A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Following their wedding at Reading Abbey, John of Gaunt and his young bride were showered with presents befitting their wealth and status, including an enormous eagle-shaped brooch bearing a huge diamond in its breast and surrounded by rubies, pearls and other jewels crafted from the Shop of the Unicorn. Then the royal entourage was off to London, where a lavish celebration, including a three-day tournament, was to be held in their honor.

  At the Shop of the Unicorn, which had enjoyed such profitable business these past months, Master Crull had given the help an extra day of leisure. Now that the year and a day was well past and Margery no longer had to worry about her bondwoman status, she found life in the Crull household pleasant enough.

  Well, not exactly pleasant. Rather, when she contemplated her circumstances, she defined them more by the "nots": she was not hungry or overworked; she was not beaten by either her master or mistress and fellow servants were not unkind. She did not mind the times she shopped for Dame Crull at Cheapside or watered and weeded her mistress's plants in the back-side. In fact she felt real pleasure tending the various flowers. She would pluck petals of lilacs, lavender, and peonies to decorate stews; violets, onions and lettuce to create salads and flavor broths; and roses and primroses for dessert. As she'd once done in Ravennesfield. The flowers were a link to memories that, with each passing month, became more smudged around the edges.

  On free days, Margery and Orabel might watch the great processions of the various guilds or mystery or morality plays in season. They might go caroling in churchyards, singing and dancing away the afternoon. They might watch archers practice on the green, bending their bows back so far and with such keen eyes they could split sticks from a hundred yards or more. Twice she'd attended St. Bartholomew's Fair, where she'd enjoyed acrobats, jugglers and fire-eaters and mingled with the nobility to cheer on the bull and bear baiting. On Shrove Tuesday there was cock fighting and football, a rough and tumble game that King Edward had banned, citing frequent injuries and less frequent deaths.

  While Margery was prime marriage age, she continued to spurn the tentative advances of apprentices like Nicholas Norlong and Brian Goldman, who had long ago shed himself of Orabel. Orabel was as unlucky in love as Margery told herself she was indifferent. Orabel's latest had been a white tawyer—leather dresser—who had given her both a ring and a promise of marriage. After she'd lain with him, his words had fallen apart as quickly as her ring, which had been made of wound rushes. More recently, Orabel had cast her eyes upon Thurold, who promised Margery that after the next campaign he would buy them a cottage with a small garden so they could "leave this piss-hole." Since that was Orabel's dream as well she'd spun fancies about they three living in a tidy cottage, in the village of Romford or Maidenhead, mayhap. Anywhere outside of London.

  "Thurold will forget as soon as he exits the Shop," Margery warned to dampen her friend's enthusiasm. "He is faithful to his cause—nothing beyond that."

  Freedom. Justice. Equality. Those were Thurold's passions. What did Margery feel passionately about? Children? The laughter of toddlers never failed to bring an answering smile to her own lips and she enjoyed watching the Crulls' nieces and nephews, as well as those on the green chasing butterflies with nets or soap bubbles from a pipe or playing hoodman's blind. Oh, but the pinch-faced urchins who begged for food, that was heartbreaking. And she'd witnessed a seven-year-old hanged for stealing a merchant's purse. And so many died so young...

  A love of God? Sometimes when John Ball spoke of their creator, she could float to heaven upon the power of his words. She was stirred by the majesty of St. Paul's Cathedral when sunlight would pierce its stained glass to create glorious patterns upon its paving stones, and its monks would chant their hours with voices that echoed forlornly off its high ceilings and sifted down from all the dark places. Those times God seemed both impossibly remote and so close she could feel Him at her elbow. Still, Margery knew she was no holy woman, particularly when Father Crispin gently chided her on her sins during confession.

  What was left, marriage and a husband? No, she didn't yearn for that; she found the very idea distasteful. Sometimes she wondered whether something might be wrong with her. God had given women a physical need to desire regular sex so that their seed wouldn't coagulate and suffocate their wombs, which was one of the reasons many wed so early. So, why didn't she feel such a need? When marriage was impossible, women were supposed to travel, exercise and ingest various medicines to counter their base desires. But unless one called a stroll to Milk Street travel, household duties exercise, and an occasional potion for monthly cramping "medicine," Margery should be fainting from the effects of lust.

  Which she most definitely wasn't.

  And yet...

  She hadn't forgotten him, not at all.

  Since the Shop of the Unicorn catered to the most exalted clientele, she'd spotted several patrons wearing the hart badge, the Lancaster rose and the Prince of Wales' ostrich plumes, but Matthew Hart never numbered among them. His brother was a frequent visitor—though Harry would not have seen her for she spent most of her time in the private quarters. And even if he had, he'd surely never recognize her from their long ago meeting in Ravennesfield. After Harry's departure, she would casually question Nicholas Norlong, who could recall a customer's previous purchases down to a farthing, and was eager to impress her. Judging from Harry's selections of bracelets, arm-rings, neck chains and hair pins, Harry Hart either had many lady friends or hoped to have many lady friends. A pity Master Crull wasn't in the weapons business for then Matthew would most likely attend the Shop as regularly as most attended mass. Margery sometimes imagined a chance meeting during a Sunday stroll or a visit to one of London's many public gardens, but that never happened. And, should they meet, she would have to explain her lie.

  If Lord Hart remembered her at all.

  Margery had devised a clever tuck in each of her three gowns so that she might safely carry her robin with her throughout the day. As if it were a talisman, though she refrained from sleeping with it. That would have been too foolish.

  As I am more than foolish. I am a fool.

  Here in London she was hourly reminded that Matthew Hart was so far above her station that, had it not been for their Ravennesfield connection, he'd never have given her a glance. When she recalled Alice's talk of noble blood, Margery dismissed her mother's assertions about her being "special" as the fevered ruminations of a woman who had been hidden away in a tiny hut in a no-consequence village, and whose idea of a great city was Cambridge. Had Alice ever set foot in London—even after such losses that ten thousand plague victims had been buried in West Smithfield just beyond city walls—she would have been undone by its sheer size. And immediately shed of her grandiose notions. Here Alice would have been exposed to lovely women with painted faces and dazzling clothes, with sophisticated airs and education. Had she merely stood in front of the Shop, she would have counted an array of nationalities, miens, dress and languages (though English was now nearly universally spoken), and overheard conversations where curious names like Antipodes, Byzantium, Constantinople and Danzig were tossed about as casually as she and Joan Tomsdoughter had once chatted about the weather.

  Surely, then Alice Watson would have realized her naiveté. Believing that a moderately pretty face could secure favor! That teaching a daughter to enunciate and speak properly would outweigh the fact that she could neither read nor write! And most ludicrous of all, that being the bastard child of a lord would be enough to secure her fortune!

  And yet...

  At night, when she tossed on her pallet, Margery still conjured him. And after she slipped into sleep, Matthew Hart still came to her. Upon awakening she would remember flashes, impossible to disentangle one from the other—the moon huge and round as a gold plate, dazzling armor, high-stepping stallion with its silky curtain of a mane and tail shining as if from an inner radiance. Moonlight resting upon her lover's head like an anointing. Leaning forward, beckoning to her. H
er faerie knight... him.

  She carried those flashes around as surreptitiously, and as faithfully, as she did her robin, and reminded herself that the moon had surely promised her something, when she, Thurold and John Ball had been London bound. But so many months had passed and she worried that she might have misread its message.

  Not because she was desperate, she assured herself, but because she was curious, Margery had become adept at casting and interpreting horoscopes, even without the knowledge of letters, and hers foretold a period of monumental change. A woman healer in Southwark, who was supplementing Margery's knowledge of the medicinal and magical properties of plants, had also taught her the ancient art of scrying. The process was simple enough. Margery would gaze into a shallow bowl of water and allow her mind to drift on a cloud of vapor. Images were supposed to form in the liquid. Once interpreted, the images would provide a glimpse into the future.

  Margery would patiently study the smooth surface until a simulacrum appeared. Sometimes she fancied she saw the face of the man in the moon and sometimes... others. What could the faces mean? Was the man in the moon a reminder of her vision? Or was it an affirmation that the vision had simply been a dream concocted from the cloth of her desire?

  Surely, all the signs pointed to that unnamed something, did they not?

  * * *

  On the third day of the tournament held in honor of John of Gaunt and his bride's nuptials, Margery and Orabel attended. Located beyond London's walls, the lists consisted of an enormous field of hard-packed earth surrounded by stakes. The knights' silk and velvet pavilions, with their brilliant colors and banners, were located west of the wooden galleries. Save for squires and yeomen, who were relegated to the lower tiers, the cushioned or carpeted stands were reserved for the most exalted—which included Jean le Bon. While remaining officially imprisoned, the French king, now ensconced at Windsor Castle, continued to live as he pleased.

  Margery wedged herself between Orabel and a friendly candlemaker. The pair flirted while Margery kept her eyes upon the field, lightheaded with anticipation. Not because today, she knew, Matthew Hart would number among the participants, but because of the sun, which was unusually warm for this early in summer. So she told herself. And knew, once again, she lied.

  Trumpets announced the beginning of the joust. The crowd murmured, then stilled in anticipation. Margery shaded her eyes and waited impatiently. After all this time she would at least glimpse him. She was hungry, starving for some contact with him, even so far away, even when she was but one among hundreds.

  Row upon row of knights circled the lists to the accompaniment of enthusiastic applause. Ribbons, sleeves, stockings, scarves and other favors streamed atop their lances and helms while from the stands, ladies tossed yet more gloves, girdles, and flowers.

  Orabel turned. "Do ye see him yet?" While Margery kept her own counsel, Orabel knew enough of her friend's heart to understand that today's lone attraction would be a glimpse of her knight.

  Margery nodded and pointed, drinking in the sight of Matthew Hart. Circling the field with the rest of the challengers. Helm off, a breeze ruffling his hair, a multitude of favors upon his lance—surely more than most anyone—which returned her to reality. She need not gaze down at her drab gown to be reminded that, compared to the court ladies, she looked like what she was—a peasant from the countryside.

  She touched her ever-present robin, hidden in a pouch that looked to be part of her embroidered sleeve. Then why hasn't he married? She knew he hadn't, he was of an age, and he was first-born. Love and attraction weren't generally involved in marriage, but could his continued bachelorhood mean something?

  That he is pining for you? Margery Watson from Ravennesfield? Dim wit!

  In the light of day, in light of her lie to him, in light of the social chasm separating them, she knew there would be no rendezvous beneath the moon. Or anywhere else.

  It does not matter. I will enjoy this day and the sight of him and then I will return my robin to its box and, as Father Crispin says, put away childish things.

  Challengers and defenders, who had not removed their helms, lined up on opposite sides of the lists. Matthew, now recognizable by the identifying banderol on his lance, numbered among the twenty-four challengers. A second blast of trumpets signaled the start. The screaming crowd, the thunder of racing destriers, and the knights' battle cries were deafening. When the two sides met, the very ground seemed to shake with their impact, reverberating through Margery's body.

  The field soon became a chaos of armor, men and horses, all tangled together. Orabel jumped up and down, clapping excitedly, but Margery had to refrain from squeezing her eyes shut to black out the violence. Instead, she clasped her hands tightly together and searched among the flashing swords until she spotted Matthew battling John Lovekin, London's mayor.

  "There is your knight!" cried Orabel, waving as if he might see her. "Why is he having such trouble besting the mayor? Lovekin's but a fishmonger."

  Margery winced, unable to look away. She could almost feel the blows thwacking Matthew. Back and forth across the lists, he and the mayor advanced and retreated, slashed and parried. "This is madness," she breathed. Sweet Jesu! Such brutal games these lords enjoyed—nay, all men enjoyed for those of her class were as rough in their own fashion.

  Given their ranks, the defenders were fighting far more skillfully than one would expect. In fact, they seemed more like berserkers than ordinary guildsmen, and had little trouble overwhelming their challengers. Soon riderless horses circled a field littered with crumpled bodies and shattered lances, until only a handful of challengers remained mounted, including Matthew.

  Margery watched as he went knee to knee against the mayor. Lovekin repeatedly slammed his sword against Matt's helm, and finally sent him toppling to the ground. Her breath caught as Matt's squire and body servant raced onto the field, grabbed their lord's arms and legs, and carried him to safety.

  "I pray he is unharmed," Margery said to Orabel, but her voice was drowned out by the jubilant roar of the crowd, signaling the defeat of the last challenger. The victorious defenders removed their helms, which caused the crowd to cheer all the louder. London's mayor turned out to be, not lowly John Lovekin, but King Edward himself. Edward's sons were all there too, disguised as sheriffs.

  "No wonder your knight could not best him." Orabel squealed with laughter. "What a fine jest."

  "A fine jest, indeed. What if Lord Hart is hurt?"

  "Go find out."

  "Nay, I could not." Women did not invade a male bastion.

  Orabel turned to face her friend. "Think ye I donna know why you sigh so and canna sleep? Why you turn aside any man who dares approach?" She pulled Margery toward the back of the crowd. "What harm is there in offering your services? Are you not skilled with herbs? Come along, Maggie-dear. 'Tis time to give fortune a bit of guidance."

  The more Margery considered the idea, the less transparent it seemed. And it had been so very long since she'd seen him. And he had such a way of stirring her emotions...

  They searched among the pavilions for Lord Hart's identifying shield. Tethered hunting dogs bayed at their passing while squires called out lewd comments. Margery dodged riderless destriers, dizzy, battered knights being led to surgeons for a restorative bloodletting and servants scurrying hither and yon.

  Finally, she spied Matthew's shield with its hart rampant. There were no barber surgeons or priests hovering about the tent, which meant he could not be too badly hurt. "This is a poor idea," she said to Orabel, hanging back. Had a woman ever been so bold about her intentions?

  "We've come too far to stop now." Orabel smiled at Matthew's groom, who was currying his master's warhorse. "My," she breathed. "What capable hands he has!"

  While her friend struck up a conversation, Margery approached the open tent flap. Inside, she saw Matt's squire, his barber, his brother, and Matthew himself, his back to her. His torso was bare, his legs clad in the braies and chausses that
served as undergarments beneath his armor. His broad shoulders fairly rippled with muscles, then angled to a narrow waist and lean hips. He looked very much alive—and very well.

  Margery felt light-headed. How brazen she was, how inappropriate, but how often the last long months had she wished she'd told him truly, "I live here," imagined him coming to the Shop, imagined days and nights that need not have been so barren and empty...

  Matthew drank from a wooden goblet, then spat out a mixture of wine and blood. "Who would have thought I'd cross swords with His Grace?" he lamented, limping toward a wooden stool. "No wonder I could not best him." He tossed a discarded sponge into a nearby bucket of herbal water and with a muted groan, eased onto the stool, facing Margery.

  Slip away, she thought. This is a mistake. Do not let him see you.

  At that very moment, Matthew did see her. "Margery Watson!" He bolted to his feet, one arm across his bruised ribs. "What are you doing here?"

  She reddened under his hostile scrutiny. The others turned and stared. She dipped in a curtsy.

  "I am sorry for my boldness, my lord, but I watched you fall and was concerned." Of course, Lord Hart saw through an explanation that was flimsy as gossamer. "I know a bit about medicinal herbs."

  She tried to focus on his face, but he was so clearly displeased by her presence that her gaze fastened to the damp hair shading his chest, hair that she might accidentally brush while treating him. Or she might gently probe the bruise that was beginning to disfigure his upper stomach—his hard, flat stomach.

  "You have an interesting way of appearing and disappearing, Margery Watson." His legs were spread in a truculent stance, his voice challenging. "Have you become confused? Lost your way?"