The Maiden and the Unicorn (3 page)

"Leave well alone, you whoreson, or he'll have your hide for his next pair of boots. Give her to me!" It was the man in the Duke's livery who lifted her. She could recognise his odour.

"And?" A new voice cut the air, curt, fair-spoken and self-assured.

"We were not followed, sir. And she came like a dog to a bone, you might say."

"You have done well. Give her to me and go in. Fellow, there is ale and payment for you inside." She was flung over a new shoulder and the sack fell away from her head. "By Christ's blessed mercy, man, you have bound her like a witch. Let us get these tight bands off her with all haste. Out of my way!"

With her hair tumbled over her face, all Margery could see was a hoof-churned yard, muddy with fresh cow dung, and the rain spattering into the puddles. The farmyard smell flooded her nostrils. She could not hold her head up longer and her face was tossed against the cered soft leather of the man's cloak. Then a monstrous cold black snout thrust itself into her face and a giant tongue molested her hair and brow. Margery brought her knees wildly into the belly of the man carrying her—he staggered for a second—recovered himself and cursed the dog, yelling for someone to secure it.

Her feet bumped the doorpost as he carried her in and she struggled like a snared wild animal. He swore, not finding his task easy as he began to mount a staircase. Kicking open a door, he heaved her down awkwardly on what when the world righted itself appeared to be a bed.

Margery shook her hair out of her vision and blazed a furious pair of blue eyes on her captor, only to discover it was the traveller from the inn, the stranger who had been unable to take his eyes from her.

He removed his sodden hat and riding gloves, discarding them on a carved chest that lay along one side of the room and she saw he was younger than she had first thought. Droplets of water trickled from his long cloak and he untied it, dropping it carefully across the chest. Less formidable without it, he wore no surcoat that could give her some inkling of his allegiance. While the steel spurs on his heels betrayed that he was no knight, the black velvet cote with silk-lined sleeves and the dark green pleated short doublet reassured her that he was of gentle birth. Even the faint aroma of expensive musk reached her. But money and velvet could hide a fiend as surely as homespun.

He turned his attention to her, staring with an inscrutability that sent cold fear streaking through her. But Margery had never lacked courage and she suppressed her terror, instinctively using her wrath as a defence. It was humiliating that she was still gagged and powerless in his presence. She made an angry moan, squaring her shoulders, defying him despite her helplessness.

To her mortification, he continued to study her. "Whoever advised you to wear scarlet was no friend, mistress."

It was hardly the remark she was expecting but the arrow hit the target of her shame. Margery could have spat fire at him if her mouth had been free of the gag. Cloth of gold would have ill-suited her in her condition, especially when she could feel a thick smudge of dirt drying on her left temple and her freckled cheeks were dry and dusty from the sacking. Earthy fibres still dappled her shoulders, clung to the ruined red velvet bodice and played hide-and-seek in her tangled fair hair. As for her skirt, it was a sodden map of mud spatters.

She glared at her enemy, inwardly fearful of his intent but determined not to show it. Small comfort that in normal circumstances she would not have judged his face as that of a ruthless abductor of women. To be sure, his mouth was cold and controlled but his eyes held no ill humour and had she met him at Middleham or Warwick, she would not have been ashamed to tread a measure with him.

He was watching her again with that same calculating quality that she had sensed as familiar. A tight smile of satisfaction began to curve his mouth. He moved purposefully towards her.

Tensing, she recoiled, jerking away from him like a caught fish struggling on a dry rock. She had not survived this long to be taken and used like a whore.

He grabbed hold of her and, despite her squirming, his fingers persisted in their purpose. Grasping the back of the gag, he pulled it down around her neck and untied it. Then he took hold of her shoulders and forced her back. Panic seized her but his face was not dark with lust. He was far too intent on plucking the cloth from her mouth. Free to speak, she could not utter a sound. It was as though her mouth had been scoured with sand.

Straightening, he pulled a leather flask from the breast of his doublet and unstoppering it, held it to her lips. "Drink, it will restore you."

Margery turned her face away from him. It was the only disobedience she could manage. He sighed and with his left arm under her shoulders, urged the mouth of the flask between her resisting lips. Most of the fiery spirit spilt onto her chin and wasted itself down her cleavage, but some of it moistened her parched throat and sent a bolt of heat into her breast.

"Again!" She turned her face from the flask, tears of anger on her cheeks. He swore, his face adamant and Margery, panting, held his gaze defiantly but found no mercy. He forced the liquid into her again which made her cough and draw back. "More until I say stop!" She shook her head but the spirit was reviving her. He compelled her to swallow gulp after gulp until, satisfied, he drew back and stood up.

"Who are you?" she managed at last, her voice cracked and husky.

He leaned over to pull her up into a sitting position then grabbed her heels and swung her legs onto the floor. "I doubt it would mean anything if I told you."

Someone was outside the open door. She heard the swish of a woman's skirts. Her captor strode to the threshold. "Bring some salve and hot water. This lady must be bathed and her wet garments removed. And find her some clean underlinen, if you can." He looked back round the open door at Margery. "Perhaps a
bucket
of hot water rather than a ewer," he amended.

The servant's feet scampered down the stairs and her abductor came back into the room. "You need a bath but it is too much work for them. If it was summer, I should dunk you in one of the horse troughs."

He drew a rondel dagger from the scabbard on his belt, his look calculating. She flinched but he grinned and went down on his haunches before her, lifting her skirt to saw through the vicious cords.

Glossy brown hair curled damply about his collar and fell forward hiding his face as he concentrated on his task. She winced as he carved slowly through each rope and he looked up briefly with some concern, his long clean fingers tucking his hair back behind his ears. His green eyes were fertile with intelligence and there were creases of kindly humour about them even if he was not smiling now. The unsoiled lawn shirt laced neat against the fur collar of his cote assured her further that he was a man who did not want for servants. It was then she took in the metallic detail of the chain that hung from his shoulders beneath the cote, the meaningful intertwining of sunnes and roses, the King's device.

"Sweet Jesu, you are the King's man. Ouch!" Pain drove the breath from her as her blood coursed freely.

Her enemy ignored her words, intent on removing her shoes and her one remaining patten, seemingly oblivious of behaving as a servant. His fingers tested her flesh through the wool hose and calmly massaged the life back into her feet. Pins and needles made her wince and then she writhed away from him as his fingers slid against the leather sheath about her calf.

With an oath, he unbuckled the strap from around her leg and balanced the small sheathed dagger on his palm. "Thank God you did not have time to use this. Is life at Warwick grown so dangerous that you must arm yourself like a whore?" Then with an impatient sigh, he rose gracefully to his feet and resting a knee on the bed, turned her and cut her wrists free. She gave a whimper as the rope fell away leaving her with bracelets of skin rubbed raw. He frowned and stood back. "I hope you will not be scarred."

Appalled, she thrust out her wrists towards him. "How dare you do this to me! I am worthless as a hostage. If this is some petty delaying strategy so my lord of Warwick will not reach his ships in time, you are a fool."

"Quite probably," answered her captor, his expression as unfathomable as before. "I see the life has flowed back into your tongue as well as your fingers, Mistress Margery."

The reminder that he knew her name reduced her to silence, pinioned her mentally as he seemed to know it would. Why did he want to abduct a bastard with no property to her name? It could only be for some perverse reason. Well, the Devil take her soul if this nobody laid another hand on her without a struggle.

"If you want my virginity," she hissed, "you are six years too late."

"Yes, I know." She had wanted to shock him but it had not worked and his expression was clean of emotion. It was she who was stunned. His voice was cold, his tone impertinent, as he added, "It must have been a very frustrating punishment for you, so many years of praying. Was it worth all that trouble?"

Outrage shook her and with a force she had not believed possible, given the treatment he had dealt her, she hurled herself at him, her palm aiming at his insolent face. He grabbed her to defend himself, his grip sliding onto her lacerated wrists. Margery gave a shriek of pain and with an oath he instantly let go of her as if she had burnt him. The hurt dealt her mind a dazing blow and she subsided onto the bed, fighting back her tears of humiliation.

"Settling in, mistress?" A maidservant came cheerfully in bearing a tray set with an earthernware pot, a folded napkin and a basin of steaming water. Before the girl could set it on the bed, the largest hound Margery had ever seen came bounding into the room. It eyed the bed and took a flying leap. The maidservant shrieked, the man made a grab for the basin, leaving Margery to fend off a scrabble of paws and tongue.

"Sede!"
he roared at it. The hound sprang down and sat to attention, thumping its tail cheerfully on the wooden floor. Its untidy grey pelt and the look of hope in its limpid eyes as it surveyed Margery somewhat unknotted her terror.

The maidservant crossed herself, her eyes round with horror, and Margery, who had hurled herself into a kneeling position with a scream, untangled her limbs from her sodden skirt and the coverlet.

Her captor merely set the ewer calmly back on the tray. "The hound will not harm either of you. You, girl, unrobe the lady."

"No!" exclaimed Margery, fiercely putting up her arms protectively across her muddy bodice.

"Come, remove your clothing before you take a chill. That gown's for burning. I dare swear it is older than you are."

Margery's cheeks flamed. "What is it to you?" she snarled.

"I am used to mixing with gentlewomen who do not reek of the farmyard, but if you prefer to smell of horse dung or whatever—"

"Horse dung! It was vegetables and
you
had me trussed within those sacks."
 

"True. Remind me next time I abduct a woman to do it with perfumed coverlets."

"You make a practice of it?" Her voice was high and shrewish as her mind rebelled against the bizarre conversation.

His smile was hard. "I hope this is the only time, but it rather depends on certain other factors. You will oblige me in this or you shall not be fed. It is quite simple." Their fierce glances locked like the antlers of two fighting stags.

The maidservant shifted her gaze from one to the other, bewildered by the exchange that had suddenly lapsed into silence. "Mistress?" She dipped the napkin in the hot water, waiting for her to hold out her wrists. Margery wordlessly complied. Even the slight touch on the broken skin made her flinch.

As Margery's enemy gathered up his cloak and hat, another woman, elderly, with a bunch of keys rattling on her belt, bobbed a curtsey to him on the threshold and came in.

"Ah, Mistress Guppy." He bestowed a smile on her. "Here is our somewhat muddied guest." Pausing at the doorway, his hand on the latch, one leather boot tapping impatiently, he informed Margery, "You
will
humour me in this, mistress. Rest assured, other more suitable clothes shall be found for you."

"And I'll have none."

"Then you'll have none. So... enjoy your fast."

The woman gravely looked from him to Margery before she closed the door behind him. "Mistress, you had best do as you are bid."

Margery waited until she heard her captor's feet descend the stairs before she spoke again. "Is
he
the master here?"

The older woman nodded. "Aye, he is now, mistress, since this morning. One of the King's officers. This manor, Sutton Gaveston, by rights belongs to my lord of Warwick."

"Belonged," corrected Margery with a sigh. "My lord is now an attainted traitor and his lands are forfeit."

"Ah, we guessed as much," murmured the girl, her hands twisting in the linen cloth tucked in her belt. "May we help you free of your gown, mistress? It looks fearfully sodden."

"And this officer's name?"

The older woman tilted her head, "I am hard of hearing, mistress. Speak up, pray."

Margery repeated her question loudly.

"My son—the steward here—says the man's name is Stone." The older woman moved to the window as she spoke, inspecting the yard. "King's Receiver, he said he is, and he has half a dozen men-at-arms with him. They all rode in and took possession not long before that large fellow and the other wretch brought you in. Thank the Lord, that vermin has taken his cart and gone back to town. We don't want his likes hanging round the farm."