A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Immediately she was at the medicine chest, searching for betony, hyssop and the other herbs used to ease violent blood and chills. After mixing the potion, which smelled strongly of oranges, she thrust it beneath Matt's nose. His mouth was partially open; his breath came in painful shallow gasps. She thought she glimpsed a fuzz on his tongue. What horrors were corrupting his insides?

  "Drink this. It will soothe you."

  Matthew managed only a few swallows before the goblet slipped from his fingers onto the bed. Margery looked from the dark stain spreading upon the sheets to him, taking note of his glassy eyes. He seemed unaware that he'd dropped the cup.

  I must do something. But she had no idea what. Medicines were always haphazard, as was the entire practice of doctoring, and so far her potions had done him no good at all. She placed her hand upon Matt's forehead, which was clammy with sweat, and he trembled, as animals did during a thunderstorm.

  I cannot just stand here and watch him die. But what can I do?

  Matthew collapsed against the pillows. "Cold," he muttered. Drawing his body in a ball, he pulled up the covers. Slipping into bed beside him, Margery pressed her back against his shaking body, forcing him to mold against her, forcing her warmth into him.

  His shivering gradually lessened. Margery remained pressed against him, even though her body slickened with his sweat, and his skin was hot to the touch.

  "I came back for you, Meg," Matt murmured, nuzzling against the back of her neck. "I could not break my promise..." His hand curved around her breast, and he slept.

  * * *

  "Is my brother truly better?"

  "He has not vomited since last even, and his fever seems to have broken."

  The voices wafted to Matthew from a distance, as if he were struggling awake from a deep sleep. Sounds and events were beginning to register, though he could not yet summon enough energy to properly think on them. For the first time in days, however, his head did not hurt.

  A cool hand cupped his forehead. Matthew opened his eyes. "What have you been doing, Meg? You look awful."

  "So do you, my lord," Margery replied. She cradled a bowl of gruel in her hands.

  "'Tis a pity you have lost your most interesting shade of blue," Harry said, attempting levity. "I have always wanted a blue brother." Measuring a spoonful of gruel, Margery motioned for Matthew to open his mouth.

  "I thank you, but I can feed myself." Matt struggled to a sitting position. Now that his mind had cleared and the fever passed, he had no intention of being treated like an invalid. With shaking fingers he reached for the bowl, brought it to his lips, and managed by sheer force of will to drink more than he spilled on himself.

  Afterward, Matthew fell back upon the pillows. His entire body felt bruised and battered, as if he'd been in combat, but he knew the worst of his sickness was behind him. He groped for Margery's hand, and held it in his own.

  "Will you lay with me, Meg?" he murmured. As he began drifting back into a fatigued sleep, he felt the pressure of her head against his chest. "I have to tell you..." But Matthew didn't know whether he spoke the words or thought them. He had something very important to say to Margery, but he was asleep before he could remember what it might be.

  Chapter 20

  London

  "'Tis time for me to go," Margery said. Each day of Matthew's recovery reminded her of her absence from the Crull household. "'Twill be difficult enough now to explain a fortnight's disappearance."

  "Not if I am with you," Matthew said. "That weasel goldsmith would not dare object to you saving my life. You might be a member of his household, but he does not own you. And I will never forgive him for lying to me. Now that I am hale, perhaps 'tis time to confront your master."

  "I do not want anyone at the Shop to know anything about my private life." Master Crull or his wife would just find some way to use that knowledge against her. "I will think up some appropriate lie."

  Matthew grinned. "I cannot imagine you lying. 'Twould be an interesting performance."

  "With some people it does not really seem like a lie."

  The pair were seated opposite each other in the "She and I" seat cut into the bay window. Afternoon sunlight illuminated Matt's face. The planes had softened, the hollows had begun to fill out. Each day he grew stronger and less inclined to remain cooped up indoors without physical activity. As the threat of plague receded, some servants had also returned, including the cook. A good thing since Matthew's appetite was voracious and Harry's culinary efforts had been uniformly dismal.

  Matt leaned forward and rested his hands atop Margery's, which were folded in her lap. As he struggled to formulate his question, he absently stroked her fingers. For days he'd been trying to decide how best to broach the subject preoccupying him. "I asked you once before about leaving the goldsmith's household. From what you've said, both he and his mistress are unpleasant."

  "Where would I go? They are better than most. I have been cold and hungry before. I would gladly put up with a little inconvenience rather than risk being a beggar."

  "You would have no trouble finding someone else to take you in."

  Margery shook her head. "At least I know what to expect with the Crulls."

  Matt cleared his throat. "What would you think of mayhap... have you ever thought of becoming part of my household?"

  Margery's eyes widened. "Why would I wish to do that?"

  "So that we could be together."

  "Nay."Margery left the window seat and retreated to the canopied bed, so that Matthew's proximity would not distract her. She looked about the room as if seeing it for the first time. Since the servants had administered a thorough cleaning, it had lost the look of a sick room and now looked what it was. The solar of a great lord.

  Following her, Matt placed his hands upon her shoulders. "Why could you not, Meg? 'Twould mean much to have you always near me."

  Margery closed her eyes. She would be a servant of the most menial kind—a chambermaid, perhaps. She would have the privilege of making Matthew's bed, of cleaning up the after-effects of a night of lovemaking between him and one of his court ladies. Perhaps she would even be called upon to bring them their sop in wine afterward.

  Now I do not know what you do so it does not matter. Then I could never forget. "I would not like that, my lord. I would most likely see less of you than I do now."

  "I think not." Matthew twisted her shoulders, forcing her to turn and face him. He groped for a tactful way to impart what was in his heart without frightening or angering her, though he'd never been proficient at word games. "Did you know that even King Edward has had dalliances?"

  Margery was taken aback by the implications behind his words. "But his queen is so kind!"

  "She is also in poor health and His Grace is a lusty man." Though King Edward, who genuinely loved his wife, had strayed even when Queen Philippa had been young and vigorous. It was just the way with men.

  Matthew asked, "Does that seem wrong to you?"

  "Aye. After all their children, and all their years together—"

  "Even Prince Edward has illegitimate children, though he remains a bachelor." Mathew's voice dipped. "As do I."

  Margery stiffened. So such things went. They sired their children, then abandoned them. "What has this to do with me?"

  "I am just trying to say 'tis a common practice for a man to have a mistress."

  "I do not care how common it is," Margery said sharply. "'Tis the mother and child who suffer the consequences."

  "Not if they have a considerate lord." Matthew thrust his fingers through his hair in a gesture of exasperation. Margery was either totally ignorant of his meaning, or refusing his offer. "Damme, Meg, but you are difficult to reason with. 'Tis glad I am that you are not nobly born. I believe I would have to ask you to wed."

  Margery gasped. "I do not understand. What are you saying?"

  "I have been trying to say that I want you to come live with me, to be my leman. I will care for you and hold you d
ear. Jesu! I am not good at this. I have not asked before."

  To have the question asked so boldly did not seem proper, but then the entire business was improper.

  "I could not."

  "I do not feel about you the way I do other women." Reaching out, Matt cupped the side of her cheek. "I am grateful to you, of course, for caring for me. But it goes deeper. I will confess something. I tire easily of women. After I've bedded them, they lose their attraction. 'Twas not that way with you. During the Rheims Campaign I thought about you... often. Instead of being sated, sometimes 'twas like a hunger to be with you again. I knew then 'twas different between us."

  He tilted her chin, so that she looked into his eyes. His lips turned up in a half smile. In an echo of their first encounter, he asked, "Would you like me to tell you I love you?"

  Margery shook her head. "Words are not necessary." Had Thomas Rendell ever professed love to Alice? 'Tis impossible. Noble and commoner cannot mix. But I am neither, and both. How do I fit into this world? What rules apply specifically to me?

  "If love is what minstrels sing about and poets compose boring verses for, then 'tis so," Matthew said, "I do not love you. But if 'tis something I've not felt before, then I do. Is that enough?"

  "'Tis more complicated than that."

  "You care for me, do you not?"

  Margery nodded, but she found it difficult to describe her feelings. Once such things were uttered, she would be even more vulnerable.

  If I do not speak, I can still deny my emotions. If I do not admit to love, 'twill not be so much a betrayal of my past.

  "We both know how short life can be, and how precious," she said carefully. "And I do care for you, more than I can say."

  "Then why do you hesitate?"

  Margery balled her fists. "'You know so little about me, and there is much in my past that makes trusting someone like you difficult. I do not want to be suspicious, but I find myself expecting treachery instead of love."

  "We generally find what we are looking for. If you seek treachery you will find it." Matt kissed her lightly on the lips and drew her into his embrace. "But if you would look for lasting affection, you need only come to me."

  Margery rested her head against his chest. She would like to believe that, to spend her days and nights with him and cease worrying about the future or dredging up the past. "Before I give you an answer, I must tell you something."

  And so she confessed the truth of her parentage and about the way her father had sent her off with a handful of coins. But if she'd expected shock or outrage, she received neither.

  "There is no shame in being illegitimate, Meg, especially with a father like Thomas Rendell, for his family is an exalted one. And I am sorry for your last experience with him but the plague times were difficult for everyone. He would not have meant to hurt you."

  "My experience of treachery goes far beyond my father." She had also meant to tell Matt about Lawrence Ravenne, but he had such a way of championing his own, and she did not want to hear him rationalize murder. "I want to trust you, but if I did consent to be your leman and you discarded me... who would I turn to? No respectable household would employ me. And London's mayor has banned begging within the city limits. Where would I go? How would I survive?"

  Matthew took her in his arms. "You are the daughter of a powerful lord, Margery. You seem to be uncomfortable with that fact, but 'tis truth. You could find service in any household. But I promise you, there is no need. I will care for you." He kissed the crown of her head. "I am sorry for your past, but believe in me. My word is everything to me, and I vow I will not weary of you or cast you aside."

  "Love is not the same thing as a battle oath. One cannot dictate to the heart."

  "My word is my bond, on or off the field. And I have seen enough of battle to know that men recover from wounds which are gently cared for. Since your heart has been wounded, I promise I will be extra gentle with it."

  Margery was touched by Matthew's clumsy attempt at gallantry. She could spend the rest of her life testing his loyalty and trying to protect herself. Or by a conscious act of will, choose to trust him. Slipping her arms around his neck, she whispered, "I will be your leman." With the declaration came a certain peace. Or so she told herself. Or was she simply feeling numb?

  As if to seal their agreement, he kissed her. "Now that I am feeling strong enough, I will hie me to Cumbria to see my parents. But I will be back by summer's end. Then I will set you up in a grand house, grander than Hart's Place, and we will spend our days and nights making love. Would that please you? I assure you I can think of no pleasanter way to pass my time."

  Margery laughed and nodded. Matthew leaned over to brush her lips, then trailed kisses down her throat. "What say you we enjoy a foretaste of what is to come?" he murmured against her ear.

  "You are still a sick man. You must not over-tax yourself."

  His lips found the swell of her breasts above her bodice. "I cannot think of anything that would cure me faster."

  "Or make me happier," she whispered, following Matthew to his bed.

  So, Margery had risen one step above her mother. Was it happiness she felt, drowning herself in the physical presence of the man she loved? Or was she simply engaging in a distraction, allowing herself to be caught up in Matthew's imaginings of a future she knew could never come to pass?

  * * *

  Black serge draped the front door of the Shop of the Unicorn. Upon entering, Margery noted that all the other doors were similarly draped, and that death garlands of periwinkles decorated the walls.

  She reached the dining hall before meeting anyone she could question.

  "Who has died?" she asked Orabel, who after the shock of seeing her, imparted the news.

  "Dame Gisla two days past. We thought you'd done the same, Maggie-dear." She hugged her friend. "I was so worried. By the saints, where have you been?"

  Margery sidestepped the question. "Did our mistress pass of the plague?"

  Orabel shook her head. "'Twas the sickness. The master believed you had also died. He will be surprised to see you alive, as we all are."

  Margery opened her mouth to explain her disappearance, then pressed her lips together. She would save her excuses for Simon Crull. She feared she was going to need them.

  Chapter 21

  London

  Dame Gisla's funeral was a somber affair and sparsely attended because of lingering fear of plague. When her month-mind was celebrated with a second funeral service, relatives and prominent burghers and their wives came out in force, a sign that London was returning to normal. Why was it then that Margery felt so uneasy, an unease that went beyond the death of her mistress? She was certain something sinister, something naught to do with plague or illnesses, tainted the air, though she could not reason what.

  I wish my lord had not left, she oft told herself. I wish we'd already begun our life together. She counted the days until summer's end and her lover's return. Sixty more days in the Crull household. Matthew had already sent two letters which she'd had read by a copier, one of many in various precincts who performed related services for a pittance. Each letter warmed her heart and reinforced her decision. Soon...

  On the feast of Saint Shenute, which fell on the first of July, Simon finished his evening repast and remained at the table sipping a cup of wine, watching Margery, as he so often did, before abruptly rising and retreating to his chamber. As was her custom, she gathered food scraps for the handful of vagrants who dared defy the mayor's ban on begging, until interrupted by Orabel.

  "The master would see you," she said, retrieving the basket.

  "Why?"

  Orabel shrugged. "Who can say? 'Tis best to just nod and obey and go about our business."

  An uneasy Margery found her master seated on a bench close to the hearth fire and in the process of removing his street clogs.

  She hesitated in the doorway.

  "Do not stand there like a dolt," Crull said as he massaged his hose
d feet. "Enter. And close the door."

  Warily, Margery obeyed. She misliked this, a man of habit summoning her for no apparent reason.

  "I've something to show you." Simon stood, crossed to the linen wall tapestry behind his bed and lifted a corner to retrieve a locked wooden casket, banded in iron, from the uncovered niche. After fumbling with the key ring at his waist, he fitted a key into the lock.

  As her master bent over the box, the light from the hearth fire played across his scalp, gleaming through sparse strands of hair. Margery noticed that the hands resting upon the lid were as delicate as the filigree he so expertly fashioned. She fervently hoped their meeting would be short.

  Crull tapped the chest. "What do you think I have in here?"

  "I could not guess, sir."

  "'Tis a locked box and 'tis kept in a secret place." He enunciated his words as if were speaking to a half-wit. "What do those two conditions imply?"

  Rather than look at him, Margery studied her hands. "That there is something of value in the box."

  "Be more specific, Margery Watson. You are capable of deduction, are you not? Tell me what the box might contain."

  "Money?" She hoped 'twas a viper that would sink its fangs into his wrinkled flesh.

  With a flourish Simon flipped back the lid and held the contents toward the fire's light. "Jewels!" Plunging his hand into the casket, he emerged with a handful of stones. Rubies, sapphires, diamonds, amethysts trickled through his fingers. "Have you ever seen anything so lovely?"

  Since Margery handled the various wares in Simon's shop and occasionally performed the most rudimentary work associated with goldsmithing, she was hardly a stranger to gems, though she'd never seen so many in one place.

  "Jewels are for the wealthy, sir. For myself, I prefer flowers."

  "Nonsense. A flower's beauty is transitory. These last forever." He held out the box. "Touch them. Hold them."

  Reluctantly, Margery ran her fingertips over the jewels. Cold to the touch; lifeless, cold and hard. And one was probably worth more than she would earn in a year's time. "What would you have me say, sir?"