by Diana Rubino
"There, you see, you are in agreement, then. Life is too short to dwell in misery." Anne rose, and her gown's coppery sheen echoed the blaze of joy in her eyes. "Come, Dove, please do eat, and join me for a ride over the moors."
Anne was smiling so genuinely at her that it almost lifted Denys' heart. "Very well," she agreed with a sigh, finally inhaling the pastries' freshly baked aroma. It reached the bottom of her stomach, evoking growls of hunger. "I shall be down shortly."
"Chera will be bridled and saddled for you. I shall see you anon. Tra-la!" And then she was gone, vanishing with a flounce of satin and rosewater.
Denys indulged in a few of the sweets, and then a long luxurious stretch on the bed. Perhaps Anne was right. Life was meant to be lived, not hidden from like a scared child.
She reached for some rich marzipan, savoring every mouthful now, rather than wolfing it down as she had done with the first treats.
Then she washed it down with the creamy milk Anne had brought, and rubbed her belly with satisfaction.
They certainly lived well here in the north, she noted, looking at the tray, and the array of foods upon it. The Queen had never permitted such luxuries except on the most special feast days, and even then, they had pretty much been for her and dutiful family and her favorites only. Certainly not for the likes of Denys….
She got up, washed her face and hands, and donned a blue cap to cover her bright silvery hair. Fetching her cloak, she decided a ride would be just the thing. Anything rather than be a prisoner in her own home once more.
Anything rather than dwell on the fact that the appointed time to marry Valentine was fast approaching, and she still could not decide whether to agree, or flee…
CHAPTER FIVE
Denys had a wonderful afternoon with Anne, enjoying the beautiful rolling countryside around Middleham Castle.
Only toward the end of the day did her mood turn sour, for despite her friend's intended kindness, she turned Anne's tailor away.
Denys did not want a new wedding dress. She only regretted she had nothing somber and sedate as befitting a funeral, for she did not feel jubilant as a bride should.
The night before the wedding, Anne came to her chambers with a luscious creamy satin gown, lined with diamonds and pearls, the skirts bejeweled with colored gemstones in diamond patterns.
Sable-lined, the billowing sleeves were embroidered with gold roses. The veil was just as splendid, with yards of lace and a circlet of heart-shaped pearls.
"Anne, this gown is exquisite! Wherever did you get it?" Denys said, smiling despite her determination to not get excited about her impending nuptials.
"It was my dear mother's wedding gown. Both she and my sister Isabel were married in it. Since my own wedding—well, as you know, it was so rushed, I had not time to fetch it from home, I want you to wear it. As Valentine and Richard are like brothers, you will be my sister."
Tears welled up in Denys' eyes then, and she knew that she could never reject the kind gesture, even if she really wished to. But the truth was, the gown was such a one as she had longed for in her more romantic days, before all had gone so awry with Valentine.
Denys carefully took the gown and veil from Anne's arms and spread them on the bed. "Thank you so much, Anne. I know not what to say."
It was such a contrast with the tawdry red wedding dress the Queen had tried to force her to wear when she had first demanded that Denys wed Valentine, she felt as though she would weep. How could her own aunt detest her so? But then, that was the whole point. She wasn't really her aunt….
"Say naught," Anne said with a gentle smile. "Just give Valentine a chance to make you happy. Let our children grow old together."
Denys lost her composure completely then.
As the tears spilled, Anne wrapped her arms around Denys, holding her close.
She could feel the slight swell of Anne's middle between them, and at that moment she realized what carrying a child would feel like.
She would have a tiny being inside her, who would love and trust her always….
Something shifted inside Denys at last. The cold fist of fear which had squeezed at her heart ever since she had nearly been killed in the fire finally let go of its chilling grip.
Denys was not going to be a victim. Life was all about risk, but there were rewards, too. She was going to live her life on her own terms, and seize all of the bounty it had to offer.
She could not change the past. The only thing she could alter was her attitude toward the future. The future she would have with her new husband.
Valentine might well be all those things she feared and more, but to hold herself back from the chance at love and a child and family of her own was the act of a coward. And whoever her real family might be, she was sure they were no cowards.
She wanted them to be proud of her. She needed to be able to hold her head high no matter what the Queen had done to her in the past, or would try to do in the future. But as Valentine's wife, she would have status, and be free of the guardianship of the Woodvilles at last.
Free to be the woman she wished to be, and yes, free to be the wife Valentine claimed he wanted. If she opened her heart and mind to him, she could become a true helpmeet and consort, as Anne clearly was to Richard, one of the most important princes of the realm.
She had two choices. Be Elizabeth's powerless ward, or Valentine's powerful wife.
She squared her shoulders, and nodded. "Yes, yes, I will wear it, thank you. Sister."
Anne's radiant smile was all the reply Denys needed.
CHAPTER SIX
As Denys glided down the chapel aisle, she could see, through the mist of her veil the man who within minutes would become her husband.
Valentine was a portrait of grandeur in his crimson robe, a rainbow of jewels sparkling from his fingers and neck.
Forcing herself to walk towards him, some lingering creepings of doubt almost made her pause, but she strode forward as if an invisible force were drawing her to him.
The chapel was aglow from candles lining the altar. The sun streamed through the stained glass, throwing patterns of soft reds and greens on the flagstones beneath her feet.
Once at the altar, she did not meet his eye, but allowed him to take her hand numbly. She recited the vows as if by rote, her tone flat, for she could not feel anything stir within her regarding their meaning and what they symbolized. This was a political alliance, not a love match….
Yet oddly, Valentine spoke his vows as if reciting a love poem, his Latin perfect, his heartfelt gaze boring into her, his voice somber and deep with meaning and emotion.
She dared to meet his eyes for a moment, then forced herself to look away, for his gaze was so penetrating, so earnest, it burned right through to her soul.
Although she still harbored serious doubts about this man, she regarded the way he spoke to her with his impassioned eyes. It was as if she was the most important person in his life.
All too soon the ceremony was over. She closed her eyes as Valentine gently lifted her veil. She could feel the quiver of his lips as he kissed her. When their eyes met for the first time as man and wife, she could see him struggling to hold back a grin.
"It was nice of you to come to my wedding," he remarked out of the side of his mouth.
"You're welcome, my Lord. Thank you for the consideration as well."
His gaze narrowed slightly, but Richard and Anne were already by their sides to congratulate them and get the celebrations underway.
The marshal ushered the bride and groom into Middleham's great hall to the fanfare of trumpets and clarions hanging with Valentine's coat of arms. They sat at Richard and Anne's side on the dais.
The hall filled with nobles from the surrounding shires, Lord Mayors, Aldermen, judges, bishops, and their respective retinues.
After grace, a procession of servers entered the hall bearing trays of food, pantlers with bread and butter, and the butlers with the wines and ales.
Th
en came another course, and another, roasted swans and peacocks in full feather, boar's heads, suckling pigs, cranes, larks, roasted rabbits, venison, all spiced and seasoned with pepper, cloves, mace and other exotic spices.
There was blandissory, the rich soup full of ground almonds in beef broth and sweet wine, mixed with capon blended with almond milk.
Squires served them, assisting in carving their meat, pouring goblet after goblet of wine, putting out finger bowls of rosewater between courses.
The bride and groom shared their dish and cup as was the custom, and tasted the sweet pastries and ‘flowers of violet', pounded to a pulp and mixed with almond milk and sugar.
Denys forced herself to eat lest she seem ungrateful at all their friends had arranged for them. There were fruits, cheese and nuts galore, and after each course, a servitor brought in a fabulous confection of sugar, eggs and pastry, shaped to depict different subjects.
One was a replica of Middleham Castle, another was Saint George Slaying the Dragon, and the grand finale: perfect representations of the bride and groom themselves, shaped to the last intricate detail, Denys dancing in Valentine's arms, his heraldic device emblazoned on his tunic.
"Oh, it's lovely," she said, unable to help but admire the wonderful confection.
"Not as delectable as my bride, I'll warrant, but still, it would be a shame to mar its perfection by eating it."
Anne nodded. "It should do as a keepsake. The sugar shouldn't spoil."
Denys merely nodded, trying not to warm to the man by her side who was playing the attentive bridegroom as though he had been born to the part. He was nothing if not an adept seducer, but she needed to keep her wits about her.
So she ignored his pleasantries and banter as far as she could without appearing rude, and tried to focus her mind on the lavish wedding feast and the array of jugglers, mummers, fools and minstrels.
Though the entertainments were certainly lavish, at the back of her mind she knew her life was not going to be the same. Before the great hall would even be swept clean of the last remnant of the day that was supposed to be the most special of every woman's life, she would be facing who only knew what challenges as Valentine's wife. It was certainly a sobering thought, one which all the merriment in the world could do nothing to dispel.
After the celebration, Richard and Anne bid them Godspeed on their journey to Valentine's manor home of Lilleshal, two miles down the road.
"Remember what I said," Anne whispered into her ear. "Give him a chance to show you what kind of man he really is."
She nodded, then turned to Richard, who embraced her quickly and bade her farewell.
"He will be taking very good care of you. On my orders," he said, the hint of a smile creasing his cheek.
She tried to smile back, but her heart was heavy. How she wished they were young and unattached again, breezing over the moors astride their mounts, their hair blowing freely in the wind. How suddenly it had all changed. Their youth was truly at an end now, and duty called.
Nodding to him and to Anne, she mounted her steed, and a short time later, crossed the drawbridge with her new husband, thinking of Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon. She was married to Valentine Starbury. There was truly no going back now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As she and Valentine rode side by side with their entourage, she hardly more than looked at her new husband, so lost in thought was she.
Her life now was certainly quite different from the future she had imagined for herself when she had hoped to find a family of her own.
For one thing, rather than mother and father, perhaps brothers and sisters, she now had a husband.
And what a husband. Valentine was far from the fanciful storybook knights she'd always envisioned, and she had learned the hard way that that had been nothing more than a silly childhood fantasy.
The tales Duchess of Scarborough had read to her as a little girl were much more simplified than real life, as flat as the pages they were written on.
Nay, real people had many features, good and bad. And in real life, not everyone lived happily ever after.
Valentine was a handsome, charming knight, but also an ambitious plotter. He was a wealthy aristocrat, but also a hardworking statesman. He loved life's pleasures, but had also beheld tragedy in his own past, and been at war more years than he could count. Storybook knights had no fears, no problems, suffered no grief.
And as much as she hated politics, as she rode along, she was forced to admit with a small twinge of pride despite herself, that the man she had married was the third most powerful man in the realm.
Even more remarkably, he had got there without trying to wrest the throne from the King, ingratiating himself, committing base acts like the Woodvilles in order to gain every office they could scoop up for themselves and their friends, or by spying on his peers. She had to respect him for that.
The only question was, had he betrayed her to the Queen? If he had, then how could she ever trust him?
And if he had not, well, it was wonderful to be able to respect the man you married, but where did love fit in?
Her new home, the estate of Lilleshal, was nestled in a valley beside a stream full of swans and herons. Farmland and cottages surrounded the manor home. A network of graveled paths led to its three front entrances. Lush gardens blanketed the courtyard.
Denys marveled at its grandeur as they rode closer and closer. It flaunted every facet of Valentine's character, from his imposing pomp to his love for splendor.
Gleaming in red sandstone, four round towers at each corner rose in gallant protection against any possible enemy. Diamond-shaped lead glass panes gleamed from the torches within.
The moat and drawbridge were wider than any other she'd seen. Battlements ran the length of the thick walls, centered with arrow-slits. The gatehouse was a fortress in itself; the closed portcullis enhanced the unbroken line of fortifications.
A retinue of servers bowed and curtsied in greeting as bride and groom crossed the drawbridge and entered the gatehouse. A watchman emerged from the guard chamber, raised the portcullis and let them pass.
The inner ward was quiet; a sole dairymaid scurried by, carrying pails of milk sloshing over the sides; a stable boy walked a palfrey to the horse mill in back.
She could see scaffolding up against the north wall, where Valentine was putting some finishing touches to their new home.
Two grooms rushed up to help Denys dismount as soon as they stopped in front of the tower door. Valentine waved them away, and helped her down himself, his hands lingering on her waist in an unmistakable gesture of possession.
She could feel a blush heat her cheeks, and stepped away from him. An usher with a fine gold chain around his neck now led them and their servers up an external staircase to the first floor.
Denys stared at her surroundings as her eyes took in all of the dazzling appointments. Tapestries and bronze sconces graced the sumptuous corridors. The floors gleamed, strewn in the center walkway with fresh rushes. The colorful glass in each arched window depicted mythical gods and goddesses. The oak-beamed ceilings soared like the vastness of the sky.
Exquisite as it was, Denys suppressed a shiver. It was a smaller version of court, just what she'd longed to get away from.
I'll never feel at home here, she thought sadly.
But then, Valentine was a powerful lord in the north, and needed to show everyone in the area just what his status was…including marrying the Queen's niece.
"You are now the mistress of the manor, Lady Starbury," he said with a gallant bow, reading her expression correctly, one of awe mingled with dismay. "These are the most formal reception rooms. Let me show you to your more private chambers, where you may take your ease."
She clutched his arm despite herself, once again being swept away by that lost, lonely feeling as they ascended the staircase.
He opened the door to her new chambers, and she peeked in with dread. Then, despite herself, she began to s
mile in delight.
Prettier than anything she'd ever had whilst in Elizabeth Woodville's charge, it was obvious he'd given orders to decorate it the way a woman would like it. The bed hangings and curtains dripped with lace in white and soft pinks, roses, and purples. The cushions had lacy borders, the skirting round the dressing table was trimmed in pink lace, and a screen in the corner affording privacy for her ablutions was also decorated to match.
The sweet scent of violets floated up from the fresh rushes on the floor. It was very feminine, and while not exactly the colors she would have chosen, they were pretty enough, and she was touched by his thoughtfulness.
