The Maiden and the Unicorn

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The Maiden and the Unicorn Page 8

by Isolde Martyn


  "Feeling treacherous?" The Duke's gold-flecked amber eyes perused him critically.

  Richard's jaw slackened, his thoughts running higgledy in all manner of directions. "Never tell me you are thinking of joining Warwick's rebellion, my lord?"

  Gloucester's narrow mouth tightened impatiently. "Don't be so plaguey stupid, Richard! Answer my question!"

  "Then, yes! Why should I pretend to you? I had what I wanted within my grasp until your brother… Was it too much to ask of him?" He turned his face away proudly, his soul sullen.

  "This is the second time he has done this to you. I am here to ensure there shall not be a third." Richard could not answer. His head jerked around to face the Duke. The younger man was not mocking him. "I have the King's leave to put a proposal to you, Richard, one that may suit both our purposes extremely well. That is, if you are feeling wise enough to listen."

  The bow that had been drawing his gut tight was suddenly released as Richard calmly met the Duke's probing gaze. "I think you may be assured of that, your grace."

  "Excellent, you see I think I am going to have to arrest you for high treason."

  CHAPTER 5

  The creamy sails arched into curves catching the wind as the Winchelsea rounded the Isle of Wight. Margery stood at the rail of the vessel, savoring the taste of salt spray on her lips. It was almost like going on a pilgrimage to Compostela, an exciting sense of new experiences awaiting her beyond the horizon. And what was more, she was free! That was until she remembered that she had a mission to fullfil and around her neck hung a constant reminder.

  It seemed that the moment Master Stone had informed Ned at Exeter that he held Warwick's ward, the two royal brothers had conceived the idea to use her as their messenger. So before she sailed she was presented with a new overgown that held the secret letters stitched into the fashionable broad brocade collar that framed the neckline. A third letter, from Ned's mother, helped give shape to a small steeple cap. It had been suggested that the letters from his two sisters should be sewn into her purfiled hem but Margery had put an end to the nonsense. Hems, she explained, inevitably became soggy and surely no one would object to the two Duchesses writing to their brother. As for the official letters for the Acting Governor of Calais, Isabella, and the Earl of Warwick, they were locked in a small coffer and the key to that was around her neck in the guise of a miniature pectoral cross.

  Finally, pinned to her undershift was a St. Catherine wheel set within a vine of fruiting pears—a brooch not to be worn until she needed it as a sign to Ned's agents that she had succeeded in her mission to win over George, Duke of Clarence.

  Ostensibly her mission was to carry letters to Isabella, Duchess of Clarence, from her sisters-in-law, beseeching her to persuade her husband and father to make their peace with the King and swear public allegiance to Edward once again. And surely it would be no labor to persuade the Duke to return and make his peace? But for the moment in the no-man's-land of the sea, she was enjoying herself. Even the front of gray miserable weather that was bowling toward them as the day grew old did little to stanch her cheerfulness. England, Ned, and that arrogant Richard Stone were left behind.

  The twelve large towers of Calais loomed upon the little English ship as it eventually swung its stern into the narrow neck of the harbor past the vigilant right-hand watchtower. The captain, in good humor, exchanged a greeting with the soldiers on duty and invited Margery up onto the forecastle.

  The town portcullis was already up, sucking a tangle of carts and laden people inside the walls, and the wharves were busy with early morning business. Quite a few ships had come in with cargo on the first tide. Bales of Cotswold wool were queued up on the deck of a Bristol vessel for the derricks to lift them onto waiting carts, while alongside a Venetian galley was unloading glass and silks. One of the crates tipped out of its ropes and the noise of its shattering contents begat a score of foul oaths.

  Margery was longing to see the town. Not only was Calais the English shopfront to the customers of Christendom but it was one of the world's greatest markets. Its fairs were reputed to rival those of Antwerp and Bruges. It was also said that a man (or a woman) could buy anything in the streets of Calais. Anything from sapphires and sables to sausages and salt, even a pagan ebony-skinned servant from the slave markets of Fez.

  As Margery scanned the ships already anchored, their sails rolled up tightly against the spars, the captain pointed out the flags of Genoa and Florence, even one from distant Russia whose ship was bearing tallow, furs, and amber, but no Neville pennant fluttered on any of the topmasts. The Kingmaker's flagship was missing.

  A strong unease gripped Margery. Calais was devoted to Warwick. He had governed it in the past and paid its garrison out of his own purse when the Lancastrian King, Henry VI, had deliberately delayed sending across the men's wages. He must be here. He always came here when things in England were as hot as the Devil's fire for him. Why, even Ned had assumed that he must be here. There had been no storm in the past two weeks to wreck his ship, but suppose they had been attacked by Hanse ships and were prisoners? She shivered as the rain closed in and Calais slowly disappeared behind a drizzly mist.

  Of course, on further reflection, if she were wearing Warwick's shoes, maybe she would not want to blaze her presence like a bonfire. Perhaps his ship was quietly anchored up the coast, stealthfully drawn up some tributary where it could be left under guard while the Earl and his retinue sat in comfort behind Calais's sturdy walls.

  The captain exclaimed in surprise at her elbow. He was expecting a pilot to row out to them, not the longboat with men in brigandines and helmets that was fast drawing alongside. Not overly concerned, he ordered his crew to toss the rope ladder down, muttering that Acting Governor Wenlock, the Earl of Warwick's deputy, was carrying out his duty with unusual alacrity. A second later he had climbed down to the main deck and was exchanging fierce words with the officer in charge.

  Margery watched in horror as the governor's soldiers drew their swords and the captain thrust his hands up in surrender. With an oath he shouted up to her, "Satan take the fools! These asses think we might be smugglin' rebels because we're out of Southampton—men as've escaped hanging. You'd best come down, mistress."

  "So what have we here?" The beefy officer in Wenlock's livery smirked.

  The captain answered swiftly, "A woman passenger, carried by the King's very orders."

  "Woman, is it? They're all women these days. We found two fisherwomen last week. Grown beards in prison, they have. Get down the ladder then! Let's have a look at you."

  Just as Margery reached the lowest rung, she sensed her hem lifted. She twisted fiercely around to find the captain had grabbed the man's sword arm.

  "She's a lady, yer landlubberin' numbskull. Touch her and the King's grace will skin yer."

  "Ha, you still say she's a wench, do you?" The knave circled Margery, threatening her with his sword. "Looks like a woman, smells like a woman, but there's sixteen-year-old rebels could pass for such. Let's make sure." He snatched at her cap and veil. It came away easily, tousling her chin-length hair. "See, a lad!" His soldiers cheered, encouraging him further. "What's needed is further examination. Lie her down, lads."

  Guffaws of glee reached Margery. She turned with hot indignation upon the officer as the soldiers started forward with mischief.

  "Do you value your post, sirrah?" She pitched her voice higher than normal. "I have letters from the King's grace to Governor Wenlock. Captain, bring them hither from my cabin." The captain hesitated. "Go, this officer is no fool. He surely can recognize the King's seal."

  If her voice sounded brave enough, its owner was inwardly shaking. She kept her chin in the air and tapped her foot impatiently. A doe surrounded by baying hounds, she just wished he would hurry.

  Alys's arrival on deck nursing the coffer in her arms caused a welcome diversion. The wench's rotund curves allowed no room for doubt as to her sex and her habit of showing a generous amount of cleavage w
hatever the weather ensured that loud whistles greeted her.

  "Mistress?" She curtsied and the soldiers whooped.

  "What say you we investigate both of 'em?" suggested one.

  Margery took no notice. She pulled the cross out on its chain from her bodice and inserted it into the lock of the coffer. Alys pulled up the lid to reveal the sealed letters. Wenlock's man thrust in front of Margery. He grabbed two of the letters, turning them over with a frown, rubbing his thumb across the embossed orange wax. It was apparent he was unlettered.

  "I can smell a rat, a nasty bloated dead rat in all this. Kings don't send women as their messengers. They send lords with retinues. Take 'em on shore. My lord governor will enjoy this."

  "The pestilence on yer, yer rogue! Is it a fat bribe you're after?" The captain had to be restrained from gripping the officer's windpipe. "How much do you look for? I have a cargo to unload and Arras cloth to take on board. There's merchants in Kent expecting me to sail from here by high tide tomorrow."

  "Mayhap you'll be free by tomorrow. It depends on who's tellin' lies, doesn't it? Your ship will be safe enow. The crew can stay here under arrest but you have a lot of questions to answer."

  The captain was forced, still snarling and cursing, over the side but at least the sealed letters seemed to have installed a wariness into the soldiers. The officer permitted Alys to fetch their few belongings from below. The meager luggage did not help to impress.

  "It will be all right once I see Lord Wenlock," Margery reassured the glum captain as she joined him in the shaking longboat.

  "Will it? I doubt you'll be allowed to set eyes on him. Still, if he should set you at liberty, pray send the merchant Master Caxton advice of my arrest."

  They were hustled through the gate, their escort full of self-importance but no one took much notice; there was too much business to be done. Safeguarding their prisoners through the hordes of people, barrows, and carts was no light matter.

  One young man, however, deliberately forced his black stallion in front of them. He was entirely and expensively clad in black save for the silver embroidery that scalloped both the edge of his sleeves and the scarf of the liripipe that rippled from the rolled brim of his hat. Margery met his curious gaze and returned it in full measure, uncowed by his close study of her. His hair was prematurely silver and his hooded eyes were old for his young face. His glance swept over the prisoners, missing nothing before he pulled his horse's head around and moved the splendid beast out of their way. Margery watched him still as his two men-servants closed in behind him but he rode away without a second glance.

  "Bloody interfering Burgundians!" snarled the officer, bawling at his men to clear a wider path.

  Margery and her maidservant were shown into a small room in the governor's house, unfurnished save for a single bench. The spluttering captain had been led away to the town lockup. The letters were given into the charge of an officious red-haired clerk who shrugged insolently at Margery's demands.

  "Good woman, I doubt he'll see you today or any day."

  "On the contrary, you will ensure he does, sirrah, that is if you seek to rise in the world. Make no doubt that I have the King's ear. You may tell your lord and his counselors that they spike traitors in Southampton these days. Now I think upon it, your master's arrest of a royal emissary stinks of treason, stinks to the vaults of Heaven. Tell him that I remember the old days when he was glad to dine at my lord of Warwick's table. Perhaps the King's grace has a longer memory than your lord."

  The officer's freckled face turned a red that went ill with his ruddy head as he abruptly turned on his heel and left them without another word.

  "Mistress, that was a marvel. Such wondrous words."

  "Words are useless, Alys, if no one takes any notice."

  No one did. The bells of Calais tolled out each hour increasing the women's frustration and their hunger. The curfew bell had finally convinced Margery they had been forgotten when the door was unlocked and the red-haired man sniffingly confronted them, informing Margery that Lord Wenlock had at last agreed to see her.

  A smell of food lingering about the passageway and hall painfully assaulted their bellies. The eyes of the servants, clearing away the scraps, followed them with amused curiosity.

  "Where is it we are going, mistress?"

  "I care not, Alys, so long as there is some food at the end of it. Now I know how hungry the small creatures feel in midwinter."

  It was not expected—the governor's chamber. His bed, with its scarlet hangings and furs, glimmered on a wooden plinth in the soft light of the candles behind the heads of the two men who were expecting her. Neither rose, they sat behind a table, their pointed toes stretched out toward the generous fire. Like two magistrates, Margery thought, except they had the contented look of men who had feasted well. The white linen of the board bore a scattering of crumbs and regretfully nothing else save two inlaid goblets.

  "Announce me," Margery commanded calmly. Astonished by her audacious sense of occasion, the officer was jolted to comply. "My lord, your excellency, this woman claims to be Mistress Margery of Warwick"—his tone dripped with irony—"ward to the great rebel styling himself Earl of Warwick."

  It required effort not to show her annoyance especially as the older man, whom she remembered from her childhood, snorted, sousing her from head to toe with his rheumy glance.

  Now how did the Countess always do it? She had a way of making people behave as they should. Well, it was worth a try. You had to achieve a balance of incredulity and indignation and sweep your gaze imperiously down them. Margery tried it on Wenlock and his mouth fell open, but it was the other man in the black velvet houppelande who rose to his feet and came around the table to her.

  "Demoiselle"—he took her hand—"I am not disappointed." His deep gray eyes were compelling, reminding her of Richard Stone in the intelligence of his stare. It was the silver-haired Burgundian.

  "You may not be disappointed, monsieur," she answered calmly, "whatever you mean by it, but I am." She turned her face to Governor Wenlock. "Is this how you treat the King's messenger, my lord? If I sound irritable it is because I am almost faint with hunger."

  The debonair Burgundian let go of her hand, shaking with a mirth he was trying to hide.

  "The Devil take me, Philippe," muttered Lord Wenlock, "if this is not the little baseborn wench that was sent packing for taking the King's fancy. In all my years I swear I have rarely seen Warwick so angry…"

  Alys gave a small shriek and fell to her knees. The governor screwed up his narrow eyes farther, leaning forward to peer at Margery as if she were an exhibit at a fair, then he nodded. "Aye, it is her right enough."

  Alys crossed herself, fearful no doubt they might be whipped.

  "'Oh, get up, girl," exclaimed Margery, then she turned back to Lord Wenlock. "Yes, you were there that week, were you not, my lord? It seems half the world was." She tried to deflect the conversation. "I am surprised not to find my lord of Warwick supping with you here. Many a time I recall you sat at his board."

  She straightaway regretted her words. Wenlock appeared to wince, glancing uncomfortably at his companion. The Burgundian seemed to take no notice, however, his attention focusing instead upon Margery like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

  "Will you not ask the lady to be seated, my lord Wenlock."

  "Lady! This is one of the King's concubines."

  "Was, my lord," corrected Margery matter-of-factly, although she felt hot blood rushing into her cheeks, "and though it was for but a week, I paid for my folly with confinement in a nunnery."

  The governor raised his eyebrows. "Aye, well you look respectable enough now except that I'm told you wear your hair uncommonly cut. I imagine the nuns made you keep it short."

  Her shoulders relaxed. It was a welcome assumption. "My lord, I have letters from his grace the King of England to you and to my lord of Warwick."

  There was an ugly silence. Margery sensed a hatred emanating tow
ard her from the Englishman and she could swear a smile was hovering at the corners of the man Philipe's mouth. It was he who broke the tension.

  "My lord, will you not summon refreshment for the demoiselle and see her woman is fed and given sleeping quarters?"

  The clerk looked to the governor for his orders.

  "Yes," muttered Lord Wenlock, his fingers fluttering impatiently in dismissal. "Do it. Be seated, mistress." A page, quick to serve, set a stool beside the table.

  "No, here, demoiselle." The Burgundian indicated the long cushioned settle behind the table. "The fire will be too hot for you."

  Perhaps it was already, thought Margery. Lord Wenlock was almost glowering at her as she slid in on the cushions, while the Burgundian resumed his earlier place with his back in the corner of the settle, observing them. Yes, he definitely reminded her of Stone except that he was wealthier and infinitely plainer. His presence clearly aggravated the Englishman.

  Burgundy! Burgundians must come and go in Calais all the time, considering its importance as a world market, but this man was not a merchant. He behaved as though he were the governor. Why? Calais was England's so why was it so important to Wenlock to keep this man's good opinion?

  "Philippe de Commynes, emissary of Charles, Duke of Burgundy." It was as if the foreigner had been reading her thoughts. Suddenly Margery grasped that it was this man's curiosity that had freed her, but at his convenience so that he would be able to hear why she had been sent. She bestowed upon him her best smile, before attempting to charm her host into better humor.

  "My lord governor, there was a captain arrested with me, a good man who gave me passage here on the King's orders. Please could you permit his release? He has business with Master Caxton in the morning." The governor's lower lip curled sulkily but he nodded.

  A helpful page set a goblet of wine before Margery.

 

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