Margery stretched to ease a cramp in her back. She studied Serill's profile as he bent over his stilts. A miniature version of his father. When she thought of Matthew, Margery grew uneasy—an unease bordering on panic. Matthew had been back in England nine months now, but he had given her no indication when he might be returning to London. His letters were short and devoid of any emotion. He had not mentioned Harry and William's deaths, which she had learned about through other sources. Knowing how much Matthew loved both, she reasoned his grief might account for his strange behavior, but it still worried her. When she wrote, she tried to be cheerful and undemanding, but she could not garner from his responses whether he'd even read her letters. The only indication she had of any feeling was in his signature, 'Your loving Matthew.' Increasingly, Margery feared he no longer loved her, and contemplated moving back to the Shop of the Unicorn rather than stay at Warrick Inn, with its no longer pleasant memories.
Serill stepped off his stilts, dropped them and ran to her. Plopping beside her, he said, "When will Papa be home?"
He asked Margery the same question several times a week, and she always responded the same. "Soon, sweeting."
At that moment, she heard the sound of horses from the courtyard around front. In Matthew's absence, Margery seldom had visitors. Save for the servants who ran Warrick Inn, she and Serill were alone.
Putting down her sewing, she said, "Let us see who is here." Taking her son's hand they walked to the front of the Inn to see Matthew, along with several others, dismounting in front of the stables.
"Is that Papa?" Serill asked, though he had asked that of more than one male visitor.
"Aye, 'tis Papa," Margery said, her voice catching. Watching him dismount, she thought, He's lost weight. And as he approached her, He looks so sad. There was no bounce to his step, no smile of greeting, and she immediately forgot all the words of chastisement that she'd planned for neglecting her and Serill.
He came to her and wrapped her in his arms. "I am so glad to have you back," she whispered, and struggled not to cry.
Matthew's embrace tightened. "I am here to stay," he whispered against her ear.
Someday, he thought, as he bent down to greet his son, I will return to Cumbria and face the past. When I am old and it no longer matters. When I am ready to join Harry and Father.
Then I will allow myself to truly mourn.
* * *
The sand was white, the sky was blue, and in the distance Matthew could see the grey of the Vienne River. It was the same color of grey as the city walls that remained standing. The townspeople who were to be killed had already been herded from Limoges. They were dressed in scarlet and white. Matthew began walking toward the front of the doomed crowd. He passed his brother, who held out his bony arms, and said, "Carry me, Matt." He shook his head and continued his walk. Prince Edward awaited him in his litter, but Matthew was horrified to see that the prince's body was swollen with plague boils. He began to cry because he knew Edward was dying, but the prince said, "Do not weep for me, weep for the children." He gestured toward his son, Edward, seated beside him in the litter. Young Edward smiled at Matt, but worms wriggled out of his open mouth, and crawled forth from sockets that had once held eyes.
"Hurry, Matt!" Prince Edward urged. "Remember the children!"
Matthew's heart began to race, fear to turn his limbs liquid. The sky darkened, and suddenly he was in his tiny bedchamber at Cumbria. Margery came to him, her chestnut hair glowing in the candle flame, carrying Serill.
"Here, Matt! Here is your son."
Matthew shook his head. "I do not want him," he said, but Harry stood at his shoulder and handed him a knife. Matthew began to cry again, but Margery extended her arms, and Serill smiled at him, and allowed his head to loll back, exposing his neck.
"Hurry," Harry said. "Then you can carry me."
"Hurry," Margery repeated. "There are other children waiting outside."
He brought the knife down, and drew the blade across Serill's throat...
Matthew bolted upright in bed, causing the pillows to tumble onto the floor and Margery to jerk awake.
She sat up. "What is wrong?"
He shook his head. Going to the table, he poured himself a cup of wine and gulped it down.
"Another bad dream?"
"The same one."
In the four months that Matthew had been home, he had been plagued by nightmares. One in particular seemed to disturb him, although Margery did not know the specifics since he refused to talk about it. She figured the dream had something to do with Limoges, or perhaps William and Harry's deaths.
"Will you tell me?" she asked, even though she knew what his reply would be.
"'Twas too awful even to speak of," he replied, as he always did.
Matthew poured himself another cup of wine and retreated to the bay window.
Where he will most likely remain until dawn, she thought.
Insomnia wasn't the problem. Many times she had offered to mix him sleeping draughts, but he maintained he didn't want to sleep. Margery turned on her side away from him, and stared into the darkness. She ached for her lover, but had no idea how to help him. He remained so quiet and withdrawn. A stranger had returned from Cumbria—a stranger who refused to talk about anything of substance, a stranger who often looked through Serill as if he weren't there, and who was close to her only when they made love. Lovemaking had not changed; it had even improved. There was an urgency to their coupling which made it all the more exciting. It was as if all their frustrations gained release through intercourse, which also provided them with a feeling of closeness. A closeness that disappeared with the dawn. Outside the bedroom, their relationship remained distant. She worried and watched and prayed that the old Matthew Hart might soon make his way back to her.
Chapter 21
Ely 1375
In October of 1375, Matthew travelled to Ely at the request of his sister in order to observe the two-year anniversary of William and Harry's death. Elizabeth had planned a commemorative mass at Ely cathedral for All Hallow's Eve. Although neither had died on that day, All Hallow's Eve was one of the times when souls were released from purgatory, and prayers on that day were considered particularly effective.
While Matthew claimed he was reluctant to go, Margery urged him to attend. She would have accompanied him save for the presence of Lawrence Ravenne, but decided a period of separation might do them both good. In the year since Matthew's return from Cumbria, their relationship had gradually improved. The nightmares had begun to diminish and Matt was a bit more talkative. He didn't speak about the deaths or past campaigns or political affairs, but days no longer passed when he did little more than stare into space. Increasingly, he sought out Serill, though Margery noticed Matthew seldom held his son or touched him. But he had given Serill a handsome black pony and a peregrine falcon, and sometimes took him hawking. He also fashioned Serill a small sword and shield—curious toys unless Matthew intended to legally recognize him, which he hadn't yet. Until that time Serill remained, in the world's eyes at least, the son of Simon Crull, and would grow up to be a tradesman instead of a knight. Sometimes, Margery worried that Matt might be pretending with the both of them, that he found them burdensome rather than a joy, but when she hinted that they might move back to the Shop, just for a while, Matt said, "Please give me more time, Meg," and his eyes filled with tears.
Margery hoped that his trip to Ely might prove the turning point. If not, well, she would give him all the time she had.
* * *
The streets of Ely were nearly deserted. A chill October rain penetrated Matthew's woolen mantle. Beside him, Lawrence Ravenne groused to his wife about the necessity of making the journey.
"I do not see why we could not have had masses said for your father and brother in Bury St. Edmunds or Cambridge." Ravenne pulled his beaver hat lower upon his forehead to better protect himself. "Ely is so far away from everything, and the winds off the fens will be the death of me.
Furthermore, last year I carved the priests here a statue of the Virgin which took the better part of a year. That should be enough to gain their gratitude without having to personally travel to this godforsaken place."
"Aye, husband," Elizabeth said mildly. They'd been married so long 'twas easiest to handle him as she would a deficient child. Certainly not as a hero from her romances, but she'd put aside the last remnants of her fabulistic mindset upon the deaths of William and Harry.
Slipping Matthew a sly look, she continued, "Just remember, that if you should die before me, I know you would wish me to be as diligent in my concern for the welfare of your soul as I am for that of my other relatives."
Her comment stopped Ravenne's complaints, for few people went directly to heaven, and without the prayers of those left behind—which were quite expensive—who could say how long one might be consigned to the pains of purgatory?
With drops of rain tapping like tentative fingers against his hood, Matthew would have had to strain to hear his sister and brother-in-law's banter, which he did not. Throughout his visit, he found himself unable even to look Ravenne directly in the eye for he had not forgotten what Margery had told him about Ravenne and her mother. Now Matt risked a glance at him, settled into a saddle custom made to accommodate his girth, his mantle swishing about him like a ship's sail with each step of his palfrey's hooves. Over the years, Lawrence Ravenne had grown stout and smug as a Lombard money lender, his fiery hair long faded to an ashen hue. Or perhaps the color had merely leached to his face, which was the shade of a cherry, in the usual manner of redheads and those of Ravenne's disposition. Hard to envision him as the seducer and then murderer of Alice Watson or anyone else.
But he had been.
When out hawking or in Ravenne's woodshop or breaking bread or in private conversation, Matthew had to physically remind himself not to stare at his brother-in-law's nicked and scarred hands, as if they might somehow proclaim their owner's ancient guilt. Surreptitiously, he would search Ravenne's face seeking, after the manner of his hands, some silent confirmation of his crime. Perhaps when Ravenne's features were cast in a certain shadow or arranged just so, there might his evil be unmasked.
Hypocritical, of course.
Since I do not want anyone to read MY sins, not even God. Particularly not God.
To no one in particular, Elizabeth commented, a trifle wistfully, "I like to think that we've already prayed Father and Harry to heaven."
Ravenne grunted; Matthew crossed himself and cast his gaze to the road in order to hide the sudden pricking of tears.
Following the deaths, Elizabeth had gone on pilgrimage to Glastonbury, as she had so many times. But Arthur and Guinevere's bones had denied her their usual solace. So she flooded the heavens with masses at various churches and cathedrals—Ely Cathedral, specifically the Lady Chapel, with its richly painted interior, wide soaring windows and stone carvings detailing events in the life of Our Lady, being her favorite.
With age, Elizabeth had experienced an increasing affinity with the Blessed Virgin. Not as a virgin, of course, but as a mother who, if one distilled her life to its essence, had been afflicted with a very difficult son. Jesus might have been God, but he'd disobeyed his parents and harassed his elders in the temple and he was undeniably feckless, wandering around the country with strangers preaching incendiary gospel verses and willfully courting trouble with authorities. Surely, Mary had warned him to stop tempting fate. Elizabeth imagined all the nights the Blessed Virgin must have lain awake worrying over her son's safety.
Did she and Joseph sleep together in the manner of man and wife? Late into the night, did they share their fears about their child's unconventional behavior? Or had God the Father already apprised them of Jesus's pending demise and soothed them by reminding them how blessed they were to be in the presence of mankind's savior? How had they reacted, knowing that it was just a matter of time before their son would be crucified? Had they rationalized, "Since he is God, he really won't feel pain?" Did Mary say to Joseph, "Saints be praised, we only had one child?"
Elizabeth considered writing a poem about the Virgin and her trials, but being the mother of God Mary might always have been placid and smiling the way she was in stained glass windows and the statue Lawrence Ravenne had carved sitting to the left of the altar in the Lady Chapel. When her husband had been detailing the face, Elizabeth had said, "No actual mother looks so mindlessly contented. Why not add frown lines? Or strands of hair straggling across her cheek? Or pretend that she's viewing her son jumping off the roof of their cottage and carve there a look of horror. That would be real."
"She is the mother of God," Ravenne said impatiently. "She doesn't have human emotions. And Jesus could not go around acting like Bors or Arthur or another of our boys because He was God." Which settled the matter for him.
They dismounted at the steps of Ely Cathedral, Ravenne laboriously, Matthew with the ease of a warrior, stepping lightly across water pooling in the ruts. He held out his arms to his sister and deposited her safely on paving stones abutting the cathedral entrance. As he and Ravenne tied their horses, Elizabeth surreptitiously studied Mathew. Her carefree brother had died somewhere along the years, died along with the laughter in his eyes, along with Harry and William. Now his expression was often hard; his jaded air as pronounced as the lines radiating from his eyes. Behind the cynicism and weariness, Elizabeth sensed a great sadness, which she had no idea how to address.
Today's high mass was celebrated in the Octagon and Lantern area, near the shrine of St. Etheldreda, who, in the seventh century, had been the Queen of Northumbria and first Abbess at Ely. The Lantern tower, supported by corner posts made from individual oak trees, soared sixty feet. The light from its windows highlighted its life-sized carving of Christ in His glory.
Throughout the service, which was well attended, Matthew deliberately forced his mind from his father and Harry. At William's funeral he had been too exhausted to properly mourn, and could only recall a series of disconnected images—five wax candles burning beside the body in honor of the five wounds of Christ; the lonely sound of the bedeman's handbell leading mourners to the chapel; accepting from the king of arms the family coat of arms which symbolized Matthew's position as heir.
He didn't remember his feelings at all. They had been wrapped in a protective covering of weariness. Later, when emotion could return of its own accord, he deliberately ran from it. So many wounds. He did not want to probe them all. They haunted him enough in dreams.
When Matthew and the others re-emerged, the rain had stopped. They returned to Ravenne Manor in a pensive mood. It was a day fraught with unhappy memories, and to make matters worse, Desiderata Cecy was momentarily expected to arrive from London to officially mourn her husband with the rest of the family.
"I saw Ralphie once after Harry's death, and he's a nice lad," Matthew said to Elizabeth, "but I stay far away from his mother."
"Is it true what they say about her?" she asked. "That she is vying with Alice Perrers for His Grace's affections?"
Matthew shook his head. "No wonder King Edward looks so poorly."
"I canna think Desire would provide serious competition," Elizabeth said. Never comfortable with a sister-in-law who was too flamboyant and opinionated for her tastes, she added, "Alice has borne His Grace several children and he seems devoted to her."
"Many think Perrers is too dangerous to be tolerated," Lawrence interjected, "for she meddles in judicial and political affairs as if she were a man." He was riding on the opposite side of Matthew with Elizabeth between them. Leaning across the pommel of his saddle in order to gauge his reaction, Ravenne asked, "What think you? Is Perrers' influence waning?"
Matthew shrugged, as if the matter were of no importance, though his fingers tightened on the bridle reins. "I just do as m'lord the duke bids, and try to stay away from the king's court."
Ravenne snorted. "As someone who serves John of Gaunt, I would think 'twould be impossible not to be invo
lved in intrigue."
"Mayhap for you," Matt said sharply, unable to restrain his irritation. "But I have no problem."
They were riding through the tiny village of Ravennesfield, where Margery had been born. A decrepit place, he thought, looking around. Even the dogs appeared too apathetic to bark and the occasional child or grown peasant too indifferent to even track their passing.
Now Elizabeth and her husband were discussing some scandal that had occurred at Smithfield the previous year. Matt had heard the gossip, but it was all so mind-numbingly trivial. King Edward had held some tourney in which Perrers had been selected in advance as Queen of Beauty. Critics had been puffed up about the way Alice had been arrayed, in a yellow dress covered in gold and jewels and wearing a headdress that had caused scandalized Londoners to nickname her Queen of the Sun...
"...there with ladies in men's attire... parti-colored tunics, tight hose and gold and silver girdles," Ravenne was saying. "Ogling men... outrageous."
Matthew took note of the crumbling collection of cottages which looked so worn and tired, as if they, along with their occupants, had given up hope. He'd seen much worse in his time, of course, but he was suddenly reminded of a phrase from Dante's Inferno, 'Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate,' and its translation, 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.' What would Meg think if she returned? Now he could better understand how events might haunt people, though her mother's death had been a lifetime ago.
But I could live a millennium and I will not lay aside... certain images... certain regrets...
"The years have not been kind here," Matthew said suddenly. He might have been commenting on them all.
Elizabeth and Ravenne were still commiserating over the poor breeding of Alice Perrers and her meinie, how after their appearances at each tourney, one more shocking than the next, bishops and priests would decry their wickedness from church pulpits.
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