Shield of Three Lions (46 page)

“I’ll not tolerate double dealing!”

Still not thoroughly aroused, I sought his contender in the shadows.

“You cheated me! Sacrificed my oath for humiliation! Made me a man and have unmanned me! Call Yourself God?”

Awake at last, I almost swooned at his blasphemy. “Hush, Your Highness, you’re dreaming. I’ll go for the doctor.”

But his great hand caught me in a vise.

“Deus absconditus!
So be it!
Richard abscondito!
”

“No, no, take back your words. He doesn’t mean it!” I looked upward to God. “God has
not
abandoned you, My Lord!” Nor had the king abandoned God, as he swore. Wasn’t he on the Crusade?

I made a sign of the Cross before his face to ward off the Devil.

“He has betrayed me!” insisted the anguished king, beating his head on his pillow.

“You are on your Crusade and have fallen ill, but you’ll soon be well again. ’Tis only a passing—”

“All fathers betray their sons!
” The king drowned my plea. “Did not even God forsake Christ when He needed Him most? Yet I was foolish enough to trust Him! But never again!
Never!
”

By now he was sitting upright and shouting. I dared not leave him but hoped Orlando would hear and come to my aid.

“You’ve met Your match in Richard! Never again will I go whimpering to a cross! I have loved You and served You, only to be stabbed by Your own spear! But no more! If You doubt that I can deal with fathers, look to Henry!”

I clapped my free hand over his mouth and implored him. “Please
stop
, you have a fever and know not what you say! Oh please, Your Majesty.”

At last he leaned back on his pillow, but his eyes rolled upward alarmingly and he would not be silent. He pushed me roughly aside.

“Did I not cry out my sin? Did I not crawl at the feet of those milksop priests? And still my lust burns unquenched. Alive on wood but dead on silk, all
ludus
lost.”

His words were ever wilder, though I thought he must refer here to his wooden bed and silken quilt.

“How can the ax strike without its blade? How can the piper make music without his pipe? God has a sense of humor, you see.”

At last he acknowledged my presence by turning his glazed eyes upon me.

“Riddle: How can a king scorch God with a thunderbolt?”

“I know not.”

“By wasting creation.”

He laughed hoarsely at his own wicked wit.

“Second riddle: Where lights the Angevin eagle when he’s stripped of his beak?”

“I know not, Your Highness.”

“On Jove’s hunter.” Again he laughed.

“Riddle: Where lives the Angevin lion when he loses his fang? Answer: In the cave of the hyena.”

’Twas dreadful to see a great mind break so and I tried once again to pull from his grip so I could fetch the physician, but he held even harder.

“Tell me, are you Ganymede, Jove’s cup-bearer?”

“Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

“Then fill the Holy Grail; it’s drunk to the dregs.”

Suddenly he released me and I quickly poured him a cup of wine which he accepted without drinking.

“Tell me what you think of this ditty. ’Tis to the tune of a jig I made up long ago:

He smiled with bright expectancy.

“’Tis a passing brilliant verse, Your Highness, but methinks your judgment wanders and you need help. May I get Orlando, please?”

“Oc e ne. Oc
, I need help,
ne
, you may not get Orlando. I believe you lied to me.”

“Me, My Liege? Never!”

“Oc
, you said you were Ganymede when I myself baptized thee Alexander the Great. I dub thee, Alexander!”

And he poured his wine o’er my head, then laughed fiendishly to see it drip.

“Now we begin again. Are you Alexander?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” I gasped

“Good, and I am your lord who henceforth will not deny you. I now give you permission to cure me.”

Almost too terrified to speak, I yet must try. “Yes, Your Highness. What can I do for you?”

“Erect me again. Give me a Greek column, a swollen entasis which will not fall. Will you do that, Alexander?”

“You know I’ll support you, Your Highness.”

“Good, then there can be no issue. But the Devil’s will be done. We ride our incurable disease to Jerusalem, there to capture the Cross and perish on wood, for I’ve eaten too many rabbits. So be it,
teste me ipso.
”

Whereupon he turned fretfully away and was soon asleep, leaving me to cope with my besmottered tunic and brain as best I could. I finally concluded that the king in the grip of his fantastick cells was keener than most men with all their wits. There seemed an underlying pattern of profundity in his wild utterings, if I could but decipher the language.

THE NEXT MORNING FATHER Orlando sensed that something had gone amiss and questioned me carefully about the king’s state of mind. Richard was sleeping heavily by then. Faltering, I told the physician that he’d raved a little but that his mutterings had been too outlandish to understand.

“’Tis the leeching methinks,” Orlando said. “Betimes it has that effect upon fevered brains. The demons become angry and howl forth in their demented tongue. Think you that his utterings be sacrilegious?”

“No,” I lied. “I could not understand much but I know he twice addressed God the Father.”

I was then dismissed to rest, though my own fantastick cells were much agitated. When I came back on duty Orlando reported that the king had been rational enough all day to receive reports of his fleet’s preparation. Again His Majesty slept.

Or so I thought. As I pulled the shutters from the window, I heard, “Thank you, Alex. I daresay the air is putrid in here.”

I walked to his bed.

“How do you feel, Your Majesty?”

“Better.”

Indeed he looked much improved, partly because he was groomed. His hair was clean, his eyes wide open, his scent better under a heavy layer of sweet woodruff.

“Do I repel you?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Your first lie, for of course I do. I repel myself.”

Soothly my heart raced and my breath grew short as I tried to reassure him. Yet I dared not reveal my true feelings.

He was gazing out the window. “The watery star weeps tonight. Do you know why?”

I followed his glance. “You mean Venus?”

“She weeps for the loss of her son Cupid who is interred in Famagusta.” He looked back at me. “I can sympathize with her grief.”

There was naught I could say, but I pulled hard on my stomach muscles to control my liver.

He reached for my hand. “You promised last night that you would cure me.”

I was amazed that he remembered. “Aye, if I can.”

“Oh, I think you’re my chosen physician, all right. As the poet says,
A cock has great influence on his own dunghill.’”

He smiled but I saw no humor in the comparison.

“Every good physician begins with a diagnosis. What is wrong with me, Alex?”

“You have the fever.”

“A symptom, but not the disease. Come, don’t hide behind your tender age. You have a head, two eyes, a tongue.”

A tongue—aye, well he should know. I saw that I’d overestimated his improvement: he was still in manic disposition.

“You have the disease that everyone has, a plague, but I know not its name.”

He released my hand, folded his arms behind his head.

“Let me help. Listen, ’tis a song my great-grandfather wrote:

His low voice faded into silence. I cleared my throat.

“A very provocative lyric. Is it another riddle?”

“A paradox. I am not ill but seek a cure, for the cure is worth the pain when that cure be pleasure. I can no longer defy necessity.” He pressed my hand so hard that I winced.

“If you tell me what to do, then I will do it,” I promised again, much confounded.

“What more can I ask?” His brows shot up in their old cynical pattern. “If I choose the supple body, can I also expect the subtle mind? Well, so be it. I’m no philosopher, but I can read. Alex, I am my own holy trinity: flesh, air, and the part which governs. You will treat the governor: in short, we are to be lovers.”

I gasped and pulled back. He couldn’t mean it!

“But doesn’t it go against—? And your queen!” I cried involuntarily.

“Enough, Alex. Such matters are my concern, not yours.”

I nodded, swaying with shock.

He lay back and closed his eyes. “I should think you would be flattered to find yourself so irresistible,” he said bitterly. “As for me, well, I suppose every general must face one defeat. Richard, felled by a delicate child—nine years old?”

“I’ve just turned ten.”

“Ten! God help us.”

As I writhed at my own lie about my age, wondering if I dare
admit the truth, he took my hand and opened his eyes. To my amazement, they seemed to glisten, almost as if filled with tears, but no doubt ’twas some trick of light. He raised my hand to his lips, kissed it and smiled wryly.

“At least if I were ten as well, I would say I had good taste, for I believe you are a rare combination of intelligence, integrity and warmth. And that you love me for myself. Am I right, Alex?”

“Soothly I love you for yourself.”

“Good.” And he forgot me again in his own dark thoughts. “In any case, we do not choose our destiny but follow our stars.” He sighed, pressed his lips. “Once I am fully well and in the field, you will move into my pavilion and live with me. Do you understand?”

“Aye.”

“Oddly enough, the confusion of battle makes a perfect cover for us, but in any case we have Ambroise, Mercadier and the other captains as our honor guard. Naturally we’ll be discreet and you’ll be quite safe from discovery.”

“So they know that I’m—?”

“Of course.”

Strangely, that was a relief.

“Should I tell Enoch?”

The king rose to his elbows. “
Enoch!
By no means!”

“But ’twould make it easier,” I protested unwisely.

He became agitated and tried to rise. “I order you not to tell that suspicious cur!” He added coldly, “Whatever our relationship, Alex, I am king. Your king and lord as well as your protector.” He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, frowned. “I will get rid of Enoch.”

Get rid of Enoch?
A chill frisson shook my vitals and I was sore afraid.

“Don’t be upset, dearest.” He carried my captured hand to his lips. “We have turned our corner at last and will not look back. I need not your diagnosis to know my disease: ’tis simple, I do love thee.”

Deeply offended, I pulled my hand away. To be called a disease! The king reached his fingers to my face and smiled.

“Sorry, Alexander, I amend my words. ’Tis not my love
per se
which has caused my sickness, but my perception of it as a sin.”

He continued to stroke my cheek in silence as I pondered his ominous words. I couldn’t stop my heated liver from leaping, but my vital spirits trembled with fear of this sinful passion. Sin. Was it also a crime?

“Go on now, Alex, and let us sleep.” He kissed my hand.

I curled on my pallet and listened to the king’s even breathing, but I believe I slept not at all that night.

THE KING’S INTENTION to make us lovers complicated my own plans. I didn’t take care of him after that night, so had no opportunity to ask him exactly how he planned to conceal my emerging sex traits. Nor did his peremptory tone invite questions. And how was I to explain the whole matter to Enoch? Wouldn’t his beginning suspicions about my sex be compounded by the king’s carnal interest in me?

Benedicite!

The test came immediately when Enoch learned that we were now to sail on the
Trenchemer
with King Richard instead of the buss with the queens.

“That’s a fightin’ galley. Why do he nocht take sum older page to serve him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Air ye servin’ him in the field as well?”

“I believe I am, aye.” I squirmed, uncomfortable, twisting myself to hide my breasts, and trying at the same time to ascertain the wind’s direction so he wouldn’t smell me.

“Do ye hae worms, Alex?”

“Oh no!”

“Then sit still and listen.”

I did, but he was quiet a long time, then sighed heavily.

“Ye war e’er a winsome bairn, but now ye be
pretty.
I doona like it.”

Neither did I, I agreed fervently.

Deeper than the problem of discovery was the very fact of consummation. I thought of my airy fancies in Bagnara as if they belonged to a different person, a child. What I faced now was reality and I had a good example of what that meant in Princess Alais. The possibility of a bastard babe, a life of secrecy, a ruined character if I ever wanted to marry, the king’s tiring of me, the loss of Wanthwaite.

If I truly loved him, would any of this matter? For the first time, I wondered. I was no longer a child, so couldn’t deceive myself with fantasies of unconsummated love—especially with the king’s statement still ringing in my ears—but I seemed not to be entirely adult either, for consummation frightened me. I was drifting in my own Limbo, neither one thing nor the other. Or perhaps I could have loved more easily if I’d felt secure in Richard’s affection. But how could I when we didn’t live in the same sphere? He was powerful and mercurial; I was a young, lowly damsel, completely at his mercy.