What is true? Margery wondered. Can I be certain about anything?
Of course the marker, the before and after of their demise, was Limoges. She'd assured herself they'd weathered that and all the other challenges when she'd simply been distracting herself with pretty tales in order to ignore the truth. Which was that they'd become strangers who might still love each other but 'twas questionable whether they were happy sharing the same room.
A servant entered to light the candles, ready the hearth fire and turn down their bed.
"Thank you, Cicily."
Sometimes, when Margery saw a shepherd playing his pipe or passed a well-tended cottage with a heather-thatched roof and tidy garden to the side, or transacted business at the Shop with a prosperous merchant—perhaps someone in the wool trade—and his placid wife, she wished, oh, she wished, that her and Matthew's lives could have been different. Quieter. Simpler. Without all the obligations that came with noble blood. Of course everyone had obligations but it was easier to marry who one pleased and, so long as you gave your betters their due, be left alone. No dealing with political intrigues and weighty decisions that could affect an entire kingdom. Or going off to war; for there was always war. In her imaginings she chose to construct a sweet, simple, happy existence, rather than some of the more unpleasant realities she'd experienced and that Thurold and John Ball related. She fancied herself as an herbalist and Matthew a fletcher, or he a blacksmith and she a basketmaker or spinster or maybe both. Not too prosperous because there would be the demands of the business, as it was now with the Shop of the Unicorn. But enough so they would not want...
She heard a noise on the stairs and knew by the tread that Matthew had returned. Did you bed Desiderata Cecy? Do I care?
His steps stopped in the doorway. "I am returning to the Shop of the Unicorn," Margery said, without turning around. She'd expected that with the utterance she might cry or at the very least her voice would break. Neither happened.
"Ah, Meg."
She turned to face her lover. He had stepped into the room but made no move to approach her. Nor could she read anything in his expression other than sadness. Shouldn't he react more strongly—protest, demand an explanation, yell? Confess his indiscretion, plead for forgiveness?
"Are you upset about Harry's wife?" He offered no explanation, merely the question, but if she could read him at all—which perhaps she could not—he'd not bedded his former sister-in-law.
"Nay, not upset." Grateful perhaps. For Desiderata Cecy had been the catalyst that had forced her to focus, to strip back the yearning and the pretense and to clearly see their relationship. They'd been breathing life into a corpse, that was all.
Margery returned to the window seat where she placed a pair of sewing gloves back in the sewing box. Carefully she folded the knots of ophreys atop the gloves and closed the lid.
"Perhaps our love is not enough," she said quietly. "We are both unhappy and have been so for a very long time..." Her voice trailed away. How would he respond? Would he say something that could convince her to stay? If he told her he loved her, would that be enough? But love was such a hollow word, and, for certes, never an answer to a successful pairing.
Why am I not weeping? When we've known each other since children? When I can scarce remember a time when I did not at least know that someone named Matthew Hart walked this earth? Why don't I feel anything at all?
Matthew remained inside the door with his legs slightly apart, his hands at his side. He made no move to approach her, to protest, to deny their unhappiness and plead with her to reconsider.
Rather, he simply shook his head and said, "I am sorry, Meg. For the both of us."
Chapter 8
Christmas, 1378, Kenilworth Castle
After Matthew Hart relinquished his son to John of Gaunt's household, he left London. Margery had moved back to the Shop of the Unicorn, as she'd said she would, and the few times they met, they might have been strangers. "My lord" this and "Dame" that with little eye contact and nothing beyond formalities in speech or action. Had Matthew pondered the past, he might have mourned, but there seemed to be a mental wall separating all that from the present. As if it were a bottomless well and should he happen to peer over the edge he would encounter only blackness.
Over the next months, he and his squire, Jerome, travelled around the Midlands. While in Berkshire he stayed at Abingdon Abbey near one of the demesnes that had been part of his mother's dowry. He and Harry had sometimes wandered about the Benedictine Abbey in childhood, and Matthew hoped God might bestow upon him some special wisdom or guidance amid the tombs of nobles and abbots, or the holy relics of Abingdon's Church of St. Mary's. But God did not. Nor did He at the mill stream near the abbey where Matthew would sit for hours at a time, staring at the water coursing over the wheel.
After a few weeks in Abingdon, he and Jerome continued on, never staying more than a few days in any one place. While travelling, he found it easy to be distracted by the journey itself, and not think of much beyond the road, the scenery, and the night's lodging. But his restless odyssey was merely postponing the inevitable. His return to Cumbria. If Matthew were ever going to come to grips with the past, and how it had destroyed the present, he must go home.
On his way north, Matthew stopped at Kenilworth, where John of Gaunt was in residence. He planned to discuss his decision to retire to Cumbria, as well as to see his son.
Upon approaching Kenilworth, Matthew was struck by its beauty. When not on campaign, the duke increasingly bypassed London for the gentler countryside. And Kenilworth, situated in the middle of an artificial lake spanning more than 100 acres, was John of Gaunt's favorite residence. Now the water was glutted with ice, but in the summertime Kenilworth must look like a fairy palace.
Anticipating his reunion with Serill, which would be pleasant, and his conversation with his liege, which would be less so, Matthew and his squire dismounted near Swan Tower.
He was spotted by the duke's leman, Katherine Swynford, returning from a walk with her sister, Philippa, and Henry Bolingbroke, King Richard's cousin and the duke's first-born son. Henry and Richard had been born within a few months of each other, had been knighted together and would in the distant future—if anyone had cared to consult the stars—battle over England's crown.
Katherine smiled and curtsied to Matthew, as did her sister, Philippa, a fussy creature who was married to the poet, Geoffrey Chaucer.
"The duke is in the banqueting hall with Master Geoffrey," Katherine said. After grooms had appeared to take the travelers' horses and Jerome had followed, peppering them with instructions, Katherine said, "We'll show you the way, Lord Hart. My lord will be pleased to see you." Her hood of grey squirrel, which framed her face, reflected the warm grey of her eyes. While she might not be, as many asserted, the most beautiful woman in England, the duke's mistress was definitely comely.
"Serill is adjusting to his duties so quickly 'twill soon be time to allow him downstairs with the men."
Something about Katherine's smile and gentle manner reminded Matthew of Meg, and he found it difficult to meet her gaze.
"How is Dame Margery?" Lady Katherine asked, as if reading his thoughts. A light snow was just beginning to fall, this eve of Christmas Eve. Involved as he was in his own unhappiness, Matthew had nearly forgotten the time of year.
He murmured something non-committal. When was the last time he'd seen Margery? On the heels of his leaving. He'd just left an armorer's shop where he was having his armor repaired when he'd literally run into her. He'd been so preoccupied that at first he'd not recognized her until she addressed him by name. Dispassionately, he'd noted that Master Craftsman Nicholas Norlong was by her side so mayhap his suspicions had been correct. But what did it matter? Their brief conversation had been stilted, confined to the most perfunctory of pleasantries. He'd not mentioned that he'd be returning to Cumbria or shared anything else of substance. Nor had Margery, though if pressed he would have had to confess he couldn't
even remember her part of their exchange.
Afterward, reminding himself he might never again see his former leman, Matthew had tried unsuccessfully to conjure up sorrow.
"You can both be proud of Serill," Katherine was saying. If she noticed anything amiss in his answer about Margery, she did not comment. "He is eager to follow in his father's steps and will someday become a great knight."
Matthew bit back a sarcastic rejoinder. But John of Gaunt would only have told his mistress the parts of campaigns he wanted her to hear, the parts that fit the propaganda.
Kenilworth's banqueting hall was the second largest in all of England, surpassed only by Westminster's. It possessed soaring windows and beautiful paneling, all decorated with pine boughs and ribbons for the Christmas season. The warmth from the four fireplaces caused the snowflakes dusting Matthew's mantle to melt and disappear into the fabric. He began to smell strongly of wet wool, and his face to tingle from the change in temperature.
Matthew spotted the Duke of Lancaster seated before the largest fireplace with his two-year-old son, Henry, on his lap, conversing with Geoffrey Chaucer. John was Chaucer's friend, as well as his patron. Matthew liked Geoffrey well enough, though he had always been leery of him. He did not want to end up the disguised subject of the poet's verse; nor had he ever been able to see any lasting merit in Chaucer's scribblings.
When the duke saw Matthew, he handed his son to Geoffrey, ladled Matthew a bowl of wassail from the cauldron above the fire, and met him halfway across the hall. Handing Matthew the steaming bowl, John said, "I have thought of you often since our return from Saint-Malo. Have things gone well for you?" He could already read the answer on his vassal's face.
Matthew's first swallow of wassail warmed his throat and chest. He cupped his benumbed fingers round the bowl, allowing its heat to warm his hands. "That is why I am here, my lord. I've come to a decision."
At that moment, Serill entered the room. Matthew noted with amusement that his son began running toward them before abruptly slowing to a dignified walk. He was struck by how much Serill looked like Meg. She had always remarked on their son's resemblance to him, but he could see her in the line of Serill's jaw, the shape of his eyes, the luxuriant thickness of his hair.
After greeting Matthew, Serill asked, "How is Maman? I receive letters and I will see her when we return to London, but I do miss her."
"She is very well," replied Matthew, patting the top of his son's head and placing his arm around his shoulder. "She misses you and speaks of you all the time."
The falsehoods came so smoothly that Serill did not even question them. As he'd not questioned when he and his mother had moved to the Shop of the Unicorn while his father had stayed at Warrick Inn. Matthew could almost believe the lies himself. Like so many other lies and half-truths with which he'd deluded himself.
"How long will you be at Kenilworth, Father?" Serill asked.
"Not long. I am on my way home, back to Cumbria."
"I would like to see Cumbria. Ralphie said 'tis a fearful place with jagged mountains and steep cliffs and cold winds that howl through the castle, but it sounds most interesting."
After Serill retreated, Matthew returned to the duke. Sensitive to his mood, John left Chaucer and they drifted off to themselves, away from the servants beginning to set up tables for the even meal, the bustling pages, the lords and ladies who had just returned from a ride along the crest of Kenilworth's dam.
"I have done a bit of traveling these past few months," Matthew said, "trying to settle my problems, but I have not succeeded. 'Twas like when the French shadowed us during the... Great Chevauchée but never directly engaged. I fear I can no longer shadow the problem. I have made up my mind. I would ask from you my leave. I think now I must return to Cumbria."
"Why do you not just go on pilgrimage? There is peace to be found there. And salvation too, I think."
Matthew winced, but did not respond.
The light from a huge half-octagonal oriel window played over Matthew's face, highlighting every feature. John saw the same expression in his eyes that he'd seen in other knights just before they bequeathed all their land to the church and retired to a monastic cell, or forsook all to become hermits. Some even ended up at London's St. Bartholomew's Hospital or Bethlem. He was surprised. Of all his vassals he would not have thought Matthew Hart would number among the flawed.
Throughout their campaigns, John had relied on the earl's steady presence and wisdom more than most. He was comforted simply by seeing Matthew's face among his war council.
"I understand some of your unhappiness," said John tactfully, thinking of Matthew's brother, who'd died almost within sight of Bordeaux. But they'd lost so many during the Great Chevauchée. "Events weigh heavy on all of us."
"When your father died, I think then 'twas the very end for me, though I tried to continue. Sometimes I feel as if I am surrounded by so many ghosts, and I cannot face the future until I properly exorcise them."
"I have need of you yet. I am beset by enemies. And they are not all from across the channel." John dropped his voice as if fearing they might have followed him to Kenilworth. "You well know King Richard's council consists largely of my adversaries. They challenge my actions on every front and twist my motives until I myself would hate the Duke of Lancaster if I did not know better. The time must come when I will be forced to respond. I will need your support. I have too few men I can truly count on."
"I would never forsake you, my lord. You know I have always championed your quarrels at home and followed your banner into battle. But I fear now I would not be much good to you or anyone."
"King Richard needs you also. 'Twould mean much to have lords of the north besides myself and Henry Percy he can trust."
"I have been thinking on that also." Matthew's voice dropped, and he moved closer. "I know what others say, what the laws say, but I no longer care. Tell me true, sire, why you should not be king of England?" Though the duke recoiled as if he'd been pricked by a dagger, Matthew rushed on. "You are King Edward's second son. There is precedent for passing to the second son rather than the first-born's son. John Softsword—"
"God's Blood! Do not even think such a thing!" John looked around to see if someone might have heard. "Listen to me, and listen well. By the grace of God, I have many titles, but King of England will never be added to that list. Nor should it. I promised my brother I would support his son, and unto death I will keep my word."
"But England needs a man like you, not a child who can be torn every way by his advisors. What does Ecclesiastes say, 'Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a child?'"
"Do not speak thus!"
Matthew rushed on. "I look into Richard's face and I see not the merest trace of my prince. Where is our Edward of Woodstock? If only Richard were more like his father. How can England prosper with an eleven-year-old on the throne?"
"You forget, Lord Hart. Father became king when he was fourteen. And my brother was sixteen when he won his spurs at Crecy."
"They were warriors. Richard was raised in Bordeaux among courtiers and sycophants. He will be a diplomat, not a fighter."
"But my brother's blood runs through him all the same. And mayhap at this juncture England needs diplomats."
Matthew shook his head. "John Softsword was not a fighter, and he was reviled by both his own and common Englishmen. His brother, the Lionheart, was a warrior. Whom do we revere? Softsword or the Lionheart?"
"I have never heard you talk so. You must not even think such thoughts. If Richard is young, loyal friends like us will guide him toward what is proper. You well served my father, my brother, and myself. Do not now forsake my brother's son."
Matthew did not answer for a long time. He felt so cold, so tired, so... defeated. "I will be of no purpose to anyone if I canna get straight my thoughts." He sighed heavily. "I would that I could go back twenty years, to the good times. When England was proud and victorious and filled with sunshine instead of fear and uncertain
ty."
"Mayhap those grand days never were," John said. "Mayhap we were just young enough to think 'twas so." He placed his arm around Matthew's shoulder. "How much time do you crave?"
"I canna say."
"If events decree that I must call on you, will you fulfill your obligation?"
"I have always fulfilled it, sire. But I hope you will not call."
Matthew gazed past the duke, to Katherine Swynford, laughing with her sister as they worked a tapestry, at the people bustling about the hall. The pages knew this night they would serve the duke at table, Geoffrey Chaucer knew he would orate his latest poem, Katherine knew she would serve her master in bed, his barons that they would serve him with their sword arm and loyalty. As Matthew himself had once known. But now he doubted, and his doubts frightened him.
If I cut myself off from my lord and my obligations, where do I then belong? What purpose does my existence serve?
But the demons whispered relentlessly in his ear. What purpose did you ever serve? What purpose had even the most glorious campaigns, what meant loyalty and honor when your suzerains died all the same and ordinary Englishmen term your kind oppressors rather than protectors?
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