The Maiden and the Unicorn

by Isolde Martyn

  "You should say prayers that she survived." Margery felt like a pious old dowager as she said it.

  "I do, Meg, I do, but your father has some secret vow to see his blood wear the crown. I have to have a son. He will lose all interest in making me king if I do not. Well, do not stare at me as though I had two heads, say you will help me."

  "Have you tried to talk about this with Bella?"

  "She will not listen. You know how she flinched when I tried to put my arm around her last week in the hall."

  "You had drunk a firkin dry and your breath was enough to set fire to thatch, your grace."

  "Very well, I accept your rebuke." He smiled, a man's smile not without some charm, but he was a pale reflection of his brother. "What I have always liked about you, my dear cousin—or should I call you sister now?—is that you have no regard for rank. Look, Meg, you are experienced and I want you to help me improve my… well, you know what women like. If you could tell me what Ned did with you—" He broke off, staring at the sleep-tousled hair that still barely touched her shoulders and her attempts to keep her cloak modestly across her unbelted overgown.

  Jesu, I must be really looking the wanton, thought Margery. I think I have just made a mistake that would compare with Pharaoh's crossing of the sea in pursuit of Moses.

  He was undressing her with his eyes. She drew her cloak demurely about her, scowling at him. "Ned was an exception, your grace, and I spent years doing penance for what amounted to very little practical experience. All I can do is promise you that I will speak to Isabella." Her tone grew brisk. "Now, have you given further thought to your brothers' messages?"

  "Ned and Dickson sent you to persuade me, so do so! Or do you only specialize in kingly lovers?"

  "I specialize in husbands." Margery felt like giving his ducal milk-white cheek a hefty slap.

  "I specialize in husbands," he mimicked. "Well, I am a husband and you are a cut loaf. What are you scared of? Whelping my brat? Think of the irony of it. A boy half Plantagenet and half Neville and your father will be powerless to use him because you are born out of wedlock. By St. George, the old fellow's face would be worth a king's ransom." He grinned. "That's why I waited for tonight until old Huddleston was back in Valognes to talk to you. If any of those peahens had awoken, they would have thought it was him."

  Huddleston was back! If this came to his ears… Margery was tempted to whack the Duke very hard. "My lord, firstly, if you were not a duke and, secondly, stronger than me, I should squeeze you out of that window headfirst and hope you landed head down in the thorniest rosebush."

  "Jesu, you have spirit, Meg, I could not have imagined Bella or Anne saying that to me or having a tumble with Ned like you did." He regarded her with the expression of a hopeful wolfhound. "Let's do it now, can we? I have had to be celibate too plaguey long with her parents in tow. We could lie down on my cloak."

  "Let us talk about what I want to talk about and then I will clout you."

  Instead of letting her brisk cheerfulness run off him like droplets on oiled leather, his eyes narrowed to malevolent slits. "Clout me? I will get you dismissed if you do, dear Meg, even if you are the Kingmaker's love-brat and, what's more, I will certainly have you banished from my wife's service if you do not promise to unbar her door to me tomorrow night." His tone hardened further. "I can, you know. If I let drop to my mother-in-law that you have been making improper suggestions to me." It was outrageous but the Countess would be only too willing to make mischief out of the insinuation.

  His eyes leered. "I could make you, you know, if I really wanted to." His fingers flickered out jeeringly at her and she jerked her head away from his touch, thankful it was a sober twenty-one-year-old she was dealing with, not a drunken one. He was not jesting and he scared her. The envy of Ned that she had seen incubating ever since he had come to Warwick's household as a page would make him ruthless in doing anything to anger his brother—taking her by force would be a petty revenge. How could she say no to the Duke of Clarence without rubbing more salt into his offended vanity?

  "It is tempting and I am honored by your request for help from me, but I could not betray Bella's trust. Now," she added cheerfully, rising to her feet and folding her arms in a businesslike manner, "have you thought about your brother's offer? If you were to leave my father, he would be forced to come to terms with Ned and England would not be split by war. As it is, there will be a great number of the common folk summoned to bear arms and many will be killed when they should be home working on their farms and looking after their families."

  "What was that? Did you say something?" There was an iciness in his voice now. He rose to loom over her. "Mayhap your luscious naked body straddling my loins might improve my hearing." His laugh was sibilant, a hiss of menace as he reached out a teasing hand to her hair.

  She recoiled as if he had strung her. Her eyes were wide. Oh, she had been so deceived by his boyishness. If she could draw her dagger from the scabbard on her calf before he seized her… She shrank back against the cold stone and edged along the wall toward the stairs.

  He watched her and then with a swift lunge he gripped her wrist and twisted her hand behind her back. She gave a yelp. "I am going to be King of England, my sweet bastard, and Louis of France is going to help me with arms and money. You will see." Then he laughed and let go of her. "By St. George, Meg, I think I have made you afraid of me."

  "Yes." She growled, rubbing her wrist where he had bruised her.

  "Yes," he echoed. "Oh, breathe out, cousin, you see you must stop treating me like some rebellious codling."

  "Well, you have definitely convinced me." She swallowed her fear but would not look at him.

  "By St. George, I think I prefer your wit to your humility." He stepped back from her, his arms raised in mock surrender. "There, I shall not torment you further. You want to know what I think about your lover's magnanimous message, Mistress Carrier Pigeon?" His face was cruel in the tiny frantic flame. "If all the fires in Hell were lit under Ned, it would content neither your father nor I."

  She crossed herself. "That is a damnable thing to say."

  "I mean it, Meg. Ned can go—" His grin was a demon's, his gesture emphatic.

  "I see. If that is your final word, your grace—"

  "I see," he mimicked. "Yes, so there's an end to it. Now about the other matter. Tomorrow night."

  "Ye—" She froze. They both did. It had sounded like the accidental scrape of metal against the wall.

  He put his finger to his lips. They waited. He knelt noiselessly and pinched the candle out. They both heard the dissound of someone moving farther down the staircase.

  Margery cursed under her breath.

  The Duke edged around to the window and glanced out of it from the side so that he could not be seen. They waited but only the whispering of the wind through the newly leafed trees reached them.

  He let out his breath in a long sigh. "Do not worry. Let us wait for a few more minutes and then I will go down alone. Here's the flint. Keep the candle with you for the stairs, but snuff it out before you reach the courtyard. If it is safe for you to follow, I shall give you an owl hoot."

  At another time she would have laughed. His owl hoots took her back to the days of hide-and-seek at Sheriff Hutton. Yet now, Jesu, what a different world! Here he was, attainted, his dukedom lost, meeting her virtually on a rooftop in some insignificant French town, and she a bride in name only. "Till tomorrow, and be sure to unbar Bella's door." He arranged his hood so that it hid his face and then curled his fingers in a mocking wave before disappearing into the black gloom of the staircase. The owl hoot finally came.

  Some sixth sense of impending disaster sent a shiver of fear down her spine as she felt her way down. A horn lantern would have been a blessing. The candle flame dazzled her as she edged her way down each step and sent horrific shadows everywhere. A rat streaked across her bare foot. The surprise of it nearly pitched her down the twisted hollow stem of the tower. A faint sound
made her shudder. She faltered and a draft blew the flame away, leaving her in utter darkness.

  Richard stepped back into the shadow of the porter's lodge as a figure, far too tall to be a woman, came stealthfully out of the tower and slid in and out of the shadows like a wraith. It stopped, looked about, then, turning, incredibly made the cry of anight owl.

  A tight smile twisted Richard's mouth. Curious, he watched the man disappear into the shadows. What mischief was George of Clarence up to? A further movement drew his attention. Someone else was lurking in the shadows watching. Richard edged through the dark on the opposite side of the courtyard toward the tower door and waited.

  A third but slighter figure let itself out and stood for a second giving Richard sufficient time to glimpse a skirt. As the woman reached out to tug her hood further forward, his heart gave a painful lurch. He knew that gesture. Christ, his untouched, king-handled bride had been meeting with the Duke.

  Fury fizzed through his veins like the fiery local apple brew. As quiet as a cat, he edged swiftly around the other side of the courtyard so that he was now behind Margery. She was moving slowly along the logis wall. As she reached the next doorway, his hand slid down over her mouth and he yanked her back against the stone ribs of the narrow porch.

  "Do not dare scream," he said quietly in her ear. To his amazement, she slackened within his grasp instantly, but her heart was thumping as wildly as a captured rabbit's against his sleeve. He slowly removed his hand but did not let go of her. He felt her breath struggle to become even again.

  "I thought you were in Honfleur," she whispered with matter-of-fact cheerfulness as if they had met at supper.

  "Obviously. What were you and your high-ranking friend doing up there—sketching the constellation of Cason vellum, or were you teaching him how to launch a broomstick?"

  Witch, that's what she was. The wench deserved a broomstick across her naked rump. God knows he was a fool for yoking himself to her.

  She was trying to wrench her arm free. "How clever of you. It's the way you point the handle."

  "What!"

  "The twigs too, there is an art." He responded with a growl that drew a swift torrent of words from her. "Sir, I can explain but I am not going to. You almost scared me to death jumping out on me then. What are you doing? Spying on me?"

  He felt her cross her arms between them, hugging her shoulders. The little wretch was chilled.

  Spoken aloud, his answering curse would have scorched her ears. Richard was amazed that he could answer calmly. "You think innocent outrage makes the best buckler? Someone is in the courtyard watching us."

  She stiffened within his arms. "Oh, Jesu! So it was not you." Damn her! The presence of some unseen onlooker bothered her more than his did.

  "Do as I say, Margery. Take my hand." He appreciated the fact that she did not argue. A cold little hand fumbled and half wrapped its fingers around the warmth of his. Her trust blew away some of his anger. He wished there was enough light so he could read her face.

  Without warning, his grip tightened. He hauled her out across the courtyard at a run. Margery gave a shriek of protest as she nearly tripped over her hem, which set the dogs off in the kennels. She was forced to race along with him, snatching up her skirt with her free hand. He stopped abruptly at the entrance to the garden and her momentum carried her straight into his arms. He lifted her high above the ground despite her protests and whirled her around as if she were no heavier than a babe.

  "Put me down!" she protested, not caring who heard.

  "Are you befuddled yet?"

  "No. Oh, no, not more, stop, stop." He spun laughter out of her.

  She hung on to him dizzily, trustingly, as he set her back on her feet. Delightfully bewitching, his and not his. She had been up in the tower with the future king of England. The agony of anger twisted the knife in him but reason prevailed. He had to convince whoever was watching that he had just come down the tower staircase, that he had been up there with her.

  The new moon was hidden but the little light escaping through the clouds showed her hair wantonly tossed. If I could trust her, he thought, this would be magic.

  "It seems we are having an assignation. I wonder if that has convinced whoever is watching." He hoped there was a sackload of indifference in his tone. Had she wriggled close against him, she would have known better.

  "Can you see where he is?" she asked, tapping her fingers for attention against his breast.

  He turned her slightly. It would be easy to lie but he was sure whoever it was still skulked. "I think so." He could see her parted lips clearly in the silver light, moist, waiting. "No doubt this will displease you, Margery, but I am going to kiss you. You had better not resist if we want to deceive whoever it is watching."

  She curled her lips inward for a second, deciding. "Very well, it sounds sensible."

  Sensible! She was about to find out how wondrously sensible. He brushed his lips against her, gently this time. Amazingly her soft mouth opened under his and he had the entry he desired. She tasted as innocent as she had a week ago. A tempting sweetness that could make him drunk for her. No telltale smell of recent carnality, no dampness on her gown. His relief was a pleasure in itself.

  For a moment she seemed to melt within his arms but when he moved his hands discreetly down over her cloak and splayed his fingers around her buttocks urging her toward him, she tensed, trying to draw back without making it obvious to whoever was observing. Straining back from him, she pushed against his chest with her forearms, unaware that doing so only pressed the lower half of her body tantalizingly against his groin. Regretfully he drew back from her, lifting a hand to smooth her hair back from her face.

  He ached to be able to heave her into his arms, carry her across into the garden, and plunge himself into her soft white body. If he had his sleeping chamber to himself, that might have been a possibility.

  "Is he still there?" Her voice was businesslike with a delicious hint of breathlessness. Her fingers brushed at her skirts as if she was embarrassed.

  "Don't look around. Here." Swiftly he thrust his hands inside her cloak upon her waist to turn her. By Christ, she had nothing on beneath her gown!

  Margery stiffened, aware from his oath that he was about to personify a Deadly Sin—either Lust or Anger. She trembled, but being Huddleston, he surprised her. For an instant longer, she felt his fingers tighten and then he removed his hands as if she had burned him.

  His voice was stern and astonishingly controlled. "I ought to beat you, really I should. Your honor and mine, does it mean nothing?"

  "Sir, I have not had any honor for so long that I scarce remember what it feels like. I have not been unfaithful to you if that is what is bothering you."

  "Bothering me? Oh, hardly bothering me." He thrust the knife home farther. "If you have any wits at all, you'd hardly be unchaste with our marriage sheets scarce creased. Let us try the mettle of this spy." He gripped her upper arm and urged her toward the garden.

  "No, I need to go back. If I am missed they will think—"

  He halted, amazement in his tone. "You are a married woman."

  "But…" She was afraid of him, of herself. She was cold and tired and confused.

  "You are lawfully allowed to be with me. Whatever you were doing with Clarence is sanctioned by my being here now. With good fortune, whoever is spying on you will think that it was I who was up there playing broomsticks with you and, with luck, we shall have suffocated this rumor before it has time to draw breath."

  He was right. His unexpected presence and swift action had saved her from both gossip and suspicion.

  "It is very kind of you."

  "Kind!" he exclaimed incredulously as he tugged her between the huge manicured hedges. "Anyway, why are you so fearful of me? There is a heavy dew and puddles on the ground."

  "What of that?" she asked nervously.

  "You fear I might tumble you on some gritty, dirty apology for a mede? Strangle you more like, and I p
refer my pleasures in a bed. Come, let us entice our spy onward."

  There was no sound save the swish of her gown and the crunch of his boots upon the gravelly path between the boring neatness of the ankle-high herbs. They passed the turf seat beneath the rose arch, squatting dew-spangled, pretending to be a meadow bank.

  "If we stand in the shadows under that apple tree, we can see if anyone has followed."

  She followed him obediently. "Are you cold?" He offered her the bargain of the shelter of his cloak along with his arm but she solemnly shook her head.

  "What were you doing out here, sir?"

  "It is a strange world, mistress. I am a married man and yet there was no wife warming my bed. Unpardonable of me perhaps but it left me with a certain restlessness."

  "You were out seeking a woman?"

  He did not answer. His cold silence was as unpleasant as the damp dirt beneath her feet. Margery felt guilty at having asked. "How long must we stay here?" she asked testily.

  "As long as it pleases me." There was danger in that voice.

  "Sir, I—" She stopped instantly. "Look!" A shadowy figure was blatantly staring out across the garden, seeking them. They both tensed.

  "Sir! Master Huddleston, are you here?" The lilt of a western dialect reached them. Richard stepped out onto the path. "Ralph?"

  A man in brigandine and sallet, a sword in his hand, came closer. "Oh, sir, it is you. We thought—"

  "Too much time thinking. You should have been out of the guardhouse in an instant. I could have boiled an egg by now waiting for you."

  Margery moved out of the shadow unexpectedly and slid her hand through Richard's arm.

  "Aye, Master Huddleston." The soldier touched his hand to his forehead respectfully. "I beg pardon for disturbing you. I did not know it was you who had a woman with you."