The Maiden and the Unicorn (2 page)

exiled Lancastrian lord, half-brother to King Henry VI
 

King Henry VI

deposed King of England, prisoner in the Tower of London
 

John, Lord Montague

Warwick's younger brother and erstwhile friend to King Edward IV

Chapter 1

March 1470.

If she had organised this rebellion, decided Margery, as she pulled back the canvas flap of the Countess of Warwick's chariot, it certainly would not have been in cold, miserable Lent.

"Go on, girl! Find out why we have stopped," snapped the Countess.

Margery sighed at the puddled, miry road awaiting her, but she gathered up her skirts and climbed down. It always seemed to be her misfortune to deal with mud, whether it was verbal or squelching round her wooden pattens as it was now. That was the trouble with having no lawful parents, no dowry and very little future. And here she was, hungry enough to eat two breakfasts, in a town she did not recognise, surrounded by weary footsoldiers, who had been trudging the churned road south for over a week—the tired, drooping tail of her guardian, Warwick the Kingmaker's defeated army. She could see the halted column of men and wagons stretching down into the narrow main street of the town. Somewhere, at the head of it, the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence, his son-in-law and brother of the King, were probably persuading the local mayor that their soldiers were in too much haste to molest any townsmen's wives or daughters.

Margery set back her hood. The rain had blown away and a watery sun deigned to briefly bestow its blessing. It was a joy to feel the fresh wind on her face after the cloying, perfumed steaminess of the women's enclosed chariot, and there was a tantalising, yeasty smell of fresh bread coming from somewhere.

She turned her head, meeting in surprise the full clear stare of a man who had halted beneath the archway of an inn courtyard on her left. It was his expression of intense astonishment directed at her that made Margery reflect his stare as if bewitched. She had a strange sense of having experienced that gaze before.

An impression of underlying pride, authority and self-control reached her. Perhaps it was merely his pleasing height or the way he stood, his broad shoulders thrust back, the long riding cloak carefully thrown across his breast and over his shoulder. Did the sombre black folds hide some indication that he was no friend to the King's enemies?

His alert, intelligent face drew her glance up again. Those eyes had watched her before; she knew they had.

"Mistress, mistress!" One of Warwick's servants plucked at the tippet of her sleeve and she turned distractedly, dragging her thoughts very slowly back to her errand. "My lord Earl says the ladies may rest. Please you to bid them to enter here." The lad indicated the half-timbered thatched hostelry on her right.

Margery nodded and glanced swiftly to the other side of the street but the stranger had gone back into the rival inn. With an unconscious shake of her head as if to push her memory of him to the back of her mind, Margery forced herself to deal with the present. She pulled aside the heavy canvas that had kept the fresh air from the chariot. Her mistress, Isabella, Duchess of Clarence, would be relieved at her tidings.

"Good news, your grace. My lord has sent word that we may stop at the inn here."

"Jesu be thanked," murmured Isabella. "I shall die of suffocation if I have to stay in this wretched monster a moment longer," and she began an ungainly descent down the back steps of the chariot.

"Margery, take her arm!" Isabella's mother, the Countess, had been fussing ever since they had left Warwick castle. Isabella, eighteen years old and heavy with child, wrinkled her nose at the mud as Margery helped her down, and waited beside her, stretching her aching back, while the cart issued the rest of the women onto the street like a chrysalis yielding a myriad-coloured insect. In a confusion of velvet and brocade, the Countess, her younger daughter, Anne, and their ladies clustered noisily about Isabella before they escorted her into the hostelry.

Margery tarried and darted a swift glance at the other inn across the way. The stranger was no longer visible. She searched the shadows, still sensing his presence.

"What are you staring at? Have you no appetite?" Her friend, Ankarette, the Duchess's other attendant, tugged at her arm.

"There was a man."

"There is
always
a man, Margery, but there is little chance to break our fast. Make haste. Who knows how much time we may be allowed here." With a sigh, Margery followed her into the chaos of the inn.

Inside, it was as if a giant had kicked open a nest of human ants. Hungry soldiers were crowding in behind the ladies and jostling for the benches. The air was heavy with wood smoke, brewed ale, sweat and the vinegar in which the men had soaked their brigandines to keep them free of lice.

Margery had every sympathy for the inn servants struggling through the ravenous throng, their faces strained. The needs of the noble ladies must be met first. The Duchess was already being conducted to the best bedchamber and a procession of ewers, platters and privypots were on their way up to her.

"Wishing you were back at the nunnery, I daresay," Ankarette exclaimed to Margery as they reached the steps. The room upstairs proved to be as tightly packed with the women as the chariot had been and their tempers were as ragged as a beggarwoman's kirtle.

When the Countess sent her to fetch the innkeeper back again, Margery took refuge for an instant on the stairs, although even there she had to press into the wall as the inn maids squeezed by.

Her head was spinning with the noise of it all. The convent at Nuneaton, where she had spent the last six years, had at least held peaceful corners into which she could melt, whereas each moment since she had been plucked from her bed at past midnight several days before had been filled with haste and uncertainty. When the Earl of Warwick had commanded her to rejoin his household for Yuletide she had agreed wholeheartedly, but not to this flight in foul weather with King Edward's army baying at their heels, or the Countess's scolding tongue.

During the journey the Countess had frequently made tart allusions to Margery's sinful past as if the failure of Warwick's rebellion against the King was all Margery's fault. Everyone in the Earl's household knew she had been banished to a nunnery for being found in the King's bed, but it was not her fault that King Edward—her beloved Ned—had thrown off Warwick's guiding hand.

Ned had been nineteen when her guardian had made him king, but he was twenty-nine now and Warwick was still trying to lead him by a leash. It was not surprising that they came to blows when the Earl declared he would uncrown Ned and make George and Isabella king and queen instead.

Margery sighed at the folly of it all but she was caught up in the treasonous tangle like a lamb in a thicket. Because she was the bastard of a fallen noblewoman, she had been reared with Warwick's daughters as their companion and attendant and she loved them both. That was why she was here now, ravenous as a beggar and growing fractious, sharing their flight and uncertain destiny out of loyalty and a certain desperation. Where else was there to go?

As she reached the bottom step, she was nearly thrown off her feet by a young esquire in his haste to hurtle past her up the stairs. The soldiers were suddenly scrambling from the trestles in panic and confusion. Recognising one of the older men who was hurriedly cramming his sallet back on his head, Margery pushed her way across to him. "God have mercy, what is happening, Master Garland?"

"There's word the King's men are but a league away," he shouted at her above the tumult.

"Surely that cannot be true."

Will Garland rubbed the back of his hand across his weary brow. "Lass, if we are caught, it's treason."

Margery doubted the rumour; Ned was known for marching his men to the edge of endurance but surely even he could not perform miracles.

She was about to grab a trencher of bread before the soldiers seized it all, when a stout man-at-arms, a head taller than those about him, struggled grinning through the crowd towards her. His surcoat was painted with the black bull, the device of Isabella's husband, the Duke of Clarence. The soldier halted in front of her, gave a gap-toothed smile then bent his head and said loudly in her ear. "Mistress, can you tell me where I may find Margery of Warwick? The Duke of Clarence commands her attendance."

"Well, you are fortunate. Here I am. What business does the Duke want with me?"

"He desires your word on how his lady fares."

No doubt the Duke was busy with his men at the front of the column and it was far easier to send for her—they knew each other well now—to make a report to him than come in person to see his peevish wife.

Margery did not have time to reflect that the man's helmet sat ill upon his long hair as he took her arm and pushed through the throng towards the courtyard. Her only anxiety was that she had no wish to
find herself separated from the other women, especially if the pursuing soldiers were closer than they had earlier believed.

"Wait, surely there is no time for this," she exclaimed, shaking off the soldier's hand as they went outside. "The men are saying the King's army is but a league away."

Her burly escort was unconcerned. "Nay, some panic monger. It's up to my lord Earl to give the word, never fear."

"Why are we going this way?" He was conducting her through a gateway into the muddy back lane.

The fellow grinned at her. "Because I'll wager it would take us a sennight to traverse the town otherwise. There's a flock of sheep driven in for market day and a dozen stalls and all our carts and men besides. But if we go round the back of the main street, we shall be there in a thrice. Bustle, mistress, we have not all day." He courteously gestured her to walk ahead while he closed the wicker gate behind them.

The miry lane was deserted save for a loutish fellow standing at the head of a horse and cart. Margery glanced at him, wondering how she would squeeze past the vehicle which almost filled the narrow track. It was then her escort's hand whipped from behind across Margery's mouth and the other man ran towards her and grabbed her behind the knees. As she opened her lips to scream, a foul-tasting rag was thrust inside her mouth. She writhed as the men heaved her onto the cart. They swiftly dragged a sack smelling of earth and stale vegetables over her head before they hastily bound her wrists and ankles.

Although trussed and deprived of sight and balance, Margery made as much noise as she could.

"Cease that caterwauling, girl, or we'll take you somewhere truly quiet." The menacing tone of the second man froze her struggles. Her heart thudded with fear. They were pulling another sack up over her feet and cramming her skirts into it. More bags were flung across her. "Now you lie still and if I hear one groan, upon my father's soul, you'll rue it!"

The cart jerked forward. The wooden boards jarred against her shoulders. The noises of the town ceased and she could hear birdsong. She explored with her feet to see if there was any way she could roll herself off the back of the cart, but a full sack lay across it, blocking her movement.

Shivering, she tried to anticipate what might happen. At least they had not found the dagger strapped to her calf. It was impossible to reach it now and cut herself free. She must be cunning and wait for the right opportunity, feign foolishness or whatever the moment demanded. For now, she had to staunch the rising panic within her. The thought of what these wastrels might do to her needed to be set aside. She tried to pray as the nuns had taught her, preserve her strength, but it was hard and the cloth in her mouth was almost unbearable.

The rain began anew, spitting against the sack, the drops growing heavier by the minute. Soon the wooden boards were awash and water started seeping into her gown along her back.

Margery had never before been so physically anguished. She was hungry, the planks bruised her and it seemed as though her captors, in a spirit of purest malice, were jolting her over every rut and pothole in the shire. Not only were her wrists bound so painfully tight but her ankles too were aching and numb. Folk often said limbs might wither if the blood was not allowed to flow. Could this be true?

She lost account of time but at last the lurching stopped. There was a judder as a man left the cart followed by the sound of a gate being opened, then feet leaping onto the carter's board again, and the crack of a whip. The wheels bumped forwards across yet more ridges that rolled her from one side to the other. Finally the cart jerked to a halt. Hands roughly pulled the sack free of her legs. A calloused hand groped upwards along her stockinged calf and she thrashed about violently.