by Alexa Aston
Before the crowd could grumble in discontent, he quickly added, “What I will sign, here and now, will be an order that will forever abolish serfdom in all of England. Riders will be sent immediately to every corner of the land. Englishmen will be able to negotiate fair pay for a good day’s labor. And I plan to grant general pardons to most men involved in the rebellion of this past week.”
A rousing cheer went up at the king’s words. Richard called for a quill and ink and quickly signed his name to some of the papers. He handed these over to the leadership of the rebellion, who seemed stunned that the monarch had accommodated their wishes so easily.
Ancel took a few steps that closed the gap between him and the king. He leaned and whispered into Richard’s ear, “We should leave with all haste, sire, while they are happy—and before they decide to press you on the issue of your uncle and royal council members.”
“Good thinking, Sir Ancel.” The king moved rapidly away from the center of Mile End to where his horse awaited him, along with almost two hundred soldiers.
Before he could mount the animal, Ancel told him, “You cannot return to the Tower, sire. I was there earlier when I rode in from Scotland.” He didn’t want to say anything more until they were safely away.
“Then we’ll go to Blackfriars,” Richard decided. “And I want to hear everything, Sir Ancel. About Scotland.” He paused. “And whatever’s happened at the Tower.”
Chapter 2
Highfield
Margery Ormond sat silently breaking her fast as Lord Umfrey Vivers bitterly complained about the recent peasants’ revolt to his younger son. As always, Gervase agreed with everything his father said.
She couldn’t blame the serfs—at least, not the ones who toiled at Highfield. Her stepfather was a cruel man who lashed out in rage over the smallest problem or mistake. She knew from their grumblings that the estate’s tenants were underpaid and overworked. Many had deserted Highfield and joined in Wat Tyler’s revolt as he led rebels from Kent and Essex to London to meet with the king a fortnight ago. Now Tyler was dead and the rebellion seemed to be collapsing without his leadership.
Margery wished she could rebel.
From the time she and her mother had arrived at Lord Umfrey’s manor house, she’d been told how grateful she should be that she had a roof over her head and food for her belly and clean clothes to wear. Lord Umfrey had married her mother after Margery’s father killed himself and left his family with huge debts. Her mother constantly emphasized how gracious the baron had been to take them in when they had nothing, for once the debts had been paid, naught remained.
Gracious was the last word Margery would use to describe her stepfather—or her two stepbrothers. Thurstan was a year older than she and Gervase a year younger. The boys had been unkind to her from the day she arrived at Highfield, taunting her about her father’s gambling and how he’d killed himself and now lay in unconsecrated ground. Their harsh words turned to vicious actions as they would pinch her. Push her. Yank her hair. Spit on her food. They hid her hairbrush and ruined her shoes. She’d soon learned that tattling to her mother didn’t help matters. By then, Marian Vivers was totally under her husband’s thumb and wouldn’t hear a word against him or his unruly sons.
Margery was thrilled when both boys finally left the manor to foster, only returning a few times a year. She thought she, too, would be allowed to foster with another family and escape the oppressive atmosphere at Highfield but her new stepfather said that Highfield was already a new place for her. She could learn as much here as from any other nobleman’s family, so she might as well stay put and help her mother run the household. But each year that passed brought Margery more misery—which is why she wished she could rebel.
But where would she go? As a woman, she had no say in her future. Frankly, she had no future. She could see wasting the rest of her life waiting upon her stepfather and then Thurstan, once he inherited the title and lands.
“At least London’s mayor and Standish did the right thing by running a sword through Wat Tyler,” Lord Umfrey proclaimed to a nodding Gervase. “But rebellion continues in Hertfordshire. Suffolk. Cambridgeshire. Looting. Destruction. And the king was foolish enough to grant pardons to most of the rebels, with their sticks and axes and old swords still in their hands.”
“Then they should be returning to the fields to work,” Thurstan said, a smug look on his brutish face. “’Tis where they belong. I hope things will get back to the way they should be.”
“But some of our people left and followed these rebels.” Lord Umfrey snorted. “Until they trickle back, look what I’m forced to do. I’ve been sending my soldiers out to the fields to work the harvest since I’m short on labor. Already, five of them have left my service. They told me farm work was beneath them. That they’d find another liege lord who respected their soldiering skills and would give them just pay.”
Margery knew her stepfather barely paid his soldiers more than he did his serfs. She didn’t blame anyone that left. She only wished she could leave with them.
She rose to slip away. Lord Umfrey wouldn’t wish for his tirade about the peasants’ revolt to be interrupted. She’d learn to speak only when spoken to when in his presence. Margery went past the wooden screens that blocked the kitchen from the great hall and quickly assembled food and drink for her mother’s meal. Now, though, she must cross the great hall again and she dreaded drawing her stepfather’s attention. Her fingers clutched the tray, hoping he wouldn’t notice her. She had much work to accomplish today and didn’t want to be pulled away from it.
“Margery!” he called from the dais across the room.
Reluctantly, she came toward him. She kept her expression neutral but she could feel Thurstan’s eyes raking over her. Ever since he’d come home the previous month, she grown more uncomfortable with his blatant stares in her direction. She’d made sure never to be alone with him.
“What do you plan to accomplish today?”
It didn’t surprise her that Lord Umfrey asked this. Though he did very little himself, he always insisted that his stepdaughter remain busy throughout the day and well into the night. She couldn’t remember the last idle moment she’d had. It seemed the man even begrudged the sleep she stole every night.
She raised the tray in her hands. “First, I will help Mother break her fast and bathe and dress her for the day. Then I need to—”
“My men haven’t had time to polish their armor, what with them having to play at being farmers. I need for you to do it for them. All of it. At once,” he barked.
She wanted to bark back that if he had a page or two, it would be their job to polish armor—not hers. But no families sent their sons or daughters to foster with Umfrey Vivers. Margery could only imagine what other nobleman said about her stepfather and his uncontrollable temper.
“Aye, my lord,” she said meekly, because that’s what she always said. No matter what he requested, she never questioned his authority. Her mother had told Margery since she was five years old that her duty was to see to her stepfather’s every wish. Margery never spoke out or disagreed with Lord Umfrey. She never drew attention to herself. Instead, she strove to remain patient and calm as her mother wished her to do. On the rare occasions when Margery had complained when the two of them were alone, her mother had reminded her daughter that women didn’t fight battles. They must do as they’re asked.
Or told. Her stepfather never asked. He only issued orders to her and he expected them to be followed without question.
She bowed her head briefly to hide the rage that would be revealed if Lord Umfrey looked her in the eye. Slowly, she gained control of her emotions.
Raising her head, she added, “I will do so, my lord, as soon as I’ve attended to Mother.” Margery walked to the stairs that sat next to the buttery, not wanting to contemplate how many hours over the next few days would be wasted shining the armor of Highfield’s soldiers.
She climbed the stairs and started down the
small corridor which held only two rooms. One belonged to her stepbrothers; the other, Margery shared with her mother. She balanced the tray against her hip and opened the door. Before she could walk in, a creak in the floorboards behind her had her whip around.
Thurstan had followed her.
He stepped close to her. Margery backed into the doorframe, relieved that she held the tray between them. He loomed over her, his eyes roaming her face and then dropping to her breasts. Thurstan grabbed a hold of her wrist. His other hand stroked her cheek.
Bile rose in her throat. She was afraid of him and always had been—and he knew it. But the light in his eyes now caused a new kind of fear within her. It coiled in her belly and sat like a cold lump. Margery was afraid she would drop the tray and then have no barrier between them.
“You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, little sister,” Thurstan said softly, his tone meant to intimidate her.
“I’m not your sister,” she snapped. “And you’ve never treated me as one.”
He grinned as his fingers took her chin in hand. “No, you aren’t. But you could be something else to me.” His words hung in the air.
Margery knew what he meant. It made her sick to think about it.
“Get away from me,” she hissed, not wanting her mother to overhear their conversation.
Thurstan tightened his fingers on her wrist. “You always thought you were too good for us. Right from the start. That pert little nose stuck high in the air. It’s about time that I took it down a notch or two,” he warned. “All the way down to my cock, little sister.”
“And if you do, then I’ll bite it off,” she cautioned. “Make all the threats you want, Thurstan—but be prepared to pay the price.”
“Margery?” her mother called, her voice faint.
“Coming, Mother.” She jerked her head, freeing it from his fingers. “Release me before you cause a scene.”
His face grew red. He squeezed her wrist till she thought her bones would shatter. “Say what you want, you silly, little bitch. But I’ll be waiting for you sometime when you least suspect it. Gervase, too. I wouldn’t want him to lose out on the fun.”
Thurstan released her wrist and strode away.
Margery stood frozen for a moment. She didn’t trust her trembling legs to support her if she tried to walk. She leaned against the wall and took a deep breath, composing herself, then she entered the bedchamber and kicked the door shut with her foot.
“Good morning, Mother.” She was pleased that her voice didn’t betray the hysteria that she strove to tamp down and banish.
“Hello, dear,” her mother whispered. Then the coughing began.
Margery placed the tray on a nearby table and helped Marian to sit up. She propped several pillows behind her mother and handed her a clean cloth. More coughing ensued. When the cloth came away, Margery saw it was stained with blood. Each morning, she prayed her mother would recover from the lingering illness she suffered from but, in her heart, Margery knew that her mother’s time was limited. She grew weaker by the day.
“Let’s get some of this broth in you,” Margery suggested as she brought the small bowl to her mother’s lips.
After a sip, her mother frowned and pushed it away. “I can’t.”
“You must. Mother. You’re wasting away.”
“So be it. I feel my life ebbing away. I haven’t the strength to do anything about it.”
Margery resigned herself to the fact that the day was approaching when she would awaken and find her mother dead in the bed next to her.
What would become of her then?
For five years, Margery had acted in her mother’s stead. She’d taken over the duties of running the household as her mother grew more and more ill. Her stepfather had insisted that his wife move out of the solar because Lady Marian disturbed his rest, so Margery shared a bedchamber with her mother. She took sole care of Marian and did many physical tasks inside the manor house since her stepfather was so tight with his coin that he hired as few servants as possible.
When her mother passed away, Margery would be even more trapped. Her father had gambled away the promised bridal price and her betrothal had been broken once it became known that he’d taken his life. She was already one and twenty but her stepfather had proclaimed that he needed his stepdaughter here at Highfield to run his household and refused to arrange a marriage for her. She knew once her mother was gone, Lord Umfrey would never consider finding her a husband. Margery would never be able to have children of her own. She would die in this gloomy place, miserable and alone. So much for accepting her fate and being a docile daughter all these years.
“Is there any news?”
Her mother asked that each day. Margery would tell her about different tasks she’d accomplished or what had been plucked from the garden. She might share if a new babe had been born on the estate or if a couple had wed. But she’d kept quiet about the uprising surrounding them and how it had affected London and Highfield. She didn’t see the need to worry a woman whose whole world had been reduced to inside these four walls.
“Not really,” she said breezily. “Though I’m to polish armor today. I won’t be able to spend as much time with you as I usually do. Lord Umfrey expects me to drop everything when he has a request.”
Her mother patted her hand. “You’re such a good girl, Margery.”
She brushed her mother’s hair and bathed her face before dressing Marian in fresh clothes. Those actions alone tired her mother, so she decided to let the woman sleep. Before she could even slip from the room, Marian already snored softly.
Margery returned the untouched tray to the kitchen and then headed for the armory. She spent the entire morning polishing armor, humming softly to herself as she tried not to worry about how far behind she would fall in all her other tasks. Gradually, her fingers began to cramp. She decided it must be time for the noon meal. Since they had no cook, she and Sarah had been preparing a lighter meal because it was harvest time and the workers were eating out in the fields. The heavier cooking would be done this afternoon for the evening meal. Still, Margery needed to make sure she helped Sarah deliver the food to the hungry harvesters. Lord Umfrey’s soldiers were already cranky enough by having to work as common laborers. She didn’t want them complaining to their liege lord about a delay in receiving their food.
Putting aside her cleaning rags, she flexed her fingers and then rotated her wrists. Her neck and back ached from bending over all morning. She glanced around and was pleased at how burnished the completed armor looked so far. If she worked as quickly for the remainder of the day, she might finish before the evening meal tomorrow.
Margery couldn’t shake the odd feeling that came over her as she started toward the great hall. She couldn’t put her finger on it.
Then she realized that it was too quiet inside the manor house. She rushed to the great hall and found it empty, so she hurried to the kitchen. No one was there. Dread filled her. Sarah and their few servants should have already prepared the baskets so they could take the meal to the fields. Yet not a soul was in sight, nor had she passed anyone on her way here.
Where could everyone be?
Then she knew. She’d caught bits and pieces of conversations that died down when she came across various servants inside the keep this past week but she’d heard enough to realize that Wat Tyler’s rebellion wasn’t yet done. Margery had listened as her stepfather told his two sons of how noblemen had been killed and their keeps burned as the Kent and Essex rebels marched to London. How the peasants had set fires that raged across the city. She hadn’t wanted to think anything like that could happen at Highfield, even though it was in Essex. They’d seen no signs of trouble at Highfield.
That should have been a sign in and of itself, she realized, being lulled into complacency. And if anyone deserved the wrath of the serfs, it would be her stepfather and his two spoiled sons. Their harsh ways with their tenants might be the downfall of them all.
Marger
y ran to her bedchamber and found her mother still dozing, so she shook her awake.
“We must leave Highfield at once,” she said calmly, though her insides churned.
A puzzled look crossed her mother’s face. “What? Leave? Why?”
Quickly, she explained what had happened in the last two weeks and saw the dawning horror on her mother’s face.
“And now I can’t find anyone inside the manor house,” Margery revealed. “I’m afraid our servants may have joined with the other peasants in this rebellion. They may be trying to make another stand against the king’s men.” Margery took her mother’s cold hands in hers. “I’m afraid for our safety, Mother. We can’t stay here. The people hate Lord Umfrey with a passion. All of them. They might set fire to the manor house with us in it.”
“Fetch my casket. It’s in the bottom of the chest.”
Margery flung the chest open and dug until she found the casket. She hadn’t seen it in years.
“Bring it to me.”
She did as her mother asked, wondering why this was so important when they were pressed for time.
“There are only a few jewels in here. They belonged to my mother. When I married, my father passed them along to me. They were pieces your father didn’t know about or he’d have gambled them away or sold them. Lord Umfrey gave me none in all these years, so you’ll have to make do with what’s left.”
Margery opened the casket and found an amethyst ring and a pearl necklace. She quickly tucked both of them into her pocket.
“Lift the bottom out,” her mother commanded, her voice stronger than Margery had heard it in months.
She tugged at it until her nail could get under the false bottom. When she pulled it up, she discovered a silver pendant that she’d never seen before. Margery removed it from the casket and held it up by the chain, intrigued with its unusual design and inlay of garnets.
Her mother’s face softened. A beautiful smile came to her lips, making her look years younger. She reached for the necklace and Margery placed it in her hands.