A Child Upon the Throne

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Matthew knew. How glibly he had hidden behind his talk of honor when he deliberately broke his promise to his brother, when he'd let Harry die, when he'd disgraced the Hart name at Limoges. When he had been weighed and found wanting.

  "My lord—" He wanted to say to his liege that he'd once viewed knighthood, with every sentiment that word embodied, shining like the grail. And that he was now beginning to believe that the grail did not even exist. But he could not utter the words; rather he stood mute. Like a dog, he thought in disgust. What is wrong with me?

  John squeezed Matthew's shoulder. "I give you leave, and I will offer prayers for you during your struggle. But I must warn you, I will not wait forever."

  Matthew forced the corners of his mouth up in a smile. "I hope you will not have to, my lord."

  Chapter 9

  February, 1379, Canterbury

  Margery Watson entered Canterbury Cathedral through huge wooden doors opened to accommodate the usual press. Privately, Margery was skeptical of the business of pilgrimages, for that's what she'd come to consider them. A business. Where abbots and abbeys and bishops and their bishoprics grew rich off the misery of others. Of course she was not intemperate enough to voice her disillusionment. She left that to John Ball and Thurold.

  However, Margery, who had only been on one extended pilgrimage following her marriage to Simon Crull, knew from bitter experience that saints answered prayers on a whim. "I will cure you;" "I will bring you low;" "I will make your life even more cursed." They granted or rejected the pleas of desperate multitudes as if they were pagan gods rather than Christian. For if the saints and their relics had truly listened to Margery, her goldsmith husband would have been dead ere they'd bent their knees before the first reliquary.

  How long ago that had been—nearly twenty years! And yet, when Margery remembered, the rush of feelings were a reminder that sometimes it took more than time's passing to fully heal.

  On the heels of a "frustrating" wedding night, Crull had dragged Margery around to a seemingly endless round of shrines—for England possessed more holy places than its fields had wildflowers—in an effort to cure his impotency. They had visited Saint Swithun, whose remains were housed at Winchester Cathedral; little Saint Hugh who'd been found in a well at Lincoln Cathedral; and Oxford's Saint Frideswide. They'd travelled as far north as Durham Cathedral to worship before the remains of Saint Cuthbert, the Anglo-Saxon monk, bishop, hermit and patron saint of Northumbria.

  Margery and her husband—how she hated Simon Crull, which might account for why, even now, she could muster little regret for having poisoned him—had also prostrated themselves before countless relics. After gazing upon Saint Swithun's bones Simon had purchased clay replicas so that he could pray over them in order to prod a centuries' dead bishop to stiffen his privates. Then on to crowns of thorns, fragments of the true cross and rags from saints' clothing, all of which, when added up, were surely more numerous than starlings in springtime. They had watched caretakers open saints' crypts in order to cut their nails and gather the leavings to be sold. Simon had purchased a pouch full. Margery had touched a hair from the head of St. John the Evangelist, the foot of St. Blaise, and such a variety of extremities that a heavenly army might have been constructed from their whole.

  Yet still her husband lived. As did Matthew Hart, whom she'd also implored God and his minions to strike down in order to avenge his seeming betrayal of her and their love. For she'd sent Lord Hart letters—intercepted, she'd later discovered—warning him of her pending marriage and begging him to rescue her. (Here Margery was thankful that heaven had ignored her imprecations. For both she and Matthew had been tricked by Desiderata Cecy. Which meant her lover would have expired because of a mistake).

  Margery stepped inside Canterbury Cathedral, its painted interior and stained glass so dazzling 'twas as if she'd entered paradise. Here it didn't matter about the capriciousness of saints, the mysterious reasoning of God or religious imponderables such as the nature of evil or the problem of free will. This building, its very essence, provided all the answers she, at least, would ever need.

  At this early hour crowds were sparse. In the cavernous interior the usual chattering pilgrims, bantering merchants and peddlers, lords and ladies with squawking falcons on gloves or yapping hounds on leash provided little more than background noise.

  While approaching the first rise of stairs and the choir screen, Margery contemplated, as she always did, a more personal history. For it had been here, five decades past, that her grandmother, Maria Rendell, had publicly paid for her adulterous liaison with Richard, Earl of Sussex, Edward II's illegitimate half-brother.

  Over time Margery had coaxed the horrific details from her grandmother. First the flogging in the precincts after Maria's hair had been shorn and her hair shirt cut away, revealing her naked torso to the gawking, snickering crowd. Then her tortured journey, sometimes crawling, sometimes on hands and knees to the tomb of Saint Thomas Becket, where her cuckolded husband had been waiting to care for her wounds. Despite Phillip Rendell's humiliation. Despite his public repudiation of the wife and liege lord who'd so betrayed him.

  The story always brought tears to Margery's eyes. Because of the loyalty of a grandfather she'd never known and because of a woman who had loved without apology and who had willingly accepted the consequences of that forbidden love.

  Thomas Becket's shrine was located near the back of Canterbury Cathedral in Trinity Chapel, as was the tomb of Edward the Black Prince. Veering past the martyr's bejeweled and gilded shrine, Margery stopped before Edward's tomb. During these semi-regular visits, Margery allowed herself—as she seldom did otherwise—to ponder Matthew Hart. Neutrally, as if he were just another person. Without judgment.

  Studying the gilded bronze effigy, she thought, So many memories.

  Prince Edward's eyes were seemingly fixed upon the Throne of Mercy painted on the underside of the wooden canopy above his tomb chest. Edward's fingers were tented more in contemplation than prayer; his poulained feet rested upon a creature that resembled a friendly gargoyle rather than one of his dogs, as had been detailed in his funeral instructions.

  In the fall of 1376 Margery and Matthew had been part of the miles-long procession wending its way from London in order to put England's prince to rest. The entire kingdom had been in mourning, nay, all of Europe, for the Black Prince was considered the flower of chivalry. Even Margery's stepbrother had bemoaned his loss, saying Edward was one of the few who'd had a care for the average soldier.

  Margery had only actually seen Edward of Woodstock a handful of times. First, following his stunning victory at Poitiers, when England's vastly outnumbered army had annihilated the French and captured their king, Jean le Bon. Upon the troops return home, Prince Edward and the French monarch, who was being held for ransom, had been welcomed by ecstatic Londoners. Edward had made an unforgettable sight. More than two decades later, Margery could still remember how his golden hair had gleamed in the sunlight, how he'd nodded so graciously in acknowledgement of the thunderous cheers, how magnificent he'd looked astride a plain black hobby and dressed as simple as a yeoman. Even now, the memory made Margery's breath catch in her throat.

  No wonder my lord Hart loved you so.

  The second time had been in 1361 at Prince Edward and Joan of Kent's wedding banquet, held in Kennington Palace. As wife to London's mayor, Margery and her husband had been seated at the same dais as the royal family. There she'd enjoyed an unobstructed view of the prince and his bride. While some called Joan of Kent the fairest maid in England and others carped that she was past her prime and running to fat like a poorly exercised horse, there was no doubt as to Edward's opinion. A bachelor until the age of thirty-one, he had eyes only for the woman who shared his loving cup.

  It was nearly unheard of—even considered improper—for a royal prince to marry for love. Yet here was Edward, in the thrall of a twice married cousin two years his senior, mother to five children not his own and to
whom marriage was actually forbidden because of their shared blood line. No matter. Edward had even braved the displeasure of his royal parents to secretly marry his beloved a year before the official ceremony.

  How bold! How chivalrous!

  Or Margery might have thought so if she, newly wed herself and seated next to her troll of a husband, had not been awash in cynicism—or more accurately, heartbreak.

  Edward of Woodstock, in the prime of life and flush with happiness, had been so handsome, even handsomer than his younger brother, John of Gaunt, also sharing Kennington's dais.

  Though not so handsome as my lord Hart, Margery had thought even that night, even in the midst of her misery. Or perhaps a more accurate adjective to describe Matthew might have been "irresistible." For that's how she'd always regarded him. With his restless energy, his cocksureness about the rightness of life and his place in it, and his larger than life persona.

  Irresistible.

  Until you lost your way...

  Margery reached out to touch the gauntleted hands of Prince Edward, unaware that her lover had done the exact same thing during his final visit to the tomb.

  Margery blinked back tears. Such a loss for them all. She closed her fingers over the cold, sharply appointed gloves as if expecting England's prince to awaken, lace his fingers through her own and murmur, "There, there, Dame Margery, do not fret. I will always watch over you."

  Like England's Saint George? Like our King Arthur?

  But that could not be. Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, dead on the eve of his forty-sixth birthday, had proven himself all too mortal.

  Margery removed her hand to trace her fingertips along part of the inscription that had been chiseled around the outside of the prince's tomb. King Richard had recently ordered its completion, obeying yet another directive from his father's will.

  "...Such as you are, so once was I." Margery laboriously translated from Norman French.

  "You will be like me;

  To death I never gave a thought,

  I lived delightfully.

  On earth I had such riches great,

  They made a noble show—

  Land and mansions, clothes and gold,

  Horses, here below.

  But now I am poor and despised,

  Beneath the earth I lie;

  My lovely form is all away,

  In flesh I putrefy."

  Before the end Matthew had been so bowed down by all the deaths. His prince. His father. His brother. All the French in all the chevauchées, all those "wars of a long season." All the brave English knights and yeomen. Friends and companions. For those who lived long enough, death would shadow them as relentlessly as French soldiers had shadowed John of Gaunt's army across the mountains of Auvergne in the Great Chevauchée.

  Odd that a man so steeped in war had been shattered by it.

  Margery continued to caress the letters. Perhaps, because she'd known death, despair, and deprivation at an early age, she'd learned to be more accepting of loss.

  "A narrow house I live in now;

  The truth only is here.

  And surely if you saw my face,

  It hardly would appear

  That I was once like you a man,

  For Death has changed me whole.

  In mercy pray to Heaven's King

  That he may save my soul."

  Even as children, when their lives had first intersected, Matthew had overflowed with self-confidence. As if believing that his life was charmed might actually make it so. And for a long time he seemed correct. During the days of Crecy and Poitiers when Edward III had been strong and manly and Edward of Woodstock would have been more properly nicknamed "Golden One" than "Black Prince." Then 'twas easy to believe they all would remain invincible...

  Margery eased herself down on the paving stones—every visit more brutally attacked her knees—to recite a Pater Noster and Ave Maria. Her thoughts wandered for she still had much to do today. Her stepbrother was helping her set up Aurum, a second goldsmithing shop on High Street. With John Ball preaching in Canterbury and its surrounds, Thurold could more easily oversee the equipment, new apprentices, and the hiring of a competent goldsmith for the times when Master Goldsmith Nicholas Norlong remained in London.

  A big undertaking, thought Margery, though already a profitable one.

  After making the sign of the cross, Margery gingerly rose from the stones, feeling every day of her thirty-eight years. When turning to leave, she noticed another woman off to her side. Otherwise the area was unusually empty.

  "Dame Margery," the woman said in a low, melodious voice.

  Margery looked more closely and found herself staring into the eyes of Lady Elizabeth Ravenne.

  Margery's heart plummeted. She did not need another reminder of her past, particularly when she was healing so nicely. Certainly she did not need to be confronted by Matthew Hart's sister.

  After quickly looking around to make certain Lady Ravenne wasn't accompanied by her murdering husband, Margery considered her options. She couldn't recall ever being formally introduced to Lady Ravenne, so perhaps she could deny her identity.

  "It is Dame Margery, isn't it?" Elizabeth persisted.

  Well, not exactly for now that her father, Thomas Rendell, had recognized her, might Margery not be addressed as "lady"? That was the problem, wasn't it, not precisely knowing one's place?

  "Aye, I am Margery Watson." She executed an awkward curtsy.

  Lady Elizabeth's gaze was intelligent and friendly enough, though something in her eyes warned she would brook no nonsense. Probably out of necessity. Margery knew she was mother to a great pack of sons.

  "Walk with me, will you not, Dame Margery?"

  Margery reluctantly acceded. Without speaking they retraced their steps down cathedral stairs, past Canterbury's transept and through the bustling knave. Surreptitiously, she studied her companion. Even in youth, Elizabeth Ravenne would never have been considered a beauty. Matthew sometimes jested that Harry was the prettier sibling. But Lady Ravenne possessed an arresting dignity and solidity, as well as a natural warmth that attracted people. Though not Margery, at least not in these circumstances.

  What exactly do you want?

  She tried to remember what she knew about Elizabeth Ravenne, other than the fact that her husband had murdered Margery's mother. Lots of children, all boys named after knights in the Arthurian romances. Dabbled in verse; loved pilgrimages with Glastonbury being a favorite because of its ties to Arthur and Guinevere.

  Once outside, Lady Ravenne turned to Margery. "It seems I spend most of my days traveling from shrine to shrine. Now that my children are largely grown... and with so many dead to pray for. Are you also on pilgrimage?"

  "Nay, my lady." Margery didn't want to reveal anything of her habits. Nor would she ask about Matthew, whom she'd not heard from in more than six months. Which was as it should be.

  "I thought you resided in London," said Elizabeth.

  "We've opened a goldsmithing shop here. And I sometimes stay in a cottage on the road to Fordwich."

  Too much information. She didn't want Lady Ravenne carrying tales to her brother. Which was foolish. Matthew need only make a few enquiries or visit their son to know the truth. If he'd cared...

  Feeling oddly panicked, Margery suppressed the urge to wipe her suddenly damp palms on her gown in a most unladylike fashion and push past Lady Ravenne in order to seek out John Ball, who was ministering to prisoners at nearby Canterbury Castle. John need not say a word to be able to calm her. And she was in need of calming.

  "I saw your son at Kenilworth a fortnight past," Elizabeth said.

  Margery raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Serill?"

  "Aye. Two of my boys, Lancelot and Perceval, are also in the duke's service."

  "I did not know, my lady."

  "Serill looks very much like his father. He had just received a letter from you and was most pleased. "

  Margery nodded. Was this why Lady Rav
enne had wanted to speak to her? Not because of Matthew at all?

  Good. I do not care about him anyway.

  "We plan to meet this summer when his lord Lancaster's household moves to the Savoy," she said aloud.

  Lady Ravenne's shrewd eyes remained on her. Willing her to say something about her brother?

  I'll not.

  "How fares my lord Hart?" Margery blurted, as if the words had somehow just bubbled forth out of nowhere.

  A shadow crossed Elizabeth's face. She did not speak for a long time.

  Then she simply answered, "Alone."

  * * *

  Margery handed John Ball a meat pie and mazer of ale she'd purchased from a nearby vendor. They'd stretched out beneath an ancient oak in full view of Canterbury Castle, where she'd caught up with the hedge-priest as he'd strode away from the royal prison with his arms crossed and hands tucked into opposite sleeves, head bowed in contemplation.

  Canterbury Castle, its flint and sandstone rubble walls rising more than eighty feet above the town, cast its hulking shadow beyond their oak and the green to the jumble of narrow shops on Castle Street.

  'Twas a rare mellow day and the ground beneath the oak was dry, though the branches overhead remained winter bare.

  "Tell me the future, hedge-priest."

  John Ball laughed and pinched off a piece of crust from his pie. "If only I were in possession of special spectacles through which I could view such matters!"

  "You intuit so many things others cannot," Margery pressed. "And we've known each other for—how long has it been?"

  "More than two decades. An entire lifetime." John Ball drank from his mazer and wiped his mouth with the back of a hairy hand.

  A Benedictine nun passed, swathed in black scapula and white wimple and flanked by male guardians hurrying her back to the safety of the nearby Priory of St. Selpuchre. A knight and his lady, with the knight wearing the flowing robes of the newly popular houppelande. A wayward greyhound dragging its leash. Margery didn't want to say anything about Matthew Hart or to discuss things that were past, that didn't matter, that could not be changed. Yet she felt a vague panic, an inexplicable need for comforting.