The Maiden and the Unicorn (55 page)

"But as a wife, I am disobedient, wayward, contrary and you would need to beat me at least once a week." Her glance was coy as she turned her head. Devil take the woman! She was not angry with him at all. She had lured him here for what? The kiss of peace? He watched her gracefully stoop and hurl the stick that the children's dog had deposited hopefully at her feet.

"Twice a week," he corrected her, with a smile that could melt icicles. Margery for her part felt she could not breathe. The opposite river bank suddenly became of infinite interest to her. "And now I desire you to bare your thoughts, lady, not your body." His fingertips were stroking down her shoulders, his words against her temple. "So tell me what happened between you and the Duke."

Silence lay upon them like a coverlet.

"Margery?" She liked the way he said her name now. Before it had been a presumption, now it was a familiarity.

"Nothing that is yours is given away or sullied, sir." She closed her eyes and leaned back against him, reaching up to touch his hands.

"I want more than that," he murmured softly. "Cleanse your soul of its darkest secrets and I will champion your cause."

Neither sensed their peril until one of the children shouted and the dog barked.

Richard whirled round. He let go of her with an oath to draw his sword as two armed men came riding at them.

"Run!" he yelled.

Before she could grab her skirts, the hurtling hooves were about them. Steel hissed from above, striking Richard's blade as he tried to fend off the vicious swipes. "You're in my way! Run, damn you!"

Margery ducked low. She seized as much gravel and sand as she could within her gloved hands. It was a risk to straighten but she hurled the fistfuls into one of the horse's eyes. Directionless, it ignored the sharp hands on its bridle, reared and plunged at the water. The rider tried to bring it round.

With one foe, Richard had more chance. While he parried the attacker's thrusts, Margery drew her dagger, ran round the other side of the horse and plunged the blade into the man's leg. It was a woman's force but it slid in with appalling ease. He gave a yelp and twisted round swiftly to heave a blow upon her. She shrieked, flinging herself down on hands and knees to miss the deadly scythe. The distraction was enough for Richard's blade to slip beneath the brigand's guard and into his heart. She heard herself screaming at the spurting blood. A plunging hoof cleared her cheekbone by a skin width.

Richard snatched up the dead man's sword and spun round to face the second, burlier man menacing them now on foot. Margery scrambled out of the way as steel clashed viciously on steel, withdrew and rasped again. The children were shouting.

Richard, vulnerable in his soft garments, read death in the stranger's face. This was no footpad but a trained soldier out to cut his throat and not his purse. He tried to turn the fight so that the other's eyes caught the glare of the water. The sun scorched his face as they circled like fighting cocks.

"Ride!" he bawled hoarsely at Margery.

The other laughed. "Yea, dog's piss, I am going to rape her across your corpse, stick my dagger in her belly and then her heart." The French dialect was barely intelligible but the intent was. The face was jeering below the sallet. The fist within the leather gauntlet launched a further vicious assault jolting Richard's entire body each time he parried.

Margery was sure she had stopped breathing. If Richard were to be killed... She forced herself to act. Edging to the dead man, she drew out her dagger from the body, stifling thought, quelling emotion.

Her action distracted the attacker and Richard's steel sliced into his shoulder. With an oath the man fought even harder, drawing blood through the tight sleeve of Richard's upper arm.

Margery, wondering if the same trick might serve, threw a handful of stones against the brigand and the dog ran close behind his heels at the sport.

Undistracted, Richard launched thrust upon thrust, driving the man backwards into the shallows while his wife absurdly kept sending the dog into the water directly behind his assailant. Time slowed, limped, but at last Richard had the man on his knees. Every breath was agony as he finally plunged his sword in to the hilt.

"Oh, dear God," Margery tossed away the dagger and ran towards him as he staggered out of the river, scarlet wavelets lapping his heels.

Every gasp was torn from him. He leaned over, head bowed. The hanging sleeves, wet and mired, flopped like rags. Spatters of blood had stained the green brocade. His very stance forbade her to touch him. But at length he straightened, wearily picked up his hat from the sand, tapped it against his thigh with a sigh before he inspected the body he had just severed from its soul.

There was no livery, no hatbadge, no ring. Nothing that would identify. The man's blond colouring hinted at a Schweitzer. The sword hilt suggested Nürnberg or Augsburg.

He heaved the second man from the water and lifted the edge of the leather jacket with the tip of his sword but there was no livery badge on the tunic beneath. He came back to where Margery was staring at the corpse, her arms crossed defensively across her breasts as if she was trying to hold herself together.

The boys had cautiously returned with their horses, eyeing Richard with awe. Their muttered patois was beyond his understanding as they inspected the carnage.

"You have seen him before?" They shrugged.

"Do
you
recognise him?" Margery asked huskily.

Richard shook his head and knelt to pull open the man's collar. The small leather drawstring bag contained a gold coin. He palmed it before she could read
Edwardus Quartus,
and jerked his head at the boys with an abrupt command. They took to their heels. "I have sent them for the other horse. Look for a brandmark. Check the saddles." It was important to keep her busy.

There were no saddlebags, no clues. The second horse stumbled blindly, tossing its head and snorting. Margery grabbed the smaller child away to safety. "It cannot see."

"Quickly!" snapped Richard. "Cleanse its eyes!"

The older boy took the reins more cunningly, dragging the animal to the river.

"Not a plaguey clue!" exclaimed Richard.

"I do not want to sound feeble but I think this is catching up with me," Margery gasped, leaning her forehead against her horse's shoulder.

"If you swoon, you can do it on your own," he replied brusquely. "Let us return to the chateau, soldier's wife. These may have friends." He heaved her onto her palfrey none too gently. Whitefaced, she clutched at the pommel of the saddle. He was alert to catch her as he paid the children but she held on, closing her eyes. Her resourcefulness in danger had been remarkable.

"Your bravery, Margery, will certainly make your father proud," he exclaimed as he swung into the saddle, "but, by the Saints, you should have run when I told you to."

Margery's spirits revived at the scant praise. "What about their horses?"

He gave her a tight smile. "Enough!" And with a mighty slap, he drove the palfrey forward.

She never heard what he said to the children. He caught up with her giving no explanation. Perhaps it needed none. Nor did he draw rein until they were through the trees.

"The sand and dagger were helpful, Margery. Perhaps I should take you and a dog to war with me."

"Are you hurting?"

"My left shoulder may have work for you. You wish to play my nursemaid?" But he could see she did not believe him.

"Heaven forbid!" She wrinkled her nose but evidently her thoughts were graver. "Of what nation was the coin? Tell me who and why."

He shrugged. "They wanted to rob us. Your necklet could be sold, so could our clothing."

"Not with blood all—Oh, Richard..." She had not noticed the drying blood all over her bodice.

"You have been very brave but your horse will not appreciate the contents of your belly over its back, and you always put the horse's feelings first I notice." He sensed the tears stinging behind her eyes as she nodded. Then a new thought struck at her.

"Richard, do you think the Queen wants me dead?"

"The Queen? No, I do not! Your imagination is beyond belief. Just because you sense she dislikes you. No, I will hear no more." Should he tell her it was George of Clarence that he suspected?

"You will hear no more," she echoed his tone. "Plague take you! I shall think what I please and you may go whet your ambition on the French woman's slippers!"

They made the rest of the journey in silence with Margery hating him wholeheartedly.

Richard rode grimfaced, despising himself but at least her fury had distracted her from asking further questions.

Margery meekly let him conduct her to the Countess's apartments where he gave so brief a description of the attack that those who heard might have been forgiven for thinking they had been set upon by a pair of butterflies. The blood on her clothes, however, drew gasps and screams from the other women.

Her father was summoned to see her, his eyes grave and puzzled. "King Louis shall hear of this."

"No, my lord," she caught Warwick's hand. "This is too small a matter for him."

"It is the small matters that make him what he is."

Her clothes were taken away for what was probably a futile attempt to clean the blood off and she was escorted to the bathhouse to soak in hot water and be muffled in soft towels.

A page arrived from the King of France apologising for the lawlessness. In recompense, she was to have a bedchamber for the night. That indeed was a miracle.

She reached it eventually after sundown, wondering who had been evicted; someone had left a fistful of points upon the fur coverlet but the sheets at least were cleanly laundered. It was as she turned and stared at the carved frieze which ran along the wall behind the bed that her flesh crawled.

She forced herself to turn away, to listen to what Alys was saying, but the scene beside the river kept repeating itself in her head. It was like watching the York pageant, but every wagon that stopped before her replayed the same scene. She saw once more the expression that had flickered across her husband's face. Richard knew who had sent the assassins. She would swear that on saints' bones.

She watched Alys snuggle down on the trundle bed and envied her innocence.

The door opened much later. Not stealthfully, but so suddenly that she hurtled across to the other side of the bed, her dagger drawn.

Chapter 25

"I see you are expecting visitors," murmured Richard Huddleston, setting a flickering candlestick down on the hearth.

"Do not tell me that they are offering free baths to everyone," she muttered acidly, thrusting the now clean dagger back into its sheath.

He looked relieved. "Is it not the feast of St Swithin?"

"What?"

"The patron saint of bathwater." He received a scowl. "Alys, do you not think your mistress smells as though someone had an accident with an excess of roses?" But Alys grumbled and turned over. He was testing the bed. "Better than I have been putting up with—and a wife to go with it. Perhaps we should get ourselves ambushed more often. Is your gown redeemable?"

"I doubt it. They have removed it for cleaning." A faint frown shadowed his brow. He seemed to be staying. "I gather you are part of the compensation," she added wryly.

"Yes, but I will go if you had rather be alone. We should have taken Matthew and five lapdogs. You could have catapulted them."

"Maybe." She clutched her arms about her and glanced at the wooden panels. "Richard, do you know where the nearest garderobe is?"

He stood up with a sigh. "Yes. Is this part of being married?"

She resisted staring at the frieze. "This is nothing. When Bella was with child—"

"No, I will hear no more." He retrieved the candle. "Come, then."

Along the gallery, she stopped and put a finger to her lips.

"Margery! Explain, if you please."

"There was someone watching earlier behind the panel. Do not glare at me like that!"

"There are probably a dozen people packed into a bed on the other side of the wall. Perhaps you heard someone turn over and rock the bedhead."