Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga)

by Diana Rubino

Stillington swiped the paper from Valentine's hand, held it at arm's length and raised and lowered his head like a rooster looking it up and down.

  "Ah, the Patent Rolls for when our dearly departed King Edward was but a lad. A-ha, this should well change things round here. I forgot I had this." Stillington read the passage aloud and Valentine sat up in bed, almost as breathless as when he had been pulled from the Thames

  .

  "This is a plight-troth with Edward Plantagenet and the Lady Eleanor Butler, before he married Elizabeth Woodville. I'd forgotten all about this! They did exchange vows right under my nose, they did. The Lady Butler was a widow, quite young, in fact, at the time.

  "Aye, laddie, Good King Edward was never legally married to the old Woodville harridan at all, not at all! That putative prince of hers is about as fit to be king as that pack of hounds doin' their four-legged frolic out there in the gutter."

  "But this is amazing. Why did this never—"

  "Oh, His Grace did pay me well to keep my gob shut through his lifetime. And so I did, through his lifetime. But he needn't have worried; in recent years, I'd lost most of my memory and now I just be an old man who burns everything for firewood. It be a miracle that one managed to survive. ‘Tis quite old, it is. Twenty year and a bit, I should say."

  "You said you promised King Edward you'd not speak of this in his lifetime. But now that his life has left him, why—"

  "If this be made public, ‘twould change the course of history, lad." Stillington nodded. "‘Twould be steering the very crown of England with our own hands." He held out his hands, bony and slightly atremble. "Well, mayhap not my hands."

  "But do you see what the Woodvilles are trying to do to this country? We're at the brink of civil war!"

  "Ho, ye need not convince me, laddie." His tongue played with a loose bottom tooth. "I would see that Woodville harridan and her bastards sailing through Traitors' Gate afore anyone in this kingdom, I...

  "Then you do agree that the Lord Protector must know of this immediately."

  "Aye, he'll know what to do with this, won't he, lad? Heh, heh. This be good as the crown upon his head. Aye, I shall accompany you to His Grace the Lord Protector but not ere you recover—"

  "I be recovered! See?" Valentine struggled to sit up.

  Stillington held out an arm and pushed Valentine back down into the pillows. "Recovered my tallywags! Ye must stay abed yet, lad! You get up and start playing silly buggers, you'll be right here flat on yer back like a plaguer!"

  "Nay, Your Excellency! We have to go now!" Valentine leapt out of bed and, hit with a wave of dizziness, crumpled to the floor, grabbing onto the Bishop's shoes with the last thread of strength in him.

  The servers lifted him and lay him on the bed, pressing a cool cloth to his head and covering him with a pile of blankets, for he'd begun to shiver.

  He awoke the next day with a renewed surge of strength after breaking his fast with bacon, eggs, fresh brown bread and ale. Stillington was in the solar eating when Valentine entered, fully dressed in the ill-fitting but elegant tabard, cloak and hose the bishop had provided.

  "What are you doing...get ye back to bed, laddie, ye nearly got the wind knocked out of ye!"

  "I feel fit, Your Excellency, we must go and inform the Lord Protector! Except we shall not be going by barge if you do not mind."

  Valentine grabbed the yellowed paper and buried it under his cloak as if it held the secrets of the universe. He took the old man by the arm and slowly, much too slowly for the restless Valentine. They soon exited the house and mounted two of Stillington's old but still strong palfreys.

  "To the Tower of London, post haste!"

  He yanked on the reins, the sheet of parchment rising and falling under his cloak with every beat of his hammering heart.

  He hadn't found the truth about Denys' family in quite the way he had imagined, but this changed everything. His head swam at the very thought of it as he rode on through the night. Who would now be king? He hardly dared hope for his friend--or what it would mean for Valentine and his wife if it did come to pass…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Denys entered through the Great North Door of the kingdom's most magnificent graveyard, Westminster Abbey.

  Everything about Westminster Abbey was glorious and resplendent. The door's gaping arches soared high, flanked by stone columns, beaten with age into a rustic beauty.

  Subdued light spilled through rows of arched windows on either side of The Nave, fondling each corner and fold of every carved tomb. The hollow recesses of intricate design allowed a fragment of their radiance to peek through the shadows and speak silently of immortal splendor. Her eyes widening at the wonder of her surroundings, she stretched her neck to take in all the stories of centuries above, below and around her.

  Thick stone pillars at a dizzying height supported the fan vaulting in the arched ceilings. Her feet whispered over worn stone slabs fitted together, carved with names and lifespans of those whose bones reposed beneath them. The ancient letterings danced in rhythm with the singular pulsing heartbeat shared by all the spirits entombed within.

  Beneath these slabs, in the vaults below, lay the remains of kings, queens, knights and royal infants carried away in the first breaths of their lives. Chapels branched out from The Nave, graced with the same haunting beauty, glowing with candles hurling ghostly movements on the shadowy carvings.

  Between the towering pillars crowned with vaulted arches, the walls bore carved effigies of the great immortals, their eyes staring blankly into the eternity their souls had long ago entered. Splendid tombs, stone and marble sarcophagi were adorned with gilded angels and effigies lying prone with hands clasped towards heaven, prayers in Latin etched into their marble caskets.

  The pillars and tombs glowed in shades of pale beiges and tans, adorned by the stained glass that radiated like jewels in tones of ruby, sapphire, and emerald. Her beginnings as well as those of her countrymen were enshrined in these ancient walls.

  All at once she felt so small, so insignificant, yet exulted in the joy of being alive enclosed within centuries of death. She breathed deeply. The air bore the musty stillness of age. Even the air reposed peacefully, surrounding her with its age-old godliness. Opening her mouth in a thoughtful sigh, she tasted it. With its invisible yet potent strength and heavy closeness, it filled her. She began to wander, to lose herself among these elaborate tombs, to read about the lives they left behind. She caressed the cold marble.

  Wanting to be alone with no chance of being disturbed at her worship, she headed for the Abbey's most secluded chapel, Saint Paul's. It contained naught more than an altar and a confession booth. Hidden away in a corner, hardly anyone even knew it was there. Its only light glowed from a single candle within.

  Ascending its two worn stone steps, she peered through the spikes topping the arched door. Not a soul dwelt within. She headed for the altar, knelt, bowed her head, clasped her hands. Prayed.

  She spent her most private devotion time in this chapel. The peacefulness was overpowering.

  After a moment, a sound disturbed her; a soft sweeping over the flagstones. Were they simply scurrying mice or human footsteps? Then she heard deep voices; hushed, conspiratorial. With the educated clip of the higher classes. Speaking over each other, yet maintaining a whispery tone. They were heading directly towards the chapel.

  She turned and faced the doorway. There stood John Alcock, who was Bishop of Worcester and President of the Council. She couldn't pray with him here.

  Just as she rose to leave, another man came into view— Edward Woodville, an arrogant upstart the nobles hated even more than his sister.

  They entered the chapel, yet they didn't see her, halfway hidden in the shadows of the altar. They turned and waited as others approached. She had no intention of slipping out now. She had to stay and hear what Woodville was plotting—he had to be up to something. They wouldn't have sequestered themselves like this to swap ale-quaffing stories.

>   Silently, she ducked into the confessional booth and closed the door behind her. It was dark and the musty air choked her. But as the voices approached and grew clearer, she held her breath. More feet scuffed over the worn flagstones accompanied by the clearing of throats, the rustle of rich fabric.

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she could see through the screen several figures gathered round Edward Woodville. They wore the alb and cope, the ecclesiastical vestments of bishops. He acknowledged each one of them, bowing as he did: his brother Lionel, Bishop of Salisbury; John Morton, Bishop of Ely; Thomas Rotherham, Archbishop of York; John Russell, Bishop of Lincoln and Keeper of Privy Seal; and Edward Story, Bishop of Chichester. Every bishop on the council.

  Woodville took command of the floor and began to speak. She couldn't believe what she was hearing…

  "Where is the Lord Protector?" Valentine demanded of a guard as he and Bishop Stillington reached the White Tower.

  "He is within the private apartments, my Lord," he replied, and a page led them to the residence on the top floor.

  Once in Richard's audience chamber, which connected with his most private retiring-room and close-room, Valentine rapped on the door. "Richard! Open up, Your Highness, ‘tis I! Valentine!" Richard appeared in only a wrinkled shirt and hose, his feet bare, his fingers and neck free of jewels. His hair was disheveled. Valentine guessed he'd been asleep. He alerted immediately upon seeing his audience.

  "Val! Val, are you all right? Dove told me of your dreadful accident! I went to His Excellency's house to see you last eve but you were fast asleep. Do come in!" Valentine, although deeply appreciative of Richard's concern, was too excited even to think of that harrowing experience.

  "I am fine, Dickon, I feel as strong as ever. We must speak to you!"

  "Aye, very well, I was just taking a short kip." Richard glanced over at Stillington. They exchanged a polite nod.

  Richard ran a hand over his eyes and swung the door open for them to enter. They followed him into the King's closet, still eerily strewn with Edward's personal effects, a shaving blade here, a silver basin there, as if he were to return any minute. Valentine's eyes connected with one item that outshone everything else—the very Crown of England on a purple silk pillow, awaiting its next recipient in bejewelled brilliance.

  Richard headed for a velvet-cushioned seat by the window but Valentine grabbed his friend by the shoulders and turned him around before he sat. "Dickon! We have news that is about to change the path of our crown! Look at this!"

  He pulled the parchment from under his cloak and opened it carefully, at the same time offering a dramatic proclamation. "Your Excellency, I present to you Richard, our Lord Protector." Valentine acknowledged the self-satisfied grin Richard shot him. The bishop was regarding the young Lord Protector with awe as Richard unfolded the parchment and began to read.

  His eyes swept back and forth over the parchment, growing wider with each sentence. When he reached the end, he looked up at Valentine, alert as ever, shaking his head, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. Valentine bolted for a pitcher on the table beside him, poured a gobletful and thrust it into Richard's hand.

  Richard took a few rapid sips. "Is this valid? Edward was pre-contracted to this woman at the time he married Elizabeth?" he directed the question at Stillington, who was plucking grapes from a bunch in a gold bowl.

  "Before God and man...hey, these grapes have big pips!" he scowled, spitting them out the window.

  "Edward Plantagenet...to one Lady Eleanor Butler, daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury..." Richard mouthed the words, scanning the roll over and over, his head moving side to side in time with his eyes.

  "Edward wed Elizabeth Woodville hastily, did he not?" Valentine asked.

  "Hastily, it was secretly! He told no one until two years later! Val, do you know what this means?" Richard leaned forward and laid his hands on Valentine's shoulders, shaking him gently, as if waking him from a dream, convincing them both that this indeed was real. "My path to the throne has just been cleared. Prince Edward is illegitimate! Both of his sons, in view of this pre-contract."

  "Aye!" Valentine nodded rapidly, thrilled for his dear friend, thrilled for himself and Dove, knowing that his father was smiling down on him from heaven. Richard closed his eyes, nodding slowly, as if all this were meant to be. "I am the one God has chosen to be King! I am he!"

  "So how does it feel? How does it feel, King Richard?" Valentine asked, his head reeling in the mind-spinning events that he knew were nowhere near over yet. "Well, it feels like...it feels like..." Richard replied, folding the parchment and pressing it between his hands.

  Valentine began laughing heartily, slapped his knees, sprang out of his chair and pulled Richard to his feet, hugging him tightly, rocking back and forth. "It should feel like the wildest, most ecstatic, exploding, rapturous, uproarious lovemaking you can ever imagine in your most wicked, erotic fantasies!"

  They both then cast a sheepish look at their guest. But the Bishop, standing off to the side, nodded wholeheartedly in agreement.

  Richard eased out of the embrace, patted Valentine on the shoulder and, trying to hide a smile, turned to the window and gazed out over his land.

  They finally left him alone, Bishop Stillington bowing his way out of the chamber until Richard lifted him from his stooping position and playfully pushed him out.

  As he left, Valentine saw the Tower as if for the first time, from the gleaming floors to the carved ceilings trimmed in gold leaf and adorned with swaggering chandeliers. As they walked through the private apartments, he saw the portraits of kings gone by, depicting centuries of continuing succession. Valentine nearly skipped along as they passed through the doors and onto Tower Green.

  The gentle spring breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle. He turned and looked up at the massive White Tower and its four spires, walked down to the gates and gazed out over the river and at the hazy Surrey hilltops beyond. All this—the exquisite palaces, castles, abbeys and the ancient memories they held, as well as every inch of the lush green land under their feet—was now a part of his life.

  "I did it, my Lord Father, I did it all for you! Now are you proud of me?" he shouted up at the sky, not expecting any kind of a sign in reply, but in his heart he knew. He could see his father smiling.

  A nagging twinge tugged at his heart and he forced it away. He would get Dove to appreciate it all. He knew their love would overcome any trepidation she would have over this stunning turn of events and what it meant for Edward's two young sons.

  Of course this wouldn't be easy. They had a number of formidable enemies and hostile factions; the same enemies that had killed his own father. The kingdom was far from united.

  But all Dove had to do was settle in. If her prayer of finding her family was answered, the entire world would be at their feet! Now that it was all legal and legitimate, he knew they would easily adapt to royal life—the life she never had while at the hand of Elizabeth Woodville, and the life he never had because of his father's tragic death.

  As they exited the Tower's main gatehouse, he felt as if a heavy weight had lifted from his soul. He was one with his beloved wife. Now he was one with his kingdom.

  He parted company with Stillington and popped round to London's finest jeweler. He couldn't wait to tell her the news and bestow yet another glittering creation on his wife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Denys could barely wait to see her husband again, to tell him the shocking plot unfolding before her as she cowered in the confessional in Westminster Abbey.

  "I wanted a private meeting, Your Excellencies, for obvious reasons," Edward Woodville said, his voice now more resonant. He'd dispensed with the hushed whispers. "Gloucester has friends in the council—well, not friends, exactly; just those who aren't willing yet to adhere to our cause. We need to ensnare Gloucester's protectorship and bring our new King under our sway.

  "But there are those still reluctant to have a boy on the thron
e. Why, I know not. Look at who his advisors will be! Why, the Woodvilles have handled our power with aplomb, if I do say so myself. Now, the council must needs administer the upbringing of our lord King Edward the Fifth, and protect him from opposing factions within the government—namely, The Hog and his lickspittle henchmen."

  "The clergy has always supported you, especially since old King Harry was overthrown and so unmercifully murdered at the hands of the Plantagenets," Rotherham spoke.

  "If you don't mind my saying, my Lord, it has always baffled the bishops in the council why the Woodvilles harbor such a bad name, when the Plantagenets usurped the very throne and may do so yet again." She heard a few clucks.

  "Exactly. To that end, Your Excellency, we want to move swiftly, slaughter The Hog, and get my nephew crowned on Sunday next." Woodville took a deep breath she could hear from the booth and carried on:

  "Both my brother Anthony and I have long been staunch sons of the Holy Church, because of the misfortunes suffered by our family, not the least at the hand of the folly- fallen Clarence—another Plantagenet gone to a deserving watery grave. As I have dedicated myself to the cause of God—I am wearing a hair shirt right now!—I would be grateful would Your Excellencies reciprocate in supporting our next King, Edward the Fifth."