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  Within a Forest Dark

  The Knights of England Series

  Book Three

  by

  Mary Ellen Johnson

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-914-6

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2016 by Mary Ellen Johnson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Meet the Author

  Foreword

  I've always wondered what it would be like to be an anachronism (and as this boomer has aged, boy, am I finding out!). Coming from a blue-collar, union background and witnessing the disintegration of the labor movement, I've long pondered that particular dilemma, asking myself, Do you fight? Give up? Pretend nothing is happening? Join the enemy? Is there something noble about fighting for a cause that seems doomed? Or simply stupid?

  As writers are wont to do, I backtracked my personal dilemma seven hundred plus years to wrestle with it in the form of my knight, Matthew Hart. Increasingly, Matthew wonders whether all his beliefs and assumptions are irrelevant, erroneous or passé. I can relate. Matthew is so darned sure of everything, particularly as a young man (cannons will never be a weapon of war!) and is generally dead wrong. As I have been. And yet both of us continue to proclaim our "truths" with such certitude!

  I also wondered how trained killers, as knights were, would cope with too many battles, too much bloodshed. Though medieval England was a different culture—with such contemporary conditions as loneliness being nearly unheard of—we are still dealing with our ancestors. Certainly, some of those war-scarred men must have suffered what we term post-traumatic stress disorder, though most didn't live long enough to experience prolonged psychic damage. But what happened to those who did?

  Within a Forest Dark remains my personal favorite so far in my Knights of England series. In addition to wrestling with certain life questions, in 2015 I was able to return to England after a long absence. There I revisited my beloved city of Canterbury and my beloved Canterbury Cathedral where my number one knight permanently resides. I so enjoyed incorporating those visits into my writing, as I did my first trip to Glastonbury. While Glastonbury wasn't particularly memorable in "real life," it was transformed within my pages to a place of enchantment for one harried wife and mother. And, as always, I delighted in researching the chevauchees that one chronicler described as a "War of a Long Season" and which I've always thought was THE perfect title for my series. (My publisher disagreed!) I remain in awe of the brutality and courage of humans in wartime, no matter the century. John of Gaunt's Great March is a perfect example. As is the Siege of Limoges.

  And speaking of Limoges...

  Historians agree that, according to accepted rules of warfare, a conqueror had the right to do as he willed with a city that defied him. Some believe that the accounts of the Black Prince's atrocity, particularly as relayed by Froissart, were more a rhetorical device than an accurate rendering of events. Other contemporary chronicles don't even mention the massacre of townsfolk. Also, the number killed—if the massacre actually occurred—varies.

  Edward of Woodstock was never called the Black Prince in his lifetime; nor was Joan referred to as the Fair Maid of Kent. Alice Perrers was ever Edward III's mistress; many of her final acts I attributed to the fictional Desiderata Cecy.

  I hope you enjoy reading Within a Forest Dark as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  "Midway upon the journey of our life,

  I found myself within a forest dark,

  For the straight forward pathway had been lost."

  ~Dante's Inferno, Canto I: Astray in a Wood

  Chapter 1

  Bordeaux 1367

  Along with nearly six thousand men at arms, Matthew Hart entered the white-walled outskirts of Bordeaux as part of Edward the Black Prince's conquering army. Matthew's father, William, rode beside him. Ahead, among the pennon of St. George and countless other standards, Matthew spotted their lord, Prince Edward, flanked by John Chandos, his ever present advisor. The prince's right hand was solemnly raised in acknowledgement of the cheers of the Bordelais, who thronged the narrow streets leading to the cathedral of St. Andre. Since his appointment as Duke of Aquitaine, Edward of Woodstock had been a popular ruler, and was now returning from a successful campaign in which he had furthered the cause of Pedro the Cruel, the legitimate king of Castile. From balconies, voluptuous beauties showered petals onto their returning heroes. Others ran forward to kiss them and thrust flowers into their hands.

  A particularly persistent maid clung to Matthew's stirrup, and he swept her up to plant a kiss on her lips.

  Matthew caught his father's eye. William Hart, Earl of Cumbria, grinned in response for he was enjoying himself as much as his son. Friendly faces and the adulation of pretty women went far to ease the unpleasantness of war.

  "A year away does not seem to have diminished our popularity," Matthew observed. Though often a contrary, independent lot, the Gascon people were friendly as stray pups to their English rulers. Gascon wine, exported by the millions of liters to England, was exempt from taxes, thus greatly enriching local coffers. As Duke of Aquitaine, a title dating back to the illustrious days of Eleanor of Aquitaine, Prince Edward also ruled his subjects with an easy hand, though many of the nobles, fearful of their feudal rights, were far more quarrelsome than ordinary citizens.

  William successfully dodged a woman bent on wrestling him from his saddle. "Christ's Cross!" he laughed, shaking his head. "We were safer on the plains of Najera than facing such enthusiasm!"

  The current campaign, which had begun in October of 1366, had taken the English over the Pyrenees. They had crossed the rugged Pass of Roncesvalles in the dead of winter. A treacherous tapestry of snow had covered the mountains, which also contained deep gorges and brutal winds capable of whipping up blinding snow. Beyond had been Navarre, a
n ungodly bleak country.

  Near the town of Najera, the English had finally encountered their enemy, Henry of Trastamare, heading an army of thirty thousand. Prince Edward had sworn to champion Trastamare's rival, Pedro the Cruel—a diabolical man who had murdered Trastamare's mother. Though the Black Prince was personally repelled by him, Don Pedro was a lawful king, as well as the son of a king. If Trastamare's usurpation remained unrectified, Prince Edward believed the security of all rightful rulers would be jeopardized. Therefore, he had no choice but to champion the tyrant.

  Edward and his troops had faced the greatly superior Spanish force and triumphed—just as they had in 1356 against the French at the fabled Battle of Poitiers. Used to fighting the undisciplined Moors, Henry Trastamare's men had been unnerved by the English, who would neither yield nor flee. Though the largely peasant force had used their slingshots to deadly effect, they had ultimately panicked. The English and their Black Prince had seemed to the Castilians not real flesh and blood, but creatures out of myth, like their el Cid.

  Few desired to lose their lives to a legend.

  The gilt spire of St. Andre glittered like an enormous topaz. Matthew wiped rivulets of sweat from his forehead. Even though it was September, the heat blasted him with the force of a blacksmith's bellows. The white buildings with their red roofs shimmered before his eyes, as did the garish greens, crimsons, and yellows of Bordeaux's abundant foliage. Trapped inside his armor, Matt felt like a scalded lobster. Saints be praised he'd not been knocked low by the epidemics which had debilitated so many, or he'd not have the strength to complete the ride. Dysentery, along with malaria, had greatly dissipated the English ranks throughout the campaign's final stages.

  Prince Edward had been among those bothered by the sickness, but Matthew was certain he'd been more stricken by the treachery of Don Pedro, who had proven an unreliable friend, just as Edward and his advisors had feared. Though Prince Edward had regained Pedro the Cruel his throne, Don Pedro had reneged on his promise to pay certain lands and treasure, as well as three million gold florins to Edward's army. In response the Black Prince had allowed his soldiers to extract their wages from the countryside, but the pickings had proven desultory.

  "I understand the sword," Prince Edward had lamented at the time. "Victory belongs to him who is strongest and most skilled. In war I can look my enemy in the eye, and victory or defeat will be clean and immediate. But this political intrigue mystifies me. 'Tis for clerks and prelates and Spaniards and devious Frenchmen who exercise naught but their minds."

  In addition to Pedro the Cruel, Prince Edward had been referring to Charles V of France. Charles had ascended France's throne in 1364, following the death of King Jean le Bon, who had been the Black Prince's hostage following the English rout at Poitiers. Unlike his father, who had been a true and proper knight, Charles preferred hatching midnight plots behind locked doors.

  St. Andre's courtyard was jammed with baskets containing ivory colored lilies, fat red roses, yellow and white jasmine. The welcoming ceremonial procession, which included Bordeaux's dignitaries and members of Prince Edward's court, waited to welcome the returning army. Edward's wife, Joan of Kent, and their first born son, Edward, stood in the foreground. Though forty years old and still overweight from the recent birth of their second son, Richard, Joan seemed to grow lovelier with the passing years, a condition she often attributed to a happy marriage.

  "Welcome home, my husband," Joan said after Prince Edward dismounted. As she curtsied before him, she offered her husband a dazzling smile, even as her eyes swept his face, looking for traces of his rumored illness. He was deeply tanned and heart-stoppingly handsome, that was all.

  Prince Edward returned Joan's smile. "Did you miss me, sweeting?"

  "The nights were long, my lord." She smiled in the special way she had that made him think of bedsport.

  But it was not only for lovemaking that Prince Edward longed to be alone with his wife. In public he had to appear ceaselessly optimistic while privately he was frustrated and in need of a sympathetic, non-judgmental ear. Returning Pedro the Cruel to his throne had totally drained Edward's treasury. From the very first, Joan had expressed her mistrust of the man and events had proven her right. Before Edward had agreed to champion Don Pedro, the Castilian had given him a richly jeweled table, fashioned in imitation of the legendary Round Table. Joan had commented, "I fear lest ill come of it. The present will cost us dear."

  While Joan had judged Pedro the Cruel's character more correctly than had Edward, he knew she would never be so tactless as to remind him. His wife was unfailingly good-natured and uncomplicated, and for that he was grateful. Joan of Kent believed the most labyrinthine twists of state affairs could be unraveled by sumptuous clothes, banquets, jewels, and a positive frame of mind. Edward wished that could be so. He would never understand why diplomacy had to be so tediously murky.

  Joan led the prince's namesake, their oldest son, forward. Shy of a father he only dimly remembered, the toddler clung to his mother's skirt until she convinced him to do as they'd practiced in private, and bow to his sire. Which young Edward did in such a charming fashion that bystanders applauded. Then Joan retrieved their babe, Richard, from his nursemaid, and presented the bundle to her husband so that he might formally view his newest progeny. (A peacefully sleeping bundle that no one that day, unless you counted an errant astrologer, could have foreseen would be England's next king. Not his mighty father–or if some unimaginable misfortune happened and the prince did not ascend the throne–the toddler Edward, so round-cheeked and healthy and at this moment so charmingly shy. Neither of those Edwards would be crowned, but this delicate—and doomed–babe, Richard of Bordeaux.)

  Mindful of ceremony, Prince Edward did not immediately touch either young Edward or his infant son. But the campaign had been long and he'd missed his family. Edward of Woodstock placed one hand on his eldest son's shoulder, slipped his other into Joan's and nodded to Richard's nursemaid. Still holding hands the royal family walked to their residence, the Archbishop's palace.

  Once protocol had been followed and dismissed, Bordelais and English alike swarmed forward to congratulate the returning soldiers.

  "My lord Hart!"

  Someone pulled at Matthew's armored thigh. He looked down. In the paleness of her skin, Lady Desiderata Cecy's dark eyes burned with an intensity matched only by the overhead sun.

  Matt grinned. "I had hoped to see you here." These past years Desire, as she was commonly referred to, had been Matthew's principal lover. She possessed a man's appetite for lovemaking—more than a man's appetite. While their relationship was tempestuous and both had enjoyed a string of other lovers, the physical attraction between them remained a powerful bond.

  "Of course I am here," Desire said. "The devil himself could not keep me away."

  Laughing, Matthew swooped his leman up beside him in the saddle and kissed her. While he was genuinely glad to see her, Matthew was always careful to separate physical excitement from love. He'd been stupid and naive with She-of Whom-He-Would-Not-Think and would never make that mistake again.

  Mindless of the unyielding armor, Desire pressed against him. "Sweet Jesus, but I've missed thee!" She covered his face with kisses. "You look so wonderful. I canna wait to get you alone."

  "Nor I you." Matt's mouth closed over hers in a lingering kiss.

  "I love you," Desire whispered.

  Matthew smiled into her eyes. "I love you too."

  His reply was as automatic as it was insincere.

  * * *

  The Archbishop's palace, where Prince Edward presided over his court, was a magnificent residence. Breezes from the River Garonne wafted through its spacious windows; gold patterned tiles graced the floors of the cavernous rooms. Believing that the mark of a great court, as well as a great lord, lay in its bounty, Edward and Joan always lived surrounded by opulence. Joan had prepared an especially elaborate banquet to welcome her husband home. Seated at the dais beside Edward,
she fussed over him as if he were one of her children. "You told me you liked truffles. Do try them, dearest."

  The prince continued to wave away everything thrust neath his nose by attentive squires—including the ham, sausages, black puddings, perch and shad that were staples of Bordeaux. Fearful of triggering another bout with his sickness, which turned his bowels to water and rendered him helpless as a babe, Edward ate sparingly. Joan eats enough for both of us, he thought, eyeing her indulgently.

  "Look, my love." Joan clapped her hands as a pair of monkeys rode on horseback, a bear played dead upon command, and trick dogs somersaulted and danced on their hind legs.

  Edward tried to appear interested, though he would rather have been in their private apartments enjoying his wife and their sons.

  Several seats away, Matthew also picked at his food and struggled to ignore a nagging restlessness. Though Desire attempted to engage his attention, he spent more time talking to his father or simply observing the entertainment.

  Matthew sensed his companion's unhappiness. Let her fret, he thought, drinking deep from his claret. 'Twill make our private reunion that much more exciting.

  While the constant tension between Matthew and Desire caused their physical affair to be the most passionate he'd ever enjoyed, their larger relationship could best be described as grueling. Like a forced march against the French. Early on, Desire had punctuated their screaming matches with so much slapping, biting and kicking that Matthew had finally put an end to it with a backhand that had nearly knocked her unconscious. While discomfited by the escalating violence, he had been even more unnerved by the look in Desire's eyes when she'd picked herself off the tiles—as if she'd enjoyed this new twist.