hide.
"The Devil take me, Philippe," muttered Lord Wenlock, "if this is not the little base-born wench that was sent packing for taking the King's fancy. In all my years I swear I have rarely seen Warwick so angry..."
Alys gave a small shriek and fell to her knees. The governor screwed up his narrow eyes further, leaning forward to peer at Margery as if she was an exhibit at a fair, then he nodded, "Aye, it is her right enough."
Alys crossed herself, fearful no doubt they might be whipped.
"Oh, get up, girl," exclaimed Margery, then she turned back to Lord Wenlock. "Yes, you were there that week, were you not, my lord? It seems half the world was." She tried to deflect the conversation. "I am surprised not to find my lord of Warwick supping with you here. Many a time I recall you sat at his board."
She straightaway regretted her words. Wenlock appeared to wince, glancing uncomfortably at his companion. The Burgundian seemed to take no notice, however, his attention focusing instead upon Margery like sunlight through a magnifying glass.
"Will you not ask the lady to be seated, my lord Wenlock."
"Lady! This is one of the King's concubines."
"Was, my lord," corrected Margery matter of factly, although she felt hot blood rushing into her cheeks, "and though it was for but a week, I paid for my folly with confinement in a nunnery."
The governor raised his eyebrows. "Aye, well you look respectable enough now except that I'm told you wear your hair uncommonly cut. I imagine the nuns made you keep it short. "
Her shoulders relaxed. It was a welcome assumption. "My lord, I have letters from his grace the King of England to you and to my lord of Warwick. "
There was an ugly silence. Margery sensed a hatred emanating towards her from the Englishman and she could swear a smile was hovering at the corners of the man Philippe's mouth. It was he who broke the tension.
"My lord, will you not summon refreshment for the demoiselle and see her woman is fed and given sleeping quarters."
The clerk looked to the governor for his orders.
"Yes," muttered Lord Wenlock, his fingers fluttering impatiently in dismissal. "Do it. Be seated, mistress." A page, quick to serve, set a stool beside the table.
"No, here, demoiselle," the Burgundian indicated the long cushioned settle behind the table. "The fire will be too hot for you."
Perhaps it was already, thought Margery. Lord Wenlock was almost glowering at her as she slid in on the cushions, while the Burgundian resumed his earlier place with his back in the corner of the settle, observing them. Yes, he definitely reminded her of Stone except that he was wealthier and infinitely plainer. His presence clearly aggravated the Englishman.
Burgundy! Burgundians must come and go in Calais all the time, considering its importance as a world market, but this man was not a merchant. He behaved as though he was the governor. Why? Calais was England's so why was it so important to Wenlock to keep this man's good opinion?
"Philippe de Commynes, emissary of Charles, Duke of Burgundy." It was as if the foreigner had been reading her thoughts. Suddenly Margery grasped that it was this man's curiosity that had freed her, but at his convenience so that he would be able to hear why she had been sent. She bestowed upon him her best smile, before attempting to charm her host into better humour.
"My lord governor, there was a captain arrested with me, a good man who gave me passage here on the King's orders. Please could you permit his release? He has business with Master Caxton in the morning." The governor's lower lip curled sulkily but he nodded.
A helpful page set a goblet of wine before Margery.
"Oh, wonderful, " she took a sip with delight. It warmed her, its quality undeniable. She set it aside cautiously, careful not to down it before her supper arrived lest her hunger render her light-headed.
"Will you not read your letters, my lord?" prompted de Commynes. They were lying unopened by Wenlock's
"The Devil take me, Philippe," muttered Lord Wenlock, "if this is not the little base-born wench that was sent packing for taking the King's fancy. In all my years I swear I have rarely seen Warwick so angry..."
Alys gave a small shriek and fell to her knees. The governor screwed up his narrow eyes further, leaning forward to peer at Margery as if she was an exhibit at a fair, then he nodded, "Aye, it is her right enough."
Alys crossed herself, fearful no doubt they might be whipped.
"Oh, get up, girl," exclaimed Margery, then she turned back to Lord Wenlock. "Yes, you were there that week, were you not, my lord? It seems half the world was." She tried to deflect the conversation. "I am surprised not to find my lord of Warwick supping with you here. Many a time I recall you sat at his board."
She straightaway regretted her words. Wenlock appeared to wince, glancing uncomfortably at his companion. The Burgundian seemed to take no notice, however, his attention focusing instead upon Margery like sunlight through a magnifying glass.
"Will you not ask the lady to be seated, my lord Wenlock."
"Lady! This is one of the King's concubines."
"Was, my lord," corrected Margery matter of factly, although she felt hot blood rushing into her cheeks, "and though it was for but a week, I paid for my folly with confinement in a nunnery."
The governor raised his eyebrows. "Aye, well you look respectable enough now except that I'm told you wear your hair uncommonly cut. I imagine the nuns made you keep it short. "
Her shoulders relaxed. It was a welcome assumption. "My lord, I have letters from his grace the King of England to you and to my lord of Warwick. "
There was an ugly silence. Margery sensed a hatred emanating towards her from the Englishman and she could swear a smile was hovering at the corners of the man Philippe's mouth. It was he who broke the tension.
"My lord, will you not summon refreshment for the demoiselle and see her woman is fed and given sleeping quarters."
The clerk looked to the governor for his orders.
"Yes," muttered Lord Wenlock, his fingers fluttering impatiently in dismissal. "Do it. Be seated, mistress." A page, quick to serve, set a stool beside the table.
"No, here, demoiselle," the Burgundian indicated the long cushioned settle behind the table. "The fire will be too hot for you."
Perhaps it was already, thought Margery. Lord Wenlock was almost glowering at her as she slid in on the cushions, while the Burgundian resumed his earlier place with his back in the corner of the settle, observing them. Yes, he definitely reminded her of Stone except that he was wealthier and infinitely plainer. His presence clearly aggravated the Englishman.
Burgundy! Burgundians must come and go in Calais all the time, considering its importance as a world market, but this man was not a merchant. He behaved as though he was the governor. Why? Calais was England's so why was it so important to Wenlock to keep this man's good opinion?
"Philippe de Commynes, emissary of Charles, Duke of Burgundy." It was as if the foreigner had been reading her thoughts. Suddenly Margery grasped that it was this man's curiosity that had freed her, but at his convenience so that he would be able to hear why she had been sent. She bestowed upon him her best smile, before attempting to charm her host into better humour.
"My lord governor, there was a captain arrested with me, a good man who gave me passage here on the King's orders. Please could you permit his release? He has business with Master Caxton in the morning." The governor's lower lip curled sulkily but he nodded.
A helpful page set a goblet of wine before Margery.
"Oh, wonderful, " she took a sip with delight. It warmed her, its quality undeniable. She set it aside cautiously, careful not to down it before her supper arrived lest her hunger render her light-headed.
"Will you not read your letters, my lord?" prompted de Commynes. They were lying unopened by Wenlock's
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