Throughout the walk to the church of St. John Zachary, Margery, clutching a sachet of potpourri, found herself looking around, half-expecting to see Matthew on horseback, clattering down the cobblestoned streets in time to sweep her up and away. Even as she knew, aye, how well she knew, that Matthew Hart had indeed done the unthinkable; he had broken his word.
When they reached St. John Zachary's and a waiting Father Crispin, the reality of Margery's impending fate caused her knees to buckle. She grabbed the elderly priest's arm to keep from falling and raised one hand to her throat, as if that might aid her breathing.
"Are you sick, child?" Father Crispin asked. Having heard many of Margery's confessions and knowing of her previous adulterous relationship, Crispin wondered whether she might be with child. That would explain this admittedly rushed ceremony.
"Aye." Margery slumped down on the porch step and placed her head between her knees. No matter how she struggled, she felt as if she were strangling. What had happened to Matthew? Had he been waylaid by robbers? Summer flooding? Or had he been lying to her all along? She pressed the sachet to her nose, hoping its scent might revive her.
Simon said, "She'll be fine. 'Tis just the heat of the day. Let us be on with it."
Father Crispin frowned. "Her color is poor."
"Something to drink, Father," Margery said. "I feel faint."
The priest obliged. Aye, no doubt she was pregnant, though she was not the only bride to find herself in such a state.
Margery and Simon Crull's wedding ceremony was performed on the porch steps outside St. John Zachary. Margery barely heard the vows. Father Crispin's voice seemed little louder than whispers heard through a wall, and his bright vestments, his tonsured head and gilded book all appeared indistinct, as if viewed through a fog.
He had betrayed her... Matthew Hart had betrayed her...
Father Crispin framed the final question. "Do you both freely consent to this marriage?"
"Aye." Simon said.
The priest turned to Margery. She did not answer.
"And you, child," He prodded. "Do you consent?"
Margery licked her lips. If she did not, would Father Crispin declare the marriage invalid? Would she be able to walk away a free woman? She tried to reason it through, to grab onto the snatches of memories, questions, and impressions darting through her mind long enough to make sense of what was happening.
I cannot marry Simon Crull, she thought, but 'tis too late.
"Well?" Father Crispin glanced at the goldsmith, whose face had turned a mottled red. "Do you consent to this marriage?"
Margery suppressed the urge to look over her shoulder, as if Matthew might yet rescue her. "Father, I am confused."
"'Tis a simple enough question."
"Of course she consents," said Simon Crull.
"I do not. I need time to think."
"Pardon, Father." Simon gripped Margery's hand and pulled her away from the priest. "What is wrong with you? If you think to thwart me now, 'ere evening I will have you thrown in the Clink."
He led her back to Father Crispin. "Everything is fine. Continue."
Simon took Margery's right hand, as was customary, but squeezed it hard. She did not doubt that he would make good on his threat. She'd heard what happened in London's prisons, that the condemned were often lowered into deep, foul-smelling well-shaped holes, where rancid food and water were provided at their jailers' whim and where the unfortunates shared the eternal blackness with toads and snakes and other creeping things. Or would Simon forgo the agony of a slow death and simply have her hanged?
Unable to concentrate on anything beyond the reality of Matthew Hart's trickery Margery mindlessly parroted her vows. Matt must never have intended to return for her, but how could that be? She thought back over his message, every word of which she'd memorized. 'I love thee... I'll not forsake thee... I will stop the wedding...'
What game were you playing? Why did you do this to me?
He'd seemed such an ardent suitor, so eager to have her as his leman. What had changed his mind?
No matter. The deed was done.
For when Margery left St. John Zachary, she was Dame Margery, wife to Simon Crull, master goldsmith and London's newly elected mayor.
* * *
As sunset painted the golden dome of St. Paul's Cathedral and London's other buildings an eerie red, Father Crispin arrived to bless the Crulls' chamber and their nuptial bed. Simon then ordered Margery to bathe.
"Call me when you are finished."
Sinking down on the sponges in the bottom of the wooden tub, Margery tried to sort through the day and a future course of action. She was attended by Orabel as her private maid, who while sympathetic, was also practical.
"He will die soon, dear heart," Orabel said, placing another kettle of water above the fire. "Then you'll be a rich widow and can do as you please. Count yourself lucky."
Margery nodded, though she had not been blessed with Orabel's practical nature. But she must learn if she were to survive—and survive she would. First of all, her marriage did make her a person of some consequence and she would use that power to the fullest. While she might be unable to outwardly rebel against her husband, didn't priests charge women with forever manipulating the opposite sex?
As the kettle heated, Orabel retrieved soap, a washing cloth and two jars containing herbs and flower petals for sweetening Margery's bath water, and arranged them on a tray beside the tub, which was tucked inside a tent of sheets.
"Do not look so sad. 'Twill soon be over." When Margery did not respond, she continued, "Beauty soon fades so use your looks to full advantage. Whether with the master or others, make the most of what you have. 'Tis all any of us can do."
Margery thought suddenly of her mother. I will do as you did. But I will also use my wits. Since Simon considers me stupid, I will have the advantage. Somehow...
Orabel sprinkled flower petals around her. Margery tried to relax but her mind soon leapt to visions of their marriage bed. Sitting forward in the tub, she brought her knees to her chest. "I cannot bear it," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
"He is not your knight," Orabel said gently, "but sometimes we must endure things we would rather not. And look what ye be gaining. I remember when you first came to London—"
"How can I ever lie quietly beneath him and allow him to befoul me with his seed? How could..." she wanted to ask how Matthew Hart could have so lied when he'd sworn in his letters he would arrive in time to stop the marriage, that nothing would deter him. But Orabel could not answer that or any other question regarding her perfidious lover.
"Lean back, dear heart, and I'll massage your scalp."
While Orabel's skilled fingers worked their magic, Margery closed her eyes and leaned into the soothing touch. She tried to keep her thoughts away from Matthew, but they had a way of tumbling back to him, to beds other than the one she would soon share with her odious groom, to his calloused hands and his soft lips and his muscular body fitting atop her, curve to curve... Aye, Matthew Hart was worse even than the serpent in paradise. He'd betrayed her as surely as the devil had betrayed Eve, whispering sweet words and promises that were naught but lies. Margery wished she were an actual witch so she could weave a dark enchantment causing her former lover to die a slow painful death.
But since that is not possible I will just pretend you are dead.
"More hot water?"
How could you have done this to me? I will never think of you again, NEVER. I will root you from my heart as if you were a noxious weed. Never. Never!
Orabel carefully poured the water so that she would not scald her new mistress. Margery leaned back, and gradually relaxed into the warmth, the rising steam. Her maid followed with a handful of herbs whose strong, pleasant aroma filled her nostrils. She found herself mentally sorting the identity of each individual herb, listing their properties and...
"Damme!" she whispered, sitting up straight. "I know what I am going to d
o." At least about Simon Crull.
"Pardon? Is something wrong?"
For the first time on her wedding day, Margery actually smiled.
* * *
After dismissing Orabel and while keeping an ear attuned to the arrival of her bridegroom, Margery sprinkled hyssop, rue, centaury, and other herbs into a ewer of wine. For years, she had been charged with taking care of her master's personal needs. She'd (unsuccessfully) treated his baldness with peach tree kernels bruised and boiled in vinegar until they become a paste thick enough to apply to his pate, and daily concocted a brew of essence of balm mixed in ale, designed (also unsuccessfully) to preserve youth. Before retiring Crull routinely drank a cup of wine to aid his digestion. Oft times he would list his current complaints and Margery would add whatever herbs she thought might alleviate them. Tonight she devised a mixture that should loosen Crull's bowels and render him impotent. While she knew little enough about male sexual problems, she had enough experience helping other members of the household to improvise. As Margery added an extra pinch of dittany, she prayed she wouldn't miscalculate or combine herbs that might have the opposite effect intended.
After readying the potion, she pulled a small table close to the fire and positioned two stools—one directly in front of the fireplace, the other farther back and at an angle. Retrieving a finely worked ivory comb—another gift from the usually parsimonious Crull—she sat in the stool nearest the flames so that, in silhouette, her chemise would reveal enough to entice her spouse. Hopefully, he would be so distracted that, should the wine taste peculiar, he would not notice.
Margery carefully worked the comb through her waist-length tresses.
I cannot do this. I do not want to be beautiful for Simon Crull.
But was he really any worse than Matthew Hart? Hart had been comely to look upon, but his heart was every bit as black. Simon Crull or Matthew Hart, it made no difference. Two sides to the same coin. She loathed them both.
When Crull entered the solar, he found a provocative scene with the flickering firelight revealing enticing curves and causing Margery's tresses to shimmer like spun gold.
"Come sit and watch." Margery forced a smile while gesturing to a nearby stool. She had a sudden image of her mother, carefully combing her hair in the smoking cottage light, fanning between her fingers each strand, delicate as cobwebs spun upon forest bracken.
Why did you leave me? She was not sure whether she was addressing Alice or Matthew.
A clearly mesmerized Simon sank down on the stool across from Margery and silently accepted a goblet of wine.
"I've added some herbs for nerves," she said. "'Twill relax us both."
As if unaware of Crull's stare, Margery returned to her ministrations, pausing occasionally to pretend to drink from her goblet, though she merely wet her lips.
How can I be here when 'tis my lord Hart who should be sitting across from me, knee to knee, close enough to caress my cheek and brush his lips against mine and run his fingers through my hair?
She thought of other times when just gazing into her lover's eyes had caused her every fiber to ignite and her head to swim until it could contain no thought other than that she must possess and be possessed, when the hunger for his body, for his very essence was nearly beyond endurance. My faithless lord...
Long minutes passed. A log cracked, sending sparks dancing up the chimney. The great bell of St. Martin's le Grand rang curfew, reminding Londoners that it was time to settle in like nesting chickens for the night. Boats would be moored along the Thames, watchmen would patrol the streets and strangers would scurry for city exits rather than be thrown into prisons as nightwalkers. The Shop of the Unicorn, with its endless passageways, stairs, and warren-like rooms, seemed even quieter than usual, as if the entire household had fled, or the building itself was waiting, listening, invisibly observing this unfolding tableau.
From the corner of her eye, Margery noted each time Simon picked up his goblet, each time he drank. So engrossed was he she doubted he even noticed how many times she'd re-filled his cup.
I could learn to enjoy this power...
Margery had a sudden flash of her mother singing an innocuous ditty in her slightly off-key voice. What songs had Alice sung? Words from a more recent, far darker refrain popped into Margery's mind:
"A sickly season," the merchant said,
"The town I left was filled with dead,
And everywhere these queer red flies
Crawled upon the corpses' eyes..."
Simon rose from the stool. Removing the comb from Margery's hand, he said, "Stand."
Reluctantly, she obeyed. Soon he will lead me to the marriage bed; soon I will have to...
"Remove your chemise," Simon said.
"Sir?"
"Remove it and let me look at you. It has cost me dear to wed a woman without dowry. I want to see whether 'twas worth it."
Mother Mary protect me! Of course, 'twas natural enough for people to sleep naked, but not to parade around so beforehand. What was wrong with her potion; why had it failed her?
"Do not hesitate, wife. A disobedient bride bodes poorly for the rest of the marriage. Hurry. I am eager to see you."
"I am shy. I would rather remain clothed."
"I don't care what you would rather do. Undress and be quick about it."
"'Tis brazen. As if I were a stroller." Her throat felt curiously thick. "I am a modest woman. No man has ever seen me naked."
A necessary lie, for she assumed Simon believed her to be a virgin. Margery had a sudden mental image of Matthew coming to her, smiling as he freed her hair, of the admiration in his eyes as he viewed her body. She turned her head away, so Crull could not see the sudden tears.
I will not cry over you. I will not mourn.
Simon drew himself to his full height, which was barely on a level with her and glared, as if evidence of his displeasure could intimidate her to compliance. Margery felt her temper rising, felt venomous words roiling to the surface. Let him imprison her. She would tell him the truth about Matthew and that she wasn't pure and he, pompous little man that he was, would be universally mocked—
"There are a few things you and I must sort between us." Crull slapped Margery across the face. "'Tis against all laws for you to disobey me. Do you understand?"
"Nay, I do not." His slap enraged far more than it hurt. "'Tis not a husband's duty to humiliate his wife. Furthermore—"
Simon clipped her with a closed fist, causing her head to snap back. This time it hurt.
"If you fail to immediately comply, I will do far worse. 'Tis within my rights to beat you."
Margery knew this was true. Even someone so impossibly ancient could inflict damage. By the morrow, her jaw would bear proof of that.
Simon drew back his arm, as if to hit her again.
Margery jerked the chemise over her head to stand naked before him. "Is that more to your liking?"
Simon inhaled sharply. For a moment she thought the potion might have taken effect, but realized his reaction came from excitement rather than illness. Embarrassment immediately replaced anger, and Margery sought to shield herself by balling the discarded chemise against her breasts.
"Do not be shy. Let me look at you."
When Margery did not comply, he placed his hands over hers, forcing her arms down until she stood revealed. Crull's eyes perused her length, followed by his fingers. He lifted the mane of hair from her breasts, weighing its thickness, marveling at its shine.
"I have never seen anything so fine, finer even than my silver or gold thread. 'Tis a shame 'tis not blonde, which would make it beyond compare. Would you enjoy being a blonde? I think even King Edward himself would then envy me my perfect spouse."
It took all the restraint Margery possessed to keep from jerking away from the goldsmith's touch.
I should have poisoned you. Next time, I swear by all that's holy, I will.
Simon Crull examined her as minutely as he did his necklaces and finge
r rings, as if calculating her worth. He ran his hands along her shoulders, her arms, her torso and down her thighs to her ankles, judging the size of her waist and breasts, the flatness of her stomach. Margery forced her expression to remain impassive, but she could not still her mind. This is the worst moment of my life. She heard Crull's labored breathing above the crackling flames, beyond the listening walls.
"I picked well. Gisla had drooping breasts and a stomach bloated as the udder of a milk cow. I despised her body."
Beads of sweat had formed on Crull's forehead. From lust or had the potion finally taken effect? He reached out, seemingly to touch her breasts, but abruptly stepped back and collapsed on his stool. As if trying to rid himself of some invisible irritation, Simon passed his hand across his forehead.
Suddenly he bolted for the garderobe.
"Get in bed and wait for me," he ordered before pushing back the tapestry and disappearing inside.
Scooping up her goblet, Margery hurried to the open window and tossed its contents. If Crull later thought to question the potion's contents, she could counter that she had drunk hers without effect.
Then she approached the marriage bed.
Jesu! I canna do this.
Margery could not bear to reach out, to test the feather mattresses for softness, to scoop up the rose petals scattered between the finely fashioned linen sheets and tear them apart in order to release their fragrance.
"I hate you, Matthew Hart," she whispered.
How could he have so betrayed her? How could she endure another man's touch, another man's lips when she had so loved curling her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck; loved trailing kisses along his chest, following the line of his stomach down to his groin, stroking and teasing him until he moaned with delight; loved Matthew's soft sigh each time he entered her, as if he'd finally come home and there was no place in the world he would ever find so welcoming...
Slipping into the impossibly narrow bed, Margery pulled the covers to her chin. Soon Simon Crull would settle beside her and there would be no way she could make herself small enough to keep her flesh from touching his.
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