The Maiden and the Unicorn

by Isolde Martyn

  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 cloth, 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 leaped 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 leaped 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 forward. The animal finally responded before the rogues could come at her again and she broke into a gallop 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 southwest again. She would make for the nearest religious house and fling herself on their mercy.

  Starting like a frightened bird every time the limb of a tree cracked or the shadows shuffled, she kept walking. The cold seeped into her with every step she took and her hands grew numb within their gloves as the dawn turned the sky to mother-of-pearl.

  Her mind too was beginning to freeze with exhaustion when the rumble of hooves pounding along behind alerted her. The road was straight and two horsemen were within sight before she could scuttle across the ditch and into the hedgerow like a startled rabbit. Barely ten paces from her, they halted, black against the sky like figures from Revelation.

  The hound came panting up. It paused looking back toward the horsemen for approval before it sniffed its way over toward Margery. Stone's dog, now familiar with her scent but yet a creature used to obeying orders.

  "Sede!" Margery whispered forcefully.

  Miraculously, the foolish creature peered at her, offered an apologetic whine and the briefest tail wag before it sat down and snuffled at a tribe of fleas at the base of its spine. Margery blessed the animal and squeezed her eyes shut, praying the men would not hear her ragged breath. To be caught would be shameful yet the thought of defending herself alone on the highway for several days twisted her insides tightly.

  "We did see something but I'd swear it was a lad not a woman."

  "She's here." It was Stone's voice with an edge to it. "I can sense it. Draw your sword along the hedge."

  His prey shrank back. The sharp twigs poked cruelly against her back, resisting her further attempt to insinuate herself into the thicket as the loutish man dismounted and rasped the weapon from its sheath. The ploy worked. As the blade arced blindly near her, Margery gave a squeal of terror. The hound gave a yap of welcome and sprang across the long grass to enter the game, jumping up to lick her hand.

  Stone rode his horse across as his servant drew her trembling from the mess of hawthorn. "Good morning to you, mistress," he called cheerfully and then, peering in the twilight, observed her clothing. "Sorry, young master is it? How very sensible." He held out his gloved hand to her. "You are a brave wench but the hunt is over. I confess I prefer my sport by day but tracking a woman has lent a different nuance. Have you worn yourself out sufficiently to be compliant?"

  She slapped his hand away. Sweet Jesu, to think he had been following her all this time. "Why did you bother? What use am I to you? Pretend you never saw me and let me go free."

  He regathered his reins and frowned down at her. "What? Leave you to go alone? Never. I am but a little danger compared to what you face out here. Call a truce, you innocent, and let's breakfast at the next inn."

  Hunger was gnawing at her almost more than fury. She needed protection and her belly craved food, but no, not at his table. To listen was to be tempted by the Devil.

  "No," sh
e hissed, backing away from him unwittingly into the arms of his clod of a servant who caught hold of her around the waist. She struggled to free herself, cursing them both.

  "How is it you are not riding?" Stone's voice was sharp. "Where is the horse you stole from the King's manor?"

  "Stole!"

  "Borrowed, then."

  "She cast a shoe. I turned her loose into pasture back along the road."

  "With the saddle still attached, no doubt. By Christ's blessed mercy, mistress, you have less worldliness than a louse traveling on a pilgrim. Long, you will have to go back for it. We are not going to leave a valuable mount for someone else to pilfer."

  "Aye, sir. Shall I toss the lass up to you then, master?" Margery squirmed wildly in his arms.

  Stone's disdain was audible. "No, it will not please her. Let her walk."

  "She'll bolt, sir.. I've no stomach for chasing surly wenches across sodden fields this time in the morning."

  "Oh, very well, secure her," growled his master. He bent and extracted a length of rope from his saddlepack and tossed it to his servant. Margery shuddered at the thought of anything about her wrists again and writhed within the big man's clasp but he surprised her, looping it instead around her waist, then he reduced the slack and handed the end to his employer.

  "Must I, Long?" Stone's voice was bored. "How very tiresome. Are you sure you prefer this, mistress? I should have thought you would be footsore by now."

  Margery swore at him, an oath eavesdropped from the Warwick stables. It angered him.

  "Walk then, you shrew. I care not." He nudged his horse forward gently with his heels and the tether tensed. Appalled at her mortifying predicament, Margery threw her weight away from the rope, trying to hold back, but she was drawn after him like a slave at his horse's tail.

  "I'll never forgive you for this," she railed.

  Stone turned his head. "Forgiveness has not been asked. The choice is yours."

  Long mounted, grinning cheekily as Margery furiously jerked at the cord with both hands. Stone regarded her indifferently over his shoulder. The two men exchanged glances. The servant chuckled, touched his forelock to his master, and turned his horse back down the road.

  "May you rot in Hell, Master Stone! What have I ever done to you?" Margery shouted at her abductor but he ignored her and set his face forward.

  She stumbled behind him, the dog loyally keeping pace with her. The constant tug of the rope helped her tired body keep going, but in not choosing her own speed her balance became precarious over the ruts. Several times she staggered and nearly fell. Her feet were sore indeed for she was not accustomed to much walking and she felt the tendrils of weariness plucking at her.

  Her fury and hatred focused on his unfeeling back and tears of shame blinded her. She fell finally and stayed there weeping angrily into the frost-hard dirt, not caring. The rope slackened. She was conscious of Stone loftily waiting for her tantrum to cease while his dog licked at her hair and hands with little crooning noises.

  "You wish to ride with me now?" his voice inquired politely.

  She cursed him roundly and staggered to her feet. She let him drag her another hundred yards and then pitched her weight against the rope. He twisted in his saddle. She was faint with hunger and her stubborn energy was finally exhausted.

  His smile broadened with satisfaction. His stallion danced patiently beneath him as she dragged her feet to its side. His arm came down and coiled around her waist and with great strength he lifted her easily before him and slipped the rope from her.

  "There is no shame in surrender, lady."

  Margery leaned back against him in sheer exhaustion and gave in. She had neither energy nor mental power to fight him. If she resented his arms gently enclosing her and his thighs flanking hers, then she would fan the embers of that resentment later.

  "I am not surrendering," she told him wearily. "I shall not forget how shamefully you have treated me. My lord of Warwick will have you horsewhipped if you should fall within his hands, you have my word on it."

  "Are you grown so important? I think not." His breath was warm upon her hair.

  "He cares. He does," her voice faded to the merest whisper.

  Long caught up with them now, leading her horse. Without a rider, the mare was able to walk, picking her way delicately among the ruts.

  "If the next village has a decent smithy, shall you have her reshod there, master?"

  "Only if there is a good alehouse nearby. As long as the beast does not bruise herself further, we shall press on."

  He slackened pace at the next hamlet, bestowed upon the slumbering inn a cursory glance, and rode onward. How far they traveled, Margery could not tell. But eventually she opened her eyes as their pace slowed. A cheerful alehouse squatted within the center of the village. In one of the downstairs windows a candle burned brightly, its impudent light defying the gray morning. Smoke puffed briskly from the chimney while the smell of fresh baked bread hung ripely in the air.

  Stone dismounted and with hands on hips glanced up at the fresh garland and grinned at his servant. "Go and rouse the local smith, Long, and tell him to shoe her while we break our fast. These fine horses deserve a noble feed." His affectation of cheeriness fell across Margery's hearing like jagged hailstones.

  "Aye, master, and so do I." Long's hand slapped Margery's leg. "Are you a maid, lad, to sit there waiting to be helped down. Wake up!" Margery blinked at him, then she glanced down at her cote and hose, realization dawning that she was to be treated as a man and must shift for herself. For an instant, she was tempted to grab the reins of Stone's powerful horse and try another escape but the cursed rogue was watching her as if he sensed her thoughts. With a shrug, she swung herself out of the saddle and queued up behind her enemy at the door while Long took care of the horses. Stone gave her an amused glance over his shoulder and rapped on the door with his riding whip. It was opened by a stooped innkeeper who bowed them in as if the King and his lords had come calling.

  Inside it was as cozy as a Yuletide hall. A log fire blazed noisily in the grate and Margery followed the dog toward it, impatient to thrust her hands out to its welcome warmth. Her companion looked at her with concern before he gave the landlord his attention.

  "Mulled ale, landlord, if you please, and oatmeal pottage."

  He joined her and his dog at the hearth, drawing off his black gloves and tucking them into his belt. His hound tried to lick him but he merely bestowed a halfhearted pat upon its pelt.

  The wench looked unrepentant of the night's adventure, cold, hungry, and furious but with enough spirit left to thwart him still. The last thing he needed was her drawing attention or letting the alewife recognize she was a woman. She had hacked her lovely hair to chin length much to his displeasure and it was longer on one side than the other. But if she kept the long cloak drawn about her… yes, she might just pass as a youth providing she held her tongue. With a careful glance over his shoulder to make sure the landlord was still in the back room, Richard laid down the law. "From now on, you are my younger brother, Heaven help me! Behave out of turn and you will starve." His hand fell warningly upon her shoulder.

  The girl tried to shrug his hand away. "I'll see the King hears of every word of this," she vowed, twisting her face angrily up at him. He let his fingers bite into her shoulder and put his mouth to her ear.

  "If you tell aught of this adventure to the King's grace, he will compel me to marry you, I should not wonder."

  Her eyes widened to the size of rose nobles and her mouth dropped open. "That is ridiculous!" she snapped, then she went deadly quiet. No doubt she was realizing it was a fearful possibility as the full tilt of his outrageous suggestion hit her. He observed she shot a sideways look at him beneath her lashes as he moved around to crouch before the fire, but he made sure his grave expression left her in no mistake that he could be merely jesting. He caught her examining his left hand as he too splayed his fingers to the warmth.

  "You marry me a
nd I shall make you the greatest cuckold in Christendom," she growled through her teeth.

  "I'll see you in a madhouse first," he snarled softly, adding tersely, "and lower your voice when you have cause to speak to me. It were best you held your tongue completely, my lad. Wipe the mud off your cheek." He straightened up as the alewife brought in their breakfast.

  "Your man back there will have a good appetite on him, no doubt, sir," she exclaimed cheerfully.

  Richard beamed back at the ale wife in open friendly fashion as he seated himself at the board but made sure the look he directed at his prisoner held no warmth.

  The girl was no doubt loath to leave the fire but the aroma of the mulled ale prevented her from ignoring him. Lured to the table, she sullenly slid onto the bench opposite while the alewife set huge trenchers of fresh bread before them.

  "I'll fetch you some cheese too. You look as though you need a hearty breakfast, young sir," the woman clucked at Margery as she returned to ladle out the hot pottage.

  "My brother will not say much," Richard answered for his companion. "The boy is lovesick." He moved his leg deftly out of the way of the girl's kick.

  "Ah well," murmured their hostess, grinning at the lad's fierce scowl at his older brother. "Just as well, with pretty looks like his he might tempt an unwise fancy. A blessing on your repast, sir."

  Richard murmured a grace, adding as postscript, "And grant my little brother what he deserves." The blow caught him that time but he kicked her lightly back and started on his breakfast. She was still rubbing her shin when the good-wife set a homemade cheese before them.

  The steaming pottage and hot spiced ale revived Richard more than baiting Margery had done, seeping through his veins with agreeable warmth. With hot food warming her belly, the girl was feeling better too, no question. She shot sulky glances at him from beneath her lashes as he carved off more of the loaf for them. The golden glow of her skin was edging out the gray fatigue, or perhaps it was the rays of the young sun coming through the window slats upon them both.