The Maiden and the Unicorn (12 page)

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 meagre luggage did not help to impress.

"All will be well 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 lirapipe which 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 round and moved the splendid beast out of their way. Margery watched him still as his two menservants 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 lock-up. 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 counsellors 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 passage way 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 mid-winter. "

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 towards 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 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 round the table to her.

"Demoiselle," he took her hand, "I am not disappointed." His deep grey 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 base-born 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 further, leaning forward to peer at Margery as if she was 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 towards her from the Englishman and she could swear a smile was hovering at the corners of the man Philippe'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
was 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 humour.

"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.

"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, realised 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 travelled on to Guines, " 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 round. "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.