Tantalizing Margery's womanly appetite when she was forced to play a youth's role as well as trying to scorn him was maybe unkind but Richard sensed there was no danger. The merchant and his apprentice were oblivious to the tension between their customers nor, he noted, did they even suspect Margery's gender. No one had. She played her role well, even walking with a slight swagger, aware that she could bring down the wrath of the local churchmen if her disguise was discovered.
"Then if she is hard on her clothes, sir, would you consider something darker? Is it for summer or for winter apparel?"
"A March gown that she may wear into early summer. Her eyes are as blue as the lad's and her hair this hue." He tugged at her hair and she jerked her head back with a fierce scowl.
An apprentice tumbled a bale of honey velvet across the board but Stone shook his head and Margery bit her lip regretfully. Glancing sideways at her, his thin mouth lifting into a smile, he pointed to a pale blue, the color of forget-me-nots and the apprentice sped up a ladder and brought it down. Richard held it against Margery's embarrassed face and shook his head.
"I think our sister might be pleased with this, brother," she said as huskily as she could, surprising him for it was the first time she had dared to speak in public. Pure pleasure flooded through him and he beamed down at her with seeming indulgence.
"Too costly. Another time, perhaps." Oh, the wench was disappointed. The corners of her mouth curled down and she turned away, pretending to inspect a twist of silken braid.
Richard finally settled on a well-dyed midnight blue velvet. It was a practical choice, the color would not show dirt and would sufficiently suit her but it would give her a graver mien and he was at pains to make sure the King saw her differently now. Margery was most put out and ignored him as he made the other necessary purchases on her behalf, reddening when she heard him ask for cloth for underlinen.
"They were all so beautiful," she said after they left the shop. He smiled to himself. Her admission was a minor victory.
"I agree," he answered amiably. "The forget-me-not was excellent, too excellent."
"How so?"
He shook his head at her and would not answer.
"Now we need a compliant tailor and a good lie to tell him. How opportune it rained last night." The tale that she had been sodden to the skin came easily to his lips when he knocked at the door of a pair of tailors whom the clothier had recommended.
Margery followed him upstairs to their dwelling above the storeroom where she shyly removed the cloak and looked suitably embarrassed as the two men cast skilled eyes over her. "A low neckline, sir?"
Stone shook his head, his eyes critically studying Margery's upper anatomy. "No, cut it high." Her eyebrows rose in surprise but he turned away, nursing his laughter to himself as he set half the payment upon the table.
The men, red-eyed, their fingers callused at the tips, brought the gown to the inn next morning to make adjustments and by sunset it was finished. Richard insisted on seeing Margery in it before he paid the remainder. He imperiously strode into the chamber and dismissed the pair to wait outside. They left, their looks knowing.
"They think you are my mistress." But Margery, he observed, was too delighted with the gown to pick up his verbal gauntlet.
Tight sleeves with turned back cuffs encased her arms without a crease and the rest of the fabric had been cleverly cut to fit her body closely at the waist. Instead of hiding her shapeliness, the high-necked gown emphasized it. Not exactly what Richard had intended; instead of helping her flaunt her obvious charms, the neatly stitched fabric swept down over sweet curves tormenting the discerning eye. He groaned inwardly. If he found her so tempting, how many others would? She looked delicious standing there, openly delighted like a child. The only solution would be to drape the folds of a old-fangled wimple headdress across her shoulders. That would hide the upper slope of those jaunty little breasts. And after all, that short hair needed to be hidden. Yes, that might conceal her charms from the King's lusty eyes. He would have to consult the experts.
She looked up finally and trapped his expression of indulgence. Surprise flickered briefly in her eyes. Instantly Richard's visor of inscrutability snapped down over his face. He resorted in self-defense to playing games with her again. His grave perusal made her blush angrily as he walked around her, his forefinger stroking his chin as he inspected the stitching like some guildmaster.
"Well?" she demanded. "Do you send it back? Or do you wish to examine my new undergarments too?"
Richard let his expression lighten somewhat. It pleased him when she met his verbal assault with equal strength.
"I like the gown well enough. A low neck certainly would give more pleasure to me since you inquire."
"But you said—"
"What I say concerns you, not what I think." He moved around behind her again.
"Do you always speak in riddles?" she hissed over her shoulder.
"You have noticed," he observed dryly.
"If I have gray hairs by the time I see the King's grace, it will be from having spent a week in your insufferable company."
He stopped his perambulations. "And yet I think I have done you less harm in one poor week than King Edward did." His words were softly spoken but the truth was intended to hurt her. He could not help himself. It salved the frustration that was in him, the bitter gall that she had lain with the King. "Is that not so?" He thrust out a hand and grabbed her chin. "Is that not so?"
Her eyes did not falter before his. She met his anger with fire of her own. "Perhaps, but who are you to be my judge?"
"Who, indeed?" He tossed her face up and let go of her.
"I do not know why fortune perversely tossed me in your path, King's Receiver, but I swear the day is coming when you will rue the day you abducted me."
"So you think, lady, so you think."
By the time they left Exeter, Richard had hired a maidservant for his prisoner and lit a candle in the cathedral to Richard of Chichester, his namesaint, in the hope that his enterprise might prosper. He had also found Margery an old-fashioned wimple. She had put it on in great amusement, exclaiming that she must look like Chaucer's Wife of Bath. While it fell in dewlaps concealing her firm breasts, her captor was appalled to see that it only emphasized the wench's fresh beauty. Surrounded by the snowy folds, her large blue eyes compelled attention, lending her the heady forbidden allure of an available nun. He gave up at that point.
Margery's consistent veneer of innocence, when he knew that she had writhed beneath the loins of the King, nightly robbed Richard of his sleep; the urge to discover for himself her full capability exercised his imagination. Only iron control kept him sane within a pace of her. He resorted to courtesy and so a careful truce hung in the air between them as he grew increasingly concerned as to what report she would make of him to the King. That was the trouble with unplanned campaigns—he had made too many mistakes already.
They entered Southampton through the handsome Bar-gate but prior knowledge of the horror that the seaport contained led Richard to bestow his party at an inn on High Street, nestling beneath the wall that flanked the eastern moat, as far from the castle as he could arrange. It had been easier to find accommodation than he had expected; the army's weapons carts were already trundling north to London and most of the men had been sent back to their shires. My lord Gloucester's retainers were much in evidence at the castle but the King had chosen to exploit the less drafty house of Southampton's prosperous mayor. There Richard endured an uncomfortable audience informing his royal employer of his intent, which left him even more desperate to know Margery's true feelings toward her former lover.
Her distracted air over the last few days argued that she had been giving the matter much thought. It was her lack of bitterness that bothered Richard. Had she set the undeserving royal whoremonger up in a little shrine in some corner of her heart? In his opinion, the King, having seduced her, had shown as much sensitivity as any village clod. In other
words, his royal grace had completely washed his hands of her. So why did she not hate her precious Ned?
Richard gritted his teeth as they left their inn hard by Friary Gate next morning and turned into the street that ran along the inner west wall of the city. He was not proud of himself but he had one card left in his hand, a bloody card at that. Would Margery notice that Southampton had a different mood to Exeter, that the citizens shopped tight-lipped, their eyes blinkered? The route he chose was circuitous; it led past the castle that the King had shunned.
"If you will be guided by me, Mistress Margery, do not look to the western walls," he advised her with a tone of superiority that was calculated to provoke rebellion. Of course, she would look—she was a woman.
It was the stench that assailed Margery first, reminding her of the hanged man in the gibbet, making her belly threaten to return her breakfast.
"By Our Blessed Lady!" exclaimed Alys, her maidservant, and Stone's men-at-arms swore loudly, their horses jerking and whinnying at a sudden rough handling of their bridles. A reflex almost, Margery looked, glimpsed the disfiguring insults to humanity hoisted above the ramparts, and shut her eyes in horror, her head spinning. It was the elite of Warwick's army, the men he had sent to seize his ships and sail them around to Devon. They were men she would have recognized, possibly given a name to but their heads were gone and stakes were…
She heard Stone curse. Someone's gloved hand grabbed her horse's reins and led it swiftly onward. Tears blinded her. Eventually when they slackened pace and the odor of rotting flesh no longer hung in their nostrils, she was able to distinguish the faintly unpleasant but reassuring smell of seaweed and hear the rhythmic wash of the waves on the sand. Margery ran a knuckle beneath her eyes and tried to stanch her crying. A man's arm came around her shoulders, it had to be Stone, trying to draw her to his shoulder but she shook him away.
"I know him. The King would never…" She bit her lip, shaking her head violently as if to dislodge those terrible images.
The horses came to a standstill. They were beyond the castle now.
"It was Butcher Worcester, they tell me." He was the most learned of the earls, but known for his violence. "I warned you not to look, mistress." Stone's voice was kind and gentle, a side of him she had not glimpsed before. He leaned across to tilt her face up. With his gloved finger, he smoothed the droplets from her cheeks and mopped her dry with the edge of the wimple. At least it did have some use, reflected Margery, surprised that her whimsical humor could surface amid more passionate emotions. She gazed gravely up at her companion.
"Your advice was wise, Master Stone, I should not have looked. But I am not a child."
"No," he agreed solemnly, his eyes gently scanning her face. "You are not a child."
"You think it is wrong, do you not?"
"Yes," he said softly. "I despise such cruelty."
"Then we are at last in agreement with one another, Master Stone.".
A slow smile hovered at the corners of his mouth and then lit his entire face. "I am sure it will not last. Shall we go on or do you need more time? You cannot kneel before King Edward with your eyes puffed and red from weeping."
Stone was right but her appearance was of little importance now. Could the young King she remembered have metamorphosed into a tyrant?
"I tell you this, Master Stone. If my lord of Warwick ever has Worcester at his mercy, that monster will rue his handiwork," she growled. "Are we almost there?"
"His grace is at the mayor's house this morning." He pointed up the street to a high gabled house, adorned with a costly frieze of carved oak, its porch cluttered by a dozen soldiers in the King's livery and a score of countryfolk and urchins waiting for a glimpse of the royal profile.
"Of course, I see it now. I thank you for your care." With that solemn dismissal, she dug her heels into her mare's flank and urged it forward through the throng and determinedly into the bustling courtyard, dismounting before any of the King's grooms or esquires could help her. She tossed the mare's reins imperiously to the nearest man who ran forward. Then she set her face proudly toward the official who came down the steps to ask her business and swept into the mansion in his wake.
Richard hurried after her. He could not let her go in to King Edward in such a dangerous temper. "I did not know you had property in Southampton," he remarked, catching up and setting his hat straight. She gave him a questioning look. "Mistress, you are behaving as if you own the entire city."
She glanced at the official's back ahead of her, biting her lip rebelliously, before she answered his levity. "Master Stone, I thank you for whatever trouble you have been asked to take on my behalf but now we are here I can manage my own affairs."
He grabbed her arm, trying to force her to a halt. "Have a care, before you stoke your burning indignation further." She almost faltered in her step as her eyes met his. His gaze was serious, concerned. "Listen to why the King's grace has sent for you and weigh what he says." They had reached a hushed antechamber full of grave-faced people waiting for an audience and she was forced to halt her brisk pace.
"Of course." She tapped her riding crop impatiently against her gloved palm and, embarrassed, realized she should have left it with the groom.
"Wait here, my lady." The officer scratched on the doors for admittance.
"For a bastard, you behave surprisingly. They must think you at least a princess," commented Richard, both amused and exasperated.
The officer reappeared, crooking his finger. "My lady."
Richard removed the crop from her hands and bestowed it upon one of the royal pages. The guards opened the double doors. They were expected. Margery felt the stabbing jealous stares of those who had been waiting hours or even days.
Suddenly her anger cooled at the reality of not only confronting the most powerful man in England but the lover who had occupied her thoughts each bedtime for the last six long years.
The King's Receiver was watching her face solemnly. Could he read the misapprehension that blew across her mind? Her dread that the love she had felt toward the King would dominate her life again? Was it obvious? Perhaps it was, because a slow grin warmed his face.
"I am coming in with you, my lady," he echoed with heavy sarcasm as he thrust out his arm to her.
"For your reward, sir?"
"I trust so."
Hesitantly she rested her fingers on his gloved wrist. Stone smiled, threw back his shoulders with a proud grace, and led her in.
CHAPTER 4
The heavy doors rattled to, enclosing them in a large room dominated by a heavy oak table heaped with rolls of vellum and an assortment of inkwells and quills. A man in a cord-du-roi tabard was preoccupied in dripping hot wax upon a folded letter. After he had jabbed the royal seal into it, he straightened up, wiped ink-stained fingers on his rear, looked toward the window, and bowed.
"You have leave, Kendall."
Margery whirled around at that familiar voice as King Edward IV, her dear Ned, even more of a giant than she remembered, stepped down from the window recess. And she forgot all anger. It was her memory, not her heart, that was stirred by the sight of him. Because she was older, or maybe it was having Richard Stone at her elbow, she saw the King with different eyes.
She sank into a deep curtsy as Ned strode across to her with that lazy grace that was so deep in his nature. Behind her, Master Richard Stone lowered himself respectfully onto one knee.
Warm fingers caught her chin causing her to look up once more into the blue eyes she remembered so well. A strong but gentle clasp drew her to her feet and his mouth closed down upon her lips, soft and sensuous as before.
"Well met, sweet heart."
Richard Stone tensed and fidgeted behind her, distracting her. It was as if his presence had exorcised the magic. Something within Margery sagged with inward relief—the arcane invisible power no longer worked and she knew she was free of the charm the King had wrought upon her.
Ned condescended to notice her compan
ion as if he were an unwelcome intruder. "Hmm, Dick lad, we shall talk with you anon. Our brother Gloucester is anxious to know if Mistress Margery has arrived. Pray inform him so." Margery sensed the suppressed irritation in Stone but he stood up obediently and bowed himself out.
"Let me see you properly, Meg." A twist on her fingers from Ned forced her to twirl around for him. "Certes, there is more flesh on you but delightfully so. What monstrosity is this?" His large hands deftly freed her from the wimple and cast it over his shoulder. "You are more beautiful than I remember, Margery of Warwick."
"Despite the six long years?"
Ned's sky-colored eyes bathed her in a kindness that was sincere as he touched her short hair. "Indeed, all my fault and you have paid the price. I crave your pardon." His arm fastened about her shoulders and he turned her to the hearth. "Make yourself comfortable by the fire and let us have mulled wine and sweet oatcakes." He shook a brass bell that stood on the table and a young page ran in from a door beside the arras to know his bidding.
Margery sat down happily on a settle made luxurious by tawny velvet cushions. She edged her cold toes to the fire as close as she dared without scorching the leather of her soles, then turned her head to savor the presence of the man who had once been Heaven to her. At one time this informal domesticity with the King of England had been her only dream.
Beaming back at him, she saw again within his smile the handsome, genial youth who had bent time to visit his younger brothers in the schoolroom and Warwick's daughters in the nursery. Margery had been older than the others, worldly enough to catch the grin that he tossed at her like a ball above the smaller heads. Many a time he had mimicked the posturings of the great nobles of the land to her, teaching her they had the same weaknesses as lesser men. As his visits grew infrequent so her pride in him blossomed as he defeated Lancaster and became King. By the time she reached sixteen, she was deaf to the rumors that he had been secretly wed or that nothing in skirts south of Berwick was safe from him.
The Maiden and the Unicorn Page 6