A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  So Margery did precisely that. And put Crull's slippers on his dainty feet. She noticed that his shoulders were as narrow as a boy's, yet a paunch spilled over his girdle.

  When she had completed her task, Crull reached out and caught her by the chin.

  "Sir?" Margery forced herself to stare into his face, into close-set, watery eyes. His nose was blunt and pitted; spidery veins spread across his pasty cheeks.

  Crull turned Margery's face toward the firelight, whereupon he inspected her profile as dispassionately as he would one of his goblets. "Open your mouth, girl."

  "Sir?"

  "Are you hard of hearing? Open your mouth!"

  "Why?" she asked, thinking she had never encountered such a peculiar creature.

  "If you are to be a member of my household, Margery Watson, you must obey me. I do not long put up with willful servants."

  Pushing down a surge of anger, she complied.

  Crull grunted. "You have all your teeth. Some do not, even at your age." Dropping her chin, he gestured toward the tub. "Dump that filthy water down the privy and take that towel to the washer woman. And remember, I will not tolerate dirt in any form."

  So this is London, Margery thought, moving to obey. Thurold, what have you done to me?

  Chapter 13

  London

  Upon his return to London, Matthew Hart took up residence in the Savoy, Henry of Lancaster's magnificent palace. As he gazed out a waterside window, he watched painted barges and wherries glide along the Thames. London Bridge was festooned with banners, yet another tedious salute to Prince Edward and his royal prisoner, King Jean.

  Matthew knew that Henry, Duke of Lancaster, had recently spent the staggering sum of thirty-four thousand pounds to renovate his palace. With its cream-colored stone, extensive gardens and lavish interiors, the Savoy was considered the most beautiful residence in England, a fit place for a prince and a captured king.

  And a knight, Matthew thought, rubbing his hand across his newly clipped beard. Which I will be on the morrow.

  "'Tis time," said Harry.

  Matthew swiveled toward his brother. For the ceremony, Harry's hair and beard had also been trimmed, which made him look even younger than his seventeen years. He still possessed a disarming vulnerability, not an appropriate trait for a fighter. Matthew had hoped that the passage of time would have hardened Harry, but other than a growth of four inches and a more pronounced propensity toward gaming, he was the same. He still seemed ill at ease with himself, as if he had borrowed someone else's body and was apologizing for the fact. Perhaps after his first battle, he would acquire an appropriate measure of self-confidence.

  Harry, Matthew and the other squires were escorted into an adjoining room where six tubs awaited them. As Matthew disrobed, he thought about the morrow. By this hour, the jousting would have begun and the ceremony would have become but a memory.

  From the moment of his birth, he had been groomed for this occasion, and yet he felt nothing. His true knighthood, acknowledged or not, had been at Poitiers. God's teeth, how he wished he had never made his vow to Harry. But a vow could not be undone, not from one lord to another, and certainly not between brothers.

  Matthew stepped into the steaming water for his ceremonial bath. Leaning his head back against the slanted boards, weary to the bone, he shut his eyes. Last night the squires had pleasured themselves until dawn. The strollers in the stews at Southwark had been hearty Flemish girls, one of whom had even loosened Harry up a bit.

  It had taken Prince Edward three weeks to reach London, his booty-laden carts stretching for miles behind. In every town they had been met by cheering subjects, streamers and wreaths, and more free drink and maids than any man had proper use for. That had also been the pattern when they'd wintered in Bordeaux. While the prince negotiated a truce with the French, Matt and his friends had enjoyed themselves to the point of boredom. Now he could think of nothing he'd rather do than crawl into bed—alone—and sleep for a fortnight.

  Harry stirred in the adjoining tub. "I have prayed for this moment, brother," he whispered.

  "Aye," Matt agreed, forcing a smile. "You and me."

  "I will be forever grateful that you waited. Today Father has two sons of whom he can be proud."

  Overcome, Harry's voice broke and his eyes misted. He tried to compose himself, even though strong emotion was an acceptable trait in a knight. He'd seen knights weep at a sentimental song. He had also seen them slash the throat of a stag without so much as a grimace.

  And I am soon going to be one. Might as well say, "I am going to be the tiles on the floor" or "I am going to be a drake and fly through the air in a fiery streak."

  He wanted to reach out and clasp his brother's hand, but Matt's eyes were shut and he seemed uncommonly quiet. Had last night's dalliances tired him? Perhaps it was merely the solemnity of the occasion.

  Shifting his bent knees until the water lapped over them, Harry washed off a sprinkling of bath herbs. When Father sees us together, he will note I am taller than Matt. I'll wager my sword swing is longer, too.

  But Harry knew it took more than long arms to make a good knight, and uncertainty bedeviled him. Surely, something would happen during the ceremony to disqualify him. On the morrow, before hundreds of spectators, after his golden spurs had been strapped to his boots, when Henry of Lancaster moved forward to say "Be thou a knight," the duke would lose his voice. He would open his mouth but no words would emerge, and everyone would know that God had rendered Lancaster mute rather than let him knight Harry. Or when the duke tried to bestow his customary sword blow, the sword would refuse to touch Harry's shoulder. Or one of the religious statues would fall from its niche. Or God would strike Harry dead.

  Aye, he could think of a dozen signs from heaven, each more dreadful than the last. I should have been a monk, a holy man, only I am not holy. I should have been anything except what is expected of me, for that is the one thing in this world for which I am totally unsuited.

  With a sigh, Harry submerged himself up to his chin.

  * * *

  After the bath, the squires rested on white-sheeted beds. Matthew was glad that this was a time of quiet contemplation so he wouldn't have to face his brother's earnest cheerfulness.

  Just as Matthew was nodding off and Harry had worked himself into a nervous fit over his pending fate, servants entered to dress them. With each piece of clothing, they were supposed to contemplate its meaning. The black hose was a reminder that all men came from earth and to earth they must someday return. The scarlet robe signified humility and the blood a knight was sworn to shed for the faith of Our Lord and the Holy Church. The white girdle conveyed chastity and cleanliness.

  Harry furtively studied Matt as a servant clasped a white girdle around his hips. Harry appraised the strong profile, the determined jaw, and the way his brother's hair curled around his neck. You look just like Father. Even Matt's hands were William's hands. Harry looked down at his own long, slender fingers, more suited for wielding a quill than a sword. I do not want to be a knight. I do not belong here.

  "Matt," he said. "Matt, I—"

  Friends and relatives entered bearing gifts, so Harry's bid for reassurance remained unspoken. A beaming Sosanna Hart hugged both her sons before handing Harry a small box, wrapped in velvet, tied with fine-spun gold thread.

  "Your father will be along presently," she said to Matthew. "Open it," she urged Harry.

  Inside the box was a ring, set with a sapphire surrounded by diamonds. Harry grinned his pleasure. "I have never seen such workmanship, Mother."

  "It is from the shop of Simon Crull, London's finest goldsmith. I spent most of an afternoon trying to decide what would please you."

  "Did Father help select it?"

  Sosanna's smile remained bright. "Of course. He is the one who suggested Master Crull. Your father said the ring must be set with diamonds, since a diamond will overcome any enemy."

  Matthew untied the ribbon around the cloth o
f one of the gifts he had received, though he could not recall who precisely had handed it to him. Nestled in the cloth was a dagger, obviously of great age. Its blade had copper strips inlaid with a scroll pattern, and the handle was set with rubies and amethysts, a stone which brought success in the hunt.

  After gauging the weight and feel of the dagger, Matthew opened the accompanying note, written in a bold, flourishing script. "Following the glorious battle of Poitiers," it read, "twas my great pleasure to admire you from afar during your stay in Bordeaux. Though circumstances presently prevent me from revealing my identity, I pray that someday you will be able to thank me for my gift in a very personal manner."

  The missive was signed with an intertwining D and C. "Do I know anyone with these initials?" Matthew asked Harry, handing him the parchment.

  Harry reluctantly turned his attention from his ring to the letter. "David Carrick? Daniel Clairborne?"

  "I trust 'tis from a lady, brother." Matthew tried to think back to Bordeaux's court women, but there had been so many. There had been one with unusually fine breasts and a jealous husband. Her name was peculiar, Desire something. However, Matthew had never said more than good morrow to her.

  Before he could further puzzle the matter, his father arrived. Even nearing middle age, William Hart exuded an animal energy that drew everyone's attention. Striding into the room, his gaze swept the area until he found Matthew. Making his way through the crowd, it was obvious that, at least for the moment, only he and Matthew existed, that the others were mere shadows.

  "I have something to show you." William's brusque authority was tempered by excitement as he drew Matthew over to a window, which he swung open, and gestured toward the courtyard below. "Your gift."

  A groom held the reins of the finest destrier Matthew had ever seen. The stallion was white and at this distance, he could see that its lines were flawless. "Magnificent," Matthew breathed, scarce believing his good fortune. All knights dreamed of the perfect warhorse to go with the perfect sword and the perfect armor. Father had given him an animal even King Edward would envy.

  "His name is Michel, after the warrior saint, and I cannot tell you what a time I had trying to find such as he. He cost a princely sum, but I would gladly pay double." William cleared his throat. "No father could be more proud than I. To ride by your side during the French campaigns. To witness your bravery at Poitiers."

  Placing his arm around Matthew, William lowered his voice. "Even that damned foolishness concerning Harry showed that your word is your bond. I thank Our Blessed Savior and all the saints for giving me such a son. You are a true knight. No man could ask for more."

  Moved as much by William's approval as his gift, Matthew embraced him. "'Tis all I've ever wanted to be."

  "Look at the two of you," Sosanna said, coming up behind them. "Cut from the same cloth, are they not, Harry?"

  What cloth am I cut from?

  Harry suddenly felt huge and awkward. His ring felt heavy on his middle finger, as if it would fall off. Or worse, as if it misliked its new owner. Perhaps the diamonds couldn't tell one enemy from the other. Perhaps they considered him an enemy.

  "And you like your ring, Harry?" William asked, his manner challenging.

  "Aye, Father, 'tis fine."

  "Your mother chose it. While a piece of jewelry can never compare with a warhorse, I told her 'twould suit you better."

  Harry heard Matthew's sharp intake of breath, and felt the color drain from his own face. For one fleeting moment, he wished the ring's diamonds would strike William dead.

  "Husband!" Sosanna's voice was reproachful. "What your father is trying to say is that you have always appreciated beautiful things, Harry."

  "What I am saying, wife, is that Harry has always been more interested in useless ornaments than in fighting, or bravery, or any of life's important matters."

  "Perhaps I have a different definition of what might be important, Father." Throwback, changeling, his mind screamed. Where did you come from? Certainly not from William Hart's loins.

  With his gaze locked on the black and white floor tiles, Harry struggled to defend himself. "'Tis not fair to compare me with Matt, Father. When the time comes, I shall acquit myself well in battle. I just happen to believe that life holds something beyond war."

  William's lip curled disdainfully. "Which is why you will never be anything but a mediocrity."

  Harry flushed and walked away, followed by Sosanna, who glared at her husband in passing.

  William turned back to the window as if nothing had happened, but Matthew's pleasure in Michel had been shattered by the exchange. "You should not have spoken so harshly, Father. Harry cannot help it if he has been afflicted with a sensitive nature."

  "Knights should not be sensitive. A son who is more concerned with clothes and jewelry than with the sword must always remain a trial. I have tried my best to toughen him, and it is to my everlasting sorrow that I have failed. 'Tis God's mercy that you be first-born. I do not know what I would do if Harry stood to inherit Cumbria."

  "But he will inherit. I told you years ago that I would never marry. 'Twas not some childish vow."

  William's eyes narrowed. "Time has a way of countermanding foolhardy schemes, Matthew, and I would sooner leave my entire legacy to the Church than trust it to your brother."

  * * *

  The high altar of the Savoy's chapel was shadow-ridden, partially hiding its extravagant display of reliquaries, wall murals and Old Testament tapestries. Armor and weapons rested on the side altar dedicated to St. George, where Matthew and his companions were keeping their ten-hour vigil. Double rows of candelabrum burned, their light catching the jewels imbedded in the pommels of six swords. A faint acrid smoke, incense from an earlier celebration, hugged the air.

  Trying unsuccessfully to concentrate on solemn matters, Matthew darted a quick glance toward the lifelike statue of St. George, who seemed to be observing the six squires who knelt or stood before him.

  Harry, who had prostrated himself with his arms outstretched in the shape of a cross, inhaled dramatically. The paving stones smelled faintly of dust and felt rough against his cheeks and palms. During this time, squires were supposed to meditate on their obligations to those they would soon be sworn to protect, but Harry found his mind drifting. He could not help but ponder the notion that this entire business of knighthood was passing strange. Surely it was odd to mix killing with God.

  We act as if war is God's main passion, and 'tis such an odd passion for God to have.

  A pebble dug into Harry's cheek. He shifted his position, which caused the pebble to lodge near his jaw. The saints would never notice such a slight discomfort, so he vowed he wouldn't either. However, his mind refused to stay on religious matters.

  I am a warrior who hates war. Why can I not be like everyone else? Did a faerie switch me in my cradle? Is that why I feel so out of place in this world, as if those around me are speaking a language I canna understand?

  With another loud sigh, he turned his head so that his other cheek rested against the pebble. It was going to be a very long night.

  Situated next to Harry, Matthew stifled a groan. Long ago the feeling in his knees had progressed from agony to numbness. It seemed as if he'd been in this chapel forever, even though the length of the candles and the light filtering through the stained glass windows told him otherwise. He tried to focus his attention on the High Altar, with its enormous gold and jeweled cross. Instead, he thought about Poitiers. He remembered the sun setting across the battlefield and William's proud expression when Prince Edward said, "Come forward, Matt. You will be first."

  Matthew flexed his hands, which ached from the cold. Sharp pains shot up his thighs. He had always believed that contemplation should be left to priests, just as fighting should be left to warriors.

  During his twenty years, Matthew had seldom felt God's nearness, even though he accepted His love. God had blessed Matthew Hart with little death and much pleasure, and that wa
s that. A hundred hours in the Savoy's chapel would not make God reveal Himself any more completely than He had in any other holy place, so the entire exercise seemed pointless.

  Timothy Knolles, who knelt on Matthew's right, had passed the time by squirming, stifling yawns and re-counting all the paving stones within his vision. Tim was nephew to Robert Knolles, one of England's most skilled and respected men-at-arms. After last year's service with the Duke of Lancaster, Robert had chosen to remain in Normandy, much to his own gain and the terror of the French. But Tim had not inherited his uncle's martial prowess. He preferred to spend his time gambling, drinking and whoring. Now, he cleared his throat and still on his knees, edged toward Matthew. Extending his fist, he opened it, exposing three ivory cubes. Then he jerked his head toward the choir loft at the back of the chapel.

  "A game of dice, Hart?"

  Matthew shook his head.

  "I cannot tolerate a whole night of this," Tim whispered. "I've had enough solemnity to last through Lammastide."

  Matthew fastened his gaze upon the rood. "Keep your mind on God, Knolles, and stop hounding me."

  "Quit sounding like a priest. It ill becomes you. I'll wager my saddle, the one Uncle Robert sent me from France. 'Twould look fine atop your new destrier. Just think what a handsome figure you will cut on the morrow, riding through London."

  "Your saddle?" Matthew reconsidered. "Well now, what say we retire to the choir loft?"

  * * *

  The roll of the dice was not favoring Matt. So far he had lost his new sword and, piece by piece, his armor. Soon he would have nothing left to wager.

  Undoubtedly, Tim's dice were weighted, but Matthew could not prove it.

  If I do not discover the trickery soon, he thought, watching Tim whoop over three sixes, I shall emerge from Lancaster's chapel on the morrow with only my braies to cover me.

  "The Lord is definitely smiling on me," said Tim, "but I feel a spell of piety coming over me. God seems to be telling me that I've enjoyed enough dicing for one night."