Some put the number slaughtered at twenty thousand.
France's protectors. What is the difference between them and us, their declared enemy?
Thurold pulled his thin blanket over his shoulders and closed his eyes, hoping to shut out the continually unfolding panorama. Finally, he drifted off... though he could not tell whether the screams he heard were from some of the unfortunates around him or from inside his own head.
* * *
The next morning, as Thurold exited daily mass with dozens of other prisoners, he was approached by two burly guards.
"Come with us," one ordered.
Instantly alert, he asked, "Why?" Had Crull added more charges? Had Thurold done something wrong? Was he being taken to the 'Bocardo,' the whispered name of a greatly feared dungeon in which Newgate's prisoners were most inventively tortured?
"Why?" Thurold repeated. He tried to glean something from the guards' ruddy faces but they looked neither angry nor happy. One grabbed him by the elbow and pushed him forward before them.
While passing through various corridors and rooms, Thurold took stock of his surroundings, seeking some way of escape. If they meant to harm him, better to die resisting. Mercifully, he was unfettered, and though his guards might be larger he was quick as a badger and knew how to fight.
They stopped at a partially open oak door. Thurold couldn't see inside. A guard shoved him, though not too roughly.
Body tense, balanced on the balls of his feet, Thurold entered a small, dark room. Cluttered with sets of keys, each bigger than his finger, on one wall. A desk in front stacked with all manner of oddments. Behind the desk, stood a small man, hardly bigger than Simon Crull, who stared at him.
The guard to me left is old and breathes like a winded 'orse. I'll grab the morning star he be so carelessly carrying, dispatch 'im and...
"Thurold Watson?" the small man asked. His face was round as a full moon, but he did not look fat. His hands, resting atop some packet, were oddly thick, with stumpy fingers and dirty nails.
"Aye. And who might ye be?" Thurold asked bluntly.
I'll not be going to the Bocardo and that's a fact, ye moon-faced bastard.
"I am Adam le Gaoler, your keeper."
Adam le Gaoler smiled at him. But was it a friendly smile or that of someone who would enjoy inflicting mayhem upon him?
He returned le Gaoler's stare. "And what do you want with me, Adam le Gaoler?"
Without betraying his anxiety, Thurold awaited his answer.
* * *
Margery placed her eponymously named bird in the shop while she worked, hung its cage on a hook in the solar and, when in the back-side, often opened the wire door and coaxed it to sit upon her finger while she fed it slivers of apple or berries. Sometimes Robin would hop about on the bench and allow her to run a gentle finger along its back as it explored. Since goods were commonly exchanged for jewelry, Simon had never commented on the bird and Margery made certain not to show too much interest while in her husband's presence. But merely lifting her gaze to the finely worked filigreed cage or hearing Robin's cheerful whistle raised her spirits. For it told her more surely than words that Matthew Hart still cared.
This morning Margery and Nicholas Norlong and Philbert, the apprentice who had replaced the unfortunately deceased Brian, were readying the shop for opening. While surveying Norlong's drawing table, the shelves of beautiful reliquaries, the furnace for melting gold and the adjacent table where Philbert would soon be patiently hammering a piece of gold until it was as thin as a skim of ice, Margery felt a measure of pride. Had Simon not become such a profligate spender, the Shop would surely number among the most prosperous in all the kingdom. It certainly enjoyed the largest trade in London. Under her and Nicholas Norlong's stewardship—if only Simon Crull would DIE!—the Shop of the Unicorn could ensure them all financial comfort, even riches.
Absently, Margery picked up a love ring in the shape of two clasped hands and rang a finger across its inscription: 'Amor vincit omnia'—'Love conquers all.'
Would that were so. She quickly returned the ring to its rightful place.
Hearing a rap on the door—too early surely for a customer—Margery crossed to open it.
"Good morrow, Stick-Legs!" Thurold stood on the porch stoop, grinning at her and looking amazingly healthy despite his weeks at Newgate.
"Jesu!" Margery breathed. "What are you doing here?"
Thurold wrapped her in a bone-crushing embrace. "I am a free man, as if ye did na know."
Margery pulled away from him. "But how did you... how were you released?"
"Come along now. A royal pardon? How'd ye ever manage that? And the bribe ye gave the warden was enough to loose a dozen prisoners."
"Bribe? What are you talking about?"
"Bribe, compensation, a fine thank you, whatever you would call it," said Thurold, with a grand wave of his arm. "But a royal pardon? How did ye go round that miserly husband of yours?"
"I... I pawned some jewelry," Margery stammered, while trying to piece together what might have happened. John Ball? He didn't have that sort of influence and certainly not the money. A royal pardon could only mean one person. "And my... clerk, Robert Penne, he knows important people..."
"The warden would na give me details. Mentioned something about an anonymous benefactor but I know wot's wot." Thurold reached out to caress her cheek. "How will that old bastard react when he finds I'm freed?"
How indeed? Surely, Crull would realize that there was no way she could have managed such a payment. If he even found out at all. As preoccupied as he was with his health and other affairs that left him away more than at the Shop, why wouldn't he just assume that Thurold was safely buried in the bowels of Newgate? Even if he learned of Thurold's release, he could never connect her brother's release to... but who else could have had Thurold freed save Matthew Hart?
"Before I leave, I have a vow to fulfill."
Margery quickly put a finger to his lips. She was well acquainted with Thurold and his vows and they ever included bloodshed. Easy enough to figure whose blood he meant to spill this time. "Do not," she said. "I will be most happy with you far, far away. I am safe. Leave Crull for now."
"'Twould be so easy. Little more than a prick of the knife—"
"You've been granted a boon. Take it. John Ball is headed south for Canterbury. Go with him. Go save England, my brother, and God speed with that."
He looked at her intently, his bright gaze reminding her suddenly of Robin's. "I will do as you wish, but will you not go with us? 'Twould be a hard life but..."
She shook her head. "Simon is seldom here and he leaves me be. He has even moved a pallet into the solar." She didn't add that it was she who slept on the pallet. Nor that if she left to wander England, she might never see Matthew Hart again.
"He could once more injure you..."
Margery smiled. "We are due in court in a fortnight. I doubt Simon would have the plaintiff against him showing up with bruises or broken bones. And his behavior has earned him censure from fellow merchants and aldermen."
"I've left word with friends to 'ave a care—"
"Go along, Thurold," she said, hugging him tightly. "I will be fine."
And for the first time in a very long while she was.
Chapter 7
London
When Matthew was in his younger brother's company, two words kept popping into his mind: "dissolute" and "aimless." He watched as Harry poured himself yet another portion of wine from a flagon on a small table near the roaring fire.
Too much drinking, wenching and gambling. And the company you keep... Matt grimaced for he hated thinking about that woman. But he must soon initiate an unpleasant though necessary conversation.
He turned away from Harry to lean against the frame of the window overlooking Hart Place's garden, bleak and shuttered for the winter. Here in the family solar Margery Watson had nursed him back to health following a sickness in the lungs that had nearly killed him.
And it was here in the "she and I" seat before the window that Matthew had asked her to be his leman and she had agreed. After which everything had fallen apart.
"I wish you were not leaving for Cumbria on the morrow."
Matthew turned back to face his brother, who had poured a second goblet of wine. "These past days together remind me how much I have missed you."
Matthew accepted the proffered goblet while studying his brother's face, as if he might read Harry's dissolution there. But he could not. Their sister Elizabeth had commented that Harry was prettier than she was, which was true. Not in an effeminate sort of way; rather Harry still appeared innocent, even angelic, as if he were perpetually illumined by a holy light shining down from heaven. But if the stories Matthew heard were true, his brother would fit well with the Bordelais court. Convenient that right when he'd been called to service he'd broken his leg in a spill down the stairs or falling from a horse or whatever for the story had a way of changing. He wondered uncharitably whether Harry had missed some steps during one of his drunks.
"I've not seen Cumbria in near seven years," Matthew said, finally addressing Harry's lament.
"Or Mother," Harry reminded him. "You know she is counting the days."
Matthew wet his lips with the wine. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. As much as he hated, he knew he must address the subject. He cleared his throat. "I am troubled, brother. Once you warned me about keeping company with Desiderata Cecy and yet you spend all your spare time with her. She encourages your... amusements."
When Harry started to protest, Matthew silenced him with a warning look. "She is only with you to torment me and you know it—"
"I am not bedding her," Harry said defensively. "And I am clear-eyed about her faults, as well as the fact that she thinks to get to you through me.'Twill not happen. She is not as clever as she thinks."
Matthew knew better than to underestimate Desiderata Cecy, just as he knew it was a mistake not to engage his former lover; that his avoidance merely festered in her soul.
"Six years," Matthew said. "Six unnecessary years. When I think I allowed that she-devil into my bed after she surely was the cause of my misery..."
"She is a comely and very wealthy she-devil." Harry downed the last of his wine and glanced longingly at the flagon, thought better of a refill and placed the empty goblet on the table.
Matthew did not trust himself to respond without snapping. Desire, who had followed him the way plagues traverse the seas, had definitely driven a wedge between them. He well knew that Desire's generosity—paying Harry's continuing gambling debts, buying him presents and seeking out his company, was solely to mind Matthew's business.
"You should not chastise me about women when you are entangling yourself once again in a doomed relationship." Harry ignored Matthew's glare. He felt like adding that Matthew should have a care to his soul, but the piety from his latest pilgrimage had already faded and if mankind was measured by the sins of fornication and adultery, scarce any of God's creatures would be allowed into heaven.
Instead he said, "Margery Watson has a fine enough life, I would think, and her husband cannot live much longer. Once he dies..." Harry shrugged, though Margery Watson, even in these lax days, would ever be an inappropriate marriage match. But since his brother remained steadfast in his vow of bachelorhood...
Hoping to ease the tension, Harry said lightly, "Ah, women. Daughters of Eve, the curse of mankind. Let us not quarrel over such a witless topic."
Matthew nodded and turned back to the window, his body language clearly signaling the subject was finished.
Harry tried unsuccessfully to think of something to say. Finally, he crossed the solar and retrieved his cloak from a wall peg.
"God keep you on your trip home, brother."
Matthew did not respond to Harry's goodbye.
Rather he kept his watch at the window.
* * *
Matthew was taken completely off guard by Desiderata Cecy's arrival. He had been woolgathering, contemplating his forthcoming journey north... a fortnight's ride at the least; and about how he would finally, finally initiate a reunion with his Meg. He longed for it and feared it for what then would be set in motion? But he would be with Margery Watson again. No longer would he pretend otherwise. He'd left one of his retainers to watch the Shop of the Unicorn, to make certain she was well, that Desiderata Cecy would not take it in her mind to commit some sort of mischief, for he'd put nothing past that harridan. And he had spies at the ready to report upon anything unusual at court, particularly between Harry and Desire. More than that he could not do...
He did not even hear the knock on the solar door before it was flung open. He jumped and whirled around to see the angry expression on Francus, his squire's, face, and the shock on one of the servants peering behind him. Then Lady Cecy swept past them both, slamming the door behind her.
"I know you are leaving and that you refuse to see me," Desire said. "I'll not have it!" She stamped her foot, a gesture he'd witnessed many times. Matthew felt his anger rise but had enough self-control to maintain his silence.
"I know what you're about," she said, crossing the distance between him. "You cannot ignore me forever. When we are out, as soon as I arrive, you leave, or if you canna sneak away, you surround yourself with others. As if you are above even the barest exchange of pleasantries." She removed her cloak and gloves and tossed them atop the counterpane on the massive bed dominating the chamber. "You think the whole court does not notice that you deliberately humiliate me?"
"We are past, Desire. I told you in Bordeaux—"
She faced him, eyes blazing as brightly as the jewels at her neck, in the intricately worked caul holding her hair. "I remember a recent time at Windsor when you were eager enough to tup me on the stairs—"
Matthew winced. Aye, that had been a most unfortunate encounter. What a weak-willed fool he'd been, regretting his lapse even while he'd been indulging in it. "We both agreed 'twas a mistake. Which is why I must keep my distance. I would not further disrespect you." He tried to keep his manner placating. He did not want to be involved in another of her verbal knife fights, for he always emerged the loser.
"Disrespect me? How kind of you to suddenly have a care for my reputation. You are mine, my fine lord, whether—"
"Enough!" Matthew said, his temper lost. "I know what you are doing with Harry. You are using him thinking to get to me, which you will not, and—"
"I would not have to if you quit pretending that I do not exist." Desire spread her hands in a placating manner. "If you would just speak with me—"
"About what? What is there to say? You know what I remember when I ponder our time together? The unrelenting meanness of your nature. Our quarrels, your hysterics and tantrums, your schemings and unkindness to just about everyone about you. Would you have us speak of that?"
"Why are you being so cruel?"
"Or would you rather speak of how you destroyed my relationship with Margery Watson?"
Desire blinked. There it was in the open. He could see by her expression that his charge had hit its target. "Had you not meddled, she would never have married Simon Crull. And I'd not have endured the misery—"
"Of my company, of my lovemaking?" Desire flared. Her hands curled into claws and he tensed, but he gambled she would restrain herself from attacking him. "You did not complain about me all those times in Bordeaux when you so willingly shared my bed."
"'Twas a bed of lies. You tricked me, tricked us—"
Desire drew herself to her full height. "Hear me well. I will make certain you are never again with your fine Dame Margery."
"How did you manage it, your scheme to keep us apart? I've pieced together most of it." While Desire was adept at playing the courtly game, he knew by the slight widening of her eyes he'd once again guessed correctly. "And tell me, have you added murder to your sins?"
"What are you talking about?"
"That apprentice you bribed, to spy up
on Meg." It was another wild stab, but he knew by the sharp intake of breath his suspicion was correct. "Did you hire a cutthroat or do the deed yourself? Pushing that Goldman fellow under a cart, wasn't it? Do you have murder on your conscience, as well?"
A flurry of emotions raced across Desire's face—anger despair, sadness, fear—one upon the other, come and gone so quickly, like clouds pulled apart by a wind.
She took two steps until she faced him directly, with only inches between them. Reaching out she dug her fingernails into his arm. Matthew was used to the tantrums, accusations, and physical assaults and braced himself for the forthcoming invective.
But Desire did not yell or scream or physically lash out. Rather she spoke softly, little above a whisper. "I will take away everything you love, the same as you did to me." Her tone chilled him more than all her previous histrionics. "I will make you hurt the way you've hurt me. I know what and who you love and I will see it all turn to dust."
With that, Matthew scooped his arm around her waist and half carried her across the room. Still keeping her dangling, kicking and flailing against him, he opened the door with his free arm and shoved her outside. To his squire, who'd been waiting on the landing, he said, "Show m'lady out. And leave word that she is not allowed entrance at Hart's Place. Ever again."
Desire straightened herself and her clothing. "Everything you love," she hissed. "'Tis my promise, nay, my vow to you."
Matthew slept very little that night. He had always been perplexed by the mazy train of Desiderata Cecy's reasoning and if she would kill a man, what would she NOT do?
He would leave several retainers to follow her everywhere. And trust that her vow was nothing more than a preposterous boast, one she would put aside in the morning.
Chapter 8
Cumbria
Matthew was eager for his first glimpse of Cumbria Castle, eager to ride the family demesne and to explore its crags, fells, waterfalls and moors. Cumbria was not the Harts' most prosperous holding, but it was their favorite. Or at least Matthew and his father's. Increasingly, he regretted promising it to Harry, who once confessed he found its wildness frightening.
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