A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  She sighed and closed her eyes, but the moon was far too bright for sleep. She breathed in the cold fresh air, undercut by a hint of wood smoke, then opened her eyes and watched the play of light upon the meadow. The night seemed both lovely and vaguely menacing, for everyone knew that strange things happened after sunset.

  Margery recalled one of Kate the Alewife's customers, who had visited the Crown and Sceptre during the last full moon. The woman had been returning from a nearby village, where her daughter had just given birth.

  "Whilst crossing the meadow just beyond Ravennesfield, I see a man astride a shining white horse," the woman had said. "His horse 'twas shod with gold and his harness 'twas hung with bells of the same color, like handfuls of gleamin' nobles. The man, a knight, crosses the field afore me, no more than ten feet away. When he reaches the edge, right near the hedge opening, he reins in his mount, turns and stares at me."

  Margery had felt her breath catch in her throat. Had the woman seen a faerie? Alice had taught Margery all about faeries, human in form but superhuman in power. During ancient times, they had mingled with mortal man. But as England became more populated, they'd retreated to their underground kingdoms, or beyond to the sea.

  "I have ne'er seen anyone so beautiful." Awe filled the woman's voice. "'Twas as if he had been fashioned from the moon and stars. And the look he gave me, I'll not forget it in this lifetime—full of such sweetness and longing, as if he could show me things beyond my imagining. I was tempted to follow him right that very moment, except I knew I could not."

  I would have, Margery had thought, even though to follow a faerie meant certain death. In their world time did not exist, so if mortals should return to the earth, they would find that centuries had passed, and their bodies would instantly crumple into dust. But I would never return. I would live forever in their kingdom.

  Tonight, as Margery contemplated the woman's tale, she pictured Matthew Hart. Such foolishness. Why was he recently so much in her thoughts? Perhaps it was only with the returning soldiers. In the darkness, Margery shook her head, as if to rid it of her memories. The moon shimmered like a lantern in a fog, and she knew that if she questioned it, it would reveal her future.

  What will happen to me in London? Will Thurold stay with me or will he disappear again? Will Lord Ravenne hunt me down? Will I be content? Will I be forced to marry someone... like Bernard? Will I ever meet Matthew Hart again?

  She extended her arms. The moon's light rippled like a candle flame over her flesh, and she understood with a blinding certainty that she would indeed see the young lord again. She would see him in the dark, when the world was wrapped in shadows, and he would smile at her and hold out his hand and she would take it and follow him into his enchanted domain, if only for one night. And it would not matter, his past, her past, his blood, her blood.

  The knowledge both frightened and excited her. A future with a golden knight—

  Nay, that cannot be. I do not want that to be.

  Margery stared at the moon until it paled and lost its luster and became merely an ordinary part of the sky.

  Chapter 12

  London

  Guards, menacing in their chain mail and long swords, were positioned inside the towers of Aldergate which passed by Smithfield, busy with its weekly horse and cattle market. Passing beneath their watchful eyes, Margery feared that everything about her visage and deportment would identify her as a fugitive bondwoman: her walk, her clothes, her braids, a sudden sneeze.

  "There be no need to swivel your head like a goose," Thurold said. "The guards are searching for criminals, lepers—"

  "And fugitives!"

  "Which you technically are not."

  "Walk straight," said John Ball. "As if you belonged."

  She tried to obey, but she still felt like a criminal. Nay. She felt like a leper. During these past several days her emotions had been peeled, layer by layer. Her skin might still be smooth enough, but that was because her decay did not show on the surface. A leper was someone who was supposed to have been mutilated by a morally harmful influence, and she knew John Ball, even more than Thurold, had altered her concept of the world. Once again, she wondered if he was a saint or a very dangerous man.

  Odors assaulted her nose as surely as the city's sounds assaulted her ears. Margery inhaled manure from horses and cows, spoilage from discarded waste, and overriding all else, the stench from the city ditch beyond the walls. She had never imagined that London would be so noisy, so crowded, so smelly, so intimidating.

  Sensing her anxiety, Thurold wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Someday ye'll not give a second thought to all this," he said, his words nearly lost amidst the barks of the street vendors and dogs. "I got used to it, though I ne'er liked it. But there is much we might not like but 'ave to suffer."

  John Ball nodded. "Soon you will be as familiar with London as I am with Our Lord's gospels."

  Never, Margery thought. I'll never make sense of such a place. The city was a jumble of lanes and alleys and meandering streets, none of which bore any identifying marks or signs. How could a person tell one from the other?

  John answered her unspoken question. "We are in St. Martin's Lane, home to the minor trades—woodworkers, vintners, fishmongers, bell founders and the like. I have friends among the apprentices here, though the masters have no use for me. They do not want to be told they are unjust, which they are."

  Three-storied houses were squeezed together without so much as a hand's span between them, but Margery enjoyed their bright look, for all were trimmed in vivid yellows, blues and reds, a pleasing contrast to their dark oak frames and daub walls. Many also displayed garlands of flowers or colorful tapestries. A tribute, Thurold said dryly, to Prince Edward's impending arrival.

  "They are cleaning the streets, as well," John Ball added, nodding toward a raker. "I have never seen London so bright and shining."

  Doubtfully, Margery eyed the pigs rooting in a nearby dung stall. If London was being cleaned, how filthy was it normally?

  Blessed Mother, Prince Edward's return! Would Lawrence Ravenne number among the prince's knights? What would that mean for her? Thurold said not to worry, but... She thought once again of Matthew Hart. Would he also be in London?

  While making their way through the human press, Margery considered her situation. Wouldn't all the things she found so intimidating be the very things that would protect her identity? As she, Thurold and John passed the Priory of the Holy Trinity, she saw monks and clerks gathered on the steps. Then the foul smelling Shambles with its long rows of butchers' stalls extending toward the Cheap. So many people, so much activity. Among such chaos, who would notice one insignificant creature?

  John and Thurold lingered among the tanners, conversing with a pair who were scraping hair from skins thrown across a beam. Trying to ignore the malodor, Margery concentrated on a third apprentice, who was rubbing something into a hide.

  Noticing her interest, the apprentice said, "Cold pigeon dung. It softens the skins. Want t' feel?"

  Margery shook her head. Londoners seemed uncommonly bold. She was relieved when John and Thurold bade their friends, "Good day."

  St. Paul's Cathedral lay directly ahead, rising above the surrounding buildings like an oak tree among acorns. Some said its needle-thin spire was the highest in all the world.

  "I will be preaching at Paul's Cross for the next few days should you need to contact me," John told Margery.

  Margery glanced at Thurold. Did they mean to leave her here alone?

  Thurold pointed out the goldsmiths' guildhall, located across the street from the College of St. Martin le Grand, and with unicorns carved on its massive front door. "We be now at Goldsmith Row."

  "Aye," added John. "'Tis situated from Bread Street to the Cross. If you pay attention you'll not get lost."

  Margery noticed that each shop was fronted by a sign bearing the goldsmith's richly gilded and painted coat of arms. Everywhere she looked she saw rep
resentations of unicorns, which was their symbol.

  "Ye'll be fine, Stick-Legs," said Thurold against her ear. "John Ball and I've business 'ere that does na concern ye but I'll make sure ye be taken care of. The gentleman I've in mind has the most lucrative trade in London."

  Margery knew very little about rich merchants. Some people said they were arrogant as lords and putting her with such seemed a contradiction of her companions' preachments. But she trusted that John and Thurold must know what they were doing.

  "I remember the crucifixes and chalices and reliquaries at Ely Cathedral," she said, and even to her own ears she sounded wistful. "I wondered then what sort of man could fashion such beauty."

  "Simon Crull numbers among the most talented goldsmiths in the kingdom," said Thurold. "I apprenticed under 'im and despite 'is peculiarities I learned a good bit of the trade."

  "Though a talent for smithing does not mean that God has gifted a man in more spiritual matters," John said enigmatically.

  Awed by the mansions lining Bread Street, Margery pivoted her head, gazing from one side to the other. John finally halted in front of a business called the Shop of the Unicorn. The building was four stories high with an elaborate finial of a unicorn's head perched atop its gabled roof. Eaves and lintels were bright gold, doors and window frames intricately carved oak.

  "My new home?" she asked. When Thurold nodded, her pulse quickened, for she could not believe her good fortune.

  The shop consisted of an open stall fronting the street. A dazzling array of chalices, jewelry, girdles, gold and silver plate, crystal and gold reliquaries lined the shelves. Two apprentices traced elaborate designs in a waxed table. Near a furnace in the center of the room stood a large-boned matron wearing a yellow head dress that lent a greenish tint to her mottled complexion. Thurold explained to Margery that the woman was mixing small amounts of melted gold with mercury.

  John Ball addressed the woman. "Dame Gisla, I have a lass with me who is in need of employ." He rested his hand on Margery's shoulder. "I know your home is of high moral character and would be a fine place for my friend. You will take her in, won't you?"

  "John Ball." Gisla's homely face settled into lines of disapproval, and her small eyes narrowed until they were but slits. "The last time I saw you, you were being removed from the steps of St. Paul's." She waggled her forefinger at him. "Shame on you for spouting such nonsense." Then she spotted Thurold and a mixture of emotions flitted across her countenance. "You left us in a fine mess last time, Thurold Watson. If you did not have such a deft touch, I'd run you off this moment." When Thurold didn't respond, she added, "If ye be looking to return, we might have room for you."

  Thurold's laugh sounded forced to Margery's ears. "Just care for me kin. If I am in need ye'll see me again. My sister, Margery, would make ye a fine maid. You might even teach her a thing or two about the trade."

  Dame Gisla studied her with pursed lips. Some faces were pleasant in their plainness and made one feel comforted. Not so this woman's.

  "I'll admit 'tis near impossible to keep good help. I had a girl disappear last Lady Day. My husband, however, is a fastidious man. He dislikes filth in anything—" she paused, sniffing "—most especially people."

  "We have been on the road for days," said John Ball, with an edge of irritation. "You would not expect us to be other than are most travelers, would you?"

  Rather than respond, Dame Gisla turned and shouted, "Orabel!"

  A servant near Margery's own age emerged from a doorway.

  "Help the girl bathe," said Dame Gisla. "If she suits my husband, we'll keep her."

  "The girl's name is Margery," Thurold said with a scowl. "And I expect ye to remember it!"

  Chastised, Gisla muttered, "Aye, Margery."

  John wrapped Margery in a crushing embrace, followed by Thurold. Watching them disappear around the corner, she felt such an emptiness. She was starting a new life, many miles from home with no family, no friends, and now both had deserted her.

  Blessed Mary, I should never have left Ravennesfield, she thought, choking back tears.

  Orabel placed a comforting hand on her arm. "Come with me, Maggie-dear."

  Orabel was afflicted with a limp that caused her to hunch forward, and made her appear even shorter than her five feet, though she had lively eyes and a friendly smile. Carefully, she navigated the wooden stairs leading to the Crulls' private quarters.

  "I know your brother. A fine craftsman he is when he sets his mind to it. But he has a way of being distracted with... thoughts, which sometimes put him at odds with the master." Orabel smiled. "I think we might bathe you in Master Crull's solar. That way we'll not need to carry the buckets very far."

  They entered a dreary hall where a handful of faded linen wall tapestries, a trestle table, and a few benches provided its only furnishings.

  "Very different from the fancy outside, is it not?" Orabel raised her eyes heavenward. "Master Crull be the richest goldsmith in London, yet he surrounds himself with meanness. He begrudges parting with so much as a crust of bread for beggars, and he'll not bless orphans with more than a 'bye your leave.' He married Dame Gisla for her position. Her father was a powerful alderman and Mayor of London. Master Crull inherited the business, y'know."

  Margery did not know, but Orabel's agreeable chatter provided balm to her shredded nerves.

  "On the good side, there is all the food you can eat," Orabel continued, critically eyeing Margery's figure. "'Tis is a bit light in seasoning for my taste, but I'm not one for complaining." She nodded toward yet another set of stairs. "We sleep on the third floor. Men to one side, girls t'other. The Crulls dislike any mixing, so they have put up a screen to keep us chaste. Not that I'd bother with any of the help, except mayhap Brian. He is downstairs, at the tracing table."

  "I am not much interested in men," Margery managed.

  "Of course ye be." Orabel's fine green eyes flashed. "A month in London and you'll have far more suitors than I or any of the others at the Shop."

  Margery followed Orabel to the kitchen where they were greeted by a blast of heat from an oval stove built into a side wall. The master cook, recognizable by his high hat, flipped fish. Sausages dangled from overhead rods. Several servants stood in front of a long, narrow counter, chopping vegetables and crumbled bread. The seasonings might be niggardly, but the resultant fragrances made her mouth water.

  Orabel retrieved four huge kettles from among the frying pans, saucepans, trivets and tongs hanging on the walls. Filling one with water from a nearby vat, she said, "You'll soon find we spend most of our lives bathing. The Master hates dirt. He's a sour old bastard, but so long as ye keep his clothes and rooms clean, he's not impossible."

  Startled by Orabel's outspokenness, Margery noted that the others didn't react. A small knot of fear replaced the hunger in her belly. Who was this man? She pictured him in the manner of Father Egbert, had the priest lived and grown old.

  "I can make two trips," she offered, mindful of Orabel's affliction.

  "My leg looks worse than it is, Maggie-dear. My husband pushed me down the stairs. I curse his memory every time I take a step."

  "I am sorry," Margery said, hefting her two kettles.

  "No need. He was killed in the king's campaign. Which frees me to wed another."

  The solar was located on the opposite side of the hall. After entering, Orabel lit a fire and set the kettles on hooks above the fireplace. "Most of the help is as sour as the master and mistress, which makes me all the happier ye be here. You and I are going to be good friends, I think."

  Retrieving a wooden bathtub from the adjoining garderobe, they filled it with water. "I will find ye a gown that will fit. Yours is ready for the rag pile."

  After Orabel had limped out of sight, Margery glanced around the solar, which, like the hall, was spartan to the point of meanness. Furnishings consisted of a worn chest, a narrow cupboard, a laver and a bed with curtains as worn as the muslin sheets peeking above the threadba
re counterpane.

  Margery retrieved a portion of soap, exquisitely molded in the shape of a rose, from a bowl hanging from a hook above the shining bronze laver. The laver and soaps appeared to be the room's lone extravagances. Sinking into the steaming water, she attacked her flesh until the rose was a mere bud and her skin shone more pink than the soap. Finally, she lathered her matted hair, which Orabel helped rinse.

  Throughout Margery's ministrations, her fellow maid slipped in and out, chatting all the while. Elaborating on the peccadillos of the other servants, on Master Crull's aversion to dirt; about the hot and cold water taps that King Edward had installed for his personal bath in Westminster Palace, "So says the master;" the French king's imprisonment at the Savoy, "I'm told 'tis the grandest place in all the world;" and Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, impending welcome. While Margery was too distracted to pay much attention, she was soothed by the friendly patter.

  Once done, Orabal limped to the door. "After ye've finished up I'll return to help tidy the room."

  Retrieving a linen towel from beside the laver, Margery vigorously dried her body, braided her hair, and donned the worn russet kersey Orabel had provided.

  "Who are you and what are you doing in my room?"

  Margery spun around. A diminutive man, unlike anyone she had ever seen before, stood in the doorway. She was used to short men, but peasants were stocky, even virile. This man reminded her of the elves known to inhabit forests and streams, for he possessed the mean look elves carried on their faces when they performed mischief.

  "I am Margery Watson, sir, the new servant. Your wife sent me here to bathe."

  "To my room? I think not."

  Simon Crull's deep voice possessed an unpleasant ooze, like sap from a tree. It was certainly at odds with his dainty appearance. She imagined him next to Dame Gisla. Half her height and weight; what a pairing. Walking past Margery, he paused to frown at the towel she had dropped, then nudged it with his toe as if poking a dead animal.

  "Humph." Still scowling, he sank down on the edge of his bed. "Fetch me my slippers, Margery Watson."