Destiny Lies Waiting

by Diana Rubino

  "Not by the Queen?"

  Richard shook his head. "Most of the time, no. They are like oil and vinegar, and we both know who the vinegar is. So since she is insisting we marry forthwith, and I can't find Anne, you are the contingency plan."

  "Thank you, no. Really, I want to help, but seducing a virgin—"

  "But I tell you, she is a good woman, but also, well, curious, You fit her description of a courtly—oh, what did she call it—her fancy one—handsome, virile, and some such—"

  Valentine couldn't help smiling. He tried to hide it by rummaging through the picnic basket for more bread and cheese.

  "You've inherited your father's title. You possess lands and plate," Richard carried on. "You are just what she fancies. You would be perfect together! Just make her acquaintance, will you not?"

  Valentine shook his head. In truth, the more Richard spoke, the more intrigued he became, but the fact of the matter was, he did not treat women lightly, nor was he a deceiver of virgins. He was stunned that his friend would even suggest such a thing. His own niece by marriage, no less.

  But it also showed just how desperate he was where the willful Queen was concerned…

  With as much diplomacy as he could muster, he said quietly, "Dickon, you know how much I value your friendship, but I also value my head on my shoulders. I would never want to create a rift in your family. You are assuming the Queen would approve. You assume the niece will swoon at my feet. You assume a great deal here."

  "The Queen will know naught. Now is not the time for doubts, Val. You should have no trouble capturing her heart. Look at you. You are tall, charming and an excellent soldier. You're everything I'm not." He spread his hands wide to indicate his own slight frame.

  Then he began to slap Valentine's hand away from the picnic basket and grabbed the last chunk of honey-cured ham.

  "Now, I agree with almost everything you've said, my friend. But you are the true soldier," Valentine countered, glad to change the subject.

  "That is because 'tis expected of me. Just as statesmanship and diplomacy are your talents. But the kingdom will always need a military genius at the helm. Couple that with the art of diplomacy, and you've got one invincible kingdom!"

  Valentine cast a sideways glance at his tireless friend. "Are you suggesting that should you ever become king, I would make a fitting chief councilor?"

  "Mayhap. I certainly hope you would consider the appointment," Richard replied casually, as if this were all going to happen tomorrow.

  Glancing inside the picnic basket once again, Valentine wondered if Richard ever entertained the possibility of being king one day. But with Edward now siring heirs, Richard's claim to the throne was becoming farther removed with every new child born, and there as still the Lancastrian line to worry about…

  Richard continued, "Mind you, were we king and chief councilor, matters of state would invariably take precedence over matters of your stomach."

  "An army of half-starved soldiers never effectively defended a kingdom, Dickon. I've had barely a morsel of this repast." He slid a stewed lamprey into his mouth and savored its sumptuous texture.

  "Any extra weight would throw you off balance," Richard said.

  Valentine fixed him with a disbelieving look, as if to say such a thing was a complete impossibility. "You eat like a bird most of the time, so I can see how upset you are by the way you're eating that ham hock. Usually you never have an appetite for any pleasures, except ghoulish ones, like picnicking in graveyards in the dead of winter. How can you spend so much time in bone orchards like this?"

  "'Tis the only place one can be truly alone. There is no better sanctuary. You must admit, 'tis rather peaceful here. Its dwellers are unlikely to pop up for a chat."

  "You don't fear ghosts rising from these ancient graves?" Valentine's voice took on a mock sepulchral tone as he wiggled his fingers in a gesture of eeriness.

  "Bah! Ghosts. I've never seen one, nor do I expect to. They simply do not exist."

  "But you do believe Elizabeth Woodville is a witch?" Valentine cocked a brow, tilting his head.

  Richard's lips compressed into a thin line and he turned away. "We were discussing not the queen of the witches, but her niece."

  "I was hoping you'd forgotten," Valentine muttered. "Why have I never met her?"

  "Elizabeth sent her to live with the Duke and Duchess of Scarborough up north when she was but a child, and she returned only last year, whilst you were in France."

  "Lucky me."

  "So, shall I arrange for you to make her acquaintance, or not?"

  Valentine was sorely tempted to just meet her, but he didn't want his friend to get his hopes up. In the end he shook his head. "Dickon, I couldn't take advantage of this waif's good nature, especially since I met a most enchanting lass recently, and although we merely traded pleasantries, I'm on a campaign to find her again."

  "Then until that momentous event takes place, offer Dove your companionship. Do that much for me. You'll be arriving at court on the morrow. If she repulses you that much, then you can say you've tried. It can be practice for you, if nothing else. By God, you may find yourselves carried away on the very wings of Pegasus!"

  Valentine's eyes grew wide. He'd never known Richard to allude to mythology before. He must be desperate.

  "She would cherish the flowers you'd bestow upon her, and would memorize every line of your ardent poetry," Richard continued in an eager pitch.

  "Poetry? In French, I expect."

  "Her French is so flawless, she practically sings it!" Richard assured him, before looking in the basket once more for some olives, which he popped into his mouth happily.

  "So what of her looks, then? Is she beautiful?" Valentine asked, pulling one of his rings on and off in a telltale gesture that Richard knew all too well. He had hooked the fish, now he just had to reel him in.

  He had to admit she was beginning to sound rather intriguing, if she liked French poetry. Mayhap he could introduce her to other French delights.

  "I never noticed. I suppose she's..." Richard shrugged, stumbling over his words, his eyes wandering. "...normal, I reckon."

  Valentine leaned forward impatiently. "A garden slug is normal, Richard...to another garden slug. What color is her hair? Her eyes? What of her stature?"

  "Well, she's...her hair is...now, let me see, what color is her hair? It's an ordinary color, I suppose. Her eyes are rather...well, have you ever seen bat guano?"

  "She sounds a right atrocity!" Valentine shook his head. Suddenly the stewed lampreys didn't seem so appetizing.

  "What do you want me to say? That is how I see her! I see her like my own dear sisters, whom I do not think of as women. They're sisters! You must see for yourself. Meet her on the morrow. 'Tis the only way."

  Bloody hell, he thought. If she looks anything like Richard's sisters..."I think not, Dickon, we just... We don't sound at all compatible."

  He gripped him by the shoulder as he took the basket and began to head back home. "I wouldn't have asked you to meet her if I hadn't thought you'd be compatible. I need to explore every possible solution here, Val, should I be unable to rescue Anne."

  Richard's unblinking stare burned through Valentine. "This is a very special favor I'm asking of you, my dearest friend. I know you would not hurt the girl, and I know no harm will befall you."

  "Oh, God's truth, Dickon—" He couldn't refuse Richard. After all, she was merely a wench.

  He could load up on malmsey and she'd look better with every gobletful.

  He suddenly had a thought. "I tell you what." Valentine sat straight up. "Let us play our favorite game, that we always enjoyed as lads. I've been practicing my sword skills religiously. I daresay I've become quite adept. Let us have a duel, a friendly duel, with blunted swords, of course. If I lose, I shall honor your request. But if I win..."

  He held his hands out in a giving gesture. "She's all yours—at least until you rescue Anne from her father's clutches and marry her."


  Valentine knew his sword-wielding skills would help earn him a dukedom someday. This was much-needed practice. He stretched out arms, flexing his bad one gingerly at first, and then with more freedom. It felt good enough.

  "Challenge accepted, my friend," Richard said, his lip easing into a wily curl. "Don your armor and say your prayers forthwith! I shall expect you back here when I hear the clanging of those church bells. You win; you may do as you will. I win; you will take Dove off my hands."

  Dove…

  As much as Valentine loved winning, why had that one little word suddenly sapped the fight in him?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A short time later, the men returned to the field just beyond the cemetery to carry out their duel.

  Richard unsheathed his sword and held it up. "You shall pay for this, my friend! Prepare to lose every vestige of your dignity!"

  "There's no shortage of dignity in this world, Dickon. I shall simply collect some more!"

  Valentine slammed his visor shut. His arm had begun throbbing in spasms of agony. His tight grip on the sword's hilt caused rods of fire to shoot clear up to his shoulder. But he couldn't back down now. Not when his pride was at stake.

  The verbal sparring now at an end, Richard and Valentine circled each other, closer, and closer still, until the gleaming weapons finally clashed with a ringing of metal. The sun cast a blinding ray of brilliance off the swords' sharp edges. Dodging the boulders, wall, and eventually even the tombstones, the two noble soldiers entered the heat of the blazing duel, equally matched in strength, finesse, and desire to win.

  Valentine knew he was a fair opponent for the highly skilled Duke of Gloucester despite his injury. They balanced each other fittingly, as had their fathers, who had died together in battle.

  Valentine's movements had just a bit more fluidity, his split-second timing catching his opponent out more than once despite the fact that his arm stung like a nest of wasps.

  Richard cursed under his breath in frustration as his friend dodged him yet again.

  Valentine took pride in his agile footwork. He darted to the left and to the right, causing Richard further vexation. Although the shorter and leaner of the two, Richard fumbled, parried, then regained his timing, only to falter again.

  "You shan't win this time, Val!" Richard's voice was strained beneath his own helm.

  Valentine was glad his own visor was shut, for his lips were twisted into a grimace of determination and pain. His penetrating gaze pierced the slits of his helmet, the sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. Yet still he would not give up.

  "Dic—Dickon!" he panted as their swords clashed, slid, and clashed again. Damnation. His injury wasn't as healed as he'd thought. "We needn't spar over this wench any longer!" Valentine rasped, his voice hoarse with pain.

  Every clash of his sword now seemed to rip straight through his arm. "I surrender! I'll personally help you find someone else for her!"

  "'Tis too late now! May the best man win, Val!" Richard called out confidently as Valentine's sword slipped in his weakened hand.

  Richard's gleaming sword slashed the air, coming within inches of Valentine's throat.

  But Valentine's expert maneuvers finally had his opponent cornered. Richard lost his balance, slipped and crashed backward into a slanted headstone.

  Valentine moved in on the faltering Duke and let out a cry of victory. But a searing stab of agony shot through his arm, and he stumbled, giving Richard just enough time to regain his footing.

  Valentine's arm went limp, his knees buckled under him, and his sword slipped to the ground like a swooning maiden.

  Richard stood over him, raised his weapon and aimed for Valentine's heart...

  Then laughing heartily, he tossed it aside.

  Richard bent over to help Valentine to his feet. Valentine stood wearily, his arm hanging at his side like dead weight. He moaned aloud, trying to bend his elbow, clutching it with his good hand.

  "Val, are you all right?" Richard sounded more stunned than concerned.

  Valentine nodded quickly, leaning on the sturdy Duke of Gloucester, whose breath was as calm as if he'd been partaking of a banquet. "Just a slight injury. 'Tis nothing, really."

  "From our duel?"

  He shook his head. "Nay, from a minor brush with a battle axe at Barnet."

  "Why did you not say so? I never would have let you raise a sword, you great puddin'!"

  Valentine flicked up his visor and sighed. "Nay, I lost fairly. I shall court your cow, though I'd prefer if you'd just pack her off to a nunnery."

  "You will only court her if you're physically able."

  "'Tis only my arm that I've hurt. My other appendages are quite intact, I assure you," he added, under his breath.

  "Very well, I shall arrange for you to meet her on the morrow. But first you must see the royal physician for that arm."

  Richard bent over to retrieve both swords. They headed back to Fiddleford Manor slowly, with Valentine trying to flex his fingers every so often. Even this simple movement sent arrows of pain through his arm.

  "The things I do for you."

  Richard's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Oh, cease your worrying. Have I ever let you down before?"

  Valentine shook his head, rolling his eyes toward heaven, then quickly back down to earth, just in case Richard's cow came clumping by.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The great hall of Westminster Palace shimmered elegantly. Candles glowed in multi-tiered chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, which was splashed with the signs of the Zodiac.

  The tiles gleamed under the ladies' satin slippers and the gentlemen's leather shoes, the pointy ends fastened to their knees with sparkling chains. Couples twirled gaily as the minstrels' delightful tunes floated from the gallery above. Laughter, like the clinking of glass wine goblets, echoed throughout the tapestry-hung hall. Fresh rushes strewn about the floor sweetened the warm evening air.

  King Edward and Queen Elizabeth sat at the high table, their heads together, jewels and gems threaded through their ermine-trimmed robes, a swaying sleeve spilling a tankard of wine as he playfully slipped a grape into her laughing mouth.

  The hall was jammed with Elizabeth's siblings and sons from her first marriage, all now titled and landed. Her sisters were all married off to nobles. Her brothers held high positions: Anthony was a Knight of the Garter, Lionel was the Bishop of Salisbury, Richard and John were Knights of the Bath, and Edward was the commander of their private little fleet of ships that supposedly guarded the coastline.

  Yet despite the superfluity of Woodvilles, even Richard seemed to be enjoying himself. He was as far as possible from his power-hungry in-laws, off in a corner with his older brother George, in the throes of animated conversation.

  George was the Duke of Clarence, a perfidious subversive who caused his brother the King constant torment. All his slipshod uprisings and campaigns were aided by the Earl of Warwick, commonly referred to as the Kingmaker. Each slapdash revolt had ended in humiliating defeat for George, intensifying the rift between the brothers.

  They'd recently called a truce after George's most treacherous coup, in which he had attempted to seize Edward's throne. Thwarted once again, George was basking in the afterglow of reconciliation, nestled in the family bosom.

  Long may it last, Richard and Valentine both prayed as they watched him.

  Richard, though younger, offered a dignified contrast to George, whose checkerboard cloak kept slipping off one shoulder. The Duke of Clarence's shoes were crimson with pointed toes nearly two feet long, little bells secured to the toes. A court jester in the guise of a nobleman, Valentine thought.

  Richard, on the other hand, dressed like a monk by comparison. And he had never ever been anything other than loyal to his brother, for all his talent as a natural warrior.

  Conversation and laughter rang out. The courtiers were exulting in the company of their beloved King Edward. The kingdom was at peace.

  But
Valentine Starbury was miserable amid all the jollity. And trying desperately to get drunk.

  All the laughter and closeness made him feel like an outsider. Pangs of jealousy gnawed at his insides like hunger as he sat alone at the end of the dais. His chin was cupped in his palm, his other hand thrust deeply into his pocket, turning a coin over and over.

  He was the best dressed man at court, save for the King himself. His short doublet was trimmed in sable, accentuating his narrow waist and lean hips, encircled with a gold girdle. Black satin hose molded to his legs. His hat was in the latest bycocket fashion, two peaks rising from the front and back, its brim emblazoned with metal studs.