©2002 by WILDBEARIES

"I am with child," she wrote Richard. "I am in a quandary as to what to do about this, ecstatic on the one hand and in despair when I think of the consequences of bearing an illegitimate child, or what the world will perceive as one because our marriage is secret. Please, my lord, advise me what to do because I have no one I can trust except my cousin, Joanna, and she is more panicked than I about the situation." Anne finished her letter, folded and sealed it, wrapped it inside a packet of oiled silk and sealed it on all sides with her distinctive green sealing wax. That done, she handed it to Bernard, a trusted young soldier/courier. "You know where to take this?"

"Aye, your Highness," he said firmly. He bowed, slid the packet inside a pouch on the reverse of his wide leather belt, and left on his swift journey north to the coast. He would ride to the channel coast, get across on one of the swift boats that routinely made the journey across to England, then ride north again until he reached King Richard's castle outside London. It would take several days, but it would be worth the rush and the fatigue, he knew, to get whatever was in the letter from the princess to the king. He was a lifelong servant of her family and loyal unto death. He mounted now and galloped out of the courtyard on his way.

Anne watched from her window as the horse and rider grew smaller and smaller before disappearing over a distant hill. She sighed. All she had to do now was wait. She had never been one for patient waiting; it was going to be difficult practicing something so foreign to her nature.

When Bernard arrived at his journey's end in England several days later, he handed the packet with the letter into the hands of King Richard himself. He had simply refused to cooperate with the stewards of the castle, the captain of the guard and anyone else who might ordinarily have handled the king's correspondence, insisting the letter was to be handed only to the king and nobody else. He hinted it was from Philip of France, but he never came right out and made that claim. It was the chance that it was that finally sent an exasperated royal equerry to the king's private office. "Sire," the annoyed man said, "there is a rider below with a letter he refuses to give anyone but yourself. We believe him to be French."

Richard, instantly guessing the letter was from Anne, schooled his features into a bored blandness and merely shrugged, "Send him to me then, man, and stop delaying him."

Stung, the equerry straightened from his bow and hurried to fetch the somewhat bedraggled courier. Bernard followed him back upstairs and into the richly appointed chamber where he bowed low to the seated king and promptly handed him the oiled silk packet. After a glance from the commanding eyes of the king, the equerry backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

"God's ankles," he complained to a fellow officer, "one never knows if that look means instant death or a clap on the shoulder with an offer of wine."

Commiserating with one another, they walked back down to their posts at the juncture of the main corridors.

Richard unfolded the letter after breaking the wax seals and read it. Bernard stood looking out a window at the gloomy afternoon. London was nearly always gloomy, he thought, and he longed to be back home in Navarre where the sun really shone and the breezes caressed the skin with warmth. He heard the king's indrawn breath and wondered at the letter's contents. He had no idea what it contained; but he knew it was important by the look on the Princess' face when she handed it to him to bring here. "Sire?" he asked softly, turning to face the man with the red-gold mane and the changeable aqua eyes.

Richard wasn't sure if he should be ecstatic or furious. Ecstatic that Anne was breeding, yes; furious with himself for having so little control with her that he'd gotten her with child before they revealed their secret marriage. Now, with things going rather badly in England - not much money in the royal coffers, barons arguing with barons over ridiculous land claims, politics being its usual morass of conflicting camps and intrigues - perhaps announcing that he was wed and his bride was expecting the heir to the throne would tip the balance of things his way.

On the other hand, with several of the barons and high lords having paraded their sisters and daughters in front of him like so many prize cattle for the past half year in hopes he would marry one of them, it might equally cause more conflict for them to suddenly find their efforts wasted on a king who had already been wed long since, and to a woman from Navarre at that. He blew out a breath of indecision, looked up at Bernard and thanked him for bringing the letter. "Go now," he urged the courier, "you look about to fall flat in exhaustion. Tell the equerries to find you quarters in the south wing, and rest. Food will be brought you and anything else you desire. I will speak with you in the morning."

Bernard left, grateful to be offered a bed and meal in the castle. Often he was simply thanked - if the recipient of whatever document remembered to, that is - and sent on his way with no thought to his fatigue or hunger. King Richard always saw to it that he was fed and rested, however. He wondered again what was in the letter. Whatever it was, it was something important, judging from the king's face.

Richard stood looking out of the south windows, sending his thoughts winging across hundreds of miles to where Anne waited. "Mon Coeur," he thought, "brave little one, I will figure this out. Know that I love you." He leaned his forehead against the leaded glass and closed his eyes, the better to find her.

"Lionheart" was received with so much positive press I almost thought they must not realize I was connected with it. I mean, mate, come on - I've never been a critics' nor a press darling. Yet, here was this film I'd sweated and laboured over, practically man-handled to get it right, and they actually liked it. And a costume drama with jousting at that. At least I wasn't in a skirt in this one. Well, not a short one, anyway.

It was Oscar announcement day. We were mid-way through a grueling 4 months of premieres, press conferences, publicity tours and what-have-you. At least it wasn't just me and some security people now - it was me, Lynnie, Kate, Alex and the Spawn of the Devil, er, rather, little Lynn. I'm kidding when I call her the Devil's child - she's not mean or evil, being only 6 months old, but she's nothing like the amiable first two.

We travel now as a kind of moveable freak show. There's Lynn and I, the three kids, their nanny, security people as needed, our driver, and what seems to me to be a mountain of baggage containing mostly the kids' stuff. I've never needed more than my big traveling duffel bag myself, although Lynn tells me my idea of necessary wardrobe leaves a lot to be desired. I now carried two duffel bags in deference to her critique of my travel wardrobe - I even buy new flannies every year now although I don't see the need for it when the old ones are so nice and comfy, with years of wear left in them even when they're patched. Anyway, the rest of the bags are Lynn's and the offspring's. I have no idea why they need so fuckin' much stuff, but they seem to, so I have long since learnt to shut up about it.

We were in New York City for some showings of the film for consideration for the various awards given out, and my phone rang at 4 in the morning. It was my publicist to tell me the film had gotten ten nominations, including me for Best Actor. This was my fifth nomination, but I can tell you, it was just as gut-wrenchingly exciting to hear it the fifth time as it was the first. I let out a whoop that woke Lynnie, and when I hung up the phone we celebrated in our favorite way.

Of course, these nominations meant even more press conferences, more screenings, more publicity, and by the time we got to Los Angeles and set up house in the Bel Aire Hotel, I was so wired and so tired I wasn't sure I was gonna make it to the awards broadcast.

"You're going to be fine," Lynnie kept reassuring me.

"I can't eat," I complained, pushing my plate away untasted. "I'm just too fuckin' keyed up."

"You'll be fine," Lynn said firmly, pushed the plate back, handed me my fork, and insisted I eat at least something.

The big day came, and with it, almost too late for me to wear it, the new tuxedo I'd been measured for six weeks earlier in London. The coat was fine. It was almost identical to the one I'd had made in 2002, but which was now adorning my figure in the Madame Tussaud's in London. It was a bit big in the shoulders but not noticeably so. What got me was that the damn pants were too loose. I didn't really notice it until we were alighting from the limousine in front of the Kodak Theater, and by then it was too fuckin' late to do much but hope the trousers stayed on until I could get inside and figure out how to keep them on. I whispered to Lynnie about my predicament as we went through the security gates.

The little shit giggled at me and shook her head, "Only you," she commented, pinning her security ID tag onto her beaded evening bag. "Let me see."

I stuffed my tag into the lining of my coat and showed her. We stood off to one side, other nominees and guests streaming past us, shielding us somewhat from the cameras and reporters, although one security guard was grinning as he realized what was going on.

"What the fuck am I gonna do?" I demanded of my laughing wife in a fierce whisper.

"Push pins?" she offered helpfully. "Staples? Duct tape?"

"Arrrgh, Lynn - do you have any?"

She shook her head.

I glanced around for Jake, who finally elbowed his way over, and told him what was wrong. He laughed as much as my spouse, who was still grinning like a naughty child. "Oh, leave off!" I hissed at her, which only made her laugh harder.

"Aren't there wardrobe and makeup people inside who help with this kind of stuff?" Jake finally asked.

"Right, I'd forgotten," I said. I grabbed Lynn's hand and slid it around under my coat so she could hold onto the back of my waistband. "Don't let go of that and don't - whatever you do - let my fuckin' pants fall down, right?" Can you picture that headline? I shudder at the thought. At least I had underpants on for once.

We went up the red carpet in record time. Nobody seemed to think it odd that my wife had her arm firmly around my waist or that I had a death grip on her keeping her at my side. We talked to all the right interviewers, posed for pictures and were inside in record time. The master of ceremonies almost fainted when I presented myself, Lynn still firmly entrenched by my side, and said I needed to find someone to help with a clothing problem.

He was so stunned I was early for once and not dawdling out of my seat that it took him a minute to stammer out where wardrobe was. Once I found out, I headed in that direction, only Lynn needed to go to the ladies' room, so I managed my loose pants myself and took off down the corridor in search of a safety pin. Hell, paper clips might have done at that point.

I found the right door and went in. Nobody was there but two women who looked up in shock when I bolted in the door, announcing, "My fuckin' pants are too loose!"

The older one, a nice lady about 40 or so, just grinned, got up and came to see. The other one, maybe late 20's, looked a little stunned at first, but shortly came to help. "Well, we could pin them back here," the first one said, pinching the waist band together in the center of my back as the other one held up the tail of my coat. "Sewing is best, but you really need to get your tailor to alter them, Mr. Crowe."

"Russell," I said automatically. I took off the coat so they could see what they were doing and they hunted up a supply of safety pins and set to work. They didn't want to just bunch up the fabric into a knot - that would have stuck out because the coat is a light weight wool crepe with a thin taffeta lining. The trousers were similar fabric, a bit heavier. So there I stood as two women, mouths full of pins, fixed my pants so I looked presentable and non-bunchy.

"Thousands would pay money to have their hands down my pants," I teased to lighten the moment. They both chuckled, and seemed much less nervous than when I'd burst into the room a few moments before.

They got them pinned, I put the coat back on with their assistance and we all studied my side and rear views in the mirror. "Looks great," I said, sighing in relief. "Can you imagine," I asked them, adjusting my tie, "me presenting Best Actress in a bit and my pants falling down at the moment I hand her the trophy?"

"Slapstick," the older one said.

"More like Bennie Hill," I said, and we all laughed again. "Ladies," I thanked them, "you've saved me from a fate worse than death." I tried to tip them and they refused. So later, I had Jake find out names and addresses, and the next morning they each got two dozen long-stemmed red roses with a safety pin inside the little gift card envelope. Hooked to the safety pin was a pair of one carat diamond studs. I got the sweetest thank you notes from them, but truly, they did save me from embarrassin' myself on worldwide television. Particularly after I presented the Best Actress award, later, near the end, when I had to get up to accept my own Oscar for Best Actor.

In my thank you speech, I mentioned how sometimes something as little as a safety pin can save an entire project. Only myself, Lynn, Jake and the two wardrobe ladies knew what I was getting at. I love private jokes, don't you?

Buttons, bars, logos © 2001 by WildBearies

Photographs of Russell Crowe courtesy of various fan sites.