I canna do this.
He looked to his prince, seeking the reversal of the order. Their eyes met. Almost imperceptibly, Edward nodded.
Matt stood as if rooted to the ground. Either way I am dead, he thought. HE will hang me, or the devil will claim me. They are the enemy. They are women and children. They are innocent. They deliberately defied Edward. He is mad. He is my prince.
Matthew's head whirled with a thousand voices, threatened to explode with the lamentations of the doomed. He felt as if he must split in two. If only that could be. So a part of him could obey Edward; a part of him could obey himself.
Somehow, Matthew forced his legs to move. Forward. He willed his heart to slow, his breathing to return to normal, his mind to blackness.
John of Gaunt's knight pushed the woman to her knees. The hair spilling down her back was the same color as Margery's. The woman raised her head and looked up at Matthew. Her eyes were blue, as blue as the brilliant sky. As blue as his son's would be.
"God forgive me," he said in French. Words. There would be no forgiveness.
Matthew tipped the woman's chin and slit her throat. The cut was perfect. Blood spilled upon his hands. The woman crumpled to the ground.
Matthew turned to her child.
Chapter 16
London 1371
Prince Edward was called home to England early in 1371 to report to his father the king and parliament about the relentlessly deteriorating state of affairs in Aquitaine. The war with France remained at a stand-off. Charles V continued to avoid pitched battles and the English no longer had a leader capable of conceiving and executing a grand strategy. To add to the prince's health issues he'd been afflicted with a far more personal blow, the death of his eldest son, known as Edward of Angouleme, who was next in line, following Prince Edward himself, to ascend England's throne. Matthew Hart clearly remembered the scene when he and the English troops had returned to Bordeaux following the Najera campaign: smiling women tossing them flowers and kisses, Prince Edward walking so majestically across the cathedral stones to greet his waiting wife, the infant son he'd not yet seen and his golden-haired namesake, shyly clinging to his mother's skirts. Five-years-old and now dead of the plague.
Prince Edward had been too ill to stay in Bordeaux long enough to bury young Edward, but had to leave the task to John of Gaunt, who remained in Gascony in order to discharge duties the prince could no longer perform.
Does Prince Edward think upon his son's death as retribution for Limoges? Matthew sometimes wondered, as night dragged past Angelus and toward Matins and still sleep eluded him. How to reason away the death of young Edward, pretend that there was no connection between the demise of England's heir and the murder of Limoges' innocents? How would priests pontificate upon that, though it seemed Matthew was the only one linking the two events. And only fleetingly, when he could not do otherwise, like something glimpsed out the corner of his eye; something that, when he turned to look, was not there at all. Like Limoges, which was just another gravestone in the cemetery of his life. Dead and buried. Wasn't it?
When such thoughts came, Matthew forced his mind to other matters. Or read in front of a fire or roused one of his squires to continue a game of chess. Or paced his room. Or drank.
On the heels of Prince Edward's return, Matthew too set up residence in London, only this time at the Savoy, John of Gaunt's palace. While on campaign, he'd often fantasized about his reunion with Margery, but now that the moment was possible, he procrastinated.
First I must find us a proper place to live.
The Savoy was far too crowded to be pleasant for him, let alone Margery and the babe, and his parents were currently ensconced in Hart's Place. Yet Matthew made no attempt to find other lodgings. Each morning he vowed this would be the day he would lease a townhouse and visit the Shop of the Unicorn, but somehow evening arrived with neither goal accomplished.
Today, instead of contacting Margery, he was enroute to Hart's Place for a reunion with his parents. William and Sosanna expected nothing out of him save that he be their son, which was a pleasant change. It seemed the rest of the world wanted something more—service, favors, love, money, time, friendship.
Is that why I am reluctant to see Meg, because she will demand something? But what? Surely, not money or position. She is a prosperous widow, but even if she were not, I have plenty of material goods and privilege for the both of us. Marriage?
But she'd never broached that particular subject. He had been the one. And... how did he feel about marriage now that she was free and he had a son? How did he actually feel about anything?
Matthew wondered whether Serill might have something to do with his reluctance. Perhaps I am fearful of the changes a child will bring. But my life is filled with change. I need only look at the red rose of Lancaster on my tunic to verify that.
And in the twenty months since Matthew had last seen his leman, he'd witnessed a multitude of other unpleasant changes. King Edward, who had seemed virtually ageless, had shriveled to an old man; the Black Prince, of course, was a total invalid. Even London appeared different—dirtier, noisier, and less picturesque, and the surrounding countryside and people shabbier. Matthew's earlier doubts about England had hardened into certainly. Now he knew, fortune no longer smiled upon his homeland.
Matthew dismounted at the stables outside Hart's Place. From his position he could see the garden and the trellised area surrounding the flowery mead where he and Margery had once made love.
I will contact her tomorrow without fail, he decided, as he strode across the courtyard to the entrance.
"Son!" Sosanna Hart greeted him in the passageway. Matthew noticed that her hair, where it peeked from her headdress, was completely white.
"Lady Mother," he bent his knee for her blessing, but when he stood, she reached up to kiss him on the cheek and hug his neck. He had forgotten how tiny she was.
"You look so much like William when he was your age," Sosanna said, wiping at her eyes.
"How is Father?"
"Sometimes of a morning he has to use a walking stick, but 'tis just until his blood thins. The doctors say it has a tendency to settle, which makes movement more difficult." Sosanna drew back to better study Matthew's face. "My dearest child. I will never understand how you've escaped marriage all these years. "
Matthew smiled. "Too many wars. I have not time for anything else."
Sosanna slipped her arm through his and they strolled along the passageway. "Sometimes I worry when 'twill all end, when you'll be able to stay in England where you belong. 'Tis time, do you not think?"
Matthew did think so. War was not so fine when the English were losing. It was not so fine since Limoges.
"Where is Father?"
"In the hall, waiting. He is so eager to see you before the others get here. Harry and his family are also planning to join us. Harry said he has not seen you either since your return."
"I've only been home a sennight," Matthew said irritably. "I cannot see everyone in that time." He was in no mood to face Harry, let alone his wife. Sometimes he found his brother's company unpleasant—not because of Harry himself, but because of their connection with Limoges. Following the campaign, Harry had often tried to discuss the deaths, but Matthew always cut him short. "We were doing our job. Period," he would say. Harry maintained he admired Matt's nonchalance, but bravado was a more accurate description. Increasingly, he wished Harry would quit looking to him to be strong, invincible, and capable of fixing everything, no matter how trivial, no matter how monumental.
Some things can never be fixed, and I am weary of pretending otherwise.
He wondered whether his father ever tired of his role—of being earl of Cumbria and Hertford, warrior, nobleman, husband, father. But William would not. Nor would he make the mistakes Matthew had.
"I am so pleased you'll have time alone with your father," Sosanna said, as they reached the great hall. "You never fail to brighten his day. He has never forgiven Ha
rry's wife for the circumstances surrounding marriage negotiations, though Ralphie is the sweetest thing. And you know how he is always so disapproving of Harry. They can seldom speak of anything more controversial than the weather without quarreling."
"You mean Father never disapproves of me?" Matthew asked lightly.
Sosanna laughed. "Foolish child!"
When Matthew greeted his father he noted with relief that William's bearing remained erect, his voice strong and youthful. Despite Sosanna's words to the contrary, William was as he'd always been—or as nearly so as time would allow.
Watching them embrace, Sosanna clasped her hands to her breast. "You two are so much alike. I cannot tell you how happy I am seeing you both together again."
I wonder if we are alike at all, Matthew thought. Looking into William's eyes, he knew. You would never have done what I've done. Nor could you understand. An honorable man cannot act dishonorably. Therein lies the difference between you and me.
* * *
Desire's marriage seemed to have sharpened her tongue even more, which Matthew would not have thought possible. Just glancing at her, at the voluptuous figure now bordering on over-ripe, that heart-shaped face with its pointed chin and discontented mouth, that relentless yammering—largely directed at her husband—Matthew could scarce believe they'd ever been lovers. Perhaps it was the sharpness in her voice and its timbre, which he did not remember as being so grating. It reminded him of the yowling of a hungry cat.
Desire's pick-pick-picking set Matt's nerves on edge, though Harry seemed to find her comments amusing. Of course when Harry drank, he found everything amusing. Their son, Ralph, was a quiet lad of three years who sucked his thumb and seldom smiled. Studying Ralph, Matthew saw much of Harry and nothing of himself, even if he'd been inclined to believe Desire's taunts about the child's heritage.
Harry pulled Ralph on his knee and bounced him until his son giggled in delight. Then he lifted Ralph's gown and blew on his stomach, causing the lad to shriek with laughter.
Desire shook her head and clucked her tongue. "Sometimes 'tis difficult to tell my husband from his son. Which one acts more the child?" Her tone was more amused than critical.
Rather than engage his sister-in-law in conversation or quarrel, Matthew moved away. He remembered other dinners at Hart's Place, when he and Harry had been scarce older than Ralph, when his sister Elizabeth had been a dreamy, albeit awkward, creature pestering various minstrels to recite yet more tales of Arthur and his knights and the quest for the grail. He blinked, as if to obliterate those scenes, and forced himself to return to the present. The great hall had changed little since their childhood. The tiled floor, painted yellow against red, the wainscoting with its painted "histories" of the Old and New Testament—all had been there as long as he could remember. Just a bit more faded, perhaps. As were his parents.
And what words could I use to describe Harry and me? he wondered. What have we become?
William ordered the carver to begin slicing the pork roast and servants brought in other dishes while the family and the rest of the household took their places at the u-shaped table. Mathew kept his back to Desire, and focused his attention on his father. He felt comforted by familiar mannerisms—William's squaring of his shoulders, the raising of an eyebrow, the easy way he cuddled Ralph against his chest, as Matthew could dimly remember from his own childhood.
'Tis you I need more than anyone. You I've missed these past years.
He wanted to be alone with William, to discuss important matters—not court gossip or Ralphie's newest tooth, his marital status or his sister's latest pilgrimage or Harry's drinking habits. And yet even while Matthew yearned for it, he dreaded it. Should William ever separate the truth of Limoges from the propaganda, he would never forgive him.
Throughout the repast, Matthew only sampled his food, though he drank liberally of the raisin wine.
Harry settled his son upon his lap, where Ralph picked at slivers of meat his father cut for him. "'Tis grand being a parent." He beamed at Desire, who oddly enough, smiled back at him. Genuinely, it seemed.
"Isn't it grand, brother?" Harry said to Matthew. When Matt didn't respond, he said, "You've seen your son, haven't you?"
"Which one?" Desire asked sharply.
William cast her a warning look, Sosanna gave a troubled smile, and Matthew ignored her.
"I visited the Shop of the Unicorn a while back," Harry continued. He sliced up a chicken breast and allowed Ralph to lift a piece off the point of his knife. "Serill is a fine lad, stocky and strong. Methinks he will make a fine knight someday, should you choose to recognize him."
Sosanna's gaze swung between her sons. She knew a bit about Margery Watson, and that Matthew's relationship with her was long-standing, but she was too wise to attempt to directly solicit information. Both her children would turn her aside with jests or evasions. She could glean more information by keeping quiet and listening.
"Why were you visiting Meg?" It seemed to Matthew that Harry was sneaking behind his back, checking up on him. I do not need you, of all people, to point out my duty.
"I happen to like Dame Margery," Harry said defensively. "And I thought you did as well."
When Matthew did not reply, Harry dropped the subject. His brother's attitude troubled him. Recently he had turned so cold, even calculating, as if he were measuring out all his emotions and allowing himself to display only a certain portion before withdrawing back into himself. Harry could not exactly explain the change, even to himself, but Matthew was definitely different. Harry missed his brother, and longed for his return.
But events have scarred us all, and we all find ways of coping. Perhaps what Matt said is true. It was our duty, so we have naught to feel guilty for.
As the memory came back, Harry closed his eyes. Drink might have dulled his senses that day, but he would never forget the screams...
William addressed Matthew. "How are matters with your lord our Duke?" Ignoring the fact that Harry was also in John of Gaunt's service. Harry seemed not to notice, though Desire frowned, obviously taking note of the slight. Then she bent over to whisper in her husband's ear, causing him to beam at her, as if she'd offered a private compliment or some witty observation.
Matthew was grateful for the change of subject. "The Duke has been in a foul mood since his marriage to Constance of Castile, and I canna blame him. Constance is one unappealing creature—dark and sallow and always on her knees imploring God to avenge the death of her father. Considering that her father was Pedro the Cruel, she would be better served to address her petitions to the devil."
"But by marrying Constance, Lancaster can claim the title King of Castile," William said. "'Tis not a small thing to be king."
Matthew nodded. "He even signs his letters in the Castilian style, Nos el Roy. But the title is an empty one. Henry of Trastamare remains firmly in power."
"It has been my recent misfortune to have been in close contact with the new duchess," Desire said, stroking her gold and ruby necklace and entering the conversation bold as any man. "She always wears such fashionless clothes, and speaks only in Spanish. No wonder Lancaster welcomed Katherine Swynford to his bed. 'Twould be a penance in itself, attempting to beget heirs off a religious fanatic."
William and Matthew shared a look of irritation. Harry acknowledged that marriage to Constance of Castile must indeed be a trial, and began relating a tale about Ralphie's newest pony. While attempting to describe the animal's dimensions, he knocked over his goblet.
Desire opened her arms to Ralph, who'd still been snuggling in Harry's lap, and cast her husband a disapproving look.
Harry laughed, righted his cup and poured himself more wine. "Now where was I? Oh, aye. This pony has the finest markings I've ever seen..."
Supper seemed to drag on forever. After the last course was finally offered, William rose from the table. Nodding toward Matt, he said, "I want some time alone with my son."
For once Matthew did not care ab
out the hurt look on Harry's face, but gratefully followed his father upstairs to the solar. William pulled a small table close to the fire and asked Matthew to set up the checkerboard. As he complied, he thought of Margery, and the times they'd made love right in this very room. The sweetness of her body came back in an overpowering rush, and Matthew felt like racing to the Shop, gathering her and Serill and fleeing to Cumbria, where he would never have to think of Limoges, or anything beyond the three of them.
Tomorrow, he vowed.
While Matt positioned the square checkers on the checkerboard, which was inlaid with blocks of red and black wood, William stretched his legs before the fire. "I am glad 'tis just you and me. Harry talks far too much, and when he drinks his wife pecks at him like some damnable bird."
Matthew didn't know what to say so he simply waited for his father to move the first checker.
"Yet I canna deny Harry married well. And sometimes I see them arm and arm and laughing together as if they were the best of friends."
Matthew was suddenly afraid that his father would question him about Margery, about his unchivalrous behavior toward both mother and son. But William simply moved a piece.
They continued in silence though Matthew found he could not concentrate on the game. Now that he was with William he wanted to talk, but not of marriage or his brother or other unimportant matters. Matthew needed something from his father, but he couldn't express a need he himself could not name.
After William wiped out four of Matt's checkermen in one move, he turned the captured pieces over in his hand. "When I was your age, I fought at Crecy. England has been blessed during the reign of Edward III. I guess 'tis only fitting that, as our king grows old, our country also suffers a run of bad luck."
"But 'tis so painful to watch," Matt said, relieved that William had broached the subject. "Everything is collapsing around us, all that we have won. That French bastard has overrun the province of Ponthieu, capturing in a week Abbeyville, St. Valery and Crotoy. You know what that means, do you not?"
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