Flames of Rebellion, page 32
“The flowers are lovely,” Margery said, knowing Fulco had gathered them.
A flash of white teeth against swarthy skin. Margery studied her one-time lover. While Fulco’s hair was completely white, he had maintained his impressive physique. His sleeveless linen tunic revealed the muscular arms that were a trademark of his craft. Beneath the loose ties threading the front of his tunic, Margery spotted the pendant he’d fashioned of her naked body.
Which he’d promised to always wear.
Their gazes held. How very odd that Fulco looked at her as he had during those nights by the River Stour. As if nearly a quarter century had not passed. As if she were still young and desirable.
Fulco stepped through the doorway. “I told you I would wait.”
He halted a few steps away from the table where Margery stood. Close enough she might stretch out her arm to touch him. She suppressed the urge to back away in order to maintain a proper distance.
“I am an old woman.” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. “Who has lost the man she loves.”
“One of the men you love,” Fulco the Smithy corrected.
Margery gazed into those dark eyes, so little changed. The way he was looking at her… “Were you there, at Shrewsbury?”
Fulco nodded. He did not elaborate. Apparently, they were back to communicating with a minimum of words.
Fulco’s hand crept up to the pendant; his huge fingers closed around Margery’s image. “Remember?” he whispered.
Margery felt the power of him, of his hold upon her.
“Aye.”
From his position atop his forge wagon, Fulco extends a scarred and calloused palm. Beckons. "Come with me.”
Margery reaches up to place her hand in his. She knows her lover is leaving Canterbury, that he will ply his trade in other parts of England.
"I so wish..." If only they could disappear into an enchanted underworld where decades would pass like days, where they would never grow old, where they would ever remain together.
However, Fulco is no faerie lord. And Margery is too old to indulge in fantasies. Even though her relationship with Matthew has ended, she cannot follow a near-stranger who is probably incapable of providing the barest comforts.
How long will passion last when our nights are spent sleeping under your wagon? Before life’s hardships drive us apart?
Yet, the part of Margery whose blood is as base as Fulco’s yearns to cast aside her well-ordered life…
“My home be a half-day’s walk from here,” said Fulco. “Less by wagon.” His gaze swept the room’s interior before returning to her. “Comfortable enough. Larger than this. My business prospers. I can provide any comforts you need. If ye’ll but come with me. Where you belong.”
Margery grimaced. “I’ve no idea where that might be.” How does one continue when your raison d’etre no longer exists?
As a young woman, Margery had felt trapped between two worlds—that of her peasant mother and her noble father. Between her love for Matthew and her loyalty to her stepbrother Thurold and the radical priest John Ball. She’d wrongly assumed she’d reconciled those feelings.
As a Dowager Countess, I could live in luxury. As the widow of a prosperous goldsmith, I could return to London and the Shop of the Unicorn. Which do I want? Or do I desire something altogether different?
Fulco had moved so close Margery fancied she could feel his body heat.
“If you will but come with me, I’ll na leave thee. Just we two.”
“I’ve Serill and my grandbabes—”
“You can visit whenever you please. I’ll not deny thee any happiness. So long as you return to me.”
Another few inches. Face to face. Fulco settled his hands upon Margery’s waist. His expression held that oh, so familiar mixture of yearning and desire.
She did not twist away. “What a scandal we would be!” She laughed. The first time in how long?
“A blacksmith and his helpmeet? Who’s to notice? And when you return to Cumbria, it can be astride a fine palfrey and wearing your prettiest gowns. ”
“Play at a lady when I choose and a blacksmith’s leman otherwise? What a fanciful notion.”
Against her ear, Fulco whispered, “I canna promise I’ll make thee happy. But I promise to spend the rest of my days trying.”
Margery allowed herself to rest her cheek against Fulco’s broad chest. It was not Matthew’s, could never be Matthew’s, could never be as dear. But it was familiar and dear in its own way.
“Life is short,” Fulco said. “I’ll wager we’ve already passed our allotted time.”
Margery smiled against his tunic. “I have, for certes.”
“You be the lone woman I’ve desired, Margery Watson. Grant me this. Grant me you.”
Fulco’s arms tightened against her. Her pendant pressed into her cheek. He was not Matthew. No man could be Matthew. No man could take Matthew’s place.
But Fulco?
Leaning back in his arms, Margery tilted her chin up to better view him. “A pretty cottage?”
“Beautiful.”
“With soft feather mattresses?”
“And hot and cold running water for your bathing, as they say ’tis at Windsor Castle.” Fulco brushed her lips with his own. “Should you wish.”
“And you would not leave?” Margery’s voice broke. Knowing no one could make such a promise, let alone keep it.
“Never,” Fulco said with such passion she could almost believe ’twas so.
Not Matthew. Not Matthew.
“I will go with you, Fulco the Smithy,” Margery said.
And for the first time in so very long, she found herself at peace.
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Also by Mary Ellen Johnson
The Lion and the Leopard
A Knight There Was
Within A Forest Dark
A Child Upon the Throne
Lords Among the Ruins
Flames of Rebellion
About the Author
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 six 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, the deposition and murder of Richard II in 1399 and the beginning reign of the king whose reign inadvertently laid the groundwork for the Wars of the Roses.
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.
www.MaryEllenJohnsonAuthor.com
Mary Ellen Johnson, Flames of Rebellion
