Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga)

by Diana Rubino

  "Did Uncle Ned know who I was?"

  "Nay—he believed you were Elizabeth's niece."

  "He would have told me the truth had he known."

  "He possibly would have, my dear, without regard for his crown or even his life. He was so selfless and noble. That is why I thought it too dangerous to tell even him. ‘Tis one thing to have a son in the thick of a battle for the crown, but I didn't want a battle fought with my daughter in the crossfire."

  Denys' gaze intensified and she began tapping a rhythmic beat with her ring on the edge of the table that matched the rapid hammering of her heart.

  "As for my life," Margaret sighed and wiped her mouth with the handkerchief, "after Henry Stafford died, I married Thomas Stanley. He had always wavered between Yorkist and Lancastrian sides. Finally I persuaded him to support my son, which he agreed to do in this battle."

  Denys nodded slowly as she digested all these hard facts. She closed her eyes and reopened them, as if waking from a dream.

  Margaret Beaufort tilted her head and opened her mouth to speak. They stood for a long silent moment before she finally said, "I know you do not want to hear this, being a loyal Yorkist as you are, but Henry has a rightful claim to the throne, my dear—and now, so do you."

  "Oh, Jesu, no, I'd never want it! Elizabeth's sons were declared illegitimate, so the crown belongs to Richard."

  "That depends on how hard he's willing to fight for it." She sighed and wiped her mouth with the handkerchief.

  "May the best man win."

  "You're aware that my husband is fighting that battle at Richard's side," she stated evenly.

  "I know, my dear. But he shan't perish. Mayhap he and Henry will become friends."

  "Valentine is not like your husband. His loyalties are unwavering." Denys no longer wanted to discuss politics or financing of Henry's battles or claims to the throne. This moment was too fragile, too rare, it wouldn't happen again—until she met her brother, Henry Tudor.

  Her mother changed the subject for her. "So, I want to hear how my little grandchild is doing. My granddaughter."

  "But ma mere—how do you know ‘twill be a girl?"

  "You want a girl?"

  "Aye, I've always wanted a little girl!"

  "Then you shall have a girl."

  After a night of hugs and promises, Denys finally left her mother and returned the next day to Rockingham, their home in Leicester. She gazed into the looking glass and saw someone else. Denys Beaufort Tudor. With a claim to the throne of England.

  She considered her brother, on the battlefield fighting her husband and her King. She was not afraid of Henry Tudor and his dubious supporters. She had faith in King Richard and his first general, no matter who betrayed them.

  But he was still her brother, and every battle had only one winner.

  And one loser.

  "Oh, God!" she implored, shaking her head, still stunned with disbelief. "Please let them be safe."

  But her prayers gave her no relief, for now she knew she was right in the middle of it all, at the crossroads of history, with nowhere to turn for safety.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Valentine and his retainers came charging up the hill.

  Denys, her heart pounding so hard it stabbed at her painfully, tore across the courtyard to meet her husband.

  He dismounted and she fell into his arms, her hands grasping his hair in bunches, smearing his face with her tears. Their lips met through quiet sobs as he lifted her off her feet and rocked slowly from side to side.

  "Are you hurt? Are you all right?"

  "Dove, there is something I must tell you..."

  "...hurt...wounded...are you sure..." Her thoughts were coming out in fragments, her mind so befuddled with the torture of the last few days, of not knowing.

  "Valentine, did you kill Henry Tudor? Is he—"

  "Dove, listen to me."

  "Did Henry Tudor go back to France?"

  "Dove, listen to me! Richard is dead."

  She hadn't heard him. She was still asking Valentine how he was. "Are you at all hurt? Did you—"

  "Dove! Cease!" He grasped her jaw between his thumb and fingers and forced her to look at him. Her breathing evened and he let a second of silence pass before he repeated it. "Richard is dead. Do you understand me? He's gone."

  No. No, Valentine, you must be mistaken. He cannot be!"

  She shook her head, stunned by his preposterous statement. He had to be wrong. Blinded by the stream of tears running down her face, she grabbed his wrists in a painful grip.

  "Please listen to me! It is true, Dove. He'd come so close, he was within yards of killing Tudor himself when Stanley turned on him."

  "No!"

  "He'd been holding Stanley's son as hostage to ensure his loyalty, but Stanley refused Richard's order for reinforcements, saying that he had other sons. When Northumberland saw that Stanley had gone to Tudor's side, he stood by and watched as all hope vanished."

  "No, it can't be true--"

  Valentine sighed as he saw his wife crumple into a chair in shock. "I saw it with my own eyes, love. Richard became unhorsed and surrounded by Stanley's men. He was offered a fresh horse, but refused, insisting to continue the battle, to either live or die as King."

  "No, please, there has to be some mistake..." she sobbed.

  "Once Stanley's army attacked, he had no chance of surviving. His last words were, 'Treason! Treason...'"

  Valentine's voice cracked and he broke down in shuddering sobs, releasing her and turning away, leaning against his horse, dragging his hands through its matted mane. "We've lost him, my love. He really is gone."

  His muffled voice was ragged and strained, and she stood for another second.

  Then her knees gave out and she hit the ground, seeing nothing, tasting dirt, hearing only Valentine's tortured sobs.

  "No-o-o-o-o!"

  At her anguished sobs, Valentine put his own grief aside to comfort his beloved. He helped her up and guided her over to the stone wall. The searing August sun burned her through her clothes, yet she felt as though she would never be warm again.

  Her eyes were shut tight. She did not want to see, did not want to hear any more, it was all just too much for her.

  "Thomas Stanley," she repeated several times, and she stood, walked in a circle, sat and then stood again, walking, turning, muttering to herself: "My mother's husband. She told me he was going to betray Richard and enable Henry Tudor to win."

  If her mother and her husband had not betrayed Richard, he would still be alive and none of this would have happened. She heard Valentine explaining to her about battle maneuvers, but could only think of what her mother had told her. And she couldn't help thinking she could have stopped it in time if only she had told everyone the truth as soon as she had discovered it. Valentine was saying Stanley's name and Margaret Beaufort's name. But she couldn't tell him. Not yet.

  Still walking in circles, she clutched her skirts, relaxing and clutching again. She stopped in front of him and their eyes met, misted with tears, each a blur in the other's vision. "Where is Richard? I must go to him."

  "His body is at the chapel of the Gray Friars on public view. He is to be buried tomorrow."

  "Where is that?"

  "On the other side of Leicester, near the battlefield."

  "Please take me there. Now."

  The chapel was dark and unlit when they arrived late that night. She took a candle from the back but could not see more than a foot in front of her.

  "I shall wait outside," Valentine said, and let her go. The door groaned shut and she walked slowly over the flagstones, seeing only her hand and part of her arm that held the candle. But she knew he was here, she could feel his presence.

  Then she saw the altar glowing softly in the light of her candle just ahead of her. She held the candle out and lowered it as she advanced. She saw a simple wooden box, no bier, no cloth of gold hangings, no decoration. She peered into the coffin and could make out a
figure, in ghostly shadows as she approached.

  Then she saw the dark hair, the face so white, as devoid of color as the thin patch of cloth carelessly tossed over his loins. His chest and arms were slashed with wounds, blackened with dried blood and dust.

  She swept off her riding cloak and laid it over his battered body. She knelt before him and ran her finger over a deep gash on his face that had spilled his life's blood in that final battle for his crown.

  "Oh, Richard, how could they do this to you... My very own mother and brother..." she whispered, her tears falling freely now. She spoke to him softly, promising him that she would watch over the land he'd given them, that Valentine would carry on his work as best as he could.

  "Henry Tudor may be my brother by blood, but you will always be my brother in my heart."

  The candle burnt to the end just as the first weak rays of light were drifting through the church windows and the gold gave way to a hazy gray.

  "Farewell, King Richard," she whispered, and finally she rose, her legs weakened from kneeling upon the stone floor. She turned and walked down the aisle in silence.

  Valentine was waiting for her, dozing on the stone bench outside the church, their mounts tied to a tree.

  He rubbed his eyes and stood to embrace her. "Where is your cloak?"

  "I covered him with it. "Twas unseemly to let him be seen like that. If anything, he should have been buried in his armor like the true soldier he always was."

  Her husband nodded, his eyes filling with tears.

  "Do you want to say goodbye, to him, Valentine?" she asked, her mouth dry, her eyes fully emptied of tears at last.

  "I said goodbye yesterday. He knows I am here."

  "He looks as if he's sleeping," she said, grasping his hand. It was warm, alive. She shuddered nonetheless.

  "He is," Valentine replied softly, leading her to her mount. "Finally, after all the careworn years he served England so faithfully, he is going to get some rest."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Denys was about to let her husband lead her away, but then she turned and guided him back to the bench.

  "Valentine, I must tell you something."

  "What is it, love?" They sat and she grasped his hands. They were warm now, and hers had suddenly grown cold with the enormity of all that had happened, and all that she needed to tell him.

  "It's just that, well, I need to tell you that I've found my mother at last, Valentine."

  His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak. A smile broke out, and it broke her heart. "Oh, Dove, how marvelous!"

  "Nay, Valentine, you won't like this, won't like it at all."

  His eyes widened. "Why, how can I not like it? Why did you not tell me before?"

  "I couldn't—" She choked on the words. Tears ran down her cheeks. She was bursting with sadness, relief, joy, confusion, and even disgust. But she'd held it in too long.

  Now she must open up to him. "Valentine, my mother is Margaret Beaufort. Thomas Stanley's wife. Henry Tudor is my twin brother."

  She was so exhausted and mentally drained, she didn't have the strength to tell him how she'd found this out; how she tricked Elizabeth and how she vowed to get Richard to release her mother from prison.

  "Oh, Dove, no. It can't be." He looked like he wanted to cry.

  "Aye, Valentine, it is, much as it pains me to tell you. She married Edmund Tudor when she was twelve years old. He was King Henry's half-brother and his heir. She gave me away because she was afraid for my life, with my royal lineage from both sides. She gave me to Bess as part of a bargain.

  "I am Henry Tudor's sister—his twin sister! We breathed our first breath together." Henry Tudor, the mortal enemy who'd seized the crown from Richard, with funds from her mother and an army of traitors under her stepfather.

  Valentine's voice sounded like it was coming from far away. "‘Tis uncanny." He shook his head, that same look of disbelief that she'd seen the first time she looked into the mirror after discovering who she was.

  His hands slid through her hair. "‘Tis all right, darling, now you know, at least you know."

  "But of all people..." All the years of frustration and resentment, the torment, the pain, it was all converging upon her at once, and it was too much to bear. "Oh, why did it have to end this way?"

  "Nothing's ended, my darling. You are starting a new life. ‘Tis a beginning. You wanted to know who you were and I wanted it just as badly. Tell me, Dove: would you rather have gone to your grave without knowing?" She hesitated, unable to speak. Could she have lived the rest of her days as a lost soul? "Nay, Valentine. I now know who I am, and I am relieved for that."

  "That must be why Tudor pardoned me. Because I am your husband. He knew all along that you were his sister."

  "How?"

  "Your mother must have told him. He would not have pardoned me out of the kindness of his heart. I was the King's first general. All the others fled or were arrested."

  Her breathing had calmed as he wiped her tears with a linen cloth. "I plan to meet with my brother. Then I shall find out."

  "Shall I accompany you?"

  Nay, I have to do this myself."

  "Dove, I know how hard this is for you. But forgive him as we forgive our enemies, and you will always know peace within your heart. Go to your brother and let your hearts enjoin."

  When they arrived home, she sat to compose the very difficult letter...oh, where to start? Finally she wrote it plainly and simply, telling nothing but the truth, she'd found their mother, and now she was coming to Westminster Palace to meet him.

  She heard another bit of disturbing news upon entering the gates of London two days later. King Edward and Elizabeth Woodville's two young sons, who were in sanctuary in the Tower during Richard's reign, had suddenly disappeared.

  She felt as though she were walking into the lion's den, but what other choice did she have. Her whole future depended upon her seeing Henry and trying to salvage what was left of her shattered world.

  When she arrived at the palace, the gates were shut. Squires and men-at-arms were everywhere. "I am come to see Henry Tudor," she told the most human-looking one.

  She could not bring herself to refer to him as the King.

  "Who do we say is calling?"

  "His sister."

  He looked at her dubiously, clucking, shaking his head this way and that, looking her up and down.

  "I am the Duchess of Norwich and the King's twin sister." She thrust Valentine's badge into his face and he immediately waved her on.

  She trembled as she looked upon the palace. It seemed a different place already. It bore a somber mood; the guards were surly and abundant, and a starkness prevailed that she'd never felt when the Plantagenets were here. Or was it the dark cloud cover that suddenly appeared? Two armed guards escorted her through the gates. She dismounted and was led down the corridor to the King's audience chamber. Neither Uncle Ned nor Richard had ever surrounded themselves with such a retinue of armed guards.

  What was Henry Tudor afraid of? She should have felt nervous, or excited, or happy at the thought of seeing her brother for the first time, or contempt for his having slain and dethroned her beloved friend. But she was surprisingly devoid of all emotion; she was all cried out, her capacity for sadness exhausted. She was numb, and knew she would be unimpressed at whatever he would say in defense of his usurpation. But he was her brother, and now a strange emotion was threading its way through her, a feeling she couldn't define.

  Two armed guards were posted at the doors to Henry's audience chamber.

  The door opened, the guards turned to face each other, crossed their swords in the air and there he was, standing in the doorway, looking at her with a bemused expression in his light green eyes. He approached her and she gave an almost indiscernible curtsy.

  Her eyes wandered over the thinning hair, abundant at the sides but only a scant tangle of strands at the top, the same silvery shade as her own. The huskily built figure bulged und
er a worn but elegant robe, and she noted the absence of gems or other embellishment. As her scrutiny finally met his, her eyes met her brother's for the first time.

  She remembered Valentine's words: "Forgive him as we forgive our enemies and you will always know peace within your heart. Go to your brother and let your hearts enjoin."

  At that instant, all the emotion she thought she'd been drained of came flooding back, nearly sending her reeling in its force. He stared back at her, betraying a spark of recognition, as if he'd seen her before but didn't know where.