The Maiden and the Unicorn (61 page)

In the light of the next dawn, Richard rose early from their camp and carried his wife's purse away from the human snores and the huff of the horses hoping to be fed.

Supervised by Errour, he tipped the contents out upon the moss—two combs of bone, a silver case with needle and thread and two hairpins, a tiny pottery jar of ointment and a leaf-shaped brooch. He picked up the larger of the two bone combs, cursing that he had never thought of it before.

The crude carving, a plethora of what might pass for leaves, was rough beneath his fingers. He turned it over and applied the nail of his smallest finger in the groove on the end. The circle moved. A hollow groove, barely thicker than a quill shaft ran within the spine of the comb. It would require a needle to auger out the hidden secret.

Without turning, he knew she stood behind him. "Oh, nobly done," she applauded, crouching to thrust her belongings back into her purse. "How many weeks has it taken you? You must have searched my clothes a score of times."

"A clever device." He weighed the comb in his hand. "Margaret d'Anjou would give me an earldom for this scrap of treachery."

For the briefest of instants, she still doubted him. He was clever enough to turn any situation to his advantage. "You overrate yourself, Richard Huddleston," she chided lightly and swiftly prayed.

He did not answer that but reached out and caught her to him, bestowing a kiss on the tip of her nose as he pressed the comb back into her hand. "Hush, I have news that will drive all else from your head."

Margery surrendered to his arms. "Astonish me."

"They say your Ned bought a passage across the Channel with a fur-lined coat. He and Gloucester are safe in Burgundy."

* * *

‎
"And I say she should not! She is with child." Richard Huddleston faced the crownless English King across the board in Bruges.

"You forget yourself!" snarled Edward, his colour rising.

"No, your highness, I
remember.
My wife has suffered too much already in your service."

Edward sprang to his feet, towering over the rest of them. "Let the lady be sent for. I will know her mind."

"Ha! You know she will say yes." Richard rose also.

Gloucester set a swift hand upon his sleeve. "Let me be a stifler between you."

Which, of course, Margery reflected later, was how she came to find herself in early December foolishly riding into Westminster Palace in the entourage of the embassy from Burgundy, once more carrying letters of reconciliation.

Her father, who wanted to be and could not be king because his veins held not one drop of Plantagenet blood, stood on the dais in the Great Hall beside the empty throne. The red silk cushions of the royal seat were dented as if King Henry had lately sat there, or her father, alone, had tried it out for size.

He was surrounded by noblemen, none of whom she recognised save for my lord of Oxford who eyed her with lofty astonishment. The Duke of Clarence was mercifully absent.

The Burgundians, dignified and puffed up with virtuous outrage, protested against Warwick's alliance with the King of France. Already, they complained, French soldiers had made sallies into Burgundy and there were further amassments on the border; their trading agreements had been circumvented in favour of French imports; King Louis was preparing an invasion force; and Duke Charles of Burgundy was mightily displeased.

Warwick listened as if he had heard it all before. His eyes were tired but there was a complacency—of owning the most power—that smirked upon his mouth. "Let your master cease to give refuge to the usurper Edward and then mayhap we will have something to discuss. I see you have brought my bastard with you."

There were mutterings as Margery sank down before her father's scarlet leather shoes, at kissing level with the gold-edged hem of the gilt-threaded red houppelande. No doubt he would have worn cloth of gold if he had dared.

Warwick studied her face and noted the sealed letters in her gloved hand. "I will speak with Mistress Huddleston alone." He led her past them into the empty chamber of counsel. The lofty, star-strewn ceiling and the empty benches alongside the long oak table gave the room a haunted feeling. He seated himself in the king's great chair at the end of the table and she smiled to herself. His sense of spectacle had always impressed her.

For a moment, the whimsical notion of seating herself at the opposite end appealed but she sat down sensibly on the end of the bench at his right elbow.

"So you are here with more false promises from Ned. You broke your oath as hostage."

"I took no oath, my lord, my husband forcibly removed me, you might say, after the Queen had tormented me." That at least had trapped her father's attention. "She was seeking evidence against George. Did you know she desires to bring an Act of Attainder against him so she may return his lands to the faithful?"

There was no absolution. "But that was after you tried to leave without her permission."

"True," she sighed. "It is not over, my lord. Ned will invade with Burgundy's support. He bids you and my lord of Clarence make your peace and welcome him home before Margaret d'Anjou lands and it is too late for either of you."

"Let him come! I hold England now," snarled her father, bringing his fist down upon the board. "And where is that treacherous spy, your husband? Safe in Burgundy while you risk my anger? I hope he has not strayed within this realm, for by my father's soul I shall hang him and set his head upon the bridge." He saw the pain in her face and relented. "And I gave you to him against your better judgment. Are you carrying a child?" His perception amazed her; the babe was too young to be swelling her belly yet. "Is it Huddleston's?"

"No, it is mine." They both turned abruptly. The Duke of Clarence was leaning against a small doorway, his smile as broad as that of Caiaphas on Maundy Thursday. "You know she was my mistress even at Valognes, my lord." The statement accompanied him as he moved forward to make a trio beneath the painted stars.

"He is lying!" hissed Margery, taking refuge behind her father's chair. She had been braced to meet George but not like this. "You must not believe him, Father."

"Because the truth is not as beautiful as you, Meg." George reached out a caress to her cheek but she jerked her head away and he laughed. "Come, my lord, you know that Bella shunned me because she was fearful of childbirth and Meg here was harnessed to a husband that she loathed."

Looking uncomfortable, Warwick rose and strode to the broad hearth, his thumbs twitching angrily over each other behind his tense back.

"No," whispered Margery, holding on to the carved chair back for support. "Believe nothing, my lord. The child is Richard Huddleston's. Why do you tell such monstrous lies, my lord duke?"

"Because Huddleston does not give a damn for you. He's a bloody traitor." He swung round to face Warwick. "This so-called desire for Meg was just a means to insinuate himself into your trust."

"My lords, there are more important matters than my virtue," Margery protested hotly. "I have been sent by Ned to plead with you both. He promises in future to abide by your counsels. There is yet time to make amends." Her words fell upon stony ground. "My lord father," she pleaded, "King Louis seeks only to make England soft while he conquers Burgundy. That is his design. He uses you."

Warwick smiled. He knew it. They used each other.

"What excellent diplomacy!" sneered the Duke. "In other words, Father Warwick, she is telling you what a gullible fool you are and we all know you are not." He smiled craftily. "Ned has nothing to bargain with. Let him come with the Burgundian mercenaries and we shall meet him on the field." Dark hate glittered in his eyes.

"No, it need not be so," Margery countered. "England has seen enough battlefields. Dear God, my lord, how many innocent folk must die because you hate your brother?"

The Duke flicked the air dismissively. "Lady, your present state makes you grow peevish. Speaking of innocence... I think you should read this, Father Warwick."

Jesu! Margery recognised the letter the Duke was pulling from his doublet. It was Ned's letter to him, the one that had been sewn within her collar. With a narrowing of his eyes at her, the Duke strode across and thrust it before his father-in-law's face. "Read it!"

The Earl snatched it ungraciously and turned. Her blood cooled to ice as she watched her father's face harden. He stuck his lower lip out. "Whence came this?"

"Meg brought it to me in Valognes." George's gaze flickered malevolently and then he leaned across and grabbed her wrist, jerking her towards him and jabbing her fingers onto the jewelled pectoral cross he wore. "There is something else, you should know, my lord. This daughter of yours is Ned's creature through and through. She begged me between kisses to forswear you. He sent her to seduce me." He held Margery's fingers to the cross. "Upon the tree of our Sweet Saviour, tell your father it is so. Go on, deny before Christ that you met me in secret."

"You are hurting me!" screamed Margery, her wrist writhing within his grasp.

"Dare you swear?" Warwick was at her elbow.

George's blue eyes were brilliant with malice as he held her.

The Earl's hands came down upon her shoulders. "Let her go." He reached out from behind her and laid a hand across her fingers, pressing them against the gems while the Duke maliciously waited, torturing her with his gaze, his wine-soaked breath upon her face.

"Upon the Cross, tell me, Margery. Did you ask George to betray me?"

"It was not like that. I…I wanted to bring reconciliation. I thought that if I could make my lord of Clarence change his mind, you would be forced to make peace with Ned."

George let go of her triumphantly. "Not quite the truth, Meg, but close enough. You need not be afraid of honesty. I had as lief your father know about why you have come back as keep him in the dark." He stretched out a hand to her belly. "I will take care of what is mine own. You may have a house and women to attend the childbirth."

She shuddered at the way he was looking at her and struck back. "You intend me evil," she muttered. "Why do you not put your fingers on your cross and swear you are not lying, your grace. I will wager God must shudder every time you open your mouth. Tell my father how loyal
you
are, cousin... sweet heart. Go on, swear
that
on your soul's salvation."

"Peace, the pair of you!" Warwick paced away and turned. "Margery, not only have you broken my trust in every way, you betrayed Isabella, you refused to obey me and remain as hostage, you abandoned Anne and now you come to me, your mouth dripping with lies from the usurper. By all rights I should have you whipped and condemn you to walk barefoot to Paul's for the whore you are."

His assumption of her guilt severed the final chains of respect that held her. "No, my lord, I ever tried to make a peace..."

"The trouble is," George's arm coiled about her waist like a serpent, "I wholly believe in Meg's innocence. This is what happens when a silly wench is caught up in affairs of state. You want a perfect world, Meg, and instead we have all used you. And I, for one, will make amends. I pray you, my lord, give me custody of this foolish girl." He rubbed his hand across her belly. "I want this child to live."

Margery froze. Richard had spoken aright. It was George who had sent the men to kill them by the Loire.

She tried to think swiftly. If she told her father of George's promise to Ned and her father believed her, the Duke would be imprisoned and all the men he might bring to Ned's support might be lost. If the Duke was granted custody of her, without doubt he would kill her to prevent her telling anyone in England of his intended treachery. If her father imprisoned her, George might seek some way to poison her.

She tried to free herself from the Duke's painful grip. "No! No! I fear him. He will kill me!"

"Cousin Warwick."

The innocent voice had sufficient strength to reach them. The Duke let her go with a curse and moved back, his chest heaving, his hands fists. Margery, clutching her arms across her heart, spun round to face the doorway.

The man who stood there was tall and simply clad in a long gown of woollen cloth. The fair hair, streaked liberally with silver, framed a face barely lined and eyes curiously bland and ingenuous. Although she had never seen him before, Margery knew that only one man could interrupt her father. One glance at Warwick's expression frozen in fury convinced her this was her only chance.

She managed a retching sound and with her hand to her mouth moved forward, gasping. "Your pardon, highness, I am ill."

Once past King Henry of Lancaster, she ran. "Latrines!" she exclaimed, thrusting the halberds of the guards aside. The Burgundians, mercifully, had waited for her.

* * *

Unable to leave the sanctuary of St Martin-le-Grand at Aldersgate, Margery was to fret, a prisoner without chains, through Yuletide into spring. As the trees and hedges began to unfurl their buds, news came that Ned and Dickon had landed with a small force in the north. It would be a brave but doomed invasion, with her blood uncle, Montague, Warwick's younger brother, waiting to swat them like unwelcome flies. And was Richard Huddleston with them?

Rumours abounded: Margaret d'Anjou was on the Channel; Northumberland, his troops drawn up in the north, was waiting to see which political haystacks were alight; Oxford, rallying the other Lancastrian earls, was moving towards Newark. What was true was that my lord of Clarence was hastily gone from London, armed with commissions of array, and Warwick with a huge contingent had set out for Coventry from whence he could strike at Ned and Dickon as they strove to make for London.