Shield of Three Lions (17 page)

The magister quoted the authority of antiquity,
“Et sic fuit antiquitus observatum, quod si quis obiaverit muliere vel alicubi invenerit, si sola vel socios habuerit …”
I didn’t catch every word, but the gist was that the practice in former times was that if a man met a woman or happened upon her, whether alone or with companions (as I had been with Maisry), he must let her go in peace.

Here a student interrupted and asked what was meant by “in peace.” Master Malcolm answered that it was a euphemism for “not
raped” which would not have the same interpretation if applied to a man.

“Si per inhonestatem tetigerit …”
(If against her will he throws her to the ground … and again I heard the thud when Maisry struck the earth, heard the hauberk falling.)
“Quod si impudice discooperuerit eam et se super eam posuerit, omnium possessionum suarum incurrit damnum …”
(If he impudently disrobes her and puts himself upon her, he incurs the loss of all his possessions …)
“Quod si concubuerit cum ea, de vita et membris suis incurrit damnum …”
(If he … with her, he incurs the loss of his life and members, and I supposed that word
concubuerit
must mean to let his incubus-organ bite her.) Aye, ’twas a good law of the ancients, I thought grimly, provided the lady lived to make her claims. A wave of despondency made me sink to a ledge so that I could no longer see the master, though I continued to listen.

The magister went from Roman law to that of the Franks who punished the offenders animals by cutting the scrotum and tail of the horse close to the buttocks, a most unjust and cruel act as a horse has never been known to rape. Dogs were treated in like manner and even a hawk was relieved of its beak, its claws and its tail which left it little reason to live at all. The second step of the punishment was that the rapist’s lands and title were awarded to the woman,
even if she were a whore
, for if she’d cried out at the rape she was not a whore at the moment of attack. This was a point hotly argued by several students who could see women of ill-repute gaining great fortunes by invoking such a law. Magister Malcolm answered with a long involved story about a jongleurs wife and how this jongleur had died while entertaining a count, and then the count had raped the wife. I didn’t know the meaning of “whore” and couldn’t follow the tale for my mind was gripped again by the terrible events at Wanthwaite … my own mother.

I glanced around the exedra as Magister Malcolm paused for questions: all the students were men except for me, and most were clerics. What did they make of these awesome statements? Were they as impressed as I was? Enoch and Gladys Stump—aye, there was a difference, for certes the dame had wanted the Scot to do what he did.

Then the master began speaking again of the rape of virgins. Maisry. I closed my eyes; his Latin rumbling brought back the buttermilk sky the caw of crows and a drum beating.
Et est raptus virginum quoddam crimen quod femina imponit alicui, de quo se dicit esse violenter oppressam contra pacem domini regis, quod quidem contra pacem domini regis … ut sit membrum pro membro, quia virgo cum corrumpitur membrum amittit.
By which I learned that the rape of a virgin is a particularly heinous crime for the rapist destroys her member, and therefore must lose his own.

I continued to follow, for it seemed that if my friend had lived she would have had recourse with the law. And I would have helped her. The dry lecture in law translated itself in my head as a joyous act of vengeance. I heard the words at the same time that I relived that awful day, only now I supplied a different ending. So much we might have done, if Maisry had lived. I was in such a trance that I hardly noted when the lecture was over.

Finally everyone was gone except for Magister Malcolm, Enoch and me. “This be my new brother, sir.”

Seen close, Magister Malcolm’s oak-leaf eyes were so keen that I felt he must be a sorcerer. He took a long time to study me as if searching my heart, then touched my cheek gently.

“He’s all right, Enoch, all right. You’re just sad, aren’t you, lad? Ask Jesus to help; confess your despair and He’ll ease your burden, for you know that your mother and father are in their heavenly home.”

“Yes, sir, I know.” In Purgatory, that is, until I could regain Wanthwaite. I glanced at Enoch. Had he revealed everything about my life?

“And they’re happier there than they ever were on earth. You cannot imagine, Alex, the joy of the afterlife.”

Soothly I couldn’t, though I tried. Perhaps ’twas because my thoughts had been taking such a different direction since his lecture.

“And now you have a brother, a whole new clan who loves you.”

“Aye,” I said, unimpressed.

“Enoch tells me that you would like to accompany him to my lectures on the law. I’m afraid they’ll be beyond you, but you’re welcome to listen.”

“I understood today’s.”

“Ah, on rape, hardly a fitting subject for an innocent child, but I’ll do better from now on.” He smiled so sweetly that I could have worshiped him on the spot if I hadn’t known how he was abetting Enoch.

Enoch now spoke again in pure Scottish, what I think is called Gaelic, and Malcolm’s eyes grew even softer.

“Poor bairn. Try not to dwell on such evil; put hatred and revenge out of your heart for it can only corrupt you. Already you see His goodness at work, for didn’t He send you Enoch?”

“Yes, sir, I know, sir. Thank you.” My eyes slid to
Lord Enoch
and my heart was instantly corrupted with all the hate and vengeance I could muster. Learn the law and retrieve Wanthwaite, would he? I’d see him in Hell first.

“Why did Magister Malcolm call you
Lord
Enoch?” I asked the churl as we walked home.

“Likely because that’s my name.”

“You’re not a lord!” I cried.
“I’m
the baron! And therefore lord.”

“I be the Lord of Dingle-Boggs,” he said smugly.

I stopped where I stood. “You lie, and you know it. There’s no such place as Dingle-Boggs.”

“Aye, that there be. I be a Boggs of Dingle-Boggs, Lord of the whole estate.”

“Do you think I don’t remember that you’re the youngest of three brothers?”

“That I be,” he agreed, then amended, “or war. My twa older brothers died sum time ago.”

“Died!”

“Aye,”—he leaned close, leering—“of the pox.” And he laughed like a fiend at his own macabre jape.

“If that’s true, you must have an estate!” I cried.

“Aye, a goodly portion.”

“Then why do you claim you must have Wanthwaite? That you need land?”

His eyes glittered with heat. “Because Dingle-Boggs be fens, black moors, sea-lochs and crags. Every inch be bathed wi’ my father’s
blood and be
my land.
But I need fertile acres below the oatline: Wanthwaite. And I’ll have it sure!”

I made up my mind forthwith to have Dagobert take me to Fat Giselle. The sooner I reached King Henry, by whatever means, the better.

MY DETERMINATION TO SEE FAT GISELLE WAS NOT EASY to bring about, for I could never get away from Enoch. Not only were the law lectures consuming (for we were supposed to memorize all we heard), but Enoch enrolled us in logic with a Master Roger who was pupil to a pupil of Abélard, a stimulating but heretical instructor, and Enoch studied the new Arabic mathematics as well. We were forever walking, listening, pricking on our tablets, examining each other, mostly on the difference between sin and crime.

Some crimes were not sins, for example coin-clipping, and some sins were not crimes, the most obvious example being heresy, but there were others. I was especially intrigued by a strange sin that seemed to pertain to shitting in bed, incredible though that seemed: “He who intentionally becomes polluted in his sleep shall get up and sing seven psalms and live on bread and water for that day; but if he does not do this he shall sing thirty psalms. But if he desired to sin in sleep but could not, fifteen psalms; if however he sinned but was not polluted, twenty-four; if he was unintentionally polluted, fifteen.” After hearing this, I resolved never to sing psalms again lest people get the wrong idea.

At last, however, I had a hurried conference with Dagobert on the stair and he agreed to take me to Fat Giselle’s on a day that Enoch had promised to spend with Malcolm to discuss Scottish matters.

So again Dagobert and I strolled down the lane alone and I felt the delicious frisson of both sin and crime that I was outwitting Enoch. However I was disturbed by Dabogert’s bizarre behavior, for he jerked this way and that, began sentences and left them midair,
looked everywhere but at me. ’Twas similar to his ordinary manner but more pronounced, and I feared an attack was coming on.

“We can postpone this meeting, Dagobert, if you’re not feeling well,” I said anxiously.

Instantly he became normal, his face stiff. “As a doctor of physic—almost—I assure you my vital spirits are in excellent condition. I assume that you were referring to my
arrogans
polish, which naturally a barbarian from Scotland wouldn’t comprehend. ’Tis the height of fashion to behave so, I assure you, and I had thought to teach you and your brother a little grace so you be less conspicuous, but if you’re honestly so savage in your sensibilities that you think I am ill, well then!”

Quickly I begged his pardon, assured him that both Enoch and I would be grateful to learn his tremors, and we continued on our way. When we came to the rue de St. Jacques, we were forced to halt before a parade of people marching toward the Petit Pont, screaming, singing, scuffling in frenzied joy. ’Twas three times its usual size and in hysterical mood. We both stared, puzzled. The only clue as to the meaning was a song sung over and over.

As we walked on the grassy bank in the opposite direction from the students, I translated the ditty but was no further enlightened:

I supposed it was some new cause of the students who always needed more money.

We must have gone three miles or more and were in the thinning
suburbs of Paris before Dagobert turned off St. Jacques to lead the way up an ancient Roman street surrounded by groves and crumbling villas. Finally we stopped before a villa placed at a crossroads marked with painted stones, one reading “Trousse-Puteyne,” the other “Gratte-con.” The walls of the villa were freshly white-washed, and when we entered the gate I saw that the house itself had been well restored, albeit painted a garish rose color. The cobbled courtyard was filled with horses and snoozing grooms, while from within came a chorus of shouts and laughter, singing and piping, confirming that Fat Giselle was indeed popular. Accustomed as I was to the strident students, I hung back timidly from entering and Dagobert had to turn back to fetch me; I’d not faced such company before without Enoch.

When we entered the second gate, we were still outside in a second court, but one surrounded on its four sides by two stories of rooms, those above opening onto the court through balconies. There was a canopy rolled back onto the roof, and today the court was open to the sky. Though ’twas crowded with people, the first impression was of a garden with flowering vines climbing and tumbling everywhere, with blooms overflowing in pots as well.

Yet the people quickly dominated nature and a gaudy lot they were. Many were students of course, all shouting at the top of their lungs, and bold-faced women dressed in every shade of the rainbow. Then there were soldiers and—to my amazement—clerics, plus merchants and many more I couldn’t recognize. The smell of sweat, burnt honey, roast capon, ale and sour wine permeated the air; huge frescoes covered every wall, so lascivious that I blushed and turned my eyes downward only to find the same tongues flicking genitalia in mosaics under my feet. Arrested by the cacophony and dazzle, I almost tumbled into a sunken tub of water wherein sat a naked pink lady with an equally naked tonsured cleric.

At last grasping the evil nature of the place, I tugged at Dagoberts tunic. “Please, Dagobert, I think I should go home …”

But he couldn’t hear me, so he pulled me forward toward a huge corpulent woman dressed in black standing in a far corner. We had to struggle through the patrons and I lost count of the pinches I suffered
on my buttocks, but there were at least twenty. Fat Giselle was arguing with a student who’d left his cloak as surety then refused to give it up when he lost at dicing. As the harangue promised to be long, I turned my attention to a singer who appeared to be marvelously skilled if I could have but heard her.

She was frail and almost as small as I, too pallid for prettiness and with enormous bulging eyes, but her voice resonated throughout the court. The crowd confirmed my opinion by crying against the din: “Berthe! Berthe! Let Berthe sing!”

She smiled graciously, raised her arms and invited the patrons to join her: