'A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;'
Maria closed her eyes. She was becoming disoriented. She had to think where she was.
I have not danced in a very long time.
Her limbs had grown heavy. She should see if she could lift them but it was too much trouble. With great effort she managed to open her eyes.
Where am I? Oh, aye, in my chamber.
No, that wasn't right. In the apartment on London bridge, awaiting Richard's arrival. Wasn't he angry at his brother the king?
But Edward II is dead. All our Edwards are dead...
Isn't it night? But 'tis so bright. And how can mere humans look so radiant, as if they are not flesh and blood but angels?
Maria watched them approach, watched as one separated from the others to approach. She remembered that walk, but it wasn't quite the same; she couldn't quite place the difference.
Then he was at her side.
How odd. So very far away, she heard a dog howling. But it was so faint, like the hum of an insect...
Maria gazed up at him. His face and form were so wondrously brilliant her eyes should be dazzled, but the light was somehow soothing.
He reached out his hand, as if asking her to accompany him in a roundel.
"My lord," she whispered. "I am so happy to see you." She paused to listen, rejoicing in that voice she'd so missed all these many years. "Aye, it has been such a very, very long time."
Chapter 16
Fordwich, July 1380
Margery Watson leaned out her bedroom window and waved to Oliver of Tutbury as he paused on the cottage step to gaze up at her.
"Bon soir, ma belle," Oliver called before turning to leave. "Sleep well and dream of me."
Margery knew the young knight was disappointed to receive nothing more than a kiss and perfunctory parting embrace. Sometimes she wondered whether all her inner heat had burned out with the departure of Fulco, for she'd not been stirred by any man, not even on this particular summer's night so ripe with sweet promise. Certainly not with Oliver Tutbury. Such a pretty boy he was, hardly a man at all. Since their meeting at this year's Cherry Fair, he'd embarked on something of a courtship, for marriage to a wealthy widow—with noble blood, no less—was an acceptable match for a second son. So far Margery had allowed him to sit at her feet and woo her with the usual love songs. In a moment of weakness, she'd even removed his cap and buried her fingers in his dark hair, though it had been another black-haired man she'd been imagining.
Remaining at the window, Margery breathed in the lush air, the fragrance from the flowers below. Only the chirruping of insects and trill of a nightingale stirred the silence. A full moon, warm as amber, inched its way across the liquid blackness of a sky devoid of stars. Canterbury's lights glowed on the horizon; the narrow roadway spun in a dark ribbon past her cottage. Margery could see, in all its glory, the copse where she and Fulco had lain together. She shivered in remembrance, as she had shivered when he'd touched her. Madness. But what sweet madness! They'd been playing with fire in every sense, and she did not regret it, not a minute. Oliver of Tutbury, any man—save one and she didn't want to think about him—was so anemic in comparison. Why even bother?
Since Cicily had departed for London to care for an ailing grandchild, the cottage was quiet. Margery stepped away from the window to a small chest beside her bed. Absently, she loosed the pins from her hair, shook it free and picked up her comb, ignoring the missive next to it.
She thought of her grandmother, resting beside her husband within the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, and wished she could seek Maria's wise counsel.
"I do miss you, Grandmere," Margery whispered, though she chastised herself for her selfishness. For when Maria had been discovered with her faithful Canis stretched out stiff beside her, her maids had enthusiastically described their lady's expression as "blissful." Soon after, the usual talk of sainthood and miracles had circulated. But when Margery imagined her grandmother, she was strolling in some rather foggy version of paradise, arm in arm with her sun and her moon.
Happy and not to be bothered.
Replacing her comb on the chest, Margery picked up the nearby letter. A retainer wearing the Hart livery had delivered it yestermorn. The message had been direct: Matthew Hart had returned from Cumbria and wished to see her.
A pox on you, my fine lord, she'd thought after reading it once, then twice, and yet a third time. She'd picked her way through its contents, studying it as intently as she would her star chart. As if its message would reveal a deeper truth with as much accuracy as the heavens revealed one's fate.
She ran a finger over the seal. If only that simple act could provide some clue beyond its writer's terseness, when all it did was cause her heart to flutter like a captured bird's.
What were you doing in Cumbria, withdrawing from your duties to your liege lord and your kingdom? Brooding, drinking, wenching, throwing yourself into the role of overlord, whatever that means in that uncivilized place?
She remembered what Matthew's sister had said about her brother being "alone." Had he become a hermit? Or a ferryman, for Matthew often talked about that great lake, Windy something. She imagined him ferrying travelers across a vast expanse of choppy waters, though that did not seem an occupation that would interest the man she knew. Or thought she knew.
Regardless, whatever Matthew Hart had been doing, he'd had no problem wiping her out of his thoughts as easily as chalk from a writing slate. Not a word in two years. It was true they'd officially ended their relationship, but she was still the mother of his son, still his long-time leman. He might have shown better manners.
And now here he was, as if he had a right. How dare he think he could just pop his head out like a mole from its burrow and expect her to clap her hands in joy.
When what I'd like to do is chop your head off with a garden hoe.
Margery picked up a small wooden robin beside the letter and the comb. Following his return from his first campaign, on the heels of Edward the Black Prince's glorious victory at Poitiers, Matthew had given her the bird. She'd tucked it away so long ago she'd had to hunt to find it. Yet hunt she had and here it was.
The robin's once bright breast, with the chipping away of paint, had been reduced to a scarlet prick. She ran her thumb over its smooth surface, which felt as warm as if it were indeed alive. She'd once considered the trinket her talisman but what had it protected her from? Not heartache and tears, surely.
Tomorrow I'll bury it in my garden or throw it in the Stour.
Closing her eyes, Margery pictured Matthew as he'd been when he'd presented his gift. So young, so virile, so over-brimming with confidence.
How impossibly innocent we were...
Margery's thoughts drifted back, from the first time she'd glimpsed him in the fens, ordering her to "Come out," to their first kiss; their sweet days and nights together when each was enough for the other; their shared creation of Serill; Matthew's physical strength, the feeling of safety she'd always experienced in his presence. That Matthew Hart fitted himself perfectly into every part of her soul.
But the other Matthew? She'd not forgotten his blindness to the faults of his kind or his black moods, which had sucked her down along with him. Matthew Hart meant Limoges and war and violence and death. Sometimes a lifetime of experiences meant that you must drive a stake in a relationship the way you would the heart of a heretic before burying him at a crossroads. So that he could never roam again to terrorize and torment and destroy...
Enough.
Thinking to close the shutters, Margery returned to the window. While leaning out to grasp the latch, she spotted a man on horseback headed in her direction along the otherwise deserted road.
Odd, at this hour. Perhaps it was Bobby Carter returning from the George and Dragon. But he would be afoot. Oliver? He seemed too indolent a suitor to decide to press his case so quickly after she'd rebuffed him. Perhaps a lone priest or someone headed to Fordwi
ch Castle? But few traveled alone after dark.
Oh, well.
Margery closed the shutter and sank down upon her bed. In the flickering candle flame, the hart's seal glistened like a splotch of blood against the parchment.
She rested her head in her hands.
How dare you think to upend my life again?
After a few restless minutes, Margery departed her bedroom and descended the stairs, her bare feet slapping softly on the wooden boards, her unbound hair brushing against the back of her chemise. Sometimes when she couldn't sleep, when she felt an impatience with what increasingly seemed like an impossibly well-ordered life, she would sit on her rough wooden bench among her flowers until the moment passed.
After exiting the cottage, she opened the gate leading to the backside and eased onto the crude bench. She inhaled deeply of the perfumed air, imagined it settling upon her like a lover. Lovey, her cantankerous gander, her chickens, her bees in their skep, were all settled in for the night. The area was blessedly still.
Why did you have to write? Why could you not have let things be?
The clopping of horse's hooves grew louder. Soon the stranger would pass on his way... where? It did not matter. She could not see him nor he her. She was safe and protected, here in the dark.
The clopping ceased. She heard the creak of leather as the rider dismounted in front of her cottage door.
It must be Oliver Tutbury.
Annoyed, she rose and moved toward the front of the cottage. The candle's glow leaking from between the bedroom shutters cast a few narrow bars upon the grass, but it was easy enough to remain hidden. She would be able to see the interloper without being seen. She'd not answer the door, and in a future meeting, if Tutbury mentioned his return, she would chastise him for his disrespect. "I was asleep," she'd say. "I did not hear you."
Margery peeked around the corner, expecting to see the young knight.
"By the rood!" she breathed. "What is he doing here?"
For she'd recognize Matthew Hart anywhere, no matter how uncertain the light. He'd said nothing in his letter of paying a call in the dead of night.
She found herself shaking, though she was sure it was not with excitement.
Oh! This would not do. She cast about for a place to hide. If she stayed in the shadows he would eventually go away.
Matthew approached the door, which she noticed with sinking heart, had been left open.
"Meg?" he called, stepping into the doorway.
There was no getting around it. She'd just have to face the unpleasantness.
She addressed him from the shadows. "Go away! I do not wish to see you."
He spun around in surprise, then stepped in her direction, pausing after opening the side gate until his eyes adjusted. Margery was grateful that darkness would hide her expression, which she was certain registered nothing save disdain. She could see him well enough in the moonlight, however, and with that one swift appraising glance she noted that he was not the same troubled man who had fled London, more's the pity.
Matthew approached her. Margery stayed in shadow.
"Do not," she said. He stopped, though too close for her liking. Raising her chin, she stepped back. "You are not welcome here."
"I realize the hour is late, but you knew I would not forever stay away. I have been impatient—"
"It does not matter the hour, whether 'tis midnight or noon. The point is you are never welcome in my cottage or in my life, so off with you."
Matthew seemed more amused than upset. "I've long anticipated our reunion; I'd hoped for something more pleasant."
She snorted. "What reunion? 'Tis not as if you'd gone off to battle and are coming home to your lover. Which I am no longer."
"Might we discuss this inside? I would not have everyone from here to Canterbury eavesdropping on our business."
"If you think to pretend that these past two years did not occur, that you can just barge back into my life you are truly mistaken."
He reached out as if to draw her toward the front door. "Meg—"
Margery doubled her fist and hit him in his jaw with all her strength. Caught off guard, Matthew reeled back.
Margery scurried past him, thinking to slam the door and bar it against him.
He caught her arm and spun her to face him.
"You have a strong hand, Meg," he said, rubbing his jaw. "You'd make a passable fighter."
"Be gone or I'll do it again."
"I guess I do not have to question whether you are angry with me..."
"I took a lover," she said breathlessly. "And I'm not sorry."
How childish she sounded, like a child tattling on a playmate. But there it was. No man would want his property despoiled by another.
Be shocked and horrified and be gone.
Matthew raised an eyebrow. He did not speak for a long time, as if measuring his response. "You need not confess," he said finally.
"I'm not confessing," she said. "I'm... bragging." She suppressed the urge to giggle. This was all too preposterous.
Matthew stepped past her, into the cottage and looked around. "Where is he, your lover? Will I have to fight him for you? I will, you know."
"Do not mock me," she said. "And I did not give you permission to enter my home."
"I apologize for my bad manners."
Matthew's gaze held hers before travelling slowly up and down her body. She was aware of the thinness of her chemise but would allow herself no show of discomfort.
"You are overbold, sirrah."
What did she read in his expression? Desire, or something else? A simple knowing? "Ah, yes, now I remember. This is what you look like. This is what I've come to claim."
When he did not respond, she appraised him in kind—or at least she hoped she did—as impersonally as if she might be pondering different styles of fabric. Which one should I choose? Which is the most practical? Which is the most finely worked? Which will feel most comfortable next to my body?
"I have to admit you are looking well," she said reluctantly. "The haunted look has left your eyes."
She would give him that much. He appeared rested and fit. But there was something else, something indefinable in his demeanor that bespoke a deeper change. She felt it once again, that indefinable energy that had drawn her to him a lifetime ago.
"I left some ghosts in Cumbria."
"Well, you should have left yourself there, as well," she said tartly. She would not allow herself to soften toward him, even in the slightest.
Matthew slid his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. His lips met hers and he kissed her deeply, possessively. As if he had a right! Despite herself, Margery felt herself yielding and knew what she must do...
She raised a clenched fist but before she could hit him again, Matthew caught her wrist.
"Really, Meg, is that any way to welcome me home?"
* * *
For the next three days Margery went to her goldsmithing shop and followed her usual routine, keeping an eye on the new apprentices and waiting on customers. Pilgrims comprised a large part of Aurum's business, purchasing paternosters and other religious-themed objects. A favorite was a pilgrim's badge, constructed in gold or silver, depicting the head of Thomas Becket, complete with miter, and framed by four swords representing the four knights who'd murdered him. The badges were popular among the wealthier who shunned the base metal trinkets sold in stalls surrounding cathedral precincts. Ordinarily Margery felt a quiet pride when displaying the finely worked badges, for she'd personally designed the mold.
But not now.
Each time someone approached or she emerged from the shop's interior she expected to see Matthew Hart standing there. Upon their parting, soon after that stolen kiss, he'd promised he'd be back.
But when?
So eager he'd seemed that Margery had felt a certain smugness. Now she would be in command; now she would be dismissive. Now she would make him apologize for all the times he'd hurt her and still she'd n
ot relent.
I will tell him, "I am done with you," and he will be so devastated...
Where was he?
Will, the tavern keeper from the Chequer of the Hope, visited as usual. A pleasant enough fellow, who, like many others enjoyed grousing about the state of the kingdom. Usually, Margery didn't mind. He sounded like Thurold, who was off with John Ball somewhere, and the laments were so familiar she could recite them herself near word for word. But today Will's voice grated.
"John of Gaunt is king in all but name... the good and virtuous have been humbled allowing vice to stalk the land... Our young king must have a care to his counselors, who have not his best wishes at heart... greedy church... oppressive taxes..."
But then Ernald, a quietly reliable apprentice who kept to his tasks and never mentioned politics, looked up from his delicate tap-tapping of a pendant on a small anvil and said, "There will be a reckoning."
He spoke so fiercely and unexpectedly that Margery was snapped out of her lassitude. She'd become inured to such threats for that's all they were. And, since her acceptance into the Rendell household, she'd reconciled the different blood flowing through her, hadn't she? That ancient conflict surrounding her birth was no longer an issue.
But Ernald's use of a "reckoning" somehow gave his words an apocalyptic quality, as if mouthed by an Old Testament prophet rather than a skinny twenty-something with a scraggly beard and stained teeth.
Margery felt as if a cloud had descended above High Street, casting the narrow lane in darkness, as if the bustling crowds possessed a sinister air, as if her hard-fought acceptance of her identity, her heredity, might be an illusion. She'd become comfortable in her position as a shopkeeper, as well as the recognized by-blow of a great lord. Furthermore, her tryst with Fulco had somehow married those two sides of her heredity.
Or so she'd assumed, looking back on it, now that she was no longer certain.
With Matthew's return, old doubts, insecurities and conflicts were once more pressing to the fore.
How can this be? I resolved all that.
But mayhap she hadn't. Mayhap she'd merely packed everything away the way she did out-of-season clothing.
A Child Upon the Throne Page 17
