Within A Forest Dark (The Knights of England Series, Book 3)

By Mary Ellen Johnson

His belief in the Perfection of Knighthood challenged by battlefield atrocities, Matthew Hart returns to London, wishing to reunite with his first love, Margery Watson.

Her cruel husband now dead, Margery is a wealthy widow with no intention of returning to the bonds of marriage. But she cannot turn away her once Golden Knight, no matter the depth of innocent blood he spilled in the name of honor and duty.

As Matthew forces himself to fulfill feudal obligations, and Margery's unrest turns treasonous, the forces of king and kingdom may prove the lovers' ultimate undoing.


THE KNIGHTS OF ENGLAND, in series order
The Lion and the Leopard
A Knight There Was
Within A Forest Dark
A Child Upon The Throne

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Jan 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781614179146

Mary Ellen Johnson

Mary Ellen Johnson’s writing career was sparked by her passion for Medieval England. Her first medieval historical, The Lion and the Leopard, was followed by The Landlord’s Black-Eyed Daughter, a historical novel based on the Alfred Noyes poem, “The Highwayman.” (Published under the pseudonym, Mary Ellen Dennis.) Landlord was chosen as one of the top 100 historical romances of 2013. After taking a twenty year detour in a quixotic quest to change the world--rather like Arthurian knights’ quests to find the holy grail, which ended in similar failure--Mary Ellen has happily returned to historical fiction writing and her favorite time period, the tumultuous fourteenth century. Her five book series, Knights of England, follows the fortunes of the characters (and their progeny) introduced in The Lion and the Leopard through the Black Death, the reign of that most gloriously medieval of monarchs, Edward III, the 1381 Peasants’ Revolt, and ends with the deposition and murder of Richard II in 1399. There is nothing Mary Ellen loves more than bringing Medieval England alive for the reader. She particularly enjoys researching battles, campaigns, the daily lives of both lord and peasant, and trying to figure out our ancestors’ thought processes, particularly how they viewed their world. Oh, and did she mention the castles and cathedrals? Mary Ellen likes to say her favorite place in all the world is standing before the tomb of the Black Prince in Canterbury Cathedral. (Hyperbole, of course, since Mary Ellen is not that well-traveled and her favorite places are probably wherever her kids and grandkids reside.) However--and the very recounting gives her chills--a distant cousin recently shared the results of her years-long genealogical research on the family tree. When flipping back and back through the centuries, Mary Ellen began finding names that were hauntingly familiar--John of Gaunt, Edward the Black Prince, Edward II, Edward III, even Richard the Lionheart! All the historical characters she’s spent a lifetime reading and writing about! How can that be? Genetic memory? Reincarnation? She has no idea but you can bet she’ll be exploring the possibilities in future novels! In the meantime, Mary Ellen hopes you’ll enjoy reading The Lion and the Leopard, A Knight There Was, Within a Forest Dark and Lords Among the Ruins as much as she’s enjoyed writing them.

Book preview

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, an 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.

After that he had stayed far away, but using tears, promises to change—and most specifically her body—Desire had eventually maneuvered her way back into his life. With her mouth and tongue and touch she had taught him such delights and pleasured him in places so forbidden the church could only allude to them in passing. And which Matthew could never long resist.

He would never label their relationship love—whatever that emotion might mean beyond a weakness of will. Desire could repeat I love you as regularly as the rising and setting of the sun, but he was certain her feelings for him ran no deeper than his for her.

Fidgeting in his seat, Matthew wondered whether he would ever again be content with a woman. Unbidden, his eyes strayed to Lord Thomas Rendell, across the table from him. A fierce fighter whose counsel was both wise and sparingly offered, Thomas Rendell made Matthew uncomfortable. It wasn't that he disliked the Canterbury knight; it was just that some of Rendell's facial expressions, the vivid blue of his eyes, reminded Matthew of She-of-Whom-He-Would-Not-Speak. No surprise since She-of-Whom was Rendell's natural daughter. Matthew lifted his gaze to the cartwheels of perfumed candles bathing the hall in a golden glow. He'd once believed he could be happy with She-of-Whom but even had they never parted, their relationship would have ultimately revealed itself to be a mirage.

Mayhap my melancholy is just that the Najera campaign is over. Idly he drew circles on the white linen tablecloth with the point of his dagger. And I do not know what to do with myself until the next one comes along.

Following each campaign's end, Matthew experienced the same unfocused disappointment. He did not enjoy travelling around Gascony with Prince Edward, or partaking in court politics, or playing at war in various tourneys. Much of life these past six years seemed to be merely marking time. Only in the heat of battle, when all of life was stripped down to one essential—survival of the strongest, of the most skilled—did Matthew feel truly alive anymore. After each encounter, he would survey the battlefield, the contorted bodies of the dead, the priests moving among the dying, administering last rites, and each time he would experience a deep feeling of satisfaction, of the rightness of the universe and of his position in it.

After Najera he had tried to explain his feelings to his father. Never skilled at such verbalization, he'd fumbled about, seeking what was in his heart.

William Hart had flung his arm around Matthew's shoulder. They are dead and we are alive. Does not that say it all?

Indeed it had. His father understood. His prince understood. As did all true knights. That was what set them apart, what made life incomparably sweet—and much of it vaguely unsatisfying. Between the Poitiers and Najera's, much of war was boredom and empty bellies. The surrounding months were spent readying for the next campaign or ruminating over the last. But such mundane times only rendered the heights of battle that much more incomparable.

He glanced at his father. William Hart was drumming his fingers impatiently upon the table, as if he might momentarily leap to his feet and upend it with a mighty roar. His mouth was set in a line that Matthew recognized as boredom. At that moment William raised his eyes, so startling against the darkness of his sun-burned face, so similar to Matthew's own, and they exchanged gazes.

William mouthed one word. Cumbria.

A shiver ran through Matthew. Aye, Cumbria. His father need say no more. William Hart, one of the most powerful lords of the north, had had enough. He'd executed his feudal duty and now he'd be returning home. To Cumbria. Where Matthew, Harry and Elizabeth had all been born, where Matthew's heart ever remained. Cumbria... England... Home...

In the center of the hall, boys leapt through hoops, played with knives, slings, and brass balls. Nubile maidens walked on their hands and contorted their figures in marvelous positions. The girls were slender, agile, and exciting to watch. The perfume from the candles and cut flowers, the writhing bodies, the wine, and the awareness of Desiderata Cecy's nearness refocused Matthew's wayward thoughts on baser matters.

Desire whispered against his ear, We will enjoy our own dance tonight, will we not? Her hand, which had intermittently rested on his upper thigh throughout the evening, suddenly brushed against his groin. Does that please you, my lord?

Matt's response was strong and immediate. It had been many months since he'd pleasured himself with anything other than camp followers, which were poor substitutes for someone of Desire's talents. Bringing his lips close to her ear, he caught her lobe in the lightest of nibbles. What say we render our excuses so we might further explore this conversation in private?

Desire laughed. She particularly enjoyed her ability to arouse her lover at a moment's notice. When it came to sexual matters, she was certain she could entice Matthew Hart to do anything.

Lacing her fingers through his, Matt leaned so close that his arm pressed against her breast. Any new tricks you've learned in my absence? When she did not respond, he teased, Do not be shy. You know how your lovers trail you like hounds after a bitch in heat.

I mislike being compared—

Tell me. Matt circled Desire's palm with his thumb as if caressing other, more intimate places. Let me imagine now what you will show me later.

Desire shook her head and lowered her gaze demurely, though 'twas not shyness she was feeling...

Come, sweetheart. If I must endure this banquet at least give me something to fire my thoughts.

Schooled as she was in artifice and the intrigues of the Bordelais court, Desire could not quite suppress a frown. All night she'd been unable to concentrate on anything beyond the moment when they would retreat to her chamber. Visions of Matthew's naked body, of her running her lips and fingers along his massive chest, of teasing and tormenting and arousing him beyond endurance, of feeling and tasting his manhood, had been far more vivid than dancing girls or scurrying pages or the parade of elaborate entremets presented between each course. But, Sweet Jesus, Matthew's likening her to a bloody dog and his mention of other men had shattered her amorous mood. What lovers she'd taken over the years were primarily to rouse his jealousy. The fact that Matthew seemed indifferent made her worry, not for the first time, whether he cared for her at all.

As calculating as she was, Desire seldom misstepped.

She was about to.

Falling back on court gossip to hide her uncertainty, she said, Have you heard what they are saying about Prince Edward's babe, that Richard is not his son at all, but was begotten by a French clerk who has been Princess Joan's lover for years?

Matthew recoiled as if slapped. How could you even think such a thing? By all that's holy, woman, will you never learn to curb your tongue?

Ignoring the curious stares, he abruptly stood and left the table and Grand Salle for the adjoining cloister garth. Striding along the covered arcades he breathed deeply of the relentless waves of scent rising from the flower beds, and tried to regain his composure.

Did she never know when to stop?

A quince-colored moon hung suspended above the garden wall. Its light and the diffused glow from the palace interior softened the garish monotones of the lilies, roses, peonies, and jasmine. Everything about Bordeaux, from its climate to the color of its foliage, was overblown and lacking subtlety. Bordeaux reminded Matthew of Desire.

Why do I keep coming back to her when I spend most of my time regretting it?

He was bored with the entire business: with Desiderata Cecy and Aquitaine, with Bordeaux and its fine claret, its sunshine and misty rains. He had not set foot on English soil in six years. He missed his native countryside and its people. He missed the wild freedom of Cumbria; he missed his brother, who had broken his leg and stayed in London. Later, after Harry's break had healed, he had bought his service and remained in England. More than simply the English Channel separated them; Bordeaux's court was an alien landscape that Matt no longer had any interest in navigating. He wished Harry were near to guide him.

Matthew suddenly remembered the letters he'd earlier slipped inside his purse. They had been awaiting him upon his return but in the day's excitement he'd forgotten them. Most assuredly word from home would take his mind off Desire.

Moving closer to one of the rush lights, he shuffled through the parchments. Three were from Harry, two each from his sister Elizabeth and his mother. He broke the seal from one of his brother's and unfolded it. Rather than dictate to a clerk, Harry penned his own missives, which made them far more interesting—though difficult—to read.

Harry wrote about his leg, which pained him in bad weather, his latest failed marriage plan and his and Elizabeth's forthcoming pilgrimage. Then he scrawled, 'I saw Margery Watson a fortnight past. She remains unhappy with her husband and her life. I will tell you true, brother, though her marriage is ancient business, the circumstances surrounding it yet trouble me. She and I discussed it, and I oft suspect that Desiderata Cecy had a hand in some sort of treachery. I cannot say how, but I hope you are not still seeing that lady—'

Raising his gaze from the parchment, Matthew stared into the shadows. He did not need a

Reviews for Within A Forest Dark (The Knights of England Series, Book 3)

[beautiful_roses · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I have read Books 1, 2, and 3 of The Knights of England Series and found them interesting but slow moving. I like excitement and a faster moving story.