A Child Upon the Throne

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "I am going mad," she whispered.

  At such times she would cross to the unshuttered window opening and gaze into the night, at the road passing beyond her cottage hedge, the masts of ships, darker than the dark itself, down by Fordwich's quay, and the bumpy blanket of treetops beyond new-ploughed fields. She would close her eyes and concentrate on the breeze blowing from the River Stour, willing it to cool her face, her fevered body. Sometimes she felt as if she were so hot she could be shaped like the iron in the blacksmith's forge, imagined Fulco running those great hands over her, molding her in whatever fashion pleased him.

  Night after night with no relief.

  So this is why priests call us insatiable.

  After a particularly restless even, Margery visited her grandmother. If anyone understood passion it would be Maria Rendell. But when Maria asked whether something was troubling her, Margery found herself unable to speak of it. She kept thinking that she needed to be on the road, to make certain that Fulco had not picked up and fled since yesterday.

  "I forgot I have an appointment at Aurum," she mumbled, rising from the bench. "I promise next time I will tell you everything." As if she could. As if there were words for something she herself didn't understand.

  Margery forced herself to return to her garden, which already needed weeding, and vowed she would NOT surrender to this compulsion. For one day at least she would stay away.

  And yet, by early afternoon her feet, as if of their own will, were hurrying her along the road to the north gate.

  I will not, I must not, she thought, even as she did.

  The day was unseasonably warm for the last day of April though, winter or summer, it was always hot inside St. Dunstan's.

  Once at the shop, she noted that Fulco and his partner were at the anvil. And that Fulco had removed his tunic. Other than his leather apron, his torso was completely bare, his legs covered only with braies, revealing calves that were as defined as his arms.

  Margery felt her jaw drop. Fulco's face and chest were covered with perspiration, causing his skin to glisten like dark silk. Once again strands of hair had snaked free from his thong and clung to his cheeks. His arms, fully displayed in all their glory, rose and fell. With each slamming of metal upon metal, sparks cascaded outward and upward.

  As if by unspoken agreement, Fulco and his partner laid down their tools to take a rest. An apprentice approached with a jug of ale. After his partner drank, Fulco tipped the jug back, showing the muscular arc of his throat as he emptied its contents.

  I must go, Margery thought, yet she remained rooted to the spot.

  Fulco handed the jug back to the apprentice, wiped his brow with his forearm and then very slowly, carefully, raised his great arms, loosed the thong at the nape of his neck, caught the strands of loose hair back in the leather string and carefully re-tied it. Margery found herself mesmerized. Something about his actions was so sensual, strong and yet gentle. Not gentle... deliberate. Jesu, to imagine such fingers touching her...

  And then Fulco turned to look directly at her, probing her with eyes black as the blackest night, and in their depths she saw a spark like those from his hammering, a spark that told her he desired her as she desired him. Their gazes locked. Her body felt as if it would burst into a flame so hot her bones, sinew, and flesh would immediately crumble to ash.

  Finally, Fulco picked up his giant sledge, squared his massive shoulders and returned to his work. Margery somehow found herself back on the street.

  I am no better than a bitch in heat. I AM a bitch in heat. Enough! I will return to London, she promised herself. Right after May Day.

  May Day.

  Tomorrow.

  * * *

  May was known as Mary's month so, in honor of Christ's mother, flower bouquets were regularly brought to holy places throughout the kingdom. But the first day of May was a different matter. Its origins dated back to pagan times and centered around fertility rites designed to guarantee bountiful harvests and fecund wombs. As usual the church put a religious patina over the ceremonies but a definite bacchanalian undercurrent ran throughout.

  At dawn, Fordwich's lads had chopped down a towering birch, stripped its branches—all save for plumes at the top which symbolized new life—and carried it to the village green. There the giant pole was painted, planted, and decorated with garlands of woodbine, hawthorn, and other flowers freshly woven by maidens, also up with the dawn. Long colored ribbons were fastened near the top and streamed down to the ground. It was not lost on anyone that a maypole resembled nothing so much as a great phallus thrusting toward the sky.

  While May Day catered primarily to the young, for it was they, after all, who would replenish the earth, Margery eagerly anticipated the festivities. Dressed in her most vibrant red kirtle—it was customary to wear one's brightest colors—she and Cicily walked from her cottage to the nearby green. A sizeable crowd had already gathered to crown the Queen and King of the May, who were making their way to their "thrones" before the maypole.

  Margery recognized Annie, the beekeeper from Tancrey Island, as queen.

  "But I've not seen the king," she commented, studying the lad, who was dressed all in green in remembrance of Jack in the Green, the woodland spirit who guarded England's forests.

  Cicily refrained from reminding her mistress that she had most certainly seen the young man—near daily—over the past month. "He's an apprentice from St. Dunstan's. He mainly works the pair of bellows."

  "Of course," Margery said vaguely, and her eyes swept the villagers, for the first of what would be many times, seeking Fulco. A part of her couldn't quite imagine him as existing apart from St. Dunstan's, and most likely he would celebrate at Canterbury. Still...

  No matter. Tomorrow I will be London bound, and Fulco the Smithy will be banished from my memory as thoroughly as Mother Church banishes heretics.

  At intervals throughout the day, two sets of maids, holding their colorful ribbons, wound their way, one group opposite the other, twining and untwining their streamers round the maypole. Then, to the accompaniment of a piper and later, musicians playing shawns and beating a tabor, the maids would repeat the ritual in a counter direction, skipping as they did so. After hours of drinking, their movements became more wanton, the gazes of the watching lads more desirous, their comments bolder.

  Perhaps it was the profane nature of May Day, but to Margery it seemed that the sexual tension was thick enough to taste. The continuous heat coursing through her veins could not be solely attributed to the warmth of the sun. Just as odd, she repeatedly experienced a prickling along the back of her neck, as if someone was watching her. Silly, of course. Among so many fresh-faced beauties, who would notice a middle-aged woman?

  With charming shyness, Queen Annie and King Hal held court over mummers, musicians, and performers as well as their subjects, Fordwich's townsfolk, who they could order about as they wished. Which they did sparingly for both blushed often and stammered the most timid of commands. When too overwhelmed, Annie had a tendency to cover her face and Hal to giggle nervously.

  How very young you are, Margery thought, feeling a protective tenderness toward them. With their shining eyes, dewy skin and open, eager smiles, they seemed little more grown than Serill. So, by contrast, why do I not feel so very, very old?

  Mayhap it was because she could dance, sing, drink, and flirt as much as she pleased. Mayhap it was because after today she would be shed of her obsession and her world returned to its rightful place. That would be no small thing, to be rid of her imaginary lover.

  Margery threw herself into the festivities, even caroling with Fordwich's mayor and other local dignitaries. By late afternoon she knew she'd downed too many mazers of ale and was contemplating returning to her cottage for a nap. Somewhere along the way she'd picked up a garland of woodbine. Carefully, a bit over-elaborately, she wrapped her fingers between the delicate yellow, pink and orange petals so that she wouldn't crush them. She considered placing the wreath on
her head, but even with her limbs—and her thoughts–loosened from alcohol she reminded herself that garlands were meant for the young and unmarried, whose hair was allowed to fall free.

  Margery lifted the circlet to her nose and inhaled. Woodbine's scent was strongest around dusk, which was swift approaching. What did its fragrance remind her of? Summer and sunshine. Baby lambs and calves and foals trailing their mothers. Birdsong. Barefoot strolls beside hedgerows where the plant had a way of creeping among the hawthorn, blackthorn and hazel shrubbery until it spilled over in a riot of color reminiscent of swarms of butterflies.

  She felt it, the ancient pagan pull. The harrowing and seeding of Mother Earth. The harrowing and seeding of lovers. Already couples were stealing off to the privacy of the nearby woods.

  Sunset bloomed, then faded, leaving a lingering stain on the horizon. Many of the elders had begun heading homeward. Margery drifted to the outskirts of the thinning crowd. The lightheadedness from the ale had begun to dissipate, though she swayed and hummed along with a group of carolers who were dancing and singing near the maypole.

  How lovely they were in their first blooming—the broad- shouldered lads and the pink-cheeked maids with their unbound tresses shimmering softly in the dying light.

  While we proper women have our hair hidden behind our wimples, gorgets, cauls and coifs. All trussed up like dinner partridges.

  Priests thundered that only Jezebels allowed their hair down or their ears to be uncovered in public. Since the Blessed Mother had conceived through her ear, thereby retaining her virginity, removing one's headdress in public was brazenly advertising that the offender was a whore.

  Aye. Even so, Margery Watson, this May Day's even, did something so contrary to propriety that, had any of those imaginary priests been watching, they would have gasped in outrage.

  She undid her crespine and let down her hair.

  Bending from the waist, Margery flipped her tresses in front of her, ran her hands through their thickness, raised up, shook them loose and tossed her head back until her curls cascaded free to her shoulders, her arms, down her back, all the way to her waist. After pushing her hair behind her ears so they would have been exposed for all the world to see, she placed the garland firmly atop her head.

  And laughed.

  Suddenly that sensation of being watched returned, stronger than ever. Margery froze, then slowly turned full circle.

  No one.

  To her left was a copse which ended at the banks of the River Stour. In the increasingly poor light, she couldn't distinguish much beyond the sketchiest of outlines. Near the trees the grass, thick with wildflowers, was particularly abundant. Stepping closer, she peered into the shadows.

  Nothing.

  Ah, well. She shrugged and bent down to pluck several flowers which she absently wove into her hair.

  What a peculiar day this has been.

  A sudden cheering from the vicinity of the maypole signaled that the bonfire had been lit. Tradition held that the fire would cleanse and purify the land in anticipation of summer's arrival, as well as increase fertility. But for Margery, the leaping flames could only mean one thing: Fulco the Smithy.

  Will it ever be thus? she wondered, experiencing a sudden melancholy. That every time I gaze into a hearth fire or even strike flint to steel I will be cursed to think of you?

  Church bells began ringing, calling out Vespers, reminding all to pause, give thanks for the day past and gird themselves against the dangers of the descending darkness.

  Margery sighed. Time to return home. Tomorrow she would have to pack and her maid, who'd also drunk and danced in a most un-Cicily like fashion, would be nursing a throbbing head, and in a sullen mood...

  From the copse she heard a nightingale's song. Then the whisper of something closer, what? Sensing a presence behind her, she started to turn. Almost immediately, someone grabbed her around the waist and pulled her tight against him. Margery gasped and reached down to claw away the stranger's hands. But, when she registered their size, the thickness of fingers and roughness of skin, she recognized her "assailant." Instantly her body responded; her every nerve ending ignited. Fulco the Smithy held her even more fiercely, his body as strong and unyielding as a rock, so that she could feel every inch of him.

  Margery inhaled sharply and shifted position. Fulco eased his grip enough so that she could twist to face him. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and allowed his lips to find hers, to crush them with the strength of his desire. And hers. For she responded fully, as desperate as he to be sated.

  Fulco pulled her into the densest part of the copse. As if by magic they'd both shed themselves of their clothing and he was atop her. His hair, freed of its leather restraint, curtained his face. Held captive by his gaze she felt as if she were falling, falling, as if this man could truly lead her to the inferno at the core of the earth. Where they would both be immolated in its flames.

  And she would welcome it all. Anything. Everything.

  She experienced such a hunger; an elemental craving to be possessed by him. And, oh, his body, as flawless as if it had been forged by the gods. There was little thought and no speech beyond moans and gasps as Fulco had his way with her and she with him. None of it seemed quite real and yet her senses were preternaturally heightened. She was aware of the grasses beneath her; the rippling of his shoulder muscles as her fingertips dug into them; their panting, which sounded like that of two spent animals. The prickling of his chest hair; his iron thighs against her own; the brush of his hair against her face and breasts as he moved downward to explore her body.

  Margery's need was too great. She buried her fingers in his mane and pulled him back up so that her lips were once again against his, then reached down to guide him inside. He claimed her with a thrust of such violence that tears sprang to her eyes and she cried out. In pain. In exultation. In completion.

  Too soon it was over.

  But then, a lifetime would not be enough.

  After their breathing slowed, they lay on their backs in the darkness, their arms and legs still touching.

  She stared through the leafy canopy, feeling her heart gradually calm, the air cool her fevered body.

  What had just happened? She couldn't fathom it. Her grandmother often spoke of the sun and the moon. Light and dark. But Maria's Phillip had been nothing like this. Fulco was the dragon in Beowulf; the lord of the underworld.

  "Who are you?" She could feel the questions forming. "How have you done this to me?" Mayhap they should speak, reason through what was clearly unreasonable, attempt to make sense of a circumstance completely beyond her ken.

  Margery shifted to face him, and rested on an elbow so that she could gaze upon him. Fulco's arms were behind his head and he was looking up through a lattice of branches to the heavens. Stars pricked the velvet darkness. She could smell the smoke from the bonfire, the sweetness from the crushed garland and flowers that had fallen from her hair. Most powerfully, she could smell him—the scent of new sweat and his passion, more faintly the acrid tang of coal fire and even more faintly something else, something almost sweet. Cinnamon? Whatever it was, the combination triggered a fresh rush of desire.

  "Fulco," she whispered.

  He shifted so that they were on a level and laid a finger to her lips, silencing her. He knew. He understood her doubts, her fears, her wonderings, her need, all of it without speaking.

  Margery felt herself surrender. For it was no use. He would take her, she knew not where, only that she would willingly follow. She opened her mouth and slipped his calloused finger inside. His lips curved upward and his eyes drew her back into that place where words were unneeded.

  Once again Fulco stretched himself atop her. All the while their eyes remained locked so that they could measure every caress, every pleasure, every new sensation, every wash of emotion as it was experienced by the other.

  This time when they parted, Fulco pulled her to him, his front to her back, and started r
unning his fingers over her, as if imprinting her curves on his fingertips. As if he were creating her as he created his pieces, only not with his tools, but with his touch. She placed her hand over his so that she might follow it as he traced her. She felt the softest whisper of his breath against her neck, and something broke inside. Was it all those years when she'd shuttered her heart against the pain of a dying relationship, pretending that it did not hurt, telling herself that she and her lover could survive if only she could reach the place where she felt nothing at all?

  Margery had no idea how long she and Fulco remained in the copse. Only that the field around them grew still save for the occasional lament of the nightingale and the rustling from invisible forest creatures. In the distance, the bonfire had burned down to a soft glow.

  Finally, Fulco pulled her to her feet. She'd only partially dressed and bundled the rest of her clothes in her arms since her walk would be a short one.

  So, here it was, an ending that must be a disappointment. For what could be said after such an experience? Yet, how could they simply walk away, continue on with life as it was before? When Margery knew, at least for her, life could never be anything like before.

  She gazed up at him. Though she could not possibly be feeling sadness, her vision blurred.

  Fulco cradled his great hands on either side of her tangled mass of hair and whispered one word.

  "Tomorrow."

  Chapter 12

  Fordwich

  "Do you think 'tis possible to desire someone to the point of madness?"

  Maria Rendell's eyebrows lifted. She studied her granddaughter, who, with her high color and shining eyes, did not appear mad but rather unusually healthy.

  "Aye, I do." Maria's fingers curled over the arms of her throne-like chair which had been plumped with cushions and positioned to catch the cross currents from various tower windows. Colorful wall tapestries, most depicting scenes from Arthurian romances, stirred in the breeze.