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Authors: Isolde Martyn
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his face. He resorted in self-defence to playing games with her again. His grave perusal made her blush angrily as he walked around her, his forefinger stroking his chin as he inspected the stitching like some guildmaster.
"Well?" she demanded. "Do you send it back? Or do you wish to examine my new undergarments too?"
Richard let his expression lighten somewhat. It pleased him when she met his verbal assault with equal strength.
"I like the gown well enough. A low neck certainly would give more pleasure to me since you inquire."
"But you said—"
"What I say concerns you, not what I think." He moved around behind her again.
"Do you always speak in riddles?" she hissed over her shoulder.
"You have noticed," he observed dryly.
"If I have grey hairs by the time I see the King's grace, it will be from having spent a week in your insufferable company."
He stopped his perambulations. "And yet I think I have done you less harm in one poor week than King Edward did." His words were softly spoken but the truth was intended to hurt her. He could not help himself. It salved the frustration that was in him, the bitter gall that she had lain with the King. "Is that not so?" He thrust out a hand and grabbed her chin. "Is that not so?"
Her eyes did not falter before his. She met his anger with fire of her own. "Perhaps, but who are you to be my judge?"
"Who, indeed?" He tossed her face up and let go of her.
"I do not know why fortune perversely tossed me in your path, King's Receiver, but I swear the time is coming when you will rue the day you abducted me."
* * *
By the time they left Exeter, Richard had hired a maidservant for his prisoner and lit a candle in the cathedral to Richard of Chichester, his namesaint, in the hope that his enterprise might prosper. He had also found Margery an old-fashioned wimple. She had put it on in great amusement, exclaiming that she must look like Chaucer's Wife of Bath. While it fell in dewlaps concealing her firm breasts, her captor was appalled to see that it only emphasised the wench's fresh beauty. Surrounded by the snowy folds, her large blue eyes compelled attention, lending her the heady forbidden allure of an available nun. He gave up at that point.
Margery's consistent veneer of innocence, when he knew that she had writhed beneath the loins of the King, nightly robbed Richard of his sleep; the urge to discover for himself her full capability exercised his imagination. Only iron control kept him sane within a pace of her. He resorted to courtesy and so a careful truce hung in the air between them as he grew increasingly concerned as to what report she would make of him to the King. That was the trouble with unplanned campaigns—he had made too many mistakes already.
They entered Southampton through the handsome Bargate but prior knowledge of the horror that the seaport contained led Richard to bestow his party at an inn on High Street, nestling beneath the wall that flanked the eastern moat, as far from the castle as he could arrange. It had been easier to find accommodation than he had expected; the army's weapons carts were already trundling north to London and most of the men had been sent back to their shires. My lord Gloucester's retainers were much in evidence at the castle but the King had chosen to exploit the less draughty house of Southampton's prosperous mayor. There Richard endured an uncomfortable audience informing his royal employer of his intent, which left him even more desperate to know Margery's true feelings towards her former lover.
Her distracted air over the last few days argued that she had been giving the matter much thought. It was her lack of bitterness which bothered Richard. Had she set the undeserving royal whoremonger up in a little shrine in some corner of her heart? In his opinion, the King, having seduced her, had shown as much sensitivity as any village clod. In other words, his royal grace had completely washed his hands of her. So why did she
"Well?" she demanded. "Do you send it back? Or do you wish to examine my new undergarments too?"
Richard let his expression lighten somewhat. It pleased him when she met his verbal assault with equal strength.
"I like the gown well enough. A low neck certainly would give more pleasure to me since you inquire."
"But you said—"
"What I say concerns you, not what I think." He moved around behind her again.
"Do you always speak in riddles?" she hissed over her shoulder.
"You have noticed," he observed dryly.
"If I have grey hairs by the time I see the King's grace, it will be from having spent a week in your insufferable company."
He stopped his perambulations. "And yet I think I have done you less harm in one poor week than King Edward did." His words were softly spoken but the truth was intended to hurt her. He could not help himself. It salved the frustration that was in him, the bitter gall that she had lain with the King. "Is that not so?" He thrust out a hand and grabbed her chin. "Is that not so?"
Her eyes did not falter before his. She met his anger with fire of her own. "Perhaps, but who are you to be my judge?"
"Who, indeed?" He tossed her face up and let go of her.
"I do not know why fortune perversely tossed me in your path, King's Receiver, but I swear the time is coming when you will rue the day you abducted me."
* * *
By the time they left Exeter, Richard had hired a maidservant for his prisoner and lit a candle in the cathedral to Richard of Chichester, his namesaint, in the hope that his enterprise might prosper. He had also found Margery an old-fashioned wimple. She had put it on in great amusement, exclaiming that she must look like Chaucer's Wife of Bath. While it fell in dewlaps concealing her firm breasts, her captor was appalled to see that it only emphasised the wench's fresh beauty. Surrounded by the snowy folds, her large blue eyes compelled attention, lending her the heady forbidden allure of an available nun. He gave up at that point.
Margery's consistent veneer of innocence, when he knew that she had writhed beneath the loins of the King, nightly robbed Richard of his sleep; the urge to discover for himself her full capability exercised his imagination. Only iron control kept him sane within a pace of her. He resorted to courtesy and so a careful truce hung in the air between them as he grew increasingly concerned as to what report she would make of him to the King. That was the trouble with unplanned campaigns—he had made too many mistakes already.
They entered Southampton through the handsome Bargate but prior knowledge of the horror that the seaport contained led Richard to bestow his party at an inn on High Street, nestling beneath the wall that flanked the eastern moat, as far from the castle as he could arrange. It had been easier to find accommodation than he had expected; the army's weapons carts were already trundling north to London and most of the men had been sent back to their shires. My lord Gloucester's retainers were much in evidence at the castle but the King had chosen to exploit the less draughty house of Southampton's prosperous mayor. There Richard endured an uncomfortable audience informing his royal employer of his intent, which left him even more desperate to know Margery's true feelings towards her former lover.
Her distracted air over the last few days argued that she had been giving the matter much thought. It was her lack of bitterness which bothered Richard. Had she set the undeserving royal whoremonger up in a little shrine in some corner of her heart? In his opinion, the King, having seduced her, had shown as much sensitivity as any village clod. In other words, his royal grace had completely washed his hands of her. So why did she
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