The Maiden and the Unicorn (18 page)

But it was as if the Earl, or someone else, knowing her mettle, had forestalled her at every step. The grooms, busy checking the condition of the horses and their harnesses, had been given orders—no one was to be allowed a horse without a signed warrant from the Earl. No, they did not take bribes either. The gatehouse of the logis was doubly guarded too.

Miserably, Margery swiftly sought out the path round the back of the stables to return stealthfully to the tiring women's bedchamber so she might change out of her male garb before anyone discovered her absence. She did not include two of Clarence's more unpleasant henchmen in her calculations.

John Wyke and Henry Littlebourne, retainers of the Duke's friend, Burdett, rounding the corner behind the stables, deliberately walked into her at the pace of a trundling cannon and snatched her cap off. "Going somewhere, lad? Why by Satan's arse, it's a wench." They circled her, a pair of human wolves in leather. "Why, the little bastard bride. Does your future husband know the King has had your maidenhead?" Wyke's hand caught her by the belt and yanked her towards him. He rolled his tongue lasciviously along his lips.

"Let go of me!" Margery swiped at his face with her riding crop.

"Bloody bitch!" He lashed out a gloved fist at her.

Littlebourne grabbed him. "You'll bruise her, you fool!" Before she could scream, he clamped an iron hand across her mouth and slammed her up against the stable wall. "Let's have a look at what's in store for Huddleston. She's not a virgin so he won't notice anything."

"Aye, but what if she squeals to the Earl?"

"The little whore will not dare. Huddleston will not marry her if she does. He may not mind the smoke but he will not want a bloody bonfire."

Wyke tried to thrust his hand within her codpiece, not finding it easy as she kicked at his kneecaps. Littlebourne, meanwhile, was fumbling inside her shirt, his lewd breath reeking with ale.

It was a deep-throated growl that froze Wyke's hand as he made to wrench down the front of Margery's woollen hose.

Matthew Long stood there, large and ponderous against the stable wall opposite, his expression as vacuous as a scarecrow's. In front of him, Huddleston's deerhound was straining at the leash, lips curling back to reveal sharp vulpine teeth. Every hackle stood out.

"Fellow, you spoil our sport. Get out of here before I take my whip to you."

"All very well, sirs, but Errour, this dog here, does't understand English. Knows Latin, he does, and he has a passion for yon lady. By all the Saints, I do not know if I can hold the beast much longer." His boots scraped the ground as Errour pulled towards them.

The air was crude with expletives as they let Margery go.

"I shall remember you, fellow, and your arsehole of a dog!" Wyke shook a fist at the retainer.

"I don't know why, sirs, I'm doing my poxy best." Long grinned stupidly at their vindictiveness but a further menacing rumble and tug from the great deerhound sent them hastening on their way.

Margery slumped against the wall, awash with tears, shame and laughter as Matthew let the dog drag him across to her. Errour's rough tongue laundered her hands and washed her face as she put her arms round the animal's neck and hugged it.

"Oh, Matthew, that was cleverly done." She reached up on tiptoe and kissed his bristly cheek, sending him a fiery red.

"It was the dog rescued you, mistress. My fists would have been little use against their steel." He gave a low whistle. "The master will be mad enough to bind if he hears you have been wandering around here in that garb. Let me see you safely through the garden."

Let Huddleston hear,
thought Margery as she followed him.

"Master says you do not want to marry him neither." They were almost at the logis.

"That is quite correct, Matthew."

"You could do a lot worse, Mistress Margery. There are plenty of knights not worthy of the name like those two ruffians back there who would make marriage a misery."

Long was right, she thought, swiftly changing back into her gown. At least as Huddleston's wife she would have a man sworn to protect her reputation and her person, even if he did not like her much. But Wyke and Littlebourne had given her one last card to play.

She was pale as the full moon as she made her way to the Countess's chamber and there curtsied. "Madam, I was waylaid by two of my lord Duke's drunken henchmen. When Master Huddleston is informed of this matter, if he still wishes to wed me, I shall make my oath to him two days hence." Let Huddleston swallow that if it pleased him. Pray heaven it would choke him sufficiently to call the marriage off, and providing Long kept a still tongue...

The Countess smiled coldly at her surrender and instantly put an end to her prowling the barriers of her freedom. She was set to work sewing, confined to the women's quarters to await Huddleston's decision. He did not change his mind.

The women around her laughed and chattered like an aviary as they discussed marriage and nuptials, their stories growing more ribald by the minute until Margery's cheeks flamed scarlet and she threw down the embroidery in disgust. She refused to eat the supper they fetched her from the hall, knowing that it would choke her.

At dawn she heard the hunt leave to the call of horns and the baying of hounds and she pitied the poor creatures to be slaughtered for her nuptial feast. The Earl's chaplain summoned her to confession and she sat unfeeling and even hated God. At dusk she heard the hooves of the horses returning, smelt the blood, heard the laughter of the men. The kitchens were busy preparing for the banquet. She could see the tallow lights glinting behind the shutters across the yard, hear the knives being whetted.

* * *

On the morning of her marriage day, the servants rose early to finish decorating the hall and carts came creaking in, waking everyone, bringing the extra ale required for a wedding feast.

The bride grew paler and more silent by the hour. Finally it was young Anne Neville who took her by the hand and led her out into the sunlight to make her a chaplet of flowers.

"Ah, there you are." Isabella found them later. "That chaplet should be much tighter, Anne, you will have to make it again. Now, I have decided to give you my cream overgown for the wedding, Margery. I know you did not care to think what you would wear but I cannot be bothered with it anymore although it is very fine. The colour will become you well. Now we must go in, Mother has had a bath filled for you, make haste before it grows cold. You shall not want to be sneezing all over us."

"I wish my lady would just drown me in it and have done."

"Margery, you must improve your attitude. The French lords will be attending this afternoon and his grace my husband is very anxious that everything will go well. We shall all be under evaluation. Now promise me you will do nothing to jeopardise our chances of raising a French loan to make his grace king."

"But, your grace, I was Ned's mistress."

Isabella stamped her foot. "Oh, peace, you are saying that just to annoy me. All I can say is that Ned has done precious little for you. Think on that when Master Huddleston tries to be sweet to you."

"Sweet! Tell me the Earth is not flat, your grace."

The bath would have been enjoyable if it had not been tepid by the time they had unrobed her. The only pleasure she had out of it was when Isabella poured in some of de Commynes' gift to perfume the water. The Duchess looked askance as Margery burst into a gale of bitter laughter. The women notched up her madness to her wayward nature and clucked disapprovingly.

Her hair was easily washed and towelled dry for it barely caressed her shoulders. They arrayed Isabella's cast-off overgown of cream silk over the forget-me-not blue brocade that had been stitched in Calais and the Duchess fastened a belt of broad silver platelets beneath Margery's breasts. One of the tiring women swiftly stitched a collar of white coney in a V which plunged to the waist of the overgown. A triangle of blue brocade was fastened in to cover her breasts below her cleavage. Margery made to tug it higher. Isabella slapped her hand away.

"You have charms, show them."

The Duchess's attendants brushed Margery's hair until it was dry and glossy then combed it back behind her ears. With a large bodkin they threaded a long string of seed pearls through Anne's chaplet, catching up a gauzy veil with every stitch. The one concession they allowed her was a veil over her face. It was not usual but Margery insisted. That privacy at least would be hers. She also desired to wear her hair pinned back but the Countess interfered.

"Richard Huddleston has requested you wear your hair loose as if you were a maiden."

Margery whirled round, a protest on her lips but her defiance gave way. What was the use? Within hours her whole life would cease to be within her control. She shrugged as they arranged the chaplet on her hair.

The stranger in the long silver mirror they thrust before her was beautiful. Neither radiant nor dewy-eyed but fair. She looked at herself in astonishment.

"Hmm," approved the Countess. "Who would believe the little scapegrace in our midst would polish up into so fine a bride?"

I should be happy, thought Margery, studying their cheerful faces. I have never looked so grand in all my life. If only they were not forcing me into this. The thought of what lay ahead sent a surge of panic through her. It was not only the public formal ceremony of possession that she must face, it was the private possession that would come later which made her tremble.

Chapter 9

The long fingers that Richard Huddleston held out to Margery in the archway of the chapel door were clean and clever like their owner. A single signet ring glittered on his third finger. Her gaze slid up from the edge of fine lawn at his wrist to where the embroidered brocade sleeve fell from his shoulder, its scalloped edge brushing her gown, ebony and amber against cream. She rejoiced in his brief frown of displeasure at her veil and ignored his hand. It was the Earl who lifted her defiant fingers and placed them in Huddleston's.

The strength and power in his touch ran through her arm and threatened her very breathing. She hardly heard the Latin, scarcely recognised the words prompted from her own lips. A heavy golden ring touched the tips of each of her fingers in turn before its owner slid it down finally over her fourth finger. She gave an involuntary gasp. It was as though he had snapped a collar round her neck.

Her guardian again fastened her indifferent fingers round a second ring and directed her hand. Her words were a whisper that barely stirred the gauze across her face. She was aware of kneeling beside Richard Huddleston on the tapestried hassocks for the chaplain's blessing before the household followed them in to mass.

After the chaplain gave the congregation a final benediction, her new husband rose and took her hand to help her stand. At last she looked up at him through her veil and trembled at the triumphant look in his eyes.

For a fleeting instant, the green magic of his gaze lifted them both from their surroundings and she knew that he had what he wanted, that his purpose had been relentless. In that infinitesimal moment, she was aware that in the surrender, as well as the loss of control of her life, there was a sense of belonging. But before she could seize upon the pleasantness of that tantalising sensation, reality overwhelmed her; the household was holding its breath waiting to see if she would show defiance.

Distractedly, Margery lightly rested her hand upon her enemy's wrist as he led her down the chancel steps. Behind her was the rustle of her gown as it kissed its way across the flagstones; on either side of her brightly clothed people murmured but their faces were hazy. Outside, the world seemed truer, the sunshine dazzling after the shadowy chapel.

Richard Huddleston set back the fine veil but she refused to lift her face to his. He charmingly carried her fingers to his lips in time for the first of the congregation to be appeased. She was conscious of his arm supporting her, of the breeze blowing at her garments. Congratulations and smiles wafted in and out of her vision as if she was in a fever. She was in turn hugged, squeezed, kissed and complimented until her head felt like a whirligig.

"Master Huddleston, you may lead us in to dinner."

Richard, relieved, bowed to the French emissaries standing beside the Earl—Jean Bourré, the Treasurer of France and the Scotsman, William Mennypenny, Lord of Concressault, then he led the procession into the hall.