Within A Forest Dark Read online

  No longer. It had shaken itself back to life.

  The trio had moved past until she only had view of Matthew's broad back, that warrior's body she had once so intimately known.

  "My lord Hart," Margery whispered, as if he might hear her and turn round, as if the mere utterance of his name explained everything.

  "And so it begins," Orabel said glumly, leading her mistress to the shade of a nearby elm.

  And so it had.

  Chapter 4

  London

  Simon Crull removed his doeskin gloves and inspected his hands. The fingers were long and delicately tapered, as much a work of art as the pieces he sculpted. Crull was certain that the veins on the back of his hands were less pronounced and the skin texture firmer than it had been a few months past. And why not? He'd been adding the merest pinch of gold to the nightly potions his wife mixed him. Being the king of metals, gold could cure everything from a weak heart to arthritis to diseases of the veins. Wasn't the proof of its efficacy displayed before him? He traced a vein with the tip of his index finger. Aye, hardly noticeable. Crull then repeatedly made a fist, deciding with each flexing that his joints were reverting to their youthful suppleness.

  The carriage jolted, causing Simon to brace his feet against the floorboards. The vehicle had been outrageously expensive—another reason he must visit the Lombards—with tufted cushions, an abundance of gilding and with the goldsmith's coat of arms embroidered upon every available space. Regardless, it was an uncomfortable contrivance. Far easier to walk the distance from Bread Street to Lombard Street. But appearances were important.

  The carriage rocked again and he bumped against his wife. He felt her recoil and frowned. Thinking to chastise her, he turned to glare, but she was gazing out the opened curtain into the street. Simon had to admit that, from the thick chestnut-colored hair peeking through a simple caul to the perfectly proportioned forehead to the flawless line of jaw, his wife had been exquisitely constructed. She might be stupid as a ewe, but she was a beautiful ewe nonetheless.

  She is also carrying my child. Not that Dame Margery had bothered to share the news, but it did not take an unerring eye for detail, which he also possessed, to notice the outline of her swelling stomach through the thin chemise she wore to bed. Just another reminder of his virility, and that he, Simon Crull, was actually aging backward.

  A son I will have. Only imperfect sperm created a girl, and, in his case, imperfection was impossible. My first child. Dame Gisla, his previous wife, had suffered through more miscarriages than he cared to count. So he didn't.

  Simon Crull went back to inspecting his hands, this time the palms with their intricate crisscross of lines. God had never provided women with the power of rationalization, so he could hardly blame Margery Watson for being such a witless creature. But for all the rest, the legal and professional humiliations? Aye, he blamed her most vehemently....

  Crull heard her sigh, as if immersed in thought. Which, being a woman, she could not be.

  Simon carefully worked his gloves back on his hands, one finger at a time. What did learned men say, that the female sex was at best a dangerous distraction, at worst a gateway to hell? And that if a woman should seek to do harm—which was nearly always the case—she would ever succeed. But if she should endeavor to do good, she would still only end up doing harm.

  'Tis not me saying that, he thought, as if presenting his case to a judge. (Which he would not do; that was his wife's métier.) So what choice do I have but to beat her? For 'tis also known that beatings can only add to a man's merits and increase the size of his eventual reward. In other words, Simon was merely discharging his husbandly duties.

  Since Simon Crull had lost his mayoral election, his debts had mounted, not only because of the profligacy of his spending, which was an expected part of his position, but because he was no longer exempt from certain taxes. Nor did he receive a share of the goods and fines that were extracted from citizens who ran afoul of London's many laws.

  He laid the blame for his defeat and his financial problems squarely at the slipper-shod feet of his wife.

  Who suddenly turned to face him.

  "I pray that you will be successful today, husband." Margery's eyes, blue as the bluest of the sapphires he selected to create his most expensive jewelry, were absent their usual wariness. "I know 'tis difficult for you to ask money from the Lombards."

  What did she mean? Was she mocking him? And why exactly had she suggested that he meet with the money lenders today? Or that she accompany him? Such a request was totally out of character. Did she mean to savor his humiliation?

  "Sooner or later everyone visits money lenders," Margery continued. "Even King Edward uses them."

  Crull frowned. "But His Grace never bothers to repay them so they charge the rest of us double."

  "If finances upset you, then we might live more simply, as you used to. We do not need the house at Charing Cross and other frivolities." She waved a hand around the interior of the carriage, including it in her observation. "Now that you are no longer mayor—"

  "I am not some filthy tavern keeper with ale on his apron and lice in his hair. I am still an alderman; I still have a position to uphold."

  That sigh again. Margery turned back to the window and Crull turned back to his thoughts. Aye, today was shameful, but he suffered from a far more pressing concern. Simply stated, Simon Crull was terrified of dying. The more years he lived the greater his fear. While going about his political duties, while conducting shop business, indeed, while eating a meal or putting on his stockings, 'twas as if Death perched on his shoulder like a gargoyle on the rooftop of St. Paul's.

  Simon wasn't sure how old he was, but he could remember back to the death of the first King Edward, the king nicknamed "Hammer of the Scots." Edward I, then an old warrior, had died while fighting Robert the Bruce so his body had been borne south where it was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey. Simon's most vivid memory of that time was the incessant tolling of church bells. How long had they rung? Forever, it had seemed, so that when they finally stopped the silence had seemed deafening and the city lifeless, as if the ceasing of the bells had mirrored the ceasing of London's heart.

  Simon Crull had survived much. Not only two kings, his first wife and most of their relations, but also the plagues of 1349 and 1362. But he'd not found what he most desperately sought, the magic elixir that would render him immortal, or nearly so. He must find a way to keep death at bay. His current wife had a certainly facility with potions, but they could only help with indigestion or other minor aches and pains and with such frivolities as re-growing hair. What Simon Crull must uncover was that which alchemists had forever sought, the philosopher's stone. Of course, the stone could transmute base metals to gold but it was most prized as being the elixir of life. A man need but ingest the tiniest portion of the stone, generally in powder form, and he would become immortal, or very nearly so.

  His was not an impossible quest. The Bible mentioned Methuselah and various angels; everyone had heard of—and some had seen—the Wandering Jew who, after cursing Our Lord Jesus Christ, had been doomed to roam the world until His Second Coming. Most considered the Jew's immortality a curse, but that was only if one did not properly ponder the matter. The Wandering Jew could choose to make the best of his peregrinations by spending countless centuries happily tracking down civilization's most valuable treasures.

  For what does any Jew love better than wealth and the way to increase it?

  So what Simon needed, what he'd long sought, was a successful alchemist. As King Edward himself had done, for alchemy was one of his many interests. Recently, His Grace had summoned two alchemists to court to question them about their claims of creating silver. But Simon had found an even more accomplished individual, one who could transmute gold. He had found Albertus in a tiny shop, no bigger than a garderobe, tucked away in a back alley near London Bridge.

  White-haired and with a white beard reaching halfway down his chest
, Albertus was a theatrical sort, who—miraculously—had been alive before the construction of the current Bridge, near two centuries past. Albertus regaled Simon with tales of Ancient Britain and of the time when giants and dragons roamed the land. At great price Albertus had sold him minute portions of the philosopher's stone. (Another reason Simon must beg a loan from the Lombards.) Almost immediately after ingesting the powder, mixed with some foul tasting liquid, Simon had felt invigorated. In order to chart his progress he'd purchased—once again from Albertus and once again at great price—a clear glass mirror made by the heathen Moors. Upon Simon's formerly bald pate he'd recently noticed down, like that on a gosling. His wrinkles were definitely fading and if he bared his teeth in the mirror so that he might inspect them, they appeared less discolored. And even a trace longer, mayhap, as if they were regenerating? It seemed so. Nor did his joints so relentlessly ache.

  Finally, sitting beside him was the biggest confirmation of the efficacy of Albertus's powder. His pregnant wife.

  "I hate borrowing money from my inferiors," Simon said, brought back to the matter at hand by their entrance to Lombard Street. "But at least they aren't Jews. Thank the saints Christ's killers were driven out under the old king Edward."

  Margery did not respond. Rather, she pulled her cloak over her rounded stomach and gazed unseeing at the passing three-storied buildings and gardens and the occasional pedestrian. She knew Matthew Hart had an appointment with the money lenders this very day. Easily enough, Orabel had chatted up one of the Hart servants to discover their lord's schedule. Though Elizabeth Ravenne had left London, both Hart brothers remained at Hart's Place, their townhouse. Because gossip was the lifeblood of all households, Orabel had also found out that the purpose of Matthew Hart's visit was to retire his younger brother's debts.

  I will win my lord back, Margery vowed. She touched the small red-breasted wooden robin tucked into her sleeve. She'd retrieved it from the bottom of her clothing chest and would use it once again as her talisman. My marriage matters not for it was based on lies and lack of consent.

  Nor was she concerned with the censure of the church. I am already in hell, right here, right now in this carriage.

  "Almost there," Crull said. "I do not know why you insisted on accompanying me unless it was to enjoy my groveling. But you will wait outside."

  "As you like."

  I must make my lord Hart understand 'twas all a horrible mistake.

  Over the past several nights Margery had stitched together the most likely version of the events surrounding her wedding. Soon, as if she were arguing her case in court, she would present it. Convince Matthew that neither of them had been to blame, but something, someone had conspired to keep them apart.

  The driver drew rein and the carriage swayed to a bumpy halt.

  "Stay," Simon said, as if commanding a dog. He adjusted his chaperon, pinned his mantle around his throat with a brooch, and flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve.

  In exiting, Simon brushed against her. Though he chewed mint to disguise the rot of his teeth, the effort was unsuccessful. Margery's already over-sensitive stomach lurched in protest. The skin on his face, directly in her line of vision, was so loose it looked as if it had simply slid away from the bones.

  "Do not stray from the carriage. Knowing you, you'd never find your way back."

  Crull eased to the cobblestones with a painful grunt and hobbled up the pathway. He'd nearly reached the carved oak door before he could stand fully upright.

  Once her husband disappeared, Margery exited the carriage. Heart racing, she perused the street, recognizing several of the lords and ladies who were being ushered discreetly inside, and identified the coats of arms on two carriages. Neither bore the white hart. Nor did she have any idea which money lender Matthew Hart was to visit.

  Attempting to calm her nervousness, she inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. Soon, they would be face to face.

  How did I e'er survive without you?

  For six years Margery had perfected the art of skimming life's surface as lightly as Christ had walked upon water. For certes, she might lament losing a legal battle or even shed a tear over Crull's beatings. She might offer a smile or a laugh or make pleasantly inane comments to a dignitary she met in her position as mayor's wife. She might enjoy gossiping with Orabel or discussing accounts with Master Walter the Steward. But to actually feel something lasting longer than a lightning's flash? No, not since her wedding day.

  The afternoon was cold and Margery tightened the cord at the top of her mantle so that its folds would better cover her surcote, as well as her stomach. She left the carriage with its pair of matching white horses and driver, hunched against a sudden wind. After walking to the next adjoining house, which contained a large garden and yew hedges clipped in fantastical animal shapes, she paused before the gated entrance, turned and scanned the dwellings on the opposite side of the street.

  Where are you? Was I mistaken? If I do not find you, what then will I do?

  Hearing a noise, she turned once again. To see Matthew Hart coming down the steps of the house with the yew hedges.

  After all this time, here he was, hurrying along the pathway, head down, obviously preoccupied.

  At sight of him, Margery's pulse fluttered like that of a captured bird's. Ah, my lord.

  Matthew was wearing a sober cloak, richly trimmed in ermine, and had just flipped the hood to cover his head when he looked up and spotted her. His hands froze. He halted as abruptly as if blocked by an invisible wall.

  They stared at each other for a long moment.

  Margery took a step toward him.

  Matthew looked away. Slowly, deliberately, he opened the gate and passed, close enough to touch. The determined set to his jaw told Margery he had forgotten nothing, forgiven nothing. He began walking in the opposite direction.

  "My lord!" she called. "Please stop. I would speak with you. "

  Matthew continued walking.

  Margery hurried after him, but his stride was far longer than her own. "Please, do not go. You must let me talk to you. "

  He spun around to face her and his eyes were as cold as the wind tugging their mantles. "What do you want? Have you lost your husband, mayhap? Leave me be, Dame Margery Watson. I've no desire to speak with you—ever."

  So here they were, returned to the banquet hall at Kennington, as if it was not 1367 but 1361 and they were confronting each other at Prince Edward's wedding feast. Bearing the same grievances, the same accusations, the same hurt, pain and bewilderment. As if nothing at all had changed.

  She felt herself curl up inside, like a hedgehog protecting itself. But she had done that for so many years, presenting only prickly spines to the world so that she might stay emotionally safe.

  No longer. I will fight for you, and soul and propriety and morality be damned.

  "I do not blame you for being angry," Margery said aloud. "A great wrong was done to us, a wrong that destroyed our..."

  Matthew glared, as if daring her to utter the word "love."

  She fumbled away from the word, trying to explain what she'd so often rehearsed, to lead him logically through her suspicions of Desiderata Cecy's treachery, of purloined letters, of spies in the Crull household who would have monitored her actions, and the rest.

  "I believe 'twas your... Lady Cecy's doing for she is skilled in courtly intrigue and had long schemed to ensnare you." No, that sounded as if Margery were jealous and accusing Matthew's lover out of spite. "Did you not ever discuss that afternoon with your brother—"

  Matthew held up his hand as if warning her from speaking further. At the mention of Desiderata Cecy he felt an odd emotion. Embarrassment, shame? As if he did not want Margery to be aware of Desire, but of course she must have known all along. Which was exactly what he'd sought, wasn't it? To wound Margery, to taunt her with the knowledge that he had so effortlessly replaced her, that she had never been of any consequence. Yet, to hear her utter Desiderata Cecy's name felt someh
ow blasphemous, as if the mere mention of his former paramour dishonored Margery.

  "My lord, I did not betray you. These last years—" she could put into words her emotional desolation, but she dared not, for Matthew's expression was devoid of even the slightest hint of softness. This must be how he looked in battle—mindlessly wielding sword and mace and axe, going from enemy to enemy, mowing one down and moving to the next.

  "I have no desire to pick over the past like a vulture picking over carrion."

  "Think back, my lord—"

  "Why waste my time trying to sort through nonsense? And furthermore I do not care." Matthew rushed on, more heatedly than he might if he truly did not. "You married that bloody weasel because you craved an easy position and he could offer you more than I could. Calculating. Weighing and measuring—leman or wife, position or... love." It was his turn to stumble over the word. "I am done with you... Dame Margery Watson." The second time he'd spoken her name in years. Or allowed himself to think it.

  Matthew then appraised her, his gaze sweeping from head to toe in a manner deliberately designed to be insulting. "Look at you. You may no longer paint your face and dye your hair as you did at Kennington but your mantle is trimmed in sable, and your netting is of pure gold. You have done well for yourself, Dame Margery, the mayor's wife."

  "I... have not done well, not one day," she whispered.

  They stared at each other. Almost imperceptibly, his expression altered and she, who'd once known him so well, was certain her remark had touched him. Would he reach out, draw her into his arms? Say, "I never cared for Desiderata Cecy. I've not wanted to be with anyone but you and now, six years later, but not six years too late, I have returned?"

  Matthew's lips parted, as if he might actually utter such sentiments. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode away.