Destiny Lies Waiting

by Diana Rubino

  But tonight his collar choked him, his sleeves bound his arms like shackles, and his shoes confined his toes so that he couldn't even wiggle them.

  At least his injured arm wasn't giving him too much trouble. It was his conscience and his worry over flouting the Queen's plans for Richard and her niece to marry that gave him an ache.

  Or was it just a kind of peculiar loneliness he just couldn't seem to shake whenever he was at court?

  The scene before him was familiar yet strange; after three years in France, although happy to be back on English soil, he found it hard to slip back into the culture. Even the accents still sounded foreign to him. He needed to get reacquainted with court life here, renew old friendships and reflect on what he'd left behind, from the new perspective of a man fully grown.

  He tuned out the noises around him and tried to conjure up his mother's voice, but could only recall her ragged breaths as she sobbed the tragic news to her nine-year-old child: "Father perished in the battle, my son..."

  No. Not My Lord Father. The strong, tall soldier who'd handed Valentine his first sword, taking each finger and wrapping it round the cold handle. The battle had also taken Richard's father, the great Richard of York, and knowing they were in heaven together comforted Valentine.

  But it hadn't consoled Mother. She had lay down one night, hugging Father's pillow in her arms, sighed deeply and never awakened.

  Valentine had sat and watched her the whole time. As night gave way to a dewy dawn, her lips froze into a peaceful smile. He remembered resting his head on a soft breast as he looked up to see Richard's mother, tears spilling from her eyes, hugging him to her to comfort him in his time of need.

  Valentine had joined the bustling Plantagenet household that day, and been as close to Richard as to a brother ever since.

  He had a lot of catching up to do with his surrogate family, Edward and George, after over a year away, but now was not the time. No, now he was on his mission for Richard, he reminded himself with a pang. A mission he did not wish to succeed in, but also did not wish to fail.

  Trying to cheer himself up, he mentally kicked himself in the arse for the hundredth time. He cringed at his defeat in that duel with Richard. He should have known better than to tax an injured arm.

  Adding to his dismay was the scowl of distaste he displayed every time a woman walked by. Glancing at every female face in the great hall, he wondered which one was the wench he was doomed to woo. Even her silly nickname escaped him—'twas the name of a bird, oh, what was it—Swan?

  No, much too elegant. Ducky? Goosey? Oh, God's foot, what was it? The one time Richard mentioned her name, his mind had raced miles away, rehearsing the motions of battle as he did constantly, whether waking or dreaming.

  Wishing she would appear so he could get it over with, Valentine squinted and searched for the eyes of bile, the hair of straw. But no one matching that description flitted, whirled, or even waddled past him. She was probably in her chambers translating Homer, if she was as bright as Richard claimed.

  Another tankardful and still this wench did not appear. Aha! The thought hit him like lightning. It was one of Richard's jokes. There was no horrendous wench at all! He had been royally duped.

  No one but Richard derived any amusement from his bizarre sense of humor. Valentine's lips twisted and he decided he had had enough of this farce. His last gulp of wine warmed him as he stood, grabbing the table for support. Forcing a laugh in the spirit of good sportsmanship, he lumbered up to Richard and George.

  "Sorry to say there's no bovine wench with guano-green eyes here, Dickon. It was quite typical of you, though, to make me waste the entire evening waiting for the cow!"

  Richard registered neither surprise nor amusement, which further befuddled Valentine, as he wondered when Richard was finally going to admit his prank was a clunker and be done with it. "She'll be here. One thing Dove revels in is dancing."

  "Dove!" Valentine slapped his forehead. For the life of him, he never would have remembered that name. "I was close then...Larkie, Chickie, I knew it was something with a beak."

  "And her breasts and thighs are nothing to scoff at, either," George remarked, jabbing at Valentine's arm with his goblet. Wine sloshed over the edge, spilling onto Valentine's doublet. "What ho, this baby's full!"

  George's eyes crossed as he peered into the goblet, then with one sweeping motion, emptied its contents down his throat, tilting his head back until he'd drained every last drop.

  Valentine found it hard to believe that this man was second in line for the throne.

  "How crass, George," Richard chastised his brother crisply. He turned to Valentine, flicking out a linen cloth and blotting the wine from Valentine's doublet.

  "I assure you, George has never laid eyes, or anything else for that matter, on Dove's...personal charms."

  Valentine dismissed Richard's prudishness. "So where is she? This sitting about has done naught but depress me, Dickon. I need to be alone for a while, to think. I'm going for a walk."

  Without giving either of them a chance to invite themselves along, he exited the great hall and strode down the corridor to the palace doors. His anxiety eased now that he knew the inevitable would be delayed.

  So it wasn't a joke after all, unless George was in on it. But George wasn't the prankster type. He was much too busy with his wine, wenches and wars.

  Valentine passed through the palace gates and inhaled deeply of the fragrant air to further clear his head. He hadn't realized how stuffy the great hall had been until he escaped the court's sweaty body.

  London's eight o'clock curfew was strictly enforced. The city gates were slammed shut and anyone walking the streets was subjected to a stiff fine. But the fresh air and solitude were well worth the few shillings if he were stopped.

  Whistling a French tune, he strolled towards the riverbank, the full moon's pearly glow lighting his way. At the distant curve in the Thames, the gloomy Tower of London's four peaks stabbed the dark sky.

  The scanty houses leaning into each other along the riverbank were dark, except for the glowing oil lamps in each window, in honor of Saint Paul's feast day.

  Every door was decorated with silver-gray sprigs of birch, their green leaves giving the scene a festive air. The bawdy dockside taverns rumbled, their hanging signs swaying in the gentle if chill December breeze.

  Except for the occasional flickering lantern, the trading ships in port were dark, their poops high and pointed, their masts towering. A few unfurled sails surged and glowed like specters. The wherries, barges and weather-beaten old fishing boats bumped lazily against the bank and drifting out again like a row of dazed sleepwalkers. The distant noises drifting from the palace created a discordant hum.

  He was beginning to see Richard's reason for having a private escape; everyone needed one. Perhaps whilst at court this grassy patch under the elm at the edge of the palace grounds could be his.

  He stopped whistling.

  What a tranquil spot he'd found. He felt so connected with the earth that he hated his clothes even more now, hated the way his hose choked his loins, hated his moss-stuffed shoes. He craved the feel of wetness soaking his head and washing over his body.

  Provoked by the wild recklessness the wine permitted him, he began stripping off his clothes, tossing them in a crumpled trail as he trotted down to the river. The breeze rustled his hair, caressing each exposed limb as he shucked off each garment: surcoat, shirt, hose. He was free, unclothed and unfettered.

  He laughed at the absurdity of his actions, at how appalled Richard would be at the act of flaunting nudity to the outdoors, and at once he thought, damn them all! It is late, it is dark, and I am enjoying myself more than those courtiers whose idea of amusement is to stuff their paunches sick.

  His feet left the dry earth and slipped into the river's liquid warmth. It enveloped him like a cocoon, curling around him and filling every crevice of his body. He plunged under, water soaking his hair and scalp.

 
; Resurfacing, he breathed the moist air, droplets weighing down his lashes. Letting every muscle go limp, he emptied his bladder into the river, sighing in total relief. He laughed and tumbled like a child. Breathing deeply, he spread his arms like wings. How good it felt to glide through the water, to feel every muscle stretching and flexing as his arms propelled him forward.

  He waded towards the bank, arched his back and floated, gazing up at the unsettled sprinkling of stars, like diamonds strewn across the heavens. His mind wandered aimlessly.

  Then he heard humming. It was a distinctly human tone, the lilting melody like morning glories twining round a fence, the notes embracing and capturing him in their sweet cadence, making him want to hear more. He turned round and dropped to his knees.

  Peering round the twisted elm, he saw the head of a white horse glowing in the darkness. Its graceful muscles strained as it turned to face him, and he kept still as not to startle the animal.

  He still wanted to find the source of the humming, but realized that his clothes were beyond his plucking, way up on the bank!

  Another figure came into his view next to the white head and its clipped mane. Long fingers wound round the horse's reins, pulling the animal along. Gliding towards the bank to bring her horse to drink, she turned halfway.

  His eyes lingered on her silhouette. He sank lower into the river's murky depths until only his head was above the surface. He waited, not daring to exhale too fast for fear that she'd detect his presence.

  But he couldn't tear his eyes away. Her skirts were gathered to her knees, the legs so trim and firm, she could probably run to Cripplegate without stopping. She was muscled yet nimble, her head held high as she watched the animal drink, barely ten feet away from him!

  Then his mouth dropped open. It was her—that maiden he'd galloped up to in the courtyard after the battle, whom he'd vowed to find again. God, it was her!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Valentine could not believe all of his good luck, and bad timing. The woman of his dreams was coming this way, and he was starkers in the murky cold waters of the Thames.

  This time there was no crowd to drive them apart. They were alone, and at this moment, no one else in the world existed.

  All thoughts of the wench waiting back at the palace forgotten, no one mattered except himself and this beautiful woman. Glowing from this burst of impulsiveness and his own rediscovered fervor, he waded towards her.

  I want to hurl you to the ground and make mad passionate love to you! he wanted to shout.

  He was fighting the chivalry that demanded he respect her before ravishing that exquisite body.

  He was chest-high now, still on his knees. His loins blazed with desire.

  Hearing the sudden noise, Dove gasped, her eyes widening in surprise. Someone was in the river, watching her.

  She squinted to try and make out the features. A spark of recognition enlightened her, then gave way to outright shock as he spoke.

  "I didn't mean to frighten you. I just fancied a dip."

  That voice! It had never stopped ringing through her head since that they had first met. "You—you found me!" was the only thing she could think of to say.

  This unclothed and vulnerable figure before her was the same one that had made her feel like the only woman in the entire world, towering over her as the pride of the King's triumphant army.

  But her sense of modesty prevailed over all: she fumbled about her belt and yanked her skirts down until the hemline fell around her ankles decently once more.

  "Aye, my lady, 'tis I. As badly as I wanted to find you again, I'd hoped the atmosphere would be more—formal. At least with a bit more than a body of water to cover me. Do you fancy dips like this, too?" he asked in a teasing tone.

  "Nay—I just came out to water Chera and to be alone for a while." A hint of breathiness threaded through what she'd hoped sounded like poised self-possession. She was still so shocked over seeing him again, for certes he could hear her heart hammering. But first things first: Find out who he is.

  "Do you reside near London, my lord?"

  "I just arrived at court. My residence is in Surrey. I'm a friend of the royal family."

  So he was acquainted with Uncle Ned! Oh, that would make things so much easier.

  She wondered why he still hadn't stood up as she scrambled for a way to keep this exchange going without hammering him with questions.

  "I have never known knights to bathe in the Thames."

  "Nay, this is the first time—I mean, I've never done anything like this before! I didn't feel like partaking in festivities. I recently returned from training in France and... memories started coming back and I just needed some freedom. I was invited to the palace for the feast of Saint Paul."

  "Oh, if Saint Paul could see you now," she whispered.

  "Sorry?" He moved a bit closer and she inched back up the bank.

  "Nothing, just thinking aloud." She smiled and could now focus on his features.

  She couldn't decide if he was more alluring in full dress armor or just like this, naked and vulnerable. "Do French knights swim nude in the Seine?"

  "Nay, not that I know of. I know the ancient Romans spent many a leisure hour at the baths, but they were a much more sensuous race than we stodgy English."

  "Well, I now see that every rule has its exception. And for every few thousand stodgies, there is at least one lover."

  "Aye, but I promise you, this was just one isolated—"

  "I must say I have never been in the presence of an unclothed man without the honor of a formal presentation."

  Now was the time to get his name! Her mind raced ahead to a million scenes in the future. She stopped it short.

  "Oh, if you please! Do allow me to present myself! I am Valentine Starbury, Earl of Pembroke. As far as rising and bowing to kiss your hand, I daren't approach you whilst in this state, I cannot bow lest I dunk my face in the water, and I am about as risen as I will ever be."

  "Indeed!" She felt her eyes widen at this revelation, and pursed her lips to suppress a smile.

  "And may I ask your name, my lady?"

  "I am Denys, and this is Chera. Her mother died birthing her, and she thinks I am her mother."

  "Aye, I must sadly inform her, then, that she is mistaken. No palfrey has ever had such a beautiful mother. Cannot she discern the lack of resemblance?"

  She laughed. "And what is your position at court, my lord?"

  The idea of her calling him 'my lord' in his present state of undress amused her. But she had to find out as much as possible about him—to prove he was real and she hadn't just willed him out of her fancy.

  "Naught more than knight at present, although I trust my proficiency with axe and sword will gain favor with King Edward. I inherited my title from my father, who was killed in battle. The Lord knows I have worked hard enough to deserve it.

  "I was but nine when my father was killed and the Plantagenets took me to live with them. They are my family in every sense save our blood ties. In essence, that's one reason I am here."

  "They dared you to go swimming nude?"

  He laughed and the moonlight glinted off his teeth. "Nay, but hadn't it been for the unreliability of a third party, I never would be here, talking to you. So, I am right grateful to that third party. Had the third party arrived as scheduled, I would be in there…"

  He waved his arm in the direction of the palace, "Forced to make merry and charm my way through the eve with a smile affixed to my lips that I just don't feel inside."

  "You seem in a jovial enough mood. What is it that makes you sad?"

  Now that was enough! She was going too far. She quickly lowered her eyes.

  "Sorry. I must not pry. I am just asking out of curiosity. My thirst for enlightenment, of every kind, is one of my most serious flaws—so I'm told." She hoped that excused her rudeness well enough.

  "'Tis not a flaw at all, but a most admirable trait. 'Tis a sign of an active, intelligent mind. I have hidden nau
ght from you so far! Well, nearly. I daresay there is much more I would know about you. I am obliged to court a lady who needs a suitable parti."

  "Ohhh." Disappointment snatched away her excitement, leaving her voice flat as her heart plunged. She forced her poise to remain in place as she said, "Alas, that's but one drawback of royalty and nobility. This lady, as you call her. Have you ever seen her miniature?"

  She didn't want to ask who the lady was. She just didn't want to know. The fantasy was already dispelled.

  He shook his head. "Nay, unfortunately, I am going into this without benefit of a glance at her countenance."