"Oh, wonderful." She took a sip with delight. It warmed her, its quality undeniable. She set it aside cautiously, careful not to down it before her supper arrived lest her hunger render her light-headed.
"Will you not read your letters, my lord?" prompted de Commynes. They were lying unopened by Wenlock's hand.
The acting governor reluctantly perched a pair of eyeglasses upon his nose and myopically perused the addresses, his chin raised as he tried to made out the words. "More light!" he demanded testily. The flickering golden light from the candles on the iron bracket hanging from the beams was insufficient.
Candles were set before him, illuminating the crossroads of age lines that patterned his cheeks. He must be close to eighty years, realized Margery, watching him closely as, muttering, he broke the seal on one of the letters, holding the parchment up at an angle. Then he lowered his head and, frowning, studied her anew.
"Is it possible to have lodging here tonight, my lord, and a servant to show me to my lord of Warwick's in the morn…" She faltered as Governor Wenlock made a show of looking about him.
"I see no earl here, girl. Do you doubt the high and mighty Richard Neville would not have installed himself in my place here at this very table if he was in Calais?" His bitter words dismayed her.
"You seem surprised not to find him here, demoiselle?" The Burgundian reached out for his winecup and watched the two of them over its rim.
She bit her lip. The elderly Englishman next to her was sweating. She could smell it and sense his tension.
"Oh, I suppose he has traveled on to Guînes," she answered brightly. It was England's other fingerhold on the mainland.
"He has sailed south," snapped Wenlock. He thrust his eyeglasses on the table. "And what sticks in my gullet is that it's clear the King expected you to find him here. What does his grace take me for? A fool as well as a traitor? You may tell him on your return, mistress, that Calais shuts its gates on traitors."
Her mouth fell open. It was the last answer she was expecting.
"I… I am not returning to England. As I explained, I have a letter to deliver to my lord."
"Christ!" he snarled, making the table jolt with his fist. He left the board. "Was I expected to entertain him here so that the King could force a peace? Is that it? If the King had given me some warning—Christ!" He swung around. "But…" he thrust a finger at Margery, only to be interrupted as a steward brought in a tray of viands, fruit, and bread for her. He lapsed into surly silence until the servant had gone. "Clear the room, the rest of you!" he growled to the two pages hovering in the shadows. She guessed he would like to have dismissed his foreign guest too.
"But?" prompted de Commynes, after the servants had gone.
"But?" repeated Wenlock grumpily. "Aye, but! What is her part in all this? That's what I should like to know. Why should the King send one of his harlots—apologies—former harlot? He should have sent Lord Howard, someone of standing."
"Yes, why you, lady?" murmured the Burgundian.
Margery swallowed quickly. It was hardly polite to stuff one's self when a diplomatic conversation was raging about her. Her hunger vied with her sense of correctness.
"I was left behind at Warwick castle somewhat by accident, excellency. You see, I had an ague and was feverish and my lady did not want me near the Duchess lest I—I cry you mercy, my lord, I never asked…" Wenlock met her gaze stonily. "The Duchess, her grace was near her time— the baby?"
"I do not know," rasped Wenlock. "We sent her wine. She was in travail when they hoisted anchor. She had her women."
Margery's expression could not absolve him. Her obvious judgment forced him to turn his face to the fire, staring into its glowing coals, one hand above his head against the stone.
Poor Isabella. That dreadful jolting journey in the cold and then to be in childbirth tossing upon the ocean, denied the solid feel of land, the skill of a midwife. The Countess wringing her hands, fretting and useless, and Anne, what was her role? Did the Countess bar her from the cabin or had she tried to help, to provide some order to soften the chaos? Had they all turned their frustration upon poor Ankarette?
"Finish your supper, woman." Wenlock was glaring at her. "I wish to retire for the night."
"My lord, I beg an audience of you in the morning."
Wenlock merely grumbled under his breath, flung the door open, and summoned the steward. Eyeing her unfinished repast regretfully, Margery rose and curtsied.
De Commynes must have taken his leave without further talk for he caught her up in the Great Hall and gestured to the steward to wait while he drew her aside. "I have many questions that remain unanswered. Matters in England that are not clear. We could discuss them somewhere more comfortable."
"You mean in bed?" retorted Margery, past caring for diplomatic niceties.
His eyes sparkled and his lips drew together in a mock sulk. "You offend me, demoiselle. You run like a cart before the horse."
"I have encountered a lot of horses lately, monsieur. Because I was apprehended in embarrassing circumstances with the King of England, my reputation seems to be beyond repair. People jump to conclusions. To be truthful, I am so very weary. Having nothing to do but fret is very tiresome and as you know we were confined all day awaiting his lordship's convenience until you kindly keened his curiosity." The sleek Burgundian courtier beamed at her in admiration and she knew she had guessed correctly. "So, good night to you, monsieur, I shall be happy to speak with you before I leave."
"If he lets you leave." Her surprised gaze rose. "But he will. I give you my word on it."
Later she lay considering de Commynes's presence in Calais. It was not in the interests of Duke Charles of Burgundy to see the house of York divided. Nor would he want Warwick loose gathering mercenaries especially as everyone knew that Warwick was no friend to Burgundy. The Earl had wanted Ned to marry the sister of the Queen of France. Yes, de Commynes would be pleased she was carrying a letter of reconciliation to Warwick. He would also approve the letters to Clarence if he but knew of them.
Further talk with a mellower Lord Wenlock next day and his promise to arrange passage for her to the mouth of the Seine, where it was reported that her guardian had taken refuge, satisfied Margery no end. The captain of the Winchelsea was restored to liberty. All was well and she had a few days respite to exploit what Calais had to offer—a choice of goods from all over Christendom.
With Alys as excited as she was and a borrowed manservant to protect her and carry her purchases, Margery spent a wonderful extravagant morning buying both luxuries and necessities. It was a heady feeling to have money in her purse. She was wise enough to save plenty for emergencies, but Ned had been delightfully generous.
Her pleasure was compounded when a servant in the livery of the Wool Staple bade her to dinner at Master Caxton's and it was there she learned the news that gave her a clearer grasp of de Commynes's presence in Calais. The men at Caxton's table were not bound by frontiers but their livelihood depended on anticipating the actions of their rulers.
Warwick, she learned, had pirated some of the Burgundian fleet as he had sailed south and his presence on the French coast was embarrassing for King Louis since the ink on a French peace treaty with Burgundy had barely dried.
Why had the French or Burgundians never seized Calais and Guînes from England, she asked. Because, they answered, Calais was the ear to what was going on in England, a crossroads of gossip as well as merchandise. To take Calais was to provoke war with England and, besides, Burgundy and France were such a threat to each other that neither could afford the weakness of fighting two enemies at once. The town was riddled with foreign agents but everyone knew it. She should curb her tongue, they warned, for there would be many interested in watching her, a rare messenger.
Margery decided that she must play the innocuous woman caught by accident in the web of courier interchange that spanned Christendom. Her conclusions were confirmed when Alys convinced her on their return to the gove
rnor's house that their belongings had been searched. The lining of the unlocked coffer had been gently prised up. The interloper's paymaster could have been Wenlock, de Commynes, or even an agent of King Louis. A fourth possibility occurred to her. Even in Calais there must be Englishmen who were enemies to Ned, men who had fought for Lancaster against York. Margaret d'Anjou, the Queen of the House of Lancaster, had taken refuge in the Duchy of Bar. She too must have agents in Calais scenting out news, especially as her two great enemies, Ned and Warwick, had fallen foul of each other.
Oh, Jesu, thought Margery, what have I gotten myself into here?
The next day she was bidden to dinner by de Commynes. He had taken over one of the grand houses of the Wool Staple for his entourage. The food was lavish, the wine heady, and she was glad that Wenlock and several of the other merchants were present. In spite of that, she found herself seated next to de Commynes above the salt.
"It is rare that I have had so beauteous and intriguing a guest." She lowered her eyes before the intense study. "What shall you do when you have delivered the letter to the Earl?"
"Why, take up my duties as lady-in-waiting to the Duchess as before," she replied guilelessly.
"Would you not prefer to return to England?"
"No, excellency."
"You are too modest. You cannot convince me that King Edward does not desire you in his bed. Do you not aspire to be his mistress?"
Careful, she warned herself. "To be truthful, there was a time when I should have wished that for I once fancied that I loved him dearly, but I was younger then."
He leaned closer, his words became soft breath upon her ear. "My master would be most desirous of having you resume your former intimacy with the King. Let us say that your fortunes could increase beyond your greatest imagining." Oh, Jesu, he was offering her a post of spy at Westminster. "What would you say to an elderly noble for a husband, a man who will ask no questions." Pray Heaven, he was not going to suggest John Wenlock.
"Monsieur, you overwhelm me." In several ways. Beneath the table linen his thigh was nudging hers and the piked toe of his right shoe was teasing the hem of her skirts. His hand fondled hers upon the cloth. She let him do so. Better for everyone to think they indulged in dalliance not diplomacy.
"'But you will consider it, clever one, won't you? And now I have a gift for you." A bribe, a taste of things to come?
It was modest and therefore acceptable. A vial of emerald Venetian glass containing bath essence. "To put you in a sensual humor," he whispered. "Its perfume will envelope you and evoke delicious memories." She doubted that. For some reason, Master Stone's threat to dunk her in a horse trough rose unbidden in her thoughts.
The perfumed essence, when she broke the seal later, was like the Burgundian proposal—intoxicating, exciting, and despicable. It was tempting to use it. Yet it was a gift from a power broker who no doubt used real people like other men merely moved wooden chess pieces.
Alys eyed the vial with awe. "Do you want me to ask my lord's chamberlain to arrange a bath for you, mistress?"
"No, we shall take it with us as a gift for the Duchess Isabella."
The maidservant giggled. "Perhaps the foreign lord hoped you would invite him to ladle it over you in person. I mean it's disgusting really, not a suitable gift for a lady. You can tell it's not England, can't you? I mean, Master Stone now, he would never have given you anything so improper."
"Master Stone—and I wish you would not keep holding him up as a paragon of virtue—was a mine of gold poorer."
"Mistress, you won't be setting this Day Commons gentleman at a dangle for you, will you? After all, he is a foreigner."
On the morrow, Wenlock agreed to let Margery resume her journey to seek out the Duchess. He had commissioned a vessel to convey her away, not from Calais but from a secret rendezvous farther south from the harbor. Margery was on her way there when a pincer of horsemen closed about the escort Wenlock had provided, forcing them to draw rein. The leader, astonishingly, was de Commynes.
He spoke to her escort leader emphatically and handed over a bag of coins so weighty that the men from Calais rode away with broad grins leaving Margery and her maid hedged within a circle of mounted Burgundian soldiers. De Commynes rode ahead and his men closed in around the women urging them onward. They rode seaward to a deserted beach. The horsemen dispersed, setting up a distant cordon around them, and Margery and Alys were left facing de Commynes. He dismounted and assisted Margery charmingly from her horse.
"Is this some sort of Burgundian outing, monsieur, someone's saint's day?" Margery asked venomously.
"I apologize, demoiselles, but I shall require you to remove your entire clothing."
Alys shrank back against Margery, casting fearful glances at the soldiers, mounted still, with their backs to them some distance away.
"Why?" demanded Margery, her arm around the trembling maid.
With an eye on Alys, he changed to simple French. "Because I want to know what papers you are really carrying, demoiselle. You have obviously worn them on your person the whole time. Do you English never take baths?"
"Yes, of course, we do!" snapped Margery in halting French. Then she gave him a shrewd look, realizing how cunning he had been.
"Exactly. I congratulate you on your intelligence. Now, undress!"
CHAPTER 6
"Your maid first."
"You overstep yourself!" exclaimed Margery.
"Either remove every shred of clothing or my men will do it for you. I have little time, please hurry." He meant it.
When she at length stood naked and cold before him, he passed her his sable-edged cloak, gathered up her clothing, and forced her to accompany him up into the sand dunes leaving Alys to reclothe herself. His adamant tone left Margery little choice.
If she was afraid, she hid it well but her fears proved groundless. The only compensation and insult, if you like, in the whole humiliating process of appearing unclothed before him was that he was far more interested in her garments than he was in her body. He spread them upon the ground and examined each thoroughly. When he found the unusual stiffness in the collar, he laughed and triumphantly slit the seams open. "So, in all, letters mostly for the Duke of Clarence in many different hands and but one for the Earl. He will feel slighted. You may put your apparel back on, demoiselle. The wind is fresh."
"You have ruined my clothing. How can I carry these letters discreetly now?"
The Burgundian laughed. "I've brought you needles and thread for the purpose."
"Am I expected to be grateful?" hissed Margery as she hastily pulled her underskirt back up over her hips. "You have dismissed my bodyguard—"
"You may have six of my men to see you safely to your ship." He lowered his voice. "My master will be pleased with the news that King Edward is likely to forgive his brother if he betrays Warwick." He sighed. "Your Monsieur Warwick is a great nuisance to Burgundy, demoiselle, and we want our ships and cargoes back from him. Now let me help you back down to the beach."
She shunned his hand. "He is merely seeking shelter along the coast of France to lick his wounds."
De Commynes smiled. "But if France gives him refuge after his hostility to our shipping, then our peace with France will be violated. Eh bien, I must return to Bruges. Do think on the offer I made you the other day, and before we part, permit me to say how charming you look without your gown." He possessed himself of her cold hand, planted a cool perfunctory kiss upon it. "I wish you joy in your mission. Your secret is safe with me."
Margery stood dazed as five of the Burgundians departed.
"Mistress." Alys coughed for attention. "Are we going to have to take our clothing off like this regularly? Is it some sort of custom in these parts?" Margery examined the faces of the remaining soldiers who were waiting attentively for her orders and was glad of the dagger once more within her sleeve. "I expect so," she answered Alys. "They believe English folk have tails. They just wanted to see if it was true."
&n
bsp; "Get away, mistress, you are gulling me."
"Yes, Alys, I am."
The girl sniffed. "I wish we had Master Stone and his men with us instead. At least they spoke English and Master Stone would have never let some foreigner treat us like that."
"Little you know. I hope never to set eyes on Master Richard Stone ever again!"
The caravel Célérité was too small to arouse much suspicion as it pursued the coast. The exception was a large Burgundian ship that cruised alongside for a few knots before it turned its bows seaward again. But as they neared the mouth of the Seine, a vessel with grappling irons and ropes at the ready made straight for them.
"Demoiselle, we cannot withstand these pirates if they board us. See, they are in armor and there is no flag to tell us who they are."
"Lord save us, they have swords drawn and daggers in their mouths. We shall be raped for sure." Alys was trembling and Margery agreed that the likelihood of being ravaged by some of the brawny rogues grinning across the bows at her looked greater by the moment. Only at the last minute, as it came alongside and tossed across the grappling irons, did the enemy ship run up the pennon of a bear and ragged staff.
The captain of the Célérité was treated to the sight of his special passenger jumping up and down, waving her arms and screaming, "A Warwick! A Warwick!" as loudly as she could above the slap of the waves. The spectacle caused a stir on the enemy carrack and its captain came down off the forecastle to inspect the strange quarry, crossing himself in amazement.
"Why by my father's soul, Mistress Margery of Warwick! What in the name of Heaven are you doing off the coast of France?" It was Will Garland. "I am mighty pleased to see you so hale. There was a fine hue and cry when you went missing an' no mistake. The fairies take you, eh?"
"Oh, Master Garland, thank God! Where is my lord Earl? I need to speak with him."
"You will have some explaining to do or I am not my blessed mother's son. 'Tis lucky that the Earl is expecting us back this afternoon. You can tell your ship's master to follow us into port."
The Maiden and the Unicorn Page 9