Shield of Three Lions

by Pamela Kaufman

  “RODERICK’S GREATEST FEAR was that his family would ne’er hear of his valor on the field.” I held up the garnet ring. “He gave me this to carry to his uncle Hugh de Le Puiset. Have you e’er heard of him?”

  Enoch fingered the ring and sighed. “A pretty stone. Poor Roderick. Aye, ye mean Bishop Hugh of Durham.”

  “The same. A famous man according to Roderick and friendly to the Scots. Roderick claimed he helped your king when he invaded the north.”

  “Aye, when my father was killt.”

  “Your father? You never told me that.”

  “Ye niver asked.” He looked bemused. “At the Battle of Wark, when we crossed the Tweed.”

  “And the English won?”

  “Well, aye, technically.”

  “Were you there? Was Richard?”

  He raised surprised brows. “The king were sixteen and went to the conference in Paris but not to the field. I were six.”

  “Six! Oh, Enoch, I’m so sorry. Why, you’re an orphan too!”

  “Nay, lad, my mother still lives, and I had twa older brothers.”

  Gradually it was coming back, how he had been steward to his older brother, now dead.

  “What think you? Is Bishop Hugh friends with King Richard today?”

  “Friend and cousin, and both men be friends to Scotland. King Richard hae promised sae that Northumberland will be part of Scotland as soon as he returns.”

  “Northumberland will be part of Scotland?” I cried. “Never!”

  Enoch stared at me queerly. “Ye should be glad, since ye have Scottish blood.”

  “And is Bishop Hugh willing to help with this robbery?”

  “How dare ye call it robbery!” he shouted, his choler rising. “Northumberland be Scotland and I’ll hear namore of your traitorous blather.”

  I studied his scarlet face. Honest outrage or cunning evasion of the facts? I couldn’t be sure.

  “THE COLOR OF BLOOD.” AMBROISE turned the garnet against the light. “Poor Roderick.”

  “What worries me,” I prattled, “is how I’ll e’er find his uncle, Hugh de Le Puiset. Methinks my friend bestowed too much confidence in me for I know naught of any Hugh.”

  “I think Roderick can rest in peace,” Ambroise said, “for you appear to be most resourceful.”

  “Roderick said he was famous. Famous for what?”

  Ambroise shrugged. “Wealth, a patron of the arts, an amiable disposition rare when combined with learning and power, but I suppose your friend was referring to his titles. He’s Bishop of Durham, of course, and Earl of Northumberland.”

  Casual damning words. I caught my breath in pain. At last I knew the truth. Oh, Richard, how could you lie to me!

  The troubadour was sharp. “What’s wrong? Why that stricken grimace?”

  “I—I just recalled that he is also very old. Mayhap he’ll be dead by the time I get back to England. I wish Roderick had given me a second name. How long do you think this Crusade will last?”

  Ambroise’s cheerful countenance grew serious. “I don’t know.”

  He copied a few more words. “But whatever you do, don’t ask the king his opinion.”

  “I wouldn’t. But why?”

  “Well, boy, you and the king are very close, I believe. Therefore you should be aware of his melancholy humor and problems, for you are in a position to help him. He’s changed here in Acre.”

  “Changed?”

  “Come here, Alex.” He went to the window seat and gazed out on a clump of rat-infested palms. “You’re very young and may not understand the import of my words—but follow them anyway, for I trust that you have the king’s well-being at heart.” He studied me, then went on. “Many of us who’ve been with him since the beginning are concerned at changes we observe.”

  “He appears well.”

  “In body, yes, but …” I could see the transparent layer o’er his pale eyes as he looked outward; then he turned back to me. “He’s suffered a series of incalculable blows. King Philip—not just a temporary aberration but a shift in his life scheme, from peaceful administration to total continuous warfare. Leopold of Austria, another mortal enemy and ally of King Philip’s. The Crusade, now to be waged with half an army.”

  “Half? How so?”

  “Richard knows well that Philip will pull his forces at some crucial juncture. Our king travels with a viper at his breast. And already Saladin is exploiting the situation by not exchanging hostages, thus tying Richard to Acre.”

  “I see.” Though my mind was on Northumberland.

  “Then there’s Queen Berengaria.”

  And he had all my attention.

  “It’s an open secret that the marriage is a failure, although our king tries valiantly to cover his disappointment.”

  “I suppose you mean because there’s no issue.”

  Ambroise sighed heavily. “God knows, the king has tried. Queen Eleanor must be blamed, for she selected the princess from a list Richard prepared. He’d met Berengaria once at a tournament where he fought with her brother Sancho. Eleanor thought to secure his southern border by the match. But who could have known that such a healthy young woman would prove barren?”

  “Barren?”

  His eyes commanded me. “Yes, barren. After all, the king has a son in France, Philip by name.”

  “Philip! For Philip of France?”

  I could see from the troubadours stiffness that I wasn’t responding with proper decorum.

  “Of course, Philip and Richard were once close friends, you know.”

  No, I didn’t know anything, I decided, in this contradictory circular world. Roderick had been right: we were walking upside down.

  “And for all these reasons, the king has changed? In what way?”

  “Well, he was ever a merry monarch, a poet of the south, and I fear he’s become bitter. That’s where you must help, Alex: I think you are the only light-mote in his eye today.”

  I bowed my head to conceal my own bitterness. No doubt Richard did love me in his fashion, but his fashion was to twist facts to his own ends.

  Osbert of Northumberland.

  I WAS SWEPT OFF MY FEET IN A CLOUD OF SWEET woodruff.

  The king pressed his cheek against mine and whispered, “Have you missed me, Alex?”

  “Aye, yes,” I muttered, gazing fearfully down the empty corridor of the palace.

  He turned, kicked open the door of a small closet and placed me on the cutting table there. The musty air swirled saffron through a yellow bit of silk pinned to the window to hold out the blowing sand.

  “Elusive Eros, we’ll be on our march in two days. As soon as Saladin sends the ransom that will free the hostages, you will share my tent.”

  I studied him. Ambroise was right: Richards face had changed, delicate downward lines around the mouth, eyes heavy and red-rimmed. Before, I’d always seen the younger Richard lurking behind his actual years, now I saw the older man approaching, a cynical, calculating warrior.

  He caught my perusal. “Why that look? Are you ill?”

  “I’ve been fine, Your Highness.”

  He held my cheeks and gazed. “Don’t lie to me.”

  Both thrilled and chilled at his perception, I tried to deflect him from the truth. “Well, I didn’t want to worry you, but Enoch—”

  A voice outside the door called. “King Richard, Your Highness, are you there? We’re in the conference room.” ’Twas Champagne.

  “Begin without me, Henry. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Footsteps retreated.

  The king stood and bent over me. Some trick of the light through the silk turned one of his eyes to pure gold. That’s my mote, I thought dizzily, the light beam that gives him hope.

  And he kissed me. ’Twas the first time in weeks that we’d touched so and ’twas the same but not the same, my body more responsive but my mind more detached. Richard had again become mysterious, a figure in a dream.

  Subtly he’d shifted me so that I now lay on
the table. The light was obscured by his head as he leaned over me so that his face was again transformed to its youthful beauty.

  “Alex, I want …” he whispered.

  My heart leaped in fear but I seemed unable to protest. I felt his hand slip under my hips, then lost its pressure against my fortune-belt. Again he kissed me.

  “Where’s the king? Have you seen him?”

  Footsteps hurried past. The king raised his head, sighed.

  He kissed me once more, then clutched me fiercely to his trembling body, his voice now gruff

  “Alex, I do love thee. Perhaps no more, no less than others before, but with a difference: you’re all I have to give me comfort now. Swear that you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  “And you’ll be loyal.”

  “I’ll be loyal.”

  “Forever.”

  “Forever.”

  “And I love thee.”

  He was gone.

  I lay looking at the yellow square of daylight, Saturn’s color, the color of perfidy, treachery, jealousy.

  Not that I’d been lying exactly: it was just that I no longer knew any truth except that my heart was squeezed dry.

  WE RODE TO THE ENCLOSURE BETWEEN the double walls of Acre where the emirs awaited some sign from Saladin. Tonight we would camp in the foothills; in two days’ time we would march for Ascalon. Already the knights were in full mail for marching but they also wore linens tied across their faces in the Saracen fashion, for we were in the midst of a sandstorm. Hills changed contours before us, brown palm fronds whipped erratically at our horses’ feet and the wind’s howl was abetted by the abrasive rattle of sand against metal armor. Yet the sun shone withal, a shrunken baleful eye staring at a world twisted out of shape and deprived of all color.

  Three thousand emirs huddled in the square as we surrounded them. The leaders Mestoc and Caracois immediately approached the king who bent forward to parley. I couldn’t hear, nor did I have to: Saladin was a week past his deadline, but everyone expected he would come today for he’d been sent an ultimatum. Enoch leaned over and tied cloths around Thistle’s and Firth’s eyes to protect them. We put our hands to our faces for the same purpose.

  The king then dismounted so that he could hear better. I saw his teeth in a broad grin as he ripped away his mask. He liked these Saracen men for their skill and daring in warfare. Moreover, somewhere they’d learned the rules of chivalry better than some Christians, the king had remarked caustically. Aye, the king could appreciate chivalry.

  The sun’s pale iris had disappeared entirely behind the swirling ochre dust, but enough light penetrated for us to see our own short shadows: ’twas Nones, which the bells soon confirmed. And still we waited. The emirs were now all crouched in one direction, their heads turned to the eastern hills. King Richard was back on his horse. Twice, knights approached him and exchanged words. I thought of King Philip, at this very moment riding through Acre’s empty streets to board his waiting galleys.

  Horses were pawing restlessly; a few knights had dismounted; the emirs spoke to each other in their strange tongue. The king raised his hand and fanfare sounded. We all looked upward expectantly to see Saladin approach.

  A scream made us turn.

  Two knights had plunged their pikes into the soft undefended bodies of the crouching men!

  “Stop them! They’ve gone woodly!” I shouted to the Scot, but he shook his head in a daze.

  “The king’s command.”

  I didn’t believe it! I whirled Thistle to gallop up to Richard but found my bridle held firm in Enoch’s grasp.

  “Stay out of it, bairn. ’Tis planned, sae.” he said harshly.

  No! No! No! No! The old protest drummed in my head. And with the same result.

  I heard Richard’s voice shout something and turned hopefully. Surely he would stop the carnage!

  No, he’d ordered a search for gold. Torso after torso was ripped by daggers as gloved hands plunged inside to pull at stubborn intestines. Most knights didn’t know a stomach when they saw one so livers and spleens were sliced open before coins were found in the gullets.

  The whole slaughter seemed to go on forever but actually took less than a half hour. Finally the bloody knights relinquished the field to the soaring kites and remounted their horses, jabbering excitedly about what they’d found. Again the trumpets sounded, the company turned back to the city.

  The king rode close enough to touch. His face was bare again and I saw that his smile was a grimace of death, teeth bared, eyes hard. He must have planned this immediately after caressing me in the closet. I turned away.

  Finally there were only Enoch and me—and three thousand corpses.

  “At least they didna have souls to lose,” Enoch said. “Being Infidels.”

  I had a sharp answer on my tongue until I saw his heavy ironic expression. “A Christian act,” I concurred in the same tone.

  Then I noticed a spurt of blood from an emir’s neck was soaking Thistle’s hoof, and pulled my horse back.

  Enoch noticed it too. “What say you that we cleanse our beasts and ourselves in the sea? Mayhap we can wash off the day.”

  “Like Pontius Pilate.” I had to get away from the mutilated heap, so reminiscent of Wanthwaite, albeit on a larger scale. Yet my horror was the same.

  Quickly we headed down the slope toward the Mediterranean, pushed by the gale at our backs.

  WE WADED OUR HORSES INTO THE shallows and gazed out on the sullen leaden swells beyond. The water was turbid from roiled sand, sibilant under the steady howl of the wind.

  Enoch dismounted, dropped his clothes and held Thistle for me.

  “You go ahead. I’ll join you in a minute,” I said.

  Sick at heart, I watched him struggle through the surf and plunge into the sea. For a brief moment, I envied his strength and freedom. He might be a Scot, but he was a handsome specimen without his distorting Scottish kilts and he could strip naked without worry. In former dips, I’d always kept my clothes on, waded discreetly so that the weight of my treasure would not suck me under. Now I felt besmirched in every pore by both sand and horror, felt I must immerse myself in a total baptism in order to be fresh again. I guided Thistle to the protection of a huge boulder where I removed my treasure belt and false prick; I quickly weighted them with a heavy stone and then, wearing only my light tunic, ran to the sea.

  After the first delicious dive, I stayed far under, scraping along the bottom like a ray Above me in the sand-filtered light, I could see Enoch’s arms and legs moving in slow graceful arcs. Then I, too, surfaced, half-floating, half-swimming in desultory movements as I tried to order my thoughts. At the center was King Richard, master of lightning transformations from angry tyrant to seductive lover, but never before had I seen such a complete change. Passion turned in an instant to murder. I knew he would explain the deaths as a political act, but I’d heard him often praise these emirs as men of exceptional courage and honor who’d voluntarily offered themselves as surety for Saladin’s word. Political or not, Richard knew many of them personally, and liked them. Enfants perdus, lost children, expendable lives. I wanted no part of such thinking. When human life can be sacrificed so casually, who is safe?

  The Acre massacre must be a stain on the Crusade, whatever the ultimate outcome. And a stain on King Richard forever.

  “Cum, Alex, time to leave!” Enoch’s glistening figure waved to me from the beach. Too bad he was about to transform himself back into a Scot, I thought again, for in his naked state he could rival any man alive.

  I heard a distant clang of bells, took one more long dive, and waded ashore, shading my eyes against the bladed blowing sand.

  When I rounded the boulder, I found Enoch holding something in his hands.

  “Be this your treasure belt, bairn?” he asked.

  Benedicite—how could I deny it and still get it back?

  “Uh—aye. It makes me too heavy to swim.”

  He raised and lowered it judi
ciously, weighing it, counting the coins if I knew him. “Aye, ye mun carry a fortune between yer legs.” He laughed heartily at his bad joke. “How much do ye figure?”

  “I never counted,” I lied, “but it’s mostly deniers.”

  “Sum gold though?” His gimlet eyes glinted greedily.

  “The important thing is that it also contains my parents’ relics,” I snapped. “Give it to me, please. Soothly I feel naked without it.”

  “Aye, I recall in Messina hoo ye cried out that ye couldna take it off or yer parents would go straight to brimstone.” He held it out, but when I reached, retracted it again. “What be this woodly string of sticks?”

  “String of sticks?” I gazed on the jointed willows as if I’d never seen them before. Indeed, I tried to pretend to myself that I hadn’t, hoping that I could imagine some new function for them.

  “Aye, they mun poke ye something fierce yif ye wear them close to yer balls.” He drew the contraption closer. “Waesucks, it stinks.”

  I laughed giddily. “Aye, ’tis a bit besmottered, but …” But what? I stretched my dull brain. “But it protects me,” I ended feebly.

  He was turning the false penis this way and that. What did it look like to him? “I doona see how old willows can protect ye.”

  “From—horses!” I said, as if inspired.

  “Horses?” His face was a study of disbelief.

  “Well, of course, such a—er—stick wouldn’t help everyone, but you see I’m different.”

  “Different how?” His eyes involuntarily fell to my crotch where my wet tunic clung close and I quickly put one leg forward to obscure the outline.

  I could have bit off my stupid tongue for using the word different, but there was no help for it now. “That is, I suffered an injury on a particular part of my—er—prick, and it needs protection.”

  “When did this hap?”

  “Oh, a long time ago!” I sang out. “My horse Justice, back at Wanthwaite—er—bit me.”