Matthew and his retinue rode, all under the Hart banner, through an England awash in shades of grey. Harvest time of 1367 had come and gone, but the constant rains had made harvesting impossible. Everywhere crops had been left to rot and Cumbria's fields, hacked out of the contrary countryside, had yielded even less largesse than usual. Off the king's highway, the roads were often little more than trails, sometimes across pastures or abbey lands and streams, swollen to dangerous levels.
Matthew didn't mind. Generally he and his men bedded down in abbeys or monasteries where the accommodations were dry and clean enough and the food was decent. Some travelling days were rainy; some cold; some cold and rainy, but nothing out of the ordinary for this time of year. Long days in the saddle gave him time to think. His thoughts were mundane enough: of a favorite ride with his father to Lake Winandermere. Of Meg and various ways he would arrange a reunion. Of Desiderata Cecy's last words, "I will take away everything you love..." which increasingly seemed a curse.
Oddly, Matthew's attention kept returning to a story he'd heard right before departure. It predicted that young Richard of Bordeaux, Prince Edward's second son and scarce out of swaddling bands, would be England's next king.
"'Tis all in the charts," stated the astrologer who cast Richard's horoscope.
The young prince had been born on January 6, Feast of the Three Kings, and there had been three kings in Bordeaux at the time of his birth. Horoscopes were not lightly dismissed and its message was clear enough. Matthew was sure young Richard's father, his lord the prince, would fully recover his recent illnesses—Edward might now be fully recovered—but Matthew remained uneased by the augury's implications.
Had Matthew been an astrologer—he was not—or a soothsayer—he most certainly was not—he would have been pondering far weightier matters. For Matthew Hart and England were on the verge of their own reverse alchemy, when everything gold would turn to dross. Edward of Windsor was called "The Perfect King" for good reason. But this England of 1367, this proud, prosperous kingdom that Matthew and his fellow Englishmen and women took for granted—or assumed had always been as it was today—hovered on the knife's blade of decline.
The signs were there, the sclerosis that befalls an aging monarch and his reign. But Edward III had accomplished so much after ascending the throne as a fourteen-year-old that it was easy to overlook the reality that his accomplishments were largely in the past. A warrior king nonpareil, Edward had transformed his kingdom into a formidable military power. He had created the revered and widely imitated Order of the Garter, selecting knights who epitomized the best of chivalry and combat. He had introduced cannon in battle and longbow crossfire as a fighting method. Domestically, he remodeled, repaired or built castles and residences throughout his kingdom, employing the finest glaziers, painters, masons, and craftsmen in each area, which added not only to the local beauty but to its economy. In a building project spanning eighteen years, he'd transformed Windsor Castle into one of Europe's most beautiful residences. As he did St. Stephen's Chapel within Westminster Palace, where he and his family regularly worshipped. St. Stephen's, ninety feet long and thirty feet wide, underwent the most magnificent painting and remodeling program of the age, all done in the style of the Italian renaissance. Edward's residences boasted thousands of books, including 160 in a library in the Tower. He was a patron of Geoffrey Chaucer and other writers, and decreed that English be the language used in courts of law. He created bath houses with hot and cold running water and introduced clocks to England. At Westminster he constructed a bell tower, which contained a four-ton bell inscribed "Edward," and which rang the hours so that time itself, or at least the marking of it, was brought to heel.
All this and more Edward of Windsor had done, so few could have guessed that England's prestige, power and achievements had reached their zenith and were already descending, like the sun making its way westward, past sunset into night...
A final turn of the roadway and Matthew Hart caught his first glimpse of Cumbria Castle, squatting solid and timeless amidst the rugged terrain that sang to his heart. A glowering sky, purple as a bruise, limned a distant jag of fog-grey mountains, warning of a pending storm. He drank in its wildness as if it were an elixir.
Francus, his squire, turned to him. "'Tis a welcome sight, isn't it, my lord?"
"Aye." Matthew spurred his horse.
All thought, troubling or otherwise, slipped away.
Finally, he was home.
* * *
Cumbria was a large earldom, encompassing much of Cumberland and Westmoreland. It contained the kingdom's highest mountains along with dense woods and rugged lowland valleys punctuated by magnificent crystalline lakes. This chill December afternoon Matthew and his father dismounted across from England's largest, the lake called Winandermere.
"'Tis true what Ecclesiastes says," William said, staring across Winandermere's grey expanse, stretching more than a mile at its widest. "There is a rhythm to all things, a time for every purpose under heaven.'"
Tattered clouds drifted across Winandermere's gently rippling surface; in the surrounding hollows fog rose and fell as if the hills themselves were living, breathing creatures. Near the shoreline, black and white goldeneyes searched for food.
"I have never heard you quote scripture before," Matthew said. "Are you a follower of that priest, John Wycliffe?"
"Who?"
"He is a teacher at Oxford. He says the friars teach falsehoods to ignorant people, and is fond of quoting aberrant scripture. Harry mentioned him once." Matt watched a pair of mute swans rise from the lake, long necks stretched taut and wings straining toward the washed out sky.
William flicked his wrist, as if brushing away a bothersome fly. "If Harry mentioned it, it must be foolishness. Nay, son. But I am getting old and my thoughts have turned to private matters. There was a time to battle, but that time was finished with Najera. I know it. I knew it then. One last campaign to savor in the future, when your mother and I drowse before the fire. 'Tis past, as my youth is past, and I canna mourn either. I must accept the inevitable."
Matt turned to study his father. A breeze ruffled William's hair, which still appeared as thick as always and was only broken by a few strands of grey. His profile seemed just as strong with no slackening of the jawline or other discernible signs of aging, save for lines around the eyes and mouth. William was like Edward III—an institution, essentially changeless. War and plague had taught Matt that life should be fully savored for it might momentarily be snatched away. But that revelation had never extended to himself or those he truly loved.
"You will never grow old."
William held out his hands, as if blessing Winandermere, and spread his blunt fingers. "My grip is beginning to lose its strength, my knuckles to knot and twist. It has become increasingly hard for me to make my legs move of a morning, or raise my sword arm above my head. Every man has his day.
"I have been a proper knight," he continued. "I have fought well and never failed my king or my country. I have not broken my word, or been cruel to my villeins. I have not mistreated your mother or your sister or you, though Harry has been a trial and I will have to account to God for him. But for little else. I do not fear death, son, and I have bought enough indulgences that I'll not languish in purgatory."
Matt was bewildered by his father's talk of death, just as he was bewildered when people prattled of Prince Edward's ill health. Both were virtually the same as they'd always been. He gazed heavenward, where the mute swans had become white puffs disappearing into the clouds. He heard a distant bleat, like a lost lamb calling for its mother, or perhaps it was a raven, a harbinger of doom, shrieking a warning. Matt suppressed a shiver, as if clouds had suddenly covered the winter sun.
"I do fear one thing." William was saying. "That Harry will inherit Cumbria. ''Twould be ruinous. He is weak. Even you must see that."
Matt thought of his and Harry's distancing, of the missives that his retainer, Lovel, sent to him wh
ich always placed Desire in his brother's company.
"He is high spirited, that is all."
William's smile was sad. "You see what you wish to see. Loyalty and love blind you."
"Perhaps Harry is not the perfect knight, but that does not mean he could not properly administer Cumbria. Besides, someday he will marry and beget heirs. I will sire naught but bastards, so Cumbria and the rest of our properties will eventually pass to him anyway."
"You will outlive Harry and his heirs also, if they spring from his puny loins. Increasingly, England is filled with half-men like him. War is hard, so they play at tourneys and pay a scutage to be excused from campaigns. They love pageantry, banquets, singing, dancing and whoring, but are indifferent to the true responsibilities of knighthood. They believe fine clothes, jewelry, a charming smile and manner will let them float through life."
Though Matthew protested his father's harsh assessment, he couldn't deny he had the same concerns regarding his brother's manhood.
"For now I'll not question your decision to remain single," William continued. "Though 'tis an unnatural state and I trust you will soon come to your senses. But should Harry wed first, you must not bequeath him Cumbria. I will throw him a manor house and perhaps the Ipswich or Oxford demesne because 'tis clear he canna make his way as a soldier and your mother would ne'er forgive me if I do not. But never Cumbria. Cumbria is our heart. We must ensure that our great-great grandsons can roam its mountains and crags and look upon Winandermere as we are today. That is our duty. We canna risk losing the Hart legacy out of misplaced loyalty."
"You know how much I love this land," Matt said, carefully measuring his words. "But years ago I promised Harry 'twould be his." As he'd promised Harry they would be knighted together. And he'd kept that promise rather than be knighted following their victory at Poitiers, as had been his lifelong dream. "I wish I had not made such a vow, but you would not break your word, Father. I don't see how I can break mine." A statement not as strong as it might have been several months back when he was still remembering Harry as he had been rather than what he seemed to have become.
William placed his arm around Matt's shoulder. "Think on it. Perhaps 'twould distress Harry, but 'twould give me a measure of peace I'll otherwise not possess."
"Aye." Like other promises he'd made Harry, Matthew had long since come to regret this one.
* * *
The winter of 1367-68 seemed determined to take up permanent residence in the north. Even with the approaching spring, snow drifted high upon Cumbria Castle's curtain, the moat water remained frozen and oft-times the air in the great hall was so cold Matthew's breath plumed before his face. Once the season's frozen grip finally loosened, he knew he would again be London bound. Prince Edward was having problems with his Gascon subjects and threatening yet another campaign against the French. 'Twas just a matter of time before the prince—and he—would sail for Bordeaux.
Lovel's reports from London, though erratic due to the weather, were reassuringly uneventful. Desire had not changed her amusements and had not been seen at the Shop of the Unicorn and Margery's life seemed blessedly boring. "Dame Margery has shopped at Cheapside every morn this week," Lovel wrote. "She spent the day at the Consistory Court."
"She met her brother and his heretic friend the Lollard beyond London's walls." Or she was at the shop waiting on customers... or waiting on customers and instructing a new apprentice. Best of all, Lovel had befriended Margery's maid, Orabel, thereby learning such important facts as the Crulls' separate sleeping arrangements. And Margery's uncommon devotion to her robin. Which had made Matthew smile.
Aye, as soon as the weather changed, he looked forward to finally resolving unfinished business, both political and private.
Chapter 9
Cumbria 1368
Near Shrove Tuesday, which heralded Lent's beginning, Harry arrived at Cumbria Castle. Matthew and his parents had been gathered around a roaring fire in William and Sosanna's solar. Matt was reading Perceval and Gawain aloud while his mother worked her embroidery and his father dozed when the castle steward entered announcing that Harry and a small troupe had just entered the outer bailey.
"Why would Harry brave such weather?" Sosanna asked as they hurried downstairs. "I hope nothing's wrong."
"Remember, this is north country," William said, straightening in his chair and smothering a yawn. "Mayhap the rest of England is balmy as Bordeaux."
Matthew too wondered, but if something had gone awry surely Lovel would have apprised him. Whatever the reason he was eager to catch up on political events and to soften the monotony of long days inside with chess and backgammon and brotherly banter. He'd thought long on the distance between Harry and him and had silently pledged that, no matter how tempting, he would hold his tongue and his criticisms. Now he would have the opportunity to make good his pledge.
When the trio reached the great hall Harry's meinie had already entered and were enthusiastically stomping their feet and removing snow-dusted traveling garments. Servants buzzed around them like anxious flies. Matt searched the pack for his brother—and felt as if the blood in his veins had turned to ice.
Gazing imperiously about the hall, seemingly taking inventory of all she saw, was Desiderata Cecy.
Matthew was struck dumb. He blinked, as though she were an apparition that would momentarily disappear. But she remained horribly real.
William uttered a soft curse. "What is this about? I thought you were long done with that woman."
"I am," Matt breathed. "I have no idea..." He literally could not comprehend what was happening.
Harry was introducing Desire to Sosanna Hart, who, oblivious of any disturbing undercurrents, was instructing servants to ensconce her and her handmaidens in the lone guest chamber.
Harry caught Matt's eye and smiled nervously. With that, life returned to Matthew's limbs. Striding forward, he grabbed his brother by the elbow, growled, "Upstairs," and pushed him toward the tiny bed chamber they'd shared as children.
Once inside, and after Harry had ordered dry clothes and mead to warm his bones, he cleared his throat. "Jesu, what a miserable journey." Attempting to assume a casual air, he spread his hands before the fire. "It took us three weeks of travel, without one clear patch of road beyond York."
When a servant returned with a steaming bowl of mead, Harry quickly downed it and ordered the rest put on a kettle above the flames. Matt noticed that his hands trembled, but whether from cold or nervousness he could not determine.
"Why did you bring that creature here? 'Tis like allowing an infidel into a holy space. By the rood, brother, you have done some senseless things but..."
"'Tis more complicated than what you think." Declining to meet Matt's gaze, Harry poured himself another bowl. "Do not be angry with me, please. You have every right of course but I did not... I am so... I did not mean to... Lady Cecy is with child," he blurted. "And I am the father."
"I will take away everything you love, the same as you did to me..."
"But you said you were not—"
"I canna exactly say when it started. She came to my room one night. My mind was blurred from too much drink and she was—insistent. You know how she is and I, well, she is difficult to resist."
Matthew felt like yanking Harry off his feet and beating him witless. "How could you be so stupid? She's spread her legs for so many men how can you even know whether you're the father?" Desire had always used a sponge and diluted vinegar to avoid conception. Which meant she'd done this deliberately.
"I know what and who you love and I will see it all turn to dust."
"Should we wed, Matt, I will be a rich man. And she tells me she is eager to do just that. Imagine—such a wealthy heiress willing to marry a second son. "
"Fool!" Matthew brushed past him back into the great hall only to find that Desire and her handmaidens had already retired.
Once Matt reached the guest chamber he barked for the maids to leave and then he and Desire were alo
ne, with only his ragged breathing filling the silence.
Desire clasped her hands together in front of her stomach and squarely met his gaze before her lips curved in a smile. She had wanted this; had expected him to react thus, to seek her out...
At this moment Matthew had never hated anyone so much as Desiderata Cecy.
"What have you done?" he managed.
Desire's smile widened. She looked pleased as a plump pigeon, though he sensed something more behind her eyes—fear, uncertainty, what? He was too consumed with odium to reason through subtleties.
"Jacques was right after all, wasn't he?" Desire said, referring to their long ago conversation about Bordeaux's Grand Coesre. "The hart and the bear will indeed wed."
Her voice broke. She was exhausted from brutal days of travel, and while she'd long savored her role as avenger, she found herself inwardly cringing before Matthew's expression of loathing, nay, of downright hatred, found herself biting back words of loss and longing. How had it come to this when all she'd ever wanted from him was his love? When once she'd had it. For in Bordeaux hadn't he uttered "I love you," as freely as "Good morrow"? In Bordeaux hadn't he been as obsessed with her as she with him? If only she could have frozen them in time, at that exact moment when he had been hers...
"You cannot prove the babe is Harry's. You've lain with half the court. How could you possibly be sure?"
Stung by his insinuation, Desire raised her chin. "I know well enough. And 'tis not Harry's. 'Tis your babe, Matthew Hart. Remember when you deigned to tup me months back? Harry believes me to be three months along, but I'm near five. Count back, my lord. Try to remember when last you lowered yourself to bed me."
Matt felt the blood drain from his face. "I do not believe you." His eyes swept her stomach. "You don't even look to be with child." He remembered that night on the stairs with shame. When had it been? Around All Hallow's Eve? He couldn't think.
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