Shield of Three Lions by Pamela Kaufman Page A
Authors: Pamela Kaufman
Tags: United States, Historical fiction, Historical, Literature & Fiction, British, Genre Fiction, British & Irish, Middle Eastern
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deme
.”
“Aye,” I said, not understanding but trying to answer his smile as I edged to pull Lance away.
To my horror, the Scot bent down and seized my shoulder.
“What do you want?” I attempted to stay calm. He didn’t appear belligerent after all.
Again he worked his lips and this time spoke English, albeit with a horse’s tongue. “’Tis an omen, a sign fra God and the folets whan animals decide. I quoted ye a saugh! Fate must be. Which manes, laddie, that ye and me air doomed to ride togeddir. Gie me both yer hands.”
Again his dreadful grimacing face bent near as I stood like a piece of stone.
Dame Margery slid down the bank on her buttocks and clasped me close.
“Oh no ye don’t! I’ll not have the boy stolen! Not after what ye did to my sister, ye murdering savage!”
The Scot gazed coldly and without surprise into her contorted grieving face. “I niver did nothing to yer sister. Niver murthered anyone that didna deserve it, and I’ll not be stealin’ bairns. I have a strang mule, plenty to eat, and I be headin’ a’ the way to London and beyond. Yif ye want protection on the way and no nonsense, Alexander, then I’d be happy fer yer company. Yif nocht, farewell.”
For a long period, we seemed frozen in tableau. The sky was a cobalt steep behind dippling limbs, the road alive with leaf shadows, the sun alarmingly high in its run. I thought of the animal omen—a strong one, I felt—of my father’s moldering body in its watery grave, his orders, of Northumberland. Time was passing fast and the Scot had not seemed to recognize my name. I must risk it—and change companions later.
“’Tis best I go,” I said to the dame. “Thank you, sir, for your offer.”
She knelt beside me, weeping. “Ye must decide, My Lady,” she whispered, “and may God forgive me if I do wrong.”
“Thank you for everything. Remember, ’tis only for a week.”
This time I accepted the Scot’s hand. “Enoch Angus Boggs at yer service, of the clan MacPherson.”
And I was lying like a sack of meal across the mule’s neck, then was set properly astride. Lance trotted in the ass’s shadow. At the next bend, I was able to look back where Dame Margery still stood, her face pale as a winter moon, her mouth turned down in despair. I knew by her melancholy wave that she never expected to see me alive again.
WHO WERE THAT BLUBBERIN’ HAG, ALEX?”
“My—my mother.” I considered. “No, not exactly my mother. My foster mother.”
“Waesucks, bairn, make up yer mind. Ye shuld know yer ane mother even yif ye don’t know yer father.”
“My foster mother,” I said firmly.
“Hmm.”
We jogged on at a steady clop as I worried about whether I’d done the right thing. I didn’t discount the possibility—more, the probability, considering where I’d met him—that Enoch Angus Boggs had been one of the marauding party. My head was much muddled with weariness and pain, but I tried to sort it out. The Scots had joined the foray for hard cash but took no share in the land spoils; that was what I’d understood. Therefore they might not be aware of my existence, either as a boy or a girl, nor care, which would explain why Enoch hadn’t reacted to my name. However, I wasn’t safe with such a cold-blooded killer and could well end up slaughtered in the bushes for kites to pick at, especially if he guessed that I carried gold. No, I was running from one enemy in the company of another. I tried to sit straight so I didn’t have to touch him.
“Ye mun tell me, Alex, when I speak too broad. I’m talented wi’ tongues but ne’er heard an Englishman talk with that newefangeled French mix.”
“Norman mix,” I corrected him. “You seem to be doing better already.”
The swaying sun and shadow, the rhythm of the mule and the soft jingle of harness bells were quick hypnotizing me to a stupor. Ifought to stay awake, to avoid that broad chest at my back, but ’twas hard.
“Be York yer home?”
I
.”
“Aye,” I said, not understanding but trying to answer his smile as I edged to pull Lance away.
To my horror, the Scot bent down and seized my shoulder.
“What do you want?” I attempted to stay calm. He didn’t appear belligerent after all.
Again he worked his lips and this time spoke English, albeit with a horse’s tongue. “’Tis an omen, a sign fra God and the folets whan animals decide. I quoted ye a saugh! Fate must be. Which manes, laddie, that ye and me air doomed to ride togeddir. Gie me both yer hands.”
Again his dreadful grimacing face bent near as I stood like a piece of stone.
Dame Margery slid down the bank on her buttocks and clasped me close.
“Oh no ye don’t! I’ll not have the boy stolen! Not after what ye did to my sister, ye murdering savage!”
The Scot gazed coldly and without surprise into her contorted grieving face. “I niver did nothing to yer sister. Niver murthered anyone that didna deserve it, and I’ll not be stealin’ bairns. I have a strang mule, plenty to eat, and I be headin’ a’ the way to London and beyond. Yif ye want protection on the way and no nonsense, Alexander, then I’d be happy fer yer company. Yif nocht, farewell.”
For a long period, we seemed frozen in tableau. The sky was a cobalt steep behind dippling limbs, the road alive with leaf shadows, the sun alarmingly high in its run. I thought of the animal omen—a strong one, I felt—of my father’s moldering body in its watery grave, his orders, of Northumberland. Time was passing fast and the Scot had not seemed to recognize my name. I must risk it—and change companions later.
“’Tis best I go,” I said to the dame. “Thank you, sir, for your offer.”
She knelt beside me, weeping. “Ye must decide, My Lady,” she whispered, “and may God forgive me if I do wrong.”
“Thank you for everything. Remember, ’tis only for a week.”
This time I accepted the Scot’s hand. “Enoch Angus Boggs at yer service, of the clan MacPherson.”
And I was lying like a sack of meal across the mule’s neck, then was set properly astride. Lance trotted in the ass’s shadow. At the next bend, I was able to look back where Dame Margery still stood, her face pale as a winter moon, her mouth turned down in despair. I knew by her melancholy wave that she never expected to see me alive again.
WHO WERE THAT BLUBBERIN’ HAG, ALEX?”
“My—my mother.” I considered. “No, not exactly my mother. My foster mother.”
“Waesucks, bairn, make up yer mind. Ye shuld know yer ane mother even yif ye don’t know yer father.”
“My foster mother,” I said firmly.
“Hmm.”
We jogged on at a steady clop as I worried about whether I’d done the right thing. I didn’t discount the possibility—more, the probability, considering where I’d met him—that Enoch Angus Boggs had been one of the marauding party. My head was much muddled with weariness and pain, but I tried to sort it out. The Scots had joined the foray for hard cash but took no share in the land spoils; that was what I’d understood. Therefore they might not be aware of my existence, either as a boy or a girl, nor care, which would explain why Enoch hadn’t reacted to my name. However, I wasn’t safe with such a cold-blooded killer and could well end up slaughtered in the bushes for kites to pick at, especially if he guessed that I carried gold. No, I was running from one enemy in the company of another. I tried to sit straight so I didn’t have to touch him.
“Ye mun tell me, Alex, when I speak too broad. I’m talented wi’ tongues but ne’er heard an Englishman talk with that newefangeled French mix.”
“Norman mix,” I corrected him. “You seem to be doing better already.”
The swaying sun and shadow, the rhythm of the mule and the soft jingle of harness bells were quick hypnotizing me to a stupor. Ifought to stay awake, to avoid that broad chest at my back, but ’twas hard.
“Be York yer home?”
I
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