The Maiden and the Unicorn (31 page)

"Madam." Margery dropped her a swift curtsey and thrust her way out of the warm perfumed tent, her shoulders heaving in fury. It was such pretence. Were they all expected to behave as though they were heavy with child the whole time they were at Amboise? Was it out of holy reverence or merely because Queen Charlotte was almost near her time that the French court ladies were said to be walking so? Ridiculous!

Anne stuck a concerned face around the flap of the pavilion. "Forgive Mother. It is only because she is in a pother herself."

"I know. I am used to it."

The younger girl grinned and ducked back inside.

A half-dozen whistles made Margery turn. She was the first of the ladies to emerge and the freshly-shaven horsemen had noticed her. No doubt the Countess would now accuse her of behaving wantonly. She almost turned to go inside and then decided to stand her ground.

Acknowledging the whoops with a slight curtsey, she walked round the tent to fix her attention stonily on the gaudy awkward chariots in which the women were to ride the last mile. They were awful. She would have much preferred a palfrey instead of this crossbreed of a merchant's covered wagon and a Corpus Christi mummer's stage.

"You look very fine." A huff of hot air reached her neck.

She turned, startled to find herself face to face with the shining black head of her husband's horse. Richard Huddleston tugged on the bridle and walked the stallion around her as if she was under inspection. Had the whistles made him come over to stake his possession, to scatter more holy water on her delicate reputation?

"It looks uncomfortable, is it?" He frowned at the wire that circumnavigated the outside of her headdress.

"Yes, a penance for respectable wives."

"The Countess is making life hard for you?"

"Yes, and it is hot." His grin disarmed her while his entire appearance inspired a longing that she was afraid to put a name to. How could she find a man she disliked so appealing to her senses? From the gleaming black leather boots that fitted his calves like a second skin, her gaze swept up over his black-clad thighs, rose over the mulberry and white embroidered doublet with its hanging sleeves to the plumed cap. Across his shoulders sprawled a gold chain with the arms of his house suspended. He had worn it on their wedding day but she had refused to notice it.

"What is the motto of your arms?"

He leant down good humouredly and held the pendant out to her. "
Our
arms, lady. Can you understand it?"

"
Soli deo honor et gloria
. 'Only to God belongs the power and the glory,'" she translated. "At least it is modest." The lettering was warm beneath her fingertips and then, of a sudden, she was conscious that he was enjoying a privileged view of her décolletage. Swiftly letting go, she stepped back hurriedly into Ankarette who had come looking for her. Her husband laughed at her confusion, his eyes sparkling approvingly at her. "A good translation. I did not know you knew any Latin."

"There is a great deal you do not know, sir." Her hands curled into fists.

"I shall enjoy finding out. Mesdames, your servant," A gloved hand mockingly touched the beaver brim of his hat before his spurred heels caused his beautiful horse to prance away.

"That man is a fine judge of horseflesh," declared Ankarette. "For a mere husband, he takes an uncommon interest in you, Margery."

"He thinks he plays me like a fish."

"Then let him haul you in or some other woman will take his line."

It was not easy, Margery reflected, as she eventually followed Anne into the chariot. Marriage was supposed to be a contract. In England, Huddleston would have taken her to Millom to introduce her to his family and there would have been a pattern of conventional behaviour to follow, but here in France she was not being poured into any mould.

Her new husband appeared and disappeared like a counter beneath a conjurer's cups on a market stall. She was neither wife nor maid. One minute he tormented her into a fury, the next he had her senses reeling and her body aching.

"Did I show you what Master Huddleston brought me?" Anne Neville tapped the brooch on her shoulder, a tiny, shy, white unicorn in enamel with a blue jewel eye, kneeling on grass.

"He gave you that?" Strange that Margery should feel the needle of jealousy.

"Not exactly gave. I believe he extracted it from the Burgundian merchandise. It was because everyone laughed at me at the wedding except the two of you. You frown, Margery, are you surprised?"

"It is a kind thought."

"Did he not mention it to you?" It was one of the many things that Master Richard Huddleston had not bothered to mention but Margery was too overwhelmed by the sudden bustle about her to think further than the moment. Word of the French lords' imminent arrival was heralded and swiftly the Countess and Duchess were helped aboard.

"Do you like his grace's hair cut so?" Isabella asked meaningfully, her glance enveloping Margery and Ankarette. The new ducal fringe hid the bruise extremely well. George's hair was the colour of ginger root, lacking Ned's wonderful auburn or Dickon's dark ruddy tones, but in the French sunshine it gleamed well enough.

"He looks like a future king," answered Margery truthfully.

Indeed, the Duke did look magnificent. To advertise his royal blood, a ducal circlet glinted around the crown of his cream beaver hat. From his short cloak of cloth of gold over the cream and gold brocade doublet down to his Spanish white leather boots, he looked every inch a Plantagenet. At his side, Warwick sat astride his beloved white stallion which was caparisoned in black and silver. He might be eclipsed by the Duke's youth but for Margery, the Kingmaker had a presence that George of Clarence could not match.

The Earl crooked his finger now and the clarion sounded. The English retainers moved swiftly into their ranks and the Clarence herald rode ahead. The Duke and Earl urged their horses forward and behind them, like a massive folded peacock's tail of glistening gems and brocade, came their retinue. The pennants were hoisted proudly, reiterating the fierce bull and the bear with the ragged staff upon the embroidered tabards of the esquires, pages and grooms.

The French lords had drawn rein and divided, lining the highway like trees. Through the Valois ranks rode the panache and power of the houses of Plantagenet and Neville and, on either side, each French noble swept them a low obeisance as they passed. At the end of the welcoming line waited the Admiral of France, husband of King Louis's bastard daughter, and the Archbishop of Narbonne. If Philippe de Commynes had any Burgundian spies lurking, they would be most alarmed: Louis of France was officially welcoming the mighty English rebel so lavishly that there could be no doubt that the treaty with Burgundy was as dead as Charlemagne.

The procession which now numbered two hundred halted briefly at two bridges which bestrode the Loire, and Margery had her first glimpse of Amboise. Upon the furthest bank, the chateau sunned itself strategically along the soaring cliff. A fat, white, corbelled round tower grinned down at them like a merry snow mannikin. It was surprising that no religious spires or secular turrets vied with the fortress. From the Ile St Jean that linked the two bridges, she could see there was an ecclesiastical cluster of buildings to the west, but the commoners' buildings, edging the river around the rooted walls of the chateau, were insubstantial—hostelries for the most part. The town, if it could be called such, did not lack for residents for there was a large crowd drawn up, but the bulk of inhabitants evidently resided or worked within the castle bailey for the creamy battlements were iced with people. Gold and azure banners and pennons were everywhere, fluttering upon the turrets or hanging down from the windows. It was very flattering.

"This is a welcome that would not disgrace his Holiness," declared the Countess smugly. "You can see how much they respect your father here."

Isabella and Anne exchanged glances. The French heralds in their blue tabards emblazoned with the gold fleur-de-lis were waiting.

"I think this will prick the Duke of Burgundy beyond endurance," murmured Margery as she assisted her sisters from the chariot. "Sweet Heaven, is
that
the King of France?"

A man was bustling towards the Earl, his head thrust forward like a chicken's beneath a beaked black hat ornamented with saint brooches. Beside him lolloped several large hounds with huge heads and floppy ears, and separating him from the common people marched a bodyguard with plaid baldrics.

"
Mon cher compere
!"
The voice was clipped.

Margery watched her father kissed on both cheeks with instinctive unease. It was not exactly that Louis XI looked malevolent—he was dressed like a dowdy nobody in houppelande, hose and ankle length boots all of the same dusty insect black. His dull brown hair was lank about his shoulders but his eyes were unpleasantly mischievous, missing nothing.

"The contrast is notable," murmured Huddleston's voice in her ear as she waited in attendance upon Isabella. "Is this king also worthy of your amorous embrace?" He had unobtrusively moved up through the throng. Not one to let an opportunity pass him by, Margery reflected cynically.

"No one could surpass Ned." It was sweetly answered but she was too troubled by her instinctive dislike of the King of France to quarrel further. It was not surprising that his enemies spoke of Louis as "the Spider"—maybe it was the way his black-gloved fingers knitted and reknitted like the busy front legs of a spider, or was it for another reason? Men said that the sticky threads of his web stretched into all corners of Christendom, that his agents were wherever decisions were being made—in the houses of the merchant bankers of Augsburg and Florence and the privy chambers of his fellow rulers. The world whispered that he kept his prisoners in wicker baskets, hung from his castle walls. Well, if he did, thought Margery, fearful it might be true, he had tidied them away for the afternoon.

"An extra duty that his surliness will not bow lower than waist height," wagered Ankarette, as the Duke of Clarence faced the King. It was a miracle for any brother of Edward of England to bow the knee before Louis but somehow the Duke managed it; he needed the money. Isabella sank down gracefully at his side, as regal as a princess. A silken moth at the edge of the web.

The Countess joined her lord. Her plump face solemn with nervousness but her head proud. After all, it was her father, Richard Beauchamp, who had trounced the French and ordered the faggots to be lit beneath Jeanne d'Arc, the soldier-witch. But the person who seemed to arouse the greatest interest was, surprisingly, Anne Neville, a slight figure as she glided forward to stand beside her mother, her gown whispering across the carpet, her hair a waterfall of gold over her shoulders. Louis inspected her with the same intensity that most men show on choosing a wife, while Warwick stood at his side beaming like a summer sun.

It was clear that there was a rapport between the Earl and King. There was no formality in the way they joked together. But then Warwick's glance found Margery and he gave her a nod of summons. Everyone's heads swiveled around.

"Jesu!" whispered Margery, as a murmur ran through the French courtiers. "I do not want this. How in heaven—"

"Courage! You are Warwick's daughter!" Richard Huddleston reacted instantly, his confident fingers grabbed her hand and tugged her forward. Margery perforce fell into step beside him. Had she been a rabbit, she would have disappeared into the nearest burrow rather than have suffered the shadow of this royal bird of prey.

"My natural daughter, Margaret Neville, and her new husband, Richard Huddleston."

"
Bienvenue
, Madame 'uddleston, Monsieur." The King's voice was rich with interest as they both knelt. Unwilling to raise her head, Margery was conscious of the royal fingers flexing in front of the tip of her nose. "
Beau sire
," she murmured.

Huddleston rose to his feet beside her, the pressure of his fingers on her elbow urging her to rise. Then suddenly she was almost thrown backwards as a great hound sprang between her and the King. On every side, the King of France's dogs leapt at their leashes and the noise was deafening.

Margery shook in horror at Errour bouncing around with no regard for majestic niceties. The pink tongue was an insult, the happy innocent eyes an outrage.

"Your pardon, most Christian Majesty." Huddleston grabbed the animal's collar, snarling a swift command. Errour sat and wagged his tail at the King of France and Margery watched incredulously as the cunning face before her softened into admiration. It was love at first encounter.

"Yours, young man?"

"Your majesty is correct. A badly behaved Irish deerhound."

"He is a prince of dogs. I never saw the like." Louis was rapt.

"Then he is yours, sire."

Louis of France reached out a gloved hand and caressed Errour. He was cheerfully washed in return and did not seem to mind the drips of canine saliva flicking onto his scuffed boots.

"You expect a dog to serve two masters?"

"
Beau sire,
I expect him now to serve you."

"You breed these giants?"

"Yes, sire."

"You will acquire me a breeding pair?"

"Consider it done, your majesty."

"Excellent. Then I shall borrow him till then and try him in the hunt." The King looked round at the Earl with a smile and Warwick's shoulders lost their stiffness. "But next time, Monsieur 'uddleston, you look to your dame. She is not pleased with you for ordering him set loose. He could have spoiled her gown."