The Maiden and the Unicorn
By
Isolde Martyn
Contents
PRELUDE
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
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
HISTORY NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MORTAL ENEMIES, UNDYING PASSION
"Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are, Margery?" Richard whispered.
"No, you forgot to put it on today's list." She had a choice: she could be cold and hate him or she could give in to the wild feelings that were pulsating through her and yield. His eyes were dilated with desire, his skin flushed with the intensity of his lust. Her hand streaked to her sleeve, the silence split by the rasp of steel as she unsheathed her dagger.
His advance was checked. "Now, that was something I did forget."
He took a step closer, close enough to touch. She could feel the vitality, the heat, the determination that emanated from him, and knew a curiosity and a longing that was as old as Eve's. He could have twisted the knife from her fingers, but he drew her to him, heedless of the dagger.
"Did you truly think to withstand me, Margery? I'd hunt you to the ends of the earth."
His words were breath on her face as he held her back from him. "You have been under my skin so long, to possess you has been a compulsion in me. God knows I have tried to free myself from this slavery, but you are so desirable."
She would remember the words later, bur now she was a lute beneath his fingers to play on as he pleased.
The dagger fell to the floor with a clatter as his mouth came down on hers…
THE MAIDEN AND THE UNICORN
Copyright © 1998 by Isolde Martyn
ISBN 0-553-58168-6
To those I love — they know who they are
CHARACTERS 1470-71
All the people in this story actually lived except for those marked*
Margery an orphan of unknown parentage, raised in the household of Warwick the Kingmaker, and attendant on his elder daughter, Isabella, Duchess of Clarence
Ankarette Twynhoe tiring lady to Isabella, Duchess of Clarence
Richard Neville Earl of Warwick. Known as "the Kingmaker" because he deposed King Henry VI of the House of Lancaster in 1461 and crowned Edward Plantagenet, the Yorkist claimant, as Edward IV
The Countess of Warwick his wife
Isabella ("Bella"), Duchess of Clarence elder daughter of the Earl of Warwick
Anne Neville younger daughter of the Earl of Warwick
Richard Huddleston King's Receiver
Matthew Long* Huddleston's servant
Alys* Margery's maidservant
Edward IV ("Ned") Yorkist King of England, crowned by Warwick in 1461
George, Duke of Clarence younger brother of the Yorkist King Edward IV and son-in-law to the Earl of Warwick
Richard ("Dickon"), Duke of Gloucester youngest brother of the Yorkist King Edward IV, and future King Richard III
John, Lord Wenlock Acting Governor of Calais
Philippe de Commynes Burgundian diplomat and chronicler
Thomas Burden friend of George, Duke of Clarence
Wyke* Littlebourne* retainers of Thomas Burdett
Louis XI King of France (the "spider king")
Charlotte his queen
Jean Bourré Treasurer of France and adviser to King Louis XI
William Mennypenny, Lord of Concressault adviser to King Louis
Charles, Duke of Guienne brother to King Louis XI
Tom Huddleston, Will Huddleston younger brothers of Richard Huddleston, in the service of Lord Montague, the Earl of Warwick's brother
Rene, Duke of Anjou and King of the Two Sicilies
Jeanne de Laval his Duchess
John, Duke of Calabria King Rene's son
Margaret d'Anjou (the "Bitch of Anjou") King Rene's daughter, the exiled Queen of England, and wife of King Henry VI of the House of Lancaster, who was deposed by Warwick in 1461
Prince Edouard her son, heir to the House of Lancaster
John de Vere, Earl of Oxford exiled Lancastrian lord and brother-in-law of the Earl of Warwick
Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke exiled Lancastrian lord, half brother to King Henry VI
King Henry VI husband of Margaret d'Anjou, deposed King of England of the House of Lancaster, held a prisoner in the Tower of London by King Edward IV
John, Lord Montague the Earl of Warwick's younger brother and also friend to King Edward IV
Error* a deerhound of lovable nature
PRELUDE
In 1470, England had been ruled by the House of York for ten years. Edward IV, the Yorkist king, is twenty-nine, handsome, affable, capable, and has tried to reconcile with the supporters of his enemy, the House of Lancaster. The deposed king, Henry VI, is safely a prisoner in the Tower of London and both Margaret d'Anjou, Henry's strong-willed queen, and his only son are penniless fugitives in France. It looked like the House of York had won the infamous Wars of the Roses.
Thus, in March of 1470, King Edward is not expecting the greatest threat of his reign to come from two men on his own side. One is his younger brother, George, Duke of Clarence, a twenty-one-year-old envious of his brother's crown. The other man is Edward's cousin, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the mighty noble who crowned him king and had thereby hoped to control him.
Warwick has become angry with Edward for many reasons: the King has refused to take his advice and prefers friendship with the Duke of Burgundy to an alliance with King Louis XI of France; Edward does not want his younger brothers to marry Warwick's two daughters; and there is gossip that the King has abused one of Warwick's kinswomen. The rift between Warwick and King Edward is almost irreparable. And, unfortunately for Edward, Warwick and Clarence have joined forces. Warwick has already gone against the King's wishes and married his eldest daughter, Isabella, to the Duke of Clarence. Now he is spreading rumors that Edward is illegitimate, and promising to make Clarence king. The pair have been fomenting rebellions and unrest, and Edward is determined to put a stop to it. For the moment, Warwick and Clarence have been forced to flee south with the King's forces in pursuit. They have collected their wives, Warwick's youngest unwed daughter, Anne, and others of their households—including Margery, the heroine of our story, a young woman of questionable virtue who is tiring lady and companion to Isabella.
Meanwhile, in France, King Louis XI will be gleeful when he hears of the latest problems for the House of York. He will revel in seeing England unstable once again because he wants the sympathetic House of Lancaster back on the throne. If he can manipulate circumstances to ensure that the English monarch is his ally, he will be able to seize Burgundy and consolidate the kingdom of France without fear of retribution from the powerful English army.
But the Yorkist Edward lacks neither friends nor lovers, and a daring plot is about to be set in motion…
CHAPTER 1
March 1470. If she had organized this rebellion, decided Margery, as she pulled back
the canvas flap of the Countess of Warwick's chariot, it certainly would not have been in cold, miserable Lent.
"Go on, girl! Find out why we have stopped," snapped the Countess.
Margery sighed at the puddled, miry road awaiting her, but she gathered up her skirts and climbed down. It always seemed to be her misfortune to deal with mud, whether it was verbal or squelching around her wooden pattens as it was now. That was the trouble with having no lawful parents, no dowry, and very little future. And here she was, hungry enough to eat two breakfasts, in a town she did not recognize, surrounded by weary foot soldiers who had been trudging the churned road south for over a week—the tired, drooping tail of her guardian, Warwick the Kingmaker's defeated army. She could see the halted column of men and wagons stretching down into the narrow main street of the town. Somewhere, at the head of it, the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence, his son-in-law and brother of the King, were probably persuading the local mayor that their soldiers were in too much haste to molest any townsmen's wives or daughters.
Margery set back her hood. The rain had blown away and a watery sun deigned to briefly bestow its blessing. It was a joy to feel the fresh wind on her face after the cloying, perfumed steaminess of the women's enclosed chariot, and there was a tantalizing, yeasty smell of fresh bread coming from somewhere.
She turned her head, meeting in surprise the full clear stare of a man who had halted beneath the archway of an inn courtyard on her left. It was his expression of intense astonishment directed at her that made Margery reflect his stare as if bewitched. She had a strange sense of having experienced that gaze before.
An impression of underlying pride, authority, and self-control reached her. Perhaps it was merely his pleasing height or the way he stood, his broad shoulders thrust back, the long riding cloak carefully thrown across his breast and over his shoulder. Did the somber black folds hide some indication that he was no friend to the King's enemies?
His alert, intelligent face drew her glance up again. Those eyes had watched her before; she knew they had.
"Mistress, mistress!" One of Warwick's servants plucked at the tippet of her sleeve and she turned distractedly, dragging her thoughts very slowly back to her errand. "My lord Earl says the ladies may rest. Please you to bid them to enter here." The lad indicated the half-timbered thatched hostelry on her right, from whence an edgy landlord and his anxious staff had ventured, eyeing them with cautious anticipation.
Margery nodded and glanced swiftly to the other side of the street but the stranger had gone back into the rival inn. With an unconscious shake of her head as if to push her memory of him to the back of her mind, Margery forced herself to deal with the present. She pulled aside the heavy canvas that had kept the fresh air from the chariot. Her mistress, Isabella, Duchess of Clarence, would be relieved at her tidings.
"Good news, your grace. My lord has sent word that we may stop at the inn here."
"Jesu be thanked," murmured Isabella. "I shall die of suffocation if I have to stay in this wretched monster a moment longer," and she began an ungainly descent down the back steps of the chariot.
"Margery, take her arm!" Isabella's mother, the Countess, had been fussing ever since they had left Warwick castle. Isabella, eighteen years old and heavy with child, wrinkled her nose at the mud as Margery helped her down, and waited beside her, stretching her aching back, while the cart issued the rest of the women onto the street like a chrysalis yielding a myriad-colored insect. In a confusion of velvet and brocade, the Countess, her younger daughter Anne, and their ladies clustered noisily about Isabella before they escorted her into the hostelry.
Margery tarried and darted a swift glance at the other inn across the way. The stranger was no longer visible. She searched the shadows, still sensing his presence.
"What are you staring at? Have you no appetite?" Her friend, Ankarette, the Duchess's other attendant, tugged at her arm.
"There was a man…"
"There is always a man, Margery, but there is little chance to break our fast. Make haste. Who knows how much time we may be allowed here." With a sigh, Margery followed her into the chaos of the inn.
Inside, it was as if a giant had kicked open a nest of human ants. Hungry soldiers were crowding in behind the ladies and jostling for the benches. The air was heavy with wood smoke, brewed ale, sweat, and the vinegar in which the men had soaked their brigandines to keep them free of lice.
Margery had every sympathy for the inn servants struggling through the ravenous throng, their faces strained. The needs of the noble ladies must be met first. The Duchess was already being conducted to the best bedchamber and a procession of ewers, platters, and privy pots were on their way up to her.
"Wishing you were back at the nunnery, I daresay," Ankarette exclaimed to Margery as they reached the steps. The room upstairs proved to be as tightly packed with the women as the chariot had been and their tempers were as ragged as a beggarwoman's kirtle.
When the Countess sent her to fetch the innkeeper back again, Margery took refuge for an instant on the stairs, although even there she had to press into the wall as the inn maids squeezed by.
Her head was spinning with the noise of it all. The convent at Nuneaton, where she had spent the last six years, had at least held peaceful corners into which she could melt, whereas each moment since she had been plucked from her bed at past midnight several days before had been filled with haste and uncertainty. When the Earl of Warwick had commanded her to rejoin his household for Yuletide she had agreed wholeheartedly, but not to this flight in foul weather with King Edward's army baying at their heels, or the Countess's scolding tongue.
During the journey the Countess had frequently made tart allusions to Margery's sinful past as if the failure of her husband's rebellion against the King was all Margery's fault. Everyone in the Earl's household knew she had been banished to a nunnery for being found in the King's bed, but it was not her fault that King Edward—her beloved Ned— had thrown off Warwick's guiding hand.
Ned had been nineteen when her guardian had made him king, but he was twenty-nine now and Warwick was still trying to lead him by a leash. It was not surprising that they came to blows when the Earl declared he would uncrown Ned and make George and Isabella king and queen instead.
Margery sighed at the folly of it all but she was caught up in the treasonous tangle like a Iamb in a thicket. Because she was the bastard of a fallen noblewoman, she had been reared with Warwick's daughters as their companion and attendant and she loved them both. That was why she was here now, ravenous as a beggar and growing fractious, sharing their flight and uncertain destiny out of loyalty and a certain desperation. Where else was there to go?
As she reached the bottom step, she was nearly thrown off her feet by a young esquire in his haste to hurtle past her up the stairs. The soldiers were suddenly scrambling from the trestles in panic and confusion. Recognizing one of the older men who was anxiously cramming his sallet back on his head, Margery swiftly pushed her way across to him. "God have mercy, what is happening, Master Garland?"
"There's word the King's men are but a league away," he shouted at her above the tumult.
"Surely that cannot be true."
Will Garland rubbed the back of his hand across his weary brow. "Lass, if we are caught, 'tis treason."
Margery bit her lip, doubting the rumor; Ned was known for marching his men to the edge of endurance but surely even he could not perform miracles.
She was about to grab a trencher of bread before the soldiers seized it all, when a stout man-at-arms, a head taller than those about him, struggled grinning through the crowd toward her. His surcoat was painted with the black bull, the device of Isabella's husband, the Duke of Clarence. The soldier halted in front of her, gave a gap-toothed smile, then bent his head and said loudly in her ear, "Mistress, can you tell me where I may find Margery of Warwick? The Duke of Clarence commands her attendance."
"Well, you are fortunate. Here I am. What busi
ness does the Duke want with me?"
"He desires your word on how his lady fares."
No doubt the Duke was busy with his men at the front of the column and it was far easier to send for her—they knew each other well now—to make a report to him than come in person to see his peevish duchess.
Margery did not have time to reflect that the man's helmet sat ill upon his long hair as he took her arm and pushed through the throng toward the courtyard. Her only anxiety was that she had no wish to find herself separated from the other women, especially if the pursuing soldiers were closer than they had earlier believed.
"Wait, surely there is no time for this," she exclaimed, shaking off the soldier's hand as they went outside. "The men are saying the King's army is but a league away."
Her burly escort was unconcerned. "Nay, 'tis some panic monger. It's up to my lord Earl to give the word, never fear."
"Why are we going this way?" He was conducting her through a gateway into the muddy back lane.
The fellow grinned at her. "Because I'll wager it would take us a sennight to traverse the town otherwise. There's a flock of sheep driven in for market day and a dozen stalls and all our carts and men besides. But if we go round the back of the main street, we shall be there in a thrice. Bustle, mistress, we have not all day." He courteously gestured her to walk ahead while he closed the wicker gate behind them.
The miry lane was deserted save for a loutish fellow standing at the head of a horse and cart. Margery glanced at him, wondering how she would squeeze past the vehicle that almost filled the narrow track. It was then her escort's hand whipped from behind across Margery's mouth and the other man ran toward her and grabbed her behind the knees. As she opened her lips to scream, a foul-tasting rag was thrust inside her mouth. She writhed as the men heaved her onto the cart. They swiftly dragged a sack smelling of earth and stale vegetables over her head before they hastily bound her wrists and ankles.
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