The Maiden and the Unicorn (4 page)

"Stone," repeated Margery, frowning as she tumbled the word over. "I do not remember his name but his face..." She spared herself the effort of recalling where they might have met before. There was no time for wasting. She might not have the chance to speak to the servants alone again and they seemed friendly.

She moved across to the older woman. "Please will you help me? I am a ward of my lord Earl and but an hour ago or so I was with my lady Countess and the Duchess of Clarence on the way to Exeter and then that man—this Stone—has had me abducted and for what ill purpose I dare not imagine. Sweet Jesu, I have to escape from here as soon as my strength has returned."

The maidservant's eyes widened. "You think Master Stone intends to force himself on you?"

"What other purpose could he have? He has given me no explanation. You have seen how his men have treated me."

The woman at the shutter turned. "We have horses but I do not recall any ladies' saddles hanging up," she said quietly. "You'll not remember me, but I served in my lord of Warwick's household years ago afore I met my last husband and I do know your face for all that you are no longer a child. You were reared with the Earl's daughters, is that not so?"

"Yes, it is so, good dame." Margery's voice was husky with the tears that had been brimming unspent.

"Let me see your wrists." Margery held out her hands. The woman examined the lacerations carefully.

"Bring me the salve, Bessie." She dabbed on the ointment gently. "Aye, it stings but all to the good. Just be sure you do not break the skin again." With a deep sigh she let go of Margery's fingers. "There is injustice here right now. Bessie, we must help this lady. For the nonce, my child, it were best to obey the King's Receiver."

"Your clothing, my lady." The younger girl was still waiting to unrobe her.

"I shall need my gown. Hide it for me. Unless..." She would need to ride like a soul of the damned fleeing the morning. "Can you find me some man's apparel? Woollen hose and a cloak to keep out the cold and the doublet can be anything you please."

The girl clamped a horrified hand to her mouth. "My lady!"

"What else can you suggest?" Margery countered gently. "That I should stay here and submit to ravishment? If I am to escape, I must ride unimpeded. I had rather risk my soul in Hell for wearing doublet and hose than be defiled." She slid the clammy gown from her shoulders and pushed it down over her hips.

"Aye," agreed the elderly housekeeper, "an' I should do likewise if I was in your shoes, methinks."

Margery kicked herself free of the gown. "My few possessions are with my lady the Countess." She gestured, irritable at her helplessness. "I have no jewels or coin with which to thank you, save a ring that was said to belong to my mother and truly", her lip trembled, "I should be loath to part with that."

The old woman nodded. "Save your thanks for later, my child. You are not away from here yet and there is still work to be done before nightfall. Perhaps if we are liberal with the ale tonight..." She tapped a finger to the side of her nose.

Margery took her by the shoulders with gratitude. "One day, if I can, I will reward you threefold, I swear it."

Later, cleansed, fed at last, and with fresh linen underclothes, Margery curled beneath the coverlet and forced herself to banish everything from her mind. To escape she needed strength and for that she needed rest. One hour's sleep since yesternight would aid her little when she needed her wits about her.

* * *

The shadows told her it was well into the afternoon when she awoke. She opened the window shutters, shivering in the cold rush of air as she fixed the direction she must ride in. South-west, the way the Earl had been fleeing, or north back to the convent? No, not back to the cloister. Her livelihood lay with the Earl's household. If she could leave that night, she might have a chance of rejoining the Earl at Exeter. The city was known to favour his cause and he had two ships at Dartmouth. But what if she arrived too late? What if he had already embarked for Calais? Maybe she could take passage with some fishing vessel by selling the golden and pearl ring. The final problem of how she was going to explain her sudden disappearance to the Countess would require some careful consideration for they must be thinking ill of her seeming desertion, but she would cross that perilous river when she came to it.

Her plans were halted as heavier footsteps than the maidservant's came up the stairs and paused outside the door. The sound of a key in the lock made her tremble but by the time the door opened, she had squared her shoulders and assumed indifference.

"You slept?" It was Master Stone. She gave no indication of having heard him, and kept her face to the casement. "The gossip is I am intent on ravishing you." Margery's shoulders tensed but still she did not turn. "Well, it is not such a bad idea. What time would suit?"

She suppressed the gasp that came unbidden to her lips. Her heartbeat grew frantic but she controlled her speech with supreme effort, not deigning to turn her head. "If it pleases you to mock me beforehand, King's Receiver, then the sooner the better." She could feel his gaze searing down her spine.

He laughed but there was no mockery. "I congratulate you on your bravery but you have nothing to fear from me. I apologise for my poor sense of humour." She ignored him. "But I pray you, turn around. The light through your undergown renders you far too tempting for my present purpose." His words sent her glancing down in consternation wondering whether he was speaking the truth. "Humour me, mistress!"

The sudden anger in his voice penetrated her confidence, undermining her courage, but she refused to comply, her stance haughty, her face lifted, her shoulders thrown back. She heard him step nearer. "You are proud beyond your station. What are you but a tiring woman?" She sensed his eyes flickering coldly over her and she flinched inwardly. His voice came closer still. "Why should I want the King's discarded plaything? You come dowerless and used, mistress. There are better bargains to be had elsewhere."

There was a rasp of bitterness in his voice as if he had some personal reason for despising her. Her breast heaved with anger but she had no answer. No one had reminded her so bitterly of her situation. The truth was something she had tried to spare herself but now it was like a whipcord across her shoulders. Staunching her tears, she busied herself closing the shutters.

"Ah, well, perhaps it will be summer for you again. I am taking you to your lover tomorrow. Mayhap the King has only temporarily
mislain
you."

How did this stranger know so much about her past?

"The King?" she echoed coolly and swung round, finding to her dismay that he was standing less than a pace behind her. She refused to meet his supercilious gaze, staring sideways with all the hauteur she could manage but uncomfortably aware of his height and strength; he could so easily overpower her. "Why should the King wish to set eyes on me again? Do you imagine there will be some reward for you?"

But he did not answer. Her glance jerked to his face and found him dangerously distracted with examining the half-visible globes of her breasts above the borrowed undergown. Exposed beneath those intense green eyes, Margery cursed inwardly, realising too late that he could see the dark aureoles of their peaks beneath the white linen. The studied coldness in his expression was momentarily vanquished, replaced by a look of pure masculine appreciation as his gaze rose up her white throat, lingered at her lips and finally met her eyes.

"Some reward?" he answered finally, with a faint smile. "Yes, there
certainly
will be."

Chapter 2

Richard dragged his eyes away from his delectable prisoner with an unspoken curse. He had unfinished business with Margery of Warwick.

Those enticing parted lips, the feel of her thighs beneath his as he had once knelt astride her, that gossamer honey hair—these imaginings had haunted his nights. Did she know who he was? Did she remember the intimacy of their last meeting? Oh Christ, if the King had not...

Now the wench was staring at him, a faint frown creasing her brow, and he wanted desperately to slide his fingers down her half-naked shoulders, pull her against him and feast upon her mouth.

"So you have expectations, King's Receiver." She broke the sudden silence between them, her voice husky as if she had the trouble of finding it. "Surely all this is a waste of your time. I believe the King has at least three regular mistresses."

"Playing Pandarus to your Cressida is not to my taste either," he answered smoothly while inwardly angry with himself that this bastard wench's body could excite his senses like no other woman's. He wanted to hate her for perturbing him all these years. "Besides, you may find that the Troilus of your dreams has changed somewhat." Criticising the King eased the mental pain but not his growing arousal. Hastily, he gave her a curt nod and strode swiftly to the door.

"So you presume to know my dreams, do you, Master Stone?" The scathing tone in her voice lashed at him.

His hand hesitated upon the latch and he turned his head. "Of course not." He smiled coldly. "I leave omniscience to God."

He noisily locked the door on her and strode back down the oaken staircase, irritable as a dog with a stolen bone—growling at the world but with no time yet to enjoy his feast.

The manor tenant roll was where he had left it, awkwardly pinioned beneath an iron candleholder and a wooden salver on the steward's table. The room was chilly; the coals in the brazier neglected in his absence. He called to his manservant for wine and sat down gloomily. As King's Receiver, he was supposed to inspect the manor roll of every traitor's manor he was retaking for the King and report back to Westminster, but the cramped figures in front of him held little interest compared with the pillaged treasure upstairs.

With his chin in his hand, he stared morosely at the cold stone wall opposite, still marvelling at what he had accomplished since dawn with so little premeditation.

Ever since the day of the wager with the King six years ago, the memory of this wench had been a burr beneath his girths, always there, pricking him. It had not needed that drunken bet with King Edward and the other young hotheads at Warwick to kiss every woman within the castle before the noon bell rang to make Richard aware of Margery. His appetite had been piqued three days earlier when he had arrived at the Kingmaker's castle in the entourage of the Earl of Northumberland, the Earl of Warwick's younger brother, and first set eyes on her. But then he had been too young, too unsure of himself in unfamiliar surroundings to force her to notice him.

Just thinking about that cursed wager still made him seethe. His memory was as fresh as it had been the day after. He had been the first to reach the barn where Warwick's daughters and the other young noblewomen were hiding in the loft. They had set Margery to act as sentry and he could still envisage her as she had glimpsed him running across the courtyard towards her. Instantly she had disappeared inside the barn in a whirl of skirts and shining hair. He had caught her as she set hands on the ladder to the loft and spun her round. It had been so easy to hook his heel behind her leather slipper and send her sprawling backwards onto the soft hay. They had both been laughing as he swiftly knelt astride her and caught her wrists down beside her head. Then laughter had died between them as if time itself had frozen momentarily. Her beautiful hair had covered the hay around them like silken thread over morning grass and he could see himself in those wide open startled blue eyes. Her lips had opened sweetly, instinctively waiting for him. He knew he had her then, that it was right.

But he had savoured her fresh loveliness a second too long. Like yapping hounds bursting upon a peaceful glade, the other youths had thrust open the door, the King ahead of them. King Edward had flung Richard aside and claimed the girl's kiss instead. Neither he nor Margery had seen Richard tear angrily out of the barn.

But now, by Christ's blessed mercy, he had Margery of Warwick in his hands again. Just recognising the girl that morning as she set back her hood to uncover that honey hair had heated his blood. His body had quickened at the very sight of her so real and merely a few paces from his touch. She had even met his glance, albeit as a stranger, her lips parting in curiosity, the wind lifting her hair about her shoulders and immediately his mind had started whirling like some new-fangled clock machinery.