Within A Forest Dark

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  She felt no remorse for killing Simon. She could tick off the reasons, from the murder of an unborn babe to his beatings to his imprisonment of Thurold to his sinful greed to his pestilential presence in general. Once rid of him, she also found herself shed of her stomach problems, headaches and insomnia.

  I should have done it earlier. All those years I prayed to God to deliver me; perhaps he meant me to act on my own.

  "When I return from campaign, we will be wed, will we not, Meg?" Matthew said. "Someone else can run your business. Now that Crull and his profligacy are out of the way, you will be a rich widow. You can do as you please."

  Margery didn't reply. Though her love was all-consuming, she was discomfited by Matthew's casual assumption that they would wed. It was not only the difference in their stations that would make for gossip, but on a more elemental level, she had just been freed from one prison. Why allow herself to be locked in another, particularly when her widowed status gave her a greater freedom to do as she pleased? Besides, after a lifetime of confirmed bachelorhood, now that he had changed his mind, why did he not consult her on her wishes? Wise men said that love and marriage were incompatible, though there were exceptions of course. Margery feared that formalizing their love would simply lead to its destruction.

  Rather than directly respond, she simply said, "I will send you word when the babe is born."

  * * *

  When Margery knew her time was imminent, she sent for the midwife. As was customary before a birth, the lying in chamber was lavishly prepared for visiting and display. The best coverlets were placed on the bed, fresh rushes strewn on the floor, and dishes of sugared almonds and candied fruits set out for possible guests.

  Margery wished, aye, she wished that she would not have to be alone now. Well, not completely alone, for John Ball, who just happened to be passing through on his way to Bury St. Edmunds, had insisted upon staying until the child was safely delivered.

  "I would not have it otherwise," he said, sitting beside her bed. John was far too large a man for the small room and was clearly uneased by the entire business. Of course he must know that Matthew was the real father but he said nothing, which made Margery love him all the more. Odd that the hedge priest showed up at so many important events of her life. Sometimes when she contemplated her guardian angel he bore John Ball's face.

  John took out his paternoster and retreated into prayer, regularly eyeing the door for the midwife's arrival.

  Lulled by the rise and fall of the priest's prayers, Margery thought of her lover, still across the channel, and comforted herself by imagining the presentation of this nameless, faceless bundle to its father. Six months from now? A year? The circumstances were hazy because she could not quite imagine the actual living, breathing child she would be offering him.

  Matthew had written a bit of events and of course all of London knew that earlier in this month of November, Charles V had announced the confiscation of Aquitaine. Soon after, the French overran Abbeville and the county of Ponthieu. Fighting broke out in Perrigord, in Quercy and in many other English holdings. There were rumors about Prince Edward's health, but Matthew only wrote that they had enjoyed some fighting, and more appeared imminent.

  "Enough of this," John Ball said, tucking away his paternoster and pulling up a stool. "I'm not here to please me but to take your mind off your... troubles. I've been reading the most wondrous book. By a Franciscan, Roger Bacon. Or Doctor Mirabilis, the Wondrous Doctor, as some call him. Others simply call him "heretic."" John chuckled. "I prefer to describe him as a scientist with a gift of prophecy."

  He retrieved a well worn book from the folds of his robe, settled himself upon the stool and regaled her—or at least Roger Bacon's Epistola de Secretis Operibus did—with all manner of marvels until her labor intensified and, since men were forbidden on pain of death to be in the delivery area, the midwife shooed him away. In the meantime household servants had opened all drawers, doors and cupboards in the Shop's living quarters and untied any available knots. The midwife and two of Margery's maids loosened her hair, removed all the pins to expedite the process of delivery, and rubbed her belly with a pain reducing ointment.

  In the afternoon of November 21, 1369, on the feast of Saint Columbanus, Margery was delivered of a healthy baby boy. She named him Serill, after Matthew's grandfather, as they'd agreed beforehand. Two days later, still too weak to hold quill to parchment, she'd called for John Ball and asked him to inform Matthew of their joyful news. John wrote down all the pertinent details without comment.

  Chapter 15

  Limoges, Fall 1370

  Charles V, increasingly referred to as Charles the Wise, continued to frustrate the English. The French king's tactics were unorthodox, at least to Plantagenet minds. He never fought pitched battles but preferred raids, ambushes, night attacks, and harassment against isolated towns and fortresses with small garrisons. His troops attacked foraging parties and wagon trains, cutting communications. He succeeded, by constant surprises, in wearing down enemy morale. Charles' overall strategy was to encourage the French of Aquitaine to rise up against the English, and he used persuasion, bribery or threats to achieve his goal. His unusual tactics proved victorious. In the summer of 1370, Charles' man, The Duke of Berry, even succeeded in turning aside the loyalty of Limoges, a city located 110 miles northeast of Bordeaux.

  Limoges' betrayal especially angered the Black Prince for Edward had considered its bishop, Pierre du Cros, to be his personal friend. Yet the bishop had willingly opened Limoges' gates to the Duke of Berry. Although du Cros had taken the oath of fealty to Prince Edward, he had allowed himself to be bought back to the French cause. In exchange for ten years' exemption from excise taxes, Limoges' magistrates and citizens were pleased to go along.

  Edward heard of Bishop du Cros's perfidy at his headquarters in Cognac. When he was told that the bishop was also spreading rumors of his death, the prince's face was terrible to behold.

  "We shall see who courts death," he raged. "Pierre du Cros will stand before the judgment seat even if I have to send him there with my own hand. And I swear by the soul of my father that I will obtain revenge upon Limoges for its treachery."

  Since this was Prince Edward's first protracted journey in two years, he made the trip in a four-wheeled litter accompanied by an elaborate escort. The pace was exceedingly slow. Each bump in the road caused Edward discomfort, if not agony. Trying to ignore the pain he busied his mind with strategy or ordinary conversation with members of his escort, as well as John of Gaunt, who hovered near him. John deferred to his elder brother in all matters and treated him as if he were the Edward of old, powerful and invincible.

  I am far from that. Prince Edward almost welcomed another bout with the fever, which tended to dull pain along with his senses. But I am not the only one suffering, he thought, as he watched his brother, who rode immediately ahead. John of Gaunt's wife, Blanche of Lancaster, had succumbed to the plague and he was still in mourning. And the world seemed less bright for them both following the passing of their mother the queen this time last year.

  Edward collapsed against the mattresses and bolsters of his litter and closed his eyes.

  What is happening? Where is all the sweetness, the glory? Has it left us forever? Is God displeased with England? Mother was old and in ill health, but Blanche was young and beautiful and John loved her. And Lionel, our brother, our shy, gentle giant, plucked from God's green earth as easily as a blade of grass.

  For the prince the most bitter of all the deaths had been that of his beloved friend, John Chandos. Indispensable at Crecy, Poitiers and Najera, a man who even Charles V declared to be wise and capable enough to broker a lasting peace, Chandos had been killed nine months past during a minor skirmish. Was it sign, omen, or coincidence that John had taken the lance near his eye in the general vicinity of Poitiers? Now the companion who had shared in every moment of Edward's glory was rotting in his grave—as was Edward's youth. Both, it seemed, had sim
ultaneously been laid to rest.

  * * *

  On September 14, 1370, Prince Edward's army arrived outside Limoges, situated near the Vienne River. Limoges was a beautiful, prosperous city, particularly renowned for its goldsmiths. Like many French towns, it consisted of two distinct quarters: the town, dominated by the castle, and the city, dominated by the cathedral of St. Etienne.

  As expected, Limoges' gates were closed and its walls manned by previously friendly citizens now shaking makeshift weapons at the English pitching their tents in the fields beyond. While John of Gaunt and the war council inspected Limoges' fortifications, Prince Edward went off by himself. He had no need of a tour of its defenses since he himself had ordered them constructed. Every city, every castle possessed a unique personality. Edward studied the town's walls, and the spire of St. Etienne rising above the jumble of tiled and thatched roofs. Formidable strengths; few weaknesses.

  I can recall Limoges as easily as I can the face of my wife.

  He stared at the fleur-de-lis banner drooping above the rooftops and his eyes narrowed. Bishop Pierre du Cros's treachery disturbed and enraged him in equal measure. Du Cros had been godfather to Edward's son and had often dined with him and his family. But more importantly, a clergyman's word, as well as a knight's, was supposed to be sacred. Edward had patterned his life upon that tenet—and was continually surprised when reality proved otherwise. I am forty years old. I should no longer be surprised.

  He sighed, thinking again of John Chandos. John, whose wise counsel had helped engineer so many military triumphs, had disagreed with him over the taxing of the Guyennois and had subsequently retired to his Normandy property.

  We were not estranged, Edward assured himself. John was ever loyal.

  As he'd proven when the prince had recalled him, appointing him seneschal of the province of Poitou after the French had retaken vast amounts of surrounding territory. Other than commenting that, at the great age of fifty-five, he was not the warrior he'd once been, John had obeyed willingly enough.

  During the long nights when he relived his friend's passing, Edward often wondered whether he might have sensed his impending death. For John had been killed during a minor skirmish on some insignificant bridge above the River Vienne. He'd slipped on the bridge's icy surface, become entangled in his longcoat and had fallen, only to be fatally stabbed by an enemy squire who had no idea of his identity.

  A trick of fate.

  John's death had distressed King Edward's court in England and certainly Prince Edward's in Guyenne. Even Charles V had lamented the knight's passing.

  "Had he lived he would have found a way of making a lasting peace," the French king said, and a cenotaph had already been erected at the spot where Chandos had fallen.

  Edward was pleased by such chivalric gestures, whether they be in word or deed. And he took comfort that his friend would be immortalized in the chronicles, for Froissart had already written, "Never since a hundred years did there exist among the English one more courteous, nor fuller of every virtue and good quality."

  Still, John's death continued to pain Edward. Far more than his illness which was becoming so much a part of him he no longer questioned it. Nor did he dwell on it except when the bloody flux again gripped him and rendered him so helpless that all other concerns were wrenched from his mind.

  "The rest of the war council has assembled, sire. We await your bidding." The prince turned as Matthew Hart approached him.

  Edward nodded. "Fine, Matthew."

  "Would you lean on me, your grace?" Matt was pleased to see Edward walking unaided. At this moment he could yet believe his prince's illness was temporary in nature. Edward of Woodstock was different from ordinary men. As his sickness had been greater, so would his recovery be all the more dramatic.

  "I am feeling better today. But I will take your arm."

  Matthew matched his stride to Edward's.

  "Do you think on Poitiers, Matt?"

  "Aye. 'Twas fourteen years past, at this very time of year."

  "September 19, 1356. It seems a lifetime ago. Someone else's lifetime."

  "'Twas our lifetime, my lord." Matthew smiled at the prince. "And the best, for both of us, lies yet in the future."

  "I wonder." Edward's voice was pitched low with reflection. "Some say chivalry is dead. Look at Limoges' walls. Cannon is mounted there. Cannon!"

  Matthew knew that His Grace the King had employed cannon at the Battle of Crecy in 1346, but all agreed it had done little more than scare the horses.

  Prince Edward continued, "It chills my very bones to think of such weapons becoming commonplace. Some even predict they will take the place of the sword. Can you imagine a proper knight ever killing his enemy without even touching him?"

  "Nay, I cannot," Matthew said with conviction. "And 'twill never happen."

  Edward smiled. "Are you always so certain?"

  "About war I am. 'Tis the one thing I know."

  Edward's war council decided that the only way Limoges could be taken without a protracted siege was to mine beneath its walls. The prince called together his miners and ordered the digging to begin. The tunnel's entrance, positioned a safe distance from the city, was carefully concealed and the soil removed and hidden under cover of darkness so their plan would remain undetected. As the soil was excavated, the masonry was braced with timbers soaked in fat or petroleum.

  During the ensuing days Prince Edward's disposition deteriorated. Generally, his moods came and went as quickly as a summer storm, but this time he was obsessed with obtaining retribution against the city and its treacherous bishop.

  Edward's actions uneased Matthew. Against enemies of his own class the prince had always shown himself unfailingly gracious, but this time there was no forgiveness in his face or in his words. Matthew soothed himself and others who expressed concerns by asserting that, with the first call to arms, their lord's natural fairness would return.

  On the fourth day, the French discovered the mining. Hoping to drive Edward's men back by flood, smoke, or force of arms, they began a counter mine.

  "Have you ever fought in the mines, Matt?" Harry Hart asked as they awaited word that the miners had breached the wall. Harry had found the entire campaign unpleasant, but this latest possibility terrified him. "I would not like being covered by tons of earth and enclosed all around. I think I could not endure it."

  Matt also misliked the possibility. Underground fighting was always savage and confused and seemed an improper way for a knight to war, but he put on his usual confident face for his brother. "The miners claim the tunnel is nearly to the city walls. There is no way the French can reach us before we fire it. I promise you we will fight in the open."

  Harry looked relieved, as if Matt's promise could truly make it so. And in this case he was proven correct.

  For in due time, word was sent to Prince Edward that the mine was complete.

  Before dawn the following morning miners set fire to the flammable mine timbers. Knights strapped on their armor and began assembling, drifting like phantoms toward the prince and the other commanders. All waited quietly, expectantly, their eyes riveted to the point where the wall would collapse.

  Matthew shivered in the cold air, as much from excitement as the temperature. The anticipation of battle charged through him as it always did, quickening his senses. Automatically, he sought Harry, who was located near the front with his lord, John of Gaunt.

  'Tis a pity you cannot more share the joy of combat, Matthew thought, fingering the gilt-adorned hilt of his sword. Harry had complained incessantly throughout the campaign, though he conducted himself well enough once fighting ensued. And once he'd vomited the contents of his stomach.

  Beside Matthew, Prince Edward exhaled sharply. Matt turned. Though still confined to his litter, Edward was wearing his body armor, and his shield was strapped to the side of the vehicle within reach, as if he might actually have use of it.

  "Soon, Matthew," he said softly, his gaze brig
ht and feverish.

  "Aye, my lord." For the first time Matt felt a sliver of something, what? The fear he'd felt at Poitiers, when he was certain they would all be slaughtered? A foreboding? Or something else that he could not put a name to, though it had settled upon him as surely as the identifying jupon atop his armor.

  The water in the moat surrounding Limoges showed opaque. Scattered rays of sunlight struggled along its surface, crept up the city's curtain, exposing individual stones. From beneath the knights' feet emerged a low rumble and shaking, like the beginnings of an earthquake.

  With a mighty roar Limoges' curtain collapsed, tumbling into the moat. An enormous wound appeared in the wall. Trumpets sounded. Soldiers began running toward the rubble. Others ran to the gate, cut through the portcullis and knocked it down.

  The sack of Limoges had begun.

  * * *

  Women and children raced for city exits, seeking to escape the wrath of the English who spilled through Limoges' twisting lanes, but all exits had been blocked. Trapped inside the city, some citizens rushed blindly toward the cathedral of St. Etienne or the smaller churches. Others cowered in their houses, praying to be overlooked, or fled to their cellars. But the English pulled them from sanctuary, raped them in their homes, burned them in their cellars. Unencumbered by orders, the soldiers pillaged, despoiled, and murdered as they pleased. After carrying valuables from houses, mounted knights lashed their horses to the frames and pulled down the buildings. Foot soldiers looted churches; men-at-arms found vintners' shops and broke into the wine kegs. Streets ran as red with wine as they did with blood.

  Harry Hart had followed his lord, John of Gaunt, to Limoges' square where the French garrison of eighty knights had gathered, backs to the stone wall and banners unfurled, for a last stand. But as Limoges crumbled around them, the French leaders, preferring ransom to certain death, relinquished their swords. Limoges' organized defense, at least, was ended.