A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Matthew whispered against her ear, "I knew we'd be a fine fit." His lips trailed down Margery's neck, to the cleft above her breasts. His manner became more demanding, as did hers. Slowly, insistently, he worked her toward the bed, both removing their clothing in the process. His hands and tongue seemed to be everywhere, caressing, probing, raising her emotions to an unbearable intensity. In turn, Margery hungrily explored every inch of him. She tasted the salt on his neck and in the hollow above his collarbone. Her lips travelled downward, along the muscular chest to his flat stomach, down to where the golden hair tapered into a vee.

  More, she silently demanded, more. He might think he would take her upon the canopied bed, but she would be the one doing the taking.

  Matthew pressed her back until she sank into the brocade coverlet. Then he straightened, to better view her. His gaze swept the curves of her body, in a look as exciting as his touch. "You are fine, indeed, Meg. Even finer than my imaginings."

  "As are you, my lord."

  She held out her arms to him and pulled him on top of her. So this is what the priests mean when they say we are insatiable. It was as if she were inhabited by a wanton, a harlot, anything but a blushing virgin. For that she was not.

  As his movements became more urgent, Margery dug her fingers into his back, not minding the pain, wanting only for him to go deeper and deeper until he could never extricate himself, so that she would devour him. He might think to claim her, but he was wrong, she told herself, as he released his seed. Matthew Hart would be the one forever branded by her desire.

  * * *

  While Matthew dozed, Margery tried to sort out these past hours. Who had she been, certainly not the Margery Watson who spurned the very touch of a man. Nor had she behaved like an innocent, though her body was already feeling the after effects. She would be sore, but that would be a reminder that today had not been a dream. She reached out to gently stroke Matthew's arm and he sighed in his sleep, shifting toward her. She had done what she'd said she would not, what she had longed to do and had schemed to do.

  This once. Never again would they, should they be together. Hadn't she always vowed she would never end up like her mother and Thomas Rendell?

  But we need not repeat others' lives. Please, God, I would rather just live my own. And how, after tasting such sweetness could she ever return to the wasteland that had been her life?

  Margery folded down the sheet to expose Matthew's chest. In the light from the shutters playing across his tumbled hair and those perfectly sculpted arms, he was indeed her faerie knight. They need only the rising of the moon to complete the tableau. And he had been hers, if only in passing.

  Turning aside she stared into the gloom. With the ebbing of passion, with the understanding that from now on everything—and nothing—would be different she felt once more that familiar melancholia. She closed her eyes to stop the pricking of tears.

  I chose this man knowing that we had no future, and I did it all the same. Do I think to punish myself? To run headlong toward desolation even as I insist I will not?

  A whisper of footsteps beyond the door. Had the Hart servants been listening? Or Matthew's brother? For the first time she was aware of outside traffic, of London going about its business. Judging from the mouth-watering smells wafting into the solar it would soon be dinner time, meaning she must find Orabel and return to the Shop, as Matthew would return to his routine.

  Which would be upended by war.

  So you sail for France and I will pass the days at the Shop and there will be no further intersection between us. I know it, always knew it, and yet I insisted on having my desire. Why did I choose the waywardness of my heart over the wisdom of my head?

  She felt a panicked need to hunt through her discarded clothes for her robin which acted as a talisman whenever she was in need of comfort, or during the times Matthew had seemed lost to her. Retrieve it from the folds of her gown and crush it in her fist.

  Matthew stirred and opened his eyes. "Why do you look so sad, Sweet Meg?" He caressed her stomach, the curve of her hip. "I did not hurt you, did I?"

  She shook her head and managed a smile.

  He leaned on his elbow to face her, his free hand toying with a strand of hair tumbling upon her breasts. "What is it then? The campaign? You know you need not fear for me."

  She nodded at his mistaken assumption, pretending that were so.

  "Aye, then, we'll not think upon unpleasant matters. When I ponder today, I would rather remember other things."

  He brushed his lips against hers and she nestled against him, her head upon his chest.

  If I could capture this moment in time...

  A part of her was as misguided as Orabel, fancying she could spin yearnings into reality. Next she'd be conjuring a tidy cottage awash in roses and toddlers with Matthew sitting before the fire like some simple yeoman.

  As she'd bent over star charts, and stared into bowls of water pretending they might portend the future when they'd simply been... bowls of water.

  Slipping away, Margery scooted to the edge of the bed and leaned over to gather her clothes. "I must be off. Master Crull gets angry if I'm gone too long. And Orabel must be bored having waited so long."

  I will spend years, into old age, remembering this moment. When I chose something as ephemeral as a wish, as uncapturable as a longing. And I had thought to brand you? When I'll never be able to remove your mark from my soul.

  Matthew looped a forearm around the front of her waist and pulled her back against him. "Your master must be a rich man. Does he ever try to buy your favor?"

  Margery recoiled in horror. "Why would you even say such a thing?"

  He stroked her shoulder and planted a kiss. "An old man. And a beautiful young woman."

  "Simon Crull loves naught but his work. And he is so miserly he will not buy enough wood for the hearth fires, let alone frivolities."

  "I know his shop has a fine reputation, but there is something repellant about him, like when you come across a dead animal unexpectedly... a dead animal swarming with maggots."

  "Jesu!" Of a sudden she felt peculiar, as if by bringing her master into the conversation in such a grisly fashion Matthew had tainted their tryst.

  "I do not see him often."

  "Have you ever thought of seeking employ elsewhere?" he persisted.

  "I have a good friend in Orabel. I would not want to leave her. Besides, life at the Shop is simple enough. Another household might be far worse."

  Margery retrieved her chemise and the rest of her clothes, pretending to be distracted by a high neck and long tight sleeves. She brushed against her robin and suppressed the urge to clutch it to her breast. When she reached for her cote, Matthew stayed her hand and forced her to face him.

  "If you find that you are with child, Margery, I will care for thee."

  Margery felt herself flush. "Why would you say such a thing?" Blessed Virgin, what had she done? Now God would punish her by making her pregnant and Master Crull would banish her from his household and she'd end up begging on the steps of St. Paul's.

  "What would you do for me and my babe if it did happen?" she asked sharply. "Bring me a handful of coins when it pleases you?"

  Matthew was surprised by her bitter tone. "Of course I would not. I would do whatever you require. I take care of all my offspring."

  "Is this another of your bastards?" Beatrice Rendell had asked her husband. How many bastards did Matthew have? How many other women?

  Margery retrieved her leather slippers from the carpeted floor. "I will not become... in that way." She placed her slippers on her feet and began plaiting her hair. Would Orabel be in the garden or chatting with some of the Hart servants in the kitchen? She would find her and they would scurry back to the Shop like wayward children fearful of being caught. "Do not worry about me. I would not have you distracted during the campaign."

  Reluctant to end their lovemaking on a tense note, to ruin memories he would re-imagine during long ni
ghts in France, Matthew teased her. "What would you have me bring you this time?"

  Margery flinched. Carefully coiling a braid around each ear, she said, "Only yourself."

  "'Tis a foregone conclusion. Something else."

  She shook her head. "I do not want anything else."

  "Look at me, Margery."

  Reluctantly, she complied.

  "This was not a careless bedding for me. I promise you two things. I will not forsake you and I will come home to you. Do you believe me?"

  Margery considered the question. He ran his fingers along the back of her neck, the line of her chin.

  "I believe you," she whispered. Like a work of filigree, repeating a pattern over and over and over...

  "Say it then. Say you believe I will not forsake you."

  Margery parroted the words, almost convincing herself in the saying. If only I could spend a thousand nights with you and make love to you and bury myself in your physical presence and never engage my mind. Tragedy must lie at the end and yet even knowing, I would risk it all.

  "Do not look so solemn, Meg." Matthew embraced her once again. In the honey of his kiss, she momentarily forgot her doubts. He murmured against her ear, "Would you like me to tell you I love you?" And with the uttering he was willing to do so and even to mean it. After his fashion.

  Margery shook her head for she knew love had naught to do with any of it. "Just come home to me, my lord. France is no fit place for an Englishman to die."

  Chapter 17

  London

  Margery and Matthew were able to meet a handful of times before his leavetaking, and during their final rendezvous she presented him with a necklace made of draconite, removed from a dragon's head. This particular stone had been drawn while the creature was still alive, which meant it would protect him from all poison, and if borne on the left arm, overcome all enemies.

  After Matthew set sail, Margery could almost believe she'd made love to a ghost. She found it increasingly impossible to connect Matt with Lord Matthew Hart, as well as the larger events around her. With him—and Thurold—departed, London seemed emptied, as empty as her soul without her beloved.

  While Margery largely kept her own counsel, she knew she must beg absolution for her sin. Rather than seek out Father Crispin at St. John Zachary, where the Crull household worshipped, she chose the anonymity of St. Paul's.

  There, at the western front of the cathedral, she spotted John Ball, moving among a motley assortment of beggars, tradesmen, laborers and strollers wearing hoods of scarlet rey. Of course John Ball would be about, though knowing that Thurold was absent from his side caused a twinge of sadness.

  She heard John address a rough-looking lad. "Avoid luxury, avoid causing people needless pain, don't be fooled by a Papal pardon, and finish your soup." His laughter thundered as he clapped the lad on the shoulder.

  Margery also smiled for John's laugh always warmed her.

  "Hedge priest," she called and waved, though she did not stop. John so seldom drew crowds it would be selfish to demand his attention. Besides, he was a great one for questioning her about every facet of her life, and so perceptive she sometimes worried he might be able to read her thoughts.

  Traitor to your class, she chastised herself in his stead.

  Circling to another entrance, Margery paused inside at the Si quia door, which was a popular place for posting notices. During other visits, Thurold had read to her some of the bits and pieces of other people's lives.

  'Please help me find my coin purse, stolen Tuesday last.'

  'Please save my six-year-old son who be coughing blood.'

  'Please restore the feeling to me hands for I canna use me chisel.'

  If she could read and write, would she have tacked up her own plea? What would she have written?

  'Please right the wrongs of this world?'

  'Please rid your children of pain and suffering?'

  'Please make Matthew Hart desire me evermore?'

  She entered the gloomy interior and crossed to the main altar where she lit three candles—one for Lord Hart's well-being, one for Thurold's and one for the souls of her dead relatives. Then she knelt on the paving stones and gazed up at the altar, which still had loaves of bread left over from Lammas Day.

  Margery remembered other Lammas Days when her mother had woven yellow flowers through her hair symbolizing the sun at its strongest, drawn a circle and placed fresh-baked bread in its center as an expression of gratitude to the earth for its bounty. Odd that after all these years, she could recollect such ceremonies so vividly when she could recall little else.

  She heard John Ball outside and knew by the pitch of his voice that he had launched into a sermon, though she couldn't distinguish individual words. Rather it was like a vibration passing through stone walls and pointed clerestory windows, across the carved cannons' stalls and the jumble of tombs and brasses. It seemed to thrum like ten-thousand insects, carrying with it the knowledge of hope and failure.

  And death, of course.

  The death of injustice and poverty, for what else did the Lollard priest ever speak of? Unfortunately, Margery knew the ghosts John so skillfully exhumed would be exorcised in the brutal light of reality. While those now enraptured by his message would carry it home and mull it over, they would ultimately discard it like a worn-out piece of clothing.

  Raising herself from the stones, Margery sought a priest to hear her confession. She knelt before a middle-aged cleric who looked unusually well fed beneath his robes.

  "Father." She made the sign of the cross and bent her head while reciting her mortal sins in order to be spared viewing his expression of displeasure. However, before granting absolution, the priest delivered a spirited lecture.

  "You are a wicked woman. All women are wicked and weak and responsible for ALL the world's ills. If Eve had not tempted Adam to eat the forbidden fruit, mankind would still be in Paradise."

  To Margery, it seemed as if God Himself were condemning her. She'd never before had to confess such serious transgressions, or at least those involving sexual matters. She felt her face redden with embarrassment and kept her gaze fastened to her clasped hands, though she felt the tiniest flicker of rebellion. Wasn't the purpose of penance to be washed clean of one's sins? And surely this priest had heard worse.

  Now her confessor castigated the biblical and secular Jezebels who forever preyed on simple, unsuspecting, blameless men. "Shamelessly leaving their hair and arms and shoulders uncovered and tempting us with the hint of your breasts."

  While Margery's head remained meekly bowed, she surreptitiously checked her neckline to ascertain that the priest could not be referring to her. Perhaps he was one of those who kept a leman, for he seemed mightily preoccupied with sins of the flesh.

  I should have gone to Father Crispin. He would have granted forgiveness and forgone the lecture.

  "Harlots all, leading men astray with your seductive wiles, forcing us to give in to our base desires."

  She remembered how she'd felt with Matthew—aye, a harlot; he was right about that.

  Margery was glad this part of St. Paul's was nearly empty so that others would not overhear the priest's rant. While she accepted that she was but a simple creature, she could not ignore a major flaw in his reasoning. Since women had fewer rights and lower intelligence than men, how could they be powerful enough to be responsible for all the world's travails? To be able to knead the superior sex as easily as a bowl of dough?

  But she kept such thoughts to herself, meekly accepted the priest's penance and absolution once he deigned to grant it and quickly exited the church.

  In the bright light of the precinct she paused until her eyes adjusted. The crowd around John Ball had grown and was obviously mesmerized by his jeremiad, which seemed to be dealing with the Jacquerie of 1358. Margery leaned against a wall and closed her eyes, allowing his words to paint a horrific vision, knowing this was her real penance for Matthew Hart. Not Pater Nosters or a trip to a near
by shrine but this reminder of the cruelty of the nobility and how she'd betrayed John Ball and Thurold with her fleshly weakness.

  She imagined the entire uprising... one hundred thousand peasants, dressed in tatters and driven to desperation by war taxes, picking up their scythes, pitchforks and hatchets and marching upon their tormentors. In her mind's eye, she saw faces like those of the lepers at London's gates, the urchins with their begging bowls. She imagined them swarming like angry locusts across the countryside, putting castles to the torch and causing French clergy to tremble in their monasteries.

  Until, as was inevitable, the Jacquerie was defeated.

  "Knights chased them through their hamlets, rode them down, and slaughtered them," cried John Ball. "Women and children, old men and suckling infants, even those who had not taken part in the rebellion. Then the lords captured their leader and crowned him 'King of the Jacquerie' with a circlet of hot iron. They beheaded him, hoping they'd behead the cause. But 'tis impossible to destroy an idea. It will continue to grow and spread. Our lords should heed what happened across the sea."

  Margery slipped away. She was sorry for those poor French peasants. But she was also glad the uprising had been put down, for that meant one less danger for Lord Hart.

  And she felt comforted, knowing that John Ball was wrong, that such a holocaust could never happen here in England.

  Chapter 18

  France, 1359-1360

  Accompanied by three of his sons—Edward, Lionel and John—Edward III left Calais on All Saint's Day, 1359. His destination was Rheims. Since ancient times, all French kings had been anointed in Rheims Cathedral and His Grace planned to be crowned King of France there.