The Maiden and the Unicorn (29 page)

"But" His wife's cherry lips parted in astonishment as she watched him close the door behind them. He leaned back against its boards, coolly regarding her, his arms folded.

"I wish I had never felt you beneath me that day at Warwick. Come here!"

Oh, she knew now that the game was up. All that was left to her was the dagger up her sleeve. He saw her swallow nervously but she came dutifully across to him. "I am not returning to Honfleur, Margery. I am coming to Amboise with you."

"You are?" She moistened her lips and looked up at him wide eyed. He was growing used to that feigned innocence. A fool would have mistaken it for shyness. He placed his fingers on either side of the slender column of her neck. Tonight, he would put her through her paces.

"So, my sweet wanton, have you not yet got my measure?"

Her blue eyes widened further. She smelt of flowers. His left hand moved behind her head but his right smoothly slid to where touching was overdue. She resisted, her breast quivering deliciously against his fingers while beneath the heel of his hand, her heart fluttered in dainty panic.

"Are you prepared to honour your marriage vows to me?"

She took a deep breath. "You said there were better bargains to be had elsewhere. So why eat your words? I am handled goods, Master Huddleston. Why did you not pick a virgin heiress?"

"You want reassurance, lady? You want soft words from me?" He ran a thumb along her lips. "Soft words are
earned.
"
Her heart was now thumping like a tabor to a whirling country dance. He felt powerful, conscious of her femininity, her fragility. He was lord over the air between them, willing her into his space. "Why not hand the keys to me tonight, Margery? The treaty is made."

Tiny fans of dark gold came down, veiling her eyes. "This city will stand, sir."

"I see." He let go of her coldly. "You disappoint me. I thought you had more courage and intelligence."

"I have!" she exclaimed hotly, starting back.

"Indeed?" How dare she withstand him when he could have taken by force what she owed him in duty? "You have the opportunity to sweeten your tongue, behave in wifely manner and have me like clay—here!" He held out his open palm, his fingers half-curled and then reading the adamantine look on her face, snapped his fingers into a fist. "You are a fool, lady. I offer you peace and you ride at me with a lance." Sullenly he turned away, folding his arms fiercely. Maybe indifference would goad the wench more than strength or soft words.

"Sir," Sadness lined her voice. "I respect you for all you rode roughshod over me. Perhaps, given time—"

"Time, in case you may not have noticed, is not in great abundance, nor is privacy."

"Sir." Was this Margery? Husky, pleading? That was new for her. What was the little vixen up to now? Curiosity half-turned him. She was trying to make a speech, standing there in her blue velvet like an irresistible gift waiting to be opened.

"Why should I make it easy, Master Huddleston? When we were in England, you bruised both my body with hard riding and my feelings with harsh words. It was as if you hated me. Do you hate me, sir? Is marrying me some kind of further punishment?"

"No." It was a sigh. No, but he would not have her know how much he wanted her completely his, body and soul. By Christ's blessed mercy, he desired mastery over her but not if it meant surrendering his power over himself. He would be the lead horse pulling the cart of matrimony. "I mean you no harm. Have I not proved that?"

A tiny pink tongue flickered over her lips. The blue eyes were desperate. What did it take to put a different passion in them? She came forward like a solemn petitioner. "I would be happy to have your friendship, sir."

Friendship! And trust, no doubt, while she met Clarence by candlelight and was closeted alone with kings. Trust! He looked down at her, his eyes cold. "I cannot give you my friendship, Margery."

She would have stepped back but his hands lightly cradled her shoulders.

"Why ever not?" She seemed ablaze with astonishment.

"Take this for answer, lady."

Richard's kissed her. He knew she fought against responding. He framed her face between his hands so she could not escape him, and demanded entry. When she denied him, he held her back from him, examining her with the exhilaration of a forester pursuing his quarry. "Margery, I want you so much." This time he had her bewitched as he drew her to him again and touched his lips to her throat. His voice was a whisper as he stroked her, soothed her, willed her. "Let me through, Margery. Give me the city and you shall have good lordship." His sensuous gaze forced her head back as if he held sharp steel against her throat.

Slowly he drew his thumb downwards. The tight bud of her breast was ripely engorged. The fabric had become a taut, tantalising barrier. "You like this, my lady wife?" Her eyes widened as if in surprise at her body's stirrings and her lips parted. He took advantage, his mouth demanding, taunting, tasting her. With a moan, she tried to pull away from his hold but he held her fast. The pupils of her blue eyes were growing dark and huge.

Unbelievably, her little hands stole up over his chest and around his neck and she arched back into his arms, her eyes closed. It was as if her body was lighting torches and unlocking her lips and thighs to welcome in the conqueror. It was easier than he had dared imagine. He gave a murmur of satisfaction against her forehead as he felt the sheath of thin velvet brushing the hairs of his chest.

"Monsieur' uddleston, Mistress Margery, are you awake?" A pounding shook the door at the small of his back and Richard let go of his wife with an oath, almost dropping her. Her eyes snapped open and the dreamy glaze changed to appalled surprise at the fury she must have seen in his. She thrust a knuckle to her mouth and turned away.

With an oath, he violently grabbed her in front of him, about the waist, and flung open the door. One of the Duchess's young French maids-in-waiting almost tumbled in. She instantly grabbed at Margery by her hanging sleeves. "Please, madame, 'er grace bids you come straightway."

The girl was quite convincing; even Richard had to admit that the smudge of dried tears beneath the beseeching brown eyes looked authentic. How many more had his little witch-wife bribed to save herself from pleasuring him?

Curse her! Curse her! He held her tight before him like a hostage, his fingers pressing into her ribs as painfully as spurs on a horse's flanks. "Can there be more?" He murmured softly into her ear, his tone larded with sarcasm. "Is Ankarette to set fire to the arras if this plot also fails?"

Confused, the French girl raised a pleading face to him. "You also, monsieur, the Duchess begs you come. We all do."

"
Me?
What is this?" His grip slackened.

Margery came to life, bursting out of his grasp. He thrust himself away, his back heaving as he regained mastery of himself.

"Blanche, you must ex—"

"Just come, now,
now
!"

"Go, then. We will follow." Her voice was quietly brisk. He heard the latch. "Sir?"

He looked over his shoulder. Margery was holding his boots out to him.

"Vixen! So what else is planned?" He ignored the footwear and her flushed face. "Is the Duke of Burgundy invading at midnight?"

"Oh yes, there will be a thunderstorm at any moment, the ceiling is to leak over your bed and I have given Matthew three pennies to collect all of Errour's fleas and hide them under your mattress. Oh, for the love of Heaven, Richard, I do not like the sound of this. Please, I beg you, come."

It was the first time she had ever called him by his given name. The frustration fell away from him. For a moment they stared at one another. There was no antagonism or smugness in Margery's face but a desperation. Wordlessly, he reached out and took his boots from her. As he pulled them on, she picked up his cote and, with a sweet wifely gesture, held it out to him.

"I will deal with you later, my darling dear," he snarled, thrusting one arm through a sleeve and pushing her out of the room with the other.

Blanche was waiting for them anxiously in the passageway. Richard followed the two women in silence. Another sniffling wench met them at the doorway of the women's bedchamber and he groaned inwardly. His temper was still loose; Margery could have been soft, fragrant and willing within his arms by now. Why did these wretched women want
him,
for Heaven's sake? Had she planned this?

"Hush, Cecily, now what is the matter? Where is Mistress Twynhoe?" His wife put an arm round the girl's shoulders, hastening her out of the echoing passageway into the antechamber.

"With her grace. Mistress Twynhoe told us to fetch you."

"But Blanche said it was the Duchess who required us," corrected Richard, stepping into the room after them, his irritation scarcely visored. "Who is in there with her?"

Since the girl shrugged and merely blubbered more, Margery let go of her and ran across to the inner door.

"Ankarette? Bella?" She rattled the ring latch.

There was a sort of muffled sob and the door opened a thumb's width then widened. A female arm grabbed Margery inside and half of Ankarette's face appeared in the gap.

"Go to bed, Cecily! You too, Blanche! Master Huddleston, enter, if you please."

He did so reluctantly and was instantly plucked into air which vilely stank of someone's regurgitated supper. The door was closed hastily behind him before the younger girls could see inside. "Thank God you have come."

"By Christ Almighty!" muttered Richard, taking in the destruction in the room.

It was as if a savage wind had scoured the chamber in its ferocity. Hangings had been ripped from the walls, half the bed's canopy had tumbled in. Shards of precious glass lay between flower stems on the fur rug and in the midst of a heap of velvet, taffeta and woollen stockings, the eighteen-year-old Duchess was weeping.

"Oh, Bella." Margery's voice was appalled as she bent and gathered her distraught half-sister into her arms.

Richard turned in amazement to Ankarette. Not used to seeing her without her elegant cone cap and veil, he hardly recognised the wild-eyed woman with her hair loose down her back. She looked haggard and older than her thirty or so years. A wooden figurine of the Holy Virgin, he realised, was clutched defensively in her hand and a dark red bruise was spreading half-way along her jaw. Her eyes, he realised, were fixed upon the wall behind him.

He turned. George of Clarence was drunkenly propped against the wall, a bloody cut congealing on his forehead. His stained shirt was open, flopping over his hose. Whether he was more drunk than stunned was barely debateable. It had never taken the Duke many drinks to become argumentative.

"I am not leaving here, Hud-Huddle... until my wife has pr-promised me a son an' that that hag Ankarette won't let me near her."

"Oh, Bella, I am so sorry. I should have been here, I should have been here." His wife rocked the weeping girl.

"You t-traitress," spluttered the Duke, his venom now directed unsteadily at Margery. "Bitch! I told you I'd have you dismissed if you did not let me in."

Richard took a deep breath, wondering what they were expecting him to set aright first. The Duchess seemingly had won a temporary victory. It was the spreading bruise dealt to the Duke's honour that swiftly needed salve.

"By the Saints, is there any wine here? What you need, my lord, is a drink."

Isabella stopped sobbing into Margery's bodice and stared at Richard in amazement.

"A drink!" Ankarette spat at him in disgust. "You men are all the same. Just look at this fine duke, will you, Margery. The flower of knightho—"

"Aye, a drink." Richard interrupted sternly. "See to it, Margery. Do it!" His wife's glare turned from indignation to a degree of understanding as he jerked his head at her. She gently set aside the Duchess and scrambled to her feet. As she stepped carefully across to the door, Richard held out his hand for the figurine. "Ankarette?" The scepticism in the older woman's eyes flickered and went out. Biting her lip, Ankarette handed him the holy statue. He set the injured Virgin back in her wall niche, now looking as though St Joseph had not been pleased that she had told him about the Annunciation.

"You are disgustingly drunk," Margery's voice lashed the Duke before she opened the door. Richard moved back between the pair of them as a stifler.

"You were supposed to be here, M-m-meg. You were supposed to c-counsel wis-wisdom. It's all your fault."
 

Richard pushed his wife out of the door and was braced to catch the Duke before he fell. George turned towards the heap of clothing and sniffed at his duchess, his voice sulky. "It... it was not just your s-s-son. He was my babe too." As he staggered towards Isabella, Richard moved beside him. The wobbling continued and the Duke flung out an arm for the bedpost. "Leave me alone!"

There was a kick at the door. Ankarette opened it. She grabbed the tray from Margery and thrust it into Richard's arms. "You men are all the same under the skin. Take your filthy wine. I hope it chokes the pair of you."

"It was all I could find," Margery said quietly at his elbow.

Richard calmly set it upon the bed and poured the Duke a full cup. He handed it to him before filling his own. "To your next son and the future Prince of Wales, your grace!" He downed his wine in an instant. The Duke's eyes did not waver from his as he did the same. Richard refilled their cups to the brim. "To your royal highness!" Some of the wine spilt, further staining the Duke's costly shirt. "To your success with King Louis!"