The afternoon was unusually warm for an autumn that had been relentlessly rainy, and the leaves underfoot, slick from a morning shower, looked unpleasantly like the carapaces of giant insects. But the sun brought a sparkle to the day, making the greens of the grass and the archers' tunics more vivid, and the sky appear as brilliant as a fine-cut sapphire. Teams of young men raced about like mad horses kicking a large ball between them, brazenly ignoring King Edward's recent decree outlawing football as being too dangerous a sport. There were the usual hammer and horseshoe throws and quarter staff contests, but, as ever, archery was the main amusement. Since 1363, when His Grace had enacted the following into law, every able-bodied man between sixteen and sixty was charged with practicing the longbow every Sunday and feast day.
"The king well realizes that 'tis us archers who be responsible for Crecy, Poitiers, Najera and all his other victories," Thurold often said. "Not his bloody knights who be more trouble than they're worth on the battlefield."
Thurold would know. He'd participated in many of England's campaigns and had only returned this spring from France where, as part of Robert Knolles' Free Company, he and hundreds of other mercenaries had scavenged the countryside. Thurold's full purse had soon been emptied, however, for John Ball, that most unusual of priests, always found uses for the money.
"England is bursting with widows and orphans whose needs grow greater with each "glorious" campaign," John Ball lamented. So, Thurold, who had a talent for working gold if not keeping it, was once again employed at the Shop of the Unicorn.
Today, Margery's stepbrother had already thrust several goose-tipped arrows in the sodden ground and had strung his longbow, near as tall as he, while bantering with several archers. Some had already planted their shafts in the center of targets placed on a long earthen butt located two hundred paces away. It took a yeoman archer a decade to perfect his arm and his aim, skills which quickly diminished without practice.
While Orabel flirted with Thurold and his friends, Margery stood apart, until John Ball, standing in their midst, looked her way. She waved and gestured for him to approach.
"Margery Watson!"
The hedge priest's face was transformed by a smile she liked to think was reserved just for her. John Ball, he whom the chronicler Froissart would later call The Mad Priest, was a bear of a man with a massive chest and arms that, despite his priest's robes and tonsured head, always reminded Margery of a smithy's. Arms that now, against all propriety, wrapped her in a crushing embrace.
Upon release, John Ball scrutinized her with eyes that were large and dark and, depending on the subject, could overflow with compassion or blaze with an inner fire.
"You are looking well, Dame Margery. Your cheeks have a bit of color to them."
She wondered if he might know of her pregnancy for it seemed that John Ball, with his compelling gaze, could decipher her most private thoughts.
"Are you still preaching your insurrections, priest?" she asked, and Ball laughed the deep laugh she so loved.
"Aye, whenever I can corral me an audience."
John Ball insisted that, since all men descended from a single mother and father—Adam and Eve—lords should never be considered master over anyone. That and similar assertions were generally dismissed as babble. Or treason.
"The finer trick," Margery said, "is to make them listen."
They watched Thurold take his turn at the longbow. Though most yeomen had a similar look to them with well-developed chests and arms, particularly the right one, Thurold's hair was longer—short hair was preferable to keep it from getting caught in the bowstring—and he'd lost the sunbaked look of those newly returned from abroad. As he'd lost some of his skill, missing the center of his target and only shooting ten arrows, one after the other, in the time allotted. The best archers could loose sixteen or more.
While the others good-naturedly needled him, John Ball said, "I'm thinking your stepbrother and I should leave this stinking city and travel to Canterbury."
"Why there?" Canterbury was near Thomas Rendell's home. Lord Thomas Rendell was her father, a father she hadn't seen since soon after the Death, when he'd shooed away her pleas for help as if they—and she—were on a level with a swarm of dung-flies.
"We have a new Archbishop, Simon Langham. I'm wondering if he be as mean-natured as the old. Though I need not a three day walk to confirm what I already know in my heart, that Langham will be as indifferent to the poor as his predecessor, God condemn Simon Islip's miserly soul to hell."
"Didn't Archbishop Islip throw you in prison?"
Ball chuckled. "I am ever seeing the inside of someone's dungeon. 'Tis obvious that a man who speaks the truth is considered criminal in Edward of Windsor's England."
By unspoken agreement they moved away from Thurold and the others to walk along a well-worn path. The River Fleet curved to their east, its banks intermittently overgrown with alders, dropping their remaining leaves into the sluggish current. When the breeze shifted, they could smell its unpleasantness for Smithfield was London's livestock market with most of the resultant waste dumped in the river. Gaggles of geese honked, pecked and strutted among the crowds as if they were Smithfield's rightful rulers. Lords and ladies strode with hounds on leash or balls of fur cradled in their arms. Margery recognized the badges on most of the fashionably dressed retainers proclaiming their allegiance to an earl here, a baron there, and various members of the royal family. A trio from John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster's, household swaggered past, so arrogant and cocksure simply because they had a particular piece of red, blue and gold cloth stitched upon their livery.
And I know all about my lord duke, Margery thought. Or at least his palace. The Savoy. It was in the midst of the Savoy's vastness, its multitude of priceless treasures that Matthew Hart had drawn her into a small room where he'd presented her with the little wooden robin. How young we were; how innocent. How foolish.
"Any luck in the Consistory Court?" Ball asked abruptly, breaking into her reverie. He knew Margery had long sought an annulment, and, in addition to teaching her to read and write, had found her a young lawyer to press her case. Fruitlessly, of course. Though one must always try.
Margery shook her head. "Because I am a married woman, I am repeatedly told I must ever remain under the guardianship of my husband."
"'Tis so," John Ball agreed. Married women were grouped in status with the deaf, dumb and insane. But justice was justice and, like the Grail, should be sought. Ceaselessly. Relentlessly. Even if it were never to be found.
Margery squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "I will not give up. I was tricked into marriage and somehow I will be granted an annulment or divorce."
In passing, Richard Lyons, a merchant and financier, bade her good day. Lyons, one of the most powerful men in London, had recently divorced his wife. We have something in common, she thought ruefully, responding in kind. Lyons had made his fortune, as a vintner among other things and his build reminded her a bit of a wine casket. Only he has been successful in his cause.
John Ball stopped to have a word with a group of beggars, former soldiers from the look of their afflictions. Margery waited patiently for him to finish.
What would I have done if you and Thurold had not rescued me from Ravennesfield?
The night Thurold had returned and she'd been introduced to the hedge priest, her perpetually drunken stepfather had been killed in a tavern brawl. An act of kindness from a merciful God, for Alf Watson had expired in all but body following the pestilence, as had so many.
And, for me, would I have ever had the courage to leave my home otherwise?
John Ball turned his attention to a blind woman resting her hands upon the shoulders of a small girl, obviously her guide. He dug in his purse to retrieve a half penny which he handed to the girl.
During their journey south, Margery had been awed by England's beauty, so different from the flatness of the fens surrounding Ravennesfield. And such vastness! Before Thurold and
John's arrival, she had never traveled farther than Cambridge for its yearly Sturbridge Fair, and then Lord Ravenne's wedding in the days preceding the Death. All along the route to London, John Ball had told captivating tales of exotic lands populated by giants and monsters and creatures beyond Margery's imaginings. He'd also spoken of more practical matters, right here in this kingdom, where the monsters were men of flesh and blood whose privilege came at the expense of ordinary folk. A peculiar priest, she'd thought at the time, for most members of the clergy did not speak about equality and all goods being shared in common. Yet John Ball's words had stirred a fire in her soul, though it did not blaze as hotly as in Thurold's...
"Tell me about all your cases in the Consistory Court," John said after bestowing a blessing upon the blind woman and her guide. He addressed Margery as if he were a member of the Order of Preachers questioning a student.
"I first called for a legal separation after a beating, as you recall. I am ever thankful that you introduced me to Robert Penne, for he translates the statutes from Latin into English so that I can read them, and he argued our case most passionately."
"But the church court ruled that your husband was justified since his beating was 'within limits.'"
She nodded. "Since then Master Penne has filed complaints accusing Crull of cruelty, impotence, incompatibility—everything save adultery. Because no woman on earth would willingly consent to personal relations with Simon Crull."
Ball nodded, as if she'd stated fact rather than frustrated opinion.
Margery went on to explain Simon's continuing anger, his belief that her litigiousness had made him a source of amusement among his peers and had cost him his last mayoral election. Which had led to another beating.
"After that Master Penne and I charged him with assault," she said, chuckling, though without mirth.
"And Crull claimed his conduct had been aimed at a worthy purpose—specifically meant to mend your ways—so once again the beating was lawful."
"You know the legal codes as well as Penne," she commented dryly.
"I am indeed familiar with the reality of England's laws, rather than their pretense."
They approached a naked woman clapped in a pillory. Margery averted her eyes, as if that might somehow lessen the unfortunate creature's public shame.
"I suspect Crull bribed the court to make certain it ruled against you," John Ball was saying. When she expressed her surprise, he clucked his tongue at her naiveté. "How do you think London functions save through corruption? The courts are no different."
Now it all made sense, what she had never understood. Once she had even formally stood before a row of jurists, clustered around their long table like watchful ravens, to read the translation of a statute unequivocally stating that she had the right to collect damages since her husband's most recent beating had clearly harmed her. The black eye and bruises on her arms and neck, which she'd displayed by raising her sleeves and lowering her bodice in an admittedly immodest fashion, should have been proof enough. Perhaps affronted by her boldness, the judges hadn't even bothered to lift their eyes from their papers when denying her claim.
"I've considered bringing rape charges," Margery blurted.
John Ball's eyebrows lifted. "Has your husband—"
"To touch my hand without my liking is a violation."
John sighed for Margery was simply talking in the manner of her sex, making things up as she would have them, rather than how they were.
"If I can prove rape, I could have him blinded or castrated or even put to death."
"Have a care, Margery. Your husband is a powerful man. Push him too far and 'twill be you who ends up punished." He gestured in the direction of the woman in the pillory. "And 'twill be more brutal than a few days' inconvenience."
Margery knew he was right, though somehow, if she implored the proper combination of saints and continued her legal research, surely she would be blessed with a miracle.
As they drifted in a circle back toward Thurold and his friends, she turned her attention to Smithfield's children who were, skipping, somersaulting, playing tag, tossing sticks in the Fleet, and trailing after various caregivers in the manner of wayward chicks.
I will pursue my freedom after the babe is born... Her condition was miracle of a kind, wasn't it? I am pregnant. With Simon Crull's child. How could that EVER have happened?
"Do not fear, I'll not be dragging my husband to court for rape," Margery said aloud. "Since you are a priest I will share a confession of sorts. I am with child."
If John was surprised, he hid it well. Rather he nodded sagely, addressing the legal issue rather than her personal condition. "Therefore, according to the law, you enjoyed the... rape, if a wife can actually even be raped by her spouse."
"Aye." The law was the law. Facts were facts. Should a woman conceive, she could not be sexually despoiled. The female body produced semen which accumulated in the womb and could only be ejaculated during an orgasm. Since semen was a necessary condition for conception and Margery was with child, she must have—somehow, in some unfathomable fashion—taken pleasure in Simon Crull's advances.
John Ball stopped and faced her. Looking down from his great height, he said gently, "Accept the child to come as a gift from God."
Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. John raised his giant paw of a hand and cupped her cheek. "Truly, my daughter, it will be a gift."
"I just wish—" But Margery could not put into words what she wished, for how could she give voice to something as mysterious to her as the moon, as unreachable as the stars?
John Ball's smile was both sad and beautiful. "You and I must spend more time praying to St. Jude the Apostle, for he is the patron saint of lost causes. And 'twould appear both of us have much need of him."
* * *
Margery noticed the woman first, though she did not recognize Elizabeth Ravenne, who she had only seen once, at the Hart-Ravenne wedding near two decades past. Margery wasn't even certain what initially drew her attention to Lady Ravenne, walking arm in arm with two gentle-men, for the footpath upon which they trod was crowded. Perhaps it was Elizabeth Ravenne's dress; her checkered surcote was unusual and her kirtle, gown and girdle were of jarringly mis-matched colors. The effect seemed more fitting for a jester than a middle-aged matron, though Lady Ravenne was tall and possessed of a regal bearing which made the overall effect appear more flattering than foolish.
John Ball and Thurold had crossed the practice field to retrieve Thurold's arrows while Orabel was chatting up a particularly receptive archer. Margery glanced at the sun, now on its westward arc with shadows inching across Smithfield's green.
Soon it will be time to return to the Shop, she thought idly. Hopefully Crull remains at Charing Cross so I'll be spared his blatherings about cost overruns and shoddy workmanship.
Her gaze drifted from Elizabeth Ravenne to her companions. Strange that even now Margery felt no glimmer of recognition. The man on Lady Ravenne's left was dressed as fashionably as any popinjay residing in Holborn or the Strand. His hat partially shielded his face and when he gestured with his free hand, she noted that each finger contained a ring. And then that his mannerisms were oddly familiar.
Suddenly Margery knew. Harry Hart. Her gaze immediately swung to the other man, who was bareheaded and...
With a sudden lurching of her heart, she recognized him. Matthew Hart. Brown as a Saracen with hair sun-bleached nearly white at the crown. While she gaped, Matthew said something that caused his siblings to laugh. How well she remembered that grin, his teeth so white against the darkness of beard! And the way he moved, with the easy grace of the leopard she'd seen in the Tower of London's menagerie. So fluid and graceful and with such a restless, barely controlled energy—as if the whole of the world could not contain him. She noticed that the cobalt of Matthew's cote hardie exactly matched the color of his eyes, and that his clothes were crafted in the latest fashion.
What is that about? Could her former lover, wh
o had once been so dismissive of frippery, have been transformed into a fop by his time at the Bordelais court?
Nay, more like a tiger masquerading as a bailey cat.
Seeing her mistress's peculiar expression, Orabel had bade her archer an abrupt goodbye and hurried over. "Maggie-dear, what is wrong?"
Margery could only respond with a shake of the head. She felt as if the wind had been knocked from her and struggled for breath.
The Harts were yet a good twenty paces away. Because of her position, she would likely not even be noticed. But how, on some primal level, could Matthew not sense her presence? For Margery felt as if the earth had tilted, as if she were sliding off its edge and into some turbid abyss...
"Be ye ill?" Orabel followed her gaze and swore. "Sweet bloody Jesus, 'tis your knight. Oh, Maggie, Maggie," she clucked. "We canna have this."
Matthew ran his hand through his hair in a gesture that was as familiar to Margery as his smile, as the way in which he now bent toward his sister, signaling his intention of teasing her.
Vaguely, Margery felt Orabel's arm around her waist and knew her maid must be speaking though she could not decipher any words. Or maybe she did. In some rote fashion she might even have replied for she could not think clearly. It seemed she could scarce think at all.
Six years. Six years and a heart that she'd so firmly, carefully shuttered. How fastidious she'd been in the boarding up of her emotions. And yet, in an instant the shutters had burst open and they had sprung free like songbirds loosed from their cage.
Matthew passed within ten paces of her.
"Feel ye lightheaded?" Orabel tried to guide her in the direction of a nearby elm tree. "Let us sit in the shade and I'll find you something to drink."
Margery ignored her. Unconsciously, her hands covered her heart, as if she might somehow keep emotions safely locked away that had already escaped.
Too late...
With a blinding flash of insight, she realized that imperceptibly, day upon day, year upon year she had slipped into that spiritual torpor priests decried as "accidie." All this time her soul had been gasping for breath the way a hanging man struggles with his noose.
Within A Forest Dark Page 5