by Alexa Aston
As she headed toward the gates, Margery sent a prayer to the Virgin Mary, asking the Blessed Mother for her guidance and protection from any violence while on the road. Surely, she would come across a convent at some point on her journey toward London. The good sisters should be willing to take her in because of the events occurring throughout the countryside. She would remain behind the convent’s walls till the insurrection died down. Hopefully, that would give her time to figure out where she could go.
Reaching the gates, she found them hurled wide open. Not a soul was in sight, either on the ground or up on the wall walk. Before she hurried through and set out on the road that ran between the fields of wheat, she decided to search the last body left at the entrance to Highfield. By his dress and the sword resting near his side, Margery knew the man had been a soldier. Already a rotten stench wafted up from him. She held her breath while she searched him and found what she was looking for. Holding up the baselard, she inspected it. The blade seemed sharp and would give her something to use to defend herself if needed. She’d been around kitchen knives for years, chopping onions and separating parts of chickens to roast. Surely, this small dagger wouldn’t be any different to use.
But slicing up a dead bird was a far cry from stabbing a living man. If confronted, could she follow through and attack someone who threatened her safety? Margery hoped she wouldn’t be tested in this way. She slipped the baselard into her boot. The cold steel against her bare leg made her aware of the dangerous path she was about to set out on.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed onward just as the sun began to rise in the east. By the time she reached the crossroads, Margery knew which way to turn and began walking in the direction of the sun toward Billericay.
Sarah came to mind as she trod along the deserted road and Margery prayed that her friend had survived the horrible events that had transpired yesterday. Sarah was a sweet girl two years younger than Margery. They’d become close friends over the years and performed many of the chores around the keep together. Cleaning always became a faster, more pleasant task with a partner and Sarah’s sunny smile and high spirits brightened every day.
Walking alone on the road, Margery suddenly realized that she was free from Lord Umfrey Vivers. Though she hated how her stepfather’s life came to a bloody end, he no longer controlled her in any way.
But what about Thurstan and Gervase?
Both her stepbrothers had been present at Highfield yesterday. She’d seen each while they broke their fasts. Did one or both of them escape the madness that had reigned at Highfield? She hadn’t recognized them among the dead but, in truth, Margery deliberately hadn’t looked at the faces as she’d passed by. Knowing how the serfs felt about Lord Umfrey and how they’d even accused her innocent mother of mistreatment, she knew if the mob had come across either Thurstan or Gervase, they would have killed the nobles on the spot. Both men were cut from the same cloth as their father—greedy, ruthless, and unforgiving.
As the sky grew lighter, Margery became concerned. Though she saw no one either behind or in front of her, tales of how dangerous travel could be filled her thoughts. Only last month, a traveling peddler had been found dead close to Highfield, all his wares missing, even down to his very clothing. She’d been horrified when Gervase recounted the news to her but he’d told her that what the thieves hadn’t kept for themselves would have been sold at market, including the man’s gypon and pants.
With that in mind, Margery decided to enter the woods that ran along the edge of the road. She would walk a parallel path to the road which would allow her to remain out of sight from others. It would make spotting any travelers easier for her, while they’d be less likely to see her from a distance. If she did spy anyone, she could push deeper into the forest until the stranger passed her by.
She continued for a long time. Her stomach began to gurgle loudly, insisting that it be fed. She also grew thirsty and wondered how far away Billericay still lay. Her feet already ached from so much walking and her body tired from being tense and alert to any unforeseen danger about her.
Pausing to catch her breath, Margery heard a sound and cocked her head to listen. She was certain it wasn’t an animal in the forest. She glanced in both directions and saw no one in sight on the road. Shrugging, she began again and kept on for some minutes.
Then she heard something once more. She couldn’t make out what the noise might be.
She frowned, uncertain if she should continue. But still, nothing was in sight and she needed to reach Billericay and beyond. Convincing herself she only imagined it, she pushed on. After hearing or seeing nothing for a while, she began to relax as she rounded a curve in the road. All at once, a buzzing surrounded her. She halted in her tracks and glanced in every direction. Proceeding cautiously, the air grew heavier as she sensed the presence of people.
Margery cut deeper into the woods and spotted movement ahead. Slipping from tree to tree, she finally came close enough to discover a huge group of men assembled.
God in Heaven . . . she’d stumbled into the very midst of the rebels.
Hundreds of men gathered, some on horseback, many on foot. A nervous energy surrounded them and she knew they were poised to attack. Her thoughts jumbled as she leaned her back against the tree, wondering what she should do.
Then a wail rose, growing in strength until she had to cover her ears from the noise. The very earth beneath her feet shook as the rebel army moved forward as one. She peered from her hiding place behind the tree trunk and watched them pour forth from the forest in a blur.
Though her body poised for flight, Margery knew she must remain in the forest. It was far too dangerous to leave now. Getting to Billericay would have to wait. But the tumultuous sounds of battle, while repelling her, attracted her all the same. She crept closer to the edge of the woods and watched in both horror and fascination as a mass of soldiers swept through the peasants. King Richard’s men moved with precision. No wasted moves occurred on their part as the rebels began to flounder and scatter.
Suddenly, a ragged man came running toward her. He held his side, blood leaking between his fingers. A knight in armor on horseback chased him, wielding a long, heavy sword stained with blood. The man reached her and fell into her arms, almost causing her to lose her footing.
“Help me,” he pleaded, as blood bubbled from his mouth.
Margery saw the horseman had almost reached them. In fear, she pushed the man back and dropped to her knees as the sword whizzed through the air. The rider rode past her into the trees as the rebel’s head flew through the air and rolled when it hit the ground. Sickened by the sight, she looked over her shoulder and saw the knight turning his horse. Though she couldn’t see his eyes through his helm, a chill passed through her.
This knight would now come for her.
A scream bursting from her lips, Margery lifted her skirts and ran for her life—straight onto the battlefield.
Chapter 5
Ancel studied the opponent across the field. These remaining Essex rebels were the last men standing in the fight that had gone on the past couple of weeks in and around London. It surprised him how many sat atop horses. He wondered where those beasts had come from. Surely, they weren’t all plow horses the serfs had used in farming.
He was ready to fight. Dawn had come and gone and the signal had not been given. Buckingham and Percy had sent scouts out, waiting for the right time to attack, but it had left the king’s army restless and irritable as they anticipated their attack.
Finally, the battle cry rang out and Ancel unsheathed his sword, urging Storm forward toward the rabble of poorly-dressed and even more poorly-armed peasants. As the gap closed between the Crown’s troops and the rebels, he noted a scattered few held weapons in their hands, which they must have claimed from previous skirmishes. Most, however, carried mere sticks or rocks, which they began to throw at their attackers as the king’s forces drew near.
These would not repel the wave of Richard’s m
en that thundered toward them.
He brandished his sword in his right hand and held the reins in his left as he reached the beginning line of serfs. His blade sliced through first one opponent, then another, as he toppled man after man from their horses.
After two passes, he’d downed over a dozen men. The grass already ran red with the blood spilled. Ancel pulled on Storm’s reins and turned the horse in order to scan the area. Wild confusion spread throughout the ranks of the serfs still alive. Those on horseback dispersed without any organized retreat, riding in every direction, while those fighting on foot began to panic and run without thought. That would make it somewhat harder to end this engagement but one look at Buckingham waving on the king’s army in encouragement let Ancel know that sooner, rather than later, this engagement would end the hard-fought resistance from the Essex and Kent men.
It seemed such a senseless waste that so many men had been killed—and for what? England already had lost many thousands to the wicked Black Death and now the death of hundreds—if not thousands—of rebels would create a manpower shortage even more severe. It would take years to recover from losing another generation of males before farming would thrive again. It wouldn’t surprise him if soldiers were ordered into the fields in order to claim the harvest this year and in years to come.
A sadness washed over Ancel. These peasants never had a chance against a superior army of trained soldiers who fought for a living and yet the insurgents had decided to fight on despite their dwindling numbers and lack of weaponry. In a way, he admired their bravery for attempting to make a final stand yet their foolishness angered him at the same time. Women and children might starve now, thanks to their menfolk never coming home.
Ancel nudged Storm’s flanks again in order to do one more sweep of damage to the rebels. As he galloped at full speed, attacking those in the path he rode, he spied a woman amidst the fighting and bloodshed. She stood frozen to the spot, terror evident on her face.
His heart went out to her as he wondered how she’d been caught up in the doomed rebellion. Mayhap a husband or sweetheart had urged her to come along but it shouldn’t cost the woman her life simply because she followed the orders of a man. Ancel rode toward her and, at the same time, he saw a knight advancing in her direction, his sword swinging menacingly. The poor woman had her back to the fellow and would never know what struck and killed her.
Enough blood had been shed this day. Ancel pushed Storm and reached the peasant just as the soldier wielding his sword did. Ancel rode between the pair and bent low, snatching the woman around the waist and yanking her to safety as he rode off. While Storm continued to gallop, Ancel sat back up in the saddle and lifted the woman in front of him, an arm around her waist, gripping her tightly to him. She squirmed in protest but he held fast to her as he charged away from the chaos that surrounded them.
At first, he thought to ride close to where the king observed the action and then decided against it. This woman was present at the insurrection. The king, angered by the bold and disrespectful peasants causing such havoc, might instruct a member of his royal guard to cut her down, simply because she had the audacity to be left standing after so many noblemen in London and others had fallen.
Ancel refused to let that happen.
Instead, he rode to the edge of Norsey Wood and drew his horse to a halt. Dismounting, he brought the woman with him. He released her as their feet touched the ground. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Immediately, Ancel took her arm and helped her back to her feet.
She looked at him with brown eyes that contained flecks of warm gold as she struggled to breathe. Wisps of rich brown hair framed her heart-shaped face, having come loose from the single braid that fell to her waist. Her lush mouth trembled in fear.
She swallowed hard and got out, “Thank you, my lord.” After several more anxious breaths, she added, “I am most grateful.” Then she smiled and Ancel’s heart skipped a beat.
“Who are you?” he demanded, for this ethereal beauty with milky white skin was no peasant, despite her unadorned, unlined cloak that held no coat of arms nor silken cords to fasten it. The wind had parted the garment, revealing a plain wool kirtle in light brown, much like a servant in a keep would possess and wear.
When she didn’t answer him, he raised the visor on his helm and asked, “What were you doing in the midst of a battle?” His anger grew. “You could have been killed—and almost were—until I snatched you from the jaws of death.”
Her face crumpled and her gaze dropped to the ground. “I know. I am sorry, my lord.” Her eyes rose to meet his and she gave him a tired smile. “I seem to be in danger no matter where I turn. I do thank you for rescuing me, though.”
“Start at the beginning, my lady, for though meanly dressed, you speak as one of the nobility.”
“I am Lady Margery Ormond, my lord. I come from Highfield, which is west of Billericay. I’ve lived there with my mother and stepfather for many years. My father . . . died . . . and my mother wed Lord Umfrey Vivers when I was but five years of age. Sarah, one of our servants, gave me one of her kirtles, hoping I would blend in as a peasant.”
Ancel almost laughed aloud at that thought. Anyone who got within ten paces of Lady Margery Ormond would know she was no serf. Her regal bearing alone would give her away in any situation. It rivaled the perfect posture of his mother, Merryn de Montfort.
“But how did you come to be here, my lady?” He waved an arm about. “Don’t you know you are in the midst of an uprising? Peasants marched on London and took the Tower for a brief time. Fighting broke out in London and spread beyond the city to here, in Essex.”
“Is that Wat Tyler you speak of?” she asked, curiosity lighting her face. “We heard rumors he led rebels from Essex and Kent to confront the king.”
Ancel snorted. “He did that very thing, my lady—and lost his life as a result.” He paused. “As do all of these Essex rebels at Billericay today.”
They both looked back across the field and Ancel saw that the fighting was coming to an end. He guessed several hundred dead men from Essex covered the ground and would need to be buried before the day was done.
He turned back to the noblewoman and saw she swayed. Her face had turned ashen as she surveyed the area. Ancel reached out and caught her before she crumpled. Sweeping her into his arms, he moved away from the sights and sounds of the final minutes of battle and took her to the shade of a large oak. As he placed her against the trunk of the tree, he saw she had fainted.
Ancel couldn’t blame her. Seeing this field awash in the blood of the dead, as well as hearing the cries of the injured, was enough to bring a seasoned knight to his knees, much less a sheltered woman of the nobility. He studied the stranger before him, her long, dark lashes swept against her pale cheeks. In her peasant garb, Lady Margery looked nothing like the women of the royal court in their elaborate clothing yet he thought her more elegant and graceful than any woman of his acquaintance.
He took her hand and waited for her to awaken, drinking in her fresh beauty. Something stirred within him, an unnamed feeling that he couldn’t place.
Her lashes fluttered and her eyes opened. She glanced about, familiarizing herself with her surroundings.
“I apologize, my lord. I had not truly comprehended the scale of this attack. Seeing so many wounded and dead . . . it caused me to grow weak.”
“I understand, my lady. You have my sympathy. No woman should have to view what you have seen this day.” Ancel paused. “Are you still unsteady or do you think you can answer a few questions?”
She nodded. “I do not feel faint at the moment, my lord. I will do my best.” She gripped his hand for support. A warm feeling flooded Ancel. It took him a moment to focus. He needed to learn more about her.
“Might I stand?” she asked unexpectedly. “I would feel more like myself if I could do so.”
“Of course.” He offered her his other hand and pulled her to her feet. Though reluctant to release her, he d
id.
She took several calming breaths and then nodded. “Go ahead. I will tell you what I can if it will help you understand what has happened in Essex.”
“Why did you leave your home at Highfield? And how did you come to find yourself in the middle of this battle?”
“The serfs at Highfield . . . they . . .” Her voice trailed off. Tears welled in her eyes.
Ancel placed a hand on her shoulder. “Go on, Lady Margery,” he encouraged softly. He needed to know what had happened to her.
She bit her lip to still it. “They murdered my invalid mother in her bed.” Anger sparked in her eyes. “And they tortured and disemboweled my stepfather. Lord Umfrey’s head now rests upon a spike at the gates of Highfield.” She shuddered. “I know not where my two stepbrothers are—whether they were caught in the uprising and died or if they managed to escape as I did.”
Her body began shaking uncontrollably as tears flowed down her cheeks. Ancel drew her into his arms as she wept, wanting to bring comfort. It amazed him that Lady Margery had escaped from her home with her life. And to think her mother had been viciously attacked while bedridden. He couldn’t imagine seeing his own beloved mother dead, much less murdered at the hands of their farmers at Kinwick.
He let her sob till she quieted and lifted her head, staring off at the field again.
Tilting her chin till their eyes met, Ancel asked, “How did you survive such an attack within your home, my lady?” he asked gently.
An odd look crossed her face. “I hid. In a secret passageway. Only a handful knew of its existence. My mother could not walk. She urged me to leave when Sarah came to warn us of the coming trouble. I ran to the solar and concealed myself inside. I . . . I . . . heard them when they came for Lord Umfrey.” Her voice broke. Fresh tears cascaded down her face.
