The Maiden and the Unicorn (19 page)

Garlands of golden and creamy daisies tumbled over the edge of the snowy white cloth of the high table and spilled intertwined with ivy from each iron candelabra. High above the great salt, braids of flowers radiated out to the walls from a central boss. Other blossoms glowed pink and almond along the two long tables flanking the sides of the floor. Along the walls between the side boards, the French servants in borrowed scarlet and white Neville livery stood ready.

Margery suddenly lost her distrait gaze. She stepped forward to face the servants and sank into the lowest, most gracious curtsey Richard had ever seen any woman manage. It was her thanks to them for all their labours and the servants responded by clapping her until the very rafters rang.

Behind Richard, the Treasurer of France whispered to the Lord of Concressault, "
Par Dieu,
William, I think we are the interlopers at this wedding feast."

"Come, Richard!" The Kingmaker sounded well pleased. Together they raised Margery smoothly to her feet and made sure she had the hem of her gown outside her heel. "That was well done, my child." The Earl's compliment brought a tight smile but fleetingly to her solemn face, and behind them the wedding guests applauded politely.

The steward raised his wand and a little page, scrubbed reluctantly to a shine the night before, solemnly carried forward a silver ewer of warm water perfumed with chamomile.

Envy bit Richard as Margery called the child by name, lovingly flicking the boy's cheek before she dropped the lavender-scented napkin back across his arm. There was no equal warmth for him, her bridegroom. He set his face in an appropriate half-smile as they were escorted to share the high-backed settle on the dais, and then leaned back against the cushions, wondering if he had made an ill bargain.

Because of Warwick's haste, the girl had nothing but bad will towards him. He should have stood his ground against the disgruntled Earl, argued that he needed time for wooing. He raised a critical eyebrow at his new wife's stony profile, ignoring the shouts for bride ale as everyone settled themselves at the trestles. This marriage was a gamble. If the wench was truly wanton or still hankering to be King Edward's mistress, he had just bound the cuckold's horns upon his head with his own two hands.

Damn her! Where was the wit she usually used against him?
That
woman he could deal with, not this beauteous, lifeless effigy. It was as if the part of her he knew had withdrawn. Was marrying him so terrible to her?

The feeble notes of shawms and small-pipes, barely audible against the beat of the tabors and the laughter, matched his weakening ardour. He needed to reawaken the courage in her, convince himself that the sacrifice he had made for this day's work was worthwhile.

Beside him, Margery was wondering how she could be so conscious of another's every breath and gesture. Her infuriating bridegroom was deliberately keeping his right arm behind her, his hand resting lightly on the cushions. She kept edging forward, her body taut as a lute string. Let him know she despised him. He might have bought her body but he did not possess her soul. True, he was behaving with decorum. Another man in his place might have let his hand adventure, but Richard Huddleston seemed indifferent. No, not entirely.

"I should have told you earlier how well your gown becomes you," he murmured when on either side of them the guests were distracted.

"Unfortunately, like me, it is used," she responded wryly and lifted her face to challenge his. But the gaze of the man who had demanded six manors for the doubtful joy of bedding her rose tardily from the low edging of her bodice, as if he intended her to observe his journey of discovery. He did not touch her; he did not need to. She felt the slow caress of his glance slide sensually up her neck and linger upon her mouth. He compelled her to recognise the controlled desire in his eyes. Struggling against the stirrings of her body, she jerked her head higher, defying his attempt to strip away her armour.

"Do you say that to discomfort me, lady?" The green eyes did not falter but it was as if the murky depth of his gaze suddenly cleared, like water letting through the sunlight. "I have found from experience that used shoes do not pinch."

She could not answer him. His meaning brought the high colour rushing into her pale face. Having scored a touch, he withdrew from further verbal combat, his lips closed in a tight smile of satisfaction.

Margery took a deep breath. Alone with him, she might have tipped the soup bowl over his lap or hurled the cockatrice, could she but lift it. Sweet Jesu, before the dawn this man she could not fathom would pleasure himself within her body. Perilously, she wondered what it would be like to tangle her fingers in his hair and pull his mouth down to hers, what it would feel like to have him enter her.

Astonished at her imaginings, she gave herself a shake. She would endure Purgatory rather than submit to this man who cared not one jot about her feelings.

Warwick was watching her. He caught her chin, forcing her to look at him while Huddleston's attention was elsewhere. "Child, cease your defiance. You will one day thank me for this day's work. Drink, it will help you, and watch the entertainment. These people are here for your pleasure."

That was a lie. He was trying to impress the French lords as if the tumblers, jugglers and a dancing dog could match the lavish feasting he had displayed in London, banquets to rival Ned's at Westminster. She distanced herself again, and across her the men verbally dissected yesterday's hunt as they ate its prizes. Later, she tried to be gracious as roasted swans and peacocks, refeathered in their intricate plumage on elaborate platters, were set before her. Yet the good wines tasted sour, the food like waste upon a joiner's floor.

As the light in the hall grew dimmer, the servants lit the cressets on the walls and the candelabras of Paris wax above the salt. Love songs and scurrilous ballads suffered from bawdy interruptions as the claret and hypocras flowed with abundance. The quips came at them continuously. She was conscious of Richard Huddleston parrying them with good nature for she was incapable of making answers. Her inner fear grew as the sweet custards, tarts and wafers appeared. The luscious cherries shone with sensuousness. The honeyed fruits, nestling among nuts and comfits, mocked her discomfort.

At last the chief cook himself set the subtlety, the crown of the feast's gems, before the bride and groom. There was an embarrassed silence as the guests absorbed the presence of the tiny unicorn with a gilded horn resting its head upon a maiden's lap. It was inappropriate. Unicorns might be caught only by maidens which distinctly disqualified Margery. Her unicorn-trapping days were considered by all to be long past. Ankarette gave an embarrassed cough that threatened to turn into a giggle.

Margery hastened to thank the proud mastercook and Huddleston leaned forward and gave the man his hand.

"It is very... flattering," Margery added huskily. Indeed, it was exquisite and she felt like weeping at the honest perfection of each sugary fold. Who had inspired this kitchen genius to create such a divine but tactless sculpture? Had Master Huddleston suggested this, trying to delude himself and others that she came unsullied?

"Am I supposed to be the unicorn?" he asked gravely, with a raise of an eyebrow.

"It is impolitic but rather delightful," exclaimed Isabella.

"But Margery likes unicorns," Anne protested.

"Oh, it was your idea, was it, Anne?" The Duke of Clarence smirked and the grins of the adults broadened further.

"I thought it was a good notion for a wedding," insisted Anne, her neck and cheeks flushing scarlet. "You like it, do you not, Margery?"

The bride turned solemn blue eyes upon the fifteen year old. "As God is my witness, my lady, I like it better than anything in the whole feast and I thank you for your inspiration." Her voice was choked with an emotion she could not adequately voice.

Richard watched Anne Neville's mouth curl with pleasure and, turning, saw love and friendship for her in Margery's misting eyes.

"Master Huddleston, do you like unicorns?"

He dragged his gaze reluctantly from Margery's face to smile kindly at the younger girl. "My lady, I have never seen a unicorn I liked better."

"Well, now we have done that conversation to death," exclaimed the Duke, "perhaps we can think about putting the bride to bed. You have feasted us right
royally,
my lord."

The Countess of Warwick sniffed, sending her son-in-law a telling look that would have made a more sober man anxious, but she did glance at Margery and then at her lord questioningly.

Richard felt the cold young woman beside him tremble. The Earl flicked the bride's cheek and turned towards the French envoys. "What say you, messeigneurs?"

The Scots lord answered. "Och, dinna rob this table too soon of such beautiful young women. For sure I wish that I was their age once again."

"I wish I was your age, good my lord, I would be rich indeed if I had your wisdom," Margery told him without a trace of flattery.

"Dinna fret, sweet lady, you are far cleverer than I will ever be, for you can grow a child within you. What man can perform so sweet a miracle?"

Richard sensed Margery quiver. She snapped her lips shut.

"Ha, but what woman can do it alone,
mon
ami?"
Jean Bourré slapped the table, his cheeks rosy with the wine and raised his goblet to Richard. "I drink to you, young man. May you earn yourself a son from this night's labours and may your wife give us a little miracle nine months hence."

Richard inclined his head in courteous thanks but he was heartily wishing it was all over. His irritation was growing. God knows it was not as if Margery was a virgin. The whole hall knew that. He was looking forward to discovering her royal bedchamber skills but the truth of it was that the little witch just did not want to surrender.

The Duke did not help. "She looks fit to swoon. Have done, my lords, let's put her to bed. Come, Meg, bestir yourself. You have to keep awake tonight."

Richard tightened his arm about her, apprehensive that it would not take much to make her run away and shame herself and him. At least the Earl, Heaven be thanked, was set to loosen the girths of the situation. Warwick rose smiling, his hand firmly on Margery's shoulder. "All in good time. Another song!" He snapped his fingers to summon one of the counter-tenors who had performed earlier.

Richard leaned across behind Margery and laid a hand upon the Earl's sleeve. "With your good leave, my lord, I think this task is mine."

The Duke shifted irritably. "By St George, will you punish us, Huddleston, with some love-sick warbling?"

"I do not warble," retorted Richard temperamentally.

"He is not love-sick either," Margery cut in swiftly, in control of herself again. Their eyes met briefly. Like deep water, his revealed nothing to say that she was wrong.

"Give the man a lute then or would you prefer the bagpipe?" the Duke exclaimed snidely.

"A harp will suffice."

A pigeon would have taken the message to the musicians in the gallery faster than the laggard chosen but a harp was eventually procured. By which time, the Duke of Clarence was yawning audibly. "Are you not weary, Meg? Bridegroom, will you not make music with the lady instead?" Isabella hushed him angrily.

Margery, her cheeks flaming, watched Richard Huddleston take the small harp and draw a skilled hand across the strings. A rich chord prompted the noise in the hall to lessen somewhat. "You will know the words but the melody is by a Breton minstrel." He stood up to give himself more room and rested one piked foot on the settle, sweeping his hanging sleeves behind him. The strings needed a swift adjustment before his adroit fingers rippled out a sweet sad sound. The half-smile flickered on his lips as he moistened them.

His singing voice was surprising, rich yet light but the words... the words made Margery avert her gaze instantly from his patrician profile to his fingers.

I pray you, mistress, to me be true,

For I will be true as long as I live.

I will not change you for old nor new,

Nor never love other, whiles that I live.

I trust it so for it to be

That it shall light on you and me.

Her body was growing warm at the thought of those deft fingers exploring her, but the tone of his voice changed and she thought she could hear the subtle laughter in the words. He was provoking her again; demanding she answer him. Or was she mistaken? Was he trying to play the gallant?

My dearest, list,

By me be taught,

For love is the sweeter,

The dearer it's bought,

For love is the sweeter,

The dearer it's bought.

In panic, she swiftly lowered her eyes to the uneaten cherries on her plate, keeping her anger sheathed. Knowing her antagonism to the marriage, the whole hall was watching her. She could hear the chuckles and the gossip.
By him be taught!
Sweet Heaven, let him try!

The gorgeous cadences died away in the rafters. For a heartbeat the hall was silent and then they thumped the boards.

"Sweetly done," the Countess applauded. "Can you sing us one more and then indeed it will be time to bed you both."