The Maiden and the Unicorn (45 page)

"I doubt it," retaliated Margery sweetly, though she blushed, "but you may have the dungeon next to mine."

* * *

In the cathedral, as the notes of Anjou's best choir boys soared heavenwards, Richard let his attention wander to the wheels of tracery and coloured glass crushed into the stones high above the transept. Later, his gaze edged along the peerless Bataille tapestry of the Apocalypse. The visions of John, Christ's beloved apostle, upon alternate panels of murrey and azure, stretched beyond his view: years of stitching running round the walls, flowing away from him, the scope and perseverance a lesson. But none of the Angevins were looking at it. They were all transfixed by their unlikely visitor, the man who had turned their princess hungry into the fields.

Richard could feel some sympathy for his father-in-law. The mass was not just political. The Kingmaker definitely needed to have God amenable if he was about to meet his most bitter enemy—not the easiest task for anyone as stiff-necked as a Neville. The exiled Lancastrian Queen was expected next day and, of course, as this was her childhood home, she would be in her element, whereas her great enemy was a guest among strangers and would have to sustain his politeness.

Warwick stood seemingly at ease between the two kings, but Richard had learned that the stroking of one thumb upon the other and the occasional grind of jaw betrayed moments of uncertainly. Clearly, it was definitely going to be an interesting week. The Kingmaker was facing his apocalypse. He was going to have to dirty his knees grovelling to someone.

Richard glanced down at his own knees and reconciled himself to the fact that he was too. The dilemma again. This week might be the fabric of chronicles but Richard still needed to weigh up his own options. Could a Neville-Lancaster alliance—if it actually eventuated—destroy Margery's lazy, brilliant Ned? Did
he,
an esquire, want to play for high stakes? The irony of it creased his mouth in a grim smile—the
high stakes
that held the heads of traitors on London Bridge? It was definitely time for a prayer and a request for guidance. He lifted his eyes to the glittering cross. If St Richard of Chichester was not available, would St Maurice be interested?

* * *

There was a brief reception at the Logis Barrault and then the visitors were escorted by the royal chamberlain across the deep moat of the castle to the best fanfare composition Richard had ever heard. It boded well. René the Beloved, they called their king.

"Wait for the drawbridge to—" Margery, again upon his arm like a tethered hawk, abandoned words and blinked in astonishment as they came out from the shadow of the formidable portal. "Goodness, gold within lead!"

He understood perfectly. It was as if the outer walls of the castle were a heavy ugly suit of armour that protected a beautiful, accomplished, young courtier. The buildings within the courtyard came from several different centuries but glass windows had been inserted into the older apartments and the new unweathered additions were built for comfort.

Along to their right were trees and enticing pavilions but the procession coiled on relentlessly beneath an inner gatehouse. Its appearance halted Richard in amazement and the Angevin lord and lady following almost walked straight into them. "Would you look at that!" he murmured, as Margery tugged at him. Then she followed his gaze and started to share his amusement.

Visiting stonemasons must have scratched their heads and muttered. True, it had four pointed, slate-tiled, curly-brimmed towers at each corner, but it was as if the masterbuilder had been jesting when he filled the space between the old walls. Instead of the gable of the gatehouse rising centred above the middle of the archway entrance, it peaked on one side. Windows, actual glass windows not arrowslits, had been set in each of the building's two levels, not one above the other but at odds with the decorated gable and each other. The golden stones of the four towers were neat and shaped, the long windows had neat sills but the stone in between was all shapes and sizes. It broke every rule.

"I like it," exclaimed Margery, adding softly, "The man who paid for this had humour and taste. Do you think King René deliberately commissioned it? The stone is barely weathered."

They passed through the archway with Richard craning round as they emerged to observe the building from the other side. The two rear towers did not match. One rounded turret rose from the second floor, the other from the ground and the latter was different from the other towers. The roof line was not seamless and rounded but hexagonal.

"I think," Margery was gazing in admiration at the large windows that had been set in the buildings to their right which flanked a chapel, "that if the food here matches the mood of your whimsical mason, we shall either do very well or we shall be eating subtleties with salted herring."

Now it was possible, of a sudden, to forget the self-interest festering in the visitors' hearts; here were gracious apartments overlooking the river and they could smell the roses and the lavender.

In the logis royal, built by the previous Duke of Anjou, that sat on the noble right of the Great Hall, chambers had been made ready for the Nevilles. The furnishings here were at odds with the elegant chambers they had already passed through. Perhaps it was the Duchess Jeanne's influence. Costly tapestries adorned the walls and the furnishings were newfangled and exquisitely contrived but outrageously overdone—the settles were voluptuous with cushions, the padded stools with velvet seats were overtasselled, while the carvings were skilfully accomplished but over-ornate and obtrusive. Painted ceilings were crowded with stars. Colours competed and clashed like a huge crushed armful of summer flowers.

Margery sped to the window, exclaimed at being able to see the river, whirled and collapsed on the cushions, and then masked her mouth with her hand to hide laughter at the sheer misplaced opulence.

Huddleston, following her in, set down the small coffer he was carrying and stared about him, struggling to manage his amusement. "Why can you not meet my gaze, Margery?" he challenged, grinning.

Greeting the spontaneous laughter in his eyes, she suddenly caught her breath.

"What is it?" Her husband had seen the change in her; his eyes were kind, concerned. Measuring how truly joyful she had been in his company during the last hour was a revelation to Margery. Dear Jesu, she could count the times she had felt wonderfully happy in her life on the fingers of one hand. The Kingmaker owning her as his daughter, the market day in Amboise and walking up the hill today. All due to the annoying mesh of male flesh and soul who was regarding her with perplexity. Sweet Heaven, she felt at one with Christ's blind beggar seeing for the first time.

Because he did not know what to say, because something had instantly blown out the joyous candle flame and it was not his fault, Richard reached out an anxious hand to her.

As if she did not wish him to touch her, she gave a little shake, stood up and swirled out of his orbit. "Is this not... not... remarkable and...?" Thrusting her hands in the air, embracing the whole room, she spun round, her pleasure a ripple of laughter again.

"And?" he asked, hilarity bubbling up like a holy well replenished by God's blessing.

"And I am just wondering how they have decorated the oubliettes."

* * *

He had neither excuse nor leisure to ask where he was sleeping until close to supper. Halting in the doorway that led off a recently finished gallery, he blinked at the wide, beautiful, testered bed. A lady's discarded riding gloves untidied it and, near the edge, a stitched wool stocking folded into a neat rectangle snoozed beside a frothy garter.

"This is my bedchamber? There must be some mistake."

The Angevin page to the King's chamberlain glowed with local pride.
"
Mais,
you are married to Lord Warwicque's daughter,
hein
?"

Richard stepped into the room, picked up a leather shoe with an embroidered tongue. "It is well," he answered, but the attendant had gone, transformed, it seemed, into his astonished wife, framed in the doorway now like a startled saint in a dismembered triptych.

"I see you have located the oubliette." Her eyes were solemn.

He was more accustomed to the mischief she had been using as a buckler and gravely raised gloved hands in surrender. "Acquit me. It is your father's meddling."

"This is not wise." How very true. "I will use the trundle in my sister's room."

"As you wish, though I think the Countess will broom you out, and won't King René wonder why you scorn his generosity? By the time the lords of Lancaster arrive, this place will be full, as crammed as a summer pie."

She growled at him, snatched up the garter and moved past looking for her shoes.

"Humour his lordship, mousekin. We are beneath the magnifying glass of Christendom, are we not?"

"Perhaps I should steam it up for him," hissed Margery, crouching down to peer beneath the bed. "After all, I am supposed to be the whore round here."

"Enough!" The missing shoe appeared from his hanging sleeve and landed with an angry thump next to her. "Your father has been told the truth. You are the only one who persists in self-delusion."

Margery rose, brushing her skirts, and watched him huffily turn away, inspecting not only the view across to the square tower of the cathedral but the position of the window in regard to its brethren. A soldier's inspection.

"No!" It was necessary to be firm. The western sun aureoled the competent shoulders, the lordly stance.

"No?" He looked over his shoulder at her, an eyebrow facetiously raised. "What else do you suggest?" His irritation was blatant as a gaudy, painted shield. "And what about tonight? Shall we place Alys between us or maybe Long would be a better bulwark, but he snores—loudly. Do you think this bolster might suffice?" He yanked it from the horizontal. "Or maybe our hosts can find some ancient chastity belt preserved from the Crusades for you to borrow."

"Richard!"

"Ah, I know! The great bed of Ware still lacks a buyer. We could sleep half the castle between us. I could send a pigeon to request an estimate but they might have trouble with the spiral stairs." He folded his arms and scowled.

Margery regarded him warily. Why was it this man of all men could make her inner being awake and stretch wantonly? In his finery, embroidered and fur-edged, he was a spellbinder. Were there charms against men like him? Men whom nature had endowed with a fine blend of poise, muscle, strength? His palpable masculinity and her own desire weakened her.

Devilment and desire bested her judgment. "I hear you only came to France because of me."

Wondering what she was at, Richard folded his lips into a thin line. "My brother Tom has been gossiping." Oh yes, he had exaggerated to Tom and Will. What could he say to them?
Go home, I am the viper in this nest of traitors, the paid-up Judas.
He tilted his head suspiciously. "What are you up to now, lady? You want a pretty speech? What was I supposed to say? 'Treason is wonderful, lads. Do as I do.' Dear God, a fine example of a brother I am." The arms unwound, his fingers momentarily splayed, as if helpless against fortune, before he hooked his hands upon his forearms once again.

"They said you were besotted with me." She glided across to him and tiptoed her fingers up the silken ridges of his doublet to tangle in his glossy hair.

It was nearly beyond his power to keep his hands hidden in the upper reaches of his spliced sleeves, his fingers clenched. "Yes, I said that. 'Raddled with lust', I should have added."

She was exquisitely tormenting him, lips moist and the wide blue eyes coaxing. Richard gently removed the soft hands that scarved his neck. "I have duties, lady, and they are not marital." He intended to leave her, he trusted, bereft. For if the wench thought she could manipulate him by suddenly performing her duty as a wife, then her intellect was as thick as the wall at his back. But behind the mirror of his face that gave her back her own enigmatic smile, he was hopeful.

* * *

He suffered for the rest of the day, his mind an internecine war in which resentment belaboured lusty anticipation. The enforced separation, both of mind and body from the quarrelsome, provocative, untrustworthy little bastard wench had at least drawn a fretwork across his wounds, but now he was bleeding again. He wanted Margery Neville writhing beneath him in sweet abandonment. And she knew it and was striving to enslave him as he had dreaded she would. She was cleverer than he had anticipated and yet she played with that knowledge as if it was a village football, only kicking the bladder when it came her way, making no effort otherwise.

Oh, patron saint of trundle beds! Thank God she was away from him, enclosed in the gauzy row of women that sat along the opposite board. Even the delicate carp, the spiced viands, the endless platters of delicacies could not distract him from the horses of desire and common sense that were pulling him in two directions.

Actually, it was a donkey that drove away his demons and brought laughter back like the gift of God. Nothing more than a stubborn plaguey ass with two men inside it and a master that yelled abuse. It was an astonishing surprise after the stately entertainments that had been intermeshed with the delivery of each course. The final incongruity that King René always delighted in achieving.

It tried to sit on Warwick's lap. It lifted its tail at the Duke of Calabria and dropped cakes of gingerbread from its rear. It emitted sounds that brought blushes and headed towards the ladies. While it was distracted with tidbits from the Duchess of Anjou who was crying with laughter, the Countess discreetly withdrew, firmly ordering Anne to leave with her and Margery followed them regretfully out of duty.