Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga)

by Diana Rubino

  "I know very little," he answered in French, indicating with his thumb and forefinger the gesture for a little bit, "but it is so like Genoese, between the four languages, I am sure we can understand each other!"

  "Four languages? And what is the fourth?"

  "Genoese, English, French, and..." He counted on his fingers. "Hand language!" he replied, splaying his hands and fluttering his fingers as they broke out into laughter.

  She insisted he stay for an English breakfast, and he asked her to take him through her orchard once more.

  The language barrier did not pose a problem since they seemed to be able to speak well enough between his halting English and French. But on this visit they didn't find the need to talk all that much. Together they strolled quietly in the cool autumn sun that was giving way to a brilliant day. She gave him a basket and let him pick his own apples and pears as they walked along.

  He spoke in halting French as they discussed music, English and Italian foods, and they even broached the subject of fashions.

  Finally he turned to her, laid the basket on the ground and took her hands in his. She felt nothing like the shiver of excitement when Valentine touched her. For all they shared, hers was not a physical attraction to Colombo and she quickly looked away when his gaze grew too penetrating.

  His eyes echoed the deep blue-green of the sea, telling her what he couldn't convey in mere words, no matter how mellifluous the language.

  "You are most beautiful, Dove," he said in a lilting but slightly hesitant English, his long fingers intertwined with hers. "Che bella," he repeated in Genoese, and this time there was no hesitation. "I wish that I could take you with me to the Orient. I wish that you could be with me always."

  "I understand and I appreciate it, Cristoforo," she replied in French. "But I am quite happy here. I have a husband whom I love very much. Were things different, well...but they are not. I would go nowhere until I found my family, even were I free." She looked back into his eyes and he nodded in empathy, giving her hands an affectionate squeeze.

  As he relinquished his grasp, he took a step closer, opening his arms, taking her in an embrace that she returned warmly. She breathed in the sweet scent of the fruits around them and closed her eyes against the brilliant sunshine as their embrace tightened. "You get it up for me, Bella Denys," he whispered.

  She jerked her body away, her hands nervously tugging at her bodice, stammering in embarrassment. "I...I beg your pardon?"

  "Get up, go up..." He spread his hands, palms up, gesturing rapidly.

  "How you say...give me a shove...make me rise."

  "Oh, I make your spirits rise!" She laughed, letting out a breath of relief as he nodded, obviously as relieved as she that he'd finally communicated the right message.

  "Our languages can be so misinterpreted, when you say one thing it can very well mean something so very different!" His brows shot up and he splayed his hands. "What I said?"

  "Never mind. Niente." She patted his arm.

  "I know our words have different meanings." He nodded, shrugging. "But like you say in English...what canna you do?" He smiled and brushed her cheek with the very tips of his fingers.

  He gathered the basket of apples and she linked her arm in his as they strolled out of the orchard together.

  Back inside, she opened the door of her writing table and took out a velvet pouch tied with a string, which she placed in his hands. "This is to assist you in your quest," she said.

  He thanked her again and again and slipped it under his cloak.

  "‘Tis not a fortune, but Valentine and I want you to realize your dream, and know that we helped make it real."

  Then, finally, he lowered his head and kissed her on one cheek, then the other. "And you will find your family. I only wish it were I. God bless you, my darling," he said, touching the brim of his hat.

  "God be with you on your journeys, Cristoforo." She blew him a kiss as he rode away to find his world, and she returned to hers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Marguerite of Anjou's perplexing message arrived at Burleigh House the day after court returned to Westminster.

  Denys rewarded the messenger generously with a night's stay in one of their comfortable guest chambers, a hearty meal, and a handful of gold coins. She tore at the message with trembling hands as Valentine looked over her shoulder anxiously.

  "She must know who gave me to King Henry. She was there, she must know..." she reassured herself as she broke the seal and tore open the parchment.

  Marguerite's spiky handwriting stood in contrast to the flowery French in which it was written. Several men named John had served King Henry, but the oldest and most loyal had been with him from the very start. John Pasteler was his name, his surname meaning pastry cook, his occupation at the time of his service to the King. Marguerite wrote about having remembered seeing him carrying a babe and giving it to the King, who immediately handed it over to one of the serving wenches.

  Denys was sure her heart stopped when she read this—it was the answer she'd been looking for! But there was more. She read on. Marguerite mentioned John Smith, whom Valentine had heard about.

  He, too, had cradled a baby in his arms not long after—or was it before? Marguerite wrote.

  She wasn't certain—her memory was beginning to fail her in old age. She went on to mention the births that had taken place at court during the years in question. A girl child had been born to one of the King's pages whose name was John Norris. The kitchen wench with whom he'd sired the child went off, leaving the child as a ward of the King, but Marguerite didn't know what became of this child.

  One of their ushers had been named John, and he and his wife had a baby whom she remembered seeing the King hold at one time—both parents died of consumption and Marguerite was not aware of the child's fate.

  There were so many! She could have been any of those babies. Marguerite's failing memory only left Denys confused and discouraged.

  "Oh, Valentine, this is worse than not knowing, now I shall never know." She felt more lost than she ever had.

  He hugged her tightly, his heart breaking for her. But in his mind he was trying to remember every John he'd ever known in his life—from his earliest memories to his life with the Plantagenets after his mother died. "We'll find him, my darling, I know we will."

  She finally began to relax in his arms and breathe more easily as Margaret's letter fluttered to the floor.

  Christmas took place in Westminster Palace. On Christmas Eve, the great hall glowed with the Yule Log, scented with the heady aromas of the holly, ivy, and bay that adorned the palace halls. All of London was swathed in candlelight and a fresh blanketing of snow. The green boughs adorning the doors and parish churches brought a joyful mood.

  Carolers' harmonic voices blended with the usual shouts of the peddlers. Plays were acted out in the streets as well as in the palace.

  As the court participated in the ritual New Year's Day exchange of gifts, the King gave lavishly to his councillors, retainers and staff. He presented Denys with several dozen ermine bellies she'd admired when his tailor had visited, the less-luxurious miniver having gone out of fashion.

  His gift to Valentine was an assortment of Italian marble blocks for Dovebury's fireplaces, for which the laborers would arrive after the holidays to carve and fit. Their gift to Richard was a jewelled covered tankard which he immediately gave the pet name of Perkin. She thought it silly that men "named" their tankards, but since she made the startling realization that they named their own privy members, the thought of naming a tankard didn't seem so bizarre. She and Valentine had lain in bed many a night until the wee hours, whooping with laughter in trying to guess what some of the royal entourage named their male members.

  "I wouldn't expect Richard ever named his!" she'd said, knowing Richard would consider the practice pure debauchery.

  "I don't know," he'd replied. "Dickon's of that regal dignified lot. He probably calls it Ethelbald or something of th
e sort. But somebody like George—now he would have named his Wee Willie." They exploded into a fit of giggles. Even the ladies of the notorious musicales had never divulged the names of their husbands' manhoods.

  Valentine's favorite tankard was named Percival, or Percy for short, and on Christmas Eve, he and Richard clinked tankards, the King and his most trusted Chancellor toasting each other's health, their arms wound round each other, joking and ribbing like the best of friends they would always be.

  "Valentine..." He and Denys had just finished dancing, the wine was flowing, the courtiers were laughing, and she was aglow from the two gobletfuls of malmsey she'd just imbibed.

  Slipping her hand under the table, she fondled him.

  As he glanced around furtively before his own hand slid under her skirts and rode up her thigh, she cooed, "How is Canute the Great tonight?" The usual holiday games were played, such as "king of the bean." A bean was hidden in a loaf, and whoever found it would be king of the feast. All the serving staff were invited to the hall to partake of the feasting and the usual enormous consumption of food and drink.

  The hall flowed with mummers, masked pantomimists, jugglers, fools, ale and wine. Richard's court was not as lusty as Edward's had been, but one would occasionally stumble upon an amorous couple among the palace's alcoves and nooks during this festive season.

  But the mood of the King was not a festive one. Although Valentine was better able to hide his anxiety, he spent more time with Richard and his council than he ever did during that holiday season.

  Richard's spies informed him that by summer, Henry Tudor would descend once more upon England. With this hanging over his head, Denys knew she could not bother him with trying to help her find this mysterious John person who was the only link to her family. She hardly saw Richard anymore except for in the evenings when he appeared in the great hall, which was no longer often.

  With Anne ill and his impending preparations for yet another battle with Henry Tudor, Richard's time was not his own. When she did see him, it was during his regular visits to the chapel for services, where he sat with his head bowed, deeply in thought, and barely had time for a passing hello before rushing back into his council chambers or to Anne's bedside.

  As Chancellor, Valentine spent long hours plotting late into the night how to ward off Tudor, how many troops to raise, how to fortify the coast.

  Denys was proud and uneasy at the same time.

  "This isn't like work to you at all, is it, Valentine?" she asked him one night as they sat in their winter parlour after the evening meal. "‘Tis like a game to you." His head wasn't bowed, his brow wasn't furrowed from deep disturbing thought and dark shadows hadn't formed around his eyes.

  In contrast to Richard, who seemed to be bearing the burden of the world on his shoulders, Valentine was thriving on it all. He wrote speeches to deliver to Henry Tudor, drew up treaties and pacts, planned alliances by betrothals, plotted ways to drive Tudor back to France. He drew pictures of battle formations, using chess pieces to represent the opposing armies. It was indeed a game to him; he loved manipulating all these lives and testing Henry Tudor's patience, trying to outsmart and outmaneuver him.

  He was loving every minute of it; it was the power he'd always hoped to attain. She tried not to let it bother her, for he spent his every spare moment with her. He still had time to go riding or dancing in the great hall or sit before the fire with her, and make love to her with exquisite tenderness.

  "What do you mean...game?" he replied, not looking up, his eyes fixed to the list of the peerage that supported the crown.

  "All this...planning alliances, rounding up support, devising schemes to exchange lands and territories, preparing us for battles."

  "We must maintain a strong defense, for Tudor has one most astute spy, namely his mother."

  "But Margaret Beaufort is in prison."

  "Aye, but she's married to Lord Stanley and I don't trust him. He made his peace with Richard by agreeing to support him, and Richard made him Constable of England, even though I advised Richard against it. He's turned on us before. He joins whichever side looks better to him at the time. Richard is just too trusting sometimes."

  "Oh, but I'd hoped we'd heard the last of Henry Tudor.

  I wish you could obliterate him with one swift stroke." Valentine put down his pen and shook his head at her, smiling. "It takes more than military force to bring down an enemy, my dear. It takes diplomacy. Richard hasn't the eloquence his brother Edward possessed, but he's got the military strength and the mind to execute a brilliant battle.

  Wiping Tudor from the face of the earth would solve our immediate problem, but would not serve our best interests in the long run. ‘Twould be like putting a square inch cloth on a festering stab wound. Our power base is not large, and if Tudor is defeated, someone else will come along in his place. We need to make pacts for peacetime, as well, in order to keep the peace."

  On Twelfth Night, the great hall was glittering with decorations in shimmering greens, reds and golds. The Yule Log blazed in the hearth, the wine flowed and course after course came streaming in on gold and silver plates. But once again, the seat next to the King on the dais was empty, as were his eyes when Denys observed him up close. She knew he had more on his mind than ever before. Not only did he have an imminent invasion to prepare for once again, but his wife was not expected to live.

  She approached him after Valentine began to tuck into yet another plate of roast swan. "Richard," she said, glancing at the mountain of food on his plates that his taster was happily consuming instead. "Is Anne ill this evening?"

  "Aye, taken to her bed once again, under physician's orders. All the festivities finally did her in."

  "They all love her so. After the contempt Bess wrought upon the kingdom, Anne is a beloved queen indeed. I am so sorry she has been so frail as of late." She'd lost count of Anne's many miscarriages, and knew Anne would have taken any risk to give Richard heirs. "I am so sorry things turned out the way they did for you, Richard."

  "I am too, my dear. But it is the way it is." She saw his sad eyes scan the great hall and the courtiers dancing, laughing, and reveling in the holiday festivities. "The doctors advised me to shun her bed."

  "Pardon?" She leaned forward to hear it again; she couldn't have heard correctly.

  "I was ordered to shun her bed. I shall never have my heir." He took a deep breath and expelled it raggedly as his eyes filled with tears.

  Her gaze landed on several of the courtiers' faces to make sure they weren't watching. She hated the thought of anyone seeing the King crying. "Please do not say that. You have heirs; you have nephews."

  "I know that and I love my nephews with all my heart.

  But they are not mine. They are not my sons—blood of mine and Anne's." She knew what he meant and her heart burst with sorrow.

  Maybe if things had gone differently, if they had followed Bess' orders and married, he might have his heirs today. But she and Richard could never have loved each other in the true sense. It never could have worked. And she never would have married Valentine.

  "Let me go to the Queen now, I shall cheer her up. I shall sing for her and play upon my lute. May I go to her?"

  "Of course you may. She truly loves you like a sister." In his eyes spoke all the gratitude she knew he didn't have the strength to speak.

  Anne's chamber was glowing eerily in the hearth's flames. The air was close. The Queen's lady-in-waiting was standing over her bed, holding out a linen cloth for her to cough into. Several more cloths were piled on the floor and Denys could see they were soaked with blood.

  She approached the bed that dwarfed the emaciated figure.

  Memories flooded her mind: the glorious wedding gown Anne had given her, the kindness she'd shown Denys when it seemed like everyone, including Richard, had nudged her aside. She sat at the edge of the bed, praying fiercely for this noble soul, the Queen consort so beloved by her subjects, reduced to this sorrowful figure coughing h
er life's blood away.

  She dismissed the maid and took her place at Anne's side. Anne looked at Denys through eyes glazed with exhaustion.

  "Oh, Dove, how kind of you to come to me when you could be joining in the festivities." Her voice was barely above a whisper, as if every word took a major effort. Denys did not want to tell Anne that the mood in the great hall was far from festive. "How is Richard? Is he faring well?"

  "He is holding his head up high, as always, Anne. He is very much looking forward to your joining him again, as is the entire kingdom." She shook her head. "I shall never be able to return, Dove. I am simply lying here waiting for God to take me."

  "Anne," Denys grasped one limp hand in hers and warmed it between her own. "Anne, do not talk that way.

  You will be fine. You have been ill before, we all have! You will recover. You must, Anne. You know how much the King needs you."