The Maiden and the Unicorn (13 page)

De Commynes must have taken his leave without further talk for he caught her up in the great hall and gestured to the steward to wait while he drew her aside. "I have many questions that remain unanswered. Matters in England that are not clear. We could discuss them somewhere more comfortable."

"You mean in bed?" retorted Margery, past caring for diplomatic niceties.

His eyes sparkled and his lips drew together in a mock sulk. "You offend me, demoiselle. You run like a cart before the horse."

"I have encountered a lot of horses lately, monsieur. Because I was apprehended in embarrassing circumstances with the King of England, my reputation seems to be beyond repair. People jump to conclusions. To be truthful, I am so very weary. Having nothing to do but fret is very tiresome and as you know we were confined all day awaiting his lordship's convenience until you kindly keened his curiosity." The sleek Burgundian courtier beamed at her in admiration and she knew she had guessed correctly. "So, good night to you, monsieur, I shall be happy to speak with you before I leave."

"If he lets you leave." Her surprised gaze rose. "But he will. I give you my word on it."

Later she lay considering de Commynes' presence in Calais. It was not in the interests of Duke Charles of Burgundy to see the house of York divided. Nor would he want Warwick loose gathering mercenaries especially as everyone knew that Warwick was no friend to Burgundy. The Earl had wanted Ned to marry the sister of the Queen of France. Yes, de Commynes would be pleased she was carrying a letter of reconciliation to Warwick. He would also approve the letters to Clarence if he but knew of them.

Further talk with a mellower Lord Wenlock next day and his promise to arrange passage for her to the mouth of the Seine, where it was reported that her guardian had taken refuge, satisfied Margery no end. The captain of the
Winchelsea
was restored to liberty. All was well and she had a few days' respite to exploit what Calais had to offer—a choice of goods from all over Christendom.

With Alys as excited as she was and a borrowed manservant to protect her and carry her purchases, Margery spent a wonderful extravagant morning buying both luxuries and necessities. It was a heady feeling to have money in her purse. She was wise enough to save plenty for emergencies, but Ned had been delightfully generous.

Her pleasure was compounded when a servant in the livery of the Wool Staple bade her to dinner at Master Caxton's and it was there she learned the news that gave her a clearer grasp of de Commynes' presence in Calais. The men at Caxton's table were not bound by frontiers but their livelihood depended on anticipating the actions of their rulers.

Warwick, she learned, had pirated some of the Burgundian fleet as he had sailed south and his presence on the French coast was embarrassing for King Louis since the ink on a French peace treaty with Burgundy had barely dried.

Why had the French or Burgundians never seized Calais and Guines from England, she desired to know, and her table companions answered that it was because Calais was the ear to what was going on in England, a crossroads of gossip as well as merchandise. To take the port was to provoke war with England and, besides, Burgundy and France were such a threat to each other that neither could afford the weakness of fighting two enemies at once. The town was riddled with foreign agents but everyone knew it. She should curb her tongue, they warned, for there would be many interested in watching her, a rare messenger.

Margery decided that she must play the innocuous woman caught by accident in the web of courier interchange that spanned Christendom. Her conclusions were confirmed when Alys convinced her on their return to the governor's house that their belongings had been searched. The lining of the unlocked coffer had been gently prised up. The interloper's paymaster could have been Wenlock, de Commynes or even an agent of King Louis. A fourth possibility occurred to her. Even in Calais there must be Englishmen who were enemies to Ned, men who had fought for Lancaster against York. Margaret d'Anjou, the Queen of the House of Lancaster, had taken refuge in the Duchy of Bar. She, too, must have agents in Calais scenting out news, especially as her two great enemies, Ned and Warwick, had fallen foul of each other.

Oh Jesu, thought Margery, what have I gotten myself into here?

The next day she was bidden to dinner by de Commynes. He had taken over one of the grand houses of the Wool Staple for his entourage. The food was lavish, the wine heady and she was glad that Wenlock and several of the other merchants were present. In spite of that, she found herself seated next to de Commynes above the salt.

"It is rare that I have had so beauteous and intriguing a guest." She lowered her eyes before the intense study. "What shall you do when you have delivered the letter to the Earl?"

"Why, take up my duties as lady-in-waiting to the Duchess as before," she replied guilelessly.

"Would you not prefer to return to England?"

"No, excellency."

"You are too modest. You cannot convince me that King Edward does not desire you in his bed. Do you not aspire to be his mistress?"

Careful, she warned herself. "Well, there was a time when I should have wished that for I once fancied that I loved him dearly, but I was younger then."

He leaned closer, his words became soft breath upon her ear. "My master would be most desirous of having you resume your former intimacy with the King. Let us say that your fortunes could increase beyond your greatest imagining." Oh Jesu, he was offering her a post of spy at Westminster. "What would you say to an elderly noble for a husband, a man who will ask no questions." Pray Heaven, he was not going to suggest John Wenlock.

"Monsieur, you overwhelm me." In several ways. Beneath the table linen his thigh was nudging hers and the piked toe of his right shoe was teasing the hem of her skirts. His hand fondled hers upon the cloth. She let him do so. Better for everyone to think they indulged in dalliance not diplomacy.

"But you will consider it, clever one, won't you? And now I have a gift for you." A bribe, a taste of things to come?

It was modest and therefore acceptable. A vial of Venetian glass containing bath essence. "To put you in sensual humour," he whispered. "Its perfume will envelop you and evoke delicious memories." She doubted that. For some reason, Master Stone's threat to dunk her in a horse trough rose unbidden in her thoughts.

The perfumed essence, when she broke the seal later, was like the Burgundian proposal—intoxicating, exciting and despicable. It was tempting to use it. Yet it was a gift from a powerbroker who no doubt used real people like other men merely moved wooden chess pieces.

Alys eyed the vial with awe. "Do you want me to ask my lord's chamberlain to arrange a bath for you, mistress?"

"No, we shall take it with us as a gift for the Duchess Isabella."

The maidservant giggled. "Perhaps the foreign lord hoped you would invite him to ladle it over you in person. I mean it's disgusting really, not a suitable gift for a lady. You can tell it's not England, can't you? I mean, Master Stone now, he would never have given you anything so improper."

"Master Stone—and I wish you would not keep holding him up as a paragon of virtue—was a mine of gold poorer."

"Mistress, you won't be setting this Day Commons gentleman at a dangle for you, will you? After all, he is a foreigner."

* * *

On the morrow, Wenlock agreed to let Margery resume her journey to seek out the Duchess. He had commissioned a vessel to convey her away, not from Calais but from a secret rendezvous further south from the harbour. Margery was on her way there when a pincer of horsemen closed about the escort Wenlock had provided, forcing them to draw rein. The leader, astonishingly, was de Commynes.

He spoke to her escort leader emphatically and handed over a bag of coins so weighty that the men from Calais rode away with broad grins leaving Margery and her maid hedged within a circle of mounted Burgundian soldiers. De Commynes rode ahead and his men closed in around the women urging them onwards. They rode seawards to a deserted beach. The horsemen dispersed, setting up a distant cordon around them and Margery and Alys were left facing de Commynes. He dismounted and assisted Margery charmingly from her horse.

"Is this some sort of Burgundian outing, monsieur, someone's saint's day?" Margery asked venomously.

"I apologise, demoiselles, but I shall require you to remove your entire clothing."

Alys shrank back against Margery, casting fearful glances at the soldiers, mounted still, with their backs to them some distance away.

"Why?" demanded Margery, her arm around the trembling maid.

With an eye on Alys, he changed to simple French. "Because I want to know what papers you are really carrying, demoiselle. You have obviously worn them on your person the whole time. Do you English never take baths?"

"Yes, of course, we do!" snapped Margery in halting French. Then she gave him a shrewd look, realising how cunning he had been.

"Exactly. I congratulate you on your intelligence. Now, undress!"

Chapter 6

"Your maid first."

"You overstep yourself!" exclaimed Margery.

"Either remove every shred of clothing or my men will do it for you. I have little time, please hurry." He meant it.

When she at length stood, naked and cold before him, he passed her his sable edged cloak, gathered up her clothing and forced her to accompany him up into the sand dunes leaving Alys to reclothe herself. His adamant tone left Margery little choice.

If she was afraid, she hid it well but her fears proved groundless. The only compensation and insult, if you like, in the whole humiliating process of appearing unclothed before him was that he was far more interested in her garments than he was in her body. He spread them upon the ground and examined each thoroughly. When he found the unusual stiffness in the collar, he laughed and triumphantly slit the seams open. "So, in all, letters mostly for the Duke of Clarence in many different hands and but one for the Earl. He will feel slighted. You may put your apparel back on, demoiselle. The wind is fresh."

"You have ruined my clothing. How can I carry these letters discreetly now?"

The Burgundian laughed. "I've brought you needles and thread for the purpose."

"Am I expected to be grateful?" hissed Margery as she hastily pulled her underskirt back up over her hips. "You have dismissed my bodyguard—"

"You may have six of my men to see you safely to your ship." He lowered his voice. "My master will be pleased with the news that King Edward is likely to forgive his brother if he betrays Warwick." He sighed, "Your Monsieur Warwick is a great nuisance to Burgundy, demoiselle, and we want our ships and cargoes back from him. Now let me help you back down to the beach."

She shunned his hand. "He is merely seeking shelter along the coast of France to lick his wounds."

De Commynes smiled. "But if France gives him refuge after his hostility to our shipping, then our peace with France will be violated.
Eh bien,
I must return to Bruges. Do think on the offer I made you the other day, and before we part, permit me to say how charming you look without your gown." He possessed himself of her cold hand, planted a cool perfunctory kiss upon it. "I wish you joy in your mission. Your secret is safe with me."

Margery stood dazed as five of the Burgundians departed.

"Mistress," Alys coughed for attention. "Are we going to have to take our clothing off like this regularly? Is it some sort of custom in these parts?" Margery examined the faces of the remaining soldiers who were waiting attentively for her orders and was glad of the dagger once more within her sleeve. "I expect so," she answered Alys. "They believe English folk have tails. They just wanted to see if it was true."

"Get away, mistress, you are gulling me."

"Yes, Alys, I am."

The girl sniffed. "I wish we had Master Stone and his men with us instead. At least they spoke English and Master Stone would have never let some foreigner treat us like that."

"Little you know. I hope never to set eyes on Master Richard Stone ever again!"

* * *

The caravel
Celerité
was too small to arouse much suspicion as it pursued the coast. The exception was a large Burgundian ship which cruised alongside for a few knots before it turned its bows seaward again. But as they neared the mouth of the Seine, a vessel with grappling irons and ropes at the ready made straight for them.