A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  In order to more easily find provisions, England's army was drawn up into three divisions, positioned twenty to thirty leagues apart. Because The Black Prince shared command with John of Gaunt, Matthew and Harry Hart often rode together.

  In one respect, this chevauchee mirrored the last. Incessant rains crept into the bones like the fog that crept across the bleak horizon. There was never a sign of the sun, simply a gray mass of clouds bleeding to black where the rains descended. Water pummeled Matthew's armor, slapped his helm, ran along his nose guard into his eyes, and soaked his skin.

  This is a God forsaken country, he thought, as the supply carts left their trail upon the bleak plains like the tracks of giant snails. Hostile, wet and ugly.

  They encountered few people and no French armies. After strengthening the towns along the enemy line of march, the Dauphin Charles had ordered his captains to remain behind city walls.

  As the days passed and the English penetrated more deeply into the desolate French interior, it seemed to Matthew that he and his fellow soldiers remained the sole inhabitants of an empty world—an earth not only devoid of people but even of animals. He seldom glimpsed a deer or a darting fox or heard the call of a nesting bird. Any land that hadn't previously been destroyed by Robert Knolles' mercenaries and His Grace's marauders had been put to flame by the French themselves. Enormous clouds of smoke mushroomed on the horizon before dissipating in the wind, silent signals that another town or wheat field had been destroyed rather than surrendered. Each cloud meant more nights without shelter. Each cloud meant half-filled bellies. Since the English lived entirely off the land, their horses suffered most of all. When the weakened animals could no longer pull the carts, forever bogged in sucking mud, they were slaughtered for meat.

  Hardship piled upon hardship, like a child's building blocks. No one complained about the lack of food, or the rain, or the cowardly French. Discipline remained perfect, and there were no stragglers.

  Our time will come, Matthew assured himself, turning his face away from the relentless rain. Our time will come when we reach Rheims. And none of this will matter, except to the chroniclers.

  By the first of December, Edward's army still remained far from Rheims. The jagged and charred remains of countless towns taunted them in passing, even though many of the skeletons were months rather than weeks old. Matthew sometimes spotted a madman amidst the ruins, or a crippled peasant, ugly reminders of last year's Jacquerie.

  Harry sometimes tried to discuss such matters. "'Tis sad, is it not?" They were passing through yet another razed town. A skeleton hung from a gnarled tree limb, its bones clacking in the breeze like a child's wooden-jointed doll. "First the Death, then we came, then their own rebelled."

  Matthew gave the skeleton no more than a cursory glance. It was, after all, merely a pile of bones. "If they treated their classes as they should, as we treat ours, the rebellion would ne'er have happened." Swallowing a cough, he turned away, successfully suppressing all save a bark. Matthew's cough had descended with the rains. Once begun, it tore relentlessly at his lungs and chest. Others had been similarly afflicted and some were beginning to die.

  "God is dealing harshly with the French," Harry said solemnly.

  "God is on our side, brother. Do not forget that."

  "Aye, but I hope He never so turns against England. The French are God's children, too. Listen! Can you not hear their cries?"

  "'Tis but the wind, Harry." A spasm of coughing wracked Matthew's body. Kicking Michel, he bolted away, seeking privacy until the fit passed.

  I'll not spend the greatest moments of my life sick and shivering like an old woman.

  And yet, no matter how he willed it, he could not shake his illness.

  * * *

  After converging into one enormous division, the English finally reached Rheims. They were not greeted with flowers and cheers, nor did the French fling open their gates in welcome. The Archbishop did not proclaim Edward III the Lord's appointed and anoint him with holy oil. Instead, the townspeople brought in supplies and prepared for a siege.

  Intent on being voluntarily crowned, King Edward refrained from attacking. Rather he attempted to persuade by negotiation. And a blockade. While his men set up camp in the bogs, located miles beyond the city walls, His Grace and his advisors resided at the abbey of Saint-Basle. From its location, perched high on the edge of the Forest de la Montagne, Edward need but look south to see the towers of Rheims Cathedral. When diplomatic efforts frustrated him, he studied the twin Gothic towers, assuring himself that his goal was indeed within reach.

  "I will be crowned King of France," he told members of his war council. In his late forties, Edward was yet a comely man, with a humorous curve to his mouth. His light brown hair was beginning to gray, as was his beard, but his carriage was erect, his walk purposeful. The campaign had been grueling, but Edward firmly believed he would prevail. "Because it is right and proper and God's will. Remember Crecy and Poitiers? Have we ever failed before?"

  Christmas approached, sparse and dismal. Only the excellent local wines provided even the pretense of celebration. Daylight was short; rain mixed with sleet as inevitable as rumbling bellies. Morale plummeted with the rain. Matthew began spitting up blood. The first time he noticed he was frightened, but soon he ignored it. He did not tell his father or Harry. As his condition weakened, he isolated himself from them.

  I'll not have their worried looks and comments, he thought, seeking a warm, dry place to sleep only to find the smothering embrace of the quagmire. The cough tore at his chest and seemingly into his bones, but he was confident he could overcome it. He was twenty-three. No one died at twenty-three. He forced his mind from other similarly afflicted young men whose lifeless eyes would never again gaze upon the sweet hills, forests and valleys of England.

  Sometimes he pictured Margery Watson, and those memories strengthened him, but more often that past seemed unreal. Hard to believe life existed beyond these accursed days which seemed to stretch into the future like an endless string of penances.

  With the coming of spring, 1360, Matthew's cough improved but Edward III's dreams of being crowned King of France dissolved like smoke borne upon the wind. He had been thwarted by the weather and illnesses, by the length of the campaign, and by the cowardliness of the French. Not once had the enemy met him in battle, no matter how brazenly Edward provoked them.

  To appease his frustration, King Edward ordered his men-at-arms to ravage the surrounding countryside around Paris. Then he retreated toward Chartres. Hunger was omnipresent. The countryside could no longer yield its bounty, for no bounty remained. The entire area had been picked clean, like the bones of a dead animal.

  "The besiegers are in worse shape than the besieged," Harry said glumly, after His Grace had ordered a long march toward an area free from devastation. "If I never partake of another campaign, I'll consider myself a lucky man. War always sounds so much finer when related from the lips of minstrels."

  Harry had not had a true bath in months, nor a decent meal. When he had not been cold and hungry, he had been bored senseless. What Matt and his father saw in such hardships he could not fathom, though both professed themselves optimistic over the final outcome.

  "Just wait," Matthew said cheerfully. "Before 'tis finished, something grand will happen. Somehow His Highness will force the French to battle and all this will be of no consequence."

  Harry stifled a snort. Matt had nearly died from a wasting disease and he acted as if the experience had been nothing more than a bothersome crease in a newly-pressed bed sheet. Although Harry admired his brother more than anybody else in the world, not for the first time did he wonder about his mental acuity.

  On Monday, April 13, as the English army broke camp, the eastern horizon showed ominous. The month of March had been so temperate. God had given the English that much, which had helped ease the sickness. Men were now dying in handfuls rather than droves. Standing near King Edward, the Black Prince and John of Ga
unt, Matthew watched the sky darken.

  "I do not like the look of it," said His Grace. "We'll not break camp until it passes."

  The blackness crept toward them; a bitter wind sprang up. From the clouds, lightning flicked like serpents' tongues. The tethered destriers neighed and pulled at their ropes. Matthew felt the same restlessness as the animals.

  Coming forth from the tent he shared with his sons, William Hart said, "'Twill be a rough one."

  Matthew nodded. "I canna remember such darkness of a morning."

  "I must go. All the members of the war council have been summoned to His Grace's tent. Look after your brother," William called over his shoulder. "See that he does not blow away or get struck by lightning."

  The wind sliced through Matthew's body, buffeted the baggage carts, lashed at the tents, and scattered the flames of the cooking fires into oblivion. Mounted knights tried to soothe their anxious horses. A mist emerged from the approaching darkness, whipped along by the wind, stinging Matthew's face. He drew his cloak around him only to have the wind tear it from his grasp.

  Harry emerged from their tent. At the sight of the clouds, impenetrable as a midnight sky, his eyes widened. "What does this remind you of, brother?"

  Matthew shrugged, his gaze on the horizon.

  "Remember the plague?" Harry's nervous laugh was snatched by the howling wind. "Remember when it was told how a dark cloud would cover the earth? I still have nightmares about those times." When Matthew did not respond, he asked, "Do you truly think this looks like an ordinary storm?"

  The wind blew raindrops hard as rocks into their faces. Lightning skittered toward the earth, accompanied by thunder which shook the tents. The rain now showed white and hard, coagulating into hailstones. Grabbing Harry's arm, Matthew shoved him back inside the tent. "We will wait it out here."

  Harry crouched down beside his brother on one of the sleeping pallets and began muttering various disjointed prayers.

  "France's storms are not like England's," Matthew said, attempting to cheer him. "I saw worse than this during the Poitiers campaign."

  A lie, but it seemed to relieve a measure of Harry's anxiety.

  The wind rattled and whistled at the sheltering canvas. Matthew rolled over to fasten the tent flap, but the wind jerked it away. Hail attacked the exterior. A hailstone the size of a pigeon's egg tore through the canvas. A flash of ground lightning illuminated the tent, followed by thunder which boomed like the wrathful voice of God. The tent ripped from its pegs and took off in an erratic flight, like a bird struggling against a headwind.

  Exposed to the full force of the storm, Matthew and Harry rolled into protective balls. The hail assaulted Matt's exposed back, slamming against his hauberk with the force of a sword. He slapped his bascinet over his head. Even through the pounding hail he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand and knew that lightning breathed upon them.

  Ground lightning danced around destriers' hooves and silhouetted horse and rider in sheets of fiery orange. Both began plummeting to the ground as readily as if God's own hand had smote them. The blackness swirled overhead; torrents of rain began to lash the earth.

  "'Tis the end of the world!" cried Harry.

  Matthew tightened his arm around his brother. He was certain today was not the end of the world, but a storm unlike any he'd ever witnessed.

  When it was over, six thousand horses littered the ground, as well as a thousand men—more dead than in all the campaigns combined. As they carried away their lifeless companions, or sought shelter amidst the streams of water and hailstones, the men had already begun to refer to the episode as Black Monday. A bitter cold settled like the breath of a giant over the camp. It was the kind of cold that neither fire nor blankets nor the warmest mantle could lift from the bones.

  King Edward, his sons, and his war council walked through the camp, surveying the devastation. Matthew had seen them all unflinchingly face countless hardships, as well as death by the sword. Never once had he seen fear on their faces. Until today. Even his father appeared shaken.

  "'Tis an omen," King Edward said, voicing the others' apprehension. "God has sent me a sign."

  Earlier, the revered John Chandos and most of the other members of the war council had strongly advised Edward to end the campaign. They'd been in France six months and not been allowed a decisive battle, nor taken a major walled town or capital city. Chandos, especially, was beginning to believe that France could never be conquered by pillage or siege.

  "Our position is yet strong." Despite the loss of an eye in an early battle, John Chandos was one of England's most accomplished knights. Many credited him with orchestrating the victories of Crecy and Poitiers. He pressed his advantage. "We will win more by negotiating this time than continuing. We have fought a grand war with much profit to it, but 'tis too expensive for our resources. If we do not stop now, I do not doubt this campaign could continue the rest of our lives."

  King Edward gazed from Chandos to his sons. Then he walked away, seeking a private moment in which to collect his thoughts. The storm had terrified him. Edward knew himself to be a great warrior, but he was foremost a humble servant of God. In his heart he believed his Savior was displeased with him, and he feared for his soul.

  Looking up at the sky, Edward said in a loud voice, "I renounce before God all claim to the crown of France."

  Some of the watching lords crossed themselves. Others added private prayers of their own to strengthen their king's vow. Even the Black Prince was uneased, but it was not only the storm that had confused him. War Edward of Woodstock understood, but the subtleties of this campaign and its incessant tilting with ghosts had debilitated and frustrated him.

  The prince turned to his younger brother, John of Gaunt. "The French will rue this day, as well as all their cowardice. I swear by all that's holy, Charles will pay full measure—in blood."

  John of Gaunt nodded. "There will be other campaigns."

  Matthew overheard them, but with a rare flash of insight, thought, The Dauphin Charles might be a woman and a coward, but his unorthodox tactics have won. His Grace was not crowned king of France. We gained no new territories, nor fought any epic battles. We accomplished naught that we set out to do.

  John Chandos, whom the chronicler Froissart would describe as being "wise and full of devices," assured himself that this was only a temporary setback. War was much longer than life; but his life at least was long enough to understand that they would live to fight another day. Still, as Chandos returned to the remains of his pavilion, his bones ached as much with weariness as the cold.

  Perhaps the days of Poitiers and Crecy are forever past. Perhaps they are passing with our youth.

  He could not quite believe 'twas so, but, like some others, he was no longer certain.

  Chapter 19

  London, 1361

  In February of 1361, Englishmen and women began whispering about strange happenings they'd witnessed in the night skies. Burning lights in the shape of a cross appearing at midnight; two castles, as if painted from moonlight, out of which rode two hosts, one black and one white, to do battle with each other. What could such visions mean? Surely nothing good, particularly when followed by an eclipse of the sun. And in the spring the rains declined to return, causing crops to wither and die in the fields.

  In London, gloom had descended—a gloom that metamorphosed to terror. For following the signing of yet another treaty with France, soldiers and lords had begun returning home. Along with the Great Pestilence.

  Ah, now the portents could be divined. And all of England trembled at their meaning.

  Cemeteries were reopened to accommodate the hundreds, then thousands of victims. Ordinary folk fled London on penitential pilgrimages while noble men and women withdrew to their remotest holdings, praying the plague would not follow.

  As if to challenge the Death, King Edward held his Order of the Garter tournament at Windsor exactly as he had during the first plague. But privately His Grace had
begun to fear, or at least to allow himself a niggling doubt, that God might be withdrawing His favor. In addition to Black Monday and the frustration of the last campaign, all around him long-time advisors and friends were dying. The most prominent was Henry, Duke of Lancaster, which made King Edward's third son, John of Gaunt, the richest man in England. But riches could not replace friendships and King Edward was losing so many who'd been his youthful companions, then his wise and trusted advisors, men he'd counted upon to accompany him into old age. Now they were being taken from him.

  Finally, unwilling to risk more casualties, His Grace suspended the actions of all the law courts and the Exchequer, and retreated to what he hoped would be the safety of the countryside.

  * * *

  Margery Watson leaned against a small table scattered with medicines and gazed absently out the narrow window overlooking the street. The window was set in diamond panes which distorted the view. Not that there appeared to be anything to see. London's streets were deserted. Gloom had settled over the city as decisively as the fog descending upon the upper stories of the apartments extending into Bread Street. Sighing, Margery shifted her position to ease an ache in her left calf. While the weather had turned cold, the solar itself was oppressively hot. The windows had been ordered closed to keep out unhealthy airs that carried the plague. However, it was not only the return of the Death and the stirring of painful memories that accounted for Margery's melancholy. Twenty months had passed, and she'd not heard from either Thurold or Matthew Hart. Both could be long dead, and she would not know. Margery touched her hidden robin for comfort. She had told her heart so many times that of course Lord Hart would not contact her, that his sweet words had been cheaply given, and she castigated herself for continuing to hope, for not being able to forget...

  Below on the street, a figure approached the shop. The man appeared tall to Margery, and wore the dress of the nobility, though in the wavy glass she could not tell much more. Something was wrong with his gait, which was as slow and hesitant as an old man's.