A Child Upon the Throne

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Henry Percy expressed contempt for all those who dared dissent. "'Twas a sorry day when the Commons were allowed to vote in the first place."

  The duke, ever thoughtful—his enemies said calculating—reached for a slim manuscript from a nearby chest. "I've been reading something by John Gower."

  When Matthew stared at him blankly, the duke clarified, "The poet. He's a friend of Geoffrey's."

  Geoffrey Chaucer, a name that did not endear this Gower fellow in Matthew's eyes. Scribblings on a page seemed a poor substitute for worthwhile endeavors.

  As if you have any idea what a worthwhile endeavor might be, his inner voice mocked.

  "'Tis an allegory on the fall of man and the effect of sin upon the world." The duke held the book out so that Matthew could read the title, Mirour de l'Omme. The Mirror of Man.

  "I have been pondering this part," John said, opening it to a bookmarked page. He positioned himself so that the light from a long narrow window fell upon the manuscript.

  "'There are three things,'" he read,

  "'That bring merciless destruction

  When given the upper hand:

  A flood of water, a raging fire,

  And the lesser people;

  For the common multitude

  Can never be stopped,

  Neither by reason nor by discipline.'"

  Henry Percy sneered. "As if poets, with their ink-stained fingers and endless ditherings, know a spittle's worth about human nature!"

  Merciless destruction. Matthew thought suddenly of Margery Watson's stepbrother, who would certainly agree with John Gower's assessment.

  "'Tis as if some sorcerer is magically emptying His Grace's coffers," said John of Gaunt. "There is never enough money. So now four pence a head is being suggested for everyone save children under fourteen and genuine beggars."

  Which did not strike the duke as much of a hardship when a skilled woman could earn five pence and a simple labourer carting around stones three pence a day.

  "'Tis the equivalent of two hens or a dozen eggs," Percy observed.

  Matthew felt a buzzing inside his brain, as if it were being invaded by a swarm of bees. How many holdings did his lord lay claim to, scattered across how many continents? Matthew gazed about the duke's chamber, modest by John's standards. And yet one wall tapestry had probably cost more than many of his villeins made in a lifetime.

  What peculiar musings. So unlike him. Where were they coming from?

  "I will be visiting the rest of the family holdings in the midlands and south," Matthew said. "Mayhap I'll get a better feel for the common mood."

  Too soon, he told himself. I've returned too soon.

  * * *

  In 1305, William Wallace, the Scottish hero and patriot, had been executed on the first day of St. Bartholomew's annual fair. Hanged, drawn and quartered, not sixty feet away from where Margery Watson stood seventy-five years later. Margery gave fleeting thought to the fate of Scotland's revolutionary, for John Ball had recently preached about his exploits at St. Paul's Cross, using Wallace's words against an earlier injustice to exhort the crowd. "I could not be a traitor to the king, for I was never his subject."

  What a pass things have come to, Margery thought, when an Englishman is quoting our ancient enemy to further foment dissent.

  At Lammas time, she'd traveled to London to reunite with Serill at the Savoy, John of Gaunt's city within a city. Though her son had mentioned visiting his father, Margery had not queried further. She did not care about the doings of Lord Matthew Hart. 'Twas true she occasionally daydreamed that her former lover had fallen heels over head for someone capable of taming his demons, whose personality fit so perfectly that this female phantasm had made him whole in a way impossible for Margery.

  Fine. A pox on you both.

  Sometimes, when she watched a mutual acquaintance stride purposefully toward her, she mentally braced herself for the revelation that Matthew was engaged to a great lady of the north, or already wed.

  So be it. If Matthew Hart were still in her life she'd probably have drowned herself in the Thames. Worse, she'd never have met Fulco, or if she had she'd have been too faithful to have allowed herself to explore the more erotic side of her nature...

  St. Bartholomew's Fair was most important for the wool trade, but all manner of stalls had been set up, some right atop the priory graveyard, including a portable booth displaying wares from the Shop of the Unicorn. Such activities had put Margery in close contact with Master Goldsmith Nicholas Norlong, who was a dear man, though she was surprised when he echoed some of Thurold's grievances.

  "We be overrun with foreigners," he groused. "And the Flemings be the worst, for they grow wealthy at our expense. They've exported so much gold and silver there's not enough money here at home to pay a decent wage. And then they plot to flood the kingdom with useless luxuries."

  Norlong would wipe his brow and continue with far more animation than Margery would have imagined. "There be some law-abiding folk who've turned to thievery, preferring the threat of the rope to the reality of empty bellies. Dame Margery, these be perilous times for us all."

  Unlike Thurold, whose demeanor suggested he could actually right the kingdom with the mere force of his passion, Norlong reminded Margery of a clucking hen, running hither, thither and yon while chasing her chicks.

  Her time with Nicholas grew increasingly awkward, particularly after he, sweating and stumbling over his words, proposed marriage. Nicholas Norlong was solid, even-tempered and with a head for business that, despite his laments, had the Shop of the Unicorn's coffers so overflowing they could hire the very best apprentices and journeymen in both London and Canterbury. Marriage made a certain economic sense. It would also provide companionship for those times when she felt lonely. They could grow old and stout together and if 'twas not love it would be friendship. He would read to her in front of the hearth fire and seek her opinion on business matters, and hold her hand of a morning, perhaps, when they descended the stairs to the Shop.

  Would that be so dreadful?

  I could, couldn't I?

  No.

  I am a rich woman. I need not marry anyone.

  She imagined bedding the Master Goldsmith when she'd so recently enjoyed darker charms. The very memory of Fulco made her tingle and close her eyes until the fire passed. Being with Nicholas Norlong, round as a keg of ale, or with any man, for that matter, would be sacrilege. She would not erase such magic and overlay it with fumblings that would be near as repulsive as those she'd endured with her dead husband, Simon Crull.

  Margery suddenly recalled Robin, her pet bird, dead, lo, these many years, smashed beneath the heel of one of her husband's thugs. Occasionally, she had allowed Robin out of his cage to feed and stroke him. Yet no matter how she'd cared for Robin, he had still been imprisoned.

  Why would I willingly return myself to a similar cage? Say to Nicholas Norlong—or any man, "Here, open the door and put me on my pretty perch and lock me in and no matter how I might beat my wings against the bars, release me at your pleasure?"

  She'd declined Nicholas Norlong's offer kindly, she hoped, but unequivocally.

  "Might I ask again?"

  Mentally comparing him with Fulco who had just taken her, and Matthew, who had so artfully seduced her, she wanted to say, "Merely asking permission proves your cause is lost."

  Instead, she'd smiled and patted his hand. "You are a good man," she'd said. Which he was. And which, judging from his crestfallen expression, he correctly interpreted as "Never!"

  On the third day of St. Bartholomew's Fair, when Margery and Norlong were starting to dismantle their stalls and pack up their wares along with other merchants, Margery looked beyond the tent pole and swore she spotted Matthew Hart among a group of other lords, standing, ironically, near a smithy's forge and displays of swords and chain mail. Matthew's back was to her but there was no mistaking the set of his shoulders, the color of his hair, the way he carried himself. After knowing him for a
lifetime, he would not change so much in a year as to fool her.

  Panic rose inside. She turned quickly away. Without waiting for Nicholas Norlong, she left the fair and hurried back to the Shop of the Unicorn.

  Vowing that tomorrow she would retreat once more to the safety of Canterbury.

  Chapter 14

  Lake Winandermere

  Fall 1379-Spring 1380

  In the fall of 1379, Matthew returned to Lake Winandermere. He repaired his hut, hauled in supplies and settled in for the winter. His foray into the world had been unsuccessful. He'd held himself together—at least he hoped he had—and had diligently visited each holding, gone over accounts with every steward and ridden at least a portion of every field and inspected every manor house and castle and outbuildings.

  But inside he felt as if his soul were being chipped away by some evil sculptor until little remained save bits and pieces.

  He had no choice but to once again withdraw.

  I will resolve this accidie, he told himself. I will not leave until I do. Or freeze to death in the process.

  The turning point finally came on the heels of an unusually mild winter, in the spring of 1380. When the moon was full and the night was warm, without so much as the breath of a breeze. Matthew recalled a time when he had ridden out under such a moon with Meg and just as suddenly found himself viewing Harry's dead face. His temples suddenly throbbed and as usual when such images surfaced, he expected that his mind would cause them to break and shatter.

  But not this time. He was sitting with his knees drawn up, gazing outward over the black hole that was Lake Winandermere when he glimpsed a movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head he saw it, standing no more than ten feet away. An enormous hart, with antlers near the span of a man. The hart studied Matthew through calm, liquid eyes. Matthew returned its gaze. He fancied he could hear its breathing, inhale its scent. Moonlight cast shadows upon its antlers, dappled its gleaming coat. 'Twas not lost upon Matthew that he was face to face with the family namesake. Or that the antlers it sported were out of season. He parted his lips as if to speak—to question it?—for the stag must be a sign, an omen, a message in animal form. However, breaking the silence seemed a profane act. So they stayed as they were. Then, the hart bobbed its great head, as if in acknowledgement, turned and glided back into the shadows.

  With the appearance of the hart it was as if a boulder had been rolled away from Matthew's heart, and memories—important memories—returned. First gingerly, then with more insistence. Peculiar, that what he had most feared, being crushed by the remembrance of his many sins, did not occur.

  While Matthew's mind was filled with treacherous quagmires that he had long skirted, he now approached them and gazed within for longer periods, retrieving past events no matter how painful.

  He conjured his life—who he had been—knight, son, brother—and where he had been—from Poitiers to the day King Edward had been laid to rest.

  He returned to 1370 and Limoges, to the hundreds of women and children clustered on the sandy stretch of ground beyond the city. He saw again the pure September sky against which billowed the black clouds of the burning city, the reds, browns, whites, greens, and yellows which comprised the townspeople's clothing. He forced himself to look into the faces of those he'd killed. He heard again their screams and pleas, the wailing from those whose time had not come. He smelled the conflagration, his victims' terror. He recalled the grinning slash left by his knife, the scarlet stain which sprang from gaping throats, the stain which, after his victims crumpled and fell, soaked into the gravel like a fevered rain. He looked again across Limoges' field, saw the bodies tossed like sacks of grain, and beyond, his prince, propped upon his litter.

  Who was to blame for Limoges? Edward? Me? Perhaps knighthood itself?

  "Tout est perdu fors l'honneur." Repeatedly, Matthew whispered the phrase. Sometimes it seemed to course through his head in rhythm with his blood. "All is lost save honor." Honor? What did that word even mean? He understood it in terms of his own kind—to keep his word, to treat his peers with respect, loyalty, and the largesse that was so much a part of Romances and dialogues and training and tradition—but how true was any of that in reality? Was it as much a chimera as courtly love, which was only a thin veneer covering the brutal reality of relationships dating back to Adam and Eve?

  Honor. Regardless of how Matthew defined it, he had lost it long before Limoges.

  When I lied to Harry about Cumbria. I went back on my solemn word that he would inherit. After that, 'twas just a matter of degrees, and all the rationalization in the world could not excuse it.

  Nay, he'd failed to live up to its meaning even before his brother's engagement. So long ago he could not remember the first time. Was it honorable to heedlessly fornicate with the object of his desire of the moment, to leave a scattering of bastards about the kingdom, to lie to himself and others, to be arrogant and proud, to invade a country for reasons they might all dress up in pretty terms but which in reality had been conducted for far more mercenary motives?

  Honor... knighthood. Knighthood and honor.

  Could they be uttered in the same breath? Or did knighthood have naught to do with such lofty sounding concepts? Could knighthood be honorable when it broke one of the most basic of commandments, "Thou shalt not kill"?

  However, killing was the way of the world. It was not only necessary but often laudable. To protect one's family, one's land, one's kingdom, one's villeins, fellow warriors. The world was a brutal place and he and his kind provided the wall between the rest of humankind and chaos.

  But what if you create that chaos? A voice whispered.

  He remembered Margery's jeremiads, which he'd dismissed as the mindless parrotings of her radical stepbrother. But now they nagged at him, as did snatches of sermons from various hedge-priests; as did conversations among tippled yeomen in smoky taverns; as did the criticisms from John Wycliffe and the mad preacher, John Ball.

  Are we protectors or oppressors? If knighthood is false, I am false.

  Despite Limoges, he had always perceived himself as a protector—of the poor, of England. If he was wrong, then what exactly was he? Where did he fit in God's plan? A knight could not be a merchant any more than a merchant could wield a sword.

  But that was no longer true, was it? The lines between the classes were becoming increasingly blurred with merchants strapping on armor and knights indulging in commerce with ink-stained fingers, entering figures into manorial accounts as diligently as any scrivener. Yeomen were as important in battle as Matthew and his kind; some boasted even more so for they could slay from afar. If a knight could not be described in the time-tested definition of the word, or if he was perceived, not as guardian but as merciless brute, what did that mean? That Matthew's goodness, his rightness of place, had been naught but a febrile concoction of his imagination?

  If 'tis so, does that not mean that my life has no meaning that I can even fathom? No purpose? What will I do then? I cannot exchange lives with those who possess a nobler, purer truth. I do not even know who they might be or the nature of any such truth.

  Honor... Knighthood. Knighthood and honor.

  How to define it? He had been fair to his vassals. He'd made certain his estates were well run. He had not been an ideal courtier, but love was largely chaffering, wasn't it? What man actually treated a woman according to the bleatings of troubadours? Courtly love was just a silly game cooked up by Eleanor of Aquitaine to keep her wandering husband under her heel. It had not worked two hundred years ago and he didn't know of any man past the age of twelve who took its precepts seriously.

  Matthew thought of Desire and their affair, which had most certainly not been the stuff of romance, but of lust and a certain madness. But he'd confessed those sins and been absolved years ago.

  And Margery? He had loved her to the best of his ability. He had always been generous with material comforts; he'd not beaten her or been unfaithful or cruel. He'd
ever treated her with courtesy. Well, there had been times, but what man could not be occasionally ill-tempered when dealing with the vagaries of womankind? And, despite the difference in their stations, he would have wed her. If he could actually define love—a love that was honorable in its intentions—that he had for Margery Watson.

  Matthew's confusion lay elsewhere.

  He rummaged through shared conversations with his father and his prince and his duke, with John Chandos and members of the war council—and so very often, conversations with his brother. He conjured up Harry's face as a child—and as a corpse lying under the moon. Desire had described her husband as being kind and gentle. Aye, that Harry had been. And flawed, as all men were flawed, though with a heart that, unlike Matthew's, was incapable of malice.

  'Twas undeniable that Harry had been weak, often more dilettante than dedicated, careless and immature, at least until well into his marriage. After Limoges? During Auvergne? At those times hadn't he acquitted himself as well as most?

  "I would not have minded being a priest," Harry had said. Matt winced at the remembrance, at the many ways he must have misjudged his brother, thinking Harry to be just like him or wanting to be like him. He recalled conversations from the March to Oblivion, conversations Matthew had dismissed as delirium.

  "Elizabeth and I went on pilgrimage to Glastonbury every year you were away. While she would hover about Arthur and Guinevere's tombs, I would climb the tor in the moonlight and I swear I could hear Arthur and all his knights whispering to me there...

  "My favorite place was St. Michael's Mount. Cut off from Pensans and the entire world, so it seemed, and I would spend weeks there in the chapel atop the island, with the wind forever howling, and me sprawled upon paving stones icier than the grave, and I would have such visions..."

  When Matthew had thought to halt Harry's fantasies with sharp questioning, his brother had merely smiled that smile that was like a grimace upon his wasted face. "'Twas not just gambling debts you had to pay upon your return from Bordeaux. I gave so many bequests... Pray to the saints they've not been wasted..."