"You look very fine." A huff of hot air reached her neck.
She turned her head, startled to find herself face-to-face with the shining black head of her husband's horse. Richard Huddleston tugged on the bridle and walked the stallion around her as if she were under inspection. Had the whistles made him come over to stake his possession, to scatter more holy water on her delicate reputation?
"It looks uncomfortable. Is it?" He frowned at the wire that circumnavigated the outside of her headdress.
"Yes, a penance for respectable wives."
"The Countess is making life hard for you?"
"Yes, and it is hot." His grin disarmed her while his entire appearance inspired a longing that she was afraid to put a name to. How could she find a man she disliked so appealing to her senses? From the gleaming black leather boots that fitted his calves like a second skin, her gaze swept up over his black-clad thighs, rose over the mulberry and white embroidered doublet with its hanging sleeves to the plumed cap. Across his shoulders sprawled a gold chain with the arms of his house suspended. He had worn it on their wedding day but she had refused to notice it.
"What is the motto of your arms?"
He leaned down good humoredly and held the pendant out to her. "Our arms, lady. Can you understand it?"
" 'Soli deo honor et gloria.' Only to God belongs the power and the glory," she translated. "At least it is modest." The lettering was warm beneath her fingertips and then, of a sudden, she was conscious that he was enjoying a privileged view of her décolletage. Swiftly letting go, she stepped back hurriedly into Ankarette who had come looking for her. Her husband laughed at her confusion, his eyes sparkling approvingly at her. "A good translation. I did not know you knew any Latin."
"There is a great deal you do not know, sir." Her hands curled into fists.
"I shall enjoy finding out. Mesdames, your servant." A gloved hand mockingly touched the beaver brim of his hat before his spurred heels caused his beautiful horse to prance away.
"That man is a fine judge of horseflesh," declared Ankarette. "For a mere husband, he takes an uncommon interest in you, Margery."
"He thinks he plays me like a fish."
"Then let him haul you in or some other woman will take his line."
It was not easy, Margery reflected, as she eventually followed Anne into the chariot. Marriage was supposed to be a contract. In England, Huddleston would have taken her to Millom to introduce her to his family and there would have been a pattern of conventional behavior to follow, but here in France she was not being poured into any mold. Her new husband appeared and disappeared like a counter beneath a conjurer's cups on a market stall. She was neither wife nor maid. One minute he tormented her into a fury, the next he had her senses reeling and her body aching.
"Did I show you what Master Huddleston brought me?" Anne Neville tapped the brooch on her shoulder, a tiny, shy, white unicorn in enamel with a blue jewel eye, kneeling on grass.
"He gave you that?" Strange that Margery should feel the needle of jealousy.
"Not exactly gave. I believe he extracted it from the Burgundian merchandise. It was because everyone laughed at me at the wedding except the two of you. You frown, Margery, are you surprised?"
"It is a kind thought."
"Did he not mention it to you?" It was one of the many things that Master Richard Huddleston had not bothered to mention but Margery was too overwhelmed by the sudden bustle about her to think further than the moment. Word of the French lords' imminent arrival was heralded and swiftly the Countess and Duchess were helped aboard.
"Do you like his grace's hair cut so?" Isabella asked meaningfully, her glance enveloping Margery and Ankarette. The new ducal fringe hid the bruise extremely well. George's hair was the color of ginger root, lacking Ned's wonderful auburn or Dickon's dark ruddy tones, but in the French sunshine it gleamed well enough.
"He looks like a future king," answered Margery truthfully.
Indeed, the Duke did look magnificent. To advertise his royal blood, a ducal circlet glinted around the crown of his cream beaver hat. From his short cloak of cloth of gold over the cream and gold brocade doublet down to his Spanish white leather boots, he looked every inch a Plantagenet. At his side, Warwick sat astride his beloved white stallion that was caparisoned in black and silver. He might be eclipsed by the Duke's youth but for Margery, the Kingmaker had a presence that George of Clarence could not match.
The Earl crooked his finger now and the clarion sounded. The English retainers moved swiftly into their ranks and the Clarence herald rode ahead. The Duke and Earl urged their horses forward and behind them, like a massive folded peacock's tail of glistening gems and brocade, came their retinue. The pennants were hoisted proudly, reiterating the fierce bull and the bear with the ragged staff upon the embroidered tabards of the esquires, pages, and grooms.
The French lords had drawn rein and divided, lining the highway like trees. Through the Valois ranks rode the panache and power of the houses of Plantagenet and Neville and, on either side, each French noble swept them a low obeisance as they passed. At the end of the welcoming line waited the Admiral of France, husband of King Louis's bastard daughter, and the Archbishop of Narbonne. If Philippe de Commynes had any Burgundian spies lurking, they would be most alarmed: Louis of France was officially welcoming the mighty English rebel so lavishly that there could be no doubt that the treaty with Burgundy was as dead as Charlemagne.
The procession that now numbered two hundred halted briefly at two bridges that bestrode the Loire and Margery had her first glimpse of Amboise. Upon the farthest bank, the chateau sunned itself strategically along the soaring cliff. A fat, white, corbeled round tower grinned down at them like a merry snow mannikin. It was surprising that no religious spires or secular turrets vied with the fortress. From the Ille St. Jean that linked the two bridges, she could see there was an ecclesiastical cluster of buildings to the west, but the commoners' buildings, edging the river around the rooted walls of the chateau, were insubstantial—hostelries for the most part. The town, if it could be called such, did not lack for residents for there was a large crowd drawn up, but the bulk of inhabitants evidently resided or worked within the castle bailey for the creamy battlements were iced with people. Gold and azure banners and pennons were everywhere, fluttering upon the turrets or hanging down from the windows. It was very flattering.
"This is a welcome that would not disgrace his Holiness," declared the Countess smugly. "You can see how much they respect your father here."
Isabella and Anne exchanged glances. The French heralds in their blue tabards emblazoned with the gold fleur-de-lis were waiting.
"I think this will prick the Duke of Burgundy beyond endurance," murmured Margery as she assisted her sisters from the chariot. "Sweet Heaven, is that the King of France?"
A man was bustling toward the Earl, his head thrust forward like a chicken's beneath a beaked black hat ornamented with saint brooches. Beside him lolloped several large hounds with huge heads and floppy ears, and separating him from the common people marched a bodyguard with plaid baldrics.
"Mon cher compère!" The voice was clipped.
Margery watched her father kissed on both cheeks with instinctive unease. It was not exactly that Louis XI looked malevolent—he was dressed like a dowdy nobody in houppelande, hose, and ankle-length boots all the same dusty insect black. His dull brown hair was lank about his shoulders but his eyes were unpleasantly mischievous, missing nothing.
"The contrast is notable," murmured Huddleston's voice in her ear as she waited in attendance upon Isabella. "Is this king also worthy of your amorous embrace?" He had unobtrusively moved up through the throng. Not one to let an opportunity pass him by, Margery reflected cynically.
"No one could surpass Ned." It was sweetly answered but she was too troubled by her instinctive dislike of the King of France to quarrel further. It was not surprising that his enemies spoke of Louis as "the Spider"—maybe it was the way his black-
gloved fingers knitted and reknitted like the busy front legs of a spider, or was it for another reason? Men said the sticky threads of his web stretched into all corners of Christendom, that his agents were wherever decisions were being made—in the houses of the merchant bankers of Augsburg and Florence and the privy chambers of his fellow rulers. The world whispered that he kept his prisoners in wicker baskets, hung from his castle walls. Well, if he did, thought Margery, fearful it might be true, he had tidied them away for the afternoon.
"An extra duty that his surliness will not bow lower than waist height," wagered Ankarette, as the Duke of Clarence faced the King. It was a miracle for any brother of Edward of England to bow the knee before Louis but somehow the Duke managed it; he needed the money. Isabella sank down gracefully at his side, as regal as a princess. A silken moth at the edge of the web.
The Countess joined her lord, her plump face solemn with nervousness but her head proud. After all, it was her father, Richard Beauchamp, who had trounced the French and ordered the faggots to be lit beneath Jeanne d'Arc, the soldier-witch. But the person who seemed to arouse the greatest interest was, surprisingly, Anne Neville, a slight figure as she glided forward to stand beside her mother, her gown whispering across the carpet, her hair a waterfall of gold over her shoulders. Louis inspected her with the same intensity that most men show on choosing a wife, while Warwick stood at his side beaming like a summer sun.
It was clear that there was a rapport between the Earl and the King. There was no formality in the way they joked together. But then Warwick's glance found Margery and he gave her a nod of summons. Everyone's heads swiveled around.
"Jesu!" whispered Margery, as a murmur ran through the French courtiers. "I do not want this. How in Heaven—"
"Courage! You are Warwick's daughter!" Richard Huddleston reacted instantly, his confident fingers grabbed her hand and tugged her forward. Margery perforce fell into step beside him. Had she been a rabbit, she would have disappeared into the nearest burrow rather than have suffered the shadow of this royal bird of prey.
"My natural daughter, Margaret Neville, and her new husband, Richard Huddleston."
"Bienvenue, Madame 'uddleston, monsieur." The King's voice was rich with interest as they both knelt. Unwilling to raise her head, Margery was conscious of the royal fingers flexing in front of the tip of her nose. "Beau sire" she murmured.
Huddleston rose to his feet beside her, the pressure of his fingers on her elbow urging her to rise. Then suddenly she was almost thrown backward as a great hound sprang between her and the King. On every side, the King of France's dogs leaped at their leashes and the noise was deafening.
Margery shook in horror at Error bouncing around with no regard for majestic niceties. The pink tongue was an insult, the happy innocent eyes an outrage.
"Your pardon, most Christian Majesty." Huddleston grabbed the animal's collar, snarling a swift command. Error sat and wagged his tail at the King of France and Margery watched incredulously as the cunning face before her softened into admiration. It was love at first encounter.
"Yours, young man?"
"Your majesty is correct. A badly behaved deerhound. His name is Error."
"He is a prince of dogs. I never saw the like." Louis was rapt.
"Then he is yours, sire."
Louis of France reached out a gloved hand and caressed Error. He was cheerfully washed in return and did not seem to mind the drips of canine saliva flicking onto his scuffed boots.
"You expect a dog to serve two masters?"
"Beau sire, I expect him now to serve you."
"You breed these giants?"
"Yes, beau sire."
"You will acquire me a breeding pair?"
"Consider it done, your majesty."
"Excellent. Then I shall borrow him till then and try him in the hunt." The King looked around at the Earl with a smile and Warwick's shoulders lost their stiffness. "But next time, Monsieur 'uddleston, you look to your dame. She is not pleased with you for ordering him set loose. He could have spoiled her gown."
Richard for once went as scarlet as a summer fisherman and Margery found the courage to smile back at the King of France.
They were dismissed. Richard's gloved hand fumbled for hers. She almost snatched it away as they deferentially backed across the roadway to their previous place. Margery made sure they sank back into the ranks out of view. She was not just angry, she was mortified! Not only had her upstart husband managed to get himself noticed by the King of France ahead of his betters, but to have had the gall to deliberately plan it all! What humiliated her most was that King Louis had seen through his scheming.
"How dared you?" she hissed at Huddleston under her breath, as everyone craned their necks for a glimpse of them. "Of all the pandering, toe-licking, calculating…" Words almost failed her. "Poor Matthew could have been whipped within an inch of his life for letting that beast off." Huddleston was not looking at her but he slid a finger around his neck to ease his collar. His sudden high color and the beads of moisture on his forehead were traitors. "Is there no end to your ambition?"
His defensive reply revealed he had not parried the shaft entirely: "And you are now an earl's daughter and proud of it so do not prattle to me of ambition, mistress. You were but a bastard tiring woman before I wed you. A little gratitude would not go amiss. Besides, my Error is the 'prince of dogs.' "
"Then go home to Cumbria and sit in a bog and breed the monsters!"
"That is not only what I will breed."
"Oh!" exclaimed Margery in disgust. If she had not been wearing satin shoes, she would have aimed at his shin.
Ankarette tactfully pushed in between them, beaming like a saint in Heaven. Someone half clapped but was hushed.
"You have three very beautiful daughters, mon compère," the King of France was saying in slow French so that the English visitors could get the gist. "And I also. But with le Bon Dieu's blessing, France will have a dauphin very soon. Come, messeigneurs!" He held out an arm each to the Duke and to Warwick. Thus linked informally, he led his guests on foot along the road of crimson fabric that had been laid between them and the town.
"Did you know Queen Charlotte, who is supposed to be almost bursting with child, is going to meet the Countess at the front door of the chateau like a cheerful farmer's wife?" Ankarette whispered.
"I imagine the effect will be spoilt by her fifteen maids of honor," muttered Richard, clearly out of temper. "If it is anything like the English court, not one will be any more virgin than my wife is."
It was a long afternoon. When the introductions to Queen Charlotte were done, Warwick and the Duke shared a loving cup with the King and his closest advisers before everyone was invited to take a goblet of wine and raise it to peace and amity. The phrases unsaid were to wish the downfall of the usurper Edward of York. If Isabella had hoped they would drink to the Duke and herself as future King and Queen of England, she was disappointed and could be seen fanning herself, a sure sign in her that she was irritated.
Outside where the ladies were taken to be tempted by sweetmeats while their ears were seduced by sweet music, it was easier to try to forget what it all might mean. Queen Charlotte, round and ripe like a peapod about to burst, wisely left politicking to her husband and was happy to listen to the Countess's experience of childbirth. It gave Isabella good reason to excuse herself, taking her two sisters with her. In her wake, Margery kept a fixed half smile on her face, while beside her, Anne fidgeted with a lily someone had presented to her. It was no longer England. The banker, the diplomat, the host, was the smiling, busy King of France.
"Do not look so pained, Bella," pleaded Margery. "I am sure your every expression is being noted."
The Duchess sniffed. "Well, no matter, they will think it is because of the loss of my baby."
"If they even know. For my part, I wish we had not come." Anne glanced about to make sure no one was within earshot.
There was an uneasiness among the Neville entou
rage, Margery sensed. At Valognes the English at least had the semblance of being in charge of their own affairs, but here at the court of Louis XI the reality of their dependence on his goodwill was revealed.
"Be thankful you do not have the headache as well," snapped Isabella. "I wish I could go and lie down. Babble, babble, babble and I can barely understand a word of it. I suppose it is to be tedious like this from now on. How I shall bear it, I do not know. By Our Lady, one even has to be careful where one walks. Now I know why the Queen is reputed to have so many shoes."
She was right, there were dogs everywhere and the kennel-boys discreetly circulating with pans and scoops were not particularly efficient. The Duchess twitched her skirts away from an interested black nose. "They say that six bitches share the King's chamber and not one of them is the Queen."
"Bella! Be careful!" Margery warned. "Some of these ladies may well have a smattering of English. Besides, you will have to be gracious if you want King Louis to lend you money."
"I suppose so. Oh, Lord, more French dames with a surfeit of hypocras and doucets." But since one of the French noble ladies exclaimed over Isabella's brooch, the Duchess was mollified and allowed herself to become the center of attention once more.
Anne Neville looked around her with a discerning eye. She was growing up fast, thought Margery.
"You know what I should like above all? To go back to England and have some say in where I lay my head. Why is it that I have a sense of foreboding, Margery?"
Her half sister tossed back a ball that had rolled across to her feet. One of the Queen's dwarves grinned. "I feel it too, Anne. A sense of losing control. Oh, why did my lord have to present me to him?" As she watched Louis and her father step down into the courtyard, an icy chill ran down her spine and she added softly, "No, I lie, King Louis asked for me to be presented. Anne, he knew about me."
"Of course he did. I expect Lord Mennypenny told him about the wedding. I rather thought his majesty did you great honor. Still, he is said to know everything about everyone which means that he may also know that you and Cousin Ned… oh, I see. Yes, it is unfortunate."
The Maiden and the Unicorn Page 22