Within A Forest Dark

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Matthew Hart and a cordon of other knights stayed with Prince Edward, who insisted on being wheeled through Limoges' streets so that he might personally survey the carnage. Around piles of rubble and dead bodies, along lanes slick with spilled liquids and blood, they guided him. The morning air reverberated with cries and screams, the sound of steel against steel, the neighing of horses, the roar of collapsing dwellings. The bells in St. Etienne's tower rang frantically, like the terrified heartbeat of the city.

  While surveying the devastation, Edward's face bore the same mirthless smile. His hands remained clenched in angry fists; his eyes missed nothing. Not the women and children who ran up to him and fell to their knees crying, "Mercy! Mercy, gentle sire!"; not the contorted corpses of men and animals; not the pillaging nor the drunkenness.

  Matthew was having a difficult time reconciling Edward's actions with the prince he'd known. Edward did not even remark upon transgressions which on previous campaigns had been punished by hanging.

  He was also disgusted by the siege itself. He saw few French knights—and none living—only bunches of terrified women, priests, and children. Incidentals of war. Limoges' citizens would be rounded up and turned out into the countryside.

  I have missed all the real action, he thought sourly. I am consigned to the background with weepy women who should know they have naught to fear from the prince. Our lord would never punish innocent bystanders for their leaders' treachery.

  Several of Lancaster's men, including Harry, approached Edward from the direction of the Bishop's Palace. In their midst stumbled a bound Pierre du Cros, who had just been wrested from his Bishop's palace.

  "God is good!" Edward said. "'Tis fine to gaze upon that whoreson's face."

  One of Lancaster's knights shoved du Cros forward, against the prince's litter. The bishop fell to the befouled cobblestones. Seeing the tonsured head bent in fear and prayer, Matthew experienced the same triumph as his sire. Pierre du Cros had broken his word and committed treason against the prince. Not even God in heaven, Matt was certain, would forgive such perfidy.

  Edward motioned for the bishop to be lifted to his feet. Reaching out with his ungauntleted hand, he jerked up du Cros's chin, forcing the trembling cleric to look into his eyes. "So you called me dead, did you? Do I look dead to you, bishop?"

  "My lord, forgive me. Forgive our city."

  Edward's lip curled. "You will learn how I deal with you and your traitorous town." His fingers squeezed du Cros's flesh. "By God and St. George, before the day's end, bishop, I will see your head cut off. And as for your city... "

  Edward shoved du Cros away. "Remove this vermin from my presence. I will deal with him soon enough."

  As the knights hurriedly moved to obey, Edward ordered Harry Hart to stay and then beckoned to Matthew. "Come close. There is something I wish you to do."

  Edward reached out and grabbed Matt's face, as he'd done with du Cros, though his expression was very different. "I have trusted you with my life, and I would trust you again. I know that you will always remain loyal to me."

  "Aye, my lord." Matthew could feel the flame of the prince's fever through his fingertips, as if it had seared through Matthew's beard to the flesh beneath.

  "No matter what the cost?"

  Matthew was taken aback by the peculiar question. "Of course, my lord."

  "I would have you and your brother carry out an order for me. A very important order." Edward motioned Harry to stand beside his brother. "The Hart name has always been synonymous with loyalty and bravery. That is why I am choosing you to execute my will."

  Intrigued by the prince's words, Harry leaned forward expectantly. If they were to be singled out, what a fine tale he would have for Desire and Ralphie, and for his drinking companions! Perhaps even his father would be proud of him.

  "Handpick a score of loyal men, a few from each of the companies," the prince continued. "With these men gather together all the women, children and clergy. Take them beyond Limoges' walls, near the Vienne River."

  Inwardly, Matthew groaned. His eyes caught Harry's. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. All this secrecy for a mundane duty? Edward acted as if he were bestowing some momentous obligation, while he only wanted them to play nursemaid.

  "Once you gather them all together, put every one of them to the sword."

  Harry gasped.

  Matthew blinked. "My lord?"

  "Spare no one—not the priests or the babes or the old women. The French will not forget what it means to thwart Edward of Woodstock's will."

  "You cannot mean it!" Beneath the grime, Harry's face showed pale as a May lily. "'Tis unchivalrous. Damme, 'tis inhuman!"

  "'Tis an accepted law of war. A city taken by assault is at the mercy of its conquerors. I am not in the mood to show mercy."

  Harry turned frightened eyes to Matthew, who was as shocked as his brother. "Remember, sire, how you hated Pedro the Cruel for massacring those in his care? You said such tactics always fail. You are not like Pedro and you would not give such an order. We have misunderstood you, have we not?"

  "I will not countenance treason—not from one mewling bishop or an entire city. I am sick unto death of the French and their double dealing. I will teach them a lesson they'll not forget."

  "I canna believe you mean us to slaughter women and children," Matthew insisted.

  Harry had scooted close to his brother. "Nay, not helpless innocents," he echoed.

  Ignoring Harry, Edward shifted on his pillows to better view Matthew. "We have been through much, have we not? And have I not always led you well? "

  "Of course you have. There has been no one finer."

  "I am your prince, am I not?"

  "Aye. And I love no man more, not even my father." Matthew felt trapped in a web of words, as if he were being pulled down, down by its merciless threads into the pit of hell.

  "And you've sworn fealty to me, have you not?"

  "To the death, my lord. You know that. But what you ask..."

  "'Tis wrong," Harry interrupted. "I am warning you, God will punish us."

  "'Tis my will." Edward continued concentrating all his fevered attention on Matthew. "And you, along with other good and faithful knights, will swiftly gather up the offenders and execute my will. Is that not right?"

  The cries of frightened madams and ladies and maidservants, the ringing church bells, the battle sounds receded. Matt saw not his brother, bearing the blood splattered rose of Lancaster upon his jupon, or the other knights watching curiously in the background. He saw only the prince. His lord whom he loved.

  "Do you not know 'tis impossible? 'Twould be an unforgivable sin, even for war. I would ask that you reconsider, my lord. Please." It sounded what it was, a plea, unmanly in its desperation. But he could not partake in such a sin.

  "Would you disobey me, Lord Hart?"

  Matthew wet his lips. He opened his mouth to deny him but found himself whispering, "Never. I will do as you command."

  Harry gaped at him. "You canna truly mean to do this!"

  Rather than respond, Matt placed his bascinet on his head, unsheathed his sword, adjusted his shield and strode away into the Rue de la Boucherie with Harry stumbling after. The Rue was lined with butchers' shops, and every stall had been smashed open. Entire carcasses, along with smaller cuts of meat, had been strewn into the street. Dogs that had yet escaped the sword feasted on choice pieces of beef while flies buzzed above the offal-filled kennel running down the rue's middle.

  Stepping around corpses of cows and Frenchmen, slipping on entrails and other waste parts, detouring around spilled tables, Harry tried to catch up with Matthew, who was headed toward Limoges' main gate.

  Occasionally, Matthew paused long enough to beckon a soldier, most of whom wore Prince Edward's black ostrich feathers on their jupons or shields. To each he said, "Our prince has a duty for us to discharge."

  Matt's manner chilled Harry. He could not mean to obey the prince, but he was certainly acting
as if he did. After reaching his side, Harry huffed, "What are we going to do? Prince Edward's sickness has affected his brain. When he feels better he will be glad we disobeyed him. But what is your plan?"

  "To execute our liege's orders. We have no other choice."

  "Certainly we do. We must! We will talk to his brother the duke, to other members of the war council and tell them the prince has gone mad."

  "'Twould do no good. Prince Edward has the ultimate authority."

  They passed another man, a yeoman who, along with several others, was looting a chapel. Somewhere it registered that Matthew knew the man, Thurold Watson, Margery's stepbrother, the man he'd freed from Newgate. He thought of Margery and the babe he had never seen.

  Near ten months old now. A babe like those I will kill today.

  Matthew's legs went weak. Turning down a side alley, he collapsed against a timbered wall, and gulped in great lungfuls of air until the trembling passed.

  Harry stood beside him. "How do you plan to disobey Edward?" he insisted, as if he were a three-year-old pestering his parent.

  Matthew rolled his head from side to side.

  Interpreting this as a negative, Harry said, "But you always have a plan."

  "Not this time. I have only one idea, and that is to do as I am told."

  "But 'tis madness." Harry grabbed Matthew's arm. "We cannot. When the prince comes to his senses he will be sorry for his order."

  Harry's eyes clearly mirrored the internal terror he himself felt. Aye, Edward must indeed be mad and since madness was caused either by divine punishment or by Satan himself, somewhere, somehow their liege had grievously sinned. What had Edward of Woodstock done to so displease God that He had singled out this paragon of chivalry for such punishment? Not enough prayers, not enough alms, not enough largesse, too much pride, too many sins of the flesh, too much war, not enough war? Or was it not God at all who had turned the prince's mind, but Satan, who even now might be whispering in Edward's ear sweet and cunning and soul-damning lies? As he once had whispered to Christ in the desert?

  Only Christ had not listened.

  Christ had not been mad.

  Matt shook off Harry's grip, forced himself to move, to stride once more out into the street. "Our lord will hang us," he said over his shoulder, his steely voice belying his inner turmoil. "He is our commander and he has given us an order. If we value our lives, we have no choice but to carry it out."

  "No!"

  "Do you want to die for the French? Should we disobey him, he will only force someone else to execute the order and we will lose our lives for naught."

  "But they are innocent women and children. Like my wife. Like my son." Harry's voice broke. Tears slipped down his begrimed cheeks.

  And my son, Matthew wanted to yell. "Do not think about it. Do not worry it and analyze it. Just do it."

  "But they are victims of war, nothing more."

  Matt whirled on him. "There are always victims of war! Listen, brother, we are not listening to a minstrel's romance recited in some comfortable hall, or playing at battle with a dainty joust. This is the truth of life, and there is naught we can do to pretty up war or make it something other than what it is. People die in wars, and 'tis better them than us."

  "Not even the devil himself could justify such an act. 'Tis one thing to war with soldiers, quite another to slaughter common people."

  "We have one hope. Edward's nature. He has never committed an unchivalrous deed. When the time comes, mayhap he'll rescind the order."

  "You are right, of course." Relief flooded Harry's face. "Of course our liege will change his mind."

  "Of course." But in his heart Matthew doubted.

  * * *

  Some placed the number at three hundred, others at three thousand. Matthew could not say, but the mass of pregnant women, children, priests, the old and crippled seemed to stretch forever. Limoges' citizens had been rounded up and herded to a spot where the Vienne River curved and began trailing away from the city. A company of knights, all with drawn swords, guarded them.

  The knights Matthew had picked for the killings were drunk, but they still looked as shaken as he felt. No wine had passed his lips, however. All the drink in the world would not erase from his memory the horror of his task—and he needed a steady hand. So that, should the executions actually take place, the deaths would be quick.

  Harry weaved up to him. He had broken into the wine kegs hours past and was so drunk he could scarce stand

  'Tis fine. Just what I need now. "Go take your place with the others," he said coldly. "The prince will soon arrive."

  "I cannot!" Harry began to sob. "Do not make me. I could not live with myself with such sin on my hands. Please, can you not think of a way to spare me?"

  "Spare you? What about me? Think you I enjoy this?" Matt twisted the front of Harry's jupon, jerking him toward him. "Do you not see none of us has any choice?"

  "You said he would change his mind!"

  Matthew wanted to hit his brother, to vent his own fear and revulsion by smashing that helpless expression, smash it and smash it until it was forever obliterated. As if that would make any difference.

  "Stop crying. This is a battlefield, not a nursery."

  "Brother, please..."

  He sounded so broken that Matthew's anger evaporated. Harry had never blamed him for breaking his vow about Cumbria or for his other shortcomings. Harry was easy-natured and gentle and incapable of holding a grudge. True enough he was an indifferent knight, but that was because cruelty was alien to him. Why place this impossible burden upon such a fragile disposition?

  From out the fallen gate of Limoges, Prince Edward emerged; his litter tracked its way toward them like an enormous beetle. Tongues of flame leapt from behind the rubbled walls signaling that the city had been put to the torch. In his heart, Matthew knew that their lord was not coming to rescind his order but to witness the carnage.

  He turned once again to Harry, whose eyes were bloodshot from weeping and wine. When William Hart learned of today's blasphemy, would he scorn Harry for his cowardice and accuse Matthew of once again shielding him? But Harry's past problems were so inconsequential in comparison to what they now faced. In comparison to mass murder. A mass murder that Matthew would have orchestrated. What would their father say when he knew?

  "I would rather be hanged," Harry slurred. "'Twould be like Herod's Massacre of the Innocents. Not even a million dispensations will cleanse our souls."

  Matthew felt his legs turn to water and grabbed Harry's shoulder to steady himself. His heart suddenly beat so frantically he thought it would explode; his vision blurred. For a moment he was certain he would faint. But, for the sake of his men and their liege, he could not succumb to weakness, so he drew Harry closer, as if he'd meant only to whisper something against his ear.

  Which he now did.

  "Go hide yourself." He spoke loudly enough to be heard above the wailing of the women and children, the screams and booms and crashes emerging from the heart of the dying city. "Somehow, should the need arise, I will make up an appropriate excuse."

  "Thank you, brother." Harry tried to hug him and nearly fell over. "I will be forever grateful."

  "If Prince Edward does not relent, they will still die," Matt said grimly.

  "But not by my hand. And I can live with that." Harry stumbled away. "At least I think I can."

  * * *

  From the crowd emerged a keening, which started low before building until it became a sound so chilling it seemed inhuman, like that of banshees or the Hag of the Mist. In one voice, the people of Limoges lamented their fate, even as they made ready to meet it. Matt thought again of his beloved. "Do you kill women and children?" Margery had asked. She had borne him a son like the sons he would kill today.

  I must do as I am told.

  Matt's gaze swept over the crowd, the blur of brilliant color from various garbs, the blur of faces he refused to distinguish one from the other. Clouds of smoke billow
ed toward them with a shift in the wind; it tasted acrid in his already parched mouth. Occasional patches of robin's egg blue sky showed through the tattered blackness. He spotted a hawk winging toward the sun.

  Just like Poitiers. Matthew's resolve cracked. This cannot be happening. Not to Prince Edward. Not to me. He knew he could not comply, no matter what the punishment. He closed his eyes until his resolve hardened.

  Do not think or feel. Obey.

  Edward's litter had been halted near Matthew and the thirty designated knights who stood with their swords plunged point-down in the ground so that the weapons resembled crosses. The litter's tapestries, which framed Prince Edward observing everything with a keen, unwavering gaze, were as black as the armor he wore. Had the prince noticed Harry's disappearance? Would he remark upon it or even have him hanged for desertion?

  Forcing down such distracting thoughts, Matthew surveyed the knights, standing motionless all in a row. Then he nodded. Each man withdrew his dagger from his belt.

  Prince Edward signaled for the first of the prisoners to be brought forward. The keening crescendoed, shivering through the mild air into Matthew's soul. The Hag of the Mist foretold impending death to all who heard, as did banshees. He imagined hundreds of these bean nighes—withered, long-haired creatures, twisting their knobbed hands as they glided among the soon-to-be-departed, wailing,"Too late! Your end be here!" Or the Hag of the Mist, only she would not be rising from the brume screeching like a gale in winter, but out of Limoges' creeping, choking smoke...

  Knights began pulling victims from the front. Frantic mothers tried to shield their children or push them beyond the knights, toward freedom.

  One of John of Gaunt's men came forth, dragging a chestnut-haired woman and her daughter. The child looked to be about four years old. Its cheeks were soft and round. It was screaming.

  "Do not harm us, please." The woman cried. "Spare me! Spare my child!"

  The knights stared at the woman. Not one came forward to begin the slaughter. Matthew felt his heart slamming against his chest, felt in his hand the familiar shape of his dagger.