"My lord of Oxford ordered the mistress back. We met him on the road. Only your brothers, sir, were given leave to continue."
"The Devil take him! Did my wife give them letters or any parting gift?"
"No, sir." That at least was a relief; his brothers were not in danger. "And my lord of Warwick requires your presence straightaway."
He found the Nevilles, white-faced and silent, within the Earl's apartments. Margery, tired, raised her head bleakly. It was possible they had been haranguing her but he rather doubted it.
Clarence swung around to face him, simmering with ill temper. "You can break the news to Huddleston, Warwick, but I rather suspect he knows already." He circled Richard like a fox sniffing out prey. "Tell us, brother-in-law, is the old hag you admire so untrusting or is it my lords of Oxford and Pembroke who have advised her so cunningly?"
Richard ignored him, shifting his gaze to the Earl's adamantine gaze. "Why has my wife returned, my lord?" he asked coldly.
The Earl held out a letter to him. The wax seal, heavy upon it, was Queen Margaret's.
Anne spared him the bother of reading. "Because we sisters are to be hostages to the Bitch while Father and George slaughter Ned and Dickon." She glowered at her father.
"And Mother stays as well," snapped Isabella, from the window, her face ashen. "A wonderful alliance, is it not, Richard?"
"I protest, my lord!" Having scanned the letter, he startled them all with an uncharacteristic but calculated lack of control. "I deserve some say in this matter. Margery may be your daughter but she is my wife and I do not agree to this."
"Ha!" sneered Clarence, waggling his face near Richard's. "I deserve some say!" he mimicked. "Mayhap old Margaret d'Anjou does not trust you either, Richard Huddleston, despite the hand-licking. How do you manage? Do you slobber on her left hand while Father Warwick licks her right?"
"You treacherous cur!" Richard drew back his fist and launched it at the jeering mouth.
"That will do!" shrieked the Countess, coming between them with a swiftness that was rare for her. Richard's fist hit empty air as she set a calming hand upon his shoulder and looked back at her lord. "I wish we had never left England." Her voice was serrated with bitterness. "If you disobey these terms, my lord"—she look the letter from Richard and challenged her husband—"she will not make an alliance with you and if she does not, King Louis will cease to support us. We shall be destitute, my lord, but will it matter? Is it so important to you to risk those who love you most?"
Warwick's expression hardened further before their eyes. He paced to the window and turned. "Understand this, every one of you. I have no intention of giving up now that an army awaits me at Tours. I can retake England within a matter of weeks. By Heaven, all I require of you, mesdames, is a month of patience."
Not one of his daughters answered and the Countess averted her gaze with a deep sigh.
Richard broke the silence curtly. "My lord Earl speaks as though England will come wagging its tail the moment he whistles. The campaign may take months. King Edward has won every battle he has fought and Gloucester is now a man."
To his left, Anne gave a painful sigh. Warwick scowled at his daughter and raised his furious hands to them all. "Enough! It is decided. In any case, mesdames, you do not have to be hostages at Angers. I shall change the terms. If King Louis has guardianship over you, there will be no problem. I would trust him with my life. I will trust him with my children."
It was Clarence who answered venomously. "Would you now? And would you trust him with mine? Christ Almighty, you are a walking wonder, my noble lord. You have made me party to this unnatural alliance without even inviting me to the table and now you expect me to meekly comply with these foul terms. Where is the crown you swore to give me? You are a bloody traitor, Warwick, your promises are paper and lies dribble from your lips."
"Pah, a pox on the lot of you!" Warwick snarled and stormed out.
The only person who felt at ease with her was Richard's dog, reflected Margery sadly next morning, wrapping her arms around Error's friendly head. Even his soulful eyes, reproachful that he was chained, saddened her, and one of the kennelboys had crassly informed her that large dogs rarely lived beyond a few years.
The news that she was to be a hostage had terrified her. Why should Queen Margaret bother to include her? She doubted her father would care now if she was left behind or not. Was it because the Queen's agents knew she had spoken with de Commynes and kept private company with the Duke of Clarence?
Her fears grew hourly. If the Duke's letter was found among her possessions, they would hang her. If only she were rid of it! In vain she flaunted the secret token, her St. Catherine wheel brooch, proclaiming that she possessed the message, but no one had left instructions for her.
Her other sorrow was that Huddleston was clearly displeased she had not left. He had not spoken to her since her return yesterday and she wanted to resolve matters with him and at least thank him for arguing with her father about the hostage matter. To be with him was becoming a compulsion; to confide in him, a temptation.
She told herself that it was because she was becoming desperate with the knowledge she carried and the desire to exonerate herself that, like the barber who whispered "King Midas has ass's ears" to the river reeds, she wanted to be free of secrets. Much as he angered her, Margery wanted to make her peace with him before the invasion army left. They might never set eyes on each other again. If only she might trust him.
The noise about her made further thinking impossible. The boys were wheeling around barrows of bones and the barking was unbearable. Miserable, she left the kennels to face the lavish festivities for Queen Margaret and the Prince.
It seemed no one had minded her avoiding the reception. Isabella was pretending to disdain her, Anne had withdrawn into her own personal Hell, the Countess was genuinely ignoring her, and the rest of the tiring ladies, taking their cue from their betters, were not speaking to her. Only Ankarette bothered to talk to her that morning, fishing in vain for the reason for her disgrace and then giving her the local gossip.
The news was piquant. A local merchant had been murdered and robbed, his premises ransacked. No doubt while his fellow townsfolk were watching the Queen's party approach. And there was a rumor that all the men were leaving for the coast on Monday together with the mercenaries gathered at Tours.
Kneeling at mass behind the royal party, Margery digested that last morsel with growing fear. Once the men left with the invasion fleet, she would be at the mercy of Queen Margaret. Warwick's legitimate womenfolk were protected by their high birth—but she was expendable.
"Meg!" The Duke of Clarence, attended by Thomas Burdett, stopped her outside the chapel.
"I do not want to be seen with you, your grace," hissed Margery through her teeth, skirts billowing into a coldly given curtsy.
Ankarette, halting behind Margery, overflowing, no doubt, with curiosity as well as loyalty, hovered.
"Take yourself off, Twynhoe!" The Duke, no longer caring about the common gaze, held out his wrist to Margery and led her aside to the garden. Her friend followed. "Oh, avaunt thee, Ankarette!" The Duke made a mocking sign against the evil eye. "Tom, remove her!"
Margery calmly lifted her hand from his fingers. A cluster of inquisitive maids of honor was watching. "And what have you told my father?"
"He dare not chide you." She glared questioningly at him, her face turned from the other women's prying eyes. "It is because Bella found him lustily entwined with that raven-haired wench of Queen Charlotte's, the one from Lorraine. If he rebukes you, Bella has threatened to tell Mother Warwick about him."
Well, that made two Nevilles with doubtful morals, thought Margery angrily. A fig for the pious lectures her father had dealt out. Do not trip, he had said. The hypocrite!
The Duke's smile was laconic. He raised a hand to her cheek like a lover but his words were a declaration of war. "I want my letter back, Meg. Matters have changed."
S
he glanced carefully about her. There were people everywhere, watching. "Like your mind?" Her smile was grave, her tone venomous.
"No, just… just it is becoming dangerous." The ducal finger found her chin and raised her face to his. "I do not trust anyone and that husband of yours might find it."
"I have passed it on already." God forgive me for the lie, she prayed.
The finger dropped. "You—a pox on you! How?"
"I wore a token to show I had a message. It is on its way. People are whispering, I have to go."
Had they been alone, his eyes told her he would have shaken her and slapped her in fury.
Richard watched his wife quit George of Clarence. The heir to the English crown looked as sour as a whole tree of crab apples. It was time.
"My lord!"
Clarence turned haughtily. "Painful horns, Huddleston?"
"The lady refused you, I think. Nor, I believe, did she thank you for trying to part us."
The Duke studied his face with a slow, deepening scowl. "No and it irks me," he answered finally with dangerous softness.
Richard's open grin was wolflike. "Then know, my gracious lord, that Margery and I understand each other very well indeed. Do not embroil her further in your fortunes."
Margery knew she had to meet Richard alone even if it meant being questioned further. But it was impossible. Her father kept him in constant attendance and the chateau was oozing people from every crevice. Flies would have been hard put to find rest and Margery was crammed into a bedchamber with eight other women, like salted herrings, head to tail.
At the mass in the fields at Amboise next day, she glimpsed Richard among the knights and esquires, standing beneath the great forest of waving pennons, unsheathing his sword and shouting with the rest in the roars of fealty that followed the hosannas. It was a public affirmation of unity just as the service in Angers cathedral had been—a rattle of weapons at Charles of Burgundy and the usurper Edward.
Margery had been permitted to attend, reinstated by the Nevilles for the sake of appearances. Although some distance from her husband, she was conscious of nothing but him. No matter how much she tried to harness her thoughts in the direction of holiness and pray for help in safeguarding the Duke's letter, the horse would not pull the cart of her mind.
How she managed to find herself walking beside Richard Huddleston across the meadow afterward was due to speed and determination. He was compelled to offer her his hand across the tussocks out of good manners. They had to watch their footing; cows had been encouraged into the pasture the day before to circumvent scything the grass. Like most inspirations, there was an underside.
Albeit their gloves kept them from direct contact, the green enigmatic grin at her as they reached the laneway was a sop to Margery's impoverished spirits. She peeped sideways up at her husband, relishing the way his hair curled once more below his jawline, the just profile, the scalloped sleeves thrust back elegantly from shoulders that bent willingly to no man. It was so easy now to forget the arrogance with which he had used her, but to forget was not yet to forgive.
He caught her measuring look. "Your gown is becoming." She gave him a tight smile of disbelief, appreciative that he was being kind. "I mean it. Can I not say things like that to my wife?"
Her heart twisted painfully. "Not a wife you cannot trust. You must be pleased—you have shifted the responsibility for my upkeep entirely to the King of France. Being a hostage may irk me like a burr beneath the girth but at least it will solve all your problems. You will still be son-in-law to puissant Warwick but without the cap and bells."
Jesu, I am babbling, she thought, it is not what I wanted to say and he knows it, damn him. He is wearing that indulgent expression.
One of the Lancastrian captains appeared, ill-timed, at Richard's side, clapping him on the shoulder like an old acquaintance and Margery, disappointed at the interruption, dropped him a good-day greeting and embarked, like a good commander, on her fall-back strategy.
As Richard eventually returned across the drawbridge, listening to a joke someone was telling about the Burgundian, the Italian, and the Irishman, Matthew Long trapped him by the sleeve. "Is the mistress supposed to be riding off alone?"
"God Almighty!"
Margery knew he must come. Perhaps he would think she had a tryst. Curiosity would spur his heels, no question there. She walked her palfrey slowly, crossing the well-trodden paths between the poor cottages of the washerwomen and the river. Two women, heaving a wicker basket of sodden linen back from the river edge to hoist upon the hedges, spat on her shadow. Beyond the cooking fires of the fishermen and the ragged line of the farthermost Amboise dwellings, the air was sweeter but the oaks and ashes closed in around her and she began to curse her folly in riding alone. She had made sure Matthew and at least one of the Cumbrian men-at-arms had seen her depart, but perhaps Richard would not come.
She turned toward the Loire. A broad expanse of gravelly riverbed opened up before her as if someone had drawn back the sheet of water. Two boys were casting lines where the water ran deep and fast, and a bored dog lifted his head from his paws and stared. The children's presence was reassuring. She urged the palfrey into the quieter water so he might drink. The sun burned hot upon her cheeks and she could feel perspiration moistening the underarm pads that protected her underkirtle. No matter, it was wonderful to be free of the court.
The water splashed up from his stallion's heels as Richard drew abrupt rein beside her, his brow sheened with sweat.
"Foolish woman! What in God's name are you at now?"
The defiant little chin rose predictably. "Oh, I am meeting six mercenaries between the hour bells. A condottiere, two retired écorcheurs, a pikeman from Vienna, and—"
"Margery!"
"I had to breathe, sir." Her voice grew sharp. "The trees and water hold no rancor." With a toss of veil, she urged the horse out of the water. "You wish, no doubt, to drag me back behind those stifling walls, or are you staying to lecture me?"
She was dainty as a lady in a tapestry, prettily sitting sidesaddle, her gorgeous train carefully draped across her lap. He wanted to take her into the forest to a glade where Louis of France was not likely to creep up on them, leering like a gargoyle. He wanted to finish the labor that had been interrupted but he had too many enemies now. It was not just the memory of Henri Badoux sprawled on the rushes of his storeroom, bleeding from dagger wounds in the chest and belly, but the memory of the courier pigeons lying around another man in Tours, their necks pitifully wrung, that kept Richard there beside her. If they remained by the river, he as least would have some warning before the enemy reached him.
Foolishly he dismounted, his boots crunching on the gravel as he approached her. "Goosehead, I was attacked on the road two days ago and a man was murdered last night. Have you lost all common sense?" She held out her arms and he set his hands to the slender waist. "This is against my better judgment. Can your slippers survive the pebbles?"
She solemnly slid out of his arms the moment he set her down, gathering up her train over her arm. "Who was murdered? Ankarette said—"
"That woman spoils a good story," he interrupted, his wry tone belying his words. "It was Adèle's father."
Margery crossed herself, looking at him full-faced now. "But we—"
"Met him. Yes. He traded in more than merchandise." The pause was infinitesimal. "So they say." Her face betrayed not the least hint that she knew Henri Badoux had been a link in the chain of communication with King Edward. "Monsieur Levallois is not convinced it was theft."
"And Adèle?"
"She has lost the babe. I visited them early this morning."
He watched her forehead crease beneath the wisp of veiling. "I—I would have come with you, sir, to comfort her," she blurted out.
"That is why I did not tell you." Because Margery and Adèle might endanger each other. He watched the goodwill disappear from her face. Did she know it had been Henri Badoux who had served as King Edward's ma
in agent in Touraine?
"Why did you exclude me?" Margery fiercely swung away from him only to find the children had abandoned their sport and had crept up on them to beg for money.
"Là!" Margery emphatically gestured behind her and they ran to petition Huddleston to let them hold the horses for écus. As she hastened away, she heard his laughter and their squeals of delight. Whirling around, she watched, aching, as, barehanded now, he spun the coins up into the air promising more if they performed their duties carefully.
His laughter was lacking as he left the children with the horses and caught up with her. Margery was waiting, over-spilling with anger.
"God damn you, Richard Huddleston! Why is it because you are a man, you deem your judgment in these matters better than mine?" She spread out her arms, the gorgeous sleeves reaching almost to the stone. "Look at me, sir. I can bear a child and feed it withal but I am not allowed to administer my own property or hold an opinion."
"If you will tell me why you were in Clarence's bed, lady, all that shall be yours."
She met his glance steadily. "All the kingdoms of the world? No, Richard, even you cannot change the laws nor your own nature." Her evasiveness did not please him. He needed to break her distrust. He wanted her to tell him of her own free will that she was in King Edward's pay.
"I hoped that you had lured me here to offer me the truth." A bird shot up protesting from the fringe of trees and thicket that lay futher along the shore and Richard slid his gaze uneasily along the bank before he continued, "Or is there some other more bloody reason?"
"Pah, I cannot tell you because I will not tell you. I am your whore, not Clarence's. You command my body but you care not a fig for my affections. You would have sent me away without even asking me my side of the matter just as you did when Ned—"
His shoulders stiffened at the mention of the name. "Then tell me now, Margery." His voice was a soft growl. "For when these hurly-burly times are done, as I pray to God they will be right soon, what of you and me?"
The Maiden and the Unicorn Page 38