Within A Forest Dark

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "But I hate England," Desire cried.

  "I am not asking you to join us."

  "But you canna leave Bordeaux!"

  "I am tired of weather that never seems to change. Tired of strange food and the same faces. Tired of us."

  "You think to cast me aside? What do you mean to do, saunter up to the Shop of the Unicorn and—"

  Matthew gripped her wrist and jerked her to him. "Do not," he said, and his tone was so menacing Desire experienced a frisson of fear. "Do not speak her name again."

  Desire nodded meekly. When he released her, she said, "I am sorry. I did not mean to displease you."

  She felt as if the palace floor had just cracked open to swallow her. How could this have happened when Matthew Hart had been hers for nearly six years, when he had shown her with his words and his body that his obsession matched hers?

  "Do not leave Bordeaux, my lord. Do not leave me."

  The closing of the chamber door was Matthew's lone response.

  Chapter 2

  Glastonbury, October 1367

  "Such a magical place!" cried Elizabeth Ravenne to her brother as they stood atop Glastonbury Tor, rising hundreds of feet above the surrounding countryside. She was panting but exhilarated from the climb and gratified that she and Harry were near alone in this hallowed place. "No matter the time of year does it not seem that the skies are a dazzle of blue and the apple trees in bloom and the weather glorious?"

  Harry Hart nodded agreeably, though the day was chill and the sky didn't appear any more dazzling than when they'd partaken of Bath and its hot springs, two days ago. And it was October, long past apple blossom season. Besides, he much preferred the ambience of Fordwich Castle's fabled Cherry Fair, which took place when its cherry trees were in full, riotous bloom.

  But Elizabeth's gaiety was infectious. He was pleased to be able to indulge his sister for her life was not an easy one, not with her philandering husband and his boorish ways. And, Jesu, that pack of sons!

  Elizabeth spread out her arms, as if to embrace the view—the marshlands and the thin line of distant hills, as delicate as the tracery in a church window against that incomparably beautiful sky. She sighed deeply, noisily, and inhaled an air she found most salubrious. Though a year past she had borne her eighth child, another boy—healthy, thanks be to the Virgin—Elizabeth was proud that she'd made the arduous trek with near as much alacrity as her younger brother.

  Her annual trips to Glastonbury never failed to invigorate her soul, the primary reason being that in a former time this entire area had been known as the Isle of Avalon. The orchards, fields, berms, and scattered dwellings spreading below and beyond had once been water.

  A magnificent lake fit for a magnificent legend.

  It was right here, in this very spot, that King Arthur, after being mortally wounded in the Battle of Camlann, had disappeared into the mists of myth. So said the romances. As they foretold that Arthur would once again return, out of those very same mists, when England had need of him. Elizabeth found this a rather confusing prophecy, since the lake no longer existed and Arthur's tomb, which was located below in Glastonbury Abbey, contained the bones of both himself and his Guinevere.

  But no matter, she thought, brushing wisps of hair, tugged by a persistent breeze, away from her face. Oft times life is contradictory.

  "I am going within," Harry said, interrupting his sister's reverie with a nod toward the Church of St. Michael. Without waiting for a response, he entered the small building and approached the portable altar of Purback marble. As he'd done at other churches and shrines along the way, Harry prostrated himself on the decorated floor tiles.

  St. Michael, please grant me a miracle, he silently prayed. Though he was fairly certain he would soon be meeting that miracle in the form of his older brother, it was always good to remind the saints, who could be forgetful.

  "I have missed you, brother," he whispered, his cheek against the cold tiles.

  If Matthew were here he would not be in such trouble. Matt had restraint where Harry had none. Matt had good judgment, at least in most respects. Matt was everything a knight should be.

  Once again he addressed his invisible sibling. "And I will be forever grateful that you agreed not to tell Father about my misdeeds."

  Harry's gambling debts, not to mention other expenses incurred by living the life of a first born heir while being cursed with the assets of a second son, were crushing him. Matthew had assured him via letter that he would personally visit London's Lombards and pay off every sovereign. Saved. For now.

  But what future have I, really? Harry worried. His life seemed purposeless, as if he were stumbling around as erratically as Kay, Elizabeth's youngest. From childhood on, Matthew had reiterated his promise never to marry so that Harry might inherit everything, but that went so against custom—not to mention their father's wishes—and he was not sure that even someone as strong-willed as Matthew could forever disobey William Hart.

  "I can make my own way," his brother had always boasted. "I have my sword arm. I need nothing more."

  But life is not so easy for me.

  It wasn't that Harry was without prospects. Women often praised his face and form and his lineage had already attracted the interest of several wealthy merchants who could provide far more of a life of ease than a titled, penniless lady. But he didn't trust this new way of thinking when 'twas acceptable for burghers to wed their betters. He feared some sort of trickery, that once the marriage vows were pronounced a new book of accounts would be produced showing that Harry had married a creature with the face of a hedgehog and the arms of a washerwoman for coffers as empty as his head. William Hart would be so displeased that he would totally cast Harry aside and Harry would end up selling apples from a costermonger's cart or as a nightman, emptying latrines.

  Of course, both the sword and the church were legitimate pathways for second sons. And Harry would have participated in the Najera Campaign, which would most certainly have resulted in much booty and a ransom or two. But, curse the fates, he'd fallen from his horse during the call-up and fractured his leg. So while his lord, John of Gaunt, and Gaunt's knights crossed the channel, Harry had been cosseted by his mother and her ladies. A pleasant experience, but unproductive. And then, later, when he was fully healed, there seemed no point in travelling all that distance on the vague chance of emerging a few pounds to the better.

  Which left Mother Church.

  I can be pious, Harry thought, as if seeking to persuade the silent wooden saints from their perches. I do feel certain things. He was stirred by stories of holy martyrs and upon taking communion generally felt a transcendent peace. During Lent he fasted assiduously, wept at Christ's Crucifixion, and rejoiced at the Resurrection. He always participated in the Stations of the Cross and during those particular pilgrimages forswore drink and frivolous spending and pleasures of the flesh.

  Furthermore, because of the prestige of the Hart name, a religious life would be comfortable. Not so much as Walter Monington's, who, as Glastonbury's Abbot oversaw the second wealthiest abbey in England. He and Elizabeth were staying at Monington's mansion, which was nearly as opulent as London's Savoy Palace. Nay, Harry didn't expect such riches. He'd be content with a quiet, peaceful existence where he would not be distracted by carnal temptations, and all life's necessities would be provided.

  Harry closed his eyes. He suddenly felt purified. Aye, that is what I'll do. After Matthew pays my debts, I will announce that I am devoting my life to God.

  Harry heard footsteps behind him and raised himself off the tiles. Windblown, with her light hair about her face, cheeks red and hazel eyes sparkling, Elizabeth looked almost pretty.

  She smiled at him. "Should we descend the Tor and visit Arthur and his queen?"

  Harry returned her smile, took her arm, and as they left the chapel, both felt quite at peace concerning their futures.

  * * *

  After purchasing a light dinner of bread and cheese from a vendor
at the edge of the abbey precincts, Harry and Elizabeth made their way to the Great Church and their destination. Glastonbury's grounds teemed with peddlers selling everything from postcards to relics to wine; hucksters, pickpockets, prostitutes, and pilgrims of every sort. There were the typical penitents, thumping along with their tall walking sticks hung with bottles of water and scrip and with their floppy hats weighed down by relics that jangled like annoying wind chimes with every step. The relics and badges, which pilgrims wore around their necks, were meant to draw attention to their piety by advertising their journeys—images of Sts. Peter and Paul and cross-keys meant a trip to Rome; a white cross on the shoulder of an Englishman or a red one on the shoulder of a Frenchman proclaimed the Holy Land; a scallop shell bespoke Santiago de Compostela, and, closer to home, pewter ampullas signaled a pilgrimage to Canterbury.

  But there were other pilgrims, not so typical, who Elizabeth stared at with frank curiosity. She spied a murderer, identifiable by his murder weapon, a wicked-looking dagger, hung round his neck, and counted two heretics marked by yellow crosses front and back. She and Harry passed a grizzled knight wearing chains upon his wrists and neck, no doubt forged from his own armor, which silently but eloquently confirmed his station, the heinousness of his deed and the sincerity of his repentance.

  Elizabeth started speculating on the nature of the knight's sin, which she was wont to do, when Harry interrupted. "I am contemplating the monastery, sister. Taking orders. Abandoning my vices. Mayhap even wearing a hair shirt like Thomas Becket and living on bread and watered down ale." He rubbed his chin. "Except on feast days, of course. And there would be no harm in adding a bit of fish to such a spartan diet, would there?"

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. This was far from the first time they'd engaged in such a conversation. She'd hoped Matthew's return would lighten her baby brother's mood. She liked Harry better when he indulged in his regular vices, particularly drinking—for Harry was a merry drunk.

  One of several black-garbed Benedictines gestured for them to hurry along as they neared the Great Church's façade.

  "I just feel so... ill-favored at times." Hanging his head as he did, Harry reminded her of her fourth son, Bors, who was forever lamenting the unfairness of his little life.

  "You are as comely as Lancelot in The Knight of the Cart," Elizabeth said, her manner placating. In passing she dropped thruppence into a beggar's outstretched bowl. "Cease your gloomy talk about religious orders. I predict you'll be married ere the year's out."

  With that she prayed for an end to the subject. No need to discuss once again Matthew's vow of perpetual bachelorhood in order to temporarily comfort Harry, for that had been a childish utterance and Matt would surely return from Bordeaux ready to take his place as first-born with all the attendant rights, privileges and obligations. Harry would find someone. If only first-born sons married well, she and Larry, with their abundant brood, would have a trying time of it.

  "I am so eager to see Matthew," Harry said. "I have missed him beyond words."

  "Aye," Elizabeth agreed more forcefully than she felt. For after reuniting in London with their brother, she would continue north to her home, her husband, her duties, and five of her eight boys. (Her three eldest were serving as pages in other households.) All her sons were named after Knights of the Round Table—Lancelot, Galahad, Arthur, Bors, Tristan, Gawain and Perceval. But that was only seven. Who had she left out? Oh, aye, Kay, who was quieter than the rest and so easy to forget even though he was very sweet and affectionate.

  She loved her boys, quite fiercely, at times. But, being a wife, mother and mistress of a large demesne bore little resemblance to the languid portraits sketched by minstrels wherein ladies lounged about in fragrant pleasances gossiping about "gentil" knights. Real life was business from dawn to dusk and beyond. And now that her mother, who had been a great help during her months-long visits, had returned to Cumbria to welcome William Hart home from the Najera Campaign, Elizabeth would arrive at Edmundsbury Castle with only the servants to keep her wee barbarians at bay.

  I do miss them all, she told herself as she and Harry stepped into the ambulatory, where more pilgrims haggled with various merchants minding the market stalls. Like moneychangers in the temple.

  And I am so thankful that they all survived. She crossed herself. No deaths. 'Tis is a miracle in itself.

  But the bedlam! The puppies and hounds and baby foxes and hares and any other creature her sons could cart home or smuggle into some secluded part of the castle. Ponies and falls and clumsiness and scrapes and howling. Her boys' imaginations seemed limited to rough and tumble activities involving violence. Take slingshots. The use of them inevitably ended up in bruised body parts—though thankfully no missing eyes—or Arthur and Gawain, in particular, were prone to bypassing them completely in order to directly hurl stones or other deadly missiles at each other, their brothers or any moving target within range. Hopscotch involved more shoving than hopping; swimming, wrestling, fishing, foot races, stilt-walking, or a pastime Elizabeth simply labelled "Tormenting the Bailey Cats" ever ended in disaster.

  Larry indulged their sons by making wooden weapons and shields and even small versions of long bows, an ignoble weapon. He'd constructed an elaborate seesaw and a set of rope swings and miniature quintains that the boys pulverized with their miniature staffs. In Elizabeth's quiet moments, which were disconcertingly infrequent, she imagined what it would be like to bear a daughter. She would name her Guinevere or Blanchefleur, after Perceval's love, or perhaps Morgan, though it was probably not proper to name one's progeny after a shapeshifter and enchantress. However, Guinevere had been an adulteress...

  And we all are sinful in the eyes of God, she reminded herself, drawing her cloak about her, and feeling uncommonly pious after six weeks of pilgrimage.

  However, upon reaching the south transept where rested the tomb of her king and his queen, Elizabeth found herself wondering whether Guinevere, upon finding herself barren, might have considered herself more blessed than cursed.

  * * *

  During the reign of King Henry II, he of the quarrelsome sons and equally quarrelsome spouse, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Glastonbury's monks had uncovered Arthur and Guinevere's remains south of the Abbey Church's Lady Chapel. Since a recent devastating fire had greatly reduced pilgrimages—and therefore revenues—Abbot FitzStephen had characterized the discovery as "miraculous." Under King Henry's explicit orders, Glastonbury's monks had dug deeper and deeper until they'd struck what turned out to be a leaden cross bearing the Latin inscription, 'Here lies interred the famous King Arthur on the Isle of Avalon.' Beneath the cross they'd found an enormous oak coffin which, upon opening, revealed two bodies—that of a giant male and an equally formidable female whose golden hair, upon being touched, crumbled into dust. A century later Edward I had ordered the bones wrapped in precious cloth, placed in two decorative caskets and then inside a black marble tomb which was reverentially deposited before the Great Church's high altar.

  At this honored place, Elizabeth found herself standing with hands folded in a prayerful position, staring intently at the ebony marble, as if her gaze might penetrate its depths.

  The gracious, even-tempered, cuckolded warrior king.

  And his tormented, treacherous, tragic queen.

  That was the bottom-line revelation of the Arthurian stories, was it not?

  As always while here, Elizabeth felt some sort of invisible box surrounding her, protecting her from all outside distractions—the multitude of languages rising and falling from the nave area, many made more excitable or quarrelsome from the abundance of wine peddled in the ambulatory's market stalls; and the pilgrims and priests and Harry kneeling or prostrate or wandering about the premises as if taking inventory.

  In Elizabeth's mind, the miracle of Glastonbury's tomb consisted, not of unraveling the myths of Arthur and Guinevere, but in unravelling the myths of her own life. To see Elizabeth Hart, wife of Lawrence Ravenne, not as she wished
herself to be, but as she was.

  At this particular date and time, October, 1367.

  Truth. Not romance.

  What few illusions she'd had about her husband had been smashed early in their marriage, as brutally as her sons might smash clay pots by dropping them from Edmundsbury's battlements. Which they'd indeed done—many times. Thanks to Lawrence Ravenne's lechery, their corner of East Anglia probably contained dozens of copper-haired bastards, though in recent years Larry had become preoccupied with more mundane pursuits.

  More truth. Elizabeth's husband had never been a knight worthy of her imaginings. He would rather pay a scutage than go on campaign, which was probably part of the reason Ravenne had grown stout as a burgher. Furthermore, his interest in carpentry was hardly an acceptable pastime for a man of noble blood. Certainly she couldn't imagine Perceval or Galahad forsaking their quest for the Holy Grail in order to carve a chair.

  Because this moment called for brutal honesty, Elizabeth would admit that her husband's hands were gifted. His Grace, Edward III, had commissioned several pieces, as had other members of the royal court. Larry spent his free time in his woodworking shed surrounded by gouges, planes, saws, mallets, hammers, augers, gimets, braces and projects in various stages of completion. Where once he'd caressed the flesh of peasant girls he now caressed blocks of wood. Which was an improvement.

  This is my life. Practical. Endurable. And nothing like I imagined as a girl in Cumbria Castle when I would read my romances aloud to an attentive Harry and a squirming Matt.

  Elizabeth did her best to mold those in her sphere of influence after the fashion of the Arthurian tales, as well as to school them in the concepts of courtly love. She regularly invited troubadours to Edmundsbury Castle and paid them quite handsomely to recount such favorites as the Roman de la Rose, Perceval, and the Queste del Saint Graal. In versions that depicted women as subjects of adoration whose favor could spur knights to superhuman deeds of prowess. Ah, to be worshipped desperately, helplessly, purely!