A Knight There Was

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A Knight There Was Page 19

by Mary Ellen Johnson


  Mayhap he has the plague, Margery thought, with a sudden shiver.

  Hearing a stirring from the master's bed, she shut her eyes. She sometimes wondered whether the Death could be any worse than her present position.

  "I am thirsty," came a whining voice. "Get me something to drink."

  Margery forced down a surge of annoyance, forced herself to feel nothing at all. She noted that the figure had paused directly below, in front of the closed shop. She wished she could stand forever, gazing down at a stranger, idly speculating on identities and activities that did not touch her. Even more fervently, Margery wished she'd never again have to breathe the air in this stuffy room or respond to Dame Gisla's querulous demands.

  Reluctantly, Margery faced her mistress. "Would you like some brandy water?"

  Gisla's face was of a color with the iron grey hair framing it. Her mouth worked, then the corners drooped downward, indicating her disapproval. "I hate water. Mix it with wine. And be quick about it."

  From the medicine table, Margery poured a small amount of brandy into a goblet, then filled it half way with wine. Doctors said Gisla suffered from vermin in the womb. Brandy was said to have curative powers, but since Gisla had fallen sick near Candlemas in early February, nothing had helped. Not the barber with his bleeding, nor the doctors nor Margery's knowledge of herbs. She had been cooped up with her mistress the entire time, and the only change she'd witnessed was a deterioration in Gisla's temper.

  "You are worthless, Margery Watson," Gisla said, as she approached the bed. "Lazy and insolent."

  Margery shut her ears to Dame Gisla's criticism. When she'd been healthy, Gisla had been a woman of few words. Would to God she'd soon regain her health.

  Bending over, Margery encircled the back of Gisla's head and helped her drink, holding her breath so she would not inhale her mistress's odor. Though Master Crull insisted the room be daily cleaned, it still reeked of his wife's sickness.

  A trickle of liquid slid down Dame Gisla's chin. Coughing, she pushed Margery's hand away so forcefully the brandy wine spilled on Margery's gown.

  Trying to remain calm, Margery bit the inside of her lip. She'd rather help her mistress with this task than some of the more intimate ones, such as applying poultices to Gisla's womb in order to draw out any offending vermin.

  After Dame Gisla slumped back against the pillows, Margery returned to the window. Below, the stranger had just stepped from the interior of the shop. He could not be a customer, for the shop had been closed for days. She watched his retreat, the labored walk. Though Margery did not have much faith in signs, she crossed herself.

  "Where are you from, Margery Watson?"

  Margery eyed her mistress warily. She knew Gisla was not interested in a pleasant chat. Somewhere, the conversation would take an ugly twist.

  "Cambridge." Thurold had once told her half a truth was better than a lie, and less easily uncovered. When Margery had obtained her position, Dame Gisla had entered her basic information into the household book. Surely, Gisla knew so was this some sort of trick question?

  "They must breed useless help in Cambridge." When Margery did not answer, Gisla continued, "Are your parents as worthless as you, Margery Watson?"

  Margery clenched her fists, trying to curb the flash of anger. "My mother is dead." Dame Gisla should know that as well. "She died during the first plague."

  Shifting position on the pillows, the old woman scrunched her eyes and mouth, as if tasting something sour. The Death was a subject that greatly vexed her. She began mumbling to herself and did not cease until Simon suddenly popped into the doorway.

  Charging that the place was filthy, Simon seldom entered the solar. Nor was he solicitous of Gisla's health. Now, he fixed his gaze, not on his wife, but Margery. "You are a busy woman for being so quiet, Margery Watson."

  Simon's conversations were so filled with similar enigmatic phrasings that Margery had long ago ceased trying to decipher them. "Dame Gisla is a bit better today, master. Her appetite seems to have improved."

  "How old are you, Margery Watson?" Simon crossed to the table and, as was his habit, poured himself a bowl of hippocras.

  "Twenty-one or thereabouts." Birth dates were a chancy matter at best.

  "It seems strange you have not married Brian or Nicholas or one of the other apprentices." Simon eyed her over the rim of the drinking bowl. "Perhaps you reach much higher than a tradesman. Will you sleep your way to position, Margery Watson?"

  As always, Margery ignored his jibes.

  "I think I will do a bit of checking on you."

  "Come here, husband," Gisla interrupted.

  Simon reluctantly approached his wife. The skin on her face sagged like that of a hound; her fingers, picking at the faded coverlet, were gnarled and bony as a skeleton's.

  "Any more word on the Pestilence?" Gisla's voice wavered.

  "The cases remain sporadic."

  "God will smite us all for being wicked, wicked." Gisla rocked her head from side to side and began to cry. "Nothing is as it should be." She launched into a familiar lament. "Englishmen have given themselves over to lawlessness, gluttony, and lechery. I've seen ordinary women with bodices so low and breasts laced so high a stroller would blush with shame. God indeed be punishing us for our sinfulness."

  Simon studied his wife with the same ill-concealed distaste he showed the beggar children who congregated at the front door. "Do not trouble yourself with this sinful world. We are good people. We have naught to fear." He raised his eyes to Margery. "Though others in this room should have a care."

  * * *

  Two days later, Margery visited her herb patch to replenish the yarrow used in Gisla's poultices. London smelled of brimstone, uncollected garbage and excrement. The sun baked the earth or slunk away in the wake of angry rains. Margery was surprised and heartened that through it all the back-side had prospered. The vibrancy of her flowers belied the possibility of death lurking just beyond the garden while their perfume obliterated any encroaching scents of decay.

  After picking several pink and white clusters of yarrow, Margery headed back to the shop. As she passed the turf seat, she glanced down by force of habit.

  "Mother Mary!" she breathed. Two pairs of smooth stones lay upon the seat's hard packed earth.

  "He's back." Margery tried to estimate how long the stones might have been there. Today, perhaps, a fortnight, even a month? She hadn't been in the garden for nearly a week, and then she hadn't checked the seat. Or had she? She couldn't remember.

  "My lord Hart is in London," she whispered, savoring the news. "He is well and wishes to see me." The wonder of it all immediately erased months of misery.

  Margery did not know how, but this afternoon she would await Matthew in the Tower garden. And if the stones had been put there days past she would continue on to Hart's Place, where he would surely be ensconced.

  As nones neared, Margery left the shop saying that she needed more special herbs. While walking along largely empty streets and passing occasional doors marred by red crosses, she found herself trembling.

  But this time the Death prefers children. And I am no longer a child.

  Upon reaching Tower Hill, Margery waited in the orchard. Everything appeared mournful and neglected. The trees were grey and shabby; the plants drooped toward the ground, as if trying to hide their faces.

  Margery waited and waited. With each inhalation of breath, she worried she might be inhaling pestilential vapors. Without the protective shelter of four walls, the comforting presence of other humans, she felt vulnerable.

  Finally, she decided Matthew was not going to arrive, which meant the stones had been placed in the turf seat days past.

  Mayhap he has already left London. She began walking northeast, toward the opposite end of the city and Hart's Place. Mayhap he will think I do not even want to see him. Margery prayed that Matthew would still be at his residence. She prayed that he would be well.

  * * *

  "Lo
rd Hart canna see you." Margery recognized Francus, one of Matthew's squires, peering from behind a narrow opening in the door. From the fear on his face, Margery might have already broken out in plague boils.

  "He left a message that I was to meet him."

  "That is impossible. Lord Hart has not been from his bed in days."

  Francus slammed the door.

  Margery stared numbly at the wooden surface, trying to assimilate the squire's words. If Matthew was bedridden, that meant he had the plague. She closed her eyes and slumped against the wall. A wave of sickness welled upward from her soul. Her past was repeating itself, over and over like the refrain from a funeral dirge. Dirige, Domine, Deus meus... Dying, dying, dead.

  Margery whirled around and began hammering on the door. "Let me in! I must see him!"

  The door opened, more widely this time. Margery recognized Matthew's brother. Francus stood behind Harry, glaring at her.

  "I am Margery Watson, my lord. I insist on seeing your brother."

  "I know who you are," Harry said. "You are the reason we are stuck in this accursed place. Even the servants had enough sense to flee." Harry's eyes were bloodshot from drinking and lack of sleep. "I told Matt we should go to Cumbria with Father, anywhere away from people, but he would not listen. He said..." Harry stumbled to a halt. He shook his head, as if to clear it, then motioned her inside.

  Harry's words were so confusing, Margery wondered whether he might also have contracted plague. Silently, she followed him and Francus up the wooden staircase. After pushing open the door to the solar, Harry stepped aside. Margery peered in. The room was large and shadowed, though a huge bay window took up part of the far wall, and a fire burned in the massive fireplace. A large candle flickered beside the canopied bed, which dominated the solar, as she remembered. She could see very little of the figure propped against the pillows.

  Slowly, Margery approached the bed. Though a part of her feared contamination, a greater part was reluctant to witness the extent of Matthew's decay—the swelling, the black spots, the desecration of that magnificent face and form.

  She swallowed down tears. I never thought you would die. Of all men, you were the most alive...

  "My lord," she said, "can you hear me? 'Tis Margery, Margery Watson. Do you remember me?"

  "Of course I remember you, Meg. Why would I not?" Matthew sat up. She saw at once that he was not suffering from plague. In fact, though his face looked gaunt, he looked exactly as he should.

  Margery's legs buckled, causing her to nearly collapse upon the bed. It had all been cruel mummery. Matthew was fine.

  "I stopped by the Shop," he said. "Your master said you were gone. He said—"

  A spasm of coughing wracked Matthew's body, and tore at his lungs and chest, causing him to bend forward. Francus hovered over him, holding a cloth to his mouth. When Francus removed it, Margery saw that it was bright with blood.

  What did this mean? Matthew did not have the plague, but he was spitting up blood. She studied him more carefully. He was not thin; he was emaciated. In the orange firelight, his eyes appeared bright with fever. Save for two scarlet spots on his cheeks, his face was the color of wax.

  "Do not look at me like that." Though a pain stabbed his side, making each breath a torment, Matthew managed a smile. He had lived with the pain so long, he had conditioned himself to ignore it. "'Tis just a slight cough I picked up during the Rheims campaign. It came back a few weeks ago, during the crossing from France. I've had a bit of trouble shaking it."

  "In case you need reminding, that slight cough killed hundreds," said Harry. "It very nearly killed you."

  "No one dies at twenty-four."

  Harry poured himself some wine from an available pitcher. "'Tis a pity someone forgot to tell all those twenty-four-year-olds who will remain forever behind in France."

  The corners of Matt's mouth lifted. "At least I know I will not die puking and sweating from some bothersome wasting sickness. 'Twould be no fit end for a knight."

  "Not even you, brother, can choose the way to die."

  "I can choose the way I'll NOT die."

  Harry shook his head at Margery. "What little common sense he possessed seems also to have been left in France. Otherwise, we would be hundreds of miles away by now."

  Margery could scarce believe that Matthew would return to London because of her. But he had said she was no casual affair, and now his actions seemed to prove it.

  After draining his goblet, Harry poured himself more wine. "I'll grant she is comely," he said to Matthew, "but not enough to risk all our lives."

  Another spell of coughing choked off Matthew's reply. Francus held out a clean cloth, Harry retreated to the bay window at the opposite side of the room, and Margery watched helplessly.

  When the coughing finally subsided, Matthew acted as if nothing had happened. But ignoring it will not make it disappear. You look much worse than Dame Gisla. That the wasting sickness could so ravage that powerful body was proof of its strength. Reaching out, Margery took Matthew's hand in hers. It was hot. And as bony as her mistresses'.

  She raised her eyes to Francus. "Where is his physician? How is he being treated?"

  "Brother Timm left two days ago and has not returned. He either ran away or the pestilence took him."

  "I can speak for myself," Matt said. He gestured toward a chest covered with vials, mortars, small sacks of herbs, all manner of paraphernalia. "Brother Timm stuffed me with potions which were as useless as they were foul. Death would be preferable to some of his remedies."

  "Do not joke about such a thing," Margery said sharply. Fear made her disregard her station and address Matthew as an equal. Again turning to Francus, she said, "I know a bit about herbs, but not enough to feel competent in treating him. We must find someone with more knowledge."

  "Who? The best physicians fled London with their patrons long ago. As for the rest..." Francus shrugged. "I would not know where to find them, and I would risk the plague myself in the hunt."

  "Perhaps Brother Timm will return," Margery said. "If he does not—"

  "Then you will nurse me," Matthew said, squeezing her hand. "Will you not, Sweet Meg?"

  "I cannot. I would be missed at the Shop. Master Crull would—"

  "Master Crull can go to the devil," Matthew interrupted. "I went to his shop and he told me you no longer worked for him."

  "So you were the man I saw."

  "I have a score to settle with that bloody bastard, and I canna believe that you would rather do his bidding than mine."

  Despite the seriousness of the circumstances, Margery found herself smiling. "I would much rather do your bidding, my lord."

  * * *

  For the next week Margery, with Francus's help, ministered to Matthew. When Harry wasn't drinking, he prepared marginally edible meals and paced the solar, paternoster beads in hand, sending endless prayers heavenward imploring God and the saints to cure his brother.

  Ever mindful of the plague, Margery concocted drinks containing Angelica Archengelica, which she had found in the Hart garden. Because rue was supposed to expel pestilential miasmas, she strewed it throughout the room. When Matt was feverish, she sponged his wasted body with tepid water containing pennyroyal, spearmint and black mustard. She spoon-fed him salty gruels, which he frequently vomited. When she was too exhausted to continue, Francus or Harry replaced her.

  In the beginning Matthew had tried to wave away their help, but his condition deteriorated so rapidly he could not even stand without risking dizziness. Soon he could not stand at all.

  After a particularly bad night, when Matt's skin and even his fingernails had turned blue, Francus drew Margery away from the bed, to the bay window, and went to get Harry.

  Margery gazed idly outside. She could not remember when she had last noticed the weather. Not that it appeared to have changed. In the distance, she saw a portion of city wall, London's ragged skyline.

  What is happening in the city? she wondered. Doe
s the plague still rage, or has it peaked? Is anyone left alive, or have they all perished?

  "Mayhap I should search out a priest," Francus said, when Harry reached them. "I do na think my lord can last the night."

  "My brother cannot die," Harry cried. "What will I do without him?"

  Margery was too exhausted to feel much of anything. 'Twould be the way of life, to have Matthew return to her only to die. Still, sending for a priest seemed too blatant an admission of defeat. "Sometimes there is a crisis. Sometimes they improve after. Mayhap he will get better now."

  "He is going to die," Francus said flatly.

  Harry began to weep.

  "Stop this," Margery said. "Your tears will only upset him. Besides, my lord said he has no intention of dying, and we all know how strong-willed he is. If 'tis humanly possible to survive, he will."

  Harry poured himself a cup of wine, drowning his sobs as he gulped it down, then reached for his paternoster beads and renewed his pacing and praying.

  Margery returned to the bench beside Matthew's bed. Bone weary, she dozed, leaning her head and a shoulder against the mattresses for support. She settled into such a deep sleep she was not even aware when Matthew awakened in the predawn, his body wracked with such violent chills that the coverlet trembled and his teeth chattered. Hugging his arms about his body and drawing up his knees, he tried unsuccessfully to control the shaking, the merciless pounding in his head. How long did the torment last? Until the nearby candle guttered? Or had it already been close to its core? The onslaught of a fever was beginning to disorient him.

  Francus slept on a pallet near the door and Harry near the fire. To keep himself from crying out and awakening them or Margery, Matthew clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt. This was certainly not the first time he'd experienced these symptoms, but their intensity uneased him.

  I will overcome this. He hugged himself until his body felt bruised. As I did in Paris. As I always have.

  Margery stirred, then bolted upright. In the light from the bed candle, she saw Matthew hunched against the pillows.

 

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