A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "There is a fortune in this casket, and it all belongs to me. Did you know I am one of London's wealthiest merchants?" Extending a sapphire toward the firelight, Simon rushed on. "Did you know you are very like these jewels? The color of your eyes. Your lips like rubies." He held a topaz up to her hair. "The highlights are the very same."

  Stunned by Crull's sudden metamorphosis from businessman to suitor, Margery stammered, "I do not understand."

  "Like my stones, you are beautiful even in your unpolished state. I've known it for years. I am going to refine you, transform you into a thing of beauty, an adornment for my house." Simon stroked his stones while imparting his vision of the future Margery Watson. "I will give you fashionable clothing and improve your manners. I will build us a fine mansion and with you by my side, I will entertain royalty should I so desire."

  Frightened by his babbling, Margery backed away. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I have chores to attend."

  Simon grabbed her arm. "I appreciate beauty in all its forms. Dame Gisla was a proper matron and furthered my career. But she is gone and I shall replace her with a woman more suited to this time in my life."

  "Pardon me, master, but I have no idea what you are saying."

  Simon Crull's lips turned up in a smile that did not expose his teeth, which were discolored and beginning to rot. "Beauty and intelligence seldom go hand in hand. 'Tis God's way of providing a measure of justice in this world."

  He loosed his grip on Margery's arm and returned to caressing his jewels. "My father was a leatherworker," he said, his voice low with remembrance. "A lowly enough trade in the best of times. He preferred to spend his life in taverns rather than make a proper living. He was filthy and disgusting, and died as he should—with his head bashed in during some brawl. From an early age, I knew God had created me for greatness, but I also knew naught would be handed to me. I turned to goldsmithing because 'tis the most prestigious and lucrative craft. I married Gisla because her family owned real estate throughout London. Those who possess property possess power as well as wealth. I have accomplished nearly everything I have set out to do, and when I am elected mayor, as I intend to be, everyone from lord to alderman to the miscreants in the stocks will know my name. When I pass Londoners will say, 'There goes Simon Crull. He is an important man. Do not anger him. Cultivate him.' They will envy me not only for my position, my house, my friends—but also for my beautiful wife."

  "I do not understand. I have never heard you talk this way, master, and I am confused—"

  "I will speak as plainly as possible then. We are going to be wed, you and I."

  "What?" Margery gaped at him. "Is this a jest? Have I done something to displease you? Do you think to trap me somehow by this pretense? You and I both know that—"

  "You heard me correct, Margery Watson. We are going to become man and wife."

  "But I do not intend to marry anyone," she blurted. "Most certainly not you."

  Simon smiled complacently. "'Tis not unheard of for an important man to marry beneath him." He ran his fingertips over her hand exactly as he had his jewels. "And you are not really so far below. Your blood is most exalted." He paused. "Or at least a portion of it."

  Margery stiffened. How could he know about her heredity?

  Upon her service, Dame Gisla had asked the usual questions, "Where are you from?", "What work can you do?" ,"Name me your relatives." She'd noted each answer in her account book, but with so many dead and so much changing there would have been little chance of checking out Margery's answers, true or false. And in her four years at the Crulls, she'd never discussed her past with anyone save Orabel. Had Thurold said something?

  "You look surprised," said Crull. "I assure you I know all about you. 'Twas not so difficult to find out. London is filled with such as you, but a man like myself has connections."

  "My past is unimportant," Margery said, with more conviction than she felt.

  "You are the bastard daughter of a peasant woman," Simon said. "Your father is the Canterbury knight, Thomas Rendell. Rendell's mother was Maria d'Arderne, the fabled mistress of Edward II's half-brother, Richard of Sussex. The Rendell family is most influential, especially in the south of England. So 'tis not only your physical attributes that intrigue me."

  "I have a dowry consisting of exactly sixteen shillings," Margery managed, though she could scarce hear herself above her heart's pounding. "Even if I am who you say, I have no material goods to bring into a partnership. Marriage to me would make you a figure of ridicule. Such matches cause talk even when the bride has something to offer, which I do not."

  "You have noble blood, nay, even royal blood, for rumors have long circulated that Thomas Rendell's father was really Edward II's half-brother. If that is so, then Thomas Rendell's grandfather would be Edward I, the same as our own King Edward. When His Grace and I sit together upon Westminster's dais after I am elected mayor, we will have much to discuss."

  "None of this can be proved," insisted Margery. "You are constructing genealogies out of air." Fear made her drop her usual respectful pose and speak bluntly. "I am worthless to you, I do not want to marry you or anyone, and I will not."

  Her mind raced, sketching plans. She would head north for Cumbria. She would leave Crull's employ immediately, slip out the first thing tomorrow, and if she had to attach herself to a band of pilgrims or merchants and walk to Matthew, that she would do...

  "'Tis best, master, that we both pretend this conversation never took place." She retreated for the door only to have Crull grab her wrist and spin her around.

  "When I said I knew everything about you, I was speaking true. Before coming to London, you were bonded to the Ravenne estates in East Anglia. You ran away." Simon's voice dropped an octave. "You are a criminal, Margery Watson. Who would have thought?"

  Margery fought down a wave of panic. Simon was trying to trap her with words, and doing a fair job of it. But he was wrong about her status. "Even if what you say is true—and I am not admitting to it—'twould make no difference. Anyone who lives in London a year and a day is considered free. By law I am a free woman."

  Simon laughed. "You know enough of the law to know absolutely nothing. A woman can only be free should she marry a free man."

  Margery hesitated. "I do not believe that." She desperately wished Thurold or John Ball were here to reassure her, to confirm whether Simon actually spoke truth. They would know such laws, but Thurold remained in France with English mercenaries and she'd not seen John Ball in months.

  "You would question an alderman who deals daily with the law? You insult me, Margery Watson. Did you know I can impose extremely severe penalties for your slanders?"

  "I did not mean to anger you," she said, her manner placating. "But I am certain the law will protect me."

  From the interior of his robe Simon retrieved a document, removed the seal and unrolled it. "Read this. It will tell you. "

  Margery stared at the unintelligible lines. "You know I cannot read."

  Simon smiled his closed-mouth smile. "Let me read it for you. 'According to the Westminster Decree signed by our most benevolent majesty, King Edward III, any woman who is born a bondwoman must remain so, without exception, unless and until the time she should marry a free man.'"

  The words sounded as official as the seal looked. She raised her eyes to Crull, trying to determine the truth by his expression. "'Tis correct, then?" No fleeing London or seeking employ elsewhere or taking charge of her own fate?

  Simon nodded, folded the document, which contained detailed instructions from one of his clients requesting a set of golden goblets, and thrust it back inside his robe. "If you do not marry me, I will turn you over to the proper authorities. They will throw you in Ludgate or Newgate, or the Clink mayhap. You would not want to die in prison, would you, Margery Watson?"

  She swallowed hard. "Nay, sir."

  "Good. 'Tis settled then." Reaching out, he grabbed her hand. "Before God, here in this chamber, I will have you as my wife
."

  Stunned, Margery shook free from his grasp, but he merely grabbed her other hand and forced her to look into his eyes. "You, Margery Watson, will have me as your husband, will you not?"

  Even in her distracted state, she knew that Crull was attempting to intimidate her into consenting to marriage. Such an agreement, whether uttered neath the spreading leaves of an ash, in front of a ruined tower, or in a room like this one, was considered to be as solemn and binding an oath as one uttered in church. Nor did witnesses have to be present. Should she dispute the oath, she would have to take Crull to court to determine its legality, a process that could take months.

  "I do not want to commit myself to anything without thinking upon it. Please, do not rush me so."

  Simon squeezed her hand. "You will take me for your husband or you will end up in prison. You will have me. I do not make idle threats. Either you agree now or pay the consequences."

  "I will take this to a hearing," Margery cried. "They will say 'tis entrapment. You canna force me. Any oath given under duress will be ruled invalid. I know that much of the law, at least."

  "If the courts so rule, I will inform them of your true status, which would lead immediately to your death. Do not fight me, Margery Watson. You are no match for me. I have long anticipated this moment, and your reluctance only strengthens my resolve."

  Margery tried to decide what to do. It was inconceivable that she might actually become Simon Crull's wife, but Simon was right about one thing. She was no match for him—at least not in an open confrontation. She had spent her life watching those with power trampling on those without. But the powerless, like Thurold and John Ball, kept re-grouping for another skirmish.

  I can give lip service to anything in order to stall. Matthew promised he would return by August's end. He'll thwart Simon Crull, regardless of a thousand clandestine oaths or Westminster Decrees.

  She nodded. "I do agree."

  "Say it. I will have you, Simon Crull, as my husband."

  Margery repeated the words.

  Simon's expression was smug. "We are bound together now for eternity. Before God, we are man and wife."

  The pronouncement of the oath sickened her. I should not have uttered it under any circumstances. 'Twill prove my undoing.

  "When are you planning on the official church ceremony?" she asked aloud.

  "As soon as the banns are posted." Three weeks before a wedding, banns were placed on the church door in order to allow anyone knowing of a prospective spouse's bigamy or consanguinity to raise objections.

  Quickly Margery calculated. If Simon meant to be married around Lammas Day, Matthew would still be gone. She tried to keep her voice steady as she asked, "Why so soon, sir?"

  "Because it pleases me. As all things will be done at my pleasure. Understand?"

  "'Twould be inappropriate so soon after Dame Gisla's death. Think of the scandal. You are running for mayor. Such an act might harm your political ambitions."

  "I shall keep our marriage quiet for a time, though I have been assured that my election is a foregone conclusion. Besides, the world has changed since the Death. Proprieties do not matter as they used to. A man like me can make my own rules."

  That might be so, Margery thought, after Simon dismissed her. But whatever rules you might think to make, I will think of something. I must.

  Never, NEVER would she become Simon Crull's wife.

  Chapter 22

  London

  Harry Hart and Lady Desiderata Cecy sat on opposite sides of a table in front of the solar window. Afternoon sunshine pooled upon the wooden Merrills board which sat next to a ewer of wine and two jewel encrusted goblets. While Harry studied the playing board, consisting of three squares within squares, Desire, as she was commonly called, drummed her fingers impatiently on the tabletop. Desire's relentlessly black hair, swept on either side of her ears in a caul of gold, revealed a heart-shaped face with intense brown eyes. Though she was skillful in the use of cosmetics, the sunlight betrayed Desire's pitted complexion. But Harry considered that a minor imperfection when weighed against the lushness of her figure.

  "Would you please make your move?" Desire said. "You've been contemplating that board since Christ was a babe."

  Harry took a long swallow of wine. "Patience, my sweet. I am almost ready." Desire had an undeniably sharp tongue, but she could drink a tremendous amount without becoming incapacitated, possessed remarkable cleavage, and best of all, was an abominably poor Merrills player. He'd already won a noble.

  Desire sighed loudly. "I cannot concentrate." Scooping her goblet from the table, she retreated to the bay window where she could view the Hart garden below with its pebbled path meandering through bright patches of flowers, and beyond, a portion of Holborn, that most magnificent of London's garden suburbs. Church dignitaries, lords, and courtiers all coveted a town house there—as did Desire. But her primary requirement was that any residence she rented be as close as possible to Hart's Place.

  Plopping down in one of the window's cushioned "She and I" seats, Desire contemplated her foul luck. She had first seen Matthew Hart near five years past, following the English triumph at Poitiers. Prince Edward and his men were being welcomed back to Bordeaux by thousands of cheering townspeople and Desire had been there to dutifully greet her husband, Guy Cecy. However, after glimpsing the young knight among the celebrants, she had forgotten about Guy, about everything save Matthew Hart. Before her marriage, Desire had enjoyed many affairs, but she'd never experienced such an immediate and overwhelming attraction. Whenever possible she'd put herself in a position where she might watch Matthew from afar. Plagued by a jealous and ever-vigilant husband, she could do no more.

  What did she find so intriguing about Hart, what caused her to single him out among all those larger-than-life creatures who so carelessly tottered on that knife's edge between civility and brutality? To a man they fairly swaggered when they walked, seeming to tower above ordinary men like giants among dwarves. Yet even among the others, so deliciously cocksure and with a seemingly insatiable penchant for drinking and whoring following months of campaigning, Matthew commanded her attention.

  And left her frustrated by a husband who kept her on a tighter leash than his hounds.

  Unused to being observer rather than participant, Desire tried to channel her vexation by spending endless hours stitching a mental tapestry of the object of her obsession—his personality, which she simply knew would fit perfectly with her own, his unparalleled prowess at the joust and war and lovemaking and any other activity in which he chose to participate, and finally the incomparable affair she would someday enjoy with a man she had never yet spoken to.

  Fortunately, fate, though slow-moving as a crone, finally intervened when Guy Cecy died during the Rheims campaign. Following a conventional, albeit extremely brief mourning period, Desire had sailed for England.

  Only to be thwarted again.

  For the third time since the game's beginning, she lamented, "Who would have thought your brother would leave London just as I was arriving?"

  Harry sighed inwardly. "While Matt is famous for his bad manners, he can hardly be blamed this time since he knew naught about your arrival. 'Tis lucky I was here or your entire journey would have been wasted."

  Desire swirled her wine and stared moodily out the window. The trees in the Hart garden were in full spread. From her position she could see a sun dial and a water fountain, its drops spilling like diamonds in the afternoon sun.

  "Compared to Bordeaux, London is impossibly provincial. Even the current intrigue involving Lady Joan and Prince Edward cannot hold my interest." Desire had attached herself to Joan of Kent's household because it was in close proximity to the Black Prince, and Matthew was one of Prince Edward's retainers. It seemed simple enough. One would naturally assume that Matthew Hart would be at Kennington along with his lord, but he was off to some wilds no one had ever heard of, while Desire had to content herself with watching Prince Edward and Joan's un
folding love affair.

  During the time Harry and Desire had known each other, he had heard identical complaints more times than he cared to count. Long ago he had decided he'd far rather watch Desire than listen to her.

  Desire drained her goblet and placed it on the tiled floor. "If it weren't for your brother, I would leave London tomorrow, never to return."

  "'Twould be London's loss, I assure you."

  Harry rearranged two of Desire's playing pegs so that he could position three of his own in a line and form a mill. He calculated that by evening's end, he might win an entire pound. Desire probably knew he cheated at Merrills, but she was wealthier than he could ever hope to be and would never miss the money. Confident that he would end the day a richer man than he began it, Harry experienced a sudden wave of affection for the lady who would make it possible.

  "I mislike seeing you so gloomy. Brooding over Matt will not bring him back one whit sooner, so why not forget him and go to bed with me? Everyone agrees I am by far the handsomer brother."

  "You are a child," Desire snapped. "I had enough of children during my first marriage."

  Harry was so offended by Desire's bluntness that he moved several of his pegs to a more advantageous position while her back was turned. "I am feeling lucky today. What say we raise our wager?"

  Ignoring his question, Desire placed her arms on the window ledge, leaned her chin upon her hands, and contemplated London's skyline. After a time, she said, "I think 'tis true what the gossips say, that Lady Joan really will snare the prince. 'Tis being whispered that Prince Edward's esquire has recently sailed for Avignon to obtain the necessary marriage license. Joan personally told me that she and Prince Edward have already plighted their troth."

  "A match will never happen. Besides being his cousin, Joan has been married twice before. The scandal that erupted over her double marriage is still discussed." Harry poured himself more wine. "As you should recall, Joan wed the earl of Salisbury only to have Thomas Holland step forward, charging that they had already exchanged secret vows. While you and Joan might be afflicted with faulty memories, the rest of England remembers that the pope himself upheld Holland's claim and dissolved Joan's second marriage. His Grace would never allow his son to marry someone thus tainted."