Shield of Three Lions (36 page)

’Twas a mean affair when we entered it, inhabited by the same creeping dark insects Enoch and I had gotten to know all too well. They stared sullenly at the great king who might as well have worn a suit encrusted with diamonds for all he seemed to melt into the populace. So accustomed was he to adulation that he didn’t notice how people dropped their tasks and gawked, nor that their eyes shot black hatred at his back. However, I knew—and felt fear. As we left on the far side, my breath, which I’d been holding, was exhaled in a great sigh. Suddenly the king drew rein.

“Alex, do you hear something?”

“Aye, a bird squawking.”

“Not a bird, a falcon!”

I listened again; he was right. A falcon crying in terror as men and women yelled at it. The screams came from a collapsing stick hut on our right.

Richards face paled with anger. “How dare such peasants keep a royal bird. Hold my horse and Penchant—you’ll have a proper falcon yet.”

He dismounted and bent low to enter the sagging door of the house. Inside, his deep voice took command for a short time, then there was a howl of outrage from the bird’s owner, and other voices joined the fray. I couldn’t understand the local argot at such a pitch but ’twas easy to grasp that the king was being cursed and defiled. His imperious commands rose as well, but he was outnumbered.

He backed out the door, a fine falcon clutched in his leather glove as his free hand tried to fend off the impotent blows from a miserable family of Griffons.

Then metal gleamed and they weren’t so impotent.

“Give me my hawk, get back on your horse and ride fast, or you’re dead on the count of three,” a toothless wight said clearly enough in a patois of Latin.

In a flash, the king thrust the new falcon at me and pulled out his long flat sword. ’Twas the weapon he was famous for and no knight would face him so, but these people knew nothing of his fame or knighthood. Four other daggers flashed. I held all the falcons on their jesses and drew my father’s dagger. For a moment we all froze.

The toothless Griffon made his move, struck like a snake, but not as fast as Richard cleaved his mighty sword. The Griffon ducked, the sword hit the wall and broke to its handle!

We all stared, shocked. Instantly I recalled his broken staff and wondered what the omen meant. The disarmed king threw away the useless fragment and picked up two rocks as the Griffons pressed close, grinning malevolently. Once, twice, the king fended their thrusts with his stones—then they drew blood from his arm. Worse, from behind, a host of vermin crept close, armed with knives, sticks, rocks, anything at hand. I slipped my dagger to the king, but ’twas not a good defensive weapon against a mob. Desperately Richard threw, feinted, felled two assailants as four more took their place.

Then a chilling unearthly cry from afar. A thundering cloud of dust descended upon the road whence we’d come and I saw a familiar gaveloc wave in the air.

Enoch!

He rode his horse straight through the mob as he screamed the highland war-cry and shot blades every which way Then back again, rearing Firth to trample a few of the enemy as he stabbed and pierced, making such a racket that he seemed truly inhuman. Terrifying and deadly in equal parts, he drew the Griffons from Richard and forced them on the defensive. Instantly the king was mounted again and we all were away.

We galloped straight for the sea without looking back. Only when we reached a gray shingle did the king whirl and stop. We both stared at Enoch who grinned back, his white teeth startling against a face painted blue with woad.

“Oh, thank you, Enoch,” I blubbered. “You saved our lives.”

Almost at the same time, the king blazed, “How dare you follow me! After I’d given orders! Traitor!”

Before Enoch could answer, the king spurred his mount and ordered grimly, “Come.”

The Scot and I glanced at each other, then rode after the tall green figure as he cantered in the shallow waters of the lapping sea. He went inland only once, to make a wide swath around the town of Bagnara, and continued along the shore away from our ships. Loping side by side, Enoch and I looked at one another occasionally but said nothing; the Scot’s face under his bizarre paint was tense. Finally we reached a group of fishing boats dragged onto the sand and Richard dismounted to speak to two fishermen who were unloading their catch. They handed him some fish for a coin, then continued to talk as Enoch and I sat waiting. Richard walked back to us.

“Dismount at once,” he ordered. “They’ve agreed to row us across the Far. We’ll spend the night by the lighthouse there.”

More and more alarmed by the king’s strange acts, Enoch and I looked across a sea channel to a high rocky strand where a lighthouse perched. The king instructed the fishermen to get word to our ship when they returned but to hold our horses and hawks until morning. One stout fellow took the birds and bridles while the other one manned the oars of the heavy wooden dory. Enoch and I waded after the king, then sat ankle-deep in slimy water floating with dead bait
as the first man pushed us off the sand. Listening to oars creak in rhythm to a sea chanty, we moved slowly through the blue-black waves. Except for his blowing hair, the king’s figure was chiseled and still as death.

Beached at last on the stony spit, the king instructed the fishermen to return at dawn. The dory scraped away and Richard led us up the slope, doubling in a forked path against the steepness. Sharp rocks cut our feet cruelly and the wind howled through our tunics but the king kept his brisk pace. More than an hour passed before we stood in the deep purple shade of the Far’s lighthouse, our skins now streaming with sweat from the exertion. At least we were protected from the wind here.

The king had maneuvered us when we stopped so that Enoch stood against the wall with me between them. Frightened already by the king’s mood and now by his stance, I noted that his fingers rested lightly on my father’s dagger. Enoch, too, was aware of danger and subtly shifted his weight so that the thwitel in his sock was close to his right hand.

Richard’s control was more ominous than his usual rage. “Scot, you disobeyed me.”

Enoch, too, was controlled, placating but not unctuous. “That I did not, Your Highness. You ordered that you were to hunt alone, and you did. And I obeyed your command given in Marseilles that I was never to let Alex out of my sight. I believe that you have not rescinded that order.”

“Don’t quote me against myself!” the king shouted in a sudden burst of fury. “We are not in a fancy disputation which can be won by twisting the argument! You spied on me, pure and simple!”

“I followed the boy; I didn’t spy.”

“Spied!
Spied!
Lurked in the woods, peeped, eavesdropped. Don’t contradict! As for Marseilles, I ordered you to protect Alex against rogues in the streets.”

“Aye,” Enoch said evenly, “and there be rogues in these woods as well.”

“God’s feet! What am
I
for? When he’s with me,
I
protect him!”

Enoch pressed his lips and remained silent, but all of us must
have thought of the recent scene with the falcon. When it was apparent that the Scot wouldn’t answer, Richard continued.

“The truth is that you have set yourself up as watchdog over Alex against me!
I
am your rogue in the woods!”

Wild though his accusation was, the bitter snap of his words made me queasy with fear.

“I was protecting him against danger,” Enoch said finally, his French very accented, his forefinger twitching. “The natives here are unlawful.”

“Against
me!
As if I were the danger! Answer me like a man, by God, or you’ll answer otherwise.”

Enoch’s eyes shone blue in his sweating blue face.

“Only you can answer that,” the Scot retorted, then added sarcastically, “Your Highness.”

And the king’s hand rose.

“No!” I screamed. I flung myself in front of the Scot. “Don’t! Please don’t! He’s my brother—the only family I have!”

Two voices shouted together, “Alex, move!” and “Bairn, git gang!” and rough hands pulled me but I clung to the Scot’s furry vest.

“You’ll have to kill me too! I can’t lose him again!”

I was dragged this way and that between them but burrowed into the Scot like a tick.

Finally I heard the king pant behind me, “Alex, I order you!”

I turned blurred eyes. “Please, Your Highness, if you believe that I saved you today, grant me the Scot’s life in return! I gave up my hope of eternal life and any possibility of meeting my parents in Heaven, and I don’t mind, but I can’t give up my earthly family as well. Please!”

The king stared at me as if I were woodly. “You gave up
what?”

I glanced at the Scot’s stoic face, at the king again in warning. “You know, Fat Giselle and what I told you—my soul is forfeit.”

Richard frowned, then to my great relief lowered his dagger. “I don’t want to appear ungrateful for your sacrifice, Alex, though I hate for this villain to be the beneficiary.”

“I’ll defend myself!” Enoch assured him.

I pinched the back of his arm as hard as I could, digging my nails deep. “Thank you, Your Highness! You are the most gracious monarch alive!”

And I flung myself upon him, hugging his knees as I knelt. I could fairly feel the locked stares over my head, but the dagger didn’t rise again.

“I’m letting you go now, but I do not consider the matter closed. Do you understand?” the king said icily.

“Perfectly,” the Scot answered.

“Good.” But his voice trembled with fury. “I will not forgive your suspicion concerning Alex. Take warning: I’ll not be clement a second time.”

But he was being clement now, which was all that mattered. I prayed that Enoch would keep quiet, which he did. In the silence that followed, I wondered exactly what the argument was. Could the Scot soothly believe Richard would harm me? And why? I’d given the king no reason for anger.

Richard continued. “As for my order in Marseilles, it applies only when I am not with the boy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The men still eyed each other, their faces full of words unspoken. Then Richard added, almost as an afterthought, “We thank you most graciously for coming to our aid this afternoon.”

Enoch imitated his sarcastic cadence. “’Twas nothing, Your Grace, since you had the situation well in hand.”

“I was betrayed by my sword,” the king replied defensively.

“Yes, Your Highness, but your royal skill in battle would have prevailed. I merely followed the rules of chivalry by aiding my king.” The Scot bowed.

Richard nodded shortly. “So be it. Now, if you will excuse me I will go examine the straits below. A runner informed me that my fleet has finally arrived, and this height gives me good vantage to see. Scot, cook these fish for us, for I am suddenly famished. Alex, you come with me.”

He kicked the string of fish toward Enoch and strode away along
the lighthouse wall. Quickly I turned and saw that the woad streamed like a waterfall down Enoch’s face, but he managed to grin weakly.

“Good work, wee brother. Ye showed yerself a true MacPherson.”

And I ran after Richards long shadow.

We stood on a small ledge at the top of a cliff which dropped to the seawash a thousand feet or more. Gulls circled below us, their faint screams piercing the silence. The lowering sun blazed through a grate of horizontal clouds so the sea seemed liquid fire. The king shaded his eyes, frowning.

“Do you see anything, Alex?”

“Smoke, I think, in two places, there and there.”

“Volcanoes, Stromboli and Mount Etna, for that’s Sicily to our right. But I meant on the water. Wait—I think—God’s feet, there they are! Look you, boy, two hundred strong, Saladin’s defeat sailing below us!”

I grabbed him in alarm as he leaned forward, then squinted to see miniature ships dotting the straits, a fairy fleet, I trowe. Now the king began to jangle excitedly as if his former melancholy, his near brush with death and recent choler had not happened. I marveled once again at his swift shifts of humor and tried to shift my own responses, with less success for I was still trembling inwardly at that raised dagger. Would he actually have murdered Enoch? He would have
tried
, that I believed, but ’twould not have been easy. Again I shuddered as I thought what might have resulted, one or the other dead or both wounded—and the aftermath. Too awful to conjure.

Finally the king’s monologue was stopped when we heard Enoch bellow behind us, “Dinner!” By now radiant smiles played on Richard’s face and he could hardly tear himself away from the happy scene before him. As we rounded the corner of the lighthouse, however, he paused and his expression became grave again.

“Wait.”

I looked up, apprehensive at his tone.

“I apologize that I was slow to understand why you were so fearful to confess today. ’Twas not a matter for levity, was it?”

Mortified, I dropped my head. “Fat Giselle made me swear to Satan that I’d lose my immortal soul if I told.”

“I see.”

Now what I’d dreaded was surely coming; no good Christian would knowingly associate with the Antichrist.

I felt his hand cup my chin, was forced to look into his face.

“But you were willing to sacrifice yourself in order to cure me of my family curse?”

“To prove it couldn’t be true,” I corrected him.

For once he seemed not to wear a mask and those blue-gray eyes would have penetrated to my very soul if I’d still possessed it.

“So you traded eternal life for my peace of mind.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“To relieve me of my curse.” His opaque eyes shifted restlessly over the horizon. “Are you sure I’m worth your sacrifice?”

I responded eagerly, “Of course. You’re worth anything.”

His brooding eyes fastened on me again. “You know, there’s a second curse on our family, namely that none of us can take pleasure in children.”

“Well, I’m not … that is, that must apply to your own children.”

“Indeed.” He gave forth a harsh mirthless laugh. “Ask my father, wherever he is. What would you think, Alex, if I confessed to you as you did to me today that I, too, have traded my immortal soul for damnation?”