A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "So many are gone." Thomas's voice was gruff with emotion. "I'd hoped God would spare more."

  "Life has been hard," Margery said. "We've little money and Alf does naught save drink and I fear without help more bad things will happen."

  Thomas said, "I canna take you to Fordwich with me."

  Margery blinked in surprise. She had not thought to ask him. Fordwich might as well be across the world as however far away it actually was.

  "Things are not well with us. My son, who was but two weeks old, died at Eastertime. My wife..." he shrugged, leaving the rest of the sentence unfinished. "Lady Beatrice also had the pestilence, but she survived, though... with problems. She is with child again. I cannot upset her, and she is easily upset."

  Margery tried to decipher her father's words. Why would anything pertaining to her upset Lady Rendell?

  "I need heirs. I am twenty-seven years old. My wife grieves... differently. I fear you would be a reminder of what she has lost. I am sorry for that. I would have it otherwise..."

  Thomas tipped Margery's chin with rough fingers. "I see Alice in your eyes, in the set of your mouth. She must have had noble blood somewhere, for I've seldom seen a comelier woman." His expression softened. "I suspect she looked very like you when she was small." He placed his hand atop the crown of Margery's head. "Save for the color of your hair, of course."

  "My lord husband!"

  Both turned toward a petite woman standing near the front of the manor house, some twenty feet away.

  "I am going to rest," she said, absently stroking a tiny white dog in her arms. Her hair, the color of firelight, was caught in a net on either side of her ears. Hair the color of her brother's. Margery could see the resemblance in their facial features, though Beatrice Rendell's eyes appeared almost black when contrasted to her whey-tinted complexion. "I have a loathsome headache. Come play for me."

  "The only time my lady wife can sleep is when I play the lute," explained Thomas in a soft voice.

  Spotting Margery, Beatrice approached them, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  "Who is this?"

  "A lass from the village," Thomas said, his manner placating.

  "Another of your bastards, husband? Fornication seems to run in your family, does it not?"

  Thomas turned away from Margery and hurried to his wife, who clutched the now squirming fluff in her arms while simultaneously upbraiding her husband in an indecipherable torrent of French.

  Margery shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other. We must have money...

  "My lord, we will soon be starving," she persisted, loudly enough that he must hear. "Can you not help me?"

  Thomas turned his back, and with his arm around his wife, retreated to the manor house. Margery could only stare after him, her face as hot as if she'd been standing flush to the bakehouse. He'd ignored her. Her own father did not care if she starved or froze to death.

  She blinked back tears. Thurold was right. Lords are kind and fair only when it suits them. The lone difference between Thomas Rendell and Lawrence Ravenne was that Thomas possessed a sweeter surface. But a maggot dipped in honey is still a maggot. Never again will I expect anything from a lord.

  On her way back to Ravennesfield, someone called, "Hey, you, little one. Wait."

  Margery turned.

  A short, stocky man wearing the Rendell badge caught up to her. "My lord said I am to give this to you." The man stretched out a coin purse, fatter than any Alice had ever received. "He said 'tis all he can spare, and you are not to try to see him again while he is here." Seeing her posture stiffen, he added, "Lord Rendell is concerned for his wife's safety. He has lost much. We all have. He does not mean to hurt you. He was most distressed when we spoke."

  Margery contemplated the outstretched purse. Its contents meant they could survive for years. But Thomas Rendell was only giving her money to buy her silence, to shoo her away so she would not cause trouble. Thomas had wanted Alice because she was beautiful, and he had met his obligation to Margery only because it provided a convenient opportunity to see his leman.

  "I do not want his money," she whispered, feeling as if she were sinking into one of the sucking holes in the fens.

  The man frowned at her. "'Tis a great sum, more than most ever see. Here, take it."

  Margery shook her head.

  He studied her intently. An odd expression crossed his face before he shrugged, as if dealing with a matter of no importance.

  "All right then."

  Thomas's retainer turned and strode back toward the manor, tossing the coin purse in the air and catching it as he did so.

  Eyes blurry with unshed tears, Margery continued to the Watson cottage. She thought of her father, strumming his lute and singing to his wife, who would cry and clutch at her growing belly. She remembered the way Thomas had looked at Alice, remembered his promises to care for the both of them. Margery stumbled in the rutted road. What had Father Egbert said? That God had ordained separate duties for all his children, and life would remain fine so long as everyone kept to their proper roles.

  "We are the eyes which show men to safety," he'd said, likening the various classes to a body. "Knights are the hands and arms. They are obligated to protect Mother Church and the weak, and promote peace and justice."

  Such foolishness. What had Father Egbert said about peasants? "You are the lower part of the body and 'tis you who are duty-bound to nourish the eyes and limbs."

  What body part am I? Will I ever belong anywhere?

  Margery knew one thing well enough. "I am glad my hair is brown," she said to the silent cottages on either side of Ravennesfield's narrow lane. "When I grow up I shall look nothing at all like Mama. I will be so sour and ugly that no man, either noble or villein, will ever dare approach me. Because if he does, I will cut out his heart."

  Chapter 7

  Ravennesfield, 1355

  When Margery Watson looked back upon her life from the fullness of years, she chose one seemingly insignificant event as the moment that changed everything. Before, when she'd pondered her future—in the manner of a soothsayer rather than the fifteen-year-old maid she was—her path seemed tidily arrayed before her. Marry a fellow villager, have children, work, expire. Whether she would or not, and when it came to marrying one of the handful of possible suitors in Ravennesfield, she most definitely would not.

  God has not created the man who'd ever interest me, she'd told herself many times.

  As if she'd known that to be truth, as well.

  On this day, this very special day, Ravennesfield's villagers were going "a-ganging," a rite meant to re-affirm the traditional boundaries of gardens and hedges and roadway, reinforcing who lay legal claim to what. 'Twas an ancient ceremony, one Margery found comforting since it harkened back to a time before the Death. But she felt no need to join in and lagged behind the crowd, which included Father Oswald carrying a full-sized cross and muttering arcane prayers at seemingly random intervals while celebrants enthusiastically flogged the surrounding vegetation.

  Margery had removed her clogs and was enjoying the feel of the packed earth, the breeze lifting her unbound hair and carrying to her the pungent scents of peat and manure; the warmth of the waning sun. She suddenly thought of that long ago time when her life had been moored around Alice, yet she could actually remember so very little. Giddy and Thurold had faded until only the sense of loss remained, and, though she clung to her mother's memory as tenaciously as Giddy had clung to her cat, in truth Alice was beginning to resemble the wooden virgin in St. George's Chapel.

  Perhaps such reminisces had been brought on by the re-appearance of Lord Lawrence Ravenne, who'd returned to Ravenne Manor for one of the few times since those dreadful days. When Margery and his other villeins had brought him the customary Easter offering of eggs, Ravenne had remarked on her resemblance to her mother in such a casual way, as if he'd forgotten that he had murdered Alice. Then he'd pinched Margery's cheek and patted her bottom through her skirts a
nd she'd felt such a terror that she'd nearly bolted the hall.

  For the past six years, she'd fantasized how she would someday dispatch Lawrence Ravenne—with an arrow from Alf's longbow, which in reality she could scarce bend; with poison somehow slipped into ale or soup or some such. Or perhaps she would use a knife when her lord's back was turned, or when he was asleep—though how she would find herself in such intimate proximity she hadn't quite worked out. But after that Easter meeting she'd known she'd not the courage for revenge. Rather she would pray that God in his righteous wrath would ordain Lawrence Ravenne to be killed during England's forthcoming campaign against the French.

  It was then Margery heard the blast of a hunting horn and the barking of dogs, and spotted peregrines and sakers circling above the fens, obviously searching for heron or other water fowl. Shading her eyes, she spied several riders. Some, trailed by their dogs, rode toward Ravenne Manor, while a trio headed in her direction. One was riding double, with a female in front.

  "Lettice Tomsdoughter," she breathed, recognizing her neighbor. Then she knew Lettice must be perched upon Lawrence Ravenne's stallion for the fourteen-year-old had bragged at the Easter assemblage that she meant to have her lord's bastard child.

  "So he will provide for me," Lettice had explained.

  Which meant her wits were as addled as her morals.

  Margery lifted her skirts and increased her stride in order to catch up with Father Oswald and the others, now nearing Ravennesfield's outskirts. The hoofbeats grew louder.

  "Margery Watson!" called Lawrence Ravenne.

  Margery pretended she didn't hear but when he ordered her to halt, she knew she must obey. With limbs that suddenly felt incapable of support, she forced herself to stop, managed to turn and readied to curtsy. And found herself face to face, not with her nemesis, but with the man she would love forevermore.

  Initially, she could only vaguely place Matthew and Harry Hart—not at all from Lord Ravenne's wedding when they'd all three been in attendance, but later from that terrible incident in the fens.

  Both young men had sun-streaked blond hair and both wore harts on their cote-hardies. If Margery were judging objectively, she would have said that Harry Hart had grown to be the more conventionally handsome, with perfectly sculpted features and vulnerable, long-lashed eyes that made one long to soothe away his cares.

  But it was Matthew who immediately commanded her attention. Big and broad-shouldered, with a restlessness that was evident even when he seemed outwardly in repose. As if he could never be tethered to one spot but would ever be bounding off to some adventure, each more exciting than the last.

  I knew even then, she would later tell him, as they lay encircled in each other's arms, though of course that could not be true.

  Aware of Margery's interest, Matthew returned her gaze in a direct and curious, faintly amused—and impersonal—manner.

  "Margery Watson, what are you doing out here by yourself?" Ravenne reined in his black stallion. "Why are you not enjoying the celebration?"

  Margery suppressed the urge to wipe her suddenly sweaty palms on her gown. Instead, she shook her head, as if mute. Fortunately, Lettice Tomsdoughter broke the silence, babbling about hawking and having the grandest day and how her lord had let her wear his hawking glove—covered with diamonds and rubies it was—and hold one of his birds.

  "'Tis not meet that you should be alone," Ravenne said, interrupting Lettice. His gaze swept Margery, weighing, appraising. "Times are lawless. A pretty maiden needs protection."

  Matthew Hart turned to his brother. "Larry is right," he told Harry, speaking French. "She is very pretty, is she not?" He had been searching his memory, trying unsuccessfully to remember why the girl seemed familiar.

  "Hush, Matt. What if she can understand you?"

  "They only know English." Matthew absently stroked the hooded lanner perched upon his hawking glove. "Though her voice is musical and refined. 'Tis unusual among her kind..." It was then that he too remembered their encounter in the fens. All saints be praised that Margery Watson had survived and survived nicely, from the look of her. He then smiled at her, a smile that went unnoticed as Margery's gaze was fastened upon the ruts at her feet.

  "God has blessed her with the most remarkable hair," he continued. "Look how it shines, like sunlight glancing off a stream."

  Margery, who was self-schooled enough to understand most of what Matthew and Harry were saying, found her fear of Lawrence Ravenne temporarily replaced by annoyance. Speaking about her as if she were a witless ewe!

  "'Tis blessed you'll be a knight and not a poet, brother," Harry said, with a roll of the eyes. "And what are we going to do about Larry? Surely, he should at least pretend to be a gentle-man around us rather than pawing everything in skirts. I've a mind to tell Elizabeth. Or Father even."

  Intent on the interaction between Ravenne and Margery, Matthew did not respond. He had become uneased by the hungry expression in his brother-in-law's eyes and though 'twas hard to read the girl's reaction, he sensed Ravenne's crudity repelled her.

  "...as ripe as your mother," Ravenne was saying to Margery, who stood still as one of the wooden carvings for which he was famous. Then, as if reaching a decision, he looped his reins around his pommel and growled to Lettice, "Off with you."

  "But... my lord?" Lettice reluctantly dismounted. Ravenne emphasized his command by pushing her away with a stirruped leg.

  "He aims to trade one girl for another," Harry whispered to Matthew. "He should have a care to his immortal soul—and to our sister!"

  While Matthew wasn't concerned with damnation and knew few husbands kept their marriage vows, Margery's stricken look caused him to shift uneasily in his saddle.

  Ravenne beckoned to Margery, as if expecting her to obey like a well-trained dog. "Come!'Tis long past time you and I became better acquainted."

  Not one to give up so easily, Lettice whined, "M'lord, ye promised—"

  Ravenne gave her a more forceful shove with his knee. "We are done, you and I."

  Hand over her mouth to muffle her weeping, Lettice stumbled off. Margery remained rooted to the spot. She parted her lips, as if she might actually gainsay her lord, but managed only another mute shake of the head.

  Ravenne's eyes narrowed. "Would you deny me, Margery Watson?"

  Thinking he might have to intervene in some fashion, Matthew guided his mount closer while Harry addressed Ravenne in a quavering voice. "'Twill soon be sunset and Elizabeth said you were to help Tristan and Arthur finish sanding their rocking horses—"

  Ignoring him, Lawrence Ravenne extended his hand to Margery. "Come, girl! Now!"

  Matthew wasn't quite sure how it happened, but he found himself dismounted and standing at her side, one arm looped possessively around her shoulder. "Nay, Larry. If she seems reluctant to go with you, 'tis for good reason."

  Ravenne drew back his hand with a scowl. "And what might that be?"

  Matt smiled and drew Margery closer to him. "She has promised herself to me!"

  "'Tis so," Harry agreed, his relief evident. "He told me all about it yester... whenever."

  Sensing his brother-in-law's skepticism, Matthew gave Margery a quick, hard kiss on the lips. "Is that not so, Margery Watson?"

  Too shocked to reply, she could only stare dumbly from one to the other.

  Ravenne's gaze swung from Matthew to Margery, considering. Then he laughed. "Bed her then, and I'll envy you your prize."

  "Elizabeth will be—" Harry managed before Ravenne interrupted with a "'Tis back to the manor house for us, lad," and a spur to his horse.

  After one last worried look over his shoulder, Harry followed, leaving Matthew and Margery alone.

  * * *

  The horizon was a panorama of scarlet, orange and pink. Behind them, Matthew's stallion, worn by the hunt, followed, docile as a dog.

  "Do you mind if I call you Meg?" Matthew asked politely.

  He might call her "Rooster" or "Cow Dung" or any name h
e so decided, Margery thought, so why was he pretending to seek her permission? "Whatever pleases you, sir."

  She felt little gratitude toward this strange creature. If Matthew Hart had rescued her, it was only because he wrongly fancied himself a hero or expected something despicable in return.

  "'Twill soon be dark," Matthew observed. "Are you not glad I am beside you to act as protector?"

  Margery eyed him from the corner of her eyes. Was he teasing? "I am not afraid of the dark, sir. Ravennesfield is too isolated to attract robbers and cutthroats, and I've never seen the witches and goblins and vampires that are said to lay in wait through the night."

  "You would be a difficult person to defend, Meg," Matt said mildly.

  Margery grimaced at his nickname but could think of no appropriate response. Her nerves were strung taut. Throughout their walk, she had been inspecting Matthew Hart as methodically, if surreptitiously, as she inspected her garden for weeds. No doubt that he was an intimidating presence with a body that made one think of wrestling and sword play and feats of physical prowess. And there was that intriguing energy that made her want to reach out and touch him, as if whatever magic he possessed might somehow transfer. Her survival had long depended on correctly weighing and measuring people and situations, but, now, as she would find so often in the future, he simply confused her.

  "So you tell me that you do not fear the dark when I've always thought 'twas man's natural state, to mislike what he cannot see," Matthew said. "You are rare indeed. Is there anything that frightens you?"

  Margery was taken aback by the question. Everything. Hunger, being alone forever without love. Change. The Death. Knights. Lord Ravenne. You, she thought glancing at him, though mayhap for different reasons.

  "I doubt, sir, that you would fear the dark either."

  Matthew grinned. "That makes me either very brave or very stupid. My brother tells me I am stupid. What say you?"

  "I would not venture an opinion."

  They reached the edge of Ravennesfield. Matthew halted and faced her. Though her instinct was to step back from him, she forced herself to maintain her ground.