Within A Forest Dark

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Desire grinned. "You will just have to wait and see, will you not?" Raising her arms over her head she eyed him coyly. "Whose baby—yours or Harry's? Who can say?" Abruptly, she thrust her face close to his. "Does it bother you that we will be wed? Will you think on your brother caressing me? Will you lie awake nights imagining him making love to me the way you used to?"

  Matt struggled to maintain control. "I do not care who you sard other than my brother—"

  "I will marry Harry precisely because I know 'twill make you crazy..."

  "He is no match for you. You will destroy him."

  "Nay. Harry is ecstatic. He knows how lucky he is; that marriage to me will make him richer even than you, lovedy. And, for my bounteous dower, I will demand only one thing in return."

  Matthew had no idea where this was heading. Events were twisting around upon him like a serpent's coil. He could no more follow Desire's machinations than sprout dragon wings and spew flames.

  "Being the honorable man you are, you would never go back on your word, would you?" When Matt merely stared at her she continued, "I will have what you love most in the world, or mayhap the second thing you love most."

  "And what might that be? What is it you want from me?" Matthew was beginning to understand... beginning to see how she had trapped him...

  "Why, Cumbria, of course."

  * * *

  Desire and Harry's wedding was scheduled to take place at York Cathedral in mid-April of 1368, following the completion of Lent. From across England and even Aquitaine, family and friends began arriving for the celebration. In conjunction with wedding festivities, negotiations involving Desire's marriage portion and Harry's dower intensified. Breaking the tradition of primogeniture, William had agreed to provide his second son with a pair of middling holdings, but Desire insisted she would settle for only one: Cumbria.

  "Never," William responded.

  "If you do not give me Cumbria you will lose a great heiress," Desire said.

  "And you will give birth to a bastard. I will wait you out, Lady Cecy. Time is more my friend than yours."

  Finding the elder Hart intractable, Desire badgered Harry to plead with Matthew. Once Matt formally informed his father and their counselors who hovered about like clacking hens that he'd long ago relinquished all claim to Cumbria, William's opposition would collapse.

  So far Matthew had kept himself aloof from the wrangling, as he'd remained aloof from the wedding celebrations. Oft times he would ride out at dawn only to return as the household was settling to bed. For Desire, his withdrawal had further tarnished what should have been her hour of triumph. She found herself spinning love-struck scenarios in which Matt haunted the moors to ease his heartbreak, but she was clear-eyed enough to understand these fantasies were as hollow as her fantasies of revenge. For as busy as she was with lawyers, advisors and Matthew's exasperatingly stubborn sire, not to mention wedding arrangements, banquets, and endless reunions with relatives, she never ceased looking for her former lover's face among the diners listening to ballads or rondeaux or afterwards, playing blindman's bluff or hot cockles. Only upon glimpsing him could she feel her soul spring to life. Empty, it was all so empty...

  Nightly when she closed her eyes, she remembered back to Bordeaux, remembered the softness in his eyes after lovemaking, the sweetness of his smile when he came across her gossiping with her maids or reading in their chamber or listening to a minstrel plucking his lute; the comfortable routine they'd fallen into, like pleasantly married couples, sharing jokes and experiences and communicating with the raise of an eyebrow, the slightest upturn of the lips, the brushing of fingers, a soft sigh, a shrug—all of this in their own private language. When Matthew Hart had loved her. How could that no longer be so? Somehow, despite her pending marriage, despite his anger, despite everything, he would return to her. Mayhap not now, and with the new life inside her she must bow to the inevitable, but circumstances had a way of turning...

  As Matthew readied to return to London, he tried to reconcile himself to the possibility that Cumbria might be forever lost to him. Perhaps William would prevail. If he did not perhaps Harry would outlive Desire. Perhaps contracts could be manipulated so that Cumbria might be passed down to male heirs bearing the Hart surname. Of course, all land ultimately belonged to the crown, but Cumbria had been bequeathed to the Harts more than a century past, following the Second Barons' War and the Battle of Evesham. Not being a lawyer, Matthew did not understand the intricacies of such matters. Furthermore, if he severed himself from his emotions, he could agree that Desire and Harry's marriage was a coup for the Hart family. And if the bride and groom were ill-matched, so were many couples. Desire could spend her time in Bordeaux and Harry in England, spending her coin. Whatever pleased them both. The alliance itself was what mattered.

  It all seemed so tidy in theory; less so in reality. In addition to the matter of Cumbria, Matthew and Desire's previous affair was well known. Many guests, especially those from Bordeaux, made sly remarks or openly questioned him about what appeared to be an unusually complicated intertwining of relationships.

  At one of the banquets Lawrence Ravenne even broached the subject. Since Poitiers, Matt had seen little of his brother-in-law, for Ravenne had generally bought his service rather than fight. The ensuing years of easy living had blurred Ravenne's face and widened his girth, and judging from his and Elizabeth's interaction, their marriage was, like so many, one of strained tolerance.

  "Lady Cecy is a true beauty, as well as rich beyond imagining," Ravenne said, opening the conversation. "How a second son ever landed such a match seems a miracle."

  "Those who know Lady Cecy might characterize it in less flattering terms," Matthew said tightly.

  "Is it true she is with child?" Ravenne pressed. "Is it true you two were lovers? What is this really all about?"

  Elizabeth, who stood nearby, said, "Don't be such an arse, husband," while Matthew merely shook his head and stalked away.

  Negotiations remained stalled; private tensions increased. Would there even be a wedding? In certain positions Desire's stomach indeed appeared rounded. Which meant, Matthew reasoned hopefully, that her bargaining power daily diminished. While preparing to depart for London, for he would not attend this pending travesty, he was well aware that William Hart was battling to save the heritage Matthew had so cavalierly relinquished. If only he could be certain that Desire feared scandal more than she sought to punish him...

  On the night before his departure Matthew awaited Harry's return to their bed chamber. Below the noise from the great hall had faded as revelers stumbled off to their pallets. A fire flickered in the fireplace, taking a measure of chill from the air. Tongues of flame created shadows on the tapestried walls and the bed he and Harry shared.

  With the tension between them Matt usually pretended sleep when his brother entered, but not tonight.

  The chamber door opened with a gentle creak and Harry stepped inside, humming softly to himself. In passing, he glanced at Matt. "What are you doing up? I would have thought you asleep hours ago."

  "I am riding out on the morrow. Back to London. To sort matters out with... some people... and then off to Bordeaux for our prince is dealing with more unrest there. I know not when I will return and I wanted to say good-bye."

  "So soon? I am sorry you'll not be able to attend my... event." Because of the smallness of the room, Harry had dismissed his servant and began removing his clothes himself. With a shiver he said, "I'll warrant Bordeaux will seem like paradise following this weather."

  "Bordeaux long ago ceased being paradise. I much prefer Cumbria."

  Harry cleared his throat. "I am glad you mentioned Cumbria. I have been wanting to talk to you. About Cumbria, I mean. And since you are leaving so unexpectedly..."

  After Harry removed his cotehardie he began pleating folds into its gold velvet. "Remember when we were children, Matt? How you vowed Cumbria would be mine?"

  "Aye," Matthew answered warily, anti
cipating where the question would lead and knowing 'twas just as well. Time to do what must be done.

  Initially, when dower negotiations had commenced, Harry had assumed that William would be so awestruck by Desire's marriage portion that he would easily cede Cumbria, which everyone agreed was an impractical demesne.

  Harry was astute enough to understand that Desire and William were engaged in a war by proxy over Matthew, but couldn't everyone see his marriage was a blessing for the entire Hart family? Desire was spiteful enough to marry a stable boy, as she'd threatened, if William continued to thwart her will. With riches beyond imagining within Harry's grasp, Cumbria seemed a small price to pay.

  "This is difficult for me to ask," Harry began. "I feel guilty for bedding Desire in the first place."

  Matthew nodded. So why did you do it?

  Harry sat down on the edge of the bed. "I do have your blessing, do I not? I am sorry for the circumstances surrounding our marriage, but not for the marriage itself, since 'tis so... advantageous."

  "Aye, though you and I both know she will make your life miserable."

  "How miserable can a man be who possesses half of Aquitaine and the south of England?" Harry absently rolled and unrolled the cotehardie on his lap. "Tonight when I talked with Father, he appeared to be relenting a trifle. He said he would talk to you so do give him your approval before you leave, brother..."

  Matthew said nothing. Harry would have to be daft not to feel the tension between them, not to read something amiss in his silence.

  "You promised me Cumbria years ago," Harry persisted "Everyone knows that if you'll just formally relinquish your right, we can proceed with the wedding. Father will do as you ask."

  Matt's fingers dug into the fur coverlet. "I know I promised. But what if something happened to you? Desire would inherit Cumbria, and I could not live with that."

  Harry bent down to remove his boots. "Naught will happen to me. Talk to Father 'ere you leave."

  Matt rose from the bed to stand before his brother. Knowing that Desire's threat had already borne its poisoned fruit, he groped for the proper words. While naught could ever diminish his love for Harry, this was not about emotions or carelessly delivered promises.

  "We were children when I promised you Cumbria. We are no longer children. If I agree to what you ask, 'twould please you and your affianced. If I disagree, 'twould please Father and myself. This time I mean to please us."

  Harry raised his head in surprise. "What are you saying? That you've changed your mind? You cannot do that. You'd be breaking a solemn oath!"

  Though Harry's words hit their target, Matt steadily held his gaze. "I will not relinquish Cumbria."

  A bewildered smile touched Harry's mouth. "Of course you will. You've never reneged on a promise, Matt; 'tis not in you to do so."

  "'Twas not a formal oath. I did not swear on a relic and even if I had I would not be able to take the risk of your affianced inheriting it."

  Harry shook his head in disbelief. "You cannot do this. Desire will refuse to wed me. 'Tis wrong, brother. Do not ruin my life out of spite."

  Matthew tried to keep his temper in check, to bite back months of pent-up recriminations. "I have never before broken my word, even when it pained me to keep it. I vowed I would not marry because I feared Father would pack you off to a monastery. You are no longer in danger of that. Even without Cumbria Desire will marry you rather than give birth to a bastard. The rest is but a bluff."

  Matthew half-expected Harry to explode, but he just gazed at him through wide, hurt eyes. "I canna believe you would do this to me."

  "Cumbria is mine, Harry, and for my legitimate heirs should I ever have them." For now that his brother would be safely wed, what need had Matthew to remain a bachelor? 'Twas as if a lifetime of assumptions had just been toppled and he had no idea what might take their place. He'd always acted upon one set of beliefs—bachelorhood, the relinquishment of his birthright and one way of life.

  What now? he wondered, turning away from his brother's distress. Who am I? A man of honor? A man who glibly utters oaths only to break them? What is the proper thing to do? Have I somehow cursed my future?

  "I am sorry to distress you, Harry, but I've made up my mind. I will tell Father 'ere I leave. Cumbria is my inheritance and I mean to keep it."

  Chapter 10

  London, Spring-Summer 1368

  Plague returned in the spring, as it had a way of doing, though with each re-occurrence it decreased in virulence. In the face of another outbreak, Margery Watson felt resignation rather than fear. Death would snatch her if it would and spare her if it would not, and nothing she did would make one whit of difference.

  Unfortunately, Robert the Cook succumbed to the form which settled in the lungs. The progression on this particular strain was swift and horrible. Robert's stomach was wracked by pains which gave birth to blood, and a cadaverous stench crept up from his innards. His tongue dried up and turned black, and almost immediately he sank into delirium.

  Margery knocked on the door to her husband's chamber. Simon Crull unbolted it.

  "Robert has the plague."

  "Impossible. How did it get in here?" He looked fearfully over his shoulder as if expecting Death to be crouching in the shadows.

  "I canna say—"

  "Get him out of my house! Put him in the street and toss everything he's touched after him. Then have the servants wash the entire area down with vinegar."

  "'Tis raining outside, and we canna just cast Robert to the fates. He will die within hours, anyway."

  "Remove him!" Crull roared. "Or I will turn you out with him."

  All night Simon Crull prayed, asking God to protect him. What good was his wealth, his beautiful jewels, his position in the world if he could die as easily as the rats, as easily as ordinary folk?

  There must be some way I can protect myself.

  During one of his meditations, God in his merciful goodness revealed the answer.

  At the time of the first Death, in 1349, Simon Crull had witnessed a peculiar sight at St. Paul's Cathedral. Flagellants, they were called, and he'd seen them circling St. Paul's Cross, barefoot and half-naked, chanting and singing as they whipped themselves. Flagellants believed the Death was punishment for mankind's wickedness; thus they whipped and humiliated themselves in order to appease Him and keep away the pestilence.

  Simon became fixated on a preventative. Let the plague wipe out half the kingdom for all he cared, so long as it let him be. He burned aromatic woods, had glaze placed upon south facing windows in order to keep out the polluted southern wind, abjured meat and figs and shunned all but the lightest physical activity. But he must do more! Despite the alchemist Albertus's powders, Simon knew his body had been weakened since his beating at the hands of that criminal. Since Thurold Watson, Simon had had trouble breathing and his chest hurt if he inhaled too deeply. At times he was certain he was a prime target for the Death, and wished he could curl into a ball to make himself smaller until the danger was safely passed.

  Since he could not, Simon fashioned himself a leather scourge tipped with silver spikes, and locked himself in his chamber. There he petitioned God to remove His wrath from London and scourged himself thrice daily—in the manner of those long ago Flagellants. He who had always been so fastidious now gloried in the gore and the blood, for the blood in particular was sacred. When Crull finally emerged, the worst of the plague had passed. Nor had anyone else in his household sickened.

  Simon Crull was certain he knew why.

  * * *

  By mid-summer London had returned to normal. Following morning mass, Margery and Orabel did their usual marketing. Margery placed eggs and cheese in a compartmentalized basket and while Orabel chatted up one of the younger poulterers, drifted toward the pepperers, concentrating on what kitchen spices needed replacing.

  "Dame Margery?"

  Margery looked up to see Lovel, one of Matthew Hart's retainers.

  "My lord wishes to see you
at your convenience, where you've always met."

  Margery heart began to race. Had a part of her been waiting for this? She knew what this meant, didn't she? That she and Matthew would reconcile, as she had so long dreamed? But she mustn't assume too much lest she be disappointed.

  "Later today, if at all possible."

  Margery nodded and then turned away for sometimes she thought Simon had her followed and it was best to be careful.

  Orabel completed their walk home in disapproving silence.

  "Ye be tempting fate," she'd said, upon hearing. "Why can you both not wait until Master Crull dies and then do as ye please?"

  Faithful as she was, Orabel still accompanied Margery to Hart's Place. That afternoon, they slipped out the back entrance, leaving Master Walter the Steward happily in charge. Of course, Crull was away. Since the plague, his behavior had become even more erratic, if possible. Sometimes he disappeared for days on end, leaving Nicholas Norlong to run the Shop and her and Master Walter to oversee the household. Which made Margery's movements far easier.

  As they hurried toward Newgate and then Holborn beyond, Margery's thoughts leapt ahead to her meeting with Matthew. There'd been so much pain and misunderstanding, but surely his actions were saying that was behind them. But, if he truly cared, why had he stayed away so long? It had been months since Thurold had been freed and with no word since. Actually, no word at all for the robin and Thurold's release had been done without any accompanying explanation. But his actions spoke for themselves, didn't they?

  This area of Holborn was far quieter than much of London. Only a pair of beggars lounged across the street from Hart's Place. One of the beggars rose and called out for alms.

  "Off with ye," said Orabel.

  As they approached the townhouse gate, church bells rang the hour of sext.

  "I'll wait in the garden," Orabel said. She peered at Margery, her fine green eyes dark with concern. Reaching out, she touched Margery's cheek with a roughened hand, gave a small shake of her head and then veered to the side of the townhouse opposite Margery's destination.