The Maiden and the Unicorn (5 page)

"Daydreaming, sir?"

Richard's distant gaze refocused on the world around him, the manor steward's room, and he looked up into the grinning face of his manservant, Matthew. His hound was there too, its nose nudging him for attention.

"I was asking you if you... Never you mind, sir, at least you are not bewitched. For an instant, you looked as though you were away with the small folk."

"I am bewitched," answered the King's Receiver, distractedly pushing his fingers through the dog's thick coat. "And I do not like it one iota."

"But you have the girl now, neat as a fly in a web," Matthew Long pointed out cheerfully as he set an earthernware jug of wine and a goblet before his scowling master.

"You think so, do you?" muttered Richard, without raising his eyes from the ledger. "I have on my hands a female hedgehog. One look at me and every sharp quill is quivering to draw blood. I am not confident I have acted wisely." He raised his head and glared at his servant. The parchment, free of the pressure of his other hand, rolled itself back up.

"Well, that does make a change at any rate," commented his servant, lifting the poker to prod ineffectively at the embers. "All you have to do now, sir, is to take the wench to the King's Grace as you planned."

Richard tossed the manor roll over to one side. "Life is so simple for you, is it not, Matthew?" he sighed. "Here am I tormented by conscience while you would have—"

"Laid the wench by now, that's for sure," muttered Matthew. He abandoned the poker, wiping his hands down the sides of his hose. "It's not as if she is an unravished maid now, is it..." His voice trailed off as his master's expression grew dangerous. Richard watched his servant's huge hands fumble. "Well, I don't know, do I?" the large man floundered.

"What do you not know?" asked his master carefully.

"Well, sir, you see this wench and then plague take me if we don't make off with her in the full view of the Kingmaker's entire rebel army and now you be thinking you don't want her after all.' Tis a mite confusing for a poor silly soul like me."

"She is a used woman." The King's Receiver poured himself a goblet of fortified wine.

"But, master, you said it was the King—"

"That makes a difference?" Green eyes hard as lichened rock regarded Matthew.

His servant nodded. "Yes, I reckon so, master. I wouldn't say no to a king's leftovers. I mean, well, he's..."

"Discerning,
you mean? That's an elegant word, Matthew, but even
I
can disdain King Edward's leavings." Richard took a draught and watched the larger man suck in his cheeks.

"Ah," answered Matthew.

"Yes, Matthew,
ah.
Perhaps it is not my conscience but my pride which is at odds with the rest of me." He drank more deeply.

"Could be, sir. All I know is that I ain't seen you in such a pother for a long while. So what's to be done?"

"I think she will try to escape." Richard enjoyed seeing Matthew swallow his astonishment.

"You reckon she has the spirit for it?"

"Oh yes, I will wager she is anxious to reach Exeter and rejoin the Earl's womenfolk before they take ship."

"So we surprise her on the stair?"

"No," corrected his master, perusing him thoughtfully, "we shall not stop her."

"Not—By the Rood, master, shall I cart you off to Bedlam? After all that hurly-burly, spreading rumours about the King's men being so close and the to-do about hiring the carter and abducting defenceless..." Matthew spluttered to silence. Richard waited, trying not to smile at the larger man's discomfort. "Aye, well," muttered his servant with a sulky sniff, "if you're still interested in anything else other than the wench upstairs, sir, the steward's waiting outside looking like a prisoner about to have his thumbs screwed. Shall you put him out of his misery?"

"Aye, very well, in a few minutes then." Richard dismissed him with a nod.

Alone, he emptied the goblet and buried his head in his hands. By all the Saints, what had he gotten himself into? It was against his nature to act so rashly where women were concerned. Was he going to regret his foolhardiness? But any addlepate could have seen that the Kingmaker was hurrying the girl out of the realm along with the rest of his entourage, making for Calais no doubt as he had done before when in trouble. It would have been foolish not to seize the opportunity to take the wench. After all, prising her out of the stronghold of Calais would prove costly. That was why he of all men, the reputedly calm and foresighted King's Receiver, had acted unusually. Capturing maidens was like something from the tales of King Arthur that old Sir Thomas Malory was compiling, Richard chided himself; it was not a role with which he was comfortable. And besides, Margery, curse her, was no maiden.

If only she had not allowed the King to seduce her. That morsel stuck in the gullet of his pride threatening to choke him. Thank the Almighty, he still had a few day' grace to make up his mind about what to do with her. The die were almost out of his hand and on the table but the decision was still his and yet... And yet taking the wench to the King involved a risk—that the royal whoremonger would still want her. But not to take her to the King was an even more perilous enterprise—she was Warwick's ward and she was who she was. No, mayhap he had little choice, after all. The King had to be told she was in his possession.

As to the little fire-eater herself? Whether he could tame her within a few days, he doubted. Better to keep a tight bridle on her and stay master of his own passions. Besides, he needed to learn more about Mistress Margery of Warwick. Feeling a stirring in his groin was not enough. The next few days would determine him one way or another. Would it not be sport indeed to make the colour come and go in her cheeks like sunshine across winter fields? And tonight, tonight he would fly her like a young unhooded falcon.

"I want her glad of my protection," he said fiercely to the empty room. "By Christ's blessed mercy, she will be glad of me before the morning comes."

* * *

Margery stealthily followed the old housekeeper down the candleless stairs. She held her breath while the latch was lifted. Out in the yard a dog snarled, but Mistress Guppy threw him an unexpected meat scrap to content him and led Margery round the back of the byre. Behind the stable the woman's grandson was waiting with a mare saddled.

"I cannot thank you sufficiently for what you are doing," Margery whispered, her breath forming vapour in the air for it was so frosty you could almost smell the cold. "Pray Heaven he will not have you punished."

"I'm not afeared," whispered the elderly woman. "We are the Earl's servants, at least until yesterday. We're helping you for my lord's sake and we pray you will tell him so."

"It shall not be forgotten." Margery leaned forward and brushed her lips against the withered cheek. "God keep you."

"You had best take this, my lady." Across the lad's palms lay a kitchen knife, its blade wrapped in a cloth.

Sticking it in her belt, Margery shivered, wondering not for the first time that night if she was actually clambering out of a cauldron of boiling water onto the burning coals below. With the frosty breath of midnight on her cheek and the blackness of the lane ahead of her, it took all her determination and courage to carry out her plan.

With a sigh, she set her face to the southwest and led the horse along the track. The rustling in the thickets and the looming shadows dismayed her. She was not used to being alone, especially at night. Without servants to protect her, the highway was as dangerous and unpredictable as the man who had captured her.

Once past the dark copse and out of sight of the manor buildings, she swung herself awkwardly into the saddle, glad of the stirrup. It was neither easy without a mounting block or a groom's cupped hands to help her, nor had she counted on using a man's saddle. Like the Kingmaker's daughters, she was used to riding side-saddle on a docile mount. Now she found it unnatural to sit astride and the mare, sensing her new rider's discomfort, misbehaved, wasting valuable moments as Margery sought to establish which of them was in control and to stop the creature turning for home.

The lad's directions served her well. She passed the village, averting her eyes from the churchyard. The horse was still testing her. It sensed her fear, reacting as much as its rider to every rustle, every moving shadow. As she rode past the last cottage, the beast shied as something hurtled through the air with a feline hiss inches from its hooves and a dog in pursuit came bounding across their path. At the sight of the larger animal, the cur stopped and growled, its hackles raised. The mare was agitated, edging sideways. Margery dug her heels desperately into its flanks and urged it on. The beast eventually complied, the dog snapping ill-naturedly at its fetlocks before it gave voice to a full-throated bark.

"Faster, faster," Margery whispered against the mane of the mare as if it could understand. She looked back but contrary to her expectations no sleepy scratching villager had staggered outside into the cold to investigate.

The road west led swiftly out into wooded country. It would be folly now to slacken pace. It was difficult holding on but she managed out of desperation for indeed the drumming hooves would rouse any rogue that slumbered within earshot. She slowed the horse to a trot as the road climbed steeply. An evil-looking wood hemmed her in on one side while on her left hand a dark hedgerow ran thickly. Ahead of her at the crest of the hill, she thought she glimpsed a figure cross the road, outlined against the sky. She could not be sure whether it was a hunched man or a beast. She reined the mare to a halt, listening intently but there was no sound. Noting where the figure had crossed, she edged the horse closer, pausing again to listen. This time somewhere in the woods ahead a twig cracked as it would at the passage of a man or, please God, a deer.

It left her with no choice but to gallop past as swiftly as she could. Not an easy task, given the steepness of the hill. She edged the horse forward at a slow trot for another fifty paces and paused again to listen. This time there was a total oppressive silence. With a prayer on her lips, she wound her left hand in the reins while her right hand drew the knife from her belt, shook it free of the clout and kept it ready.

She almost missed it—the huffle of an animal or the suppressed sneeze of a man. She knew she had to act quickly so she kneed the horse to a gallop. But as she did so, a dark wraith leapt at her as the track crested the hill and her horse reared, almost throwing her. A hand grabbed at her reins and with an oath she slashed at its fingers. A second demon leapt to pull her from the saddle. She scythed the knife wildly through the air. Something ugly but human yelped and fell back.

It took all her strength now to regain control of her horse and urge it forwards. The animal finally responded before the rogues could come at her again and she kneed the horse to make haste and rode a mile before she drew rein by a gate in the hedge. Her own breath came as fast as the mare's. Her body shook beyond her control.

The knife. Where was the knife? It must have flown from her hand as the horse had reared a second time.

"Sweet Jesu, help me," she whispered to the listening air. "I am so useless." So useless it would be a miracle if she could reach Exeter without being raped or gutted like a fish. Better to crawl under a hedge and hope the world would leave her alone. But there was one man who would not. Only the thought of a humiliating recapture by the King's Receiver made her edge the horse once more onto the road, doggedly determined despite her failing courage.

Thankfully the country was more open now and fields stretched on either side of her, silver with frost. But her discomfort was growing; the saddle chafed her skin through the rough thin hose and she longed for the warmth of her skirts. As the cruel cold crept about her neck like an icy scarf, she shivered and drew her cloak closer. Her only comfort was that she had set a little distance between herself and the new demon in her life.

Without mishap she walked the horse quietly through the next village but it was the top of the next hill that was her undoing. Chains rattling in the wind made her flesh crawl. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a scream. A dead man swung from a gibbet above her head. She could barely see him but the horrible smell of decaying flesh filled her nostrils. Retching, she dared not glance around her. The spirits of the hanged were said to haunt the gibbet, mocking the living. A wind gust shook the chains again and in panic she dug her heels into the mare's flanks. The creature took off, hurtling down the hill at too evil a pace. It stumbled in a rut and whinnied.

Margery drew rein, her own heart thumping wildly. She soothed the animal, cursing her own stupidity. All she could coax out of the horse was a hobble. Dismounting, she slid her hand along the creature's leg. From what she could tell in the darkness, it had thrown a shoe on the hill. Should she wait until dawn and beg the local smith to shoe it? But how was she going to pay him? How long would it take Stone and his men to find her?

The horse's neck was warm as she bowed her forehead against it for comfort. She had as much chance of reaching her guardian as flying on a broomstick. No money, no horse, no servants. Sniffing back the tears, she wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. She must behave like a man, yet, sweet Jesu, she could barely think.

She turned the mare loose into a meadow then resolutely set her face south-west again. She would make for the nearest religious house and fling herself on their mercy.