A Child Upon the Throne

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  What am I seeking from you, old friend?

  After placing his mazer upon the grass, John turned his penetrating gaze upon her, trying to discern the real purpose of Margery's conversation.

  Alone. My lord is alone.

  She cleared her throat. "Remember, before Serill was born, when you were still allowed in my bedchamber?"

  "Aye."

  "When you read to me from Roger Bacon?"

  John nodded. He finished his meat pie and brushed his hands together, dusting off crumbs. His gaze drifted from her to a matron in a patched kirtle calling, "Hot peascods."

  "Remind me once more of Brother Bacon's prognostications."

  Again, that gaze. Rather than face her friend, Margery pretended an interest in passing merchants with their wide sleeves and jaunty hats, pilgrims with their saints' badges and walking sticks and urchins peddling last season's costards.

  "What is troubling you, daughter?"

  She shook her head. I will not utter Matthew Hart's name. She would not allow her former lover to intrude on this unseasonably warm day when her life was fine enough, when circumstances had decreed that their paths would nevermore cross.

  Alone... Alone...

  "Speak to me of things that will happen long after we're gone. I would ponder a better time and place."

  John Ball doubted whether any time or place could be improved so long as man remained hostage to his fallen nature. However he obliged, knowing that if they conversed long enough he would discern Margery's need and address it.

  "The Epistola de Secretis Operibus. I remember Bacon's exact quote. 'Instruments of flying may be formed in which a man, sitting at his ease and meditating on any subject, may beat the air with his artificial wings after the manner of birds.'"

  Margery gazed up at a sky dotted with puffy clouds and tried to imagine manmade birds laboring across its surface.

  "And machines with blades that move so quickly they can lift the machine off the ground and high into the air."

  Like some sort of dust whirlwind? Blades shaped like a horizontal windmill that could spin in the manner of a child's top? She couldn't fix such images in her mind.

  "What else did Bacon say?"

  "That we'll possess special instruments through which we'll be able to bring the stars so close we can see every detail."

  Stars had always seemed little more than pinpricks in a veil of darkness. Up close would they look like enormous diamonds? Or blocks of ice similar to those she'd seen glutting the Thames in winter? Learned men lectured that stars were divine creatures which consumed earth and water drawn up through the atmosphere to heaven's purer realm. When she'd first heard that, she'd tried to imagine giant icy maws inhaling the earth and chewing upon it, but the image had been too troubling to contemplate...

  "He wrote of ships that can be moved without oars and of men able to descend into the depths of the sea wearing special suits that will allow them to easily walk around on its bottom."

  Margery imagined something akin to a sea monster, or walking upon a bottom inhabited by sea monsters. Perhaps a world similar to that of the Lady of the Lake, with thousands of underwater faerie lights and with the arms of the lady's nymphs waving like seaweed caught in the current to knights watching from the shore...

  "Bacon described bridges that can span great distances with only wires to hold them, and cages that will replace stairs and will move up and down tall buildings."

  Margery eyed the cathedral. Much of the Norman work was being pulled down and a magnificent new nave and transept were being built under the direction of King Richard's master mason. She tried to imagine a cage crawling up the side of Canterbury Cathedral's bell tower the way a bug scuttles up a wall.

  "Carts driven by machines rather than horses. They will be able to cross great distances faster than a hawk can swoop and soar."

  "'Tis hard to believe England will not always be as it is today."

  "Aye," agreed John Ball. "Though the good friar maintained such things have already been invented, that he was simply uncovering ancient secrets. Regardless, should the time come round again let us hope that advancements in the human heart will match scientific progress."

  He turned his gaze to her, yet probing past the outer to lay bare the inner. Margery refused to look at him, to utter Matthew's name or even think it lest the hedge-priest snag it in his thoughts.

  It doesna matter.

  Before Roger Bacon's predictions came to pass they would be less than the bones of the saints, crumbled to dust. Most likely Thomas Becket's shrine, Canterbury Cathedral or even the whole of Canterbury itself would have long since vanished.

  "We, all of us, end up in only one fashion, do we not?" she said, leaning her back against the rough bark of the giant oak. "Like the inscription on Prince Edward's tomb, 'Beneath the earth I lie, my lovely form is all away, in flesh I putrefy.'"

  John Ball's gaze again, weighing and measuring the meaning behind her words. "Some believe we actually never die but rather return again and again. That our souls enter a multitude of bodies in an endless cycle of birth and rebirth."

  Margery contemplated this. Might she and Matthew have lived and loved before? Had she and John Ball resided in Canterbury during Thomas Becket's days? Or in the time of the Vikings? She remembered the ancient saying, 'Preserve us from the Vikings and their terrible dogs,' and wondered what it would have been like to be terrorized by those slavering marauders with their dogs the size of ponies. Or perhaps she had been? The original Canterbury Castle had been built soon after the Battle of Hastings, in the time of the Conqueror. Might William the Bastard have ridden these very streets, passed within a hand span of this oak tree under which Margery and her companion were now lounging? Had she and the hedge-priest been among those sullenly watching the usurper's triumphant procession?

  Impossible. I would have remembered, at least on some level. Suddenly she wondered whether her long ago visions of the faerie knight might have been some peculiar flash of memory regarding Matthew. Nay. Those were the conjurings of a foolish girl.

  Besides it would be horrifying to struggle forever with the same sins and desires and relationships, to be ever trapped upon fortune's pitiless wheel.

  As if reading her thoughts, John Ball said, "Rebirth is heresy, of course. The ravings of inflamed minds for which many like the Cathari were put to the stake. Mother Church is ever a jealous parent."

  "What do you predict for your future, hedge-priest?"

  John's generous mouth lifted at the corners. "Recently, I've had this image before my eyes. I see the great lion of England coming upon this hapless rabbit that he thinks to enjoy as a tasty morsel. Yet when the lion opens his mouth he finds he's faced with a badger not of a mind to be anyone's meal."

  Margery laughed. "And you will be that badger?"

  Rather than respond, John Ball struggled to his feet and held out his hand to her. He drew her up beside him until they faced each other.

  "What would you have chroniclers say of you, old friend?" Margery asked. "Far, far into Roger Bacon's future?"

  John Ball's unfocused gaze rested upon the rubbled walls of Canterbury Castle. "That I was someone who started a revolution," he said finally. "That in the time of those carts and flying machines and men walking under water our ancestors will trace the beginnings of a better life to one tired old man standing beneath an oak tree in a place called Canterbury."

  Chapter 10

  Winter-Spring, 1379, Lake Winandermere

  Matthew Hart sat cross-legged in his tiny hut, feeding kindling into the fire. His residence, barely long enough to accommodate his length, consisted of stone on three sides, a roof of birch boughs thatched with heather, and was fronted by more boughs and a makeshift door. Upon arrival he had erected the hut, which was positioned flush against one of the mountains overlooking Lake Winandermere. Besides his cooking stone and other related implements, it contained a bed of deer skins and a tiercel peregrine strapped to a perch. Matthew had happ
ened across the injured falcon near Scafill Pike, nursed it to health and taught it to hunt. Oft times it supplied his only meat.

  Winter's snow fell, silent and deep, as it had these past several days. It was March, 1379, and Cumberland's weather raged at its fiercest. But Matt's hut was snug, and his woodpile high enough so he did not fear the storm. I have naught I must do and no place I must be, he thought, tossing a handful of dried kale leaves into the pottage bubbling in an iron pot above the blaze. In the days before the storm he had snared two rabbits, but now he had not even enough meat to flavor the barley.

  The smell of smoke, birch kindling, and pottage filled the hut. Outside the snow drifted down to rest atop the roof, layer after layer, like brushstrokes upon a painting.

  Thirteen years past, Matthew's father had stood overlooking Lake Winandermere, and declared, "My day is past." The ghosts were strongest here, particularly the ghost of William Hart. Weather permitting, when Matt meandered around the lake's banks, or fished its depth for perch, trout, pike, or char he would raise his gaze to the spot where his father had stood, and imagine William watching him. Strong, invincible, as timeless as the land itself. Or so it had seemed. But that was a false notion, of course, for William was gone, and as unrecapturable as the rest of Matthew's past.

  I can look into the depths of the sun, stare at it until I am blind, wait a million days and nights, but never once will I see you again. Where are you? What good does it do when you remain as invisible as the wind rippling across the water?

  After constructing his hut, Matthew would sit outside gazing endlessly across the lake. During a mizzling rain its surface reflected the grey of drooping clouds, on fair days the sapphire sky. When the sun set between the twin peaks of the Langdales it turned black as the jet of paternoster beads. And occasionally, when misty fingers rose from the water, Matthew fancied them to be the spirits of all those he'd killed, or of Harry or his father or his Prince or King Edward.

  No doubt that Winandermere was a living thing and in the beginning it had unnerved him. He would watch the moon break upon its waves as if some great beast were stirring and imagine the monster Grendel lurching from the lake's depths, as well as Beowulf's dragon circling overhead, leathery wings flapping and causing the surrounding air to shimmer as it was stirred in passing. Or could it be Satan in the guise of a dragon? Might Winandermere be Lucifer's lair? Matthew could believe it so. At such times, his mind danced with images he'd long forgotten, such as a diagram of the universe from his Book of Hours which depicted demons streaming like enormous bats toward the Prince of Darkness, bound in chains below the cosmos.

  How still the nights could be. What disturbing turns his thoughts would take! He remembered the Berwick vampire—Berwick was not so very far away—whose corpse had long haunted locals until its body had been dug up and destroyed. That was not conjecture but chronicled fact. And stories of other corpses, whose ghoulish wanderings had only been halted when their heads were cut off and placed between their legs. Or their hearts cut open. But that could be a dangerous business for sometimes ravens flew out, screeching and terrifying assembled villagers. Matthew was also familiar with evil sorcerers who created werewolves which they then sent out to stalk and rob and destroy. Of course he'd witnessed the human version in France—bands of beggars and brigands covered in wolf skins. Those wolf packs had been dispatched easily enough, but then again, they'd not been shapeshifters conjured from the dark arts.

  Matthew chastised himself for his unease, but his mind continued to wander where it shouldn't. He was unused to being alone with his musings—being alone, period—but now he had only his tiercel for a companion. Twice his mother, surprisingly spry for her years, had ridden to visit, while Jerome, his squire, made semi-regular treks with supplies and news of the outside world.

  Two Popes now, one in Rome and one in Avignon; more war in France; more defeats; more restlessness among the populace; more unpopular poll taxes. Matthew could no more grasp his squire's gossip than capture a waterfall between his fingers. True enough his thoughts raced about like skuttering mice, but not with concerns about whether Pope Urban or Pope Clement be the true head of the Church, or the corruption of King Richard's ministers, the dangers of John Ball's increasing influence, or the bishops' unease regarding John Wycliffe's determination to translate the Bible into English. Matthew had far more personal matters to contemplate, such as how black and endless were Winandermere's skies. Like being lost in heaven's maw...

  At such times he found himself cowering—at least inwardly—like a frightened child.

  So this is how Harry used to feel.

  Now he understood. Nights were meant to be passed safely within doors or, when on campaign, the darkness would be broken by campfires and the comforting presence of others. But not now.

  Alone.

  On one of those nights when he'd been trying not to remember the content of a years-old sermon about mankind living in the sixth and final age in which the world's end would be heralded by the walking dead, Matthew suddenly realized that his heart was hammering. And that he was experiencing fear... when for so long he had known only numbness.

  Fear. That was something. And he preferred feeling something to nothing at all. Subsequently, he would take fear out and examine it from every angle. Only to find that, rather than grow in magnitude as he had once believed, it would dissipate. More than that, Matthew was fascinated by its impact upon his body. He wanted to experience more and mentally chronicle it. As if he were re-learning the most basic of emotions. So this is my body's reaction to fear. This is joy. This is love. This is sadness. This is anger. This is longing. Or at least a simulacrum of them all.

  With the waxing and waning of the moon, winter slipping into spring, Matthew increasingly embraced his solitude. When the weather was mild he would lie outside his hut, pull the darkness around him like a cloak, listen and simply... be. He learned to decipher the night's moods as easily as he'd once deciphered the mood in a banquet hall. By the calling of the birds who might be hungry or frightened or staking out their territory. He marked the whisper of wings and determined the distance of owls or divers seeking their prey, the abundance of food by the number of each flying creature's passes.

  Sometimes, he heard the howling of wolves—even though wolves had supposedly been eradicated from the kingdom. No matter. He recognized them well enough from when they'd shadowed him and Harry and all the dying across Auvergne. Matthew rather admired wolves for their intelligence and their loyalty to their pack. It was only when they lamented their empty bellies that he would fortify his door, heap more wood upon the fire, and force his mind to blankness.

  With the gentler weather Matthew took long walks where he would glimpse Cumbria's common animals—a herd of upland sheep, rabbits, foxes, and deer. Nothing peculiar, nothing like the creatures he'd studied in bestiaries—crocodiles, elephants and dromedaries; bitterns and bonnacons and boas. And of course the more fantastical. He remembered explaining the manticore to Harry, tracing its outline on the page of their father's elaborately illustrated bestiary. Matthew's fingertips would move from the manticore's face, which was that of a man, over its lion's body and follow the curve of its scorpion's tail.

  "Its voice sounds like that of a flute," he'd said, paraphrasing the description, for Harry was yet too young to read.

  "Why? I like flutes, don't you?" Harry was very careful and precise with his enunciation, as if speaking more quickly might cause him to lose control of his tongue.

  "It represents the siren song of temptation as our souls make their way through our earthly existence."

  Harry frowned, trying to sort through all the big words, but merely said, "I like to sing, don't you?"

  Harry would point to other drawings which Matthew patiently explained. The centaur, whose chief characteristic was that it was hopelessly lustful—he glided over that part—but sensitive enough to cry when saddened. The unicorn, which represented the Savior; the kingfisher, whose talent was c
alming stormy seas; the heron, known to be the wisest of birds. And ignore his brother's queries about such creatures as the basilisk, which was similar to the devil and could kill by its smell, a sideways glance, or via a hissing sound. No sense in filling Harry's mind with scary details for then he and Harry's nurse would be up until the wee hours calming his night terrors.

  Such strange things Matthew found himself pondering or that would suddenly pop into his head. And just as odd that they all seemed to come from his childhood. As if his life had stopped then. Or that it consisted of nothing more than disjointed flashes, like fish in a stream. Playing marbles or knucklebones or hide and seek; he and Elizabeth kicking leaves while walking along a narrow lane flanked by oaks flaming like torches; William lifting him onto his first pony, a sorrel with a white blaze; following his mother as she carried a sleeping Harry up a narrow staircase; he and his siblings skipping stones across a lake; sneaking a treat from Cook. Matthew wished he could pull out the defining moments of his life rather than insignificant fragments... and find... something...

  I am an old man, older than many who die, certainly older than many who expired in the campaigns. Why can I not make sense of my life? Why can I not accept such conditions as death and loss, when those are common to all men?

  Plague, famine, God's judgment, war, the natural order, as it was with cows or hawks or their prey, or the flock of sheep he sometimes saw drinking at Winandermere's edge while a nearby shepherd serenaded with his pipe.

  All born to die.

  All reminders that all of life is change.

  During his squire's last visit, Matthew had told Jerome to return for him on the first of May. As Earl of Cumbria, Matthew could not ever neglect his duties. But as he marked off the days until his leaving, Matthew wondered whether he had resolved anything at all.

  Chapter 11