A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Desire brushed against Matthew, and stroked his arm with her fingertips. "I know first-hand what a connoisseur of women you are. So tell me, how do you consider me, m'lord?"

  "Do not hang on me so. I mislike it."

  Desire smiled and obligingly removed her arm. Let Matthew Hart be irritable. In a few weeks' time she had advanced her cause further than she would have thought possible. And she expected to advance it still more before evening's end. Days ago, Brian Goldman had sent word from the Shop of the Unicorn of the Crulls' return, and of their attendance at tonight's banquet. Confronted by the reality of Margery's marriage, seeing husband and wife together on the dais should be an image Matthew would carry for years to come. And should he begin to forget, she would be at his side to remind him.

  * * *

  Margery had never seen a hall so large or lovely as Kennington's. Nearly ninety feet long and fifty feet wide, it was faced with Reigate stone and decorated with brightly painted statues. A fireplace graced each wall and the floors were covered with glazed tiles, some fired with Prince Edward's arms. Several sets of the prince's tapestries, which he carried from household to household, covered the walls. Torches flickered in iron holders, in fiery wheels overhead. Laughter and conversation floated above the smoke, the sounds of lutes, flutes, and castanets, shawns and trumpets. 'Twas a dramatic change from these past two months on the road, sleeping in lice ridden beds or enduring countless hospitals where accommodations consisted of straw-covered pavement shared with dozens of unwashed pilgrims.

  Margery and her husband had begun at Westminster Abbey, where Crull had placed his waxen image before Edward the Confessor's shrine and implored the saint to cure his impotency. Then they'd left London for the hinterlands. Simon had prostrated himself before the bones of St. Swithun and Waltham's cross of black marble, and at Glastonbury, where Joseph of Arimathea had received the Holy Grail from an apparition of Jesus before travelling to Britain to found its church.

  Margery no longer feared hell; these past months she'd experienced it. She had spent every hour of every day with her fussy, doddering, dithering husband and swarms of irritatingly pious pilgrims. How many times had she heard breathlessly recited tales of blind men whose sight had been restored and of withered limbs made whole; how pleas to Thomas Becket had cured one man's leprosy and how Richard, Bishop at Chichester, had enabled a mute man to speak. Margery didn't believe any of it. If praying really caused miracles, Simon Crull would have been dead their first day out.

  The Crull pilgrimage had culminated at Walsingham, which boasted a bejeweled statue of the Virgin that leaked milk from its breast. Walsingham was second in popularity only to Canterbury where Thomas Becket had been murdered and where his burial chapel attracted pilgrims from Europe and beyond. In Walsingham's Virgin's Chapel, resplendent with its gold and precious stones, Simon had purchased a pardon that erased all his sins. Thus cleansed, he declared they could return to London.

  Once home, Simon's virility remained an intermittent problem but Margery pretended all was well. If he could not perform his duties he might spirit her away on another pilgrimage, a terrifying prospect. She could be thankful for one change, however. At one of the cathedrals—Winchester, if memory served—a priest had helpfully suggested that instead of sleeping naked, Simon might wear a chemise ca joule, which was a nightshirt with a strategically placed hole designed to minimize pleasure during intercourse. While staring at Margery, the priest had speculated that perhaps Simon had angered God by taking too much pleasure in servicing his wife.

  Of course Crull blamed Margery for his sexual shortcomings. After their presence had been requested at Prince Edward's Kennington Palace fête, he had said, "'Twill be our first official appearance as man and wife. I expect you to do me honor but with your common looks, 'twill be impossible."

  So he'd hired a personal maid, Williamina, skilled in the art of cosmetics, to pluck Margery's eyebrows and hairline in order to widen her forehead—after the fashion of ladies—and apply charcoal to her eyes and cochineal paste to her lips. Simon instructed Williamina to dye his wife's hair a shade indistinguishable from that of a dandelion. Margery hated its color, as she hated the alien face that stared back at her when she could not ignore her reflection.

  Tonight, as Margery took her place at the dais, she studied the dress of all the other ladies in the great hall and embarrassment further reddened her already artificially stained cheeks. From her gown's white marbled silk embroidered with scarlet roses to its enormously long train, Margery's clothing was forbidden to a woman of her station. Sumptuary laws, proclaimed by criers in county courts and public assemblies, detailed exact gradations of fabric, color, fur trimmings, ornaments and jewels for every rank and income level—and Margery broke them all. Only Joan of Kent was clothed more extravagantly; only Queen Philippa wore more jewels.

  Wine was poured, grace said and, with a flurry of trumpets, the banquet began. Margery quickly scanned the U-shaped tables below the dais: lords and ladies more brilliant than the jewels in Simon Crull's locked box, liveried servants scurrying hither and yon. She began to relax. Among all these exalted personages, no one would give a thought to the mayor's wife, no matter what she wore.

  Soon, Margery gave herself over to the meal, though she did not again let her gaze drift beyond the dais. For certes, there was enough right here to command her attention. She had never been so close to so many members of the royal family, who, according to mythology, were descended from Satan himself. Could that be true? Everyone knew the legend of the Plantagenets, of how the line's founder, Count Fulke the Black, had returned to Anjou following a mysterious journey in which he'd found himself the world's most beautiful bride. In the fullness of time, his wife bore Fulke four perfect children. However, she had some peculiarities, chief among them being her refusal to attend mass. Which was hardly surprising. For when the count forced her to attend, the countess had screamed an unholy scream upon the priest's elevation of the host, flown into the air and disappeared out the chapel window, nevermore to be seen. Only then did Count Fulke realize that the mother of his children was not flesh and blood but Melusine, daughter of the devil.

  Margery studied the king and his progeny for outward signs of evil, though she suspected the Plantagenet legend contained about as much truth as pilgrims' blatherings. Each of Edward's sons had been blessed with a comely countenance, though Prince Edward and John of Gaunt were by far the most striking. Of course, there was no mistaking England's king. Although Edward III was five decades old, 'twas obvious from his erect bearing and authoritative manner that he easily wore the cloak of power. Despite the fact that one eye had a tendency to droop and he insisted on an unfashionably long forked beard, His Grace possessed a winning smile and a charming way of cocking his head and gazing into his wife's eyes.

  King Edward and Queen Philippa were seated beneath a velvet canopy. As they conversed, Philippa would sometimes reach out and pat her husband's arm in a motherly gesture. Were they commiserating on the loss of their two daughters in the latest plague? Even in the happiness of the moment, even in their obvious pleasure at Prince Edward's wedding, they must be mourning. Margery studied the queen more carefully, as if she could see her loss, but Philippa's strong pleasant face bore an unfailingly placid expression. In different circumstances Margery might have mistaken her for a burgher's wife, chatting with other matrons about the price of bread or the quality of the clothing available in Threadneedle Street.

  Halfway through the first course, Margery counted fifteen dishes with more to come. Never had she seen so much food, though she found herself drinking far more than she ate. Repeatedly, her attention drifted to Edward of Woodstock and his bride. Some said that the Black Prince was thus named because of his ruthlessness toward his enemies, but seeing the soft looks he bestowed upon his bride, he looked more like a besotted teen.

  A love match. Margery reached once more for the loving cup she shared with her husband. Priests and bishops will be clucking t
heir tongues over this one.

  From the way Edward and Joan conversed, their lingering touches, it was clear that for them the world beyond them did not exist.

  'Tis the way it is with all lovers, she thought, willing herself not to remember...

  A blast of trumpets announced the second course. Jongleurs wandered the hall singing or playing their instruments. Margery kept her eyes on the dais or on her folded hands.

  Simon Crull leaned against her shoulder. "Eat your venison. Do not drink so much."

  Margery shrugged him off. For the first time she allowed her gaze to scan the guests at the U-shaped tables on either side of the dais. How many dined in Kennington Hall? Hundreds surely, though, with their hair coverings and uniformly dazzling dress, it was hard to distinguish one from the other. But without a doubt, somewhere among the press, would be Matthew Hart. He would never miss the wedding celebration of his liege lord.

  Margery's fingers grasped the stem of the loving cup so tightly her knuckles turned white. All this night she'd had to force herself to keep from searching for him. It wasn't drink that suddenly made her feel lightheaded.

  Where are you? Will you be bedecked in rings and jewels and arrayed like a peacock? Who will be your dinner companion? The woman with whom you betrayed me?

  Then she spotted him, as she knew she would. A pair of pages set a huge silver tray containing a roasted pig at one of the middle tables, before a lady with dark eyes and raven black hair—and Matthew Hart.

  Unconsciously, Margery leaned forward. So long she had imagined this moment and how she would react. Now, she made no effort to keep from staring, as if careful scrutiny might reveal the reason for Matthew's treachery.

  "If 'tis not love I feel, 'tis something fine," he had said. He had promised he would not forsake me.

  Here amidst the noise and laughter and music, Margery felt such a sudden, aching loneliness. For once she wished she could be like her husband and revel in the outward trappings of success rather than be swallowed up by her own miseries.

  The black-haired woman with the slanting eyes leaned against Matthew's shoulder and whispered in his ear. Margery saw Matt smile. It did not take a soothsayer to know they two were lovers.

  So she is the one for whom you forsook me. But how had that happened, in a handful of days?

  Matthew had seemed so sincere. But he'd not returned and he'd never sent one word of explanation or regret. What other conclusion could she draw but there was someone else—or that he'd simply been playing with her heart?

  Margery mechanically tore a hunk of bread into smaller and smaller pieces, until they dropped like tiny blossoms into her soup. She imagined the woman's black tresses snaking across her ivory breasts as Matthew stood above her, admiring her nakedness. Conjuring a vision of their lovemaking—and she forced herself to imagine it all from beginning to end—an ache lodged in her throat until she could not swallow.

  Did not I always say knights brought naught but pain? Why did I not listen to my head rather than my heart?

  * * *

  A round of sweetened spice wine was served with wafers, fruit and cheese signaling the end of the banquet. Following a final grace and handwashing, guests awaited the removal of tables so that the formal entertainment could begin.

  Desire turned to Matthew. "You must promise you'll dance with me, m'lord." She maneuvered him toward the minstrel's gallery where she'd seen Margery Watson standing with her husband.

  "Ask Harry. You know I am the worst dancer at court. Lady Joan threatened to have me banished from the floor."

  "Harry is as poor a dancer as you. Only he thinks he's good, which makes him even worse."

  Matthew stopped to speak to another member of Prince Edward's retinue. Outwardly curbing her impatience, Desire waited. She could not believe her lover's obtuseness. Despite Margery Watson's changed appearance, Desire had recognized her hours ago. And the goldsmith's wife had certainly spotted them. If the creature's mouth had gaped open any wider she could have trapped a bird.

  So, here they were, everyone together. Time to manipulate a meeting of the former sweethearts in order to facilitate a final confrontation.

  "My lord, to whom is the Duke of Lancaster speaking? Over there." John of Gaunt was exchanging pleasantries with Crull and his wife.

  Matthew glanced in the direction of Desire's pointing finger before shrugging and returning to his conversation.

  It was a puzzle how someone so remarkably inattentive could even survive one pass in battle. Desire tugged at Matthew's arm, but quickly released her grip when he fixed her with a warning look. Not for the first time did Desire think that the phantom lover of her imaginings was falling far short in reality. For one thing, Matthew Hart had absolutely no fashion sense. While the other lords strutted about in tight fitting cotehardies and breeches, Matt wore a long, shapeless over gown which effectively hid the one thing that did surpass her fantasies—the finest body she'd ever bedded. And, not only was he sullen and morose, his lovemaking was half-hearted, as if he were somewhere else–or wished he were somewhere else.

  At that moment, Harry Hart appeared. "There's a cockfight near the stables, brother. Would you like to attend?"

  Desire had had enough. "Do you know that woman, m'lord?" she said, addressing Matthew. "She keeps staring at you."

  Once Matthew recognized Margery—if he ever would—he would feel even more betrayed. A new appearance, a rich husband, an exalted position. Tonight might also be a propitious moment for Simon Crull to become cognizant of his wife's fornication. Immediately following the wedding Desire had planned to contact the goldsmith and give him all of Matthew's intercepted letters plus her version of events, but had been thwarted by the pilgrimage. Once Mayor Crull understood that he'd been cuckolded, he would keep the pair separated without help from her.

  Following Desire's pointing finger, both Matthew and Harry studied Margery.

  Matt shook his head. "Nay, I've never seen her."

  Harry said, "She looks familiar though I can't place her."

  Desire sighed inwardly. "Are you certain? Look closely. Please."

  Matthew noted that the woman's clothes were of the finest quality, and fitted her form to perfection. The low cut bodice revealed enticing breasts. Her hair, caught on either side of her ears in a caul, was a brassy yellow; her face, 'neath artfully supplied makeup, was hauntingly seductive.

  The woman raised her gaze to look directly into Matthew's eyes. Something clicked.

  "God's blood!" he whispered. "Meg?"

  Forgetting Desire and Harry, Mathew jostled aside several couples in order to reach her. Margery made no effort to move, but rather deliberately positioned herself so that her back was to him.

  Matthew jerked her around. "What have you done to yourself? Look at you. Is that why you married that goldsmith? So you could look like a Flemish whore?" Mindful of others, of creating a scene, he kept his voice low.

  "Get away from me." Seeing him with another woman, seeing the anger in his eyes—as if he dared!—Margery understood how easy it would be to commit the sin of murder.

  Crull and another alderman had their heads bent in intense conversation, something about the price of wool, a safe distance away but Margery had enough presence of mind to refrain from creating a public disturbance. Rather she shook off Matthew's grip and strode away in the opposite direction, thinking to hide in one of the alcoves or plead sickness or commandeer a carriage to return her to the Shop.

  "We are going to talk." Matthew said, catching up to her. "You will explain your treachery."

  "You are a fine one to speak of treachery." Aye, if she had a dagger she'd bury it in Matthew Hart's gullet.

  "'Twill be easier to forget you now. I remember a far different Margery Watson. But that was probably a chimera as well. 'Tis obvious I never knew you at all. "

  Margery's heart pounded so loudly in her ears she could scarce hear his traitorous words. "I trusted you. You promised you would not forsake me, but you di
d. 'Tis you who are to blame for my marriage, as you well know, so do not play the part of wounded lover with me."

  Matthew was aware of a lull in surrounding conversation, of curious stares. He drew her to him as if they were sweethearts and said against her ear, "Why DID you wed him? Did you think to have me until his wife conveniently died and he offered you marriage? Did you have so little faith in me that you thought to grab a certainty rather than a promise? Or was it because you were sleeping with him all along, and were pregnant with his child?"

  Margery's vision went dark. Mindless of impropriety, she tried to smash her fist against his chest, though he caught her arm in mid-air.

  "How could you speak such blasphemy? Do you think I would willingly go to bed with Simon Crull? How could you have had so little faith in me?"

  "Quiet, Meg, unless you seek to draw as much attention with your manners as your dress." He kept his hand around her wrist and pulled her as close as if they were indeed lovers, or he was about to draw her to the floor for dancing, which had begun.

  "Where were you? Why did you not come? I prayed so hard you would..."

  Around them couples were departing the sidelines for the middle of the hall where Prince Edward and his bride were leading the carol.

  "I have loved all this past year

  So that I may love no more," sang the dancers as they sedately circled.

  "I still cannot believe you'd marry him." Matthew's breath was hot against her, maddening her in its dangerous softness. As if he were whispering endearments rather than words of betrayal. "I was so eager to care for you I couldn't wait to see you, and then I find out you're married and I'm left looking like some lovesick fool."'

  "Spare me your false indignation. You know the only reason I married Crull was because you did not return for me—"

  "But I did. I followed your instructions even when I did not agree with them. You told me not to return until Michaelmas—"

  "Liar! You promised you'd return immediately and I believed you. Up until the moment I said my vows. Is your dinner companion the reason you stayed in Cumbria? Do you desire her that much?"