A Child Upon the Throne

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "No son of mine will be a goldsmith. Serill will be a knight, like his father." Matthew carefully eased the hood from his peregrine, who once again flapped her wings and stretched her neck, seeking a treat which he retrieved from a covered container.

  While Matthew fed his bird, Margery looked away. She hated the way the carrion stank up the solar. Despite the room's beauty, she'd also begun to hate the solar itself. "The Shop of the Unicorn is a worthy legacy. Serill will be heir to a thriving business. But he is still so young."

  "I was already a year into my service at his age. 'Twas not pleasant but 'tis necessary, lest you would have our son killed his first time in battle."

  "For all the world knows, Serill is Simon Crull's issue. No one would question his choice to become a tradesman."

  Matthew snorted. "Really, Meg? Who do you think you fool with such nonsense? Serill looks just like a Hart, he looks like me and his interest is in the sword. Furthermore, since we have lived together these past many years do you not think people have guessed his heritage? This might be a pretense you need to maintain for whatever reason, but I have already talked to my lord Duke and Serill will begin his training in the Lancaster household on Michaelmas."

  Margery gasped. "With John of Gaunt?" She rose, then thought better of it and sat down again, clutching her suddenly trembling hands together. "Is that wise? And so soon? Why did you not consult me?"

  "Because then I'd have to listen to your cavilling." Matthew tossed his jeweled hawking glove on one of several iron-bound chests, crossed to a small table, and poured himself a goblet of wine which he downed in one long gulp.

  "You are mistaken if you think you have a voice in this matter," he said, turning back to her. "That just because you are Margery Watson you can write society's rules as you please."

  She felt her face flush, as if he'd slapped her. They were in danger of veering into uncharted territory from which they might not be able to return. "I just do not want our son involved in war," she said carefully. You lost your brother to war. You lost your soul to war.

  Matthew waved a hand dismissively. "We are all involved in war—goldsmith or villein, king or abbot, it makes no difference. And Serill is my heir, whether we wed or not. And he will be a knight."

  Margery once again picked up the pillow slip to busy her shaking hands. She smoothed the fabric as if she were smoothing away her frustration and bit back the words she wanted to hurl at him, which were, "So that he can kill innocent women and children?"

  "Serill would be so far from home, and pages are treated so very harshly," she said, her manner as reasonable as she could make it. "He is such a gentle boy, so sensitive—"

  "Serill? He is as rough and tumble as any lad. He doesn't need his mother hovering about turning him into a girl."

  "I've seen what knighthood does," Margery snapped, feeling her temper slip. There were certain wounds that must not be re-opened, certain subjects that must not be broached. Yet they were there on the tip of her tongue, readying to explode like those cannon balls about which she'd been hearing.

  "And what precisely is it that knighthood does? Enlighten me, Margery Watson." Matthew drew himself up to his full height. Even in ordinary dress, he looked every bit a warrior; his expression was fierce enough to chill her heart.

  How many more have you killed on this campaign? She wanted to taunt. How much more bloodletting? But Matthew had killed women and children without a qualm, hadn't he? What might you do to me?

  "I just want to protect Serill," she said, her tone placating. "Allow him to be carefree... and innocent... for a while longer."

  "As do I." That look left Matthew's eyes. More softly, he said, "I would not quarrel with you. I wish we could keep Serill cosseted and close but that is not the way of the world, my world."

  "Why does it have to be so? Why—"

  "I am doing what is best for our son and for the family name."

  "I would prefer—"

  Matthew cut her off with a look of ice. "No more, Meg. 'Tis done. Serill will be serving as a page in my lord's house. And if you further complain, I'll send him off tomorrow." He slammed his goblet down on the table, strode to the solar door, and as a parting dig, tossed over his shoulder, "Who would have thought that you would become such a nag?"

  Margery stared at the closing door. And you, former light of my heart, what have you become?

  * * *

  In the first month Margery and Matthew had moved into Warrick Inn, she had painted a calendar on the wall above the fireplace which detailed all the days and seasons until the end of the decade. Important dates had been circled in red—birth days and death days, political events, saints' days and celebrations. Had the lovers known, they surely would have marked today's date, August 15, 1378, for this was the day their relationship ended.

  The morning began auspiciously enough with no hint of what was to come. As Matthew and Margery had settled back into long-established routine, forced politeness had gradually given way to more relaxed conversation. In the night when Matthew reached for her she went willingly, and entwined as they were in each other's arms, the hurts fell away. At least until dawn.

  Margery, Matthew, and Serill walked to Smithfield to view the weekly horse racing. Serill chatted about the last time they'd enjoyed a similar outing, which had been on Easter Sunday. London's churches had been adorned with lilies, and Londoners, in high spirits after six weeks of fasting, had been arrayed in their finest. Serill had joined other children wrestling, foot racing, and rolling hard-boiled eggs on the grass.

  Margery remembered that day for another reason. Matthew had needled her once too often for her reluctance to wed and they'd publicly quarreled. He would have been within his rights to backhand her for her disrespect so today she vowed she would be the perfect helpmeet, as unruffled as the female saints that forever gazed upon worshippers from chapel, church and cathedral stained glass windows. Of course the women were all martyrs. But what was it about Catherine, Cecilia, Agnes, Perpetua and the rest? How could they bear such placid expressions while being stuck full of arrows, decapitated, boiled in water or burned alive, or even when they gouged out their own eyes, as did Saint Lucia, who was oft depicted carrying them around upon a plate? Virginity, or the fear of losing it, seemed to be the reason so many had cheerfully undergone torture, disfigurement and death.

  Which is one of the many reasons I will never be a saint.

  Once at Smithfield they made their way slowly toward the crowds surrounding the racing paths. Excited as a pup, Serill pestered his father to purchase treats from various vendors and a kite in the shape of a dragon which Matthew then taught him to fly.

  What a fine day with the sun warm on Margery's back, the cheerful cries of hawkers; children's shouts and laughter; strolling lords and ladies looking like brilliant flowers, and in the distance racing horses with their necks stretched taut, their legs a blur as they thundered toward a finish line.

  Suddenly, Margery heard someone call Matthew's name. She felt an unpleasant prickling along her spine for she well recognized that voice. Turning, she watched Desiderata Cecy, her son, and a pair of her ladies-in-waiting approach.

  "I thought your duke banished that creature from court following His Grace's death," Margery mumbled to Matthew, who had returned Serill's kite, which he'd maneuvered high enough to catch an air current, to his son.

  "Smithfield is hardly Westminster, more's the pity." Matthew did not appear to be any happier seeing his former sister-in-law than Margery felt, though Serill, with his kite bobbing and jerking like a great red snake, ran to greet his cousin, Ralphie.

  "We'd best have a care to our fingers, lest she strip off all our rings," Margery said nastily. She noted that Lady Cecy was dressed quite demurely, all in black, with gold piping, as if in mourning.

  Who do you pretend to mourn? she wondered. The king? Harry still? Your banishment from court? Or simply do you wear black because it flatters you?

  "My lord, God you keep!" Des
ire stopped before them, curtsied to Matthew and favored them both with a friendly smile.

  Did you plan this? Margery wondered, responding with the barest acceptable curtsy.

  Matthew echoed Desire's greeting. Regardless of their unfortunate history, she was his brother's widow and must be shown proper respect.

  "Come along, Ralphie!" Serill grabbed his cousin's hand. "I'll teach you how to fly my kite."

  "And then we'll watch the races," Ralphie said. "Mightn't we?" Serill nodded and they ran away, across the green, trailed by the rapidly descending dragon.

  "How tall your son is," Desire observed, following the boys' retreating forms. "Near as tall as Ralphie."

  Neither Margery nor Matthew commented, though Desire continued, seemingly oblivious to the tension-filled air. "I am so happy that our sons are friends as well as kin. Harry would be pleased."

  At mention of his brother, Matthew stiffened while Margery could scarce hide her annoyance. If Desire had any sensitivity at all, which she did not, she would realize Matthew avoided all mention of Harry Hart.

  "Blood is everything," Matthew agreed, keeping his gaze on Serill and Ralphie, who were running along the banks of the Fleet River trying to coax the dragon kite once again high into the air. 'Twas impossible to look his former sister-in-law in the eye. Throughout the March to Oblivion Harry had often spoken of his wife and son, but Matthew would not remember those conversations.

  "'Tis only right that Serill and Ralphie be close growing up," he added, pushing down any stir of memory. "Which is why I arranged for both to serve my lord duke."

  "I am so grateful for your intercession. Ralphie was so unhappy in the Gloucester household."

  What? Margery's eyebrows shot up. What are you talking about? She looked from one to the other. When had Matthew talked to John of Gaunt about his nephew? How would he have known anything about Ralphie's plight unless Desire had told him?

  "...pleased to help," Matthew was saying.

  "My son can be timid and, despite my differences with your lord, 'tis the best household for him."

  Margery didn't know whether to roll her eyes or slap the woman. Desiderata Cecy never worried about anyone or anything beyond herself, and her doting mother act was as artificial as the paint on her face. She wanted something, of course, but what? Most probably Matthew.

  You are using your son as an excuse and, being a man, my lord is stupid enough not to notice. Unless he still wishes to bed you himself.

  Margery felt that old rush of jealousy. Somehow without her knowing, Matthew and his former leman had been in communication. How dare he? What other secrets was he keeping?

  But to bed your brother's wife, that would be incestuous. Surely you would not so dishonor Harry...

  While Margery thought her dark thoughts—for weren't Desire's ladies-in-waiting also eyeing her lover far too boldly?—Desire chatted about past travels to her numerous estates throughout France.

  "I am leaving soon for Bordeaux," she said suddenly. "I will not return."

  Matthew peered at Desire, trying to decipher the meaning behind her unexpected announcement. For the first time he noticed that she appeared weary and there was something about her, a certain vulnerability—could it possibly be so?—that he'd not previously noticed.

  "God's speed on your journey." Margery's voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  At that moment, Serill and Ralph came tearing back and Serill grabbed her hand. "Come along, Maman. 'Tis your turn to help us fly our dragon."

  Reluctantly, Margery acquiesced, and after Desire gestured to one of her ladies to follow, she turned once more to Matthew, who'd been mulling his own exit.

  "Would you walk with me, Lord Hart? One last time?"

  Matthew hesitated. He had a lifetime of reasons he did not want to be alone with Desire. But she had been Harry's wife and she was Ralphie's mother, and despite her disgraceful behavior with King Edward, despite her many faults, that status granted her a certain courtesy.

  "Please."

  She seemed nervous and while he would once have said he knew her every expression, her every pretense, he could decipher nothing beyond a certain wistfulness.

  Rather than speak, he offered his arm in the customary fashion. They walked in silence, her arm lightly atop his.

  Desire cleared her throat. "Remember how it was in Bordeaux? What grand amusements we enjoyed? The banquets, with lakes of real water that Prince Edward's artificers used to bring into the dining hall? Remember how skilled they were, how they made boats row up and down, and lions appear? And the night they caused an actual stone castle to vanish right before our eyes?" She gestured broadly with her free arm, as if brandishing a magic wand. "Those were golden days, were they not?"

  Matthew tensed. If she thought to tread the well-worn path of their relationship, he would walk away. "'Tis past," he said bluntly. "I never think on it."

  She sighed. "England was never my home. And now... well, 'tis best."

  They strolled past merchants selling trinkets and toys; a group of carolers singing and dancing in a circle, horses being cooled down by their handlers. Matthew craned his neck to see if he could spot Margery and the boys. Being alone with Desire was definitely uncomfortable.

  "I really learned to love him, you know," Desire said, her voice barely a whisper.

  Matthew's vision darkened, and for an instant he could see nothing at all. It was as if he was caught up in a thunder cloud, and he felt a roaring in his ears. He knew well enough who Desire was speaking of and he would not, could not speak of Harry.

  He opened his mouth to reply, but no words emerged. His instinct was to race back across the grass to his family, scoop Serill up in his arms and hurry away from Desire and whatever it was she thought she needed to confess.

  "I know I wasn't the most understanding of wives. I have always had such a wayward tongue... When I canna sleep I run back and forth in my mind the cruel things I said to him."

  Matthew turned to study her. Was she sincere? Was this some sort of trap? He'd never been able to keep up with her mental machinations. But so many years had passed since they'd been lovers, since she'd married Harry, since he'd spent any time in her presence. He was certainly not the same person. Could it also be so with Desire?

  "I know how it must have appeared to others, but when your brother and I were alone..." Tears pooled in her dark eyes. He'd seen those before as well, copious tears no more to be trusted than her rages or gentleness. Was this too for effect?

  "I miss him more than I can bear at times." The tears slipped down Desire's cheeks, tracing tracks upon the white powder of her makeup. "So many regrets," she sighed.

  Matthew felt his own eyes burn. He could not say what was in his heart, which was that Desiderata Cecy was not the only one who lay awake nights. That he dreaded sleep and its resultant nightmares just as he dreaded sleep's absence. For then his head would be crowded with so many images that he grew dizzy trying to sort through them all...

  "Your brother was always kind and gentle to me."

  "That was Harry's nature." His voice was gruff. I really do not want to speak of this. If he could just disappear. Drift away upon the wind...

  She cast him a glance. "You were never kind or gentle."

  He managed a smile. "Nay."

  Desire paused and faced him. In her expression, he saw nothing but pain, and his chest tightened. What did she seek from him? Whatever it was, he was incapable of granting it. If it had to do with his brother, they could not alter the past, which meant this conversation served absolutely no purpose.

  "I ask you one final kindness before I depart."

  "And what is that?" Here we are, when she'll reveal what is really in that scheming mind of hers. Or worse. He would prefer manipulations to genuine sorrow.

  Desire looked into Matthew's eyes. "Tell me how my husband died. Please. Tell me everything."

  * * *

  Matthew had not returned to Smithfield. Where was he? Soon it would be Ves
pers. Margery and Serill and Ralphie and Desire's maid had passed the afternoon flying the dragon kite until it got caught and torn in one of the trees along Fleet River. Ralphie had eaten so much that he complained of a stomach ache and both boys had to be repeatedly reprimanded for getting too close to galloping horses. While Margery would like to have subtly (she hoped) question Desire's ladies-in-waiting about whether their mistress had been sincere about departing England, the women spoke very little English and Margery's French was abysmal. So as soon as possible she'd returned to Warrick Inn.

  And waited for Matthew's return.

  And waited.

  Settled in the window seat, she absently wrapped around her hand a streamer of knots of ophreys from her sewing box. She had been planning to use the gold lace to border the sleeves of one of her gowns. Instead, unable to concentrate, she rearranged the box's contents—her leather thimble, scissors, spools of thread and various-sized needles. She'd planned to knit Matthew a cloak...

  Margery closed the lid, rose and crossed to one of the square wicker bird cages hanging in a nearby window. Darkness was inching across London's rooftops. So many times of a summer's night, after the rising moon, lads and maidens would dance upon the green, lay neath sheltering oaks, and make love. She sighed. It seemed so long since she and Matthew had done anything similar—at least with a merry heart.

  The raven inside its wicker cage followed her with its sharp black eyes before turning its tail, as if in dismissal. She thought of Robin, of the night she'd killed Simon Crull, of so many things. It was not just her lover's leave-taking with Desire that was so troubling. What she was feeling was not jealousy. It was weariness.

  I cannot do this anymore.

  Margery leaned against the window frame, gazing into the twilight. How to parse the mysteries of love? In the early years, because their relationship had been so forbidden and their time so limited, their every moment had been as charged as lightning... The wasteland that was her heart, her life, following her marriage to Crull... Then, after she and Matthew had reunited, she'd been so immersed in thoughts of him when he was away that, whether on campaign or with the Black Prince or in the wilds of Cumbria, he'd been as ever-present as a shadow. If she could have created a magic potion to conjure him, she would have risked her soul for a few blissful hours together. Her golden knight, her faerie knight under the moon. As much a part of her as her blood, her breath, her bones. She would imagine Matthew hiding in storm clouds and riding on the wind and in sunrises and sunsets. Her force of nature. She'd see him everywhere—in a courtier's grin, a certain stance or gesture, the narrowing of the eyes, the shape of the hands, the cock of the head—and the longing would be as sharp as if she'd been pierced with a dagger. In dreams she would taste him and feel him and touch him and, even upon awakening, tingle with the after-blush of lovemaking. Had he been as obsessed, as in love? Odd that she'd never asked, but she'd never doubted, always just assumed... until now.