"Is that how you felt about your lord Sussex, or your husband?" Margery pressed. "That you'd become mad from it all?"
Maria considered. She had endured a public flogging, invective hurled at her from pulpits across the kingdom, but it had been her moon who had driven her to distraction. For, beyond their lovemaking, she'd never been able to truly reach her husband. In thrall to a restless, discontented nature, he'd remained so frustratingly aloof. At least until after that night along the River Wear and the Scottish raid that had resulted in Richard's death and Phillip's disfigurement.
Feeling her way, Maria spoke carefully. "Passion is a grand thing—"
"Lust," Margery corrected. "Lust."
So, Maria wondered. Who is this man? She leaned over to scratch her faithful Canis between his ears. The great dog exhaled in pleasure, placed his grizzled muzzle on her knees, and gazed up at her with adoring eyes.
Margery was seated on a bench opposite her grandmother, hands clenched in her lap. "I understand that each of us has our rightful place in society, I do! Though the actions of people like me can hardly be judged important when compared to kings and queens and the like. Most of us go from birth to death with hardly anyone even taking notice. We're here and gone with no more consequence than sunlight glancing off a stream. And yet we constrain ourselves with so many rules—the church, our neighbors, our family..." She hesitated. "The ones we impose upon ourselves."
Maria nodded, though she had no idea where their conversation was leading. But she'd lived too long to directly ask questions she sensed could be more truthfully answered with tact.
"Duty and obligation. How I once chafed at those words."
Jackdaws drowsed in their cages, heads tucked beneath their wings. Maria removed Canis's muzzle from her knees and poured her and Margery wine from the small table between them. Leaning forward to hand her a goblet, Maria studied her granddaughter, whose gaze was fixed on a mass of wildflowers arrayed before the cold hearth.
"Sometimes we must do the right thing," Margery said, as if speaking to herself. "Even when we would prefer spinning lovely tales and living in another world."
"And what world is that?"
"A world without past or future. Simply me and... someone." This past month, Margery had come to realize that her peasant blood ran stronger than she'd ever imagined. At times she fancied Fulco the Smithy had been conjured from the heat and flames of his forge, and feared that all too soon he would simply disappear. Poof! Like smoke from an extinguished fire. Afterward, would she mourn among the ruins or simply look back in gratitude for her awakening?
Margery sipped her wine without tasting it. "I understand that a life together could never be as I've imagined. Not only would there be hardships and even empty bellies, at times, and discomforts such as I've not experienced for many years. But worse... how unendurable would it be if I cast aside my well-ordered life only to find that... someone... to be cruel and coarse? Or that he could not speak of anything beyond, 'Mend my clothes' and 'Fill my mazer.'"
"Daily living is the challenge, is it not?" While Maria was curious about the identity of Margery's suitor or lover or whoever he might be, she trod warily. "Mayhap priests are right when they assert that untrammeled desire must lead to tragedy." She continued, considering each word. "Though I've known passion aplenty, some of my sweetest memories are after my lord husband returned to me. When we would simply hold hands before falling asleep and in the morning awaken with fingers still entwined. Or when we shared a special look or laugh over some silliness or vexation. Or I might just study him when he was unaware and find myself filled with such gratitude for the gift of him I feared I might die from contentment."
This conversation was becoming too difficult. Maria did not want to be reminded of those Death had snatched from her. She swallowed hard, as if she might push down ancient emotions. "Love can run as deep as the sea, as slow as poured honey," she finished huskily.
"While a stream moves so unpredictably because its waters are shallow.Though I know 'tis impossible, that he... it... isn't even something I want, yet I find myself imagining such silly things. Like sitting beneath some spreading oak in some far away place, watching the sun set. Not even speaking. For I am finding communication can run truer without all the words."
"Sometimes," Maria agreed, though she'd learned from bitter experience that she, like the rest of mankind, too often filled her partners' silences with fevered imaginings. And that, so many things one professed to intuit with such certainty were later proven wrong.
"Words have such a way of wounding," Margery said, her thoughts harkening back to her last months with Matthew Hart. Wasn't it the safer course to stay silent? For, if one failed to utter the words, one could not be annihilated by them.
Margery reached out to caress Maria's cheek. You are still so very young, she thought, feeling such a desire to protect, to erase whatever it was that was causing her granddaughter turmoil.
"God has not created the partner who could fill all our needs. The only way we will not eat ourselves up with misery is if we determine that whatever our beloved is capable of giving us is enough."
Margery nodded. She knew that on one level, the same way she knew that her time with Fulco was drawing to a close. Perhaps that was the reason she found herself clinging so ferociously to the thought of him.
Silence stretched between them. Canis eased himself down beside his mistress and rested his head atop her slippers.
"Do not forget Serill," Maria said suddenly. "Out of everything, what I most regret is how my actions hurt my children. Thoughtless I was, and while I assured myself I meant no harm, that Thomas and Blanche were too young to be affected, 'twas not so. Even though we believe we are acting from the purest of intentions, the resultant damage can last a lifetime." Maria closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of her chair. She was suddenly exhausted, and not because of age. Because of the ghosts that were being raised, ghosts she'd long thought safely buried at the crossroads of her past.
"So saith the old woman in the tower," she said, attempting levity. "Who pretends much and who actually knows very little."
Margery raised her great blue eyes, a mixture of Phillip's and her own, to study her. "At least you know more than I do. For increasingly I feel as if I am wandering alone within a forest dark."
* * *
After church bells rang Vespers, Margery left her cottage for their meeting place. Generally, Fulco arrived first so that he could wash away the day's grime in the River Stour. Sometimes she would join him for a particularly exotic bout of lovemaking, but tonight she awaited him in the most secluded part of the copse, away from the river. She'd spread their blanket and set out a flagon of wine, as well as their usual bread and cheese. She sat very still, her senses alert for the whisper of his tread. She knew, though she had no idea how for Fulco had not spoken, that tonight would be their last night. What she did not know is how she felt about his leaving.
She heard him, slipping through the thinnest part of the copse, following the faint path they'd worn to the river.
She stood. "Fulco!"
He turned in surprise and then smiled in that way that immediately caused her body to flush with need.
He'd already shed his tunic and was barefoot, clad only in his braies. She approached him and slid her arms around his waist. He always seemed unusually warm to the touch, as if he carried the flames of the forge with him. "Do not," she said, referring to his bathing. "I want to taste you as you are."
Afterward, when they were nearing their usual time for goodbye, Fulco sat up and pulled her to him. She nestled against his massive chest and closed her eyes, savoring the moment.
He inched her away until he could see her face. "On the morrow I..."
This time it was Margery who placed her finger to his lips and shook her head.
"Please. You need not say it. I already know."
After they parted, Margery crept home and slipped into her bed. She did not
cry. She did not hatch a scheme to somehow make him stay. Rather, she wondered what Fulco the Smithy had been trying to purge all those times they'd come together in the darkness.
"And most importantly," she whispered to the darkness, "What was I?"
* * *
The following afternoon Margery walked into Canterbury, as she'd not done since she'd started sleeping during the day and prowling the night. She paused at St. Dunstan's long enough to look for Fulco. Only to confirm what she already knew.
Returning home, she found a beggar boy waiting on the bench in front of her cottage.
"'e said 'e'd wait for ye, on the road near the old Roman fort, past Sturry."
The urchin did not have to clarify who "'e" was. Margery groped in her purse for a shilling and then set out for Sturry, a short distance away.
She spotted Fulco's wagon, which held a portable forge and the tools of his trade, alongside the road. The wagon and a muscular pair of harnessed bays faced north toward London, toward anywhere, really, for England was at his disposal.
Fulco was standing in the front of the wagon with his back to her, legs apart, feet firmly planted in a familiar stance. He must have heard her approach for he turned to watch. His hair, glossy as a raven's wing, hung free, and when she neared he tossed his head back and favored her with one of his rare smiles.
Life though pleasant is transitory... She reminded herself that she must not be sad, but grateful, as her grandmother had said.
Upon reaching the side of the forge wagon, she gazed up at him.
How long will it be before your face and form start to fade? Until you'll seem but a dream stitched from the darkness?
Fulco held out a scarred and calloused hand. "Come with me, my lady," he said. She was surprised—by his addressing her so respectfully, but even more so by his invitation. That she'd never expected.
"Leave? Us?" she asked stupidly.
He nodded.
"Oh!" She reached out and placed her hand within his own. While she'd indulged in such daydreams, she'd never imagined he might feel the same.
"I cannot," she whispered. "But oh, my heart, 'tis tempting."
"I know I've little to offer."
She shook her head. "I do not care about that." Which was largely true because, with her purse, they need never sleep beneath his wagon or scrabble for enough food or warm clothing. Her refusal had nothing to do with such mundanities. But, should she acquiesce, it would be as it always was in relationships. As it had been with the monster, Simon Crull. As it had been with the knight she'd loved. In the daily grind of weeks, months, and years their passion would be ground to dust and the magic of these past weeks obliterated.
"I would rather remember our time together as my secret treasure. That can never be tarnished but will ever remain perfect."
"The dream is all," he agreed, his expression almost fierce. At that moment, he reminded her of her stepbrother. Had she and Fulco communicated more with their mouths than their bodies, she might have uncovered a more complicated man.
Margery brought his hand to her lips and kissed the calloused palm.
Fulco slipped his hand from hers, raised his great arms, reached inside his tunic and retrieved a long metal chain and pendant.
He held the necklace out and coiled it in her palm. She examined the pendant, which was approximately the length of her index finger. It was the figure of a woman—a naked woman. Naturally rendered rather than in the usual stylized fashion. She remembered all the nights Fulco had run his hands along her body and now understood that 'twas more than an exercise in hedonistic pleasure. For there was no doubt of the figure's identity—with Margery's hair, its strands so lovingly delineated, tumbling free past exposed breasts, with her long legs and her womanly region as exquisitely wrought as if she were some pagan goddess.
It was indecent, no doubt of that. And the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
"I am so very... honored." She stared down at her miniature self, traced its metal curves as Fulco had so lovingly traced her curves of flesh and blood.
She raised her gaze once again to his. "I so wish..." If only they could disappear into an enchanted underworld where decades would pass like days and they would never grow old but would ever be together.
But Fulco was no faerie lord; he was simply a traveling blacksmith.
She returned his necklace. "Keep it. So you'll not forget me."
"There's little chance of that." Fulco drew away to his full height, slipped the necklace over his head and inside his tunic.
One last piercing look before he gathered his horses' reins and snapped them. The cart lurched forward, away from her.
Margery watched until the road took a curve and his wagon disappeared.
"You may forget me, Fulco the Smithy," she whispered. "But, by all that's holy, I'll not forget you."
Chapter 13
Cumbria and London, Summer 1379
Matthew met his squire at the base of Lake Winandermere, at the end of a trail he'd often walked to fish. Jerome handed him the reins of his black destrier, Stormbringer.
"I've not ridden in five months," Matthew said, easing into the saddle. "For certes, I will be sore tomorrow."
"'Tis an easy ride," Jerome replied. Matthew was aware of his squire's gaze on him, no doubt attempting to gauge whether Matthew's accidie had passed.
I wish I knew.
Matthew felt as he had during his dead sovereign's campaign to be crowned king of France. What year had that been? 1360? The chevauchées had such a tendency to blur together, though Matthew had not forgotten the coughing sickness that had plagued him throughout. Just when he'd think himself cured, the coughing, shakes and spitting up of blood would return with increased vengeance. Similarly, while Matthew was currently hopeful he'd left his melancholia behind, only time would tell.
When they first glimpsed the massive slab that was Cumbria Castle, Jerome said, "Your sister is visiting. She eagerly anticipates your arrival."
Matthew groaned. "Is her husband with her?"
He shook his head. "She says Lord Ravenne be stout as a whale and she'd not put a horse through such misery."
Matthew smiled, relieved. "That sounds like Elizabeth."
"And your lord the duke will be at Knaresborough in a sennight."
Matthew nodded. That meant Serill. A reunion with his son would be a happy occasion.
Ah, thought Matthew. Life will be good once again.
At Cumbria Castle, Matthew struggled to slip back into familiar routine. He was particularly solicitous of his mother, Sosanna, who'd suffered enough without further pain from him. Though his interactions often seemed false, he reminded himself he was adjusting from his time alone.
I am fine. As Earl of Cumbria, I must be.
On the day before Matthew rode for Knaresborough, his sister pulled him aside for a walk along the castle curtain.
"How fare you?" Elizabeth asked in her blunt way. "You still seem preoccupied, I'd say."
"I am not sure." Matthew gazed at the far away Pennines, undulating like a dragon's tail. In the middle distance, fluffy bits of sheep dotted the rocky slopes while in the nearby meadows, grazing cattle were scattered like fallen leaves.
"I saw your leman."
Matthew eyed his sister, instantly wary.
Elizabeth clarified, "Margery Watson," as if he were too stupid to know or had too many mistresses to recall them all.
"I know who my leman is—was," Matthew said sharply, aware of a sudden tightening around his temples.
"She has opened a shop in Canterbury and stays there part of the year."
How should he respond? His gaze returned to the placidly grazing livestock, the rolling hills.
"She asked about you," Elizabeth persisted.
Should he inquire as to Margery's health, her activities, whether she looked happy or sad, whether she had taken a lover or was wed? Did he even care? What? His thoughts swirled inside his skull like an inchoate mass of demon-possesse
d clouds.
"I am looking forward to seeing our son," Matthew finally said before turning on his heel and practically fleeing down a nearby vice, leaving Elizabeth to gape after him.
* * *
Serill had sprouted like a sapling—a handsome sapling, Matthew thought, his heart swelling with pride. He was so overjoyed to see his son he felt like a lad in the blush of first love. While listening to Serill's tales of his daily duties, when riding or hawking together, even while crossing wooden swords in a gentle mock combat, Matthew found himself mentally devouring that sweet, earnest face, marking every angle and line so that later, when alone, he would be able to recall each detail. At times he longed to scoop Serill into his arms as if he were still a toddler. Mayhap it was because he and Ralphie, who seemed Serill's shadow, reminded Matthew so much of him and Harry, though the ages were reversed. He even enjoyed his sister's boys, Lancelot and Perceval. Or at least Lancelot, who had inherited a bit of his mother's dreamy nature. Perceval, more's the pity, seemed more a miniature of his father with his flaming hair and piggish manner.
The lot of women, Matthew thought, feeling sympathy for Elizabeth, whose dreams of romance, of a gentle suitor and perfect children had long ago been dashed on the rocks of reality.
Matthew met with his lord, John of Gaunt, and Henry Percy, Earl of Northumbria. We lions of the north, he thought, savoring the irony. Among us three we could rule England, so charge our enemies. Though one of us has trouble distinguishing his arse from his elbow.
When alone together in the duke's private chamber, Matthew diligently—though often unsuccessfully—tried to follow his lord's and Percy's political conversations.
John of Gaunt dissected a recent tax—another one!—fashioned to rise gradually so that the rich would pay far more than the poor.
"Mayhap that will soothe our critics," said the duke. "Though finances are always constrained. We cannot demand direct taxes unless the security of the kingdom is at stake."
Is that an invitation to perpetual war? Matthew wondered, though he did not ask aloud.
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