UGH!” SAID MY FATHER. “THAT MESSENGER! WORSE THAN a dung beetle.”
I held out the bowl, and my father dipped his hands into the water, then watched as the clear beads dripped back into it from the ends of his fingers.
“No wonder King Richard said he’d be glad to sell London—the buildings, the river, and all the scum who live there. He said he’d sell the lot if that would raise the money to pay for another crusade.”
My father took the cloth hanging over my right forearm and thoughtfully dried his hands. “Did you hear how he spoke to us? As if we were March blockheads? And did you hear him try to teach me my duty?”
“John…” my mother began.
“And then he spends the whole night souping up our latrine,” said my father.
“John!” my mother said again.
Then my father looked round and saw that everyone was standing at their places, so he replaced the cloth on my forearm. “Thank you, Arthur,” he said. “Right! Benedictus benedicat. Per Jesum Christum dominum nostrum. Amen.”
We sat down and Slim at once brought over a large covered dish from the side table, and planted it in front of my father. “Herbolace!” he announced.
“Herbolace! Really!” exclaimed my father. “You mean to say we eat delicacies like this out in the March? I thought we only ate… only…Well, Sian? What’s the worst thing to eat?”
“Squirms!” said Sian. “I did once. No! Toads!” And she bunched up her right hand and hopped it off her trencher.
“That’s what he was,” said my father. “One of King John’s toads. Yes, Helen. I know. I’m keeping you all waiting.” Then my father lifted the dish lid, and helped himself to a large dollop of scrambled eggs and cheese and herbs, while Slim brought over another dish from the side table.
“Collops, Sir John,” he announced.
“Very good, Slim,” said my father. “Fit for a king! And too good for King John.”
As soon as my father had finished eating, and we had just begun, he exclaimed, “It was insulting! That message! It insulted King Richard. Not one word of praise, not one word of sorrow. And not one lean word about King John’s own plans. Just—ring bells! And more bells! Does he think we’re all fools?”
“Surely,” said Serle, “the new king wants to please his earls and lords and knights. He wants them to like him.”
“If that’s what he wants,” replied my father, “he would do best to tell us what’s what. To be fair and to be straight. I don’t need covering with a coating of slime.”
“You’re judging the king by his messenger,” said my mother.
“I am not,” said my father. “I am judging him by his words. And his words were all fat.”
“Erk!” exclaimed Sian. “There’s a squirm in this cheese!”
“Put it on the floor!” my mother said.
“Another one!” wailed Sian. “Look!”
“Just give it to the dogs,” said my mother. “Don’t fuss so!”
“There’s the difference,” said my father. “Two men. Two brothers from the same pod, but as unalike as you can imagine. Do you know why his men followed King Richard to the kingdom of Jerusalem? Because he was open with them. Tough? He was very tough! But he never asked them to do anything he would not do himself.”
“Sir William told me,” I said, “that the leader of the Saracens…”
“Saladin,” said my father.
“…Saladin sent King Richard a basket of fresh fruit when he heard Richard caught the red fever.”
“There you are!” said my father. “His soldiers loved him and his enemy admired him. Saladin sent King Richard pomegranates and grapes, lemons, cucumbers: rare fruits almost as costly as jewels.”
“Oliver says the Saracens worship a false prophet,” I said.
“They do,” replied my father.
“And he says Hell’s mouth is waiting for Saladin.”
“I doubt it,” said my father. “Saladin and Coeur-de-Lion! They were both fighting a holy war. One called it a jihad, the other a crusade. From all I’ve heard, Saladin was a noble man. Far better than King Richard’s own brother.”
My father looked at Serle and picked his teeth. “This is not the first time our new king has told his earls and lords and knights what he thinks they want to hear,” he said. “Not so long ago he made us all false promises in the hope of stealing his brother’s crown, and that was while Coeur-de-Lion was fighting for Jerusalem. You understand that, Serle?”
“King John does not always mean what he says. And he says one thing and does another.”
“Fickle!” said my mother.
“When a man gives his word,” my father said, “you should be able to rely on it. You can’t rely on King John’s word. Our Welsh friends will soon smell this out.”
“Will they attack us?” I asked.
“Listen!” said my father. “If the Welsh can find a way to capture the lands held by the Marcher lords, you can be quite certain they’ll do it.”
“Capture?” said my mother. “No! Recapture! These lands are Welsh lands.”
“What if King John promises the Earl of Hereford he will support him with soldiers,” my father asked, “but then fails to do so? It won’t take us long to hear about it, and it won’t take the Welsh long either. Then we’ll all be at risk. Hereford, Shrewsbury, even Chester, let alone the little castles and manors like our own.”
“However!” said my mother, half-smiling.
“However,” my father said, “your mother is Welsh. Nain is Welsh. And your grandfather, the dragon, he was a warlord.”
“Red!” said Nain unexpectedly. “Red to the roots of his hair.”
“The reason why your mother and I married…” my father began, “the main reason why our fathers arranged our marriage was to make peace in this part of the March.”
“Must I be betrothed?” asked Sian.
“Ssshhh!” said my mother. “Your father’s talking.”
“I don’t know. Eleven. Or twelve. I was twelve.”
“Erk!” said Sian. “Do I have to?”
“That’s enough, Sian,” said my father.
“I used to think half the English were drunkards and the other half robbers,” my mother said. “That’s what I used to think.” Then she smiled at my father and put an arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.
“The Welsh have strange notions,” said my father. “But not as strange as the people who live in Greece and Sicily.”
“Why?” asked Serle.
“Sir William was there with Coeur-de-Lion,” my father said, “and he helped King Richard rescue his sister, Joan. In Sicily, they took a number of hostages, and do you know what some of them asked Sir William? They asked him what he had done with his tail.” My father pushed back his chair and threw back his head, and laughed. “Can you believe it? They thought every Englishman had a tail. And the Greeks! They thought the same. Well!” said my father, “the English have their weaknesses, but they haven’t got tails. The only people with tails are those the devil has chosen. He enters their heads and hearts and deforms their bodies.”
“What happens to them?” I asked. “Those people.”
“They try to hide it,” my father said. “They know that if anyone finds out, they’ll be tried and burned at the stake.”