Unholy Innocence Page 12

  His words caused a murmur among some of the merchants and I could feel my cheeks colour. ‘Then you should know that the King has summoned me directly,’ a fact I’m sure he already knew perfectly well. ‘He will not be pleased to have his order ignored.’

  De Saye swaggered over to me, an insolent smile playing on his lips. ‘What pleases or displeases the King is not for you to say, monk.’

  He may have been a decade older than me but he was taller and much more powerfully-built. It was all I could do not to back away from him. But I was determined to stand my ground.

  ‘Don’t look so alarmed, bone-breaker,’ he whispered gripping my shoulder hard enough to make me wince. ‘He probably only wants to thank you for saving his life.’ He stepped back and raised his voice again. ‘But before he does we must make certain you are not going to try to end it, mustn’t we? Search him!’ he barked at the guard who immediately stepped forward and very roughly handled me all over even to my private parts making me cry out in protest, to no avail. When he’d finished I was dishevelled, bruised and in pain. It was an outrageous assault and I had no doubt a deliberate instruction of de Saye’s designed to humiliate me in front of the cowering merchants. If so, he succeeded admirably. I was indeed humiliated - and angry.

  ‘This is iniquitous!’ I protested impotently. ‘Get your filthy hands off me, you lout!’

  ‘Well?’ said de Saye.

  ‘He’s clean, my lord,’ replied the insolent creature, smirking all over his face. The merchants looked on in bemusement unsure whether to protest or laugh.

  I had no such misgivings. I was absolutely furious. ‘This is an outrageous way to treat a senior obedientiary of the abbey,’ I said straightening my robe and recovering my dignity as best I could. ‘Be assured, sir, the Abbot shall hear of this.’

  De Saye laughed softly at my words clearly enjoying my discomfort. ‘I thought you monks liked that - a bit of man-handling.’

  Those merchants nearby who heard this comment sniggered and nodded at the joke to my increased fury. I was too stunned to reply.

  ‘Go on,’ sniffed de Saye looking me up and down with contempt. ‘You’re free to go. But look sharp! The King is an impatient man and will not be kept waiting. So run, bone-breaker, run!’

  He made as if to chase me and in spite of my anger I ducked out of his way, much to the amusement of the merchants. But there was little point in continuing a fracas I could not hope to win and I was already late for the King. John would not be interested in my excuses. Lifting up my robe I stumbled up the stairs as best I could.

  Seething still with anger and shame and with my legs still wobbly from my encounter I arrived outside the King’s bedchamber, breathless, confused and hot, not at all in a fit state to greet my monarch, which no doubt was de Saye’s intention. More hopeful merchants were waiting at the top of the stairs, richer than the ones downstairs judging from their attire, and mingling this time with some minor nobility. I collected myself as best I could, straightened my robe and presented myself to another armoured guard on duty outside the bedchamber door. He frisked me once more though peremptorily and professionally this time before turning the handle and pushing open the door.

  *

  Inside the room there was a fetid stench of sweat and stale sex. Though a hot day no shutter was open and the temperature was uncomfortably high. King John was sitting before a dressing table wearing nothing but a blue silk dressing-gown, his hairy thighs shamelessly on display, whilst plucking tunelessly at a lyre that was resting on his knee. The bed which had been the centre of attention a week earlier when the King was rolling about on it in agony was even more unkempt today. But this time its occupant was a girl – she could not have been more than fourteen – lying on top of the bedclothes completely naked and propped up on one elbow, her long dark hair hanging loose and covering one alabaster-white shoulder. She was quite indifferent to my presence not bothering to cover her nakedness. I felt my face go hot again but this time with embarrassment.

  I don’t know why I was so shocked. Samson had warned me about this girl who had been keeping the King in his room for days on end. With her free hand she was choosing from a tray of miniature almond macaroons, each topped with a single red cherry and which are known among the abbey servants – disgracefully - as Venus Nipples. I blushed to think of the significance of that soubriquet in the present circumstances. Seeing them, I could not but reflect on the irony that they had almost certainly been baked in our own kitchens by Brother Alric, the very same monk who John had earlier accused of poisoning him. Had he truly wanted to poison the King this would have been the perfect opportunity to do so. But the girl was popping the little golden delicacies into her mouth one after the other with no ill effect.

  But the most incongruous part of the entire scene was the statuesque figure propped on a chair against the wall. From its dress it was evidently female with a long dark smock and linen wimple, but its features thus framed were so ugly with a huge nose above a heavy moustache and a thin slash for a mouth that it could have been either sex. It was evidently alive but sat bolt upright and absolutely motionless the expression on the face one of utter disdain. If the mouth had ever smiled it had long ago lost the habit of doing so.

  My discomfort at being confronted by the naked girl clearly amused her. She laughed coquettishly before popping yet another macaroon between her perfectly even, white teeth and chewing lasciviously. I had only a second to take all this in before dropping to one knee and remaining there, head bowed, until bidden to rise.

  Not that the king acknowledged my arrival directly. ‘Lovely instrument, the lyre,’ he said whilst continuing to pluck the strings. ‘I wish I could play it. Never had the time to learn. I borrowed this one from those jongleurs who played at my banquet last week. Were you there?’

  ‘I was indeed, sire,’ I said licking my lips which, I noticed, had suddenly gone dry.

  ‘Instrument of the gods, the lyre. Apollo played it, you know? He was the god of music - also of healing, interestingly enough. But then you’d know that already being a physician yourself.’

  ‘I – er - yes indeed, sire. Apollo. Yes. A fellow physician. And a fine musician too.’ My throat was also dry. I swallowed hard and licked my lips again.

  John continued to pluck away unperturbed. ‘He was also a pansy, of course - liked a bit of cock up him. That’s what you get for all that nude wrestling.’

  Behind him the girl stopped chewing at this and looked up, her dark eyes wide in amazement. She covered her mouth with her hand and let out a weird squeal of laughter.

  John ignored her. ‘They said the same about my brother Richard,’ he sighed. ‘But never to his face.’ He strummed the instrument one more time with relish before propping it against the wall. ‘Well, bone-breaker, what have you to tell me?’

  ‘Tell you, sire?’ I felt myself grinning like an idiotic monkey.

  ‘Yes yes. Come along, keep up. Tell me something. Report.’ He looked down at me expectantly.

  ‘I – er -’ I began desperately trying to think what to say. ‘Is your Highness feeling better?’

  He frowned. ‘Feeling better? What are you talking about, you oaf?’

  ‘Your – erm – bowels, sire. Isn’t that what you brought me here to, erm…discuss…?’ My voice trailed away.

  His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘My bowels? My bowels? Good God, man, I didn’t bring you here to talk about my bowels. Are you trying to make a fool of me? Is that it? Because I’m not a fool. People think I am but I’m not.’ He stood up and started pacing up and down. ‘That buffoon of an abbot, now he’s a fool. He may have his spies but so do I. He thinks I don’t know what’s going on, but I do. What I want to know is, did he do it?’ He had stopped pacing and stood arms akimbo staring fiercely down at me still on one knee before him.

  So it was the murder then, that was why I was here. I had dreaded as much. I swallowed again noisily. ‘It’s too early to say, sire.’

  He frow
ned now like a child whose just been told he can’t have his favourite toy to play with. ‘Well, when will you be able to say?’ he pouted. ‘I can’t stay here for ever, you know? I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Indeed, sire.’

  ‘And remember this,’ he said leaning closer. ‘I can be as generous to those who help me as I can be ungenerous with those who do not.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘I trust I make m’self clear?’

  ‘Perfectly, sire.’

  His meaning was clear all right. He wanted Isaac found guilty so he could get his hands on his property. I was praying he would not ask me to commit myself to this conclusion for I truly did not know at that moment how I would answer if he did, or what his reaction would be. Fortunately the girl saved the moment and very possibly my neck. All the while John was speaking she had been making lewd gestures at me behind his back trying to unnerve me. It was indeed very distracting. Now she got up on her knees to play peek-a-boo with the silk cloth she had wrapped around her. I inwardly groaned wondering how and when I would be able to get out of this madhouse.

  ‘I’ve got a good idea,’ she mooed. ‘Why don’t we do it in front of this monk?’

  From my position at John’s feet I saw his left eye twitch. ‘I am trying to have a sensible conversation here, madam,’ he said without turning round.

  ‘Yes, but wouldn’t it be a laugh?’ She giggled and thrust out her pert little breasts towards me making me wince once more with embarrassment. ‘I bet he’s never done it. I bet he’s never even seen a naked woman before.’

  ‘He’s a doctor,’ said John. ‘Of course he’s seen a naked woman before.’

  ‘Yes, but never one with bubbies like these.’ She thrust the under-developed things up as high as she could and licked her lips salaciously, making me cringe again.

  John slowly turned, went over to the bed and smiling, leaned across and kissed the girl fully and sensuously on the mouth. Then with a deft twitch of his wrist he pulled the silk cloth from beneath her sending her sprawling off the bed and landing on the floor with a heavy bump. She screamed more from surprise than hurt which must have been heard in the corridor because the door was immediately flung open to reveal the guard and a dozen pair of minor nobility eyes peering anxiously in.

  ‘Get out!’ he bellowed at them.

  The door instantly closed again.

  John was apoplectic with rage. ‘How dare you?’ he screamed at the girl. ‘I am the King, you foul-mouthed little trollop. You can get out too. Go on, out - now!’

  Red in the face and shaking with anger, John threw the tray of macaroons at her head making her yell in pain. He chased her screaming and naked to the door and out into the corridor into the gaggle of astonished courtiers and merchants who now scrambled over each other to escape the fleeing girl’s path.

  ‘And take your mother with you!’ he yelled, at which point the gargoyle that had been sitting so stoically by the wall suddenly came to life, growled something incoherent, picked up her skirts and followed her daughter out of the room. ‘And don’t come back!’ John boomed at the top of his voice slamming the door so hard dust fell from the rafters.

  He stood for a moment panting deeply with spittle actually foaming on his lips as he tried to recover his composure. All the while this performance had lasted I had not dared move a muscle and remained on one knee terrified lest he turn his anger on me next. Gradually I heard his breathing return to normal.

  At last he seemed to remember where he was and that I was still in the room behind him. ‘Your father,’ he said quietly without turning round, ‘was William de Ixworth, I believe.’

  ‘That is correct, sire.’ I had no idea he knew my family. What horror was he now about to perpetrate on me?

  He merely nodded. ‘There was a William de Ixworth on crusade with my mother. Before my time. Before yours, too.’

  He was referring, as I knew, to his mother, the celebrated dowager Duchess Eleanor of Aquitaine, married to two kings and mother of two more, whose fame and beauty the troubadours had been celebrating for decades. She had indeed been in the Holy Land at the same time as my father on the abortive Holy War to Acre, Damascus and Jerusalem. A very elderly lady now, she had been married to King Louis of France, not yet to John’s father Henry, as I’m sure John knew only too well.

  ‘We are of an age, you and I, Master Physician,’ he said wearily still without turning round. ‘We could almost be brothers.’

  ‘Indeed we could, sire.’ The suggestion appalled me but I would have agreed the Moon was made of oatmeal had he said so just to get out of that room as quickly as possible.

  ‘Except I am King of England and you are an impoverished monk.’ He turned round and I could see he looked tired, drained. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can go. But remember what I said.’ He fixed me fiercely with his stare before going back to his seat by the desk and picking up the lyre again.

  I have never been so relieved to leave a room in my life. ‘Thank you, sire,’ I mumbled bowing all the way to the door. ‘I will indeed. Thank you. Thank you.’

  ‘By the way,’ he said as I was about to open it. I froze with my hand inches from the latch. ‘You’re doing a grand job. Keep it up.’ He began once again plucking at his tuneless song.

  Bowing continuously, I backed through the door, closed it with the gentlest of gentle clicks, and then let out a long-held sigh of relief.

  Turning, I was confronted by a sea of faces - courtiers, merchants and town dignitaries - all staring at me in silent horror.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ I mumbled politely as I stepped through them. ‘Thank you – excuse me - thank you.’

  As I got to the top of the stairs and about to descend, I heard the King bellow one last thing through the door:

  ‘And send up my steward of the bath! It smells like a tart’s boudoir in here!’

  Chapter 12

  TEMPTATIONS & TREACHERY

  I have just spent a wretched night. I confess it: I could not get the image of that naked girl out of my head. It was a shock to discover that I still had such feelings because I thought that part of my life had been over a dozen years or more. The King was right, of course, I have seen many a naked female body in the course of my professional career, how could I not? But the girl was also right in that this was no mere medical examination when one’s mind is filled with compassion for the patient and the cold determination of a cure and all baser thoughts are forgotten. All women patients flirt - they can do no otherwise since their Fall in the Garden of Eden. But never before have I been so brazenly beguiled by such an accomplished temptress, and one so very young. Where did she learn such skills? No wonder Adam had such difficulty resisting the charms of Eve.

  My mind was in turmoil all night, racing with unworthy thoughts as I tossed and turned on my cot, longing for sleep. When it wouldn’t come I got out of bed and knelt to pray earnestly to a merciful God to relieve me of my turmoil. And when this didn’t work I returned to my bed and lay on my back with my arms firmly held by my sides outside the sheets just as our novice master had taught us in the seminary all those years ago in order to avoid the temptation of Onan. Mercifully it was near to midsummer when the nights are at their shortest and dawn is not long in coming.

  Of course I am aware that such feelings are natural in any man and they don’t go away just because we monks give our bodies to Christ - monks are still men after all. The test is not the abandonment of those base instincts but the rising above them and weak mortals like us try to emulate as best we can the impossible perfection of our lord Jesus Christ, always being aware just how hopelessly inadequate our efforts will be.

  Well, that’s the theory anyway. Happily I made it through the night unpolluted. But this is not the first time my sacrifice has been thus tested and as I lay trying to divert my mind from these unworthy cravings my thoughts strayed once more to the more honourable side of human desire and specifically to a certain young lady with whom I had been emotionally intimate in my stu
dent days. This was in the south of France where all life celebrates love and beauty. I was a much younger man then, with a younger man’s passions which are not always so easy to subdue as they are later in life. The young lady concerned was called Emeline and she was the youngest daughter of the Comte de Céret, a friend of my father and a fellow Crusader on that same campaign the King had referred to. The Comte had been badly wounded at the siege of Damascus in July 1148 when his horse was shot from beneath him and had fallen on his leg. My father managed to save the leg although the Comte walked with a limp ever thereafter. In consequence the two men became lifelong friends. Nothing would have delighted either man more than to see their two families allied in the next generation. In truth, I think both our fathers were more keen on the match than we were ourselves although Emeline and I were extremely fond of each other. Of course, the prospect of having a wife did present me with something of a problem if I was to obey my other calling and become a monk. It was still possible then to both marry and to take holy orders despite the papal prohibitions invalidating all such marriages. Indeed, even today I know of several older priests who still keep female “house keepers”. But I was ideological in those days. I wanted to save people from both earthly disease and eternal torment. Besides, if my memory serves me correctly Emeline had a young man of whom she had been fond prior to our acquaintance and who had not quite given up hope of a return to favour, as indeed it turned out to be. So in the end the grand alliance came to nought, amicably I’m pleased to say, and everyone got what they really wanted.

  Cock crow came just as I was at last beginning to drift into troubled sleep and I dragged my exhausted limbs out of bed and down to the lavatorium to wash before lauds. Had I known just what sort of day it was going to turn out to be I might have stayed in bed and pulled the covers over my head.

  *

  Jocelin was as bright and jolly as I was dull and languorous this Thursday morn when he once again sat across from me in the refectory eager to know how I’d got on with the King. Half asleep still, I gave him an edited version of my audience, omitting mention of either the young damsel in the bed or my encounter with the odious Geoffrey de Saye. I did, however, repeat what the King had said about the murder.