Within A Forest Dark

by Mary Ellen Johnson

"You will ne'er see your maid again, but she did reveal your message to your paramour 'ere she departed this world."

  Margery gasped. "What did you do? Jesu, husband, you did not hurt Orabel did you? You cannot think to take someone's life—"

  Udo Strykere suddenly leapt toward her. With a startled screech, Margery jumped out of his way, but instead of attacking her he grabbed her birdcage, slammed it to the floor and stomped it and Robin into a twisted wreckage.

  "I know he gave you that bird as well," Simon yelled. "I know everything!"

  Margery did not even dare glance at her poor bird. Heart hammering, she edged toward the back exit and as she did so removed the dagger from its sheath, inch by careful inch. If she had to, she could defend herself against Crull. Strykere, however, would be another matter...

  "Your lover is dead by now," said Simon. "As dead as your maid. As dead as that silly bird."

  "You are mad, husband. And if you did anything to Lord Hart—" She had meant to invoke Prince Edward's name but fear robbed her of speech.

  "I warned you not to cross me! I said you were no match, but you would na listen. I knew Hart was back in London afore he did. I knew the first time you committed mortal sin with him. I have had his house watched from the very first. Remember the beggars outside his residence?"

  "I do not know what you are saying," she managed. "You are mistaken." Matthew dead... Orabel... Nay, it cannot be.

  "Do not pretend innocence. The beggars were only some of those assigned to watch you." He nodded to Strykere."Tell her the rest."

  Strykere's voice rumbled in his chest, as if thunder had been reduced to human form. "Your lover received word to meet you tonight, at Charing Cross, from one a' the boys, who gave a pretty story about yer change a' plans and the need to meet ye there."

  Crull chimed in. "Instead of his whore, Matthew Hart was greeted by six men, all fully armed, of course. For certes, they made short shrift of him. "

  "I do not believe you!" Rain beat against the window. Somewhere an unlatched shutter banged. Margery imagined Orabel face down in a gutter in some little-trodden alley and Matthew racing to his doom. No, he had survived war and sickness; he would not be fooled by this slip of a man or his ruffians. But Orabel, poor, dear Orabel...

  "Lord Hart would not be so stupid as to fall for your scheme." She tried for a casual tone, though her voice trembled and her face must reflect her horror.

  "He canna think beyond his lust," countered Crull. "Udo himself watched him leave his residence, watched until he reached Charing Cross."

  "You lie!" Margery flexed her fingers round the handle of her dagger. "You could say Christ is a man and I would not believe you."

  Simon stepped toward her. "Now that your lover is safely out of the way, you will be next."

  At that moment, the shop door slammed open. Footsteps pounded on the stairway. Someone hollered, "Master Crull!"

  Simon ran to the entrance. Albertus the Warlock burst into the room. Ancient he might have been and she'd never seen him move more than at a hobble's pace, but not tonight. The Warlock's robes were spattered and torn; a deep gash ran the length of his right thigh. Drops of blood, mingled with rain, splashed onto the rushes.

  "He escaped!" Albertus's snowy hair sprang in all directions; the whites of his eyes showed like a terrified horse. "He slaughtered the others and is right behind me!"

  Margery had the irrelevant thought that if the Warlock was immortal, or nearly so, he should have no fear of death. Matthew! Waylaid by these monsters. Escaped... on his way...

  Simon swayed as if he would faint. Gathering his wits, he said, "We will escape through the kitchen."

  The trio scrambled from the room, but Crull soon returned. "My jewels," he said to no one. "I need my jewels." He hurried to the niche in the wall, but was stopped by another scream. He headed for the exit only to hesitate again. "I canna leave my jewels!" He started circling like a dog chasing its tail, from door to the niche and back again.

  Margery heard what she knew were Matthew's footsteps on the stairs. Simon also heard and, empty handed, scampered for safety.

  She ran to the doorway. The other household servants had congregated in a frightened huddle at the far corner of the hall. She spotted Master Walter the Steward, a head above the rest, his face pinched with alarm.

  "My Lord?" Margery called. She dreaded what she would see. Matthew wounded, dying? The ascent continued—slow, methodical.

  He must be hurt. He canna move quickly. He is pulling himself up the stairs.

  She must go to him, tend his wounds but she found herself frozen as a statue. Waiting. Imagining the blood. The horror. She glimpsed a shadow, then the blade of a sword, glinting off the hall rush lights before Matthew himself rose from the stairwell.

  Margery was mesmerized by the sight of him. His movements were deliberate but there was a controlled energy behind them, a palpable tension. He is not hurt at all. He is a wolf who has tracked his prey and is closing in.

  Only then did Margery see that Matthew's gold surcoat was soaked with blood; the gashes on his cheek and sword arm.

  Movement returned to her legs and she ran to him. "What have they done to you? Where are you hurt?"

  Matthew's expression was as controlled as his movements, save for his eyes, which blazed with a fury so intense Margery recoiled.

  "I thought the trail would lead here!"

  She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him deeper into the chamber. "They left. They went out the kitchen. Forget about them. Come, let me tend you, make certain you're all right. You've lost so much blood."

  "'Tis not my blood, Meg."

  "But it is!" She leaned forward to touch the cut on his face. Matthew pushed her away so forcefully she lost her balance and sprawled on the rushes.

  "You are like a spider," he whispered. "Spinning its web, ensnaring all who come near. And you snared me again."

  She stared at him, uncomprehending. "What are you talking about?"

  "I think you know."

  Margery scrambled to her feet. "Nay, I do not. Please do not look at me that way." She had seen that look before. Was their past repeating itself, when he would accuse her and berate her and concoct tales of a betrayal that existed only in his mind?

  "Simon knew—or I believed he knew—so I sent Orabel to warn you. It was early in the day and—"

  "You are a fine bitch, Margery Watson. With your sweetness and your body, which was a lie, all along. Will I never learn? You fooled me again when I vowed you would not."

  Her eyes started with sudden tears, as if he'd slapped her. Nothing had changed. What she'd thought had been scars had merely been wounds barely scabbed over and now ripped open...

  "Why did you lure me to Charing Cross? What was your game? Revenge? What?"

  Margery blinked. Beyond the fear was something else. Despair? "Please, do not do this to us again." Her voice was soft, reasonable, though inside she was starting to feel such a numbness, as if she should just turn away from him and like her husband, disappear out the kitchen, down the steps, into the night...

  "You know not what you are saying. If you just stop to reason this through you'll see that I had naught to do with this. Crull did it. He—"

  "No wonder you would not speak of your marriage. You were protecting your husband."

  He stalked toward her, and she felt a real fear of him. Matthew Hart was a warrior, after all, and his look was a warrior's look, without love, compassion or understanding, without anything human—acting only on instinct from a lifetime of training. Smash. Kill. Destroy.

  She backed away. "Listen to me, please. You are doing this to us again, mistrusting me and thinking the worst. I am trying to tell you if you would but listen. I sent Orabel to warn you and to tell you to come to the Shop for it was not safe for me to leave. Somewhere Simon and his monsters murdered her and then they had these urchins..." she knew that she was babbling but could not stop herself, knew, from his expression that, if her words registered at a
ll, he did not believe them.

  "Stop! You have been loyal to naught save your own twisted ends. You have harbored hatred all these years and hidden it with sweetness. What game do you think to play with me?" Swift as a striking snake, Matthew grabbed her arm, and jerked her to him. "Do you think to gain vengeance against me for Lawrence Ravenne's sin against your mother?"

  "My lord, please, do not do this—"

  He jerked her arm behind her back, forcing her forward until Margery cried out. "I did not betray you! You know I would not!"

  Almost imperceptibly, the rush of adrenalin that always accompanied combat began to subside. Matthew had been acting on a primitive level, thinking only of survival—and revenge. But gradually her explanation, as well as her hurt, penetrated his rage. He released Margery to collapse upon the floor, her eyes upon him—as wide and terrified as those he'd seen among the Frenchwomen on their chevauchees...

  He allowed his sword arm to relax, the blade to rest upon the rushes, and shame intruded upon anger. He'd done to Margery what he'd promised he'd never do again. His lone thought had been to extract vengeance from all who had tried to kill him, and he'd immediately believed her to be the instigator. Foolish, for he'd known from the outset that she would not have arranged a rendezvous at Charing Cross. The moment the beggar had given him the message he'd suspected a trap, which is why he'd had his squire accompany him, and armed himself. Easy enough for him and Francus to dispatch all but that crazy white-haired, white-bearded charlatan, who Matthew had trailed to the Shop.

  "Everything happened so quickly I did not have time to reason it through," he said, by way of explanation.

  "How could you think I would lie to you, and scheme to hurt you? You've learned nothing these past years—" The rest was lost in choking sobs.

  Matthew buried the point of his sword in the rushes deep enough that it could stand alone, and held out his arms, empty palms toward her so that she would know he meant her no harm. "I am sorry, Meg." When she did not respond, he crossed to her and pulled her to her feet.

  "Do not!" She tried to twist free while Matthew forced her against his chest; her lone coherent thought was that her gown would be smeared with blood. "You cannot think to brutalize me and then have me come willingly back to you. You are no better than my husband—"

  "I should never have doubted you," Matthew said, stroking her hair as if she were a dog to be petted. Struggling to free herself, Margery jerked her head from side to side but gradually his murmured explanations, his insistent caresses and the ebbing of her emotions caused her to relax into him. Against his chest, she whispered, "He killed Orabel. I imagine her out there in the rain and..."

  "That he will pay for."

  She felt herself crumbling. "And they killed Robin. I thought they had killed you—"'

  She cried herself out while Matthew comforted her within the sanctuary of his arms. "I will take you back to Hart's Place where you'll be safe. Then I am going after Crull. 'Twill be his last night on earth, that I promise."

  Margery shook her head. Her mind suddenly snapped into clear focus. A vision came to her fully formed. The means to extract revenge.

  "I will be fine here," she said, her voice now steady. "Simon will be too terrified to return, and I have naught to fear from anyone else. Go. Track him down. "

  That look crossed Matthew's face again, that look of a hunter, and she knew that he was already gliding down the stairs, out into the darkness, senses all alert, pursuing his quarry.

  "Go, my lord. Rid us of him once and for all."

  After Matthew departed, she unlatched the window—the rain had all but ceased—and watched him pass beneath before being swallowed by the night.

  Margery had not been truthful; this time she would admit it. She knew her husband's habits well enough. Aye, he would flee London along with whoever was left of his criminal band, but he would never leave without his jewels and money. Unless Matthew intercepted him enroute, Simon would soon be returning to the Shop.

  Margery right-sided an upended table, replaced Crull's goblet atop it and gazed down at the twisted wreckage that had recently contained her bird.

  "This time, husband, I will be waiting for you."

  * * *

  Margery sat on the solar bench, clutching a small cloth pouch in her hand. Inside were the ingredients she would use to kill her husband. How long had she been waiting here, in the darkness? She had lost track of time, but the rest of her mind functioned flawlessly. She knew exactly what was going to happen, exactly how she would execute her plan, exactly how long it would take Simon Crull to die. She felt a certain peace. It seemed only right, to make him pay for his wickedness. While murder would further stain her soul, Margery figured it was already so discolored heaven was out of the question.

  The first streaks of sunrise turned the solar a mottled grey. Crull would return; she knew it as well as she knew Christ had been crucified. And not only would the night's denouement spell doom for Simon, but also for his henchmen. Matthew would report his altercation to the authorities. When they discovered the bodies at Charing Cross, they would also uncover their criminal activities. Everyone would be rounded up and imprisoned and hanged at the very least. More likely their heads would adorn London Bridge. In some ways she was doing her husband a favor. Death by poison would be a far less painful way to die.

  Margery heard a door creak open. The kitchen entrance. If Matthew were returning, he would not use the back way, or come like a thief in the night. Margery's hand tightened on the cloth pouch. She heard the whisper of footsteps. Rising, she hurried to the table and poured a mixture of wolfsbane and belladonna into the ewer of hippocras. Crull was nothing if not a creature of habit, which meant that, even in his distressed state, he would pour himself something to drink.

  After swirling the ewer to disperse the herbs, she retreated to the garderobe, where she could watch unobserved.

  Crull entered the room. He paused, looked around, then sank down on the bench, exhaling in a heavy sigh.

  Margery watched everything with a sense of detachment, speculating on whether he would first remove his cloak and clogs and momentarily rest or go to the niche and remove the jewels. And when he would reach for the ewer.

  Crull stood and crossed to the table, picked up a goblet, and poured himself a cup of poison.

  Margery smiled.

  * * *

  Simon's death was ruled a suicide. He'd been so distraught over being uncovered as a criminal he had ended his life. So Margery told the authorities, and no one questioned her story.

  Because of his heresy, Simon was not allowed to be buried in consecrated ground. The remaining members of his gang, including Udo Strykere and Albertus the Warlock, were soon rounded up, interrogated, tried and executed. The Warlock's head was fastened atop a pike, eye sockets positioned in the direction of his tiny shop off London Bridge, where her husband's final odyssey, his quest for immortality or whatever it had been, had begun.

  Matthew attended the hangings. When he returned to Hart's Place, he said, "Now we can officially begin our lives together. 'Tis cause for celebration."

  "I do not really feel like celebrating," Margery said, wearily. "I feel like going home."

  Though she wasn't sure exactly where "home" might be.

  Chapter 14

  London 1369

  On May 21, 1369, Charles V declared war on England. England's White Companies had spread their pillaging into France—in obvious violation of the most recent treaty between the two nations. Aquitaine, still under command of Edward the Black Prince, remained rebellious. Charles V summoned the Prince of Wales to Paris where Edward was supposed to answer some nine hundred appeals from Guyennois magnates, bishops, abbots, and towns unhappy with his rule.

  The Guyennois complained about Prince Edward's hearth tax which had been imposed to pay off campaign debts, his court's extravagance, his bloated bureaucracy, and the fact that the best government posts were given to Englishmen.

  In
furiated by the French king's summons, Prince Edward responded. "We will gladly go to Paris, but 'twill be with helmets on our heads and sixty thousand men."

  However, though the prince could send an army, he was no longer capable of leading it. Dysentery plagued Edward, as well as a dropsy which sometimes swelled his limbs to twice their normal size and narrowed his travel to the confines of a litter. Shrewder than his oldest son, whose judgment was sometimes marred by illness, King Edward suggested the hearth tax be repealed. He then implored King Charles to refuse all appeals from Aquitaine. Charles responded by sending a letter of formal defiance to England, delivered to His Grace by a scullion. Infuriated by the French king's arrogance, Edward III declared war on France.

  * * *

  By the time Matthew left for Bordeaux early in June Margery knew she was with child. Because of her condition and the circumstances surrounding Simon's death, they both decided it was best she not accompany him. Margery had also decided to continue residing at the Shop of the Unicorn. While no one seemed interested in probing beneath the surface of Simon's death, she didn't want to risk wagging tongues or draw suspicion upon herself in any way by altering her habits. She figured their child would be born sometime near the end of the year, perhaps around All Hallow's Eve.

  "I will try to be here for its birth," Matthew said, "but I cannot promise. I have contacted a good midwife and will apprise my mother, if 'twould please you. Would you like her to attend you?"

  Margery shook her head. The babe could easily be passed off as Simon's, which seemed the most prudent thing to do, at least for a while. In that context Lady Sosanna Hart's presence would be unexplainable. As she often did, she thought of Orabel. She missed her maid's friendship even more than her ministrations, so with both her and Matthew gone she would function well enough on her own. Eventually, she would have to tell Thurold the truth about his niece or nephew's heritage, but her stepbrother had already left for France, meaning she could postpone that unpleasantness.

  While she and Matthew had enjoyed only a few weeks together, it was the longest uninterrupted time they'd ever shared and Margery felt such a peace, such a rightness about their relationship, as if finally the stars had all been properly aligned and this was the result.