A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "Peyters don't compare t' Crecy," Alf interrupted. "For one thing, our King Edward did not take part and—" He interrupted himself to bellow, "Kate, where's me drink? Me gullet's dry as a dust storm." After downing his ale, Alf wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, rose from the bench, and lurched back into the crowd.

  "I see the old man has na lost his good nature," Thurold remarked.

  At that moment, John Ball came over. "Might I sit?"

  The priest smiled down at Margery. His tonsured head nearly brushed the low ceiling. Thinking how kind he looked, she nodded. Thurold moved over and Margery knew without being told that John Ball was a man who commanded her stepbrother's respect, even reverence.

  "Thurold says you are a hedge priest, Father."

  John Ball laughed. "I would not quite agree, for I consider all of England to be my parish."

  Thurold nodded solemnly, as if John Ball had just uttered a profundity.

  Nodding toward the others, Margery asked, "Are you not interested in listening about the battle?"

  "These past weeks Thurold and I have heard little else. I might turn the question around. Are you not interested?"

  "I do not believe our lords fight to protect us, but for their own honor and glory. I think our lords are cruel and make their own laws and throw the rest of us a bone, or in the case of Poitiers, a piece of silver plate, while they bring home wagon-loads of booty. Why should I want to cheer such inequity?"

  John Ball's dark eyebrows shot up. He studied her for a long moment before smiling. "Well spoken! I should not be surprised that you would sound so like your brother. He says near the same thing."

  Margery glanced at Thurold, whose face bore an enigmatic smile.

  John Ball continued, "Methinks you have a fine mind along with a pleasing countenance."

  She eyed him sharply, for many priests did not take celibacy seriously though she saw nothing untoward in his expression. "'Tis true I think a lot. But my thoughts remind me of molting chickens. Hundreds of feathers floating around without purpose, falling useless to the ground."

  Thurold snorted and John Ball laughed. "It seems a shame such a quick wit is wasted in this decaying village. You'd do better in a place like London, where Thurold and I be bound. In fact, that is why he asked to detour here."

  Margery crumpled a piece of goose pie crust between her fingers. "I have thought about leaving, but I am not free. My mother was a bondwoman so I am tied to the land."

  Thurold's mouth tightened. "You are free, Stick-Legs. And nowadays people leave the land, no matter what their station."

  "Times are changing," John Ball agreed. "We can never go back to the way we were before the Death, but what sort of world is being created I canna say. Common folk oft bargain with their masters for more wages since there are so few to work the land. When lords gainsay them, they flee to distant villages, where their services are welcomed with no questions asked."

  Thurold turned to the hedge priest and Margery, his eyes shining. "Listen to John Ball, Stick-Legs. More and more our fine lords leave off cultivating their fields and lease them to yeomen farmers, which 'tis a good thing for it brings the yeomen more coin. But the landless, they be worse off than ever. And many of our so-fine lords yet exact dues such as the merchet, which must be paid when a lad and lass would be wed, or the heriot, which enables our betters, upon the death of one of their tenants, to seize their grievin' family's best beast, no matter how poor the survivors might be."

  "I do not understand such talk. All I know is that Ravennesfield is dying."

  Voices from the group of men and Alf were louder, as if an argument was in the making.

  "Unfortunately," John Ball said, "our lords have been passing laws to keep us in our place. For example, Parliament passed the Statute of Labourers, wherein His Grace decreed that labourers should not receive one shilling more than they have ever had. When the peasants try to obey, they're driven to destitution, for prices have risen even if wages have not. Since the statute's passage, some have escaped punishment by hiding in forests and becoming outlaws. I talk to them. Good, hardworking men, driven to crime by the policies of those who are indifferent to and contemptuous of their needs."

  Margery had never heard anyone speak so boldly against King Edward, for in most people's eyes he was second only to the legendary Arthur. She glanced at Thurold. Where had he found such a man? "What do you plan to do to better the situation?" Her question encompassed them both.

  "For the present, I tell Englishmen that these laws be unjust, and that we deserve better. The time will come when we will demand equality."

  "When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?" quoted Thurold, after gesturing to Kate the Alewife for a refill.

  Margery had heard that ditty before for it was as ancient as the stones. "I fear you are both whistling in the wind," she said softly. "The lords will always be on top and we shall always be on the bottom."

  John Ball fixed his eyes on her, and in their depths shown a light unlike anything she had ever seen before. Margery shivered, as if she had been touched by an invisible hand. The room seemed to fade and she was no longer aware of the low-hanging smoke, the loud voices of Robert and his friends, or the musicians in the corner, scratching their fiddles. Looking into John's eyes, she knew that she was in the presence of an extraordinary being. In him she sensed a bottomless sorrow, an anguish for the pain and injustices which had been heaped on the backs of the common man since time immemorial.

  "I hear much talk when I walk around England," John said, leaning forward until his face was only inches away. "I recently heard about a French Franciscan who possesses the gift of prophecy. He has been preaching among the common people, foretelling of a time when they will take up arms against the powerful and rob them of their rule."

  Margery found it difficult to breathe. She wanted to tell John that he was a dangerous man—and a saint. But saints did not preach sedition, and men who spoke like John Ball and Thurold were inevitably hanged for treason.

  "For as long as I can remember I have heard that the meek must someday inherit the earth," she said. "But the meek do not inhabit castles or possess land, and I cannot believe prophecies to the contrary. Naught is ever going to change, and you will only waste your life if you believe otherwise."

  John drew his eyes away from Margery's, breaking the spell. He studied his half empty bowl as if viewing the future in its depths. "This French Franciscan predicted floods, tempests and plagues. After those signs come to pass, common people will rise up, massacre all the greedy churchmen, and take their property."

  "You speak as if this will happen in our lifetime," she said with a shaky laugh.

  "Perhaps, Margery Watson, perhaps."

  John smiled at her. Thurold muttered something about "a thousand years of peace."

  Margery shuddered. Such talk was dangerous. Perhaps it was not such a good idea for her stepbrother to have returned.

  Thurold leaned in close to her and whispered, "You be different, Stick-Legs. I see the 'ard times etched in your manner. Ye know I did come back to get ye from your hiding place the next even. Ravennesfield was crawling with Ravenne's henchmen, or I would've found a way to stay near."

  Margery's eyes filled with tears. Aye, times had been hard but at least he was here, if only for a night. Once again she reached out to squeeze his arm.

  Around them, the crowd had grown noisier. Margery recognized Alf's voice above the din; Thurold half turned to study his father and the rest. Suddenly, there was a lull in the fiddle playing. Clearly, Margery heard her stepfather say, "Poitiers could ne'er be fine as Crecy."

  Most villagers glowered at him, though some nodded in agreement. "The forest was thick and dark," said Alf, "like lookin' down a well. And up on a ridge, there was a windmill. I remember its blades turnin' slow, and the air layin' thick in me lungs. His Grace rode a white destrier and carried a rod in his hand, and he looked just like a king should."

  Margery watched
, astonished. Never had she heard Alf, drunk or sober, string so many words together.

  "'Twas rainin'," he continued. "The French and Genoese archers marched to the fore to cover the comin' of their knights. When they neared us, the clouds of a sudden parted and the sun came out. Our king said 'twas an omen, a blessin' from God, and 'twas that. The sun shone behind our backs, in the faces of the enemy, blindin' 'em."

  "And the English archers won," said Robert the Younger, "just like Peyters."

  The others shifted their focus back to Robert, eager to hear about newer battles, more recent glories, but Alf wasn't ready to relinquish their attention.

  "When the Genoese stopped to wind up their crossbows, we used our longbows. Again and again. Was as if a snowstorm had taken the place of the rain, for our arrows were feathered with white. And they went through the enemy breastplates easy as a mouse through a 'ole. The soldiers screamed, turned, and ran back to their knights."

  John Ball shook his head. "And we all know what happened next," he said, his voice low.

  Margery didn't know.

  "Their own knights cut 'em down!" said Thurold loudly. "Hacked 'em to pieces for fleeing. We know the story, old man."

  Ah, so this is a part of Crecy the legend makers leave out, Margery thought, sickened. Chivalry was a concept that bound together all knights, enemy as well as friend, therefore such barbaric behavior, such lack of chivalry, must be considered a reflection on all knights.

  The crowd had grown visibly exasperated with Alf. Some tried to talk above him, but he raised his voice to match.

  "Then the French knights came forth, steppin' over the bodies of their own dead archers."

  Sensing disaster, Margery rose from the table and headed toward her stepfather. Thurold followed. "Time to take him home and let him sleep it off. He has a way of getting into fights."

  "'Twas us yeomen wot carried the day, downin' France's knights!" Alf shouted. "The finest in all of Christendom, they bragged, and we slaughtered 'em easy as a pig sticker butcherin' swine." He made a sweeping motion with his wooden tankard. "The clouds closed again. 'Twas night, but no stars could shine through. We stole forth real quiet, with our knives, and slit their throats..." He paused, shaking from head to foot. "We be the men o' mettle, we common folk. And 'ow was we rewarded? By the Death!" His voice cracked and he began to weep. "Everyone gone."

  The crowd tried to edge Alf out of the circle. Robert the Younger put his arm around Alf's shoulders, but Alf pushed him away.

  Thurold stretched out his arm. "Come on, old man."

  Alf spun around and smashed his tankard against Robert the Younger's jaw. Robert fell. Someone swung at Alf's belly. Alf gave a loud oof and dropped to his knees. Other punches were delivered, and a brawl ensued. Thurold was pushed back, away from Alf. Finally, John Ball muscled his way into the fray, tossing combatants left and right in his effort to reach him.

  A knife flashed. The crowd staggered back. Alf raised his hands to his throat and uttered a gurgle, then drenched with blood, fell forward, onto the rushes.

  "No," Margery moaned. "Oh, no."

  John Ball and Thurold both reached Alf's side before Margery. They turned the stricken man over, revealing a gash that ran from ear to ear. Margery's stomach churned. Alf's eyes were beginning to glaze over. She knew she must do something, but she didn't know what. In truth, what could be done? Alf was already near death.

  Thurold cushioned Alf's head with one hand while John Ball knelt beside him and began administering last rites. Alf struggled to breathe. His eyes drooped, then jerked open. His hands moved up, as if to claw at his throat, then settled against his chest. By the time John Ball finished anointing him, Alf Watson was gone.

  Chapter 11

  The Road to London

  John Ball, Thurold and Margery left Ravennesfield before dawn. For the first several hours, Margery had imagined Lawrence Ravenne's retainers racing after her but the miles lengthened and there was no pursuit. John and Thurold were right—desertion was too commonplace.

  John and Thurold settled into an easy rhythm, but when Margery could not keep up they matched their pace to hers. Blisters had long ago formed on the back of her feet, and her toes had forced their way through the worn leather of her shoe tops, but while she was exhausted, she did not complain.

  John had said the journey would take at least four days. During their travels, they had passed through mile upon mile of grassland, spreading in monotonous sameness and broken only by an occasional hirsel of sheep and the piping of their shepherd.

  John Ball said, "Let me tell you about sheep." Just as he'd told her about swallows and foxes and the mating habits of peacocks. John seemed to know something about every subject under the sun.

  "Aye, priest," said Thurold, indulgently. "Tell us about them."

  "Sheep are the most obedient of animals. They are devoted to each other, which is why they prefer to remain close together. In Arabia, flocks grow fat upon music rather than fodder, and during the mating season the color of their wool changes with the character of the river from which they drink."

  Margery eyed the placidly grazing sheep. "Arabia must breed very different animals from ours."

  John nodded. "Sheep are said to know that the north and south winds promote fertility. They know that the north wind produces males and the south wind females."

  "I wonder if 'tis the same for people," she said, provoking John's laughter.

  They walked and walked. Horizon led to horizon. John's conversation was so interesting and her stepbrother's so comforting, Margery found she could forget about fears and worries and what might be awaiting them in that impossibly mysterious place called London.

  Near sundown they met a husband and wife, Bernard and Gunnora, also bound for London. Thurold snared a pair of rabbits and roasted them over an open spit. Bernard and Gunnora settled next to him. Margery sat a short distance away, rubbing her aching feet and studying the couple. Bernard was cut from the same cloth as every male in Ravennesfield—dirtier, perhaps, and a bit young to have lost so many teeth. Gunnora was with child, but her arms and legs were little bigger than stalks of wheat. Her eyes, locked to their impending meal, spoke mutely of her hunger.

  "Let me tell you about the hare," John Ball said, smiling at Gunnora. "It is deeply devoted to its offspring. In some parts of the world, the male hare even gives birth, enduring the pain."

  Gunnora touched her own swollen stomach and Bernard placed his hand on her knee. His proprietary air annoyed Margery, though she could not imagine why.

  Thurold slowly turned the spit. An occasional drop of juice sizzled into the flames, and the aroma of roasting meat made Margery's mouth water.

  "A hare is very different from a rabbit, which is far more lustful," John continued. "When a rabbit spots a female, it goes mad with desire."

  Bernard poked Gunnora in the ribs. Half-wit, Margery thought sourly. But his wife smiled in response and rested her head against his shoulder. For some accursed reason, Margery found herself remembering Matthew Hart, which caused her to minutely inspect her dilapidated boots.

  I pray they will last the journey.

  'Twas that easy to get rid of unwanted musings about someone she hoped had been counted among the English dead. Well, Margery didn't really hope for Matthew Hart's demise; she just hoped she would never meet up with his like again.

  After their meal, Margery crumpled up her cloak, rested her weary head, and half-listened to John Ball's rumbling voice as he repeated Thurold's familiar recitations of their lords' wrongs—or more likely Thurold had simply been echoing the hedge priest's jeremiads. Like an Old Testament prophet who beseeched God to smite his enemies.

  On the third afternoon they reached the shire of Essex. Dense woods, unlike any Margery had ever seen, blanketed much of the area. The woods had long been designated royal forests, said John Ball, wherein the king hunted at will. They passed enclosed fields, bound by white hawthorn, and Margery gazed upon large herds of grazing cat
tle with gleaming summer coats.

  Their small group was joined by several pilgrims bound for Canterbury.

  (Canterbury, home to Thomas Rendell. I hope YOU also died in France.)

  Bernard, a convert to John and Thurold's way of thinking, urged the priest to repeat his conversation of the previous night. Ever obliging, John Ball spoke this time about the plight of women. Margery noticed that when the priest spoke, Thurold generally stayed silent, save for occasionally nodding in agreement. No one, not even Thurold, could speak with John Ball's eloquence.

  "Whatever they save by spinning they spend on rent or on milk and oatmeal to fill the bellies of their hungry children, while they themselves oft starve. Wretched with the miseries of winter, they get up to rock the cradle during cold, sleepless nights. Then they rise before dawn to card and comb their wool, to wash and scrub and mend, to wind yarn and peel rushes for their rushlights."

  I would have been one of those women, thought Margery. I was one of those women, only I did it for Alf.

  She would be forever grateful to John and Thurold for convincing her to leave Ravennesfield. Perhaps God had a hand in her fate as well, turning the tragedy of her stepfather's death, if tragedy it could be called, into a new beginning.

  Most of the pilgrims were unimpressed with John Ball's eloquence. "The world will always be a vale of tears because of original sin," said one, and tried to turn the conversation to the relics awaiting them at Canterbury Cathedral.

  But a second pilgrim said, "We are the spawn of a defeated nation—"

  The same old arguments, Margery thought, shutting them out.

  That evening, the last before they would reach London, they camped in a meadow bright with wildflowers. While the others talked around the fire, Margery drew off by herself and gazed up at the full golden moon. But John Ball's voice came to her, deep as a cavern, soothing as a lullaby. Would his words take hold like a gestating seed, or had he set upon himself a hopeless task?