The Countess smiled coldly at her surrender and instantly put an end to her prowling the barriers of her freedom. She was set to work sewing, confined to the women's quarters to await Huddleston's decision. He did not change his mind.
The women around her laughed and chattered like an aviary as they discussed marriage and nuptials, their stories growing more ribald by the minute until Margery's cheeks flamed scarlet and she threw down the embroidery in disgust. She refused to eat the supper they fetched her from the hall, knowing that it would choke her.
At dawn she heard the hunt leave to the call of horns and the baying of hounds and she pitied the poor creatures to be slaughtered for her nuptial feast. The Earl's chaplain summoned her to confession and she sat unfeeling and even hated God. At dusk she heard the hooves of the horses returning, smelled the blood, heard the laughter of the men. The kitchens were busy preparing for the banquet. She could see the tallow lights glinting behind the shutters across the yard, hear the knives being whetted.
On the morning of her marriage day, the servants rose early to finish decorating the hall and carts came creaking in, waking everyone, bringing the extra ale required for a wedding feast.
The bride grew paler and more silent by the hour. Finally it was young Anne Neville who took her by the hand and led her out into the sunlight to make her a chaplet of flowers.
"Ah, there you are." Isabella found them later. "That chaplet should be much tighter, Anne, you will have to make it again. Now, I have decided to give you my cream overgown for the wedding, Margery. I know you did not care to think what you would wear but I cannot be bothered with it anymore although it is very fine. The color will become you well. Now we must go in, Mother has had a bath filled for you, make haste before it grows cold. You shall not want to be sneezing all over us."
"I wish my lady would just drown me in it and have done."
"Margery, you must improve your attitude. The French lords will be attending this afternoon and his grace my husband is very anxious that everything will go well. We shall all be under evaluation. Now promise me you will do nothing to jeopardize our chances of raising a French loan to make his grace king."
"But your grace, I was Ned's mistress."
Isabella stamped her foot. "Oh, peace, you are saying that just to annoy me. All I can say is that Ned has done precious little for you. Think on that when Master Huddleston tries to be sweet to you."
"Sweet! Tell me the Earth is not flat, your grace."
The bath would have been enjoyable if it had not been tepid by the time they had unrobed her. The only pleasure she had out of it was when Isabella poured in some of de Commynes's gift to perfume the water. The Duchess looked askance as Margery burst into a gale of bitter laughter. The women notched up her madness to her wayward nature and clucked disapprovingly.
Her hair was easily washed and toweled dry for it barely caressed her shoulders. They arrayed Isabella's cast-off over-gown of cream silk over the forget-me-not blue brocade that had been stitched in Calais and the Duchess fastened a belt of broad silver platelets beneath Margery's breasts. One of the tiring women swiftly stitched a collar of white coney in a V that plunged to the waist of the overgrown. A triangle of blue brocade was fastened in to cover her breasts below her cleavage. Margery made to tug it higher. Isabella slapped her hand away.
"You have charms, show them."
The Duchess's attendants brushed Margery's hair until is was dry and glossy, then combed it back behind her ears. With a large bodkin they threaded a long string of seed pearls through Anne's chaplet, catching up a gauzy veil with every stitch. The one concession they allowed her was a veil over her face. It was not usual but Margery insisted. That privacy at least would be hers. She also desired to wear her hair pinned back but the Countess interfered.
"Richard Huddleston has requested you wear your hair loose as if you were a maiden."
Margery whirled around, a protest on her lips but her defiance gave way. What was the use? Within hours her whole life would cease to be within her control. She shrugged as they arranged the chaplet on her hair.
The stranger in the long silver mirror they thrust before her was beautiful. Neither radiant nor dewy-eyed but fair. She looked at herself in astonishment.
"Hmm," approved the Countess. "Who would believe the little scape-grace in our midst would polish up into so fine a bride?"
I should be happy, thought Margery, studying their cheerful faces. I have never looked so grand in all my life. If only they were not forcing me into this. The thought of what lay ahead sent a surge of panic through her. It was not only the public formal ceremony of possession that she must face, it was the private possession that would come later that made her tremble.
CHAPTER 9
The long fingers that Richard Huddleston held out to Margery in the archway of the chapel door were clean and clever like their owner. A single signet ring glittered on his third finger. Her gaze slid up from the edge of fine lawn at his wrist to where the embroidered brocade sleeve fell from his shoulder, its scalloped edge brushing her gown, ebony and amber against cream. She rejoiced in his brief frown of displeasure at her veil and ignored his hand. It was the Earl who lifted her defiant fingers and placed them in Huddleston's.
The strength and power in his touch ran through her arm and threatened her very breathing. She hardly heard the Latin, scarcely recognized the words prompted from her own lips. A heavy golden ring touched the tips of each of her fingers in turn before its owner slid it down finally over her fourth finger. She gave an involuntary gasp. It was as though he had snapped a collar around her neck.
Her guardian again fastened her indifferent fingers around a second ring and directed her hand. Her words were a whisper that barely stirred the gauze across her face. She was aware of kneeling beside Richard Huddleston on the tapestried hassocks for the chaplain's blessing before the household followed them in to mass.
After the chaplain gave the congregation a final benediction, her new husband rose and took her hand to help her stand. At last she looked up at him through her veil and trembled at the triumphant look in his eyes.
For a fleeting instant, the green magic of his gaze lifted them both from their surroundings and she knew that he had what he wanted, that his purpose had been relentless. In that infinitesimal moment, she was aware that in the surrender, as well as the loss of control of her life, there was a sense of belonging. But before she could seize upon the pleasantness of that tantalizing sensation, reality overwhelmed her; the household was holding its breath waiting to see if she would show defiance.
Distractedly, Margery lightly rested her hand upon her enemy's wrist as he led her down the chancel steps. Behind her was the rustle of her gown as it kissed its way across the flagstones; on either side of her brightly clothed people murmured but their faces were hazy. Outside, the world seemed truer, the sunshine dazzling after the shadowy chapel.
Richard Huddleston set back the fine veil but she refused to lift her face to his. He charmingly carried her fingers to his lips in time for the first of the congregation to be appeased. She was conscious of his arm supporting her, of the breeze blowing at her garments. Congratulations and smiles wafted in and out of her vision as if she were in a fever. She was in turn hugged, squeezed, kissed, and complimented until her head felt like a whirligig.
"Master Huddleston, you may lead us in to dinner."
Richard, relieved, bowed to the French emissaries standing beside the Earl—Jean Bourré, the Treasurer of France, and the Scotsman, William Mennypenny, Lord of Concressault, then he led the procession into the hall.
Garlands of golden and creamy daisies tumbled over the edge of the snowy white cloth of the high table and spilled intertwined with ivy from each iron candelabra. High above the great salt, braids of flowers radiated out to the walls from a central boss. Other blossoms glowed pink and almond upon the two long tables flanking the sides of the floor. Along the walls between the sideboards, the French servants in b
orrowed scarlet and white Neville livery stood ready.
Margery suddenly lost her distraught gaze. She stepped forward to face the servants and sank into the lowest, most gracious curtsy Richard had ever seen any woman manage. It was her thanks to them for all their labors and the servants responded by clapping until the very rafters rang.
Behind Richard, the Treasurer of France whispered to the Lord of Concressault, "Par Dieu, William, I think we are the interlopers at this wedding feast."
"Come, Richard!" The Kingmaker sounded well pleased. Together they raised Margery smoothly to her feet and made sure she had the hem of her gown outside her heel. "That was well done, my child." The Earl's compliment brought a tight smile but fleetingly to her solemn face, and behind them the wedding guests applauded politely.
The steward raised his wand and little page, scrubbed reluctantly to a shine the night before, solemnly carried forward a silver ewer of warm water perfumed with chamomile.
Envy bit Richard as Margery called the child by name, lovingly flicking the boy's cheek before she dropped the lavender-scented napkin back across his arm. There was no equal warmth for him, her bridegroom. He set his face in an appropriate half smile as they were escorted to share the high-backed settle on the dais, and then leaned back against the cushions, wondering if he had made an ill bargain.
Because of Warwick's haste, the girl had nothing but bad will toward him. He should have stood his ground against the disgruntled Earl, argued that he needed time for wooing. He raised a critical eyebrow at his new wife's stony profile, ignoring the shouts for bride ale as everyone settled themselves at the trestles. This marriage was a gamble. If the wench was truly wanton or still hankering to be King Edward's mistress, he had just bound the cuckold's horns upon his head with his own two hands.
Damn her! Where was the wit she usually used against him? That woman he could deal with, not this beauteous, lifeless effigy. It was as if the part of her he knew had withdrawn. Was marrying him so terrible to her?
The feeble notes of shawms and small-pipes, barely audible against the beat of the tabors and the laughter, matched his weakening ardor. He needed to reawaken the courage in her, convince himself that the sacrifice he had made for this day's work was worthwhile.
Beside him, Margery was wondering how she could be so conscious of another's every breath and gesture. Her infuriating bridegroom was deliberately keeping his right arm behind her, his hand resting lightly on the cushions. She kept edging forward, her body taut as a lute string. Let him know she despised him. He might have bought her body but he did not possess her soul. True, he was behaving with decorum. Another man in his place might have let his hand adventure, but Richard Huddleston seemed indifferent. No, not entirely.
"I should have told you earlier how well your gown becomes you," he murmured when on either side of them the guests were distracted.
"Unfortunately, like me, it is used," she responded wryly and lifted her face to challenge his. But the gaze of the man who had demanded six manors for the doubtful joy of bedding her rose tardily from the low edging of her bodice, as if he intended her to observe his journey of discovery. He did not touch her; he did not need to. She felt the slow caress of his glance slide sensually up her neck and linger upon her mouth. He compelled her to recognize the controlled desire in his eyes. Struggling against the stirrings of her body, she jerked her head higher, defying his attempt to strip away her armor.
"Do you say that to discomfort me, lady?" The green eyes did not falter but it was as if the murky depth of his gaze suddenly cleared, like water letting though the sunlight. "I have found from experience that used shoes do not pinch."
She could not answer him. His meaning brought the high color rushing into her pale face. Having scored a touch, he withdrew from further verbal combat, his lips closed in a tight smile of satisfaction.
Margery took a deep breath. Alone with him, she might have tipped the soup bowl over his lap or hurled the cockatrice, could she but lift it. Sweet Jesu, before the dawn this man she could not fathom would pleasure himself within her body. Perilously, she wondered what it would be like to tangle her fingers in his hair and pull his mouth down to hers, what it would feel like to have him enter her.
Astonished at her imaginings, she gave herself a shake. She would endure Purgatory rather than submit to this man who cared not one jot about her feelings.
Warwick was watching her. He caught her chin, forcing her to look at him while Huddleston's attention was elsewhere. "Child, cease your defiance. You will one day thank me for this day's work. Drink, it will help you, and watch the entertainment. These people are here for your pleasure."
That was a lie. He was trying to impress the French lords as if the tumblers, jugglers, and a dancing dog could match the lavish feasting he had displayed in London, banquets to rival Ned's at Westminster. She distanced herself again, and across her the men verbally dissected yesterday's hunt as they ate its prizes. Later, she tried to be gracious as roasted swans and peacocks, refeathered in their intricate plumage on elaborate platters, were set before her. Yet the good wines tasted sour, the food like waste upon a joiner's floor.
As the light in the hall grew dimmer, the servants lit the cressets on the walls and the candelabras of Paris wax above the salt. Love songs and scurrilous ballads suffered from bawdy interruptions as the claret and hypocras flowed with abundance. The quips came at them continuously. She was conscious of Richard Huddleston parrying them with good nature for she was incapable of making answers. Her inner fear grew as the sweet custards, tarts, and wafers appeared. The luscious cherries shone with sensuousness. The honeyed fruits, nestling among nuts and comfits, mocked her discomfort.
At last the chief cook himself set the subtlety, the crown of the feast's gems, before the bride and groom. There was an embarrassed silence as the guest absorbed the presence of the tiny unicorn with a gilded horn resting its head upon a maiden's lap. It was inappropriate. Unicorns might be caught only by maidens, which distinctly disqualified Margery. Her unicorn-trapping days were considered by all to be long past. Ankarette gave an embarrassed cough that threatened to turn into a giggle.
Margery hastened to thank the proud master cook and Huddleston leaned forward and gave the man his hand.
"It is very… flattering," Margery added huskily. Indeed, it was exquisite and she felt like weeping at the honest perfection of each sugary fold. Who had inspired this kitchen genius to create such a divine but tactless sculpture? Had Master Huddleston suggested this, trying to delude himself and others that she came unsullied?
"Am I supposed to be the unicorn?" he asked gravely, with a raise of an eyebrow.
"It is impolitic but rather delightful," exclaimed Isabella.
"But Margery likes unicorns," Anne protested.
"Oh, it was your idea, was it Anne?" The Duke of Clarence smirked and the grins of the adults broadened farther.
"I thought it was a good notion for a wedding," insisted Anne, her neck and cheeks flushing scarlet with embarrassment. "You like it, do you not, Margery?"
The bride turned solemn blue eyes upon the fifteen-year-old. "As God is my witness, my lady, I like it better than anything in the whole feast and I thank you for your inspiration." Her voice was choked with an emotion she could not adequately voice.
Richard watched Anne Neville's mouth curl with pleasure and, turning, saw love and friendship for her in Margery's misting eyes.
"Master Huddleston, do you like unicorns?"
He dragged his gaze reluctantly from Margery's face to smile kindly at the younger girl. "My lady, I have never seen a unicorn I liked better."
"Well, now we have done that conversation to death," exclaimed the Duke, "perhaps we can think about putting the bride to bed. You have feasted us right royally, my lord."
The Countess of Warwick sniffed, sending her son-in-law a telling look that would have made a more sober man anxious, but she did glance at Margery and then at her lord questioningly.
> Richard felt the cold young woman beside him tremble.
The Earl flicked the bride's cheek and turned toward the French envoys. "What say you, messeigneurs?"
The Scots lord answered. "Och, dinna rob this table too soon of such beautiful young women. For sure I wish that I was their age once again."
"I wish I was your age, my good lord, I would be rich indeed if I had your wisdom," Margery told him without a trace of flattery.
"Dinna fret, sweet lady, you are far cleverer than I will ever be, for you can grow a child within you. What man can perform so sweet a miracle?"
Richard sensed Margery quiver. She snapped her lips shut.
"Ha, but what woman can do it alone, mon ami?" Jean Bourré slapped the table, his cheeks rosy with the wine, and raised his goblet to Richard. "I drink to you, young man. May you earn yourself a son from this night's labors and may your wife give us a little miracle nine months hence."
Richard inclined his head in courteous thanks but he was heartily wishing it was all over. His irritation was growing. God knows it was not as if Margery was a virgin. The whole hall knew that. He was looking forward to discovering her royal bedchamber skills but the truth of it was that the little witch just did not want to surrender.
The Duke did not help. "She looks fit to swoon. Have done, my lords, let's put her to bed. Come, Meg, bestir yourself. You have to keep awake tonight."
Richard tightened his arm about her, apprehensive that it would not take much to make her run away and shame herself and him. At least the Earl, Heaven be thanked, was set to loosen the girths of the situation. Warwick rose smiling, his hand firmly on Margery's shoulder. "All in good time. Another song!" He snapped his fingers to summon one of the counter-tenors who had performed earlier.
The Maiden and the Unicorn Page 13
