The Maiden and the Unicorn (11 page)

"Looking for someone, master?" A boy no higher that his belt planted himself firmly in front of his boots.

"You know everyone, do you?" Richard snarled, as the flat, grubby palm rose expectantly. "Take me to the carrack
Winchelsea
!"
Even as the coin left his purse, he guessed the answer. A dirt-clogged fingernail pointed to a distant sail well on its way towards the Isle of Wight.

His finely clad shoulders lost their stiffness, his lower lip curled in bitter, silent fury against the King. So that was why the Keeper of the Privy Seal had been interrogating him as to the potential of every manor he had seized in the King's name. Whoresons!

Flinging his flapping cloak up over his shoulder, he strode miserably to the water's edge and down the stone steps. His dark, vehement words notched up an extra week in Purgatory and, overheard, would have sent him to oblivion in a Tower dungeon. Heedless of the indifferent waves retreating from his bootcaps, he might have stood beneath the bleak sky until the tide returned to douse him had Matthew not disturbed his misery.

"I have saddled Comet, sir. I knew you'd want to ride." Richard tore his unseeing gaze slowly away from the barnacled piers and turned sourly. His servant eyed him with caution. "Except you've grand company yonder. His grace of Gloucester awaits you."

It was no lie; a great white stallion danced proudly next to Comet at the eastern end of the quay and the slight youth who sat astride him, his fur collar risen against the bitter wind, was watching falcon-like.

The King's Receiver wanted no company. He wanted to drown his fury and wake in misery with the mother of all headaches gnawing at his temples, but the King's brother, heir to the throne now that George, the Duke of Clarence was attainted, was not a man to disobey. Dully he started walking back along the quay.

The white stallion and its rider separated from the retinue and disdainfully met him. The pale face of Richard of Gloucester looked gravely down at him. "I am sorry," said the seventeen-year-old youth, thrusting out his gloved hand.

"As your grace pleases," answered Richard coldly, brushing the Duke's signet ring against his lips.

"Come!" Gloucester dismissed his entourage with a wave and touched his spurs to his horse's flanks. Richard had little choice but to swiftly throw himself into the saddle and follow those hooves to where the quay joined the land and down across that cold glimmering left by the receding waves and through the meandering ranks of abandoned seaweeds. If Gloucester wished to command his time, he was past caring.

Spatters of sand tossed up before him, and his own horse leapt forward in chase. The Duke gave full spur and headed east through a scattering of trees to the coast road. Richard narrowed the distance, aware that two of the Duke's armed grooms were following him some twenty paces behind. The heady gallop helped some of the painful heaviness to disperse. The cold evening wind lifted his cloak and buffeted him so that by the time the Duke drew rein, Richard's face was wind-slapped and glowing.

"Feeling treacherous?" Gloucester's gold-flecked amber eyes perused him critically.

Richard's jaw slackened, his thoughts running higgledy in all manner of directions. "Never tell me you are thinking of joining Warwick's rebellion, my lord?"

Gloucester's narrow mouth tightened impatiently. "Don't be so plaguey stupid, Richard! Answer my question!"

"Then, yes! Why should I pretend to you? I had what I wanted within my grasp until your brother... Was it too much to ask of him?" He turned his face away proudly, his soul sullen.

"This is the second time he has done this to you. I am here to ensure there shall not be a third."
 

Richard could not answer. His head jerked round to face the Duke. The younger man was not mocking him. "I have the King's leave to put a proposal to you, Richard, one that may suit both our purposes extremely well. That is, if you are feeling wise enough to listen."

The bow that had been drawing his gut tight was suddenly released as Richard calmly met the Duke's probing gaze. "I think you may be assured of that, your grace."

"Excellent, you see I think I am going to have to arrest you for high treason."

Chapter 5

The creamy sails arched into curves catching the wind as the
Winchelsea
rounded the Isle of Wight. Margery stood at the rail of the vessel, savouring the taste of salt spray on her lips. It was almost like going on a pilgrimage to Compostela, an exciting sense of new experiences awaiting her beyond the horizon. And what was more, she was free! That was until she remembered that she had a mission to fulfill and around her neck hung a constant reminder.

It seemed that the moment Master Stone had informed Ned at Exeter that he held Warwick's ward, the two royal brothers had conceived the idea to use her as their messenger. So before she sailed she was presented with a new overgown which held the secret letters stitched into the fashionable broad brocade collar that framed the neckline. A third letter, from Ned's mother, helped give shape to a small steeple cap. It had been suggested that the letters from his two sisters should be sewn into her purfiled hem but Margery had put an end to the nonsense. Hems, she explained, inevitably became soggy and surely no one would object to the two duchesses writing to their brother. As for the official letters for the Acting Governor of Calais, Isabella and the Earl of Warwick, they were locked in a small coffer and the key to that was round her neck in the guise of a miniature pectoral cross.

Finally, pinned to her undershift was a St Catherine wheel set with a vine of fruiting pears—a brooch not to be worn until she needed it as a sign to Ned's agents that she had succeeded in her mission to win over George, Duke of Clarence.

Ostensibly her mission was to carry letters to Isabella, Duchess of Clarence, from her sisters-in-law, beseeching her to persuade her husband and father to make their peace with the King and swear public allegiance to Edward once again. And surely it would be no labour to persuade the Duke to return and make his peace? But for the moment in the no man's land of the sea, she was enjoying herself. Even the front of grey miserable weather that was bowling towards them as the day grew old did little to staunch her cheerfulness. England, Ned and that arrogant Richard Stone were left behind.

* * *

The twelve large towers of Calais loured upon the little English ship as it eventually swung its stern into the narrow neck of the harbour past the vigilant right-hand watchtower. The captain, in good humour, exchanged a greeting with the soldiers on duty and invited Margery up onto the forecastle.

The town portcullis was already up, sucking a tangle of carts and laden people inside the walls and the wharves were busy with early morning business. Quite a few ships had come in with cargo on the first tide. Bales of Cotswold wool were queued up on the deck of a Bristol vessel for the derricks to lift them onto waiting carts. Alongside, a Venetian galley was unloading glass and silks. One of the crates tipped out of its ropes and the noise of its shattering contents begat a score of foul oaths.

Margery was longing to see the town. Not only was Calais the English shopfront to the customers of Christendom but it was one of the world's greatest markets. Its fairs were reputed to rival those of Antwerp and Bruges. It was also said that a man (or a woman) could buy anything in the streets of Calais. Anything from sapphires and sables to sausages and salt, even a pagan ebony-skinned servant from the slave markets of Fez.

As Margery scanned the ships already anchored, their sails rolled up tightly against the spars, the captain pointed out the flags of Genoa and Florence, even one from distant Russia whose ship was bearing tallow, furs and amber, but no Neville pennant fluttered on any of the topmasts. The Kingmaker's flagship was missing.

A strong unease gripped Margery. Calais was devoted to Warwick. He had governed it in the past and paid its garrison out of his own purse when the Lancastrian King, Henry VI, had deliberately delayed sending across the men's wages. He
must
be here. He always came here when things in England were as hot as the Devil's fire for him. Why, even Ned had assumed that he must be here. There had been no storm in the past two weeks to wreck his ship, but suppose they had been attacked by Hanse ships and were prisoners? She shivered as the rain closed in and Calais slowly disappeared behind a drizzly mist.

Of course, on further reflection, if she were wearing Warwick's shoes, maybe she would not want to blaze her presence like a bonfire. Perhaps his ship was quietly anchored up the coast, stealthfully drawn up some tributary where it could be left under guard while the Earl and his retinue sat in comfort behind Calais' sturdy walls.

The captain exclaimed in surprise at her elbow. He was expecting a pilot to row out to them, not the longboat with men in brigandines and helmets that was fast drawing alongside. Not overly concerned, he ordered his crew to toss the rope ladder down, muttering that Acting Governor Wenlock, the Earl of Warwick's deputy, was carrying out his duty with unusual alacrity. A second later he had climbed down to the main deck and was exchanging fierce words with the officer in charge.

Margery watched in horror as the governor's soldiers drew their swords and the captain thrust his hands up in surrender. With an oath he shouted up to her. "Satan take the fools! These asses think we might be smugglin' rebels because we're out of Southampton—men as've escaped hanging. You'd best be come down, mistress."

"So what have we here?" The beefy officer in Wenlock's livery smirked.

The captain answered swiftly, "A woman passenger, carried by the King's very orders."

"Woman, is it? They're all women these days. We found two fisherwomen last week. Grown beards in prison, they have. Get down the ladder then! Let's have a look at you."

Just as Margery reached the lowest rung, she sensed her hem lifted. She twisted fiercely round to find the captain had grabbed the man's sword arm.

"She's a lady, yer landlubberin' numbskull. Touch her and the King's grace will skin yer."

"Ha, you still say she's a wench, do you?" The knave circled Margery, threatening her with his sword. "Looks like a woman, smells like a woman, but there's sixteen year old rebels could pass for such. Let's make sure." He snatched at her cap and veil. It came away easily, tousling her chin-length hair. "See, a lad!" His soldiers cheered, encouraging him further. "What's needed is further examination. Lie her down, lads."

Guffaws of glee reached Margery. She turned with hot indignation upon the officer as the soldiers started forward with mischief.

"Do you value your post, sirrah?" She pitched her voice higher than normal. "I have letters from the King's grace to Governor Wenlock. Captain, bring them hither from my cabin." The captain hesitated. "Go! This officer is no fool. He surely can recognise the King's seal."

If her voice sounded brave enough, its owner was inwardly shaking. She kept her chin in the air and tapped her foot impatiently. A doe surrounded by baying hounds, she just wished he would hurry.

Alys' arrival on deck nursing the coffer in her arms caused a welcome diversion. The wench's rotund curves allowed no room for doubt as to her sex and her habit of showing a generous amount of cleavage whatever the weather ensured that loud whistles greeted her.

"Mistress?" She curtsied and the soldiers whooped.

"What say you we investigate both of 'em?" suggested one.

Margery took no notice. She pulled the cross out on its chain from her bodice and inserted it into the lock of the coffer. Alys pulled up the lid to reveal the sealed letters. Wenlock's man thrust in front of Margery. He grabbed two of the letters, turning them over with a frown, rubbing his thumb across the embossed orange wax. It was apparent he was unlettered.

"I can smell a rat, a nasty bloated dead rat in all this. Kings don't send women as their messengers. They send lords with retinues. Take 'em on shore. My lord governor will enjoy this."

"The pestilence on yer, yer rogue! Is it a fat bribe you're after?" The captain had to be restrained from gripping the officer's windpipe. "How much do you look for? I have a cargo to unload and Arras cloth to take on board. There's merchants in Kent expecting me to sail from here by high tide tomorrow."

"Mayhap you'll be free by tomorrow. It depends on who's tellin' lies, eh? Your ship will be safe enow. The crew can stay here under arrest but you have a lot of questions to answer."