Margery gazed at the man who might have sired her wondering when and if she would be able to find out the truth from him. One could not exactly force the maker of kings into a corner and extract the intimate facts from him like a barber yanking out an aching tooth with forceps. She had been forced to wait a week already.
"Give your tiring ladies leave, mesdames." Margery cursed silently as they began to file out of the solar. Gathering up her embroidery, she sank again into a deferential curtsy before the Earl. At least he noticed her for he lowered his cup to study her with a faint smile. Then with a backward flick of his hand he gestured to her to return to her stool by the window.
Margery did not feel like sitting down. It was hard not to crush her needlework between her fingers. How could she remain as outwardly calm and still as a set custard when inside she was boiling over. Was she his daughter? She fiddled with her hands when she was talking just like my lord did when he sat at board, but had she that stubborn jawline?
With no mirror of her own, Margery had never spent hours squeezing and examining her face as Isabella had. Her fingers unwittingly ran over her lips and down to trace her chin.
"Mistress Huddleston! Are you gone deaf?" The Countess sent her a look of chastisement at her tardiness in leaving, but the Earl stilled the next tart comment on his wife's tongue with a curt shake of his head.
"Nay, she may stay. Margery, have you been bitten by some French insect?" His question snapped her out of her reverie.
"More like she is remembering Master Huddleston's kisses." Isabella's finger jabbed her fiercely in the ribs.
"Huddleston, hmm. I hope you are feeling more charitable to him and me, young mistress." Warwick unbuttoned his cote and handed it to his page before he dismissed him. Margery was the only servant left. "You speak brightly, Bella, but you have shadows like saddlebags beneath your eyes. Are the dreams still tormenting you?" Dreams of a tossing ship and a dead baby denied God's Kingdom.
The Duchess hung her head. By day she was cheerful now, but nightly she would wake screaming.
"I have told Margery and Ankarette to brew a nightly posset," the Countess was saying, "but Bella will have none of it."
"Pah, no, for it tastes foul and I wake so heavy-headed."
The Earl frowned. "You should do as your lady mother bids. We all of us have had horror in our lives, Bella. I could tell you of sights in battle that would make you ill to hear it."
Isabella swiftly forestalled any reminiscences. "I fear I keep Ankarette and Margery awake with my nightmares." It was true. They took turns in sharing the Duchess's bedchamber and broken sleep was beginning to take its toll.
Warwick's brow furrowed as he examined Margery.
"Aye, so I perceive. Have some consideration for your women, Bella, and overcome your fears."
"What is the news, Father?" Anne obviously had had enough of Isabella's woes. She pushed away her sister's new puppy, tired of it nipping at her pointed slippers.
"Ha! Well, I have had word that there are troops drawn up on either side of the border. Out of pique the Burgundians have arrested all the French merchants visiting the Antwerp Fair and have made more attacks on French ships." He pushed with a self-satisfied grin. "But it appears Charles of Burgundy is reluctant to jeopardize the treaty any further so King Louis has decided to risk inviting us openly to his court at Amboise. We leave within the week." He waited as if for applause. There was a stunned silence.
The Countess pulled a wry face. "My lord, it is out of the question. We have not the apparel for court appearances."
"Nan, Nan, do not look so anxious. It is a dowdy court. Queen Charlotte is a little pudding of a woman, homely and kind. You will like her, I promise. Beside, I have a surprise for you. I did not tell you that there was a cargo of silks on one of the Burgundian ships. By noon tomorrow it shall all be at your disposal."
A gasp of excitement came from Anne but Isabella surprisingly showed no such pleasure. "And are his grace and I welcome at Amboise too?" Her tone was sharp.
The Earl bestowed his most winning smile upon her. "But of course, my dearest. He and I need to persuade King Louis into providing us with aid and, let us be resolved on this, Isabella, I have no intention of leaving Amboise without Louis's guarantee so you must smile and be gracious and your husband will have to convince the French court that he will make a more compliant king than Ned."
"George can charm anyone when he sets his mind to it."
Warwick caught the Countess's glance. "Is that so? To be frank, I do not think the Duke impressed our recent guests. Mayhap you will need to exert a more favorable influence on him—more of your time perhaps—but we shall speak of this privily, you and I."
Isabella's mouth squashed into a rosette of sulkiness and she looked to her mother for support before she retaliated. "Considering how you monopolized their time, my lord, he had little chance of proving himself." She shrugged as her father's mouth curled down.
"Isabella!" The Countess swiftly joined her husband in a show of unity before he could make an answer. "You may be a duchess but you are young in these matters. Take what your father says to heart. George cannot afford to make any errors from now on."
Anne raised her head from fending off Tristan snapping at the tassels on the tails of her girdle and shot Margery a meaningful glance. George of Clarence might be promising to be obedient to Warwick but he could be more willful than Ned. After all, he had been the brat of the family.
"Will she be there?" Anne was voicing what her mother and sister had left unasked. What of the woman Warwick and Ned had deposed, the defeated queen of the House of Lancaster?
"The Bitch of Anjou? No, little one, she is back at the court of her brother, the Duke of Calabria. I doubt she will come within leagues of me but it is an interesting dilemma for the King of France having Margaret d'Anjou and myself both supplicants for arms."
The Countess's hands fluttered. "I am not happy, my lord. I know you are good friends with King Louis but after all is said and done that woman has had his ear these last years and she is his cousin."
Anne scooped up the wriggling tangle of teeth and claws and thrust the puppy into Isabella's arms. "He has done precious little so far."
Warwick had not spoken. He was looking at his youngest daughter with the same expression with which he had studied Margery on the deck of his ship. An ice-cold shudder of foreboding streaked down Margery's spine. In the search for an ally, Warwick had an unmarried daughter to barter, an heiress to his great wealth.
"Margery? Margery! At least have the manners to listen to what is being said." The angry voice pierced her thoughts like an arrow.
"I beg your pardon, madam."
"Oh, do not waste your breath on me." Sourly, the Countess swept across to the casement and plucked irritably at the tapestry canvas that Ankarette had been laboring over.
The Earl's face as he glanced at his lady's sulky shoulders reminded Margery of an unrepentant dog that knows it is in trouble for running amok among the sheep, but has no regrets. "I was saying, Margery, that I have been conversing with Master Huddleston. I intend to recognize you as my daughter."
Margery sprang to her feet, pure happiness flooding through her. It would have been natural to have flung her arms in the air and whooped with sheer joy, but the angry woman at the window would have snipped her down to size. Instead she beamed at the Kingmaker, proud to the tips of her toes. She might still be a bastard. Nothing could change that, but at least she was the bastard of the most famous Englishman in Christendom.
The Earl stepped forward and clasped her shoulders. His unshaved chin rasped her as he kissed her cheek. "The good tidings shall be proclaimed at supper this even." His blue eyes smiled down at her reassuringly and holding her hand tightly in his, he turned her to confront the Countess's offended frown. "We are none of us children anymore." He looked around gravely at each of his family, particularly singling out Anne. For an instant the smile vanished from the girl's eyes as if she sense
d something serious was happening to further change their lives. "Had I been more open about the past I might have saved this first child of mine her fall from grace." His beringed fingers rose to stroke his love-child's cheek.
Beneath the sweetness of the news, Margery had an inexplicable aftertaste of waste—the image of a distorted upturned hourglass, its sand running fast, dismayed her. Would it be possible for this busy man to give her time to learn to love him as a daughter should? Guilt seeped through her that his caresses came too late for her to forgive him like a good Christian should. To have left her in ignorance all her life had been an unnecessary cruelty.
"So, have you lost your silver tongue, Margaret Neville?"
She fell to her knees. "My lord, I thank you with all my heart for your kindness." She carried his hand to her lips. "As God is my witness, I never knew this until Master Huddleston told me what he suspected." She caught the Countess's bitter gaze and held it. "I had no reason to be proud, but I am now."
"Do not think to puff yourself up with airs and graces, girl. Remember you are only a Neville bastard…" The Countess drew breath to add something predictably needle-sharp, but the looks of the other members of her family quelled her.
"It is just like the King Arthur legend when Sir Gareth discovers he is a king's son." Anne came across to bend down and put her arms around her half sister. "I am so very happy, Margery. You have always been like an older sister in my mind."
"Isabella, you accept this?" Warwick's tone was of command rather than petition.
The Duchess set down her dog and swept forward. She stood looking down at Margery, her expression haughtier that her mother's. "What, this upstart serving wench of mine? This wanton lawbreaker, this disrespectful apology for a woman? Of course, I accept her! Have I not always treated Margery as a sister too? Get up, you wretch, so I may hug you!"
The Earl swung around on his wife. "Nan, you must forgive the past. It is high tide with us."
The Countess gave a sigh of annoyance but she came across to Margery, her skirts hissing across the rushes.
It was diplomatic to curtsy again, to look reasonably humble.
"Rise, child." The grown child rose, eyes still politely lowered as the Countess of Warwick bestowed a cold kiss upon her forehead.
"Excellent." Warwick, satisfied, turned away and began to tell his legal daughters what to expect at the court of France.
His wife confronted his bastard. "Look at me, Margaret Neville!"
Margery looked her fully in the face, remembering the older woman's grudging tolerance over the years. Fire to water. At last, she could speak her thoughts. "Madam, I thank you for giving me shelter all these years but I beseech you ever to remember that it was not my fault that I was unlawfully conceived. I am the fruit, not the flower, and therefore do not blame me."
The Countess was unmoved. "Gall, more like. I pray that you will never have to do what I am doing, Mistress Huddleston, acknowledging the living proof of a husband's infidelity. Understand how hard this is for me now that you have a husband of your own, and expect nothing more." With that, Warwick's lawful wife turned away. It should not have hurt Margery but it did, like a lash.
"You may all have new gowns," her new father was saying and he swung around on her. "Margery, for the love of Heaven, do not choose scarlet this time. Neville women have never looked well in red."
She tried to find her voice. Tears pricked behind her eyes. Scarlet, the color of ribaldry, dangerous, carnal. The scarlet of lords-and-ladies berries, of holly, of blood. Now deliberately turned on her, the plump white skin of the Countess's back, bulging above the low neck of the summer gown, was in itself a goading. It was tempting to say brightly that Lady Warwick had always told her that red was her color and she should wear no other.
"I say that purple is what we Nevilles hanker after." Isabella tucked her hand through her father's arm. "Do we not, Father? But when is Master Huddleston allowed back to his bride? You could have at least allowed them a full day to themselves."
"Hush, Bella, you little cat. Well, Margery, he will be back soon enough. Growing impatient, my little witch?"
Isabella waggled a finger in Margery's face. "You are blushing again. I never knew you could until Richard Huddleston arrived in Valognes."
"Please do not mock me, Bella." Margery sidestepped the Duchess so that she could face the Earl. "I am no fool, my lord. Master Huddleston married me merely to become your son-in-law."
Her new father shrugged. "Time will tell. I married the greatest heiress in the land for political ends but I have learned to love her well." He stole an arm around his Countess's thickening waist and turned her around to face him. The older woman's expression was complacent like a cat that had just filled its belly with the choicest fare. The Earl chucked his wife beneath the chin and turned his head to Margery. "Make the best of your situation, my child. Your man has hardly had a chance to prove himself to you."
Nor would he, if she had any say in the matter. If Richard Huddleston had desired her, he hardly would have spent their marriage night discussing his father-in-law. And this news that they were to leave for Amboise was definitely welcome. With luck she would not see Huddleston again for weeks. Even if he did return in time to journey with them, from the little she knew of royal palaces, servants slept in any available corner and he would have a meager chance of compelling her to share his bed.
And, for the nonce, if Richard Huddleston did come back expecting a wife instead of a warming brick he would find her. unobtainable, in the bedchamber where the other ladies slept, or else in Isabella's bed. Oh, yes, she was quite safe.
She could not scream, she could not breathe. She was dreaming, dreaming that a fearful monster had swooped down, casting a hood over her head and drawing a cord tight around her throat with its golden talons. Her body thrashed wildly. The common sense half of her mind told her she was remembering Huddleston's abduction of her. The other half wisely woke her. It was actually happening.
A tall, hooded figure as faceless as Death was bending over her. She could not cry out to the sleeping women around her because Death had his gloved hand tight across her mouth. He was pinching her nostrils shut.
"Stop threshing around or you will wake up the whole gaggle," Death whispered. He sounded like George of Clarence. Unable to breathe, she ceased struggling and nodded frantically, conscious of an inexplicable sense of disappointment.
He let go of her. "Be swift, Meg. Just throw a cloak on and come."
"Are you mad?"
He shook his head and laid a hand upon the blanket. Margery swiftly snatched it to her, thinking he was never going to understand her exaggerated gesticulation but at last she heard a soft hiss of laughter and he obeyed.
Her overgown had fallen in a tumble of clothes. She pulled it over her bare skin and flung her cloak about her head and shoulders, drawing it across her gown.
The Duke was waiting to grab her by the forearm. "Quickly!"
She shrugged him off. "Your grace, you may have thought that amusing but you nearly scared me witless."
"Nonsense, Meg," he whispered. "Marriage must be making you boring. We are going up the tower."
She groaned. "Oh, no, my lord, can you not think of somewhere less imaginative."
"Where is your sense of occasion? I have not had a secret assignation since I came to France."
"You have an answer for me?"
"Hush, I shall tell you in good time."
Margery was truly irritable by now as she followed him into the night. The gusty wind was feeling up her skirt and if the inside flagstones had been chilly beneath her feet, the cobblestones were knobbly, gritty, and cold as he hurried her around the outside of the logis and then up a stairwell she had not known existed. It was hazardous to climb the spiraling stairs without a taper. She sighed and trudged cautiously after him, her skirt lifted to her knees.
"You are not fit enough, that is the trouble." He smirked as she finally joined him in the turret.
"Not with what I want to say to you. Stop grumbling and come and take a look, it is quite tolerable."
The window was no mean split in the wall to guard against arrows but about two spans wide. It had lost its shutters so they had a clear view of the courtyard in front of the logis and the town lapping around the wall. Valognes slumbered without a snore. Only a distant dog's bored bark against the wind and the gurgle of the river reached them. Nor was there a glimmer anywhere save for the chapel and the gatehouse. The door to the latter opened. One of the soldiers stood silhouetted against the torchlit room behind him.
He said something to someone inside, then moved to relieve himself against one of the hedges that separated the yard from the logis garden. Two other men moved into the doorway before she turned away.
The Duke had shaken back his hood and was kneeling. A flint flamed within his hands. His face, lit from below, turned into a macabre mask as he set the stubby candle between them.
Margery shivered, more with instinctive misapprehension than because of the draft. Frowning, she knelt down and waited for the Duke to speak. It was hard to believe he was trying to make himself king. In the long black gown, he looked like a lanky student.
Persuade him, Ned had said. Persuade him? Oh, yes, in a chilly turret at Heaven knows what ghostly hour.
They were kneeling facing each other like two lovers at a betrothal.
"I take it you want to talk about Ned," she began primly.
"Him! Perish the thought! No, I want to talk about Bella and me."
"Bella, George? You wake me up looking like Death personified to talk about Bella."
"Ankarette says I should just be patient but I am not that kind of man." Boy, she corrected him unspoken. "Bella will not let me into her bed. You saw what she was like to me the first week you were here. She is afraid to conceive again. The old man tells me he had words with her yesterday but she will not listen to reason. Do you not see I have to have an heir. Losing the babe at Calais was the Devil's work." He shifted into a sitting position, clasping his knees.
The Maiden and the Unicorn Page 17