Within A Forest Dark

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  William nodded. "The entire field of Crecy is back in enemy hands. 'Twill soon revert though. The French are not fighters. We are. "

  "But the king himself! Since the queen's death he has aged so much. His shoulders are stooped, his skin the color of tallow, and he canna command at all. He agrees to whatever is put before him and acquiesces to advisors who know less about strategy than my destrier." Matthew raised troubled eyes to his father. "Often I ask myself, what has happened to the legendary Edward of Windsor? Where has he gone?"

  William sighed. "To the same place, perhaps, as our Prince Edward. They are both men, son. Great men, but men just the same. And men sicken and die. Nor do they always die when they are at the height of their glory, so that chroniclers and Englishmen can mourn their passing. Perhaps tis better to say, 'If only he had lived longer,' instead of 'He lived too long.'"

  "It seems all the great ones are dying. When will there be another as loyal and brave as John Chandos, or the others who helped lead England to such glory? Will we ever know such a time again?"

  William shrugged. "Only God can say. But that is what makes us so blessed. To have fought in such grand battles, to have walked the same earth with Edward of Windsor and his sons, to have lived in England at the height of her power and prosperity."

  "But 'tis all behind us now. What good is the glory, when 'tis all so transitory?"

  "Life is transitory," William said. "You should know that as well as any man."

  "After all the campaigns, all the killing 'twould seem so." Matthew paused. Might now be the time to speak to his father about Limoges? But Matthew would have to witness his shame and horror, and he was not sure he could survive that.

  William cleared his throat. "I mislike worrying subjects the way women do, and asking about things you've not mentioned, but something has been on my mind. I've watched Harry and now you, and I sense a reserve between you that has not been, even with his wedding."

  "I just find it difficult to be natural because of his wife," Matthew said, knowing 'twas a limp explanation.

  William eyed him shrewdly. "Harry talks too much when he is in his cups. Sometimes he says all manner of peculiar things. I do not question him, but I have eyes to see, and ears to hear. You are also changed."

  "I am older, that is all. And tired."

  William stacked and restacked the square checkers on the folding table. "What happened at Limoges? Why are you no longer serving your prince?"

  "I love Edward." Matt groped for the right words. It was so hard for him to speak of Limoges, to probe that cerebral blackness for fear of stirring memories better left dormant. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. "But I can no longer serve him."

  "'Tis true then, what Harry says? About the deaths?"

  Matt rose and stepped to the fireplace. The room felt suddenly chill. He spread his hands automatically to the warmth. "Harry had no part in the massacre. He is not responsible."

  "I am sure Harry made certain he would not be held accountable. Did you cover for him at Limoges, just as you've covered for him throughout his life?"

  "Why should he not have been spared? And the deed was not... pretty. But the prince ordered it done." The blackness was starting to stir.

  "You are a soldier," William said. "A soldier obeys orders."

  Matthew closed his eyes. If only he would allow it, he would be transported back—to the screams and the blood, the keening mothers and terrified children. But he would not allow it.

  He turned to his father. "Were you ever given such an order?"

  "Never."

  In the room's sudden silence Matthew heard the distant slamming of a door, his mother calling to a servant, Desire's shrill laughter. Now he would hear William's condemnation. Had he been expecting it all along? Is that why he'd come? To be chastised and condemned? Or to receive an absolution his father could never grant?

  "I know we are sworn to protect those weaker," Matthew said, "not to slaughter them. I have no excuse."

  William crushed the checkers within his fist. Finally, he said, "If my lord had given me such an order I would have obeyed it, just as you did."

  Matthew's eyes widened. "I do not believe that. Somehow you would have prevented it."

  "We must obey our lords, just as our serfs must obey us. All must obey those above. If we did not, what meaning would our lives have? What purpose would our oaths serve? Our entire society would collapse if we took it upon ourselves to do exactly as we please, and not as we must."

  Matt inhaled shakily. "I was afraid you would feel otherwise."

  Rising from his stool William placed his hand on Matthew's shoulder. "Before Limoges I could not have asked for a finer son. 'Tis still so. And you are as fine a knight as you are a son. Do not forget that."

  Matthew swallowed back a sudden wave of emotion. "I thank you for that, Father. 'Twas what I've needed to hear."

  * * *

  Matthew's talk with William seemed to have banished all his doubts and reluctance over seeing Margery again. The following morning he leased a residence within walking distance of Hart's Place. Warrick Inn, as it was called, was a luxurious residence, with gracious rooms and a large garden. As he pictured Meg among her flowers or in the bedchamber, Matt's excitement mounted until he could not wait to be with her again.

  He raced to the Shop where he found Margery in the back of the Shop, discussing accounts with Master Walter the Steward. Sweeping her into his arms, seeing the joy on her face, Matthew thought, How could I ever have stayed away so long?

  He buried his face against her neck. "My sweet Meg!" he whispered.

  He felt the racing of her heart against him, inhaled the sweetness of her fragrance, and as her body curved to his, tightened his embrace until she laughed and told him, "I canna breathe."

  "Would you like to see your son?" she asked after a time.

  Matthew nodded, but was that true? He felt equal measure of anticipation and dread. This would change everything, wouldn't it? The moment when a mere name became actual flesh and blood.

  Margery drew him into the bedchamber where Serill was sleeping. Serill's wet nurse sat near the crib, embroidering the hem of one of his shirts, while another maid, using a gauffering iron, put pleats into a pile of his linen gowns. Margery led Matthew to the carved wooden cradle and drew down Serill's blanket so he could better view his son. Harry had been right. Serill looked strong and stocky and fine.

  Matt didn't know what to say or how to react. A year old child had sprung full-blown into his life. And unlike his other children, whom he cared for monetarily but seldom saw, this one was going to be a daily part of his existence. In many ways, Serill was his first born. "What color are his eyes?" he asked, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. But she had told him that in letters, hadn't she? Hadn't he seen his son's eyes in the eyes of others at Limoges?

  "Grey at times. Green others, and sometimes the darkest blue. Like yours."

  Matt ran a finger along Serill's hand, his tiny fingers, his chubby arm where it peeked from beneath his sleeve. Serill shifted slightly. His mouth curved in a half smile.

  "He looks so peaceful." Matt touched the roundness of Serill's cheek, right beneath his long lashes. He looks dead, a voice whispered.

  Matt jerked back his hand as if he'd been scalded.

  "What's wrong?" Margery asked in alarm.

  Bodies crumpled on the sand. Looking so peaceful and asleep, with their throats slashed from ear to ear...

  Matthew shook his head, as if to clear it. "He is... perfect."

  Margery smiled. "He will be pleased to meet his father. I've told him all about you."

  "Not everything, I hope," he said, and somehow managed to smile.

  Chapter 17

  London, Spring 1371

  When Prince Edward crossed the channel in January, 1371, he had been accompanied by his family, five hundred soldiers and a body of archers. Edward did not reach London until April for the boat ride had been so debilitating that he ha
d spent several weeks recuperating at Plympton priory. Upon reaching London, he was officially greeted by the city's mayor, a band of minstrels, and thousands of cheering citizens. Matthew, Margery and their son were among those who turned out to witness Edward's homecoming.

  The prince arrived on horseback, and seemed to set his stallion well enough. He was bareheaded, and in the late afternoon sun his hair still shone like the finest gold. Though Margery had heard reports of Edward's limbs swelling, he looked, if anything, too thin. His movements were slow, but unlike the usual tentative movements of a sick man, they were executed with deliberation, even majesty. In fact, while he was not the triumphant man who'd returned from Poitiers, Edward was still capable of inspiring awe.

  "Mayhap the stories about the prince's sickness have been exaggerated," Margery said to Matt. "He does not look so very ill."

  "He is ill, for certes."

  Something in her lover's tone warned her to drop the subject. Margery knew that the issue of Matt's switching allegiance to the house of Lancaster was a sensitive one, and had never pressed him. He seldom spoke of events other than those involving family. He might have been a modest burgher for all the more he discussed affairs of state. Which was fine with Margery. Anything Matthew did was fine with her. Sometimes when she nestled in his arms, she experienced a happiness that defied description. The priests were fond of relating anecdotes involving saints' hearts which swelled so full of love for God that they burst, and Margery often felt the same way. Except it was for love of Matthew and her son. She had never known life could be so good. Her favorite time was in the evening when they sat on cushions before the fire. Margery would hold Serill in her arms while Matthew read from the romances of King Arthur, or they would just talk until Serill fell asleep. Sometimes Matthew even sang for them, and though he was far from a talented vocalist, Serill would inevitably gaze at him with undisguised interest until nodding against his chest.

  Their time together was so perfect that Margery feared it could not last. Priests taught that happiness was transitory, and life had taught her that as well. But the only problem she could possibly foresee was another campaign. Or more immediately, Thurold's return. He had been one of the archers who had sailed home with the prince and this morning he had sent a message to her new address, asking to meet him at Pardon Church Haugh in St. Paul's. Since Thurold knew she lived at Warrick Inn, he must also know about her relationship with Matthew. She dreaded her stepbrother's reaction, but she prayed that time would soften his anger. She would never allow any person or event to separate her from Matthew Hart again. Ever.

  While the prince dismounted to the cheers of Londoners, Margery said to Matthew, "Why do you not hold Serill up so he can better view the ceremonies? He would enjoy the bright colors in the banners and all the pretty horses."

  Matthew obediently retrieved Serill from Griselda, the wet-nurse, and placed him on his shoulders. Serill removed the feathered cap from his father's head, and after careful examination, crushed the plume in his tiny hands. Matthew shrugged it off, saying, "I mislike hats anyway," and didn't even seem to mind when Serill began pulling his hair. Matthew's relationship with his son was the only jarring note in Margery's contentment. While he was always kind to Serill, he sometimes seemed uncomfortable with him, and Margery had to remind him to hold his son or pay attention to him. She hoped that once fatherhood became more natural, he would warm to his role. As he was today.

  London's mayor made a short welcoming speech, and marked the occasion by presenting Prince Edward with a complete service of plate. The plate was provided by three of London's leading goldsmiths, including Master Goldsmith Nicholas Norlong. When Margery had moved to Warrick Inn, she had left the Shop of the Unicorn in the capable hands of Norlong, who was as shrewd a businessman as he was a skilled craftsman. Their goldsmithing business flourished and without the financial drain from her late husband's many peculiar activities, Margery had become a very wealthy widow.

  Following the mayor's presentation, the prince said a few words, and when he finished, Londoners shouted their approval. Margery patted Matthew's arm, her way of saying that she was also proud of his part in the campaign. While not as grand as Poitiers, everyone agreed that Limoges had been another triumph for the Black Prince. Following the city's surrender, it had been razed to the ground as a lesson to anyone foolhardy enough to risk the prince's wrath. Englishmen everywhere maintained that the act was justified, even laudable. Matthew didn't discuss the campaign but since he knew her feelings concerning such matters she didn't question his reticence. Nor did she question him about other changes, such as his transfer of allegiance; or the nights when he slipped from their bed to sit in front of the fireplace staring into the flames when the night was cold, or into ashes when it wasn't; or the times when his eyes glazed over in the middle of a conversation and she sensed his withdrawal to some secret place.

  He was unfailingly pleasant and even-tempered with her, however, though she sometimes felt as if he were just mouthing words, like lines from a mystery play. And there was that awkwardness with Serill... But those were small pricklings which she reasoned away as her imagination, as re-adjustments from their time apart.

  Around them the crowd had begun dispersing, drifting back to shops and taverns and daily tasks. Matthew said, "Are you certain you do not want me to go with you to meet your brother?"

  This was the second time he'd asked her. "Nay. I must do this alone."

  Matthew did not argue, but instead said he would wait for her at Warrick Inn. He seemed preoccupied and Margery wondered, as she left him, whether the sight of the prince had disturbed him.

  Margery met Thurold at St. Paul's Cemetery where he emerged from the shadows of the nearby cloister, painted with brilliant figures depicting death and plague. Hoping to perhaps soften her stepbrother's anticipated disapproval, Margery had brought Serill. While the date of her son's birth might fool some, one look at Thurold's face and Margery knew he did not number among them. So much for that. She sent Serill away with his wet-nurse to pick the wild flowers that speckled nearby grave mounds before facing Thurold.

  "I know what you are going to say," she began, "but before you do, please do not judge me too harshly. You know all too well of my life with Crull so I hope you will wish me happiness. No matter what his station in life, Lord Hart is a good man and—"

  "Good?" Thurold's face twisted in disgust. His face was wind-burned and she noticed deep grooves on either side of his mouth. Short and lithe, he might be indistinguishable from all the other soldiers returning from France, save for the rage blazing in his dark eyes.

  "Thurold, let us not—"

  "By the rood, ye've no idea of what you speak. Of all things, Matthew Hart is not good."

  Margery drew her cloak closer. Serill had toddled away from the mounds toward the cloister's bright frescoes and patted the black gown of Death, resting like a shadow on the cloister wall.

  "Ye know absolutely nothing about your lover. Not Simon Crull, not even Lawrence Ravenne 'imself can match Hart's wickedness."

  Margery stiffened. "You are being unfair. Lord Hart is different. You do not know but when you were imprisoned—"

  "There has been much talk of Limoges, but I'll warrant not the entire truth has been told." Thurold was obviously spoiling for a quarrel, as if he were boiling over with rage. But why? They'd been separated for two years and now here he was, so unlike his former self—at least with her.

  Margery frowned. "What truth are you speaking of? What is wrong? Why are you so angry?" A friar, dressed in the grey robes of the Franciscan, strode across the grave mounds toward the Bishop's Palace after a backward glance in their direction.

  Thurold rushed on, as if he been anticipating this conversation for months and couldn't wait to get all the words out. "The prince was furious at the city's betrayal. He 'ad every right to be, for the French be more treacherous than snakes. But Woodstock made them pay."

  "What do you mean?" The insinuation
behind Thurold's words caused a shiver of fear along her spine.

  "'e ordered all the citizens to be marched out beyond Limoges. Then 'is knights killed them. Three hundred, I be told, though some say many more. I could na watch it all. Nor could most men. The sight of all those bodies, crumpled like bloody flowers—"

  "I do not believe you," Margery interrupted. Thurold's hatred caused him to spin his truth in ways that always, always painted their lords as if they were messengers of Satan. He sounded no better than Father Crispin, who forever warned that Satan's foot soldiers were at this very moment! pouring up from the darkest depths of hell, like so many rats or bats, seeking converts. "The prince has always been so chivalrous. He would not do such a thing."

  "Know ye who Prince Edward chose to execute his order?" Thurold asked softly, his gaze intent upon her. Here it was, the point of it all...

  Margery suddenly knew exactly what he was going to say. "Do not even speak." The color drained from her face, and her knees shook. "Do not!"

  "I watched 'im meself." Thurold pushed on relentlessly. "He was the first knight to step forward and begin the killings. I canna count those your lover personally murdered. Some he dispatched with his sword; most he just killed by slitting their throats." Thurold made a cutting motion.

  Margery shook her head, as if negating his words. He came up beside her, and said, "Know ye what 'twas like, watching Hart kill them? I remember one in particular. The girl was a wee thing, no more than three, with golden hair, near the color of your son's, tumbling down her back. As she and her mama approached your lover, the mama pushes her daughter, screaming for her to flee, which she does, but the whoreson just reaches out, catches her by the hair, and yanks her back."

  "I am not going to listen," Margery whispered, but Thurold's words horrified, mesmerized her and she could not move.

  "The girl slammed to the ground," Thurold continued, his lips close to Margery's ear. "Writhing and screaming, she was. Hart puts his foot to her chest, so she couldna move. Somehow she wriggles free, scrambles to her feet, and tries once again to get away. Rather than chase her, Hart grabs 'is sword, and lops 'er head off. That sight, 'tis frozen in my memory—the child's hair, so very shiny, streaming out behind her as her head hung suspended in the air, and the blood... it squirted everywhere as her head dropped to the sand—"