A Knight There Was

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  "I have sighed many a sigh,

  Beloved, for thy pity."

  Matthew drew back. "What are you talking about? I was in Cumbria with my family. I waited to return just as you wrote me."

  "While I cannot read and write I trust Lammas and Michaelmas do not look anything similar upon the parchment."

  "Sweet loved-one, think on me

  I have loved thee long."

  Matthew frowned and Margery fancied she saw confusion in his expression. He was acting far more wronged than guilty, which merely proved he was an adept fabulist.

  "I told you I would not forsake you and I did not," Matthew said. "You are the one—-"

  "What are you doing?" Simon Crull scurried up to them, trailed by Desire and Harry. "Who do you think you are?" he said, addressing Matthew. "Why are you speaking so intimately to my wife? Get away from her, or I will have you arrested."

  Matthew stepped in Simon's path. "Really, goldsmith. You'd think to threaten me?"

  Crull shrank back, his bravado deflated. "Do not address me so rudely. I am mayor—-"

  "Come away, brother." Harry put a restraining hand on Matthew's arm. "Do not publicly disrespect your prince."

  Matthew's fists clenched as though he would hit Crull.

  "You and I will talk this through in private," Harry soothed, with a glance at Desire, who was watching the unfolding events with an enigmatic smile. "Dame... Margery, 'tis a pleasure to see you again," he added, ever mindful of his manners. "Now come along, brother."

  Finally, Matthew's stance relaxed and he nodded to Harry. "You are right, of course. I would not dishonor Prince Edward's evening or our family name by creating scandal."

  Regaining a measure of courage, Simon called to Matthew's retreating back, "I am warning you. Leave my wife alone."

  Matthew spun around so quickly that Crull jumped back and held his hands up as if fearing a blow.

  Harry looped an arm around his brother's shoulder. "Remember," he whispered in Matthew's ear, pushing him toward one of the side doors.

  With one last withering glance at Margery, who stood still as a statue in her ill-considered finery, Matthew addressed Crull. "Do not fear for your wife. I assure you I no longer want her."

  * * *

  "What is wrong?" Margery asked her husband. After talking to the black-haired woman, Simon had sent her home from Kennington alone. How long had he been absent? Trying to decipher Matthew's words, sort through their conversation, Margery had been grateful for the solitude, where she could suffer in peace. But now, as Simon stood before her, 'twas apparent by his expression that he was rattled.

  "Lord Hart did not do something else, did he?"

  Simon's inhaled sharply, as if struggling for control. "There are two kinds of women," he finally said. "The one who is immaculate, like the Virgin Mary—sweet mother and wife. Or there is the other." A jaw muscle twitched. "Glittering mud, stinking rose, sweet venom," he hissed. "Adulteress, lustful and treacherous, like Eve. Is that what you are, Margery Watson?"

  Margery removed her head covering and freed her hair. How late was it? She should have been in bed and asleep by now but she'd been so caught up in trying to puzzle through hers and Matthew's confrontation... Her wits were dulled so that she was slow in considering the implications behind Crull's question. Matthew must have informed his mistress about their affair, and she in turn had most likely passed that information along to Simon.

  So be it. I won't condemn myself by admitting to anything.

  "You and Lord Hart's mistress must have had a very interesting conversation. Is that what you discussed, the types of women? Did she tell you which category she falls into?"

  Simon poured himself some wine and stared into it, as if uncertain what to do next.

  "Aye, Lady Cecy and I... She confessed she wishes to wed Matthew Hart, but he is enamored of someone else." Simon's voice shook as he asked, "Do you know who that someone might be?"

  "Nay, I do not."

  It cannot be me. This makes no sense.

  "I do not know what you and this Lady Cecy discussed, but I assure you, if she is accusing me of improper acts, I am innocent." Matthew had intimated that he wasn't in love with Lady Cecy, but Margery had noted the way she had looked at him. Might he have been telling the truth—about that at least? But how would Lady Cecy know so much about their relationship unless Matthew confided in her? The woman could be bluffing, which meant Simon knew nothing at all.

  Simon finished his wine. "Thomas Aquinas said woman is defective and misbegotten. He is a saint. Think you he tells the truth?"

  "Aquinas also said that a wife is to be submissive to her husband, which I am. What more do you require?"

  Simon blurted, "You would not be so stupid as to cuckold me, would you?"

  Margery's eyes widened. "What are you talking about? What did that creature tell you?"

  Simon grabbed a handful of Margery's hair, forcing her to him. "Matthew Hart is everything I most despise. He thinks because he is attached to the prince, and young and pleasing to the eye, he can do exactly as he pleases. He may be descended from the Conqueror himself and hero of a thousand battles, but he has not the brains God gave a goose, or the talent to do anything save cause mischief." Simon thrust his face close to hers. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

  "Nay. You speak in riddles."

  Simon released her, and began pacing as he pondered his next move. Lady Cecy had taken him to her residence and shown him Hart's letters. He had been stunned. Margery had shown so little interest in men he had assumed her to be a virgin, despite no evidence on their marriage sheets. The contents of Matthew Hart's letters had revealed that not only was Margery experienced, but she had consented to be his leman. Hart had come to his shop months ago, asking for Margery, but Simon would never have imagined they were lovers. How could he have been so blind? How much did others know? Were they even now laughing behind their hands at that old fool, Simon Crull?

  I will not allow it. I am smarter than the both of them. By the rood, Matthew Hart's destrier is smarter than the both of them.

  Simon paused in front of Margery. "Listen, wife, and listen well. I know that you and that knight were lovers. The thought angers me so I canna think, and you will stay away from him, do you understand? 'Twould be an intolerable affront to my honor."

  So Lady Cecy did know about their affair. How had she found out? Had Matthew confessed to her, or had she uncovered the truth some other way? How? Might Harry have told?

  "I am not admitting to a relationship with Lord Hart," she responded carefully, "but I do understand what you are telling me."

  "Matthew Hart is naught compared to me. He was born into wealth and privilege while I started out with nothing, and look at me now. I am the most important man in London! As far as I am concerned, he is less than the garbage I throw to my dogs." Satisfied that he had made his point, Crull removed his chaperon and boots and began readying for bed.

  Margery rubbed the back of her neck which hurt from Simon's brutality, and raised her hands to her throbbing temples. Her headache had returned with such intensity even the firelight pained her eyes. She sank down on the stool, and leaned back so that she could rest against the wall.

  Somehow, I will reason through tonight's events. Given enough time, I will make sense of both Simon's words and actions... and Matthew's.

  Chapter 26

  London, 1362

  When was it that Thurold Watson returned to London? As her altercation with Matthew Hart receded and her duties as Dame Margery Watson occupied her waking hours, time had a way of slipping along like the Thames. All Hallow's Eve, Twelfth Night, St. Valentine's Day, all passed with the usual festivities and duties. It was nearing Easter when Thurold arrived at the Shop of the Unicorn, following a lucrative campaign of raiding and looting under the command of John Hawkwood and his multi-national White Company, so named because of the white cloaks they wore. Once France had been picked bare on the heels of Edward III's disastrous
Rheims campaign, Thurold, who confessed he transferred his allegiance as easily as his wage bills, had become a mercenary. After saving enough coin to purchase a comfortable cottage, he had planned to fulfill his long-ago promise to Margery. They would settle down in some quiet village outside of London, at least until restlessness once more overtook him or John Ball beckoned. Regardless, Margery would be cared for.

  Such was not to be. Never could Thurold have imagined Margery's change in circumstance. And he blamed himself.

  "I may have kept me word, but 'twas too late, just like during the plague," he lamented. "It seems 'tis a bad 'abit I 'ave. Too little, too late."

  "'Twas not your fault. Events just... I had no choice but to marry..." She fumbled to a stop before declaring with vehemence, "How I hate being married to him. I hate everything about our life together. I hate sharing a bed with him, and being mayor's wife and having to appear in public together. I hate dining with lords and ladies and watching Crull puff up like a toad over his position. He is beginning construction on a mansion that will rival the wealthiest lords', and spins grand tales of the noblemen and women we'll entertain and the lavish feasts we'll give. I despise the very thought of it."

  "First, explain to me exactly how all this came to be. What did you mean when you said you had no choice but to marry Crull?"

  Carefully choosing her words so as to circumvent any mention of Matthew Hart, she said, "Crull said I was not free. He said he would throw me in prison if I did not agree. He was an alderman at the time, and knows the law."

  "What law? Ye be as free as he is. I know that truth better than any man. Aside from the issue of your parentage, anyone that lives undetected in London a year and a day be free. No exceptions."

  "He showed me the paper." Margery's voice cracked.

  "What paper? Did ye take it to someone to read?"

  Margery shook her head. "Simon told me what it said."

  "There be no such law!" Thurold grabbed her by the shoulders. "The whoreson tricked you, can't ye see? God's bones, but how could ye've been so gullible?"

  Taking her by the arm, he steered her away from the Shop, into busy London streets. "Come along, Stick-legs. I know someone who can 'elp us sort through your mess."

  * * *

  John Ball dominated the common room in Blossom Inn, located in the Cheap near Bread Street, not only because of his great size, but because he was surrounded by empty benches. As usual, the inn's other customers shunned him, but Margery was so pleased to see him she injudiciously threw her arms around him. John responded with a delighted laugh and when his eyes swept her, she saw no disapproval at the inappropriate clothes, the dyed hair, the plucked forehead and makeup, for which she was grateful.

  After Thurold explained the situation, John Ball sipped his ale and peered into the distance, as if her answers might be written there.

  "Annulments are sometimes granted," he said slowly, "but 'tis rare. Bigamy must be proved, or consanguinity. Non-consummation after a reasonable period of time is sometimes accepted by the courts."

  "Non-consummation?" Margery considered this.

  "Aye. But both husband and wife must be examined. Seven honest women are appointed to confirm the wife's virginity and seven honest men to verify the husband's impotence. It can be a humiliating process."

  And since I am not a virgin, 'twill not do.

  She appreciated John's frankness, as well as his refusal to lecture her on the indissolubility of marriage, or her sinful nature for refusing to gracefully accept her plight. "Continue. How else might I be rid of him?"

  "Separation is not a rare thing, by any means. Informal ones often occur without court ruling. But then your husband would have to consent to separation, and it does not seem that he would."

  Margery shook her head.

  "You could take your grievance to church court. They often arrange formal separations, short of divorce—separations from bed and board, they are called."

  "On what grounds might a separation be granted?"

  "Cruelty, adultery, impotence, even incompatibility." John smiled slightly. "Simon would not happen to be a heretic or a leper, would he?"

  "Nay, but I can prove cruelty, and impotence, I believe. And we are most incompatible."

  "What mean ye by cruelty?" Thurold asked, his voice sharp.

  John shook his head in a warning fashion. "Tell me, Margery, exactly what you mean."

  "He hits me often." Margery heard Thurold's sharp inhalation of breath.

  "Has he ever beaten you senseless or raped you?"

  "Nay."

  "'Tis not good enough. The law is very specific. A husband is allowed to beat his wife, injure her, slash her body from head to foot, and warm his feet in her blood. If he succeeds in nursing her back to health afterward, he will still remain within the law."

  Margery was beginning to understand that laws were not designed to favor women. But why should that be a surprise? "Mayhap 'twould be easier to prove impotency. I will have to give these matters some thought. Will you be in London awhile?"

  "Aye. Just ask your brother." John Ball studied her with his keen brown eyes. She remembered that gaze, that kindness from so long ago, when they'd left Ravennesfield. If only she had been able to find John Ball before Simon had tricked her. He would have set her life to rights.

  John reared back on the bench, studying her. "You have told us that being married makes you unhappy, daughter," he said. "Know you what would make you happy?"

  Margery thought fleetingly of Matthew. She shrugged. "No one has ever said that life should be happy. 'Tis basically sad, filled with tears, betrayal and death."

  "Death is not sadness, Margery. Jesus loves the poor and humble. He will welcome them into heaven."

  "So you priests say, but I do not believe it. If He loves us why does He allow such suffering? Why did he send the Great Plague? Why did He destroy so many innocent people and leave so many evil ones to prosper?"

  "But the first plague, at least, was not a time of sadness for us. God's hand was in it, for the good of His children. Until the lords and those in power undid His handiwork."

  Margery knew all about that. Her mind drifted as John spoke—of how so many teachers who taught French had died and been replaced by those who spoke only the native tongue so that children were now taught in English, the language of the common folk. Since learned men had died, new colleges had been founded to train more scholars and some like John Ball questioned the rightness to certain matters. The shortages of labor had caused landlords to begin competing for tenants and laborers, so better terms were offered. Not only had she heard it from John and Thurold, but from her husband, though Simon spoke of such changes with contempt and even a measure of fear.

  "We were hopeful for a time," said John Ball. "But increasingly the poor face destitution. Any money left over from their labors is spent as soon as it is received to pay for increasing rents or food to fill their children's bellies. After the plague there was hope. Now our king is growing old and indifferent. We are taxed to finance endless wars in foreign lands."

  Margery remembered seeing Edward III at Kennington. He did not seem old; perhaps indifferent for what would he know of the plight of the poor other than occasional forays into London's streets or through towns and villages? And John's portrayal of the poor certainly did not match her husband's assessment. Crull declared that since the Death people had become lazy and would not work, that peasants demanded better food and dress than their masters. They had once been content with bread of corn or beans, but now they wanted wheaten. And where they'd considered cheese and milk a feast and their garments of hodden grey adequate, they now wandered the land, seeking mischief, preferring begging to working.

  Margery massaged her temples. Her headache had returned. She needed help with her personal affairs, but she could not fault John Ball—or Thurold—for not conjuring a way out of her dilemma. With so much wrong in England what did her petty concerns matter?

  "I fear 't
will always be the natural order of things," she said when the hedge priest fell silent. "And what can be done when no one wants to be reminded? 'Tis all so complicated..."

  "'Tis as simple as the rising and setting of the sun," Thurold interrupted. "'Tis called injustice, and this country stinks of it. "

  "And I am merely the sower," John Ball said, "casting his seeds upon the soil. Some will take hold and spring up."

  "And if the ground is completely barren?" Margery asked.

  John shrugged and smiled a smile of sadness. "I must try all the same."

  Chapter 27

  London

  Margery Watson lay in bed, her husband's snores disturbing the night's quiet. She ran over her conversation with John Ball and Thurold. She thought of her last puzzling conversation with the Traitor and his brother at Edward the Black Prince's wedding celebration. She remembered her marriage night. She contemplated her mother and Thomas Rendell and the sickening parallels between her and the Traitor, just as she'd always known.

  She thought of a thousand and one different things.

  I am a woman now. Margery stared into the darkness, softened only by the dying embers from the hearth fire. I will put aside childish things.

  Never again would she think about him. Or mourn him.

  God has given me this life, whether I wish it or no.

  And I will make the best of it.

  * * *

  Despite the late hour, Matthew Hart remained wide awake. Along with his prince he would soon be bound for Bordeaux. Who knew when he might return to England?

  Never, I hope.

  Beside him, Desiderata Cecy's breathing was deep and measured. She never seemed to have any trouble sleeping when long into the night Matthew's mind careened like a wayward horse. He would force his thoughts to pleasant matters—a conversation with his father or Harry; a particularly tricky bit of sword play; a satisfying workout with his favorite destrier; Prince Edward's face at Poitiers when he said, "Come, Matthew, you will be first,"; the beauty of the lightning storm during the Rheims campaign; his recent visit with his sister, Elizabeth, and her rambunctious brood of boys.