hand.
The Acting Governor reluctantly perched a pair of eyeglasses upon his nose and myopically perused the addresses, his chin raised as he tried to made out the words. "More light!" he demanded testily. The flickering golden light from the candles on the iron bracket hanging from the beams was insufficient.
Candles were set before him, illuminating the crossroads of age lines that patterned his cheeks. He must be close to eighty years, realised Margery, watching him closely as, muttering, he broke the seal on one of the letters, holding the parchment up at an angle. Then he lowered his head and, frowning, studied her anew.
"Is it possible to have lodging here tonight, my lord, and a servant to show me to my lord of Warwick's in the morn..." She faltered as Governor Wenlock made a show of looking about him.
"I see no earl here, girl. Do you doubt the high and mighty Richard Neville would not have installed himself in my place here at this very table if he was in Calais?" His bitter words dismayed her.
"You seem surprised not to find him here, demoiselle?" The Burgundian reached out for his winecup and watched the two of them over its rim.
She bit her lip. The elderly Englishman next to her was sweating. She could smell it and sense his tension.
"Oh, I suppose he has travelled on to Guines, " she answered brightly. It was England's other fingerhold on the mainland.
"He has sailed south," snapped Wenlock. He thrust his eyeglasses on the table. "And what sticks in my gullet is that it's clear the King expected you to find him here. What does his grace take me for? A fool as well as a traitor? You may tell him on your return, mistress, that Calais shuts its gates on traitors."
Her mouth fell open. It was the last answer she was expecting.
"I... I am not returning to England. As I explained, I have a letter to deliver to my lord."
"Christ!" he snarled, making the table jolt with his fist. He left the board. "Was I expected to entertain him here so that the King could force a peace? Is that it? If the King had given me some warning—Christ!" He swung round. "But," he thrust a finger at Margery, only to be interrupted as a steward brought in a tray of viands, fruit and bread for her. He lapsed into surly silence until the servant had gone. "Clear the room, the rest of you!" he growled to the two pages hovering in the shadows. She guessed he would like to have dismissed his foreign guest too.
"But?" prompted de Commynes, after the servants had gone.
"But?" repeated Wenlock grumpily. "Aye, but! What is her part in all this? That's what I should like to know. Why should the King send one of his harlots—apologies—former harlot? He should have sent Lord Howard, someone of standing."
"Yes, why you, lady?" murmured the Burgundian.
Margery swallowed quickly. It was hardly polite to stuff one's self when a diplomatic conversation was raging about her. Her hunger vied with her sense of correctness.
"I was left behind at Warwick castle somewhat by accident, excellency. You see, I had an ague and was feverish and my lady did not want me near the Duchess lest… I-I cry you mercy, my lord, I never asked..." Wenlock met her gaze stonily. "The Duchess, her grace was near her time—the baby?"
"I do not know," rasped Wenlock. "We sent her wine. She was in travail when they hoisted anchor. She had her women."
Margery's expression could not absolve him. Her obvious judgment forced him to turn his face to the fire, staring into its glowing coals, one hand above his head against the stone.
Poor Isabella. That dreadful jolting journey in the cold and then to be in childbirth tossing upon the ocean, denied the solid feel of land, the skill of a midwife. The Countess wringing her hands, fretting and useless, and Anne, what was her role? Did the Countess bar her from the cabin or had she tried to help, to provide some order to soften the chaos? Had they all turned their frustration upon poor Ankarette?
"Finish your supper, woman,"
The Acting Governor reluctantly perched a pair of eyeglasses upon his nose and myopically perused the addresses, his chin raised as he tried to made out the words. "More light!" he demanded testily. The flickering golden light from the candles on the iron bracket hanging from the beams was insufficient.
Candles were set before him, illuminating the crossroads of age lines that patterned his cheeks. He must be close to eighty years, realised Margery, watching him closely as, muttering, he broke the seal on one of the letters, holding the parchment up at an angle. Then he lowered his head and, frowning, studied her anew.
"Is it possible to have lodging here tonight, my lord, and a servant to show me to my lord of Warwick's in the morn..." She faltered as Governor Wenlock made a show of looking about him.
"I see no earl here, girl. Do you doubt the high and mighty Richard Neville would not have installed himself in my place here at this very table if he was in Calais?" His bitter words dismayed her.
"You seem surprised not to find him here, demoiselle?" The Burgundian reached out for his winecup and watched the two of them over its rim.
She bit her lip. The elderly Englishman next to her was sweating. She could smell it and sense his tension.
"Oh, I suppose he has travelled on to Guines, " she answered brightly. It was England's other fingerhold on the mainland.
"He has sailed south," snapped Wenlock. He thrust his eyeglasses on the table. "And what sticks in my gullet is that it's clear the King expected you to find him here. What does his grace take me for? A fool as well as a traitor? You may tell him on your return, mistress, that Calais shuts its gates on traitors."
Her mouth fell open. It was the last answer she was expecting.
"I... I am not returning to England. As I explained, I have a letter to deliver to my lord."
"Christ!" he snarled, making the table jolt with his fist. He left the board. "Was I expected to entertain him here so that the King could force a peace? Is that it? If the King had given me some warning—Christ!" He swung round. "But," he thrust a finger at Margery, only to be interrupted as a steward brought in a tray of viands, fruit and bread for her. He lapsed into surly silence until the servant had gone. "Clear the room, the rest of you!" he growled to the two pages hovering in the shadows. She guessed he would like to have dismissed his foreign guest too.
"But?" prompted de Commynes, after the servants had gone.
"But?" repeated Wenlock grumpily. "Aye, but! What is her part in all this? That's what I should like to know. Why should the King send one of his harlots—apologies—former harlot? He should have sent Lord Howard, someone of standing."
"Yes, why you, lady?" murmured the Burgundian.
Margery swallowed quickly. It was hardly polite to stuff one's self when a diplomatic conversation was raging about her. Her hunger vied with her sense of correctness.
"I was left behind at Warwick castle somewhat by accident, excellency. You see, I had an ague and was feverish and my lady did not want me near the Duchess lest… I-I cry you mercy, my lord, I never asked..." Wenlock met her gaze stonily. "The Duchess, her grace was near her time—the baby?"
"I do not know," rasped Wenlock. "We sent her wine. She was in travail when they hoisted anchor. She had her women."
Margery's expression could not absolve him. Her obvious judgment forced him to turn his face to the fire, staring into its glowing coals, one hand above his head against the stone.
Poor Isabella. That dreadful jolting journey in the cold and then to be in childbirth tossing upon the ocean, denied the solid feel of land, the skill of a midwife. The Countess wringing her hands, fretting and useless, and Anne, what was her role? Did the Countess bar her from the cabin or had she tried to help, to provide some order to soften the chaos? Had they all turned their frustration upon poor Ankarette?
"Finish your supper, woman,"
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