The Maiden and the Unicorn (8 page)

Soon, he vowed, very soon.

* * *

Margery smiled in relief as she heard his angry feet descend the stairs. The man was infuriating but at least he was honourable. He had restored her dagger to her and at each of the manors where he had taken possession, she had been given privacy and Matthew Long had slept guard outside her door. True, there had been a clash between them when he had insisted Long take the scissors to even up her hair and she had exacted an enjoyable vengeance in casually telling him she remembered him now—one of the youths who had held the wager with the King.

She could swear the words had drawn blood. His gaze had been as hard as rocks beneath green lichen. Serve him right!

With a shake of her head, Margery turned her thoughts again to the King and what she must say to him. Ned was in her debt for all her six years' penance. Perhaps he might find her a place in one of his sisters' households or even at his own court. She needed a position that would provide a roof over her head until the Nevilles returned from Calais and the Earl came out of his sulks and made his peace.

Without a powerful protector like the Earl of Warwick, her past reputation and lack of parentage made her open game for any man. When he had sent her to the nunnery, Warwick had told her plainly that she had destroyed any chance of a respectable marriage. And she would do anything rather than become a courtesan, trying to please some man the whole time. Jesu, no, such a life would be just as much an enslavement as marriage. That left becoming a nun but... She sighed, yes, her whole future would hang in the balance at Southampton but at least she would be free of Richard Stone.

* * *

Riding into the city of Exeter next morning, Margery felt like a child going to a fair for the first time. The city, being the greatest in the shire and a river port besides, was far larger than Warwick or Middleham and much more exciting. It was smoky, noisy and full of dung from the horses of the King's army, but stretching down the hill to the Exe Valley in one direction and towards the towers of the cathedral, proudly rising above the gables, there were shops and stalls everywhere.

The apprentices, catching the sleeves of passersby as they touted for their masters, were cheerful. The King, one lad explained in a soft Devon brogue as he grabbed hold of the bridle on Margery's horse to slow her down, had paid his army when they reached Exeter and the soldiers, their quarry fled, had spent lavishly in the shops and alehouses. Clever Ned, thought Margery, it was a subtle way to woo a city that had hitherto been partial to the Kingmaker's cause. Fortunate Exeter! Today its streets were mired with excrement instead of blood.

The girl within Margery could not help stealing her eyes sideways at the sight of all those trinkets and ribbons as she rode along following Stone. Each shop board was groaning with the weight of its wares. How wonderful to have a bottomless purse on your belt. But sensibly she set such thoughts aside. Material possessions had meant little to her, for all she had ever owned had been supplied by the Countess and, besides, it would not do to let Master Stone notice her interest.

He saw his men bestowed at a prosperous hostelry in a lane near the guildhall. He was about to pluck her from her horse when he caught himself in time and slapped her knee playfully instead with his glove. "Come, little brother, we'll make more progress on foot."

Curiosity compelled her to accompany him though she tossed her head defiantly before she followed him into the throng, picking her way with care around the muddy puddles of yesterday's rain.

Several stalls and shops sold cloth. Stone surveyed them all from the outside and then pushed her into the largest which was set halfway down the hill.

Margery stood dazed, discovering a veritable cave of forbidden treasure. Bales of material lay horizontal against the wall. Silk, tisshews of gold and silver, brocades and velvets glowed in hues as rich as gems against the duller camlet and musterdevelys. Sable, marten and coney furs for tippets, collars and trims sat coiled upon a side board like strange animals and a basket of follybells nestled beside a painted wooden box of leather points already cut into lengths for tying hose to doublets. A merchant's wife, richly apparelled, was choosing buttons to edge her cuffs from the samples the merchant had tipped out onto the counter. Margery staunched her envy. It would be wonderful to afford such luxuries and take her time choosing.

Richard had his lie ready. "Some cloth for our sister's gown, good sir. She is of my youngest brother's colouring here." The merchant pointed up questioningly to a creamy white damask but his customer shook his head. "By the Saints, not that. She is too much a rapscallion to keep such a gown clean. No, white is...", he paused, grinning at Margery, "inappropriate, don't you agree, lad?" The girl's hand curled into a fist but she kept her hand to her side. No question that she itched to clout him for mocking her for her lost chastity yet again. Richard was enjoying the sport. His mother had often sent him a long shopping list of items to send back to her in Cumbria so he was quite used to dealing with haberdashers and clothiers but buying for the young woman at his elbow spiced this occasion.
 

Tantalising Margery's womanly appetite when she was forced to play a youth's role as well as trying to scorn him was maybe unkind but Richard sensed there was no danger. The merchant and his apprentice were oblivious to the tension between their customers, nor did they even suspect Margery's gender. No one had. She played her role well, even walking with a slight swagger, aware that she could bring down the wrath of the local churchmen if her disguise was discovered.

"Then if she is hard on her clothes, sir, would you consider something darker? Is it for summer or for winter apparel?"

"A March gown that she may wear into early summer. Her eyes are as blue as the lad's and her hair this hue." He tugged at her hair and she jerked her head back with a fierce scowl.

An apprentice tumbled a bale of honey velvet across the board but Stone shook his head and Margery bit her lip regretfully. Glancing sideways at her, his thin mouth lifting into a smile, he pointed to a pale blue, the colour of forget-me-nots and the apprentice sped up a ladder and brought it down. Richard held it against Margery's embarrassed face and shook his head.

"I think our sister might be pleased with this, brother," she said as huskily as she could, surprising him for it was the first time she had dared to speak in public. Pure pleasure flooded through him and he beamed down at her with seeming indulgence.

"Too costly. Another time, perhaps." Oh, the wench was disappointed. The corners of her mouth curled down and she turned away, pretending to inspect a twist of silken braid.

Richard finally settled on a well-dyed midnight blue velvet. It was a practical choice, the colour would not show dirt and would sufficiently suit her but it would give her a graver mien and he was at pains to make sure the King saw her differently now. Margery was most put out and ignored him as he made the other necessary purchases on her behalf, reddening when she heard him ask for cloth for underlinen.

"They were all so beautiful," she sighed after they left the shop. He smiled to himself. Her admission was a minor victory.

"I agree," he answered amiably. "The forget-me-not was excellent, too excellent."

"How so?"

He shook his head at her and would not answer.

"Now we need a compliant tailor and a good lie to tell him. How opportune it rained last night." The tale that she had been sodden to the skin came easily to his lips when he knocked at the door of a pair of tailors whom the clothier had recommended.

Margery followed him upstairs to their dwelling above the storeroom where she shyly removed the cloak and looked suitably embarrassed as the two men cast skilled eyes over her. "A low neckline, sir?"

Stone shook his head, his eyes critically studying Margery's upper anatomy. "No, cut it high." Her eyebrows rose in surprise but he turned away, nursing his laughter to himself as he set half the payment upon the table.

The men, red-eyed, their fingers calloused at the tips, brought the gown to the inn next morning to make adjustments and by sunset it was finished. Richard insisted on seeing Margery in it before he paid the remainder. He imperiously strode into the chamber and dismissed the pair to wait outside. They left, their looks knowing.

"They think you are my mistress." But Margery, he observed, was too delighted with the gown to pick up his verbal gauntlet.

Tight sleeves with turned back cuffs encased her arms without a crease and the rest of the fabric had been cleverly cut to fit her body closely at the waist. Instead of hiding her shapeliness, the high-necked gown emphasised it. Not exactly what Richard had intended; instead of helping her flaunt her obvious charms, the neatly stitched fabric swept down over sweet curves tormenting the discerning eye. He groaned inwardly. If he found her so tempting, how many others would? She looked delicious standing there, openly delighted like a child. The only solution would be to drape the folds of a old-fangled wimple headdress across her shoulders. That would hide the upper slope of those jaunty little breasts. And after all, that short hair needed to be hidden. Yes, that might conceal her charms from the King's lusty eyes. He would have to consult the experts.

She looked up finally and trapped his expression of indulgence. Surprise flickered briefly in her eyes. Instantly Richard's visor of inscrutability snapped down over his face. He resorted in self-defence to playing games with her again. His grave perusal made her blush angrily as he walked around her, his forefinger stroking his chin as he inspected the stitching like some guildmaster.

"Well?" she demanded. "Do you send it back? Or do you wish to examine my new undergarments too?"

Richard let his expression lighten somewhat. It pleased him when she met his verbal assault with equal strength.

"I like the gown well enough. A low neck certainly would give more pleasure to me since you inquire."

"But you said—"

"What I
say
concerns you, not what I
think."
He moved around behind her again.

"Do you always speak in riddles?" she hissed over her shoulder.

"You have noticed," he observed dryly.

"If I have grey hairs by the time I see the King's grace, it will be from having spent a week in your insufferable company."

He stopped his perambulations. "And yet I think I have done you less harm in one poor week than King Edward did." His words were softly spoken but the truth was intended to hurt her. He could not help himself. It salved the frustration that was in him, the bitter gall that she had lain with the King. "Is that not so?" He thrust out a hand and grabbed her chin. "Is that not so?"

Her eyes did not falter before his. She met his anger with fire of her own. "Perhaps, but who are you to be my judge?"

"Who, indeed?" He tossed her face up and let go of her.

"I do not know why fortune perversely tossed me in your path, King's Receiver, but I swear the time is coming when you will rue the day you abducted me."

* * *

By the time they left Exeter, Richard had hired a maidservant for his prisoner and lit a candle in the cathedral to Richard of Chichester, his namesaint, in the hope that his enterprise might prosper. He had also found Margery an old-fashioned wimple. She had put it on in great amusement, exclaiming that she must look like Chaucer's Wife of Bath. While it fell in dewlaps concealing her firm breasts, her captor was appalled to see that it only emphasised the wench's fresh beauty. Surrounded by the snowy folds, her large blue eyes compelled attention, lending her the heady forbidden allure of an available nun. He gave up at that point.

Margery's consistent veneer of innocence, when he knew that she had writhed beneath the loins of the King, nightly robbed Richard of his sleep; the urge to discover for himself her full capability exercised his imagination. Only iron control kept him sane within a pace of her. He resorted to courtesy and so a careful truce hung in the air between them as he grew increasingly concerned as to what report she would make of him to the King. That was the trouble with unplanned campaigns—he had made too many mistakes already.

They entered Southampton through the handsome Bargate but prior knowledge of the horror that the seaport contained led Richard to bestow his party at an inn on High Street, nestling beneath the wall that flanked the eastern moat, as far from the castle as he could arrange. It had been easier to find accommodation than he had expected; the army's weapons carts were already trundling north to London and most of the men had been sent back to their shires. My lord Gloucester's retainers were much in evidence at the castle but the King had chosen to exploit the less draughty house of Southampton's prosperous mayor. There Richard endured an uncomfortable audience informing his royal employer of his intent, which left him even more desperate to know Margery's true feelings towards her former lover.

Her distracted air over the last few days argued that she had been giving the matter much thought. It was her lack of bitterness which bothered Richard. Had she set the undeserving royal whoremonger up in a little shrine in some corner of her heart? In his opinion, the King, having seduced her, had shown as much sensitivity as any village clod. In other words, his royal grace had completely washed his hands of her. So why did she not hate her precious Ned?