The Maiden and the Unicorn (47 page)

"Now heed me, pert one, before Alys arrives to help you dress." He held her chin between his thumb and forefinger, compelling her attention. "We may not have the luxury of a private conversation again for a while. Stop looking at me like that and hear me out. Angers will be full of eyes and ears. The world will be eavesdropping. As your father said, you must be very careful."

She searched his face, dismayed by his sternness, and stole her arms about his neck so that he too must perforce listen.

"Please, Richard, advise my father against Lancaster."

"No one advises your father. You know that." His fingers curled around her arms but he did not break her hold on him.

"No, I do not know that." She shook him. "I am merely a woman and banned from counselling. If I was his male bastard, he would at least listen to me."

"And this ridiculous conversation would not be taking place." He broke free and moved away from her to gather up his clothes. Then choosing his words with care, he set his garments on the bed and turned to her. "Listen to me. In Angers now there are Englishmen who have lost their lands because they supported their anointed king. Most of them are men who fought hard and valiantly in the long wars with France and deserve better of fortune. They believe your golden Ned is a whoreson and an upstart. So you
will
keep silent about your Yorkist loyalties, Margery, and, if needs be, you will abandon them. We could be shortly witnessing a change of kings."

"Oust Ned?" She lay down across the bed and rested her chin in her hands. "Pah, you think a few ragtag exiles can thwart him?"

Her husband freed his head from the neck of his shirt and tugged it down before he scowled at her. "Mistress, are you deaf to my advice? If your sister Anne becomes the future queen of Lancaster, will you seek to undermine her and the heir she may carry? Will you oppose
her
because Edward of York once smiled at you and laid his head between your breasts?" He caught her fists before she could fling herself at him and compelled her wrists back against the sheets. She thrashed from side to side trying to free herself, trying not to meet the power in his eyes. "Lady, I think you are vulnerable in your present state of undress. You tempt me to take my hand to that delightful naked flesh of yours."

The instant he let go, Margery sprang away with a curse and sat on the edge of the bed with her back turned against him, rubbing her wrists. This was not going as she had planned it at all. She had hoped he would be more malleable. Now it sounded as though he was going to lecture her.

"If your reasoning rested upon logic, lady, instead of your feelings, then I would say your arguments had some substance." She did not answer him. She could hear him lacing up his gipon and drawing on the woollen hose. "I think you and I may never feel easy with each other until you cease to worship Edward like some pagan idol."

Too much! She jerked her head round and found him watching her.

"That is what underlines
your
enmity, sir. What hypocrisy to accuse
me
when
you
cannot forget that Ned has held me in his arms."

"Quite right." His eyes held her gaze coolly as he looped the fastenings of his doublet over the row of buttons. "I cannot forgive his cruelty. He tried to make a whore of you to goad your father." His eyes glittered as he warmed to his argument and he leaned forward, resting his fingers upon the crumpled coverlet. "In fact, he succeeded in making you a whore, because from that day onwards you saw yourself as one."

Margery tried not to let him see how his words flayed her. She turned her face away and scowled unseeing at the iron candleholder.

"Why do you persist in your support of Ned?" His tone was venomous. "All the world knows he is but a sluggard and a lecher. Follow your father's wisdom and see sense."

"Ha! Perhaps I missed all the rhetoric while I was at the convent. Tell me, was there anything in my father's speeches about allowing himself to be used as a fire poker by the King of France? The common people would rather have Ned than the Bitch of Anjou. They proved that when that let my father crown him King."

"The people will bend with the strongest wind that blows."

"They do not bend to a wind from France! And nor shall I! So, I have my answer, sir. You will support Lancaster. Anything that will bring Ned tumbling down into the dirt."

"Because of you, my sweet bastard?" His tone was scathing. The bed creaked as he took his weight from it. "Acquit me of making foolish judgments because I want some petty revenge." It was a few minutes before the doorlatch rattled and she turned her head.

The long fingers paused upon the iron ring. Oh, he was fine from his shining boot tips to the folded pleats of his high lawn collar. The grace of him thrilled her senses, but not his words. "It pleases me that you have learnt at last to use your body, now learn to use your head."

"You arrogant—"

"Fortune hunter? If you say so."

He escaped through the door before the candlestick hit it.

Chapter 22

"Madame, monseigneur, my daughter's party have been sighted crossing the Pont de Ligny and I must welcome her." If King René, rising from his chair in the apartments set aside for the Earl and his family, noticed Warwick's face tighten at the news, he gave no sign of it. "You will like my grandson," he murmured, delaying to pinch Anne's cheek. The strong scent of lavender and musk departed with him.

"I am going to watch. May I escort you, mesdames?" Richard Huddleston bowed; his offer directed at both Anne and Margery.

"No!" Anne said shortly.

"Quite so, Master Huddleston, it would not be seemly." The Countess was watching Anne, her mouth an upside down horseshoe. Ill luck. "But you may go."

"As my lady pleases." His eyes lighted on his wife with a wicked gleam but she gave a brief jerk of her head, unable to look at him.

The Nevilles had to tolerate hearing the fanfares a second time as the castle welcomed home its aging princess. The sensitive visitors could easily believe today's cheering sounded less contrived. Their consolation prize was hot coffyned delicacies that were served on the small-tables in their apartments. Their hosts had decided it was judicious to keep the English guests out of sight for a little space.

Louis of France spent the next hour in a pendulum motion between the apartments of Queen Margaret d'Anjou and those of Warwick. It had been planned that the Earl would not be reintroduced to his bitterest enemy on his own. His brother-in-law, the Earl of Oxford, who had recently defected from England, had agreed to be present at the meeting with the Queen. The two rebel earls were supposed to shortly enter the
grande salle
together, but Oxford had not arrived and Warwick's temper was growing shorter as the afternoon shadows lengthened. They waited for two hours before Louis ran out of patience and insisted the meeting no longer be delayed. The Countess, her matronly attendants and Warwick's two daughters were conducted down to their places to observe the historic confrontation. It was still hoped that Oxford might yet ride across the drawbridge at any moment.

The
grande salle
was already crowded as Margery entered at a discreet half-pace behind her sister. The finely clad throng parted to let them through, clapping politely. Anne waited for her, her smile clenched. "I hate this! Walk beside me."

"Have a care with what you say, Anne, some of these people may be English, remember."

A squat "x" of a chair had been set at the side of the hall for the Countess. She did not seat herself but stood graciously smiling. It was a brave performance which neither of the younger women felt like emulating, but several of the Angevin nobles glanced at each other and then came forward to pay out words with polished smiles.

"Anjou must want this very much," Margery murmured.

The fifteen year old did not answer. A scarlet codpiece flamboyant against mustard hose beneath a sinfully short doublet had distracted her for an instant before she caught Margery's eye and blushed.

"Madame, forgive me." One of the older Angevin ladies had overheard and drew Margery apart. Her English was heavily accented, her breath just tolerable. "If only your noble earl can restore our princess, then Anjou will be able to hold its own against the might of France. We fear invasion when our lord dies."

"But the Duke of Calabria can surely prevent this?"

"No, my lady, not without England on our side. The Duke is ailing and our King is an old man. I beg you tell my Lady Anne that we pray for her marriage with Prince Edouard."

Margery sighed, "I shall tell her but you must understand that she was raised to regard the Prince and his lady mother as enemies of her blood. This is not going to be easy, least of all for my lord of Warwick."

"We understand."

There was a temporary hush from the back of the hall and the Angevin courtiers bowed and hastened to their places, but the Kings had not arrived and the buzz of conversation renewed.

"Look there, have you ever seen such a fashion?" Anne whispered, directing her sister to an effete young man with hair down to his shoulder blades and pikes on his shoes that were so long they were attached to his knees with tiny silver chains. "I wish I'd seen him come in. He must look like a duck when he walks."

"Hush, Anne," hissed the Countess. "Anyone would think you had never been at a court before."

"Well, it is true. You never let us go to Ned's. He invited us several times."

"Only because he knew your father would not accept." The Countess sat down and fanned her face with her hand. "Ned is the last person you should be talking about now of all times! And pray refer to him as 'the usurper' from now on if you insist on mentioning him at all. Margery, set a good example."

Margery was too distracted to be irritated. Two thrones draped in heavy silk had been set upon the dais beneath canopies embroidered with the coats of arms of each kingdom. A third chair of state sat empty on the floor of the hall but she could see from the leopards and lilies gleaming in gold thread on the brocade that it was for the Lancastrian Queen.

"It begins." Richard Huddleston materialised at her side, too handsomely lethal for her peace of mind. His gaze noted his gift around her throat and he gave her an ironic smile.

Margery was not pleased to see him. "I thought you would be in my father's party."

"He sent us ahead. That wretch Oxford has definitely failed him. I have been playing lookout for the last hour." No wonder his brow was hot and beading. He glanced about him. "I should have worn my contrasting codpiece. Have you signed them all up for assignations?"

She smiled though her tone was icy. "How can you jest? Yes, of course, I have signed contracts. I need to gain some expertise from somewhere." He was heating her blood by letting his glance linger on her body. And he knew the full extent of his power, curse him!

The clear warning notes of the Angevin trumpeters sounded from the gallery. The Countess rose. Margery said a quick prayer for her father and turned to face the centre of the hall. Stiffbacked, Anne shook like a wobbly funeral effigy.

The trumpeters produced an elaborate fanfare. The two kings walked in side by side, Louis slowing his pace to the older man's, and took their places on the thrones as the echoes died away. The Duchess Jeanne de Laval followed, her train whispering softly up the steps of the dais to stand beside her husband's throne. The French King fidgeted, rearranging the blue satin folds stitched with golden fleur-de-lis, that hung from his broad ermine collar. René of Anjou sat still as stone; only his eyes flickered from face to face.

Preceded by her herald, Queen Margaret arrived to a complex fanfare, on the arm of her brother, John, Duke of Calabria. A tiny page carried her train and behind her strode a grinning youth, his tunic stitched with the triple feathers of the Prince of Wales.

Margery felt Anne hold her breath. The lad was nothing remarkable. He would have topped young Gloucester by a head but he definitely lacked the muscularity that years in the combat yard would eventually bestow. The light brown hair was neatly cut and curled in line with a jawbone that hinted at no great strength. This was supposedly the grandson of the victor of Agincourt which, of course, might be quite true. But according to his enemies—actually the Nevilles had fanned the smoke of the rumour more than most—he was supposed to be the son of the late duke of Somerset. Everyone knew King Harry VI had been reputedly mad at the time of conception. Anne's glance met Margery's. The Prince's potential bride was not impressed.