A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "We did, but..." Her voice trailed off. She could fashion no plausible story unless she told the truth. Which she could never do.

  "Why do you look at me as if I would run you through? I relish fear on the faces of the French, but not on those I'm sworn to protect. Especially you."

  How to explain the unexplainable, particularly to someone who by executing his duty would bring about her destruction? God had led her from Ravennesfield, given her a new life only to take it away because of her sinful daydreams and night dreams about a man as forbidden, as imaginary as the faerie knight himself. Was this God's way of mocking her whispered longings to see Matthew Hart again?

  "Please do not question me. If you think to protect me, let me go."

  "Nay, Meg. You cannot flee from me so you best confess. What are you doing here?"

  She released her breath on a long sigh. "Aye, well then." Could she pretty up the truth or turn him aside with a plausible lie? But her wits weren't quick enough to spin out an elaborate falsehood which he would unravel with a few well-placed questions. So be it. If fate had reached out to claim her, she would meet it as bravely as she could. Squaring her shoulders, she returned his gaze. Calmly, she hoped. Should he sense her vulnerability, he would be on her like a hound a hare.

  "I am a fugitive bondwoman. I ran away from Ravennesfield after my stepfather died." She paused. "If you tell Lord Ravenne, I am as good as dead." She hated the pleading tone that had crept into her voice. Pleading to someone who would grant her no mercy.

  Matthew's eyes narrowed. He would not wish to see her flawless forehead branded, yet she had committed a serious offense. "You cannot take off as you please without regard to your obligations. If every villein had your disregard for the law, our entire society would collapse."

  What about your disregard for the law? You do as you please because power gives you that right.

  Tears welled inside, but she swallowed down the lump in her throat. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Nor would she beg him to show mercy when he knew not its meaning. She had been a fool to believe otherwise. She lifted her chin and faced him, forcing herself to stand tall, fists balled in the folds of her gown.

  Whate'er you think to do to me, do it, but do not think I'll further beg your favor.

  As Matthew studied Margery, he considered several options. He hated dilemmas which were not black and white, which could not be handled cleanly with the sword. Laws were for Black Robes, clerks and priests.

  "I'll not tell my brother-in-law," he finally said. "Life has changed so much since the Death, who can say what is proper? London is filled with runaways. One more will make no difference."

  Margery tried to decipher his expression. She dared not hope Lord Hart would truly keep her secret, or ally himself against one of his own.

  "Do not look so mistrustful, Meg. Why do you not believe me?" Not awaiting an answer she would not be able to give, he said, "Perhaps 'twas propitious we met today."

  "What do you mean?" she asked warily.

  Leaning over in his saddle, Matt stretched out his hand. "Come along, Meg. I have something to show you."

  * * *

  Margery had heard mention of the Savoy Palace because Jean le Bon was being housed somewhere in this sprawling mass of buildings. Before today, however, "Savoy" had simply been a word. Yet, suddenly her world had veered off course to intersect with epic battles in strange-sounding places, with kings and princes and ransoms and affairs of state that had naught to do with people like her.

  "'Tis a city all in its own, isn't it?" Matthew said. They were standing in a deserted courtyard of the Savoy.

  Margery nodded. All of Ravennesfield could fit in this area, let alone the rest of the estate. Looking up at the crenellated towers and stained glass, she felt very small. Here it was easy to understand the nobility's arrogance, the origins of plots and intrigues that would ever be implemented to the detriment of those born to serve them. Surrounded by such luxury, why would lords and ladies even notice the beggars congregated at London's gates? Strolling in the Savoy's magnificent gardens, why should they give a thought to those packed in tenements along the Thames? Such privilege might be as God intended, but His reasoning was a mystery.

  Intending to guide her from the stable area to the palace, Matthew removed one of his gauntlets and took her arm. The gesture was casual–that of someone who felt he had a right to it. Which he did.

  "What are you going to do with me? Where are you taking me?"

  "To my room."

  Margery's eyes widened. She halted on the green and faced him. Did he mean to hurt her, to force her—because this would certainly not be a seduction when she wanted no part of him? When she'd rather face the plague—well mayhap not that—than feel his lips upon hers, or his arms around her, or the heat of his body molded against her? And why was she being distracted from her indignation by the pressure of his fingers, as if it was more pleasurable than repellant?

  "Do not look so stricken. I would have you wait outside, but I do not trust you to be here when I return."

  They entered a postern and ascended a narrow flight of stone stairs. Matthew guided her along spacious hallways, past opulently-appointed rooms until she was hopelessly confused. Did Jean le Bon have an entire wing to himself? No wonder he was in no hurry to have his ransom paid. Calling Savoy Palace a "prison" simply meant that the nobility played with the meaning of words however it pleased them.

  Following Matthew through this dazzling maze, she found her steps dragging. "I do not belong here, my lord. I do not like this place." She remembered something about its owner, the great Henry, Duke of Lancaster, who boasted that he was particularly partial to seducing peasant girls. Did Matthew think to mimic his overlord?

  "Jesu, Meg, you are as flighty as a hare." He pulled at her arm to hurry her along. But the Savoy struck her as sinister somehow, as if even now she could hear an echo of its future—and theirs—in the swish of their footfalls, the rhythmic clank of Matthew's armor, in their voices, which sounded so strange and lost in its vastness.

  "Ah, now we're here." Matthew opened the door to the small room he shared with Harry and a half dozen others. "I've not had time yet to have my things removed to our townhouse."

  When Margery hesitated in the doorway, he gestured for her to enter. Gingerly, she complied. So, now here it was. Would he ravish her and would it be so brutal that she would cry the way her mother had cried following her encounters with Lawrence Ravenne?

  Or would it be like in her imaginings, when he held out his hand to her...

  She studied him from lowered lashes, trying to gauge what would happen next. Despite her aversion to him, she had to admit that, had Matthew Hart been of her station, she would have found him compelling.

  Irresistible, even, as he was when he came to her in dreams.

  And if today he had an immoral purpose in bringing her here, why waste time on this elaborate charade? Any hedge or doorway would have served as well.

  Tossing his helm and gauntlets onto a pallet, Matthew bent over his trunk and began rummaging through its contents. Finally, he withdrew a small box.

  "I had meant to detour to Ravennesfield before visiting my sister at Bury St. Edmunds. I should be thankful you saved me the journey."

  He handed her the wooden box which was delicately carved with a design of intertwining vines. "I've had this since Bordeaux, early on in the campaign. I promised I would bring you back something from France. Remember?"

  Matthew had seen the piece in a shop packed to the brim with oddities, and had immediately remembered a promise to which he'd given little thought since uttering. And the part about detouring to Ravennesfield, well, he'd not really meant to do so. The possibility had crossed his mind, and he wasn't really lying for he would have gotten round to it. Otherwise why would he have brought the trinket in the first place?

  "Open it," he urged.

  She turned over the container. Was this some sort of trickery,
improvised on the spot to soften her defenses so he might more easily seduce her?

  She lifted the lid. Nestled inside was a wooden robin, so tiny it fit into the palm of her hand. Its eyes were made of jet, and it possessed the brightest scarlet breast she had ever seen.

  "You said you preferred robins once," he said softly. Watching her, Matthew wondered once again whether larger forces were at work for why would he step into that very shop and why would he remember a casual conversation and why had he carried the bauble with him only to meet her here in London, of all places?

  Margery traced a finger across the bird's breast. "'Tis truly wondrous." He'd remembered a conversation that she'd run round in her mind far too often. What to make of this? He could not pack around gifts to proffer to every maid he thought to seduce. Or he could, but not one so tailored to her. Margery felt something shift inside her. Matthew Hart looked so sincere... but he was standing far too close. She could feel him, feel that pull, as if she were caught in a dream in which she had no power over her actions.

  "Few take promises seriously, my lord. I canna believe you did."

  "As a knight, I consider all my vows important," he said, a trifle pompously. "Our family motto is 'Tout est perdu fors l'honneur,' after all. If I should lose everything save my honor, I would yet possess all I need. It would be dishonorable to deliberately break a promise, which I would not do."

  Matthew's use of French and his mention of the word honor, a term his kind frequently abused, helped Margery return to her senses. Still...

  Sometimes I am so confused. She did not realize she'd spoken aloud until Matthew repeated, "Confused?"

  Margery shook her head. She would not even attempt to explain something that she herself did not understand.

  "What do you want from me? Why did you really bring me here?"

  He gestured toward the robin. "For this very purpose." Not quite true. Now he was thinking of bedsport. At seventeen years, or thereabout, Margery Watson should no longer be a novice to love, especially with that face and figure. And, despite the debaucheries of the last several days, he suddenly wanted to twist up her gleaming mass of hair and kiss the nape of her neck. He was certain she would smell fresh, that her skin would feel soft as rose petals.

  "'Twould be simpler if you had not done this." Margery's voice was so hushed she might have been speaking to herself. "If you were heartless like all the others–"

  "What others?" Margery's words jolted Matthew from his amorous mood. Did she have other lovers? "What do you mean by heartless?"

  Margery felt the change in atmosphere and told herself she was relieved. The other was too dangerous. She had found herself weakening, allowing those impure thoughts to once more intrude, and sensed her safety lay in goading him. Replacing the robin in the box, she closed it and folded her fingers over it.

  "I have known the cruelty of your kind, sire," she said, her manner challenging. "Your natural calling oft runs more to ruining lives than protecting them."

  Matthew's eyebrows shot up. "Why would you even think such a thing? You need only look to our prince, who is unfailingly generous to those in need. Or our king and every lord whose retainers guard his lands. If we were not here, who would defend you from England's enemies? Who would give alms to the poor? Who would provide beneficence to build churches? Who would goldsmiths fashion their pieces for, or cordwainers their shoes, or weavers their cloth? We are well aware that with privilege comes obligation. That you think otherwise surprises me. Is it because of my brother-in-law?"

  Margery gasped and took a step backward. "How did you know?"

  "I said I would not tell Lord Ravenne you had run away. Why will you not trust me?"

  Margery assumed he'd been referring to her mother's murder. She waited until her heart ceased its frantic pounding, until she'd regained a measure of self-control. Matthew's words were truthful. Just because she had experienced a different reality did not mean that he was trying to trick her. She opened her palm and studied the box before raising her eyes to his.

  "I want to trust you," she finally said.

  The room was hot and stuffy. Sunlight filtered through a narrow window, catching dust motes dancing in the air. It was so quiet she fancied she heard his breathing; certainly her own. She had a sudden image of him embracing her, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to his pallet where he would lay atop of her. Well, he would have to remove his armor so she need not worry about that but if circumstances were different, would she struggle or would she welcome him? She had seldom had such thoughts, only fleeting wonderings with the boys and men she'd known, but this was very different. And something she had played over in her mind more times than she cared to count...

  Reaching out, Matthew caressed her cheek with a touch that seemed to burn her skin. If he kissed her, if he slipped his arms around her, if he drew her to him. Such a shame that he was safely encased in iron...

  His eyes darkened and his gaze lingered on her lips. She felt that pull to him, as inexorable as the tides. And if I succumb, I will surely drown.

  "'Tis so close in here. Please, might we go now? You will miss all the festivities, and I have a friend awaiting me."

  Matthew stepped back without protest. She assured herself that she was relieved, though relief felt more like disappointment. Why didn't he press the matter or order her so that she would have no choice but to obey? Then she would not be responsible, then she could pretend that she had been forced to do something that she confessed in her heart she desired.

  Matthew took her arm and so politely guided her from his quarters, back down the hallways and out of the Savoy.

  After depositing Margery near All Hallows Barking, where she requested, Matthew said, "I will be in London for a time. Where might I find you?"

  Margery reminded herself she must not disregard her past merely because Lord Hart had given her a trinket. To pursue anything with this man would lead only to tragedy. As it had with Alice Watson and Thomas Rendell.

  "I live on Candlewick Street. I am servant to a draper..." She searched her memory for the name of one of Orabel's suitors, the one who had lived on Candlewick. "Nathan Dwyer, my lord."

  Matthew leaned over in his saddle. Margery found herself taking his large calloused hand in her own and gazing up at him, as she'd done in dreams. How handsome he was, how masculine, as if he might indeed protect her from anything. Which he could not. And would not.

  "Thank you, my lord, for my robin."

  "Soon, Sweet Meg."

  She watched him until he disappeared before heading through the emptying streets to the Shop of the Unicorn.

  I did the proper thing by lying.

  Even so, Margery touched the box tucked safely away in her sleeve and imagined the wooden robin inside, the wooden robin with its bright eyes and its scarlet breast.

  And wished... oh, how she wished...

  Chapter 15

  London, 1359

  In 1358, King Edward's mother, Isabella, once called the she-wolf of France, died peacefully at Hertford Castle. She had requested burial in her wedding dress beside her husband, Edward II, whom she and her lover were said to have murdered some thirty years past. His Grace ordered London's streets cleaned for Isabella's funeral. As her procession crept through the city, bells tolled and people prayed for a woman they could scarce remember. Isabella was a remnant from a bad time long ago, when England had been in chaos—a time that, like the Death, was best forgotten.

  Edward III's perennially popular reign—the chronicler Froissart would later write about the king that 'His like had not been seen since the days of King Arthur'—enjoyed several quiet, peaceful and prosperous seasons. Unlike his father, Edward II, who would have preferred being a gentleman farmer to a warrior king, his son was both a brilliant tactician and knight nonpareil. By mid-century, thanks to Edward and his able councilors, England was in command of both sea and land. Recently, the ever troublesome Scots had accepted a ten year truce and France's dauphin had his h
ands full battling foreign marauders and his own rebellious paysans, leaving Edward III free to attend to domestic matters. He expanded Windsor Castle, home of his Order of the Garter, and built or renovated holdings throughout the kingdom. Domestic and foreign trade flourished, leading to overflowing money chests and an increase in the number of wealthy merchants, particularly those engaged in the wool trade. Parliament remained in an uncommonly mellow mood; England's civil servants performed their services so efficiently that even the most critical found little to complain about.

  If a certain amount of unrest existed among the lower classes or those permanently displaced following the 1349 pestilence, few heard and even fewer took note. Only men like John Ball decried such injustices as Parliament's Statute of Laborers which decreed that a man was bound to his employer in the same manner as before the Death, and at the same wage. Some subjects who declined to be thus indentured formed criminal bands to rob their betters traveling the king's highways and byways. Others pointed to the closing of so many churches, which had subsequently fallen into disrepair, for what they lamented was an alarming increase in immorality.

  "Things were better in the old days," they said, "In the days before the Death."

  But with up to half of England's men, women, and children moldering in plague pits, who could actually even remember those "old days?"

  For the royal family, the months passed in a pleasant haze of pageantry and tournaments. On May 19, 1359, eighteen-year-old John of Gaunt married Blanche of Lancaster, Henry, duke of Lancaster's thirteen-year-old daughter. King Edward and Queen Philippa were ecstatic with the match, not only because their son was clearly smitten with the pious and beautiful Blanche, but because she was heir to a fortune that would someday make John the richest man in England. Furthermore, though the king and queen had been blessed with an abundance of offspring—twelve with eight living—so far only one had married, and the couple had one legitimate grandchild. By John's age, Queen Philippa had already cradled their firstborn son and England's heir, Edward of Woodstock. (And, while the king and queen wholeheartedly celebrated John's wedding, they did fret about Prince Edward, who at twenty-nine remained a bachelor. Had he followed in His Grace the King's wake, the prince would already be father to nine. As his parents oft reminded him.)