A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "Would you like to pet my hawk?" He stretched out his gloved hand, and while she hesitated, rearranged his lanner's gold-embroidered, pearl-encrusted hood. The price of the hood alone would have kept her and Alf in necessities for years.

  "Nay." Hawks were another of their lords' possessions it was best to leave alone. Fines were imposed on peasants who failed to return a missing bird, and the gallows for anyone stupid enough to steal one outright.

  "You need not fear Thunderbolt," he said, mistaking her hesitation. "She won't hurt you." He brought his arm and his bird closer. "Females are most often used for hunting since they are larger than males. Go ahead. Touch her."

  Margery gingerly thumbed the silver bells resting atop Thunderbolt's talons, which were engraved with letters she could not decipher. "Your bird's claws are long and sharp, sire. They must hurt."

  "Nay, Meg. Hawks kill their prey so quickly they do not have time to feel anything."

  Margery doubted that a hawk's victim would feel no pain and resented his certainty. Was Matthew Hart so confident about everything? "I prefer robins."

  "I'll grant you robins are also fine. Do you know why they have red breasts?"

  Margery told herself that she disliked his intimate manner, behaving as if they were companions. Having to admit that she did not know the answer was a concession she misliked giving. "Nay, sir."

  "At the crucifixion, a robin tried to ease our Savior's pain by lifting His crown of thorns. A thorn pierced the robin's breast. Ever after, its red breast has symbolized its love for Christ."

  "Did the robin die?"

  "Of course."

  "Then 'tis a sad tale."

  "It is merely a legend, Meg. I do not have much faith in legends."

  "Now I'll not be able to look at a robin without remembering."

  "I would not have told you had I known it would distress you." Matt lashed Thunderbolt to his saddle, removed his hawking glove, and flexed his fingers, which were thick and powerful, brutal-looking. "I do not like to dwell on distressing matters, either. Life is too filled with pleasure to ponder pain."

  She was not surprised that someone in his position would find it so, but she kept her own counsel. They continued their walk in silence save for the clip-clop of the stallion's hooves and singing from the Crown and Sceptre.

  They reached Cottage Lane. "I thank you for your escort, sir." Margery gestured vaguely toward her house, barely visible in the twilight. "I can continue the rest of the way myself."

  "Do you fear my brother-in-law?" Matthew asked suddenly. "Has he harmed you in the past?"

  Margery stiffened. "I do not fear Lord Ravenne or anyone."

  And then it occurred to her. King Edward's campaign. If she must suffer this person's presence, she might at least extract some useful information. "Will Lord... will all of you soon be bound for France?"

  "Aye," Matt said, and she felt that crackle of energy, that restlessness, that had first drawn her to him. "Twill be my first campaign and I will be up to my knees in French blood. I shall kill a hundred Frenchmen and ransom dozens of prisoners. I shall be knighted on the battlefield, the same way my lord the Black Prince was knighted following Crecy."

  Margery grimaced, but Matt's words seemed spoken more in innocence, as if he were a boy imagining fantastical tales.

  "I plan to perform so many acts of bravery that the minstrels will sing my praises in the same breath as Arthur's and Roland's."

  Was he mocking himself and all those stories he and his kind devoured for entertainment? Or was he serious? What strange dreams lords have!

  "Will many Englishmen die in France, sire?"

  "Aye."

  "What about Lord Ravenne? He could be killed, could he not?"

  Matthew laughed, as if such a fate was too ludicrous to imagine. "My brother-in-law may not be one of England's finest, but remember, we are fighting the French."

  Perhaps so, but England's churches were filled with the tomb chests of knights, accomplished or otherwise. In battle anything could happen. The possibility lifted her spirits.

  "I hope the battles are very bloody," she said.

  "Aye!" Matthew was surprised and pleased that Margery Watson understood the joys of combat. He gazed at her with deepening interest.

  Her stomach flipped, as if she'd ingested something peculiar. "I crave your leave, sire," she said quickly. "My stepfather will be awaiting me." A lie, of course. Alf would be slumped over some table at the Crown and Sceptre.

  Matt hesitated, and for a moment she feared he might kiss her again. "I will see you before I leave, Margery Watson," he said, swinging up on his stallion.

  "I pray not," she breathed, watching him ride away. Turning back, Margery straightened her shoulders and continued her walk along Cottage Lane, toward the Watson cottage. Leaks from its dilapidated roof had exacerbated a structural flaw causing it to lean sideways, as if seeking companionship from its neighbors. The walls, inside and out, were badly stained, and the interior always smelled vaguely of death. Or at least its accouterments; the accouterments of plague.

  She heard a low-pitched moan and gauged its direction. Most likely Walt the Miller, having another one of his attacks. Walt's entire family had been wiped out by the Death, driving him to madness. Before Sunday mass, Father Oswald would tie him to the rood screen, hoping unsuccessfully that God's word might cure his condition.

  Margery found Walt slumped beside the entrance to an abandoned house. Reaching down, she gently rested her hand on top of the cross that had been cut into his hair—a remedy against his mental condition. "'Tis Margery, Walt. Let me take you home."

  Turning anguished eyes toward her, he rolled his head from side to side. "I've no home," he wailed. "No home. No home."

  Margery looked around at all the buildings that were gutted or in disrepair, providing shelter for little more than pigeons. She thought of Alf, who drowned the past in drink, and Lettice, who rutted with Ravenne in the vain hope of securing some favor. She thought of Matthew Hart, who depicted his future in terms of carnage. She thought of her mother, who had died within footsteps of this spot.

  "You are right, Walt," she whispered, helping the miller to his feet. "None of us has any home now."

  Chapter 8

  Ravennesfield, London bound

  Over the next three days, Matthew Hart was often in Margery's thoughts, though not in a happy fashion. Rather she dwelled exclusively on his imperfections, which were nearly countless. One of the precepts priests taught was: "As above, so below." This meant that heaven and earth mirrored each other, and astrologers used the saying to explain why a man's fate was cast in the stars. Margery told herself that any physical imperfections Matthew Hart possessed mirrored the imperfections of his soul.

  And she would root out every one.

  She started with the color of his eyes. Their changeability, sometimes green, sometimes blue, bespoke an erratic disposition. His nose and jaw line was not strong and determined but rather insolent and cruel. She found his full mouth distasteful, for it implied sensuality. No doubt he enjoyed success with the ladies, but sensuality was a sin. Well, not sensuality exactly. Priests used other words, like fornication and gluttony and sloth, which meant the same thing.

  Since his hair was more sun-streaked than blond, he must spend his life largely outdoors, hawking and hunting and practicing war games, which meant he possessed a depraved temperament, for he obviously enjoyed seeing creatures killed or killing them himself.

  When Margery could not sleep, she found herself reliving their encounter and endlessly recounting Matthew Hart's flaws. By the time she drifted off, she'd once more convince herself that the young squire possessed so many faults it was a wonder God had allowed him to be born.

  On the fourth day, upon opening her window shutters, Margery saw the object of her opprobrium riding up the lane toward her cottage.

  "Jesu!" She had thought about Matthew Hart so often she could almost believe he was a chimera, until he dismounted in f
ront of her door. Suppressing the urge to run her fingers through her hair and smooth her gown, Margery met him outside and after a curtsy, bluntly asked, "What are you doing here, sir?"

  She was surprised at how breathless was her speech, how light-headed she felt. Hands, she thought. Arrogant.

  "I wanted to see you before we left, Meg. Ravennesfield is not so very far from Cumbria. Well, at least it is on the way. And when the campaign is over, I shall visit again."

  She had spent so much time transforming Matthew Hart into a lecherous swine, he now looked almost achingly young. He could have been a grinning lad of twelve, standing outside her cottage, asking if she wanted him to teach her how to juggle. She felt a moment's tenderness toward him, but only a moment's.

  "Ravennesfield is a dying village," she said. "There's naught here to interest the likes of you."

  "I believe there is."

  Reaching out, Matt cradled her face. His fingers curled in her tousled hair—blunt, brutal fingers. She felt his callused palms against her cheeks and her stomach did that curious thing again. Then he drew back.

  "I shall bring you a present from France. What would you like? Just tell me, and it will be yours."

  "I want nothing, sir."

  "Come along, Meg. Would you have an emerald necklace or a diamond brooch? Cloth of velvet or brocade?"

  "What would I do with such finery?"

  "You must want something. All women like pretty things."

  Not daring to meet his gaze again, she looked down at the ground and shook her head.

  Matt laughed and stepped away, to his horse. "Nevertheless, I shall bring you a present. And now I must be off. Our men are gathering even as we speak."

  Watching the young squire ride away, Margery felt the oddest sensation, something akin to sadness or longing, though of course that could not be the case. She hastened toward Alice's grave, where she could see the highway. There, she waited until Matthew Hart joined a group of knights who were headed south.

  "I hate you," she whispered fiercely, watching him disappear amidst the waving banners. "I hope both you and Lawrence Ravenne die in France."

  * * *

  As Matthew rode beside his younger brother, he tried to count the line of knights stretched out in front of them. Three days of arduous riding had done nothing to dampen his enthusiasm for the forthcoming campaign. From across the kingdom, two thousand six hundred men-at-arms were even now converging on Southampton, where they would set sail for Bordeaux under the command of Edward the Black Prince. Once in France, they would inflict total destruction upon their enemy and Matthew Hart would be in the forefront. Of that, he had no doubt.

  If only I could transport us all across the channel upon command, he thought, squirming in his saddle.

  When he wasn't up front with his father and brother-in-law, listening to them reminisce about past battles, Matthew dutifully dropped to the rear. There, he tried unsuccessfully to engage Harry in conversation. Since his brother appeared to have lost the art of speech, Matthew passed the time drinking in the surrounding sights and sounds. Never had he seen so much color–in the caparisons of the high-stepping palfreys, in the shields tied to their saddles, the jupons the knights wore over their armor, the standards trembling in the breeze.

  Wave after wave of color. Brown highway winding through miles of green countryside; white lilies-of-the-valley boiling out from the woods and rushing down hillsides. Untilled fields, riotous with purple foxglove, yellow daffodils and buttercups, red primrose and red campion. Blue and white blankets of periwinkles clotting the roadsides; hawthorn hedges, bristling with fragrant white and pink flowers, enclosing sleek brown cattle and sheep the color of cream.

  Someone started singing a ribald song about a tavern wench and a randy squire. Matthew joined in, ignoring the silent waves of disapproval emanating from beside him. As he sang the chorus, he glanced sideways, wondering at the troubled look on Harry's face.

  It cannot be my singing; he's worn the same look for days.

  Perhaps Harry was unhappy because he was going to miss the current campaign. But at fifteen, he still had plenty of time. Perhaps he did not like serving in John of Gaunt's household. Or perhaps the other knights yet teased him.

  Harry had shed some of his timidity, but he would always be more a talker than a fighter. Matthew sometimes worried that Father might make good his threat to pack Harry off to a monastery—a threat which had been hurled with alarming regularity throughout their childhood.

  "Do not cringe so in front of the horses, lad," William would say.

  "Stand up to the other boys."

  "Look me in the eye when I speak to you."

  "Do not turn to your brother for help."

  "Do not cry."

  A thousand commands, all ending with that dreaded threat.

  Even if Harry had been acceptable to William, the church was always a possibility for a second son. Matthew would inherit everything, and if Harry failed to carve for himself a proper place in the world, he might have no other option save some gloomy monastery. There, he would have naught to do save recite the monastic hours and weed the monastic gardens and quarrel with other monks over who could most skillfully illumine a manuscript, or who was most diligent at fasting, or who currently enjoyed the abbot's favor. God's bones, what a life!

  Fortunately, Matthew had taken care of Harry's future, just as he had taken care of Harry's bullies and Harry's hawks. He had groomed his brother's pony when Harry forgot. He had lied to William about the amount of time his brother spent in the solar being petted and pampered by their mother and her maids. Now that they were squires in separate households, it was harder to protect him, but Matthew was also certain that Harry was toughened and would be as good a knight as any. How could he not with the Hart blood in his veins?

  On his thirteenth birthday, he had guaranteed Harry's future by announcing that he would never marry. His parents had met his declaration with indulgent smiles, for a lifelong bachelor, especially one from a wealthy family, was rare as an eclipse of the sun. Matthew, however, had meant what he said.

  He intended to spend his life on the battlefield. Marriage would only complicate matters, and Matt didn't like complicated things. More importantly, his bachelorhood would keep Harry out of the clutches of the church and guarantee him a prosperous life.

  In fact if not in theory, Matthew had handed Harry the mantle of first born, with holdings stretching from Cumbria in the north to Sussex in the south. Which was fine.

  I shall obtain all the wealth I need from ransomed knights and war booty, and all the fame I desire from fawning minstrels.

  They passed one of a multitude of villages with thatched roofs and a wooden church spire that contrasted pleasantly with the soft blue sky and occasional wisp of cloud.

  "Just think, Harry. In no time at all, 'twill be French skies I'm looking upon, French towns I'm burning. If God is good, I may even be knighted on the battlefield."

  Confronted by his brother's perpetual state of ecstasy, Harry's spirits plummeted even further. Matt seemed so eager to grasp his future, so unconcerned with the prospect of dying, so unaware that he'd have to soon endure dreadful hardships that were so much a part of any chevauchee. Not for the first time, Harry wondered whether he himself might be a changeling.

  He had been praying that Matt secretly shared his fears, that his brother's bravado was merely an accomplished act. And yet Harry would have wagered the kingdom—if it had been his to wager—'twas not so. By contrast, what did that make Harry? A half man? A coward?

  Harry slid a sideways glance at Matt, who gaped all about him with unrestrained delight. Sometimes Harry wondered at his older brother's wits. He sighed deeply, dramatically, as if Matthew might hear him above the surrounding noise and question what was wrong. A matter had been weighing heavily on Harry's mind. Soon they would reach London, where Matthew would join his liege, Edward the Black Prince, and he would lose all opportunity to broach it.

  He m
ust speak now.

  Harry tried easing into the subject. "'Tis true what they say about the Death. England will never be the same. Remember last Christmas when we visited York Minster? Six years have passed and no work has been done on the west front or the nave. 'Tis strange to walk inside and see scaffolding still in place."

  Matthew was pleased his brother had finally broken his silence, though not at his choice of topic. "I never give a thought to that time. 'Tis the future that beckons, not the past.

  "The plague never touched our family," he continued, hoping his words might smooth Harry's troubled countenance. "It preyed more on the clergy than true knights. Not one member of His Grace's Order of the Garter was stricken. Is that not reason enough to believe God loves us?"

  Harry suppressed another sigh. Matt was missing his point; he often did. Death could come swiftly, unexpectedly, invisibly. Death could come riding upon the wind, or screaming on the blade of a sword.

  "Remember before the plague, Matt? All the portents? The freak twins joined at the chest who were born in Kingston-upon-Hull? The flooding in York? I have been having dreams filled with burning windmills and rivers of blood. I fear they bode ill for the future." Expecting a reaction, Harry glanced across at his brother, but Matt was preoccupied with a brace of swallows, soaring upwards to catch in the clouds.

  Will there be swallows in France? he wondered. Does it rain there as much as it does here? Will it be flat like the fens, or mountainous like Cumbria?

  Harry had wanted to steer Matthew gently but his brother had never been one for subtlety. "What if something bad happens to you in France?" he asked bluntly.

  Matthew looked at him, surprised. "What could happen?"

  "You forget you are going off to war, not a joust. There might be glory in war, but there is also death."

  "Not mine. I have no intention of spilling my life's blood on enemy soil."

  "You have not had any portentous dreams? Troubling omens?"