pushed, just a little and very politely.

  “Alex! Alex!”

  Again I elbowed back—then the use of my name struck me!

  And the voice!

  “Enough, I say. Ye havena turned monkish on me, have ye? Cum, I’ve muckle to tell ye.”

  I whirled, faced a blinding light in which stood the living soul of Enoch Angus Boggs!

  “I did it!” I screamed.

  And fell in a dead faint toward him.

  AFTERWARD ENOCH TOLD ME THE troubles he had with the hysterical priest who claimed that his return was miracle number four hundred three. The two ladies who’d been praying agreed, saying they’d heard my plea and that was that: Enoch’s name went into the books.

  As for me, I was near toty as the priest. People crowded around to see the “angel-boy” who’d brought back the dead, for an innocent “little child shall lead them” and “come ye as a little child to enter the Kingdom of Heaven” and I was perfectly willing to testify that ’twas true. Hadn’t I seen him sucked under the waves with my own eyes? Hadn’t I looked for him for four days?

  Finally even Enoch agreed and dragged me out of the church, protesting that if he’d been dead almost three weeks, ’twas time for a good haggis. He led me to a small garden behind the square where Firth and Twixt were tied, brought back from the dead as well though I’d forgotten to pray for them. There he unwrapped a haggis, warmed it over a small fire and told me his tale.

  “That war a swift current in the Rhône sure enow, but not to a Scot what learned to swim in the gorges and tarns of the highlands. ’Twas the beasts that detained me, fer they couldn’t get footing and kept shooting ahead like greased arrows. ’Twas ten miles or more before a villager helped us walk out.”

  My excitement waned somewhat. “Only ten miles? Why didn’t you come straight back?”

  “Ten miles, aye, but two days and a night. ’Twas a long time, bairn.”

  “You were struggling in the water for two whole days? Without stopping or eating?”

  His bright blue eyes oped wide. “I’m surprised myself that we made it, now that ye point it out. O’ course, I war plannin’ to rush back but Twixt war a bit lame.”

  I frowned. “E’en so.”

  “Well, thar was another reason. We’d lost all our supplies. Now ye saw yerself how mean the Crusaders be when they’re hungry. I thought to myself, I’m in virgin land; I’ll fill the coffer fer young Alex.”

  The word “virgin” roused a suspicion.

  “What was the villagers name? The one who helped you.”

  He was caught off-guard. “Poll.” Then hastily. “That be Paul.”

  “Poll, Polly. A pretty wench, I trust.” I pushed away my haggis.

  He let out his breath. “Aye, but also helpful. She gave up her best layers for our larder and e’en slew a lamb for haggis.”

  I got to my feet, trembling. “So you did all this for poor little Alex, wallowed in some hussy’s pigsty while I was near starving on the road, traded my safety for that miserable Gateway to Hell.” And I brought forth the vocabulary I’d learned from him. “You tikel pisspot, you lickerous erse, sour-breathed sticked swine, drunk nose, crocked routing … Go back to your bawd! I don’t need you any more!”

  He grabbed me hard. “Alex, ’tis not seemly that ye be jealous! A man’s a man, ye should knaw that!”

  “Jealous!” I bawled. “Jealous! Of you? Nothing would make me happier than if you’d settle down and marry one of your foul dancing girls. Didn’t I tell you to stay with Dangereuse? You’re right, jealousy be a toty idea! But you’re my sworn brother! Blood comes first! You
’re a disgrace to the MacPhersons!”

  ’Twas the ultimate insult and he blanched.

  “Waesucks, lad, ye have reason. I swear I didna mean to desert ye. I knew Ambroise was wi’ ye, and the king has taken ye into his household. Tell me, did ye suffer?”

  “Aye, I suffered sorely but I didn’t die.” And I suddenly saw his purpose. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You left me to die so you could take Wanthwaite! I’ll bet you didn’t lose the writ!”

  His telltale hand flew guiltily to his vest.

  “I see through you, Enoch Boggs. You came down to Marseilles hoping to be told that I’d fallen by the wayside. I’m the miracle! I’m the one who survived a living death! So go back to Scotland! I don’t need you any more!”

  “Ye’ve tinted yer reason! To tell ye true, I didna think of ye at all—at least at ferst. Ye’re anely a wee lad wi’ no understandin’ of a man’s lust, but …”

  I blazed out: “Don’t understand lust! Me?” And I brayed without mirth. “Don’t talk to me of lust!”

  I threw down my food and ran blindly into the empty midday streets. Back to the palace and the privacy of my hot stinking hole. I didn’t look up when Enoch walked in a short time later, knelt in front of me. I buried my hands under my arms so he couldn’t hold them.

  “Look, bairn, I knew ye’d be safe wi’ the king.”

  I still didn’t look up.

  “I belave ye’ve forgot our oath of brotherhood—that we would permit each other freedom in love.”

  I glowered at him under my thick fringe of lashes, then turned away and refused to talk more.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING ENOCH was summoned to the king’s chambers. He wasn’t there long, but when he emerged his face was as red and wet as a boiled lobster.

  “What did he say?” I asked eagerly.

  The Scot was too angry to speak and struck the wall viciously, thereby jarring a thousand mosquitoes from their daytime sleep.

  “Did you tell him about Polly?” I prompted.

  “Kape yer stupid mouth closed,” he growled.

  We walked into the street. I waited, knowing he couldn’t be quiet long.

  “He claims that he assigned me to look after ‘his royal charge,’ that be ye in case ye wonder, and I hae neglected my duties. As yif I didn’t knaw ye long before the king!”

  “True.” I was grimly pleased. King Richard had given him what he deserved.

  “He laid out rules lak he doon fer his sailors: yif I don’t obey, overboard wi’ Boggs. Or Mercadier will be turned loose on me.”

  And I was no longer pleased; this was serious, for I knew well that my slightest complaint would be translated into sure death. Certes I was furious with the Scot, and I had reason. Still, given a choice of having him alive or dead, I’d learned the past few days that I needed him more than ever, treacherous unfaithful beast that he was. I would simply have to take care: threaten Enoch with the king’s wrath if he got out of control, but say naught to Richard.

  I’d been puzzling so hard that I hadn’t noticed where Enoch had led us till my shin brushed a fish barrel and I saw with horror that we were on the waterfront. Immediately I tried to hide behind the Scot’s kilts, but I was already too late. A drunken yeoman reeled directly at me with upraised fist!

  “May you burn in Hell!” he cried.

  Instantly Enoch’s thwitel was out, his legs braced to fight.

  “Git gang or ye’re a dead man.”

  “Put down your popper, Scot. The pretty boy don’t need the likes of you, not when he’s got the king. Just watch to your own pouch, that’s my advice.”

  Enoch kept his dagger poised. “What do ye mean?”

  “I mean ye can have yer stinking Crusade. John Little will not serve no king what cracks nuts for a waferer.”

  “That be a woodly thing to say, dangerous as well.”

  “But true. They cut Pat’s balls off, threw ‘em to the sharks. Jamie’s as well.” His voice broke and tears streamed down.

  “Air ye claimin’ that the king did such? But why?”

  He pointed at me. “Ask the licker there. The king guards him with one of his mercenary butchers. Watch your stones, that’s my advice.”

  As he reeled away, Enoch slowly lowered his weapon and looked at me.

  “Well, we ha summit to talk about.”

  “He acts as if he’s the abused one!” I protested hotly. “They tried to kill me, right there by that barrel of fish, and would have too if Mercadier hadn’t happed to come by.”

  “Happed?”

  “Well, he was looking for me.” And I told him every detail of that awful evening, making it clear that it was actually his fault for deserting me so. All the time he kept a queer look as if wondering about something else. When I finished he took my arm and led me back to the little garden behind the square where there was some privacy.

  “Alex, tell me sooth, befar Mercadier come upon ye—did those scoundrels touch ye?”

  “Aye,” I whimpered, “they pushed me and pulled at my clothes, kicked at me as if I were a mad dog.”

  He sat entranced, whistled, looked upward, whistled again, then spoke in broad Scots which meant he was upset. “I dinna knaw exactly hoo to put this, bairn. Ye say they kicked ye lak ye war a dog.”

  “Aye. A mad dog.”

  “But—think befar ye jangle—did they touch ye like ye war a weasel?”

  “A weasel?” I gazed on him with wonder, remembering my fathers pet weasel at home named Sly. “You mean wrapped me around their necks?”

  “Nay.” He looked pained. “There be an ancient saugh: As nicht turns to day on God’s easel / Swa boys chaunge to girls in the weasel.”

  A cold wind blew straight from the firth to my innards. How had the Scot guessed my secret?

  “I’m a boy,” I whispered.

  “Aye, I knaw ye’re a boy,” he said impatiently, “but …”

  “But what?” I sat on my hands to conceal their shaking.

  “But whar there’s a hole there’s a worm.”

  His words were significant, enigmatic, and he looked at me as if I were sick.

  “I haven’t eaten any apples. Didn’t you tell me they were too green?”

  He sighed heavily. “Boy, thar be men and women as ye ken.”

  Why wouldn’t he leave this dangerous subject? “Aye.”

  “And they mun gae twa by twa, na matter quhat happed to yer mother and friend; ’tis in the way of nature.” He scowled darkly. “But when men don’t have wenches to satisfy their call—wal, betimes they dig ore in black earth.”

  Something stirred in my memory. “The Albigensians?”

  He was vastly relieved. “Aye, ye ken my meaning then.”

  Aye, Buggers from Buggeria.”

  He began to stand. Anxious as I was to be finished with this threatening subject, I couldn’t quite let it go.

  “What does it mean?”

  Again he sighed deeply.

  “I dinna knaw exactly hoo to tell ye.” He put his arm over my shoulder. “Ye see, in Scotland we hae no such evil wights.”

  “Soothly?” ’Twas the first good thing I’d e’er heard of Scotland. “Why not?”

  “Wal, ye shuld knaw a wee bit of our history. The ferst man to conquer all of Britain—this be in the olden days—was naturlich a Scot. He should hae ruled the whole island, England as well except … that he war a sinner in the manner we’re speakin’ of. Sae God sent him to Scotland and sayed as hoo the Scots mun be ruled by England until they could get rid of this sin in their blood. And that’s why we have no such sinners today. Do ye follow?”

  Not at all. I’d never been so confused in my life.

  “You mean like Adam was thrown out of Eden?”

  “Quhat a thing to say!” he cried, outraged. “Ferst, Scotland be Eden and, second, Adam’s sin war normal, whereas that king … God doesna like kings who …” His voice trailed off, and he looked at me, speculatively. “Alex, ye sayed the king took care of ye.”
/>
  “Aye. He, Ambroise, Sir Eduard—all were kind. But the king most of all, of course.”

  “How so? Tell me facts.”

  “I slept in his pavilion, he held me …”

  “While ye slept?”

  I thought about it. “Only once, the first night.”

  “Now think carefully. How war ye both dressed?”

  Again my skin bumped. That same question. “In my clothes, which were wet as I remember. The king was as most men, without clothing.”

  “And ye slept. Air ye sure?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  “I hope I’m wrang, bairn,” he whispered, “or I be slow as a snail in a snowstorm. I’m thinkin’ aboot what that varlet said.”

  He kicked at puffballs in the grass, bit his lip in vexation, studied me in silence. Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me up purposefully.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Cum to the church. I need to thank old stick-tooth fer a miracle myself.”

  WHEN WE RETURNED to the palace, we ran into Sir Gilbert under the arch.

  “Well, Alex,” he purred, “I hear you had a bad experience down by the waterfront, and after I explicitly warned you about the place. Next time you’ll heed me.”

  Before I could sputter reply, Enoch put himself between us. “There’ll be no next time fer ye, ye envious viper. I’d take great pleasure in defanging yer smirking mouth. Do ye take my meaning?”

  Sir Gilbert paled. “No need to threaten me, especially when you dump your brother into my lap. Look after the whelp yourself if you’re so concerned.”

  The page turned as quickly as he could and shuffled away.

  “Thank you, Enoch,” I said.

  He set his mouth grimly. “’Tis anely the beginning, bairn.”

  RICHARD ARGUED WITH THE WILY PISANOS FOR A week about the price of his hired fleet, though everyone said the ship merchants of Italy were worse than the Jews when it came to money. Whatever the final settlement, the king was visibly relieved to announce that we would be sailing on August seventh. Half our company, led by Ranulf de Glanville and the Archbishop of Canterbury, would sail at their own expense directly to the Holy Land; the rest of us would proceed at a leisurely pace toward Messina in Sicily where Richard hoped to pick up gold and supplies inherited by his widowed sister Joanna, Queen of Sicily. There, too, we would combine forces with France again.