"Stop it!" Margery swayed against one of the cloister columns. Her entire body trembled as if she suffered from an ague; her head whirled until she could not think. But she did not want to think, or feel or imagine. If she did she would be able to visualize Matthew decapitating a child with shimmering hair...
"Hart's face and 'ands be covered with blood. His jupon looked like a butcher's apron with so much blood it dripped from the hem onto all the bodies crumpled round 'im. Dozens of bodies, Margery. Hundreds."
Slowly, Margery sank down along the column, coming to rest upon the cold stones. She placed her head between her knees until the world righted and her heart slowed. Finally, she raised her face to Thurold. "I do not believe you. In all the talk we've heard of Limoges, no one has mentioned anything about atrocities. I have only your word for it, and you are so twisted with hate you would say anything."
"And ye be so besotted, ye wouldna believe the truth if ye'd witnessed it with your own eyes. Which I did and I'll go to me grave unable to wipe away such sights."
Margery managed to stiffen her trembling legs, to stand and face him. "If you expect me to condemn my lord without an explanation, you are mistaken. And if what you're saying does turn out to be true, still 'twas wartime when such things happen. We are always told that everything is different in war, and ordinary rules no longer apply. You yourself have said that 'tis survival and hatred and instinct then, and right and wrong are clouded. How can you stand in judgment of Lord Hart after some of the atrocities you've confessed to me?"
"I'll not deny I've scavenged corpses and pleasured myself with unwilling women. Mayhap I've even killed a child or two. But I will tell ye true. Never 'as even Hawkwood's White Company done what Matthew Hart and his men did at Limoges."
Serill had slipped away from Griselda and returned to her, wrapping his arms around her legs. She reached down to pat him.
Your father slaughtered babes just like you. You have Matthew Hart's blood and he is a murderer. If what Thurold said was true. Which it could not be.
"I am going home. I will ask Lord Hart for an explanation and listen to his response before I condemn him."
"Your knight be a monster," Thurold said quietly, fiercely. "Ye've given him fantastical virtues because 'e be handsome and charming and ye were in a brutal marriage and so hungered for affection any man would've served."
"He will explain," Margery repeated stubbornly. Frightened by this stranger's manner, Serill began to cry. Scooping him in her arms, Margery hugged him against her, as if his warmth, his innocence could belie Thurold's accusations. With Griselda trailing behind, she turned and headed for Great Western Gate.
"John Ball says that all lords be damned, and their souls consigned to the lake of hell," Thurold shouted after her.
Margery begun to run, with Serill crying and bouncing in her arms.
"In place of scented baths they'll possess a narrow pit of earth, and toads instead of wine, and throngs of worms for their retinues."
Margery reached the gate.
"And if ye continue siding with Matthew Hart ye'll end up in hell right beside him."
* * *
Matthew stood by the window in the solar, looking down over the courtyard. Warrick Inn's solar was large and airy with bay windows on opposite ends of the room. One overlooked the garden, the other the courtyard. He was dreading Margery's return and would wager his sword that Thurold had told her about Limoges. Matthew had meant to tell her himself, but somehow could never find the proper moment. It was far easier to save the subject for another day, far in the future. If it weren't for the nightmares that plagued him, the way his mind would drift there at the most curious of times, he could almost believe he was putting Limoges behind him. At least until today.
Matt shivered, as if touched by a blast of cold. Seeing Prince Edward again had shaken him. He had forgotten the prince's dignity, his unflagging courtesy and patience to those around him. Matthew knew his prince well enough to perceive that Edward had been in terrible suffering throughout the ceremony, though he'd hidden it well. The prince had deteriorated markedly since their last meeting. Even riding that short distance and standing through a shortened ceremony must have cost him greatly. His prince's struggle was as painful to watch as had been King Edward's performance during the recently ended parliament when His Grace had seemed more interested in whispering and giggling with his mistress, Alice Perrers, than listening to the sorry state of England's treasury and the even sorrier course of the war.
At that moment Margery entered the courtyard and handed Serill to Griselda. Her walk told him all he needed to know. He turned away from the window, toward the solar door, crossed his arms across his chest, and braced himself for what was to come.
"Is it true what Thurold said?" she asked without preamble.
No sense in pretending he didn't know to what she was referring. "Aye."
Margery exhaled sharply, as if she'd been punched in the stomach. She had been hoping Matthew would deny it, and his admission shook her as profoundly as had Thurold's accusation. She almost wished he would have lied, and she could have pretended to believe him, and their idyllic life could have continued uninterrupted.
"Why did you murder them? Just took them out and slit their throats."
Matthew did not answer for a long time. Then he merely said, "How can you judge me when you know naught about it?"
"I know enough. Tell me it was not murder, prove to me that you did not have a hand in it. Then mayhap I will change my feelings."
"I will not go around wearing sackcloth and ashes for obeying an order. You women always see things so simply. What could you know? You parade to market, run your households, and raise your children. What can you comprehend beyond your sheltered existence?"
"Then tell me." Unbidden, tears slid down Margery's cheek. "Make me see. Make me understand."
Matthew shrugged. He felt himself retreating into a cold place, felt himself erecting walls so quickly and thoroughly that no emotion could intrude—or escape. "'Tis simple enough, Meg. I killed them because I was ordered to. I would have been hanged had I not."
"Why would Prince Edward do such a thing?"
"The French are our enemy. All of them, not just the warriors. The townspeople of Limoges defied the prince as surely as did their soldiers and government. They relied on Edward's generosity when they thwarted him. 'Twas like spitting in his face and then expecting him to wipe it off and forgive them. Well, Edward the Black Prince is not Jesus Christ. None of us is." Matthew paused. "'Tis an explanation I am giving you, Meg. Not an excuse. I do not delude myself. I know there is no justification for my act."
"You cannot justify it? You are sorry then?" Margery wanted to believe him, and forgive him, even if there was no forgiveness for such an act.
Matt looked away. Sorry? What did that word even mean? All he knew was that a thousand penances, expiating masses, and pilgrimages could never erase Limoges. "I cannot be sorry," he whispered. "Any more than I can truly think on it. There are some things that just are."
"Why did you not tell me?" Margery's anger began to dissolve. She herself had killed in cold blood, though not innocent women and children. But seeing the pain on Matthew's face, she perceived his terrible burden. She wished she could draw him to her breast and stroke his hair and soothe away his hurts like she did Serill's. But this was not a scraped knee or injured feelings. Matthew Hart was a murderer. No matter what her heart said.
"Oh, my lord," she breathed. "How can this be?"
"I do not want to lose you and Serill."
Margery began to cry. Matthew hesitated, then approached to draw her in his arms. She felt his hands upon her back, hands which had caressed her so sweetly. His touch was capable of such gentleness, such delights. She so loved the feel of his hands. But they were Satan's hands. They were Matthew's hands. Perhaps she should take their son and flee from Warrick Inn, and never look back.
"They were babes like Serill," she said.
"I know."
"And women like me."
"I know that as well." His voice was husky. A part of him felt such... regret... while another part of him stood apart, as if viewing the both of them from the shadows or watching actors on a stage. Viewing a mildly compelling performance like The Raising of Lazarus or The Fall of Lucifer. "But the church granted absolution to all of us and since that be so..." A lie. Priests cannot expiate a holocaust... "'tis my prayer that, if God can forgive me, mayhap you can as well."
Margery pressed against him, struggling with her conscience, struggling with her love for him. If Matthew had done the moral thing and refused Prince Edward's order, he would now be dead. Would she have felt one whit better if he had preferred hanging to murder? Then Serill would never have known his father, and she would never have known happiness. The priests said that once a sinner received absolution, 'twas like the sin had never been committed. Did that mean God had erased Matthew Hart's crime from the Book of Judgment? But the dead bodies and the ruined lives could not be erased. 'Twas all too complicated for her.
"I just want life to continue as before," she murmured.
Matthew's arms tightened around her.
"So do I."
"We will forget Limoges happened," she whispered. "We will never speak of it again."
"I agree," Matthew said, and in his relief he almost believed that such a feat was possible.
Chapter 18
Auvergne, France 1373
In June of 1372, the English, trying to prevent further rot in an Aquitaine that had been decaying at a perilous rate since Limoges, twice set sail for France. The first time out, England's treasure vessel, which carried the money for the campaign, was sunk and during the second attempt, Edward III's armada bounced around the Straits of Dover for five frustrating weeks. As disaster piled upon disaster, it became clear to those closest to King Edward that His Grace increasingly existed in a fantasy world. His foolhardiness, his belief that everything could be set right with just one more victory, caused many to privately mutter that God was for the King of France.
Matthew Hart, who was aboard the Grace de Dieu and privy to King Edward's endless talk of past glories, did not utter similar lamentations, but he thought them.
While the sea route to Aquitaine remained blocked by the Castilian navy, John of Gaunt, the king's middle son, was not deterred. As 1372 drifted away and the summer of 1373 arrived, the duke planned to relieve Aquitaine and then continue onward across the Pyrenees to overthrow Henry Trastamare. Why? The reason was simple enough. John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, earl of Derby, Lincoln, and Leicester, Lord of Beaufort and Nogent, of Bergerac and Roche-sur-Yon, was determined to add King of Castile and León to his official titles.
Loyal to his older brother the prince, who was rightful heir to England's throne, John yet coveted a crown for himself. To that end, he looked to Castile. Even the very utterance of the name seemed magical to him; an incantation that fevered both his dreams and waking hours. The Kingdom of Castile. Reino de Castilla. And, via John's second marriage to the pious Constance, daughter of Pedro the Cruel, he did indeed hold rightful claim to both Castile and Leon. He'd impaled the kingdom's arms upon his shield, presided over a small court of refugee Castilian nobility, signed all relevant documents with the Spanish phrase, 'Yo El Rey,' (I, the King), and insisted his fellow nobles address him as "my lord of Spain."
But as bedazzled as he was by royal ambition, John set himself to a more immediate task—staunching the wound that was Aquitaine. So in August 1373 he set out on what would come to be known as his "Great March across France."
Two thousand men-at-arms, four thousand archers and support personnel embarked from the port of Calais. The duke did not take the most direct route south but rather planned to march across Picardy, Champagne, Burgundy, the Bourbonnais, and Auvergne—destroying each region through which he and his army passed. Just as his brother, the prince, had inflicted Maximum Damnum during his legendary campaigns, John of Gaunt vowed to do the same.
The duke's army, divided into three battles, marched through Picardy at a leisurely pace. Travelling no more than nine miles per day, his troops rested for lunch, and at night camped together. With banners flying, the colorful jupons and shields of the knights, the green and white of the archers from Cheshire, Flintshire and Wales, the English provided a jaunty, even cheerful sight—though the French trembled in their wake. From St. Omer to Vermondois, the townspeople willingly paid ransom, pleading that their cities be spared. France's king, Charles V, had forewarned his subjects to fortify their castles and towns and pay ransom, or even supply the English with food, rather than openly engage Lancaster's army.
In Vaux near Laon, on the edge of Champagne, the Duke of Lancaster's army halted for three days. The surrounding country was rich and well stocked with food, for it was harvest time. The frightened farmers and villagers brought forth their abundance—bread, wine, sacks of flour, bullocks, and sheep.
While Lancaster and his men feasted from Champagne's plenty, three hundred Breton and French lances watched from the hills of Laon, but they never attacked. Sometimes the two armies were so close they talked to each other. But no matter how the English taunted the French, they never did more than harass the flank or pick off an occasional stray.
By September's end, the English had passed Soissons. Lancaster's army kept to the rivers and the most fertile country. Food remained plentiful, and the weather warm.
For Matthew Hart the chevauchee was identical to so many past. Only his lord was different, his body stiffer in the morning, and his thoughts had less to do with glory than mere obedience. Though the youthful adulation he had felt for Prince Edward had died forever at Limoges, Matthew still loved the prince's brother.
According to many, John of Gaunt was the mightiest subject in all of England's history. Matthew did not doubt that, for his riches and influence seemed as vast as the heavens. John's Duchy of Lancaster was an independent palatinate wherein not even King Edward's writ held sway. He possessed endless estates and properties, ranging from an enormous sheep ranch in the Peak District to his fabled Savoy Palace. The duke's revenues and retinue were scarcely surpassed even by his father the king.
Yet for all of John's wealth, Matthew knew him to be a lonely, frustrated man. The people loved his father and brother, but never John—and through no fault of his own, Lancaster's dreams had a way of crumbling into dust. Such disappointments had imbued in John a vulnerability missing in the rest of his family, which made Matthew as fiercely loyal to him as he'd ever been to Prince Edward. It was a different feeling; not made up of the endless possibilities of youth but, perhaps of temperance and wisdom. Or mayhap merely disappointment and disillusion.
As the weeks passed and the campaign stretched on, Harry Hart became increasingly vocal in his unhappiness. For certes, he'd never liked campaigns and he was most heartily sorry he'd ever left England on this one. He had thought to please his brother and had hoped to rekindle their previous intimacy but their relationship remained strained. Matthew seemed to have weathered Limoges far better than Harry. Harry couldn't understand how his brother could be so indifferent, but then he understood very little about wars and campaigns and the things that seemed to so delight men like Matt.
Harry knew one thing, though. Following this campaign, God himself could not again remove him from his homeland and his family. He missed Ralphie and the daily changes that marked his son's passage from toddler to boy; he missed peaceful days at the family's small demesne a day's ride from London—watching oxen turn the fields, overseeing the sheep shearing and harvesting and the slaughtering of pigs and lamb for the winter. He missed intimate dinners in their private apartment, just him and his wife and his son, and morning mass in the tiny chapel with the exquisite altar Lawrence Ravenne had carved for them as a wedding present.
And he'd grown very fond of Desire. So many complained of her sharp tongue but he found his wife amusing and had come to depend upon her wise co
unsel in business and domestic matters. Most of all he was grateful for her riches, which had elevated his status from bumbling second son to mighty lord. Over the past few years, when he and his family had traveled to Desire's holdings around Bordeaux, he'd luxuriated in his new role, riding across vineyards rolling as far as the eye could see, administering to villeins and seneschals and chamberlains and other household servants who looked upon him with respect and obeyed without complaint. He and Desire had even discussed living permanently in Aquitaine. Hah! What impossibly foolish fancies they had spun for he'd come to hate this land and everything attached to it.
Never, never, never will I ever again leave England, he daily promised himself. Ever.
After John of Gaunt's army crossed the plateaus of Champagne, the autumn rains arrived. With them, English luck changed. Provisions dwindled. Partly forested limestone and sandstone ridges gave way to hostile mountains. Men came down with pneumonia, horses began starving.
In November they reached Auvergne.
* * *
Auvergne was a bleak windswept district, poverty stricken and containing few inhabitants. What meager harvest had been previously gathered was not enough for the duke's army. Rough huts dotted the landscape and when foraging parties arrived, they were more often greeted by deserted barren rooms than by frightened peasants ready to relinquish their food. The number of French lances shadowing Lancaster's men increased from one to three thousand. Any English soldier lagging behind was picked off. Local citizens, as well, devised ambushes or hit and run raids to harass the flank.
Auvergne contained a rolling range of mountains—gentle enough in summer but bitter in winter. Great drifts of snow already lay in its crevices. The undulating horizon of peaks, devoid of trees and foliage, was often lost in the storms that settled across its ridges.
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