A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  At that moment, after Matthew had impetuously wagered Michel, Harry and the other squires emerged from the stairway. Harry handed his brother a trio of dice. "We've been watching. I trust these three will throw more truly."

  When Matthew hesitated, Harry said, "Be quick. You've made so much noise we'll not only have the priests on us, but the duke himself."

  All the squires squatted round the dice, save Timothy, who rose, shaking his head. "I do not like this whole business. If you canna trust my dice, I am insulted enough to leave right now."

  "Nay, Tim. I'll be insulting you with my fist if you leave." Matthew grabbed his wrist. "A wager is a wager, and I'll expect you to honor it."

  Matthew shook Harry's dice, then flung them across the floor.

  "God's blood! What is happening here?"

  Heart plummeting, Matthew rose and faced John of Gaunt, Earl of Richmond and King Edward's third son.

  The dice sprawled accusingly; three sixes. Matthew's gaze darted from the dice to John of Gaunt, and back again. Sweat break out on his palms—nay, his whole body. Father will never forgive me.

  Though three years younger than Matthew, John of Gaunt possessed an innate authority that made him an intimidating figure. And like all Plantagenets, he was known for his volatile temper.

  "Someone had best have an explanation for this blasphemous behavior."

  "'Tis not what you think, sire," Tim said, sidestepping as if he might shield the dice with his body. "Matt was just... we were tired and... oh, please do not tell my father, for it was truly not my fault and he will banish me to Wales or Ireland as surely as I'm standing here."

  John of Gaunt's blue eyes flicked coldly from face to face.

  "I will go on a pilgrimage," Tim squeaked, his hands open, imploring. "To Jerusalem even, if only you'll not tell."

  Ignoring Tim, John addressed Harry. "I am surprised at you. I would not think a member of my household would treat such a sacred time so poorly."

  Harry stared down at his feet. Two scarlet spots stained his cheeks. He blinked repeatedly, trying to keep his tears at bay.

  Noting his brother's distress, Matthew spoke up. "My lord, 'tis not Harry's fault, nor anyone's save mine. Do not punish others for what was a misjudgment on my part."

  John studied Matthew for a long moment before turning to the others. "Go, all of you! Save for you, Sir Hart."

  While the squires scurried past with bent heads and stricken expressions, Matthew waited. Unable to meet the earl's steady gaze, he looked over at the railing. Shadows swooped down from the ceiling, toward the altar. His father's words silently mocked him. Would William be proud of him now?

  John walked to the railing and clasped the banister between his hands. Unlike Edward and Lionel, his older, more flamboyant brothers, the earl was not one for easy banter but often lapsed into moody silences. He was also famously devout.

  He'll consider a harmless prank sacrilege, Matthew thought, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. I am going to be banished. I shall be a squire forever. I have disgraced the Hart name. He had never cried in his adult life, but at this very moment he was alarmingly close.

  "'Twas a gallant thing you did at Poitiers, refusing knighthood," John finally said. "A true gesture of love for your brother."

  "My lord?"

  John smiled. "Remember, I have brothers too. Edward and I do talk, especially about that day. I prize loyalty above all else, and your chivalry pleased me."

  Matthew nodded warily, confused. He watched the earl's gaze sweep the darkness below. "I have dreamed of being knighted on the battlefield." John's fingers lightly caressed the polished oak railing. "After Poitiers, this ceremony must seem hollow to you. Is that not so?"

  A rush of emotion overcame Matthew. He found it difficult to speak. John understood. "'Tis so, my lord," he managed.

  "I believe you and I are a bit alike. I am glad my brother has you in his household." John waved his arm, gesturing toward the darkness below. "Return to your vigil. This matter will go no further."

  Chapter 14

  London

  The moon, so full and round it seemed to devour the sky, shone upon the horse and rider. As the knight, whose armor mirrored the moon, guided his mount across a shadowed field, it tossed its head, causing the golden bells upon its harness to whisper like faraway music. She watched the knight, close enough to see the moon's light shining upon his head and the curve of a leg in his stirrup, but far enough away that he could not, in the blink of an eye, be standing before her. Yet here he was, gazing down upon her. Had she ever seen such an expression in the face of a mortal man? Or had the faerie knight returned to her? Whoever he might be, his look was full of longing and such desire, as if he would whisper to her in the manner of the golden bells, and lay before her, as a magician might his secrets, all manner of sweet, wonderful, forbidden things—

  Margery's eyes fluttered open. Around her she heard the soft snoring, occasional groan or sigh from the other female servants. Trying to get comfortable on her mercilessly thin pallet, she turned on her side. For eight nights now, she had dreamed the same dream, awakening long before London's bells rang prime.

  Yawning, she sat up and rested her chin on her bent knees. Everything was so new and strange and she wondered whether she would ever feel at home in this correct household with its correct master and correct servants and everyone save Orabel seemingly as cold as the ashes from last week's fire.

  But I did not feel at home in Ravennesfield, either, she reminded herself. And I have much to be thankful for.

  Though bland in seasoning, as Orabel had warned, and monotonous in variety, the food at the Crull household was plentiful, and her chores were simple and easy enough, particularly when compared to the hardships of Ravennesfield. After Dame Gisla left at sunrise to shop the Ward of the Cheap, Margery made beds, shook out covers and cushions, and emptied chamber pots. She helped fill the water vat and the big iron kettles. Then she tossed crushed daisy, lavender, rose and other petals onto the floor rushes. Rushes were customarily changed four times a year, but Master Crull had already ordered one change since her arrival. "Rushes stink and carry all manner of filth I'll not tolerate," he had said.

  Orabel stirred restlessly, and Margery knew why. Last night her friend had disappeared with Brian Goldman, one of the apprentices to whom she'd taken a fancy. Or Margery wasn't sure how much Orabel actually fancied him but rather what he represented. "Once he finishes his apprenticeship he can go into business on his own. And he's temperate in his habits," she said as if trying to convince herself of his suitability. To Margery, Brian Goldman seemed a bit puffed up with his own importance, but she was more concerned about Orabel's fate should she be caught in a dalliance. While Goldman would be slyly nudged and congratulated, Orabel would be dismissed in disgrace.

  The Jesus bells of St. Paul's boomed, followed by a hundred other bells. Margery fancied the sound possessed more dissonance than usual; a harsher quality, a challenge. Or was it just that the bells echoed her dread? Today London would officially welcome Edward the Black Prince from his triumphant Poitiers campaign. Today Lawrence Ravenne would be in London, alongside his prince, of that she was certain. The thought of Ravenne unnerved her, though reason told her otherwise. In such a vast city, they would never meet. And if, by chance they did, Ravenne could not really designate ownership by having her branded, or even hanged. Thurold and John Ball had assured her she had naught to fear, that England's laws, while sometimes nuanced, would actually protect her. And they would know, wouldn't they?

  Rising, Margery crossed to a basin of cold water, washed and then dressed in her new gown, an ill-fitting cast-off. She hated the dress, as she did the attire of all Simon Crull's servants. Londoners preferred vivid colors, but the master required that his household wear drab shadings, predominately black, just as he required them to bathe thrice a week.

  Black is for mourning curtains, Margery thought, slipping on her sleeveless surcote. And night. And death. Not peo
ple. But I WILL thank the saints for my good fortune.

  Still, what a peculiar place was the Crull household. And how well its peculiarity matched its master.

  * * *

  First came the members of London's guilds, all dressed in scarlet, followed by France's king and his captor. When Jean le Bon emerged through Ludgate, he sat astride a high-stepping white stallion and was clothed in the full panoply of state. By contrast Prince Edward, wearing simple soldier's garb and with his head bare, had chosen a plain black hobby.

  Huzzahs, trumpet blasts, the booming of church bells seemed to cause London's very buildings to tremble. In Cheapside, beautiful girls, suspended from cages, tossed gold and silver leaves. At St. Paul's Cathedral, the Bishop of London and his clergy greeted the royal personages. Later the procession would wend its way to Westminster where King Edward and a night of feasting awaited.

  Following Orabel past Ludgate to Fleet Street, Margery tried to recall every landmark and twisting lane. Should they become separated her friend had said they would meet at the Church of All Hallow's Barking. Margery had never seen so many people and she was so new to the city she could easily lose her way. John Ball and Thurold had already drifted off somewhere, not bothering to inform her. Her stepbrother, at least, was in a merry mood, asserting that he and his fellow yeomen had been more responsible than the knights for Poitiers' outcome. As was attested by the stacks of bows, arrows, arms and armor in front of many doors—a silent but powerful reminder that, in the midst of a celebration that was supposed to be one of prayer and thanksgiving—England's citizens were really celebrating their victory.

  Since Margery and Orabel had been among the last to arrive, they were shoved near the back. Margery couldn't see much, but she didn't mind. While she couldn't see, neither could she be seen. More than once she wondered if Matthew Hart would number among the knights, but she pushed that thought aside. And with so many warriors, she wouldn't be able to distinguish one from the other. Which should also be the case with Lawrence Ravenne, so, rather than fret she would enjoy the festivities.

  As Prince Edward neared, Margery stood on tiptoe to better view him. Among lord and commoner, Edward of Woodstock was universally loved. Even Thurold praised his fighting acumen and his concern, at least on campaign, for all those under his command.

  Ah, there he is!

  Odd that Edward's lack of ostentation only added to his majesty. How graciously, even humbly, he accepted the endless accolades, the women offering kisses and the children running forth to thrust bouquets of lilies and roses in his hands.

  Our prince. Margery felt an uncharacteristic swelling of pride. The crowd strained forward, carrying her with it. Edward was nearly abreast. She saw sunlight caress his golden hair, saw one ungauntleted hand raised in greeting. Then Jean le Bon's stallion, nervously sidestepping and tossing its head, hid the prince from view.

  It was then Margery realized that she was far too close to the front. Turning and twisting, she sought Orabel, who had been swallowed in the press. Elbows jammed into her; those around her continued pushing forward. Where was Thurold? Why had he and John Ball abandoned her?

  Now came the parade of knights, riding three abreast. Arrayed before Margery, high above on their prancing destriers, their brilliant banners snapping in the breeze.

  She panicked. Killers! It seemed she inhaled them with her burgeoning terror—their size, the cruel set of their mouths, the hard planes of their faces. Everything about their physical appearance attested to the brutality of their profession.

  No wonder the French could not defeat you. A hell filled with demons would not prevail.

  And, surely, somewhere among them, rode her former lord.

  Margery tried unsuccessfully to retreat into the wall of flesh, but there were only a handful of bodies between her and the riders. To the accompaniment of thunderous cheers, Prince Edward's war council approached.

  Was Lawrence Ravenne a member of the council? She couldn't remember what Thurold had said. Her head was swimming, blurring her thoughts. She just knew that she must flee.

  Closer.

  What if Lawrence Ravenne somehow recognized her and had her arrested on the spot?

  The crowd scattered and broke, leaving Margery momentarily exposed. Edward's knights rode directly toward her. The crests positioned above their helms made them appear ten feet tall. A cacophony of colors blared from their jupons and shields—mythical griffins, dragons and unicorns, crouching wolves, snarling lions, a hissing eagle. Their crests bobbed up and down. The late afternoon shadows jumped at Margery... shadows like a smoking torchlight, leaping upon cottage walls.

  She spun away, trying to melt into the crowd. Someone shoved her off balance and she fell. When she rose she saw it—the spread wings of a raven bearing down on her. Margery's gaze jerked from the emblazoned jupon to the raised visor of the helm. Lawrence Ravenne! Aye, her lord. Realities, past and present collided. Soon he would slice her with his sword. Soon his stallion's hooves would crush her to death.

  She opened her mouth. Did she scream? She remained rooted to the spot as if, like Lot's wife, she'd been turned into a pillar of salt.

  Suddenly, strong arms scooped her off the ground and out of danger. She found herself pressed against an armored leg and the high pommel of a saddle, bouncing helplessly in an unyielding embrace.

  Finally, her rescuer reined in near Ludgate, away from the crowd. He then loosened his grip, allowing her to slide to the ground.

  "Are you all right, sweetheart?"

  Immobilized as she was, it took Margery long moments before she recognized her savior. Nay, it could not be! She stared into the deeply bronzed face, into blue—or was it green—eyes that no longer possessed even the remnants of childhood's innocence.

  "My lord Hart!" she gasped.

  Matthew removed his helm. "Do I know you?"

  Margery tried to respond but the words slipped away without taking form. If Matthew Hart should remember her, he would connect her with Ravennesfield. Then he would tell his brother-in-law—

  "By Saint Sebastian, 'tis Margery Watson! But what are you doing in London? Why are you not in Ravennesfield?"

  Her thoughts frantically circled. A part of her registered the changes in him—a warrior, a parlous man rather than a youth—and while she hated even the look of armor and helms and weapons, not so with Matthew. Not at all. Powerful. Magnificent. Impressions so at odds with the incessant lecturings of her rational mind. So at odds with the danger she now faced and upon which she must concentrate.

  "Well?" Matthew prompted her, leaning forward in anticipation of her response.

  "I... my lord... I..."

  How could this be happening? If Matthew's and her horoscopes were cast, would there be something within the lines and circles and symbols to which an astrologer could point and say, "See here, this is where your destinies are intertwined"?

  "I thank you for saving me," she managed, sidestepping his question. Her voice was rushed, breathless and she hoped he'd mistake it for the after-effects of the rescue. "'Twas foolish of me to be so careless." She attempted a smile, though the corners of her mouth felt frozen.

  "I am just pleased that you were not hurt. And that fortune has brought us together again."

  So his thoughts ran parallel to her own. Exciting. Frightening.

  "Please do not feel you must stay, sire. I would not keep you from your fête."

  Matthew shrugged. "The speeches and gifts are not for me. I shall miss very little." His gaze, so disturbingly direct, swept her length before resting intently on her face. Now he remembered. As he'd sometimes remembered on campaign. Fleetingly, but more than most others. "You have grown well in two years, Sweet Meg. Even dressed in that dreadful mourning, you are prettier than I remember."

  Margery's pulse quickened, and this time not from fear or because of his nearness but from annoyance at his boldness. At the nickname tripping so easily off his tongue, the presumption that he might speak to her so, as
if they were resuming a conversation that had been finished days, rather than years, ago. A conversation that had meant nothing to either of them, even though she could recall nearly every word. His manner so familiar, as if he had that right... which he did, of course.

  Her cheeks felt hot and she ducked her head so that he would not observe. "Thank you, my lord." She dipped in the slightest of curtsies. "And now... might I bid you good day?"

  She turned to leave without his permission but Matthew called, "Wait!" He heard a fading round of cheers, a reminder that the celebration would probably be approaching Westminster and the waiting king. But his head still ached from last night's merrymaking and there would be plenty of time to re-join the revels.

  "What you are doing in London, Meg?" he prompted anew. "I'll wager 'tis an interesting tale."

  "Please do not tell Lord Ravenne," she blurted.

  He frowned. "Tell him what?"

  How could she possibly respond in a way that would keep her safe? Acting on instinct, Margery bolted away in the opposite direction. Matthew called her name, which only hastened her flight. She darted in and out of the narrow lanes tangling like an enormous snake through the city. Racing down yet another alley, she encountered a stone wall and spun around to Matthew, eyes now cold with anger, blocking her escape.

  Margery faced him, despair in her heart. Now I have no hope at all. He will turn me over to Ravenne. I will be branded ere the week's out.

  His destrier's hooves made a muffled thunk among the refuse. She looked behind him, but the space was too narrow to provide an exit. Some creature–a cat or rat–dashed past her feet and disappeared into a heap of rotting refuse. Or was that the Thames she smelled, like offal and over-ripe sewage? Hadn't Orabel said that since the pestilence the king had decreed garbage could no longer be dumped in its already polluted waters?

  How can I be so close to the Thames? Where am I? What a fine joke. Thinking to lose him, I myself am hopelessly lost...

  "Why do you run from me? Why are you so agitated? When last we met I thought we parted on good terms." Matthew had reined in his horse and was studying her, anger replaced by bemusement.