The Maiden and the Unicorn

by Isolde Martyn

  "I am Margery Huddleston." It was the first time she had called herself so.

  "God's truth!" You could almost hear the sudden slack in the man's jaw. "By Our Lady, mistress, I did not mean to imply that… Your pardon, sir, I—"

  "Did you see anyone else?"

  "I thought I heard other footsteps towards the chapel. We went that way first and…"

  "And?"

  "And we heard a woman laughing a few moments ago. That's all, sir." He touched his helmet in deference and hastily departed.

  "Fortunately Ralph gossips like any woman. It will be all over the hall by the end of breakfast that Master and Mistress Huddleston were responsible for waking half the household. Such is the stuff of courtly romances, except that we are unfortunately married." Huddleston's amusement was genuine.

  "Please, will you see me back, sir? My feet are frozen and I have had more excitement than I care for."

  His warm fingers touched her hand. He must have felt the gooseflesh. Before she could stop him, he had an arm beneath her knees and had swung her up into his arms. The sensation was pleasant and to have protested would have been ungracious. He had. after all, saved her reputation. She slid an arm up about his neck as if they had been doing that sort of thing for years. As long as it gave the situation some normality, it blew out the fire that was set to light the blaze within her.

  "You see, I did not spy on you." She felt his voice vibrate in his chest next to her elbow.

  "I believed you," she answered.

  "Why?" His voice was cool. She did not dare look at him but she felt the tickle of hair at the nape of his neck on the back of her wrist.

  "Because from the little I know of you I do not believe you would do anything that dishonorable. But what's more to the point, do you believe me?"

  "I can tell that you have not lain with the Duke." She was relieved at the absolution but he was not finished with her. "You cannot, Margery. While you hold me at arm's length, you dare not. I should know any child you conceived was not mine."

  By the time he set her down at the entrance nearest the women's staircase and opened the door for her, she was grateful but resolute.

  "Lady." One hand detained her, gripping her upper arm, and he examined her face as she knew he would. He must have felt her trembling. "My patience with you is as shredded as a beggar's blanket. I shall see you back to the women's quarters now, but tomorrow you had better have a good excuse for the night's adventure. We shall talk of this at length, believe me."

  "As you wish, sir. Please, may we proceed?"

  "My pleasure," he said coldly. "Shall Warwick's daughter take my hand or would she prefer me to carry her up the stairs?" Margery hesitated, then set her hand in his. There was pleasurable reassurance in his touch but then her hand quivered within his; she knew the upper passageway was lit. Now he would truly see her shameful state, her hair tangled, her gown loose. At the door to the women's chamber, she hesitated before going in, choosing her words carefully.

  "Thank you for what you did," she whispered.

  Richard's gaze was stern. He had missed nothing and his voice was frosted with disapproval. "It was entirely selfish, believe me. I have no wish to wear the horns. At least have a care for my reputation by preserving yours."

  "It shall not happen again, believe me, sir," she answered stiffly, her eyes downcast with seeming meekness.

  But before she could escape, Richard took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to the flickering flames of the wall sconce. It was necessary to play the master, to make her realize his lordship over her was not make-believe.

  The wench would have pulled defiantly away had he not held her like a willful mare. What had she accused him of? Treating her like a horse? Well true, she had been bought but he still had to win her trust so she would let him ride her, and Richard wanted her writhing with delight when he took her. By Christ's blessed mercy, he would make her body yearn for his hands upon her again.

  "Margery." The insistence in his voice made her raise her eyes reluctantly like a mischief maker caught out. "You are married now whether you will or no. Your pardon for this, but our marriage has to have some saving grace."

  Her enticing lips parted in surprise as the fingers of his free hand slid inside her cloak and curled about her left breast. He knew she would not dare scream. His other hand held her fast as she struggled furiously to pull herself free. His thumb stroked the exquisite peak through the thin sheath of silk.

  It was an agony of frustration knowing he had to let her go within the instant. Searing desire would be his only bedfellow for what was left of the darkness. She was angry as she writhed out of his grasp and escaped through the door. He had heard the fury in her breath but he had roused her, by all the Saints, he had. The tip of her breast had ripened lusciously to his caress. Tomorrow?

  Tomorrow he would make sure of her.

  CHAPTER 13

  "In the dumps?"

  "Yes, Ankarette, there have been demons at my elbow all day."

  "Not enough sleep or is it more trouble from that lout Littlebourne?"

  Margery sighed. Let her think that. The Duke had deliberately chosen an ill-mannered messenger to remind her she must attend Isabella's unrobing that night. And her other large problem sat at ease at the men's board on the other side of the hall.

  Several times, to her shame, Huddleston had interrupted her looking his way, his face inscrutable. She had forbidden Alys to transfer her possessions to the bedchamber he had suddenly, and no doubt expensively, procured. And, unhappily, her attempts to make her excuses to him earlier in the day in the common gaze so he could not throttle her were stillborn.

  With a deep breath and her heart beating like a stick on a tabor, she finally rose from the bench and crossed the hall to discover her husband was busy explaining some sort of battle strategy to his neighbors. Three ragged pieces of leftover trencher were advancing around two pewter beakers to attack a convoy of cherries.

  The knight next to him noticed her and elbowed him in the ribs, exclaiming here was a pretty new scabbard for his weapon. Huddleston frowned and turned his head, his gaze falling from Margery's headdress, with its lappets and gauze veil, to her feet peeping out beneath the heavy border. Because the weather had turned fickle, she was wearing the blue velvet he had bought her with the King's gold. His eyes ran over the fur trim she had added to the collar and cuffs. Did he miss nothing?

  Margery cursed inwardly at his examination of her, but it was the warm calculation intensifying in his gaze, the memory of his prying hand upon her breast that drove the betraying blood into her cheeks and sent twists of sensuality coiling through her loins.

  How she managed to find her voice when he raised a questioning eyebrow was a miracle. "Sir, I would speak with you urgently."

  Someone at his table chortled, "Go, sirrah, you are a married man and must obey."

  With a lazy grin, he clapped his neighbor on the shoulder, extricated himself from the bench, and made his way down the outside of the screen that had been set up behind the diners. Margery hurried down the inside of the hall. They met at the end.

  "Is the logis on fire?" His smile would have melted candles. To her, it was yet more provocation.

  "Last night…"

  "You feel an explanation is due?" He offered his arm but she refused. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "I shall provide one in due course."

  "No, I—"

  "Ah, you wish to offer me one?" He appeared charmed at the thought. "Then I suggest you let it simmer. Here is neither time nor place."

  "I should like to dance with you anon, if it please you, sir," she said in a small voice.

  "Really?" His disbelief was evident. "Is there any other service I may also do for you?"

  "I knew you'd be difficult," exclaimed Margery. She turned away angrily but in an instant his hand was beneath her elbow.

  "Her grace is beckoning you. We shall meet later. Be sure of that."

  Isabella was scowling
as Margery sank onto a tasseled stool at her feet. "I wish we had not come in to supper. I knew it was a mistake. Ankarette says she is getting a megrim too but she can still attend me later. I am sure you will want some time with Richard. Fan me a little, Margery!"

  "If Ankarette is poorly, then I will take her place tonight."

  "Tired, are you?" The young Duchess gave her a sharp prod beneath her belt. "You are a dark horse, sister, and a liar too. Stealing out at night to meet your husband of all people! All that foolish talk of disliking him so. And I watched you eyeing each other all through supper. Keep fanning! My poor head! I hope I shall be well enough to make the journey south tomorrow."

  George of Clarence asked his duchess to dance but she refused, pouting. Margery received his meaningful glance and sighed.

  The time between hour bells limped. From where she sat at Bella's feet, Margery could see Huddleston enjoying himself hugely. He was with a witty group. Gales of laughter reached her now and then making her doubly wretched. As the candles were lit, her spirits sank. He was ignoring her but she knew he was waiting. The covered hole in the ground was there. All she had to do was walk across the forest floor.

  Richard Huddleston offered his arm to Anne Neville and led her out in a stately measure that demanded a huge amount of bowing and smiling. Margery tried not to watch but her gaze was drawn to him like a moth to the light. You could do a hundred times worse, Ankarette had warned her. From his leather shoes with their modest piked toes to his beaver hat that was neither too high to be excessive, nor too short to be uninteresting, he was a fine-looking man. The padded doublet, familiar to her from their wedding day, sat comfortably across his broad shoulders and ended decently at well-muscled thighs. She felt herself blushing again.

  When he finally made his way across to her, she tensed, sharpening her wits. The very air seemed to crackle.

  "Your grace, please it you to give my wife leave." Oh, he could kiss a woman's hand with such a courtly grace and Isabella simpered predictably. She darted a feline look at her half sister, obviously toying with the idea of refusing permission yet she gave it graciously.

  "I am very tired, sir," Margery tossed over her shoulder as she stepped down onto the tiled floor of the hall. "Perhaps we can speak of this tomorrow." She felt angry that because she was a woman, she had to justify herself. It did not help that every fiber of her being was becoming increasingly sensitive to his closeness, aware of the physical strength, determination, and maleness of him.

  "Tomorrow we all leave for Amboise. Oblige me or you may regret it otherwise." He took her elbow and compelled her out of the hall. In the passageway, she shook her arm free instantly they were alone. He ignored the rebuff and applied an urgent hand to the small of her back instead.

  "Ankarette had agreed to sleep in the Duchess's bedchamber so we can have a fruitful discussion of your activities last night."

  Margery froze. So he had Ankarette's complicity. Well, he could whistle in the wind. This wife was not going to oblige. If she did not obey the Duke, she had no doubt that he would poison her reputation.

  She paused with an exasperated sigh and said with brittleness, "Oh, come, sir, you married me to become son-in-law to my lord, is that not enough?"

  Before she knew it, he had tossed her over his shoulder, knocking the breath and the feigned sophistication out of her. "Put me down!" she hissed, wriggling. "Or…" Jesu, this was not going to plan.

  "Or?"

  "I shall kick you very hard somewhere."

  A servant brushed past, discreetly ignoring them as he lowered her to the ground, his laughter a soft growl. "You did not manage it last time I carried you."

  A sharp retort died on her lips as a new voice accosted them.

  "Mistress Huddleston!"' The words were echoed by a different voice, unpleasantly rasped.

  Margery whirled around. She shivered every time she heard those voices. Littlebourne and Wyke had followed them out of the hall and were smirking in the shadows.

  "Having trouble, Huddleston? I hear the saddle keeps slipping?"

  However much she resented Huddleston's interference in her life, Margery loathed these two more and the last thing she wanted was for her husband to be bested by the Duke's bullies. With a disdainful smile, she stepped in front of him as they swaggered toward her.

  "The Duke says to remind you of your promise to serve him this night, lady." It was said lewdly to antagonize Huddleston.

  He stepped calmly alongside her but Margery swiftly set a reassuring hand upon his arm, preventing him from any intention of drawing his sword.

  "Of course, Master Wyke," she answered languidly. "How could I forget? Assure the Duke that I shall obey him, but the night is young and I have a little business of my own. Now, excuse us." She slid her hand seductively up Huddleston's sleeve.

  Wyke reached her first and grabbed her right wrist upward, forcing her toward him. The thick heavy lips almost spat at her. "Then best be quick, Meg. The Duke grows impatient."

  Beside her, Huddleston seemed icily unmoved but she feared for him. At any instant a flame of fury would ignite his sense of honor. She had to snuff it, and fast before they hurt him. With a haughty glance down at the fat glove upon her arm, she tried to think of words that would best the lout.

  Then suddenly in a swift movement she was released. Huddleston had Wyke against the wall, his hand upon his throat, while his other hand held a naked blade pointed at Littlebourne. The spluttering torch in the iron bracket threw his face into angry relief.

  "It is the Duchess's sister that you address, Wyke. Remove yourself, hence. You too, Littlebourne! You keep me from my pleasure." With a snarl, he let go of Wyke and faced them both, his sword moving like the tail of an angry leopard.

  They retreated toward the hall, hands raised away from their scabbards. Their faces were mocking, but Huddleston watched them go with seeming indifference. Finally, he sheathed his weapon and thrust Margery ahead of him up the staircase.

  "Goodness, that was quite impressive," she exclaimed brightly as they reached the next floor; inside, she was gelatinous.

  "What did you take me for, for Christ's sake, woman, a milksop? I do not need your skirts to hide behind, I thank you."

  "I can see that," she agreed. Being protected so swiftly was rather pleasant.

  "And what in God's name was that all about?"

  Margery bit her lip. "The Duke commanded me to attend her grace this night."

  Her husband's face was cold as steel. "How very convenient for you, but on the contrary, you will favor me with your presence, lady, and willingly."

  "Sir, I—"

  "Pray enter."

  She followed him meekly into the small upper bedchamber in silence. He struck a flint and lit a wall torch. This time there was no luxurious four-poster bed, only two small cots. What made her falter in the doorway was the sight of some of her possessions piled in the corner and her next day's riding apparel neatly arranged along a narrow chest. Saddlebags, presumably Huddleston's, slumped drunkenly against the far wall.

  Her husband rearranged her so he might close the door. The click of the latch behind her was unnerving. Did it feel this way to be closeted with the Devil?

  "Now, delight of my harem, perhaps you would care to tell me what you were actually doing last night. Is Clarence learning to fly the broomstick or were you teaching him something else?"

  She gave him a sweet smile, and stooped to deliberately busy herself with hunting through her clothing for her little wooden jewelry box to check its contents. "No," she murmured, pretending to be distracted. "He is getting the way of it beautifully. I advised him not to sit too high up but he is not very good at it." She straightened up and turned toward the light. If all her jewelry was there she would not have known, she was too conscious of the man the Holy Church had chained her to.

  "Flying?" Richard Huddleston calmly took the box from her and flicked its lid up, inspecting its contents and lifting out the St. Catherine brooch. Pla
gue take his curiosity! she fumed. But it was all his. By law, everything she had was now his.

  "No, taking advice." She took back the brooch, briskly removed the box from his hand, and bent to hide it between the folded linen. The man was a menace and he was standing far too close. She crouched down and pretended she was checking that all her other belongings were safe.

  "Margery, you cannot go up into a deserted tower with another woman's husband," he stated gravely somewhere above her.

  "I know, but I cannot help being rebellious, Master Huddleston. It must be my new father's blood." She knew it was a foolish, brazen thing to say when two strong hands grasped her beneath her arms and yanked her swiftly to her feet. His breath moved the wisps of hair that were escaping from her cone headdress while his hands, ungloved, stabled themselves upon her ribs. The closeness of his body against her back made her tremble, but she tried desperately not to show it.

  "I seem to recall you threatening to cuckold me if I ever found the courage to marry you. Is that what you are doing with Clarence—exacting your revenge?"

  She calmly removed his hands, turning to face him with a wriggle of her shoulders. "Having Iain with a king, sir, do you not think a duke would be lowering my ambitions? I had actually set my heart on the Emperor Frederick. Clarence? No, I thank you, he lacks maturity." But her gibes merely trickled off Huddleston like raindrops down a rich man's windowpane.

  His green eyes gave her a long hard look, then his mouth quirked into a tight smile. "What is the matter with you?"

  He watched puzzlement pleat her forehead. "Have I gone deaf?" he asked softly. "I do not think you answered my question." He took a few paces away from her before he swung around like a lawyer warming to an argument. "As I understand it, Warwick's natural daughter (and my wife) stole out of the Duchess's women's bedchamber, had an assignation with the Duchess's husband, was followed and observed by one or more persons including myself." His eyes pinioned her. "I want to know what you were doing and why you were followed."