Matthew had no idea what was off-kilter. Not any forthcoming campaign, for war was as inevitable as the tides of the Thames, the cycles of the moon. It wasn't his pending return to Bordeaux; he'd already decided what he would do about that, at least as regards to his leman. It was something more, that feeling he'd had during the Rheims campaign of 1360, when King Edward had sailed for France intent on being crowned its sovereign. The march had been brutal; Matthew had caught a sickness in the lungs that had nearly killed him. But he could trace the feeling to a specific event: Black Monday, outside Chartres. A freak hailstorm had descended upon the English troops, killing a thousand men and six thousand horses and in its aftermath, a frightened Edward had renounced all claim to the French throne. It was then when the thought had first occurred to Matthew—that the golden times were behind them all, that from Black Monday forward all might turn to ashes. Only in hindsight did that idea gain in importance. But there it was. Like an omen. Or a curse.
Matthew imagined the changes announcing themselves in the manner of Westminster's great clock striking its hours.
Boom: Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster, and John of Gaunt's beloved wife, dead of the plague. At age twenty-three.
Boom: Prince Lionel, King Edward's second son, a giant of a man, near seven feet tall. Recently wed to a beautiful Italian heiress with a dowry of two million gold florins. Dead. Of poison, some whispered, for everyone knew the Italian propensity for such things. Regardless of the cause, Lionel was dead, dead.
Boom: Queen Philippa, she who had borne 14 children with alacrity, tossing and turning in her inner chambers afflicted by limbs swollen twice their regular size. While the royal court and Death himself waited in the outer.
What, Matthew wondered, when he could not push down his unease, might happen next?
* * *
"Go with me to Bordeaux, Meg," Matthew whispered against Margery's ear. He held her tight in his arms. "I've given the matter much thought. I will not leave you here under the thumb of that bloody bastard when I'm gone."
Margery frowned and drew back to look into his eyes. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?"
"You think I do not know how he has mistreated you? He will not have any claim to you ever again. I will set you up at court. Princess Joan is always in need of another maid or even a lady-in-waiting, if it comes to that. The Rendell name is noble enough to open many doors."
How blind he was, seeing only what he wished to see. But of course Matthew Hart could not understand life's barriers, since he was on top of God's earthly pyramid.
Misinterpreting her expression, he said, "I will not always be gone from court. We will have more time together there than here. "
"Mayhap, but—"
"Any campaign will be short. Prince Edward will soon bring the Gascons to heel, as well as their conniving king."
"But Bordeaux? I cannot imagine living there with you gone. Or, Sweet Mother Mary, living there at all!"
Margery pushed away and crossed to the bay window. She pressed her palms to either side of her head, as if to blot out the meaning behind his words. She would be lost in such a place. She thought of Desiderata Cecy, hundreds of Desiderata Cecys and herself, sporting less lineage than a chambermaid. Thrown into their midst, to be torn apart like a hare cornered by a pack of hounds. Why would Matthew even suggest such a thing?
"This is all so sudden. I am overwhelmed. I cannot imagine—"
"We will have time together." Matthew followed her. "Or if you do not wish to leave England, I have holdings where I could shelter you from your... HIM. Though I canna always be with you and you might sometimes be lonely, I will do my best to make you happy."
She turned to face him. Why could they not just have continued on, sheltered away from duties and obligations and the real, actual world in which their relationship was impossible? She knew it had been silliness, but it had been such a lovely silliness...
"You know our clerics are pursuing a divorce on the grounds of spousal incompatibility or even spiritual fornication, so they tell me. We will be successful, but 'tis a laborious process. Until that time I do not want you with him."
Margery considered. Leave London? She had no great love for the city and sometimes envisioned herself and Orabel living in a white-washed cottage in some tiny village along the route she and Thurold and John Ball had first followed to London. Would Matthew set her up in a manor house, or tuck her quietly away in one of his demesnes? But nothing about her lord and his position would allow such an arrangement to remain discreet.
"How could I simply leave a lawful husband?"
"He will not always be lawful," Matthew said, his manner impatient as it always was when discussing Simon Crull.
Unconsciously, Margery twisted her hands. "Could you survive the scandal? What would your prince think? Or King Edward? Or your Duke of Lancaster?"
Matthew laughed. "Jesu, Meg, 'tis done all the time. The only people who pretend otherwise are priests and bishops."
What about Thurold, trolling the south with John Ball, spreading their seditions? Should she agree, would her stepbrother ever forgive her?
She looked into Matthew's eyes. How she loved him! What was she willing to sacrifice to be with him? If he could shrug aside the consequences, shouldn't she?
"I have never considered... that I could actually be free..."
"First, we'll hie you away far from Crull. This very day. Do not even return to the Shop. Stay here with me." Now that Matthew had made up his mind, he was determined to act. "Until the campaign we can retreat to my Suffolk holdings. I dare him to raise a fuss. I will petition the Archbishop of Canterbury myself, if that is what it takes." He waved a dismissive hand for he wasn't sure about the exact procedure for divorce. Only that it could be done and he had enough power and coin to speed the process.
"Right now. Today?" Margery asked, her voice trembling.
"Why not?"
She considered, her thoughts whirling. "There are a few things I should gather at the Shop. I could not leave my bird, and I would bring Orabel if 'twould not displease you—"
"I'll have someone send for your maid and retrieve what you need. I mislike the idea of you returning. If Crull should find out..."
"He will not even be at the Shop. He has no care for anything beyond his Warlock and whatever mischief he and his band of ne'er-do-wells perform at Charing Cross."
Matthew pulled her close. "Do not leave. Stay with me."
Eyes closed, Margery nestled against him. Wasn't it worth the risk, to know that their lives might spin out together across the years?
"I will be back soon, I promise," she murmured against his chest. She was eager to be away, to have time on the return walk to the Shop to contemplate the exciting—and frightening—possibilities that had opened up.
"At the very least have my squire wait for you in front of the Shop. He will make certain nothing goes awry." Francus always escorted Margery to the beginning of Goldsmith's Row.
She shook her head. "I do not want to cause suspicion. Orabel and I will be fine. We will return 'ere vespers."
Matt frowned. "I would prefer—"
She kissed him on the lips. "Be patient. I will hurry."
Margery departed then, as she always did, down the backstairs of Hart's Place. Unaware that, as always, she and Francus would be followed by one of Simon Crull's henchmen.
* * *
When Margery reached the Shop, Nicholas Norlong was chatting with a customer while wiring a silver chalice, Crull's newest apprentice was wiping the surface of a gold plate with a rabbit's foot and carefully collecting the loose particles on a leather apron—and her husband was standing near the back of the room operating the bellows on the smithing furnace.
How could that be? Simon hadn't worked at the trade for months. Did he suspect something? But unless Hart's Place was peopled by spies—impossible—her husband couldn't know of her and Matthew's plans. They hadn't known of their plans until an hour ago.
> Crull looked up. "Where have you been, wife?" His tone was unmistakably belligerent.
Coincidence, she assured herself. "At the Tower garden," she said blandly. "It feels like rain and I like to plant my lavender and sage in damp weather."
Simon grunted. Deftly, he worked his bellows, maintaining the necessary pressure it took to press air through the tubes blowing across the coals inside the furnace.
Margery hesitated. Safest to act normally—but normal was her husband at Charing Cross with the Warlock and his brigands, wasn't it? Would it be normal to question his presence here?
Suddenly, Crull put down the bellows and faced her.
He knows, Margery thought. Somehow he does.
Simon smiled his close-lipped smile. "I was just wondering where you were." She heard the menace behind the words.
"I will speak with Master Walter about changing the rushes and then Orabel and I will be in my chamber," she said calmly. She hoped.
"Aye, wife. You do that." Retrieving the bellows, Crull shifted his position so his back was to her and resumed his task.
Chapter 13
London
"Tell My Lord Hart that the master suspects something," Margery said to Orabel. "Tell him to come to the Shop and take me. Stay at Hart's Place and await me there."
Orabel's lustrous green eyes widened. "Be that wise? We've long suspected he spies on ye. What if he has someone follow me to your lord's?"
"You are always in and out. Crull has boots you can retrieve from the cordwainer's. And I've two finished kirtles on Threadneedle Street if anyone asks." Margery paced in front of the cold hearth fire in the bedroom chamber, considering. "Simon cannot know I mean to leave today. It must be coincidence. Or something to do with Charing Cross. Who knows what mischief is happening there? His behavior most probably involves his "business" and not me at all."
"Aye," Orabel reluctantly agreed "I did see one or two of his creatures slip in earlier, including the Warlock. They'd their heads together with Master Crull and then they left." But still she looked worried.
Margery studied her maid. Orabel's yellow coif emphasized her sallow complexion and for the first time Margery noticed the lines around her eyes and mouth. Orabel had been the first person she'd met in the Crull household more than a decade ago, and she was already widowed, so how old was she actually? Too old—and too faithful a friend—to be put in danger for her own selfish needs.
"Never mind. I will think of another way to warn my Lord Hart. Either that or we will both just walk out the door bold as brass, keep to busy streets and hope for the best."
Orabel shook her head. "Nay, I will go. No one will pay me any mind."
"You're certain?"
Orabel reached for her cloak. "Aye, and once we are safely away from London, I'll expect ye to play marriage maker with some member of your fine lord's household. I much prefer a warm bed to a lonely pallet."
Margery hugged her. "I promise we'll find you a handsome yeoman or blacksmith. Or mayhap we'll reach even higher. You deserve the finest."
She watched Orabel limp toward the back stairs and suppressed a shiver. "Just tell Lord Hart to come for me 'ere Vespers." She called after her disappearing maid. "And be careful."
* * *
Margery tried to go about her daily routine, overseeing the chambermaids, discussing the day's menu and the matter of spices with Cook and pretending to listen to Master Walter the Steward as he gave his daily accounting. But didn't anyone notice that Simon Crull was bouncing in and out of the Shop like some demented football, that several of his companions looked as if they were escapees from Newgate or the Clink, and that she herself could scarce follow the simplest thread of conversation? If anyone gave a thought at all, perhaps they put the tension down to a change in the weather for as afternoon bled toward evening, the humidity increased and clouds lowered. Before night's end, London would be in for it, that much everyone knew.
* * *
Thunder rumbled in the distance; sheets of lightning painted the city's rooftops the color of bleached bones. Margery sat on a bench in the Crull chamber whistling to her bird, as if that might distract her, when all the while her ears strained for the first sound of Matthew's arrival. Vespers had passed; soon St. Martin's le Grand's bell would announce the closing of city gates. She had stuffed what little jewelry she actually owned in the hem of her cloak and her purse with some coins, but her outward appearance would not alert anyone to her flight—not that, in the best of times, she would have had much material worth to access.
Margery felt so restless, so discomfited, particularly since her lover should have already arrived. Events must have gone awry. Had Orabel been waylaid? Had something happened with Matthew? War broken out between none and vespers? Had he decided he'd been foolish to make her such an offer or had someone talked him out of it?
In order to keep better watch, she scooped up Robin's cage and crossed to a large window overlooking the building's entrance. Below, via the candle glow emanating from the Shop's interior, she could clearly see Simon and a pair whose faces were hidden by their hoods in yet another intense conversation.
Margery wiped her clammy forehead with her sleeve. While dressed in a light gown, her entire body was bathed in sweat. She removed her bird from his cage and absently stroked its back.
"'Tis fine." As if addressing Robin, as if the bird might also be concerned about Matthew's absence.
Margery watched worshippers returning from Vespers, darker smudges against the gloom, their pace hurried, no doubt mindful of their need to be safely behind barred doors before the breaking storm and the criminals—criminals like her husband's cohorts—emerged from wherever they hid themselves during daylight hours to claim the night.
"My lord, where are you?" she whispered. Margery trusted her lover, but there had been another time, hadn't there, when Matthew had promised her and he had broken that promise? Of course he hadn't meant to, of course there had been a mistake, but still...
A gust of wind rummaged outside the window, rattling its frame, which was only bolted to the wall. Margery jerked at the unexpected noise, causing Robin to flap his wings in protest.
She heard the shop door close, and half-rose, expecting Matthew, only to sink back down when her husband called out Udo Strykere's name.
What is he doing here?
Goosebumps rose on her arms. She eyed the area off the solar that led to the kitchen and then down the stairs to the back-side and into the alleyway. Should she risk abandoning her post? But she would have her throat slit or all her goods stolen or who knows what if she thought to brave the darkness. And if Matthew came and she wasn't here...
Hurry. She prayed Orabel had enjoyed safe passage, but what if she had indeed been followed? Harmed in some fashion? Margery could not quell her panic. I should not have sent her. What if Matthew didn't know about the change of plans and thought Margery had betrayed him once again? I must not let my mind run away. Orabel is safe and my lord is coming.
Lightning, forked as a viper's tongue, seemed to lick the cross atop St. Paul's spire, followed almost immediately by a thunderous roar. Scattered raindrops pelted the window panes. Torch lights sputtered, causing the room's shadows to shudder before slithering back into place.
"Well, wife!"
Margery whirled to see Simon and Udo Strykere standing at the edge of the solar.
"Come away from the window." Rubbing his dainty hands together, Crull stepped into the room. "You'll catch your death."
Margery gazed from Simon to Udo Strykere, glowering behind him. Strykere, he of the assassin's mien, had small dark eyes that were fixed upon her with hatred powerful enough to strike her dead on the spot.
Margery felt a frisson of pure terror, though she turned away, as if unconcerned, to replace Robin in his cage. Then she wiped her shaking hands on her kirtle and turned once again to face them both.
Think. Better to say nothing, to gauge matters from her husband and his companion's actions, rather
than to reveal herself.
Crull crossed to the table opposite the window and as was his custom, poured a cup of hippocras. After downing half the contents, he swirled the remainder, all the while staring at Margery.
Finally, she snapped, "What are you gaping at?"
Simon chuckled, then returned the cup to the table. Outside, rain began falling in slanting sheets, pelting Margery as it hit the window ledge. A flash of lightning exposed the solid wall of houses on the opposite side of the street. Leaning out to close the window, she risked a last, desperate glance at the deserted street below before fastening it.
An explosion of thunder shook the room.
Simon jumped, but quickly recovered. "'Tis a fine night for murder, do you not think?"
Margery's heart pattered like a frightened rabbit's. Remembering the dagger she always kept at her girdle, she set the bird cage on the bench beside her so that both hands would be free. Her gaze went from Crull to Strykere and back again, trying to decipher there their meaning. She thought again of Orabel. Had Crull or his minions done something to her?
"You are such a fool!" Crull barked. He paced the room without elaborating.
Her hand closed over the handle of her dagger, hidden in the folds of her kirtle.
Suddenly, Simon whirled to face her. How tiny, even boyish he appeared beside Strykere with his massive chest and arms, like those of a blacksmith. The thought flitted through her mind, What is his trade? Some said he is a fishmonger, but by the look of him... As if that had some importance.
Within A Forest Dark Page 13
