A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "You are so naïve." Desire glimpsed a group of children playing tag in an adjacent garden and swung shut the window to drown out their laughter. "'Tis a condition you share with my late husband, who contemplated life in similar simple terms. Should I so much as look at another man, Guy would threaten me with strangulation or disembowelment, depending on his mood. He never understood that while his threats might have kept me physically faithful and dissuaded all who might wish to woo me in the usual way of the court, he could not control my thoughts. 'Do you desire that comely form?' he would ask." Desire mimicked Guy's voice. "'Nay, husband,' I would respond ever so sweetly. It never occurred to him that I might lie."

  "I trust your husband died a happy man."

  Harry studied the board, trying to decide whether he could rearrange any more pegs. But all were lined up so that no matter how he moved, 'twould be impossible to lose. Gulping down the rest of his wine, he decided to think of some way besides cheating to re-pay his opponent's sarcasm. Naïve, indeed!

  Desire turned to face him, her arms crossed in a dismissive manner. "You men might be masters at war, but not so much in love. We just pretend so that we can better lead you where we wish you to go."

  "Is that what you believe Joan of Kent is doing with our prince?"

  "Ah, Harry Hart, you are not so dull as you appear. I'll wager she has long plotted to snare him, and now that she is between husbands, will succeed."

  "A wager, you say!" Harry poured the last of the wine and rang for a replacement. "I'll bet two pounds they never wed. Prince Edward has escaped marriage for thirty-one years. He is a confirmed bachelor."

  "He only thinks he is. Being a chivalrous lord, Prince Edward cannot resist a helpless female, and Joan is skilled at playing the vulnerable heiress in need of protection from fortune hunting knights. Edward of Woodstock might not realize he is being manipulated, but everyone else in the kingdom does."

  Harry scooted back his stool in order to better view Desire. Dropping his bantering tone, he said, "If you are thinking to emulate Joan of Kent's actions, I warn you, you will end up disappointed. My brother has never been one to listen to minstrels' prattle about love, but he will remain loyal to Margery Watson. I am not saying he won't occasionally tumble a wench when the fancy strikes him, but he'll not give his heart to anyone else. Besides, Matt has long vowed he'll never wed, and once he gives his word, neither heaven's angels nor Satan's minions will dissuade him."

  Desire's dark eyes seemed to glow with an inner fire. "And I am neither. I will achieve what heaven and hell cannot."

  Harry shook his head. "After all I've told you about my brother and his paramour, I canna believe you would cling to such delusion. Besides, your obsession with him makes no sense. You two have never even spoken."

  Desire made a wide arc with her arm, as if to sweep aside a bothersome cobweb. "That matters not. I know what I want, and I want Matthew Hart. The very first moment I saw him, I understood what the troubadours mean when they tell of instant love."

  "'Tis not physical love they are referring to," Harry countered, "but spiritual. And 'tis the knight who pursues the lady, not the other way round. Besides, you've left out the most important part of your scenario—"

  At that moment a servant entered, carrying more wine. "Pardon, m'lord," he said, placing one ewer on the table and retrieving the other. "A woman has arrived who gave her name as Margery Watson. She says 'tis imperative that you see her."

  Harry's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "And speaking of the most important part of your scenario, she appears to be downstairs at this very moment." After instructing the servant to tell Margery he was on his way, he stood and faced Desire. "I admire your persistence, but 'twill come to naught. My brother is truly smitten with his doxy. And I canna blame him. Despite her base origins, she is good-natured, easy to look upon, and most probably saved his life."

  While Harry normally never complimented one woman in the presence of another, he deliberately did so to goad Desire. As he headed for the door, he said over his shoulder, "The court is filled with men who would give a decade of their lives to bed you. Why pursue a man who doesn't even know you exist?"

  * * *

  After exchanging the customary greetings, Margery said to Harry, "Something terrible has happened." She handed him her letter which had been penned by a copier at Paul's Head Tavern in St. Paul's Churchyard. "You must put this in your brother's hands as soon as possible. If he does not arrive in London by Lammas Day, my life will be ruined."

  "What has happened?" Harry turned the letter over. It had been sealed with the imprint of a robin, which might mean something to Matt, but nothing to him. "I will be happy to do as you wish, but Cumbria is a far distance. Might I somehow help you now? Please tell me what your problem is, and I will try to solve it."

  Harry always sounded so sincere, but Margery could smell the wine on his breath and was familiar enough with his behavior to realize that he was intoxicated. She also knew that Harry Hart could only be given simple tasks, and not too many of those. Otherwise, he might become overwhelmed and accomplish nothing.

  "Thank you, m'lord, but the biggest help you could provide is to send the letter." Carefully choosing her words in order to impart just enough information, she further explained, "'Tis a problem I am having with... Master Crull. I know Lord Hart can help me solve it, but if he does not change his plans, I am doomed. He must return to London immediately."

  Though Margery's words made little sense, Harry willingly agreed to help. "I will have the letter sent personally by one of our retainers. I've known Matt to reach Cumbria in seven days by riding night and day. I'll instruct my man to do the same."

  Margery calculated. A week for the messenger, a week for Matthew, and the wedding little more than a week after that? That left little room for bad roads and bad weather but what choice had she? "You will not forget, m'lord? 'Twould destroy me if your brother does not receive it."

  Harry leaned down to kiss Margery on both cheeks. "I have never properly thanked you for saving my brother's life. 'Twill be my repayment for tending to his health. I will send for a rider posthaste."

  Margery's eyes filled. Harry might have faults, but he loved his brother. She was glad she'd thought to enlist his help.

  Harry, in turn, was touched by Margery's tears. He had never understood Matt's affinity for lower class women, but she seemed to please him, and had certainly earned at least this in repayment.

  "My brother will not forsake you," he said, his voice gentle. "Cumbria might be a great distance but that will mean naught to Matt. He can do things the rest of us would consider impossible."

  "Aye," Margery said. "That is why I am here."

  * * *

  "She has a pretty face," Desire called down from the landing after Margery's departure, "though not so pretty as mine. And her figure is at best average."

  Harry strode to the stairs and gazed up at his grinning companion. "No wonder you are so admired at court. You have a talent for being where you should not. And your assessment of Margery Watson matters not. 'Tis Matt who cares for her, not you."

  "I just wanted to view my competition. I did not overhear your discussion."

  "You lie as charmingly as you do all things. Your hearing has been sharpened by all those years of intrigue in Bordeaux. You probably heard her conversation more completely than I did."

  Desire had certainly heard enough to realize that God had just granted her a boon. She would emulate Joan of Kent's strategy—take full advantage of a situation and exploit it to her own ends.

  Harry called one of the servants and instructed him to go to the stables and return with Jerome Graf, who had a way with horses and could coax more miles out of his mount than anyone else. Graf was also one of the few men Harry knew who was tough enough to withstand several days and nights in the saddle. "Tell him I will await him in the solar."

  He then ascended the stairs. When he reached Desire, she held out her hand for the letter. "I am curio
us as to what has distressed the poor servant girl so."

  Harry brushed past her into the solar, holding the letter above his head and beyond her reach. "Nay, sweetheart. Not for marriage to the richest lady in the kingdom would I risk Matt's wrath. His leman asked me to deliver this and I mean to do it, exactly as she asked. I'll not have you or anyone else tamper with it."

  Crossing to a writing desk he stuck the letter in one of its cubbyholes. "Until Jerome Graf arrives, that is where it stays. Now let us resume our game, and no more wearisome talk."

  Desire smiled, displaying small even teeth and a dimple that Harry often maintained was delightful. During her marriage she had learned patience—and when to be silent.

  Refilling their goblets, Desire obediently sat down across from him, contemplated the Merrills board, noticed that he had been cheating, increased her bet and lost it all. While Harry separated the pieces for another game, she waited, outwardly quiet and inwardly teeming with possible plans and strategies. First, she must read the letter. She could get Harry so drunk he would pass out and she would have as long as she pleased to study the letter's contents and decide on a course of action. Jerome Graf was a different matter. Once the document left Hart's Place, she wasn't certain how she would be able to retrieve it. Perhaps she could have Graf waylaid somewhere along the route...

  The servant Harry had sent to the stables entered the solar. "Sir Graf cannot be found. Some say he is in Gropecunt Lane; others at Boar's Head Tavern."

  "Very well," Harry said. "Just leave word that the moment he returns he is to contact me."

  Afraid that her expression might betray her delight, Desire ducked her head as if to study the playing board. Fortune was indeed smiling upon her.

  Now I will get Harry inebriated as quickly as possible and turn my talents to Margery Watson's letter.

  * * *

  Using her dagger, Desire carefully worked the wax seal from the parchment. She was proficient at removing seals from others' correspondence and replacing them so adroitly no one was ever the wiser. Given the intrigue inevitable at any court, it was a skill one soon acquired to survive.

  From the bed, Harry sputtered and snored. By Vespers, he had finally succumbed to the alcohol.

  "Do not fret for me," she'd called as he'd collapsed upon the gold threaded counterpane. "I will have my carriage called round and leave you to your rest."

  Which of course she had not done.

  Retrieving the oil lamp from the stand beside Harry's bed Desire opened the parchment.

  'My Esteemed Lord,' the letter began.

  'I fear something terrible has happened. My master thinks to marry me against my will. The ceremony has been set for Lammas Day. He has threatened me and I fear for my safety—and our future. If you care for me as you say you do, my dearest lord, please return to London as soon as possible.'

  "God's balls!" whispered Desire. "This is wonderful." What to do? She might pen Matthew a letter, ostensibly from his paramour ending their relationship. Nay, that would not work. He would probably sprout wings and fly down from Cumbria on the next air current. Then the truth would come out. She must think of something else.

  Desire stared at the oil lamp's dancing flame. Finally, she opened the lid from the inkhorn and retrieved a quill and clean piece of parchment, which she placed atop the slanted writing desk. After smoothing the parchment with pumice stone, Desire dipped quill into ink and began writing. She would be brief and speak in such simple language that Matt could not misconstrue her meaning amidst a confusing tangle of words.

  "Margery" wrote her "lover" that Master Crull was getting married to a... widow... a burgher's daughter... who??... and because of the extra preparations asked Matthew to delay his return until Michaelmas. Margery and Simon Crull would be long wed while Matthew Hart was still dallying in Cumbria.

  A knock interrupted Desire. She opened the door to Jerome Graf.

  "M'lord Hart sent for me."

  "Lord Hart is indisposed at the moment. Return on the morrow at matins."

  Afterward, Desire signed Margery's name, folded the letter, slashed it on either side with her knife, and passed a cord through it. Then she softened the wax slightly above the lamp flame and positioned the seal between the two strands of cord in order to connect them. Tossing the original missive in the fire, she placed her copy in the original space.

  Now she could leave.

  On the return ride to Joan of Kent's residence, Desire contemplated her plan from every angle, ferreting out flaws. The carriage in which she and her servant, Sybil, traveled clattered noisily through rapidly emptying streets.

  Though Hart's Place was beyond London's gates and not subject to curfew, few townsfolk ventured out after dark. In the poorer parts of London, taverns frequented by criminals and ne'er-do-wells crammed every lane. Any law-abiding citizen so unfortunate as to be in the area risked being stabbed, smashed with quarter staffs, or robbed and beaten by midnight revelers wearing animal masks.

  Mentally weighing and measuring every permutation of her scheme, Desire stared unseeing out the window. In this part of Holborn only an occasional wall torch in the garden of some prosperous vintner or wool merchant cast flickering shadows across the fruit trees, iron gates, and walls. The lone sound inside the cramped space came from her maid's soft snoring.

  First, I will visit the Shop of the Unicorn, bribe a member of the household to spy on Lord Hart's simpleton, and make certain she doesn't write any more letters or try to contact him in any other way.

  Desire would order any messages Matthew might send Margery to be intercepted and, following the wedding, turn all correspondence over to Master Crull. 'Tis a sure bet he'll never let his bride near her former lover.

  Sybil's head slumped against Desire's shoulder. "How much longer until we're home, m'lady?" she murmured, after Desire pushed her away.

  "Quiet. I do not like to be interrupted when I'm thinking."

  In ten days or so, Desire would compose a letter from Matthew, assuring his doxy that he was even now bound for London. Desire would pay her spy, whoever he might be, to monitor all of Margery's movements and keep Desire updated.

  And in three weeks 'twould all be over.

  Up until the moment Margery Watson uttered her marriage vows, she would believe that Matthew Hart meant to rescue her. Anticipating the moment when she would realize his betrayal, Desire smiled. Fool! Who did she think she was, grasping above her station? Aspiring to attach herself to an actual lord?

  And Matthew, what would he do when he discovered that his leman was married? Will he be furious or brought low by love? If that is the case–and Desire could scarce believe that Matthew Hart would long mourn a commoner—I will be at his side to comfort him, to remind him of Margery Watson's treachery and show him how sweet life with me can be.

  Chapter 23

  London

  August 1, 1361, neared. Even though Margery and Simon Crull's wedding ceremony would be private out of respect for Dame Gisla's passing, much still remained to be done. As a wedding present Crull had chosen for his intended a magnificent wardrobe of velvets, samites, cloth of gold, and brocaded silks in colors that flattered Margery's complexion, and in styles that best showed her figure. He also coordinated each gown with his most beautifully worked pieces of jewelry.

  "Where am I going to enjoy such finery? 'Tis against the law to dress above our station." Even though she would never have to thus humiliate herself, Margery could not resist needling Crull about such overreach. How inappropriate he was. How grasping and pretentious. Who did he and others like him think they were fooling by aping their betters?

  "Now that I have been elected mayor, I am equal to any lord. And once knowledge of your heredity becomes known, your wardrobe will be in accordance with your position."

  "You should not spin such grand tales around the two of us. You are bound to be disappointed."

  "Did not John Montague, Earl of Salisbury, marry the daughter of a draper? I am richer than
many nobleman, and as Mayor of London, more powerful. You will dress, act and do as I say without argument, and be grateful for my generosity."

  Margery let most of his words flow around her without comment. What did they matter? Simon Crull could say what he wished. Soon Matthew would whisk her away from this grasping old fool. She clung to the promise in her lover's letter, that he would not fail her. Margery did not doubt. Nor did she fret the vows she'd exchanged with Crull or her bondwoman status. In all things, Matthew Hart would protect her.

  When the wedding was less than a week away, Margery began to worry. So much could go wrong. He should have arrived on the heels of his letter. Where was he? "His Grace has not declared another war, has he?" she asked Simon during one of the few times she initiated conversation.

  Simon's face rearranged itself in the particularly sour lines he reserved for children and idiots, and lately for her. '"Of course not. What are you talking about?"

  Margery shrugged in response, though she was relieved she would not have to compete with a campaign. War might be the one thing that could prevent Matthew's return, but even then he would somehow make things right. He was fond of quoting, "Tout est perdu fors l'honneur"—All is lost, save honor—and while Margery would be forever skeptical of such a virtue among the upper classes, she knew her lover would not forsake her.

  But he did.

  Margery Watson was married on Lammas Day, just as Simon Crull had decreed, in a gold brocade gown with trailing sleeves lined in green sendal silk, with a golden circlet holding back her unbound hair, a sapphire necklace round her neck, and slippers threaded with gold upon her feet. All chosen by her bridegroom.

  The ceremony contained only the necessary witnesses, also per Simon's wishes. A more elaborate celebration, he assured his bride, would be planned for their one year anniversary, which all of London, including King Edward and all his sons, would be eager to attend.