Shield of Three Lions (25 page)

I hardly knew what to do, but King Richard took my arm and guided me to the chair behind his desk.

“Wait here, boy,” he said kindly. “I’m nearly finished.”

I sat obediently and tried not to succumb to terror. The vague confused dread I’d felt for months at becoming Alix now hardened into abject sniveling cowardice. Sister Petronilla’s martyrdom, Queen Eleanor’s imprisonment and now Princess Alais’s future in the hands of my hoped-for benefactor all fused to a dire warning which I wanted desperately to heed. I sat in numb misery at my lot.

“Caritas
, Richard, in the name of Our Lord who protected the weak, don’t put Alais in Eleanor’s care. King Philip will never forgive such an act. You know how he hates her.”

“If he hates the Queen of England, he must learn to put policy before personal peevishness. Alais belongs to England and Eleanor
is
England during my absence.”

“Rich—”

“Enough!” the king shouted. “God’s feet, Baldwin, use what few wits God gave you!”

His face was now filled with choler and red whelks stood forth along his jaw. I began to shake so violently that my chair tapped the floor like a woodpecker. Was I about to witness another murder of an Archbishop of Canterbury such as King Henry had done to Thomas à Becket?

But no, the archbishop capitulated. “We’ll speak of this again in Vézelay My Liege.”

“The subject is closed,” the king answered grimly,
“nunc et semper.”

The archbishop bowed, flourished and left.

Again the king and I were alone. My breath was short, I couldn’t speak. He turned and went to his wine table, then approached me with two goblets of frothing red wine.

He handed me one, smiling, and held his own to toast. “To solitude and quiet. ’Twould be better if he were dead, but to have him gone is some reprieve.” He drained his goblet. “Ahhh. Tell me, boy, does the priesthood attract pretentious windbags of little intellect, or is there something in the profession that dulls the reason? Yet you would think even fools could tell the truth. Above all things, I hate a liar.”

I still couldn’t speak. My heart fluttered high in my chest most alarmingly, and on top of my terror toward Richard was added an equal fear that I wouldn’t be able to make my plea, after all this waiting. I began to breathe deeply and to count my heartbeats in a stern effort to get control. Then I thought of Wanthwaite.

Meantime the king had gone back to refill his cup and now approached a second time. “Well, I believe I had asked you to rise so I could see you.”

I stood stiffly as he took a candle and bent near. We appraised each other. The flames of a hundred candles danced in night-dark eyes, now blue, now gray, now layered in turbid depths, subaqueous creatures hidden there; a high arched brow, firm pear-cheeks, a long chin with a small squared beard and a thrusting lower lip, mouth now pursed in a quizzical smile. A face, I thought, capable of any expression except humility.

He tapped my nose playfully. “Cupid-Alexander, I think you’ll do, you’ll do.”

The words—my mother’s when she’d said I was pretty.

“You mean—” I started to say as I’d answered her, then stopped myself.

“I mean that you’re the prettiest child I can recall, and I’ve seen many Now, let’s get acquainted, shall we? Come, you’ll sing to me.”

He took my hand but I held back.

“What’s this? You’re frightened; your hands are trembling.” He frowned and I willed myself not to sway.

“Aye, Your Highness,” I gasped. “I—I’ve ne’er met a king afore.”

“Would that my presence had such an effect on bishops and kings,” he remarked, grinning. “But come, Alex, you have nothing to fear. You are tense and I am tense, so let’s relax together. I’ll recline on my bed, so, and you stand here, so, and sing me the Alexander song from this evening’s performance, for I liked the sentiment.”

He’d led me to his bed and sat at its head. I stood near, somewhat tangled in the fringe from the Persian covers.

“Now?”

“Of course, don’t be shy.”

Very nervous, I began feebly, then stopped because I was pitched too high, and started again.

“Know you of Greek fire?” he interrupted. “No? A good image. Go on.”

“You should have included the Euphrates. Also, there’s some question about the extent of Aristotle’s influence on Alexander’s strategy, but you’re permitted poetic license.”

I waited to be sure he was finished, then continued, as he hummed in a deep mellow baritone and conducted with his hand.

I stood waiting for his comment, but for a long moment he just twirled his goblet and stared at me with glowing lambent eyes.

“A pleasing prophecy,” he said at last. “God make it true.” Then almost as an afterthought, “And nicely rendered. Very nicely. Well now, Ambroise tells me that you’re an educated lad as well as being musical. You read and write Latin?”

“Yes, Your Highness, and French and English as well.”

His high arched brows shot up. “Trained by Zizka?”

“Partly.”

“He’s outdone himself, I must say. Unusual to find a Parisian boy of the streets with such erudition.”

I recognized my cue as surely as if Zizka had given it.

“Except—except—I’m not a Parisian boy of the streets.”

“Really?”

He reached toward me with a huge hand and what breath I still had stopped. But he merely placed a forefinger on my cheek and traced my chin, so I forced myself to continue.

“No, I’m not from Paris at all. And I studied law and languages on the Petit Pont, not from Zizka.”

“Ah, a student.” He smiled knowingly. “But you’re too young. How old are you?”

“Nine,” I said promptly, then tried to take it back for I was soothly twelve, a fact he would soon know. “Nine,” I repeated weakly, then frowned in vexation at myself. I seemed not to control my own resolve.

“Very young indeed,” he mused. “Let’s see if you’re old enough to serve us another glass of wine.” He handed me his goblet.

I was old enough forsooth but not too steady as I poured. Again I faced him.

“And I’m not from Paris, Your Highness. I’m from—England.”

Something squeezed my heart hard: again I stood on a hill looking back on my flaming castle in the moonlight. A dormer window behind me blew shut, then banged open, and I felt a fresh breeze at my back. It seemed to whisper, whisper …

“Good.” He laughed. “For I’ll tell you a secret, just between us two. I hate the French! And naturally I love the English, for they are my subjects.”

Is that why you’re discarding the French princess, I thought wildly, and putting her in prison for no reason? I pushed the thought away and listened to the wind’s sough, the words buried in its sigh.

“So you are a student of the English nation and you are learning the jongleur’s trade. I—”

“No!” I interrupted. Then, seeing the shadow across his face, “I’m sorry, Your Highness, please continue.”

“I will, but tell me first how I’ve erred.”

He was leaning on his elbow now, perfect teeth glinting, his finger again reaching. I breathed deeply and prepared to be Alix.

“I’m Alexander of Wanthwaite, baron in your own country.”

Appalled, my mouth hung open like a fish’s.
Baron? Baron?
What was wrong with me? Again the shutter banged, the room darkened as several candles blew out. The wind said
Why not? How will he ever know the difference?
Aye, my anguished mind replied, but how then can I get my castle? For the whole purpose was to throw myself on his mercy so that he could find a husband to recover my estate.
You’ll find a way, and he’ll be gone on the Crusade
, the wind counseled.

The king’s finger had stopped midair. “Baron of Wanthwaite?” He frowned. “From the north, close to Scotland?” He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Aye, in Northumberland,” I said rapidly. “The largest landowner outside of the earl, and loyal to the English kings forever. Both my grandfather and father …” and I rushed on about the siege of sixty-five, the taking of King William at Alnwick when my father had been there. From a packet at my waist, I took out the commendation from King Henry.

The king studied it. “Why have you kept this a secret? Zizka and Ambroise don’t know, do they?”

“No, Your Majesty, but ’twas necessary because our castle was sacked and I fled for my life.”

“Sacked? In England? I thought the Scots were tamed.”

By now the wind behind me was a howl which entered the back of my head and came out of my mouth. I hardly knew what I said, but I spoke firmly and boldly.

“Aye, so they are. ’Twas our own earl who turned on us, greedy to control all of Northumberland. Osbert, Earl of Northumberland, sent his army disguised as monks; once inside our gates, they stripped to Scottish plaids and proceeded to kill every living creature. Then the knights were sent forth again on the pretext of searching for the Scottish marauders. ’Twas a heinous plan, brutally executed.”

“Preposterous! Northumberland has ever been a chivalrous lord. And you, young lord, are a talented storyteller. In short, you lie.”

I looked up at his enormous height, twice as tall as I at least, thought of Princess Alais, and said coldly, “I never lie. Osbert, Lord of Northumberland, and his foster son Roland de Roncechaux followed me to London and would surely have killed me to prevent my reaching you, except for the efforts of a friendly Scot I met on the road.”

“But Northumberland, Northumberland, he …” and he sank back onto the bed. “Why didn’t you go at once to the Assize?”

I trowe I know not whence my words came, from my father or from the months of study with Malcolm. “As you know, Northumberland
is virtually a country to itself, a palatinate, and the king’s men ne’er come so far north. Therefore Lord Osbert is the judge of the Northumberland Assize Court. How could I complain to the perpetrator of the crime?”

“But
Northumberland
…” He shook his head. “When did this happen?”

“The twenty-second of May, 1189,” I answered easily enow.

“Ah, that explains …” And he actually smiled.

I was horrified. “Why do you ask, My Liege? I mean, ’tis my greatest dread that mayhap Northumberland or Roncechaux may have reached you first. During your coronation? I know they were in London.”

He seemed to think. “Osbert, you say? What sort of man is he? Describe him.”

My voice lost its assurance as I tried to recall all the diabolic things my father had told me.
Deo gratias
the king couldn’t make me this monster’s wife.

“Get me another cup while I think,” he ordered. Then, when I handed it to him: “No, my little lord, I assure you I ne’er met your Osbert. No claim has been registered with us. However, I also assure you that if it had, I would not hesitate to seize the castle and punish the criminals, so you have nothing to fear.”

For the first time I tasted my own wine, then went on to my second stage.

“Therefore, Your Highness, I’ve come this far to ask you for a writ of ownership, stamped by your seal, which I can then take to your justicier in London. Certes Northumberland would have to honor such a direct order.”

He studied his wine, licked his upper lip, then smiled radiantly. “Nothing easier.
A fait accompli.
As of this moment, your estate is restored and all privileges thereof,
teste me ipso.
This has indeed been a refreshing interview, a rare opportunity to please.”

Tears had welled in my eyes and I forgot the king. I felt I’d been carrying a huge rock for a long distance and now I’d dropped it at the crest of a hill, watched it roll away from me forever. The concomitant lightness made me airy as a bubble. I was floating in ether, delirious.

I remembered protocol and dropped to my knees. “Thank you, how can I ever thank you?”

“However, as I assume you have no guardian to help you till you are of age, the actual possession of Wanthwaite must await more propitious times.”

I looked up. “I need no guardian, My Lord. I can …”

“Lead your knights to keep the peace? Husband your lands and adjudicate your villains? At nine years old?” He laughed in kindly fashion. “I fear your knowledge of language and music would not take you far. You needs must become a squire, earn your spurs, and in general be trained for your position. Did your father tell you how to achieve the proper skills?”

My father had treated me as a boy in many ways, but I’d learned from Enoch’s questions how little I really knew. I gazed upward and waited.

“No, I thought not. Of course you would have been only seven or eight at the time, too young, I fear. No, child, look not so woebegone. What is a king for if not to protect his wards? As it happens, it fits well with my plans.”

Belatedly I recalled that he had called this meeting, not I.

“How so, Your Highness?”

“Well, you know surely that Zizka was answering a summons from Ambroise when you were sought. A talented young jongleur who was also literate. Could you not guess why?”

I shook my head. “It didn’t occur …”

“No, perhaps not, for ’tis an honor rarely offered to street gamins, which we thought you were. You were going to apprentice with Ambroise in his great epic poem, become a scribe and troubadour together.”