Shield of Three Lions (32 page)

Tears scalded my eyes and I dropped back into my slough of despair. So many dead—Wanthwaite, Enoch and now this.

Then the trumpet sounded once more. In the deathly silence, Richard spoke in a smothered voice: “Let the gibbet suffice as reminder of your guilt. But if we come this way again, beware of Richard.”

He whirled his destrier, and dashed forward on our road. Quickly the rest of us formed a line and followed. The last thing I could see as I left was the mayor staring vacantly after us as his family stood like statues.

The king remained in a rage throughout the day and, at nightfall, I felt ’twas more prudent to stay away from his pavilion. Ambroise’s tent was too small to house me, but ’twas a hot night and I didn’t mind sleeping outside. I threw my goatskin a few yards distant from the troubadour’s tent, though he was somewhere else at the time.

The sun was long setting, and the moon full when it rose, so ’twas too light to sleep. Or mayhap I was too disturbed. I longed for Enoch to explain what had happened today, missed him so that ’twas a physical pain.

All over the camp, men were shouting belligerently, their voices drunk and angry, and I knew that everyone was confused. Then a file of roisterers passed close to me and stopped in a small dark copse where they tippled and talked.

“What do you think the king should have doon, Pat?” a nasal-voiced wight asked.

Pat answered in a hoarse guttural rumble. “They be a filthy bunch of heretics. He shoulda killt them.”

Was that true? I strained to hear.

“How be they filthy, Pat?” a boy asked with cracking tones.

The men sniggered. “They dig ore in black earth, Jack,” said one.

“Wex but don’t multiply,” said another.

“Like priests?” Jack insisted.

The guttural Pat drawled, “Hell, boy,
priests
have children. These Albigensians turn the
other
cheek. Take my meaning?”

There was further talk.

“In the ass-hole, dolt!”

The boy said something I didn’t hear, but it seemed to be a question.

“Seems that Jack wants to be showed, Pat,” the second voice suggested. “C’mon Jack, drink up. Good French wine, sweet as vinegar, put you in slickery mood.”

There was more mumbling, the guttural man upmost, and more laughter.

Pat then asked, “Jack, did you e’er hear of Buggers?”

“Aye,” said Jack. “Buggers is men from Buggeria.”

Hooting laughter.

“That’s it! The boy kens! All right, Jack, these men from Buggeria crawls on all fours, see, like this. Now you do it.”

Jack resisted. “Them Albigensians warn’t on all fours.”

“Not when we seen them, no, but that’s the way they go to church.”

I didn’t believe it.

“Go on, Pat. He’s ready as he’s going to be.”

“Aye. All right, Jack …”

The boy screamed! A throttled scream, as someone clamped his mouth! Then grunts and squeaks, muffled laughter, like pigs rooting.

My heart thumped in fear and I tried to pull a little closer to Ambroise’s tent. Then suddenly the men fell silent. In the quiet—the sound of a horseman approaching.

King Richard.

He was about fifty feet away, apparently oblivious to his hidden audience. Then he reined his horse to a stop in the shadow of the giant aqueduct. He seemed a carving himself as he sat in silhouette, gazing upward.

He dismounted, tied his horse. Then he turned toward Ambroise’s tent.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

I scrambled through the brush toward his outstretched hand, taking care to go round the patch of darkness where the soldiers were hidden by the copse.

“Let’s climb down to the bank where we can get a better view”, he said without preamble.

Infinitely grateful to be escaping the ruffians, I climbed down the slippery stones with his help till we were ankle-deep in rilling silver water.

The king thrust his chin upward, his face boyish in moonlight. “That’s the way to imprison time, Alex,” he said, awed. “After I’ve conquered the Holy Land, I, too, will build great structures, conquer the future with a throw of stone.”

I said nothing, but shared his reverence. The magnificent curves above us seemed an ancient cathedral. He pulled me deeper into its shadow so we could get a different angle. After a long time, he sighed.

“Well, I think it’s impressed forever on my mind now. How about yours?”

“I’ll never forget it, Your Highness,” I answered soothly

“God’s feet, boy, this Roman bridge has almost made me forget my purpose. I came to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“For saving my life today.”

“Oh, that—’twas nothing, My Lord.”

“Nothing to you, perhaps,” he said dryly. “I value myself, and I believe there are others who feel the same.”

I was glad darkness covered my flushing face. “I mean I did little—anyone would have done the same.”

“I hope so, but in any case, I’m grateful.”

He then helped me climb up the rocky drop till we came to his horse.

“Your Highness,” I asked nervously, not knowing if I were presumptuous. “Who are the Albigensians? Why were they so angry?”

“Just another fanatic cult that grows like weeds in this clime,” he answered without rancor. “The south cultivates such stubborn
weeds—they are the religious counterpart to the rebellious barons in these regions.”

“Then they’re not the Antichrist?”

“Frankly I’ve never paid much attention to their beliefs, though ’tis my impression that they’re too Christian if anything. They’re celibates, ascetics, zealots. However,” and his voice grew hard, “the real issue was the assault on my person.”

“Aye,” I agreed, not satisfied but sensing I shouldn’t pursue the topic further.

“Come, give me your hand.”

He pulled me onto his horse in front of him.

“You should stay in my pavilion, now that I’ve replaced the Scot as your guardian. A young boy is not safe with some of the scum who follow our Crusade.”

I fervently—and silently—concurred. And I hoped the ruffians in the bush had heard him, especially when he said that he was my guardian.

THE CITY OF MARSEILLES SENT OUT LEGIONS OF mosquitoes to greet us. No respecters of rank, the bloodsuckers made brothers of us all. Furthermore, the fiery heat turned sultry, drowning us in our own sweat. Our flesh stuck to saddles, to clothing, to itself, rancid as butter.

In late afternoon, a small group of us sat on horseback with the king on a hill overlooking the port. Richard’s face glistened white as snow under his angry bites and a miasma of pests was feasting e’en as he sat. Mixed with his welts were hard whelks of an uglier sort, much as those he carried on his backside, and his eyes glittered supernally bright.

“God’s feet, where’s my navy?” he thundered hoarsely.

Unable to answer, we all stared at the small fishing boats dotting the Mediterranean’s flat sheen.

Maurice de Craon, a trusted knight, tried to calm the monarch. “The path is treacherous by sea, my Lord. ’Tis said the violent headwinds in the Straits of Hercules can hold up travelers for weeks.”

Richards eyes were hard as granite. “From March to August? That’s a mighty blow e’en for Hercules. ’Twill go better for my captains if they’re blown to the pearly depths than if they return to Richard without excuse.”

Grimly he urged his courser on.

News of the tardy fleet awaited us at the palace where the royal party was to be housed. Two ship justiciers, Robert de Sable and Richard Canville, had decided to divert their ships to Portugal in order to help the king there fight the Moors. However, the Crusaders had attacked the Jews as well as the Moors, raping their women and taking their property; finally the looting and mayhem had spread e’en to the Christians! The King of Portugal now sent a message to King Richard in protest; the Moors and Jews were under his direct protection. Lisbon prided itself on the peaceful coexistence of its divers nationalities, and he demanded
immediate
apology and redress from the English king.

I had the ill fortune to be with the king when this message arrived. His skin blotched hideously, his breath came in short labored rasps, his eyes set forward as if they would drop from their sockets. Horrified, I couldn’t move. What was wrong? Was he dying? As he rocked his head, tried to unclench his jaw, fought for words, he was suddenly racked in a dreadful seizure. So large was his body, so violent his shaking that the whole world quaked! I screamed and threw myself upon him!

“Get out of here!” Mercadier hurled me out the door which was immediately slammed shut.

I lay on the floor where I fell and thought my heart would break. Not the
king
, the king couldn’t die!

“What’s wrong?” Sir Eduard pulled me up. “Alex, tell me what’s wrong.”

In broken syllables I choked out what I’d witnessed.

“Come, quick!”

Eduard jerked me down the narrow stairs into the anteroom where Sir Gilbert lolled against the arch leading into the street.

I clung to Sir Eduard. “What ails the king?”

“He has some sort of dreadful affliction, no one knows what,” the page explained. “All of us close to him witness it from time to time, but ’tis death to say you do. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“Let him say whatever he wists,” Sir Gilbert sneered. “The king’s pet can do no wrong. Go back up, Alex, and hold the monarch’s hand.”

“Gilbert, must you always be such a toad?” Sir Eduard asked sharply. “The boy’s a noble orphan, has just lost his brother and he’s hardly old enough to be a rival! For God’s sake, show some decency.”

With that Sir Eduard walked away and disappeared in the crowd, leaving me alone with Sir Gilbert.

“I daresay Sir Eduards correct, as usual,” Gilbert intoned. “Certainly you mustn’t be seen around the palace if you’ve had the misfortune to witness one of these seizures. ’Tis the one act the king would not tolerate, even from you. My advice is to get away as far as you can. Go to the waterfront—you’ll be safe there.”

For once I accepted his words.

I scuttled down the steps and into the streets of Marseilles. ’Twas already twilight; a few torches were lit at the corners, but there was no abatement of crowds. Men, hacked and marked like pirates, staggered drunkenly with locked arms while coarse toothless hussies tried to waylay them. Timidly I edged along the streets, ducking into doorways when rough varlets came near, but they were difficult to avoid. Unruly, jug-bitten mobs swarmed the dank steaming alleys like gray rats ready to attack.

I know not how long I wandered, hours mayhap, but somehow I found myself finally on the waterfront where I huddled terrified behind a barrel of fish. In the distance, red lamps on sardine boats cast flickering glows upon the black water, but on the quay sailors lurched and fell in puddles of vomit, grunted, shouted insults, bared knives and fists. I dared not move, dared not stay. Then I was spotted.

“Look ye, lads, ’tis the king’s pretty boy come to sell wafers on the side!” I recognized the guttural voice from the aqueduct!

A reeling churl with a dirty cross on his chest reached for me, stumbled and missed. With drunken eyes and drooling mouth, a scarred face rose again over the barrel’s edge as he gurgled foul curses.

A companion leaned by his side and crooked his finger, wheedling. “Come on, waferer, try a good honest Lincolnshire prick for flavor. Don’t be forelore, ’tis pleasant swonk.”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the street where a small crowd gathered to witness. I was shoved back and forth between them as they continued to jape. Feeling like a beaten dog, my mind went blank with dread.

“Can your horn make toot?”

“Or do ye horn the toute?”

“Oh, look ye, the pretty fop weeps. Do ye miss yer Richard?”

My knees cracked on the paving stones as I was wrestled into a kneeling position, my arms held tight from behind. All I could think of was the gray clabbered skies over Maisry’s body, the kites circling, the crash of Sir Roland’s armor as he undressed—vivid as yesterday.

A blurred dark figure in front of me dropped his pants, pulled his tunic up to display a fat hairy belly resting on purplish parts. It grew closer—I shut my eyes and mouth tight, stopped breathing.

“Force it open, Jamie.”

Fingernails scratched my jaw as a thumb tried to pry my lips apart.

“Aaaaoooo!” Swish! And a splinter of bone!

I felt a spurt of warm blood.

“They’ve took his hand! Who the Devil are you?”

“Stop, in the king’s name.”

Mercadier!

I looked up at a circle of towering horsemen.

“Spare us, for God’s sake. Mercy! We dint know he war with the king!”

“He’s not hurt. Ast him!”

“We’re Christians same as you …”

I was lifted onto one of the horses, heard the slash of swords.

Three men sank into puddles of blood, screaming and clutching. They had neither eyes nor balls.

“DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE, Alex?” Louvart asked.

I nodded. “The palace.”

Mercadier sponged my face. We were somewhere in candlelight. I knew not how we’d arrived, nor what the hour.

“You’re not hurt, Alex,” Mercadier told me in his foreign accent. “They didn’t undress you, did they?”