Shield of Three Lions

by Pamela Kaufman

“Conrad is a usurper!”

  “Be careful, coz,” Philip slithered his words with obvious enjoyment, “how you speak of your future partner. For I plan to put the French command in Conrad’s hands during my absence.”

  King Richard stopped, astounded.

  The Duke of Burgundy entered the fray with trembling dignity, tears in his eyes. “You surprise us, My Liege. None of us in your court knew of your plans to depart. We have no fealty toward Conrad, have never sworn him homage.”

  “Of course you did, when you swore to me.” Philips milky eye wandered somewhat. “You will command in the field, of course.”

  “Under my leadership,” Richard blazed, “but taking commands from Conrad. Is that your scheme?”

  Philip smiled. “A necessary precaution, coz, for Conrad withstood Saladin’s attack for four years. We fear that you are too soft with your Turkish enemy while Conrad knows his true colors.”

  “How soft? By taking Acre? By making stiffer terms than you wanted?”

  “However, I assure you that I will take half our ransom gold and half of the True Cross.”

  Again order dissolved.

  “Half the Cross? A desecration!”

  Richard waited, his eyes glinting.

  “Answer, Philip, how am I soft on Saladin?”

  “You took fruit and ice …”

  “But gave nothing in return.”

  “Have received a fine Arabian stallion.”

  “Again without recompense.”

  Philip sat on his throne again, his voice hardly above a whisper. “And you promised your sister Joanna in marriage to the sultan’s brother called Safadin, then offered this un-Christian couple governance of Jerusalem. Deny it if you can.”

  Twas Philip’s biggest bolt and the effect was stunning. Richards own court reeled at the disclosure, none more than I. He loved his sister. How could he?

  But Richard didn’t deny it. “So, still smarting in your poor rejected heart? How ironic, you long for Joanna, I flee from Alais—the gods are sportive. Nevertheless, let it be on record that I tried to persuade my sister to wed you, France, but her mind is strong. However, she clearly understood how she might aid our Crusade. After all, Alexander wed ten thousand of his men to Arabs. Joanna agreed if Safadin would convert to Christianity and he refused.”

  “The betrayal of our Crusade!” Philip cried.

  “Do you take me for a fool, Philip? Do you think I don’t know your real reason for quitting our adventure?”

  “My spleen, my bowels …”

  “Put Greek fire in your bowels! How soon do you plan to attack England?”

  Now Philip blanched; the court hummed ominously.

  “Why would I want your miserable gloomy isle?”

  “Why indeed? Except that you declared war on me and mine forever. Oh yes, we heard you in Messina but thought that we were safe for the duration of the Crusade.”

  Philip’s mouth twisted in a derisive smile.

  Richard now rose and signaled his court to do likewise. “We shall be in constant touch, coz, in hopes of dissuading you. In the meantime, let me assure you if you plot with my brother John to unseat us from our throne, you will not live out this year.”

  In a derisive breach of decorum, he moved to leave the chamber. When he reached the door, the French king called sharply.

  “Wait, Richard! I neglected to tell you my date. I plan to sail July thirty-first, Saladin’s deadline. And Richard, I’ll need two of your galleys.”

  I trotted after the English court toward another chamber at the far end of the palace where they planned to parley. My own head was swimming at this deadly news. If Philip left and Richard stayed, the Crusade would surely go on till I was an old lady.

  But if Richard left now, I would soon be in Wanthwaite.

  ENOCH WAS WAITING for me when the session was over. I’d been so intrigued at this new turn in events that I’d momentarily forgot the poisoning.

  “The Crusade will fail,” Enoch announced flatly, after hearing my news.

  “But why? Everyone knows that King Philips no fighter.”

  “No, but he has an army, and Richard canna do without it.”

  Then he turned the subject back to the poisoning of our food, and I told him what I had concluded on my own while listening to the kings parley.

  “’Tis I someone wants dead, Enoch, not you. Soothly he—or they—don’t care if you live or die, but I’m the intended victim.”

  “Why do ye say so?”

  “Because of that arrow. Remember?”

  Comprehension crossed his face and I knew he agreed. “But why?”

  I dared not tell him. If I thought Sir Gilbert still lived, I’d say he was our villain, but he had disappeared and must be slain. Furthermore, even alive he’d never once used a bow.

  I suspected that Queen Berengaria had hired a killer to murder me as her rival. After all, ’twas said that Queen Eleanor had poisoned her rival, the fair Rosamond.

  WE WERE CLOSE to the deadline for Saladin to deliver gold and the True Cross. Every conference grew more malignant as Philip prepared to leave; every day waxed more tense as Saladin remained silent as a tomb. The hostage emirs huddled in the Locus Veneratum, waiting; I huddled in our leather tent waiting, terrified by our unknown enemy.

  “Tis melancholic fer yer spirits to brood,” Enoch advised. “Come doon to where I be repairing the wall.”

  “It’s too hot there.”

  He squatted in front of me. “Air ye certain that ye want to march to Ascalon, bairn? ’Twill make Acre same like a fair.”

  I couldn’t answer.

  He looked at me a long time, seeming to know that I was bound to the king.

  He stood, started away, then turned back. “No sense drenchin’ in yer own woes. Go see Roderick. He’s in the Hospitallers’ hall where they’re treatin’ his wound.”

  Within the hour, I was inside the hospital. The space was dim and putrid, like climbing into a dead camel’s cavity. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw I was standing on a floor among writhing, whining men in various stages of decay. The only upright figures were physicians exorcising demons or priests giving absolution. Appalled to think that Roderick had fallen into such a rank pit, I began gingerly to step between grasping claws and piles of filth to try to find him.

  “Here, Alex, here!”

  “Roderick?”

  Crunching on brown beetles feeding on pus and excrement, I made my way to whence the voice had come.

  “Oh, Alex, I’m so glad to see you! Will you take me away?”

  Only the voice was the same, for certes this shrunken cadaverous pile of bones with its huge panicked orbs could not be Roderick! Holding my breath against the gluey stench of his seeping wound, I knelt beside him.

  “Of course I’ll take you with me. Enoch will have you well in no time.” I fanned vigorously at the flies. “What’s wrong with your head?”

  “My demon resides there,” he explained, pulling at a dirt-crusted rag on his forehead. “It entered through my leg, then fell in love with me. My skull is a mass of mind-sores.”

  “May I look at your leg?”

  “It needs cleaning,” he apologized.

  “I can see that.”

  I plucked at the stiffened bandage, looked at him, smiled and gave the mess a hard tug. Off came the rag and the skin as well, but Roderick didn’t e’en flinch. I tried to ignore what this might mean and told him to wait, I’d be right back.

  Outside I breathed deep of the fresh air, then ran to the square of St. Gidius where I purchased wine, water and embers. Soon I was on the floor beside Roderick again heating my father’s dagger o’er the coals.

  “I’ve got fresh rags,” I said brightly. “You’ll feel better in no time.”

  “You won’t disturb my demon, will you? He’s mean … as the Devil.” He laughed feebly.

  I scraped at the infected area almost down to the shank, then to the edges till I struck firm flesh and made Roderick scre
am. Slowly I poured wine into the blue-yellow gash, then wrapped wine-soaked rags around the whole to keep the insects off.

  “You’ve learned a lot, Alex,” Roderick whimpered.

  “Aye, I helped care for the king. Now drink this water, as much as you can—it’s safe here in Acre. I’m going to look at your head.”

  There was naught amiss with his head except that his curly mat moved with vermin. I washed it with the water that was left, then added wine for good measure.

  “Rest your weight on your good leg, Roderick, and let me pull you to a standing position.”

  We tried, but he screamed in agony when he tried to sit up and collapsed backward.

  “I’ll bring Enoch later,” I soothed him. “Remember how we carried you on our wrists?”

  “Don’t leave me! Please! I’ll die if you go. Just give me a brief time to regain my strength from cleaning the wound.”

  So I sat silently beside him as he closed his eyes. His wound appeared gangrenous to me, but naturally I didn’t say so.

  “Alex, am I going to die?”

  I squeezed his hand. “Not at all. Do you want to try to stand again?”

  “Aye, but first promise me something. If I die, my people should know that I perished a hero, for I killed two men in Cyprus, you know. They’ll make an effigy for my tomb.”

  “You are a hero and will be again, many times o’er.”

  “Here, take this ring to my uncle and tell him, Alex. Will you promise?”

  “Didn’t the king say he would send word?”

  “But the king may die.”

  The words chilled me, e’en as I added mentally and so may I.

  “How would I find your uncle, Roderick? Does he dwell in Penrith?”

  “No, he’s Bishop of Durham, easy to find. Everyone knows.”

  I took the garnet ring and slipped it onto my finger.

  “And Earl of Northumberland.”

  “What?” I looked into that wasted face, thinking I’d not heard aright. “Did you say somewhat about the Earl of Northumberland?”

  He banged his head to one side. “My uncle Hugh de Le Puiset is Earl of Northumberland.”

  Now I recognized that he was raving and knew not whether to humor him or to correct him so that I could get my facts straight.

  “Try to be clear for a moment, friend. Your uncle cannot be the Earl of Northumberland. But is he soothly Bishop of Durham?”

  “Bishop of Durham and Earl of Northumberland, made so by King Richard’s own appointment.”

  “King Richard?” I forgot Roderick’s state of mind. “Oh no, you’re wrong. I know the Earl of Northumberland and his name is Osbert. The king and I have discussed him many times.”

  My stridency gained the poor wight’s attention. “Benedicite, I know my own uncle! And the king knows him as well. They’re cousins, marched side by side in the king’s coronation in 1189. Richard made Uncle Hugh Justicier of all England until Longchamps could arrive from Normandy. Ask anyone if you doubt me. Ask Leicester, ask King Richard.”

  “I believe you, Roderick,” I said, my head reeling. “Certes the king knows your uncle. But we were speaking of Northumberland and your uncle is not Earl of Northumberland!”

  “Alex, I hate to say so but you’re a fool. Why are you so stubborn about a well-known fact? When Richard came from Poitiers to take the crown, he raised money for his Crusade by putting up all titles and appointments for sale, no matter whether the people who possessed them wanted his act or no. He said he’d put up London if he could find a buyer.”

  Aye, I’d heard such rumors in Paris.

  “I know not what happed to the former Earl of Northumberland—Osbert you say—but I believe he must have been dead. In any case my uncle Hugh bid ten thousand pounds for the title, more than anyone else for anything, which be woodly since he is so old. The king said, ‘Ten thousand pounds! What a clever workman am I to make a new earl out of an old bishop!’”

  He lay back exhausted as I recalled other words of the king’s.

  “Wait, Roderick, don’t doze now. I must know. Mayhap someone else appointed your uncle and Richard learned of it later. Think!”

  “Don’t be tinty Alex. Richard did it and knew exactly what he was doing. Hugh helped Richard and his brothers in seventy-three when they invaded England through Scotland to o’erturn King Henry.”

  “Scotland!”

  “Aye, with William the Lion, the Scottish king. My uncle believes in the Scottish cause, and therefore Richard knows Hugh can deal with the chieftains.”

  “And Richard?” I implored. “What does he think of Scotland?”

  Before he could answer, two men approached us, a doctor and his assistant.

  “Well, Roderick,” said the taller of the two, “you look much improved. You must have repeated the charms against the Devil as I instructed you.”

  Roderick smiled. “Aye, that I did, Father Thabit, but my spirits have been raised as well by my friend here, Alex of Wanthwaite. Alex is going to take care of me.”

  “Fine, there’s no medicine like a good friend.”

  Dr. Thabit gently pushed me aside and knelt close to Roderick’s head. His purple robe had trailed in both new and old filth and gave forth a medley of noxious odors, his red gloves were bloodstained, his hood and biretta were snowed with scalings from his blistering head. His long, cadaverous face was kindly but tired, his voice near a whisper, possibly because of a throat ball which rode up and down his neck as he spoke. When he took off his gloves and pressed his hands against Roderick’s temples, his fingers were yellow, his nails broken and black.

  Roderick watched him anxiously. “Am I going to live?”

  “You are promised eternal life for the service you have given Christ, my lad, so put all fears behind you.” The doctor gestured to his assistant, a hefty Hospitaller with half his battle gear in place, lacking only his shield and helmet. He carried an ax and a leather sack.

  “The salt and the block, Geoffrey,” Dr. Thabit said calmly. “Now, Roderick, you may feel a bit of pain for what I have to do next but ’twill last just a second and ’twill cleanse you forever of your Devil, thereby assuring you of entry into Heaven.” He put his gloves on again.

  “Methinks he need not worry about entering Heaven for many years to come,” I interjected uneasily.

  “None of us worries about entering God’s Kingdom,” the priest chided me gently, “for ’tis what we desire above all things. I simply want to prepare Roderick, to cleanse his soul as we must all be cleansed.” He gestured to his helper. “Geoffrey, put the block under his head. There, Roderick, now close your eyes whilst I make a mark on your face, so, and think of the eternal life. I’m going to exorcise your demon first and when you wake you will behold God.”

  Why not behold me? I became more and more nervous at the preparations. Geoffrey drew a piece of charcoal from forehead to chin down Roderick’s face, then lifted his ax.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked him directly, and reached for Roderick’s cheek.

  Father Thabit kicked my hand back, raised his cross, and chanted: “Audi ergo: Satana, vitae raptor, seductor, exitator dolorum, recede ergo in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti, Amen.”

  He lowered the cross in a swift movement as Geoffrey swung his ax and split Roderick’s head like a melon.

  “No! No!” I screamed too late.

  Father Thabit knelt and muttered more Latin “… quid stas, cum scias, Christum Dominum …” as his busy gloves tugged at Roderick’s brains which spilled like congealed yellow pudding onto the floor. When the cavity was empty, the father rubbed salt into the cranium, then used my shoulder to pull himself upright again.

  “A good clean job,” he said, “and none too soon. The brain is tinged with Saturn’s color, you’ll note.”

  “What about the leg?” Geoffrey asked.

  “Yes, take it. Best be safe.”

  Father Thabit shook bits of brain off his red gloves and tottered to his n
ext patient while Geoffrey hacked at the leg, showering me with bone chips.

  He held the bloody shank aloft. “Have to bury this under a cross at once or the demon will enter someone else.”

  I ran into the blinding street clutching the garnet ring.

  I CROUCHED STUPEFIED in the shade of a carob and twisted Roderick’s ring around my finger. The shock of his death gripped me for the rest of the day, but as the shadow moved to the other side of the tree I began to respond anew to his terrible testimony. The Bishop of Durham was Earl of Northumberland, made such in 1189 soon after I’d fled my burning home. Appointed by King Richard no later than November.

  I’d met the king in June 1190, and I remembered the scene perfectly. The summer lightning, the wind becoming an urgent whisper, then my assertions of Northumberland’s crimes. Richard had turned: Are you sure? He was ever a faithful earl; then, When was this? Ah, that explains it. At that very instant the king had decided to deceive me! Knowing full well that I was in no danger whatsoever for my life and that Hugh of Northumberland would honor the king’s writ, Richard had deliberately and knowingly forced me to forgo my estate and accompany him on this woodly Crusade with the vague promise that he and he alone would decide the matter when we returned.

  Why? What on earth could his motive be? I thought and thought about it, but could not answer. He’d been attracted to me even then, but I had no such silly vanity as to think that a great king can be pierced through the eye by Cupid as the legend says.

  Whatever his mysterious reason, the fact spoke for itself: he had lied and continued to lie, though he knew my desperation. I thought of Messina when I’d begged him for release and he’d invoked Osbert’s name to keep me as captive, or even here when he’d again said that only he could restore me. I was certain of his perfidy, but would check with Ambroise just to make sure.

  And who else might have known? Enoch? Aye, there’s another rat’s nest. Enoch and Richard hated each other as persons, yet on the political level they might have some sort of understanding. Did Enoch know about Northumberland? Casting my mind back, I didn’t think so but couldn’t be sure. Then there was the reward Richard had given Enoch for sapping the wall, something so valuable that the Scot had been willing to risk his life for it. I knew Enoch too well to think he’d tell me what it was for the asking, but I also knew the Scottish temperament sufficiently to know he’d talk till next year about Scottish history. I’d start with that.