by Diana Rubino
She opened a page at random and began to read. "…keep me and defend me from all evil and from my evil enemy, and from all danger, present, past, and to come, and deign to console me by Thy descent into hell…" Oh, how appropriate a prayer it was!
She slipped a small sheet of parchment from between the book's pages and unfolded it gently. The soaring and inflated loops of Valentine's confident but elegant penmanship were nearly as beautiful as the message they conveyed.
Though I willingly challenge the ugliness and cruel hostility of battle, I will hear not the scraping of swords, but your sweet voice instead, and see not the ugliness of death, but your delicate face before me.
I would be honored if you would await my arrival in the palace rose garden at the victory parade's end.
Until I return, Valentine.
The message had come the day before, smuggled to her via a young page.
She heaved a sigh as she recalled the first time they had met in that rose garden. It had been so magical…
She wasn't even sure if she liked Valentine Starbury, but if anyone matched the fanciful vision of her storybook knight, he was it.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, imagining it was his scent she was breathing.
Perhaps she would grow to love him—she wondered if it were possible to love someone without liking them.
Strange how emotions conflicted and collided with one another, all weaving and bobbing through the heart like a finely woven tapestry. Did it take the talent of a great artist to manage them, as well?
Back in her chambers a short time later, she opened her jewel box, looking for the possession she cherished the most. It wasn't a piece of jewelry—she didn't have much in the way of jewels.
It was a wilting white rose, its petals just starting to shrivel around the edges. The rose he'd given her. Its fragrance was as sweet as if it'd just been plucked from the vine. It simply refused to die. It was also the only rose she'd ever seen without one single thorn.
All the other roses on the vine were long gone. But "their" rose lived on. And a rose in winter was a miraculous thing.
It had to be a sign, it just had to….
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Yet another victory parade rode into London. This time, Denys watched from the palace gatehouse as the procession entered the courtyard.
Her mood was much different than it had been the last time she had stood amongst the throng. Now she had a soldier to welcome home. She didn't have to stand alone and watch everything happen all around her as a mere spectator, but a true participant.
Soon the returning warriors came into view, and her heart gave a leap as she saw the two men riding in front.
King Edward rode in, with Richard right by his side. The cheering filled her ears as she glimpsed George, smirking in a new air of confidence, doubtless from a latest surge of loyalty.
Marguerite of Anjou sat stonily in a chariot, head erect, with as much regality as she could muster, flicking a handkerchief in the faces of the onlookers who'd pushed forward to get a better glimpse of her.
Denys now eagerly searched for the plumed helm or golden head of Valentine, and suddenly, there he was, his hair bouncing back rays of sunshine as he sat astride his mount, waving to the onlookers, bending over to shake their hands as if he were a king riding to his coronation.
Glancing round, she noticed that almost every female eye had come to rest on the handsome knight.
Smoothing down her skirts, adjusting her bosom up under her bodice, she tore down the winding steps and dashed over to the garden.
Just like that very first time they'd met, he came prancing up to her on his mount. She felt a thrill she'd never experienced before, having a soldier come home to her, even if they weren't going to embrace and mingle tears and kisses like long-time lovers.
He dismounted and held his hands out to her. The Yorkist emblem, the white boar, was emblazoned on his tunic. A jeweled Yorkist collar of suns and roses glowed upon his chest. They did not embrace, but stood looking into each other's eyes for a long moment.
At last she took one of his hands, and her whole body seemed to leap to attention.
He did something to her; he made her heart beat faster, gave her a strangely warm tingling feeling deep inside. His eyes spoke of understanding. Although she knew nothing of his past, she knew he'd lived through tragedy—and had done his best to keep it from destroying him.
"Thank you so much for the notes, my lord," she said as she caught her breath. "They meant a great deal to me."
His eyes lit up in what looked like surprise. "Every soldier needs something to fight for besides the kingdom." His tone was edged with emotion, and she knew there was much more behind those simple words.
She wondered how he managed to annoy her and evoke strange emotions in her at the same time. She wanted them to grow closer. But now was not the time. She kept the discussion centered around politics.
"So what will happen now? Did the Earl of Warwick return home as well?"
"Aye, but alas, he returned in a box. He was slain." A hint of sorrow had crept into Valentine's voice upon mentioning the dead earl. Denys detected that he'd admired Warwick. "However, it was a victory."
Whose victory? she wondered. The nation's? The House of York's? Or his own?
As drawn as she was becoming to him, she still had her doubts about where his loyalties really sat.
He glanced in the direction of the palace, but fixed his gaze right back on her. "The King requested my presence at the council meeting prior to this eve's banquet, so I need to bathe, tidy myself up and don ordinary raiment."
"Will you bathe in the Thames again, Sir Starbury?" She smiled, remembering how upset she'd been that first night, snatching away his clothes and throwing them in the water as she had stormed back to the palace. If she had to do it again, she wouldn't have changed a thing. Except perhaps having done it in daylight.
His eyes narrowed and twinkled. "That nocturnal romp was strictly on impulse. 'Tis not something one can plan. Or should."
He took his mount's reins and they began walking toward the stables side by side, curiously quiet amid the throng crowding the palace.
"Do you act on impulse as a practice, my lord?"
"Most of my life has been one unexpected event after another, so I learned to take life as it comes, not always expecting life to go to plan. Life would be terribly boring if it were so, would it not? And I am not so arrogant as to think I can have my own way in everything. It is as God wills."
"Indeed, Amen to that, even if his ways are inscrutable."
"Inscrutable indeed."
He looked down at her and their eyes connected. They slowed to a stop without even realizing it. The horse began grazing lazily.
"Imagine plotting out your entire life, and having every outcome go accordingly. We would die of boredom. Our heartbeats would never quicken, there would be no such thing as a gasp of surprise." He took a step closer.
What had happened to the talk of politics? she wondered, wanting nothing more at this moment than to experience some of this surprise he spoke of. "I love surprises, my lord. I cannot get enough of them."
"Like this?" And without warning or preamble or as much as a come-hither, he brought his mouth down on hers and captured her lips in a sweet, yet hungry search.
She stiffened at first, but soon her lips softened under his patient but demanding kiss. Their breaths mingled, and it ended too quickly as he pulled away and they both took a much-needed gulp of air.
"Forgive me, Dove," he whispered, his lips against her neck, his breath fanning around her ear, making her shiver as a surge of warmth flowed through her. "I just couldn't wait any longer."
"'Tis quite all right," she replied over a heavy sigh. "Neither could I. But I certainly see your point now. 'Tis much easier to understand when it's shown rather than merely told."
"I really must prepare for the council, and I must appear calm, and not—excited." He cleared his throat
and straightened his tunic over his armor. "Shall we be on our way?"
Rooted to the spot, she found it hard to take a step. "I'd best go back another way. There is enough of a crowd here, but the Queen's spying eyes may see us together."
He hesitated for a long moment, and she could see him struggling to tear himself away.
She didn't want it to end, either. She began wondering when he would surprise her with another of those kisses.
"Very well, then, good morrow to you, Dove."
"And to you, Valentine." It was the first time she'd ever called him by his name.
And it felt so right and natural—like she'd known him all her life.
They both smiled, a silent promise of more to come soon, and went their separate ways.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
That evening the courtiers enjoyed a sumptuous banquet in the great hall. The dancing and feasting continued long after the King and Queen took their leave.
All throughout the meal and the revelries, Denys wondered where Valentine was. Having looked out for him all evening, she was more than curious about his whereabouts. She felt herself growing more and more agitated as the evening wore on, but was determined not to admit to herself that it was jealousy she was fighting.
She swept a generous helping of leavings into a linen satchel to bring to the poor on the morrow. The palace wasted more in one feast than most people ate in a month.
Then she went in search of a friendly face and some real conversation. And information.
She found Richard sitting cross-legged at a window seat nibbling on a pheasant leg, a pitcher glittering beside him.
Denys approached him, and as much as she wanted to ask him if he knew where Valentine was, she restrained herself.
"Richard, may I say the Yorkists are the greatest warriors that ever lived!"
"Not really, Dove. There was Richard the First and the Crusades."
"Oh, but the Crusades were over religion, Richard! You and King Edward's army fight for our land, our kingdom. That's what really matters!"
"A spot of mead?" He motioned to a passing steward who brought a full goblet.
She took a bigger gulp than she should have and grimaced at the cloying sweetness. "So was anyone else seriously wounded?"
"The usual casualties on both sides. Oh, and Anne's little hubby of two days was slain, if you consider that serious."
"Dear God! How?"
"Stabbed in the heart three times," he replied in his customary calm manner, though she could not help note a certain tone in his voice….
"Oh, how terrible!" Then she understood. She didn't dare ask who had done the deed. She could easily guess. "Poor Edward. A casualty of his family's worldly ambitions."
"Aye, terrible for his mother. But not quite so terrible for me." He continued eating as if discussing a mere jousting match, not the death of a young man, a crown prince, who had held such promise.
Her eyes slid closed, and she relished a brief moment of relief, but guilt flooded her. An innocent young lad was dead. "So this means Anne is free to marry you again."
"Isn't she now."
She could see he was trying to keep a straight face.
"Oh, poor young Edward." Denys heaved a sigh through mixed feelings; she almost forced the guilt to prevail. She had no right to be relieved.
"How ironic," Richard went on. "Anne's father and new husband both slain in the same battle. So much for Queen Elizabitch and her most nefarious plot to keep me from marrying Anne. It blew right up in her bat-fowling face."
His voice had a rough edge to it, but she attributed it to all the stress he'd been through. "And there's some truly sad news." His voice took on a hint of irony.
"What?"
"The King held a conference this afternoon. He sent me to bear a most unpleasant order to the Constable of the Tower."
"What kind of order?"
"An order of execution for old King Henry the Sixth," Richard replied. "He is to die at dawn."
"Oh, Jesu." She shook her head and crossed herself. The feeble man would have lived hadn't it been for his domineering wife Marguerite of Anjou, and all her dissidents.
"But must he die? He is feeble in the mind. He has not been responsible for any of the dreadful things done in his name."
Richard sighed, and patted her shoulder. "It is inevitable, Dove. He must be eliminated. Otherwise, people will just keep on rallying around him. Mercifully, his will be a peaceful passing."
She shivered. What horrible times these were! Why was life worth so little?
"I shall say a prayer for his soul."
"You do that. And no more politics tonight. I'm positively weary of it. Have you seen Val about?"
He looked around quickly, then wiped his hands on a linen napkin.
Her heart did a little dance at the sound of his name. "Nay. Not since the victory parade ended. He said he had a council meeting to attend. But until this hour? Perhaps a mob of maidens attacked him afterwards."
"In that case we won't see him for a fortnight."
Richard took a swig of mead and smiled. "But that's highly unlikely. He likes his maidens one at a time these days." He threw her a glance and she looked away.
"You're sure about that?" she asked stiffly.
"I thought you were heeding my wishes and giving him a chance," he said.
"There is still something about him I can't help fearing."
"Oh, don't let the size of his codpiece scare you. 'Tis merely a prop...and it's borrowed." A smile tugged at his lips.
She rolled her eyes. "'Tis hardly that." She knew what she feared most of all—her growing fondness of him.
"Well, your storybook knight is soon to receive a preferment. I have asked the King to grant him a higher title and some lands for all his loyalty during these battles."
"What title would that be? Earl of Churl?" she carped.
He cast her a sideways scowl. "Duke of Norwich in all likelihood, a title held by many of my ancestors. That is, if one of Elizabitch's lot doesn't pinch it first."
"Perhaps they should this time. Give Valentine Starbury a dukedom that rich and he will be waving it in all our faces until we puke of disgust."
Richard shook his head and said mildly, "He is already an earl, but I have never seen him put on false airs. He certainly knows only too well that most of us gain our titles only from the death of another who held it before us, in this case, his father.
"The previous Earl of Pembroke died when Valentine was only nine, and his mother of a broken heart when she heard the news. So forgive him if his manners seem less than impeccable to you, for like you, he has not had the benefit of two tender parents to raise him. And while you do think he is far too big for his boots, just stop to consider for a moment that they have been very large boots to fill."
"I see," she said, swallowing past the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat.
"He is a brave man, Dove. He tries ever so hard to be a great soldier."
"Mayhap that's the trouble then. He tries too hard at everything." She forced herself to stop scanning the hall for that golden head.
"Have you seen my new nephew, the Prince Edward?" Richard asked a moment later.
She was a bit disappointed that he'd changed the subject; something inside wanted to keep talking about Valentine.
Denys nodded and smiled. "Aye, I have. Suckling at the wet nurse. He's a sprightly nipper indeed."
"Edward is mighty chuffed. And I cannot tell you how relieved I am now that he has a male heir. Perhaps now George will come to his senses and realize his claim to the throne has just moved down a notch." He added, his tone vague, "As did mine, I suppose."
"But I trust the House of Lancaster will rise again, and there's still Henry Tudor to contend with," she said with a sigh.
Richard waved his goblet impatiently. "Fie on Tudor. I expect we will hear no more of him. He went running back to France, when his ambitious mother's funds could no longer feed his army."
/> "Well, I know the realm is safe as long as you and Uncle Ned and the right soldiers are leading the vanguard into battle."
She was not sure what Richard might have said, for his attention was distracted by movement in the great hall.
It was getting late and the courtiers were beginning to all get up and drift from the tables as servers cleaned up, and some of the palace dogs fed on the leftovers.
