Margery watched the dark swirl of cape as her former lover pulled up his hood, as if to deny her the merest glimpse of him, and stalked toward the end of Lombard Street. She tried to assimilate what had just happened, but all she could think was, Fool! Because she still cared she'd convinced herself that, despite all the evidence to the contrary, Matthew Hart did as well. How mistaken she'd been. He'd wiped her and their past away as easily as a smudge from a mirror.
Margery was suddenly aware that she was trembling. It must be because the wind had turned bitter, penetrating through her mantle to her very soul.
How could this have happened?
Matthew veered left onto Poultry and disappeared without a backward glance. Feeling too stunned, too numb even to cry, Margery turned back toward the carriage.
Only to see Simon Crull staring at her.
* * *
"Wait for me in the solar," Crull ordered Margery once they reached the Shop.
Master Craftsman Nicholas Norlong had spread a display of brooches before a couple while Thurold Watson was seated at one of the long tables working on a copper mold to be used in the making of paternosters. Seeing Margery's face, her stepbrother put down his tools, rose and went to her.
"What has happened, Stick Legs?" He said, using her childhood nickname. "What is wrong?"
Margery shook her head. "My husband is just a bit upset about having to visit the Lombards."
Thurold's eyes narrowed. One of the reasons he stayed at the Shop rather than spend all his days with John Ball was to protect his stepsister. "Is he taking his unhappiness out on you?"
"Nay." She managed a smile. "I am just tired. I shall lie down for a time."
Once inside the solar, Margery hung her mantle on a peg, ordered a maid to light a fire and then dismissed her. Alone, Margery awaited for husband. She was not over-concerned. Because of her condition Crull would not beat her and she was expert at ignoring his tirades.
Just get it over with.
She rubbed her temples. She had such a throbbing headache and she needed to think. Or to take a sleeping draught and fall asleep. If only there was such a potion that upon her awakening would obliterate all memory of her meeting with Matthew. Of him all together.
Simon entered the solar and slid the bolt in the door—standard procedure before beginning his tongue-lashings. Margery sighed and turned away from him, toward the warmth of the fire. Placing her hands in the small of her back, she stretched to ease its near constant ache.
Far more quickly than usual, Simon crossed to her and jerked a coil of hair. Forcing her head back until her neck cracked, he hissed against her ear. "You have been cuckolding me, haven't you? You and that whoreson knight. I should have known."
Margery was caught off guard by his violence. "Release me, husband," she said, striving to keep her voice calm. "Have a care for the child."
Simon dropped his hand. The spidery veins in his pitted nose stood out against the whiteness of his skin. "How long has that whoreson been back from Bordeaux? How long have you two been lovers?"
"Do not speak silliness. Until today I had not seen Lord Hart in years."
Simon turned his back to her. Picking up a poker, he thrust it into the fire, and tapped it against a log, causing the edges to crumble to fiery coals.
Margery warily studied her husband. Once Simon thought about it, surely he would realize she and Matthew could not be lovers. He knew the itineraries of the wealthy far better than she. No doubt he was aware of the exact date Matthew Hart had arrived in London.
Suddenly Simon whipped the poker out of the flames and slammed it horizontally against her stomach. Margery doubled over, crying out in surprise and pain.
"'Tis his bastard, isn't it?" Simon tossed aside the poker and dragged her upright. "Whore! 'Tis not my child at all."
Margery could not respond. The force of his blow had knocked the breath from her; she gasped and struggled to fill her lungs.
"You've been seeing him all along!" Simon raised his arm to strike her. "All of London knows how you've cuckolded me, do they not?"
Margery tried to twist away, to shield her babe and herself.
Simon pummeled her back, breasts, and stomach. "I will kill you, you and your bastard spawn both."
Attempting to ward off his blows, Margery lost her balance and fell against a table which crashed to the floor. When she tried to stand, Simon shoved her back upon the rushes. She began crawling away, her one conscious thought to flee him, but her body would not respond as quickly as she commanded, did not want to respond at all.
Through a haze of pain she saw Crull's feet, shod in their heavy clogs, saw the hem of his gown climb higher and higher as he balled the material around his knees. Simon drew back his right leg to kick her. Seeking to knock him off balance, Margery grabbed at his opposite leg, missed.
Crull planted his wooden-soled foot in her stomach. The force of the blow momentarily lifted her body off the ground.
Margery screamed. Only half conscious, she collapsed upon the rushes, whimpering like a wounded animal.
Vaguely, she heard a pounding in her ears—the pounding of her heart? Someone pounding at the door. Battering? Crash as the door slammed against a wall. From her position she took vague note of several pairs of legs; angry voices. Thurold's voice. Simon's voice. She saw and heard it all as if through a fog. Such confusion. She could not grasp anything beyond her suffering.
Crull yelled as Thurold threw him to the floor. Straddling Simon's chest, Margery's stepbrother began choking him. Master Walter the Steward and other servants tried to pull Thurold off but he hung on like a wolf attached to a jugular.
Margery saw Simon's struggles weaken. At least you will also die, she thought, sliding into unconsciousness.
Chapter 5
London
Master Goldsmith Nicholas Norlong strode toward Newgate Prison, a package of food in his hands. Though the hour was early, London already teemed with people heading for the various markets. Some were bound for Fish Street Hill where fish was sold, others to East Cheap or Newgate Street for meat or to Cornhill and Leadenhall for eggs and poultry. Water carriers and milk maids mingled with customers, balancing pails of sweet water or fresh milk on their shoulders.
Norlong followed the flow, as if he were also out for marketing, but, despite the morning's coolness, his hands were sweating and as he neared his destination he experienced a rising dread. Newgate Prison dominated its surroundings like a monstrous gargoyle. Once you entered its maw, who could emerge? Surely not Thurold Watson, which was injustice indeed. Despite his seditious views, which he was far too free about sharing, Thurold possessed a craftsman's touch and a real eye for design. His presence was missed. And Norlong had been eager to ease Dame Margery's mind by delivering sustenance to her stepbrother whenever possible. Master Walter the Steward, the entire household, was outraged by Simon Crull's false accusations of thievery, as well as his brutalization of his wife.
At the corner of Walbrook Street, Nicholas shook his head at a tippler extending a small cask, and asking, "Drink, good sir? I've the tastiest ale in all of London."
As he stumped along, Norlong's thoughts jumped nervously about. He contemplated the hundred pounds his parents had paid to finance his apprenticeship, which was a debt that must be repaid. He kept neat accounts on the balance which was decreasing far too slowly... And what about the mysterious death of Brian Goldman, friend and fellow apprentice? London was a violent city and becoming more lawless by the day... If only I were brave and strong and wealthy enough to be Dame Margery's champion... I hope Simon Crull dies soon. Satan himself will escort that one to hell...
He thought about his business trip to Bordeaux years past at the behest of his master. The galley in which he'd been packed away like so many tuns of wine had bucked like an unbroken horse and left him so seasick he thought he'd die both coming and returning.
And the Bordelais Court! Even more debauched than the rumors. Saints be praised that I was only there a short
while and that that mad knight never took notice of me...
Nicholas jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Where are you bound, goldsmith?"
It was as if Norlong had conjured the mad knight out of his musings for when he looked up he was gazing straight into the eyes of Lord Matthew Hart. Norlong felt his limbs turn to liquid as surely as when he heated gold to melting. His package slipped from hands whose strength had been leached away.
"Newgate prison, my lord," he managed, executing a jerky bow. His voice sounded two octaves higher than usual.
"Do not look so fearful," Matthew said. "I would question you, 'tis all."
Nicholas Norlong well remembered the last time the knight had questioned him, after Dame Margery's marriage, when Lord Hart had come into the Shop seeking her, only to find that she was wedded and bedded and off on pilgrimage. At that time, Matthew Hart had been so crazed Nicholas feared he might be sliced to pieces right there on the drafting table.
With trembling hands Nicholas gathered up his package and looked around, as if seeking help.
"Why are you bound for Newgate, goldsmith?"
Norlong tried to figure out how to respond. He did not consider himself to be either brave or cowardly but rather simply a worker of gold—a talented worker of gold—with a skill for filigree and a head for figures. Beyond that, he preferred to remain behind the scenes, to create fine pieces of jewelry for the upper classes, while staying as far away from them as possible. Particularly someone like Lord Hart.
"I... am bound to help Dame Margery's stepbrother," he said carefully, fearful that something in his response might trigger Hart's rage.
Matthew's eyebrows lifted. "And why would he be at Newgate? 'Tis reserved for the very worst."
"Our master accused Thurold Watson of stealing jewelry and had him bundled off to Newgate for a year and a day." Would that offend Lord Hart? Would he take accusations of a relative being a thief as a slur against Dame Margery? Quickly, Norlong added, "Thurold would never do such a thing, of course. Our master can be... unreasonable."
Matthew pulled Nicholas Norlong into a secluded part of a church precinct, away from costermongers crying their costard apples and matrons crying their bread, beer, fish, eel and meat pies. And unfortunately for the goldsmith's increasingly fraught nerves, where he had a clear view of a row of wretches clamped in pillories.
"What about Dame Margery?" Matthew asked, his hand still on Norlong's arm. "I've not seen her."
Since their meeting on Lombard Street, Matthew had taken to passing the Shop. For no real reason, of course. But Margery's apparent absence had led to curiosity, which had further increased the frequency of his strolls, as well as his inquiries. He'd even had one of his retainers purchase a few pieces from the Shop, while asking discreet questions which had yielded nothing. While Matthew had long ago planned to exit London for Cumbria, yet here he was, seeking answers from this bug-eyed, sweating, red-faced man.
Matthew pressed, "Has Simon Crull been unreasonable with Dame Margery, as well as her stepbrother?"
Norlong swallowed hard, as if he had a heel of bread stuck in his throat. He was terrified that he might say the wrong thing and trigger Lord Hart's ire. What did the knight want? Norlong would do his best to provide whatever information he might seek without inadvertently being caught up in matters that were none of his concern and which might lead to loss of his position at the Shop, or even his life.
"Dame Margery had an accident." If Norlong told Hart that she'd lost her child, the knight might ask how and who knew how he would react? "She... fell down a set of stairs—"
"What? When did this happen? How badly was she hurt?"
"She is much improved, my lord, no lasting damage." Nicholas felt sweat trickle down his armpits. "She is just not ready to venture out. She fears for her stepbrother for Newgate's gaolers are corrupt and unless someone free can help those inside they oft die..." Nicholas trailed away. Would Lord Hart think he was criticizing the rightful order of things?
"I want you to speak true to me about some matters," Matthew Hart said. He did not appear over-perturbed and the gold noble he handed Nicholas was a comforting sign, was it not?
"Do not look so terrified, goldsmith."
As if he could order Nicholas's heart to cease its thundering.
"You remember your mistress's wedding, do you not? What was Dame Margery's demeanor, then and later?"
Norlong blinked. Why was Lord Hart asking about such ancient history? Truth was Norlong paid more attention to Dame Margery's movements than he should but he did not want to give the impression that his interest was over-personal. Yet, if he did not fully answer the knight's questions, the firm grip on his forearm would not be the last physical contact to which he'd be subjected.
"The wedding itself was private for it was so very soon after the death of Master Crull's first wife." Nicholas crossed himself clumsily, nearly dropping the food packet as he did so. "But afterward...'Tis obvious Dame Margery has always been unhappy in her marriage. You must know about her attempts to divorce Master Crull in the courts."
"Nay, I did not." Was that what Margery had been trying to tell him at their meeting?
"She has reason to be unhappy."
"How so?"
Nicholas hesitated. "Sound carries far in a household. We cannot help but hear... quarrelling." He was conflicted by what next he should say, if imparting more information would please or anger the lord. "Master Crull is jealous," he began cautiously. "He often accuses her of... infidelities."
The mad knight's eyes narrowed; his fingers tightened upon Norlong's arm.
"And does he have reason to accuse her?"
"Nay, my lord. Dame Margery is the most virtuous of women."
Norlong sensed that he'd made the appropriate response, that for the moment the danger had passed. He relaxed ever so slightly. This was so confusing. Lord Hart was confusing. His wrath upon hearing of Dame Margery's marriage, his and that black-haired woman's scandalous behavior at the Bordelais court, and now these peculiar questions. Was it all connected? Why, oh why, was he being dragged into the affairs of his betters?
"Has a lady ever visited the shop, before the wedding or more recently—dark hair, dark eyes, the latest court fashions?" A description that could match countless ladies. "Her name is Desiderata Cecy."
"That all was such a long time ago, my lord." But Norlong knew very well to whom Lord Hart was referring. His Gascon lover. At the warning look in the knight's eyes, Nicholas also knew he'd best impart information that pleased his interrogator. Such a lady had indeed visited his fellow craftsman, Brian Goldman, though Nicholas had only glimpsed her and could not make a positive identification. Nicholas had seen the pair speaking, heads close together, and later that day Goldman had left the shop, muttering something about an assignation.
Well he remembered the incident for that had been the last time anyone had seen Brian Goldman alive.
Nicholas also recalled a peculiar conversation he'd had with Brian perhaps two years after Dame Margery's marriage. She had sported an obvious black eye and Brian, tongue loosened by ale, had made cryptic comments about how he regretted his part in some vague trickery. "'Tis best not to get involved with the affairs of the great. Deviltry can even come in the form of a fine lady. I fear I've sold me integrity for a purse of sovereigns."
After Norlong relayed that, Hart asked, "Did he say anything else?"
"'Tis hard to remember." Seeing that look again, Nicholas silently implored a bevy of saints to freshen his recall. "He mentioned something about intercepting or destroying letters, I believe, but I did not understand. From the way he spoke I assumed they had something to do with Dame Margery. He did not divulge their contents—well, that's a silly comment for Brian could not read or write–or to whom they might have been addressed. He was very drunk, my lord." He felt as if he were a young apprentice again, trembling at Master Crull's displeasure, seeking something, anything, to earn an approving word.
"I trust this Goldman is still at the shop?"
"Nay, my lord. The day after he left, a watchman showed up with word of an accident. Brian had fallen under the wheels of a cart. Dead, my lord."
He stopped himself from making the sign of the cross a second time and stepped back, fearing Hart's wrath at the news.
Instead Matthew looked thoughtful. "All right, goldsmith, be on your way."
Nicholas shifted his package, squared his shoulders, and then gave a courteous bow to the knight. "My lord."
Matthew called after him. "Please relay to Dame Margery's brother that his time at Newgate will soon be past."
As the meaning of Hart's words sank in, a chill hand seemed to squeeze Nicholas's chest; his legs felt too weak to carry him forward. Had Lord Hart just issued a threat? Had Nicholas inadvertently said something that had put Thurold Watson's life in danger?
Who knew with mad knights?
* * *
Accompanied by Orabel, Margery shopped at the market of Cheap, a great plaza bounded by Greyfriars and St. Paul's Cathedral. This was her first outing since her "miscarriage," and Orabel repeatedly cast worried looks or asked after her health.
They entered by way of Wood Street, passing the Church of St. Peter and an herb market pungent with onions, fennel, rosemary and thyme.
"Might I carry your basket?" Orabel asked, while cradling one of her own. She'd been Margery's primary caretaker during her "sickness" and was solicitous of her to the point of annoyance.
Margery shook her head. "'Tis just pleasant to be out."
She'd been holed up so long with her sorrow and household servants with watchful faces that today was indeed a treat. Spread about the plaza were mercers, pepperers, fishmongers, cheesemongers, bakers, poulterers, and cordwainers, all setting up or calling their wares. It was yet early enough for the abundant odors to be pleasant, the vendors' cries to be lusty and good-natured.
"Bread, first, I think," Margery said.
They headed for the bakers, located near the Eleanor Cross in the center of the plaza. The Eleanor Cross was one of the monuments Edward I had erected to mark the various spots where the body of his beloved wife, Eleanor of Castile, had rested on its final journey to Westminster. Londoners often paused with bowed heads before the painted stone image of Mary cradling the Christ child, and said their rosary in memory of Queen Eleanor. Every time Margery looked at the gilded and ornate stone tower, she reflected on the love King Edward must have borne his queen.
Within A Forest Dark Page 7