Destiny Lies Waiting

by Diana Rubino

  She bade Richard goodnight and headed for her own apartments, furtively glancing round one last time for that blond head and broad chest.

  But alas, Valentine was not about.

  The kisses they had shared still scorching her lips, Denys gathered up her sack of food for the poor and retired to her chambers to dream of the bold knight who made her limbs turn to mercury, and her heart smolder like molten gold.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Candles blazed throughout the conservatory. The scented summer breeze rustled the velvet curtains.

  Queen Elizabeth sat in the special throne made for post-childbirth. Every carved chair, every stool, and every cushion on the floor was taken as the court ladies sat in a circle toying with their lutes, flutes, viols, and rebecs.

  Their chirpy prattle drowned out the twangs and hoots of the instruments, which served as mere props. There was only one reason for this gathering: gossip.

  Denys would rather have played her lute in the peaceful solitude of the gardens, but for her, the musicales had one advantage: she could catch up on the Woodvilles' antics.

  Elizabeth's tongue was as loose as a wonky milk tooth, even when she wasn't in her cups. Of course no one dared disagree with her; they'd either be publicly disgraced or, if of lower rank, unfittingly punished.

  So she was all ears as the woman wittered on.

  They'd finished prattling about recipes, fashions, and people who weren't there. So naturally the topic drifted towards the more risqué variety of hen talk.

  George's wife Isabel Neville led them off in her singsong voice as she strummed random chords on her lute. "Well, was George ever snockered yester eve. I poured him into the bed, and when he tried to plug me, his willie was as limp as the plume wiltin' from his bloody bycocket!"

  "Ah, like most men," cackled Elizabeth's sister-in-law Margaret. "I have just the remedy for ye, Belle, dear. Take a pinch each of sage, cloves and saffron, beat it together, and stir in the juices of three fresh oysters. Serve it to 'im in a powdered ox horn and he'll be bubblin' up to ye like a boilin' frumenty!"

  "You mean dip his gear in it and slosh it about?"

  "Nay, ye make him drink it, ya bloomin' loon!" The voices exploded into a cacophony of titters.

  "Aye, I would try that, but where can I fish up a trio of oysters?" chirped Isabel.

  Then Elizabeth's sister Elinor piped up. "I haven't had any in so long, I forgot what it looks like! Oh, aye, now I remember." She held up the lute pick. "That's about the size of it!"

  The other women snickered and twittered, nodding in agreement, head-dresses bobbing like apple stems in a dunking barrel.

  "I measured it one time, aye, I did. 'Twas no bigger'n a pine cone needle."

  "Aye, and you need to soak it in a pipe of verjuice to get it up, and it tastes just as foul!"

  Another voice interjected: "I need a winch and pulley to get old Jack cranked," chimed in Coletta, wife of one of King Edward's council members.

  "Give him one sip of hippocras and he's done fer until the next new moon! I've need keep his bald-headed hermit salted all winter, for it only peeks out with the spring thaw!"

  "Once a harvest moon's good enough for him!" retorted another "lady" of the court, tapping her foot.

  Denys shuddered, and once again wished she had never been tarred with the label Woodville if this was the kind of woman she had to be associated with.

  "That's how he knows when 'tis Twelfth Night!" quipped another. "That's the only time I give the old man his supper!"

  "Well..." And now it was the Queen's turn, and all heads turned to the regal head held high, one severely plucked brow rising jovially. "...my Ned's battering ram puts a plough ox to shame. I need to climb a trebuchet to land on Golden Boy when I go vaulting!"

  They tittered and giggled at the thought of the ancient missile discharger in the bedchamber.

  "But then Ned is younger than I. Follow my example, ladies, younger paramours are best to mend your kettles, for these old sods peter out faster than a trencher soaking up pig grease!"

  "The Earl of Devonshire and I had a tumble not a fortnight ago!" bragged Lord Lumley's wife.

  Denys blinked in surprise; the boy Earl was barely fifteen years of age.

  "Ye got to stand back a fair bit when he unsheathes his pork sword!"

  A few more young knights' names came up, in ever more indecent detail.

  Denys taking it all with a pinch of salt, and even trying to find it amusing, until a name went round the group that pricked up her ears.

  "The Earl of Pembroke—now, I'd like to pound his stalk to a pulp."

  The others smacked their lips, nodding in agreement.

  Denys blushed hotly when she found herself wondering what kind of lover Valentine Starbury, Earl of Pembroke, would be.

  As usual, they eventually tired of comparing these salacious notes, and the conversation took a serious turn to current events, notably, the latest victorious battle against the Lancastrians.

  "'Twas a victory, and didn't old Marguerite of Anjou underestimate my Ned's advance," Elizabeth tattled. "The City of Gloucester was barred up tight to her entrance! Then my Ned faced that Lancastrian right wing head on right into the center of the line!"

  That, Denys knew, was grossly inaccurate. As much as she respected Uncle Ned and never questioned his military acumen, she knew it was indeed Valentine who'd led the vanguard, faced the Duke of Somerset, and penetrated the center of the line.

  But it was not worth her while to correct the Queen, who prattled on: "…and my dear brother-in-law Guilford was stabbed in the heat of battle."

  She then looked around, and said in a low, conspiratorial tone, "Well, ladies, sources inform me who actually carried out the murder under the guise of battle. It was no Lancastrian."

  Murmurs and gasps halted the string-twanging. Denys leaned forward.

  "It was the Earl of Pembroke," Elizabeth concluded, nodding, her red lips pursed in a straight line of insistence. "Valentine Starbury," she added for emphasis, looking right through Denys.

  "Murdered in cold blood, naught less."

  Denys would hear no more. She stood and placed the lute down on the seat.

  "Pray I must be excused, I no longer feel quite so—musical."

  Dizzy with dread and rage, she gathered her skirts and departed the room, her blood pounding in her ears at what Elizabeth had just done in front of the most powerful gossips in the court. The news would be all over the palace in next to no time.

  Painful glimpses of her early childhood flashed before her eyes with graphic intensity. Her heart throbbed as that long-ago fear returned. She could smell the melted wax, the candle casting macabre shadows on Elizabeth's jutting jaw—the accusations plagued her more vividly than the beatings.

  "You stole my brooch, you spoke harshly to Thomas, you pulled Bridget's hair."

  Now some untapped chamber of her heart was feeling that same fierce empathy for Valentine, wrongly and unjustly accused.

  This time Elizabeth Woodville had gone too far. This could be the beginning of a trumped-up charge against him, for no other reason than that he had shown her favor, or worse still, that his brave performance in battle made the ambitious Queen fear him as a threat.

  She'd done it before with innocent men, ruined them for no other reason than they looked as though they would climb higher than her own clan, and it had led straight to the block.

  It could mean the axe for Valentine if Elizabeth decided to instigate such false charges. She had to speak to her uncle about this, she determined, trying not to panic. The sooner, the better.

  "Where is His Highness the King?" she demanded of his Page of Honor when she reached the royal apartments.

  "Gone to Sandwich to capture the Bastard of Fauconberg, Mistress Denys," he replied.

  Another battle? She hadn't heard about this one. Was Valentine with him? Was that why she had not seen him?

  She turned and ran down the corridor, her breath in short gasp
s.

  Fleeing the confines of the palace, she raced through the courtyard towards the stable. She needed to take Chera for a long ride over the outlying moors in the cool air, to pray for an end to these incessant conflicts and for Valentine Starbury's head.

  As the groom was saddling Chera, Denys heard her name being called.

  She turned, and there was Valentine walking quickly towards her, his hair flying freely in the breeze, his face a pale oval in the twilight.

  "For what parts are you bound so hastily?"

  "Oh, thank God. Valentine!" she gasped, her surprise and relief at seeing him knocked the wind out of her.

  "Why are you not on that campaign with the King?" she asked, finding it most unusual that he wasn't at King Edward's side.

  The bemusement gave way to elation that he was here, yet she felt uneasiness at his nearness. He glowed regally in his crimson satin tunic edged in cloth of gold. It hugged his trim musculature, and its loosely laced front revealed the golden sprinkling of curls on his chest.

  "I eagerly volunteered my services, but his Highness ordered—er, asked me to stay here and fulfill some administrative duties. He and Richard will return within a few days."

  "Indeed. I see." Turning away, she took a deep breath, wondering whether to warn him of the Queen's accusations, or just wait to bring it up before the King.

  Valentine approached her, and cupped her elbows in his hands. It was the first time he'd touched her since that night in the river, and she did not try to back away.

  She welcomed his comforting touch, marveled at how gentle his hands were, how tenderly he drew her to him and rested his chin on the top of her head.

  "What is it, Dove? From your greeting just now, I can tell you've had some sort of bad fright."

  "Aye, when I heard the King was gone, well…"

  "'Tis all right; they will be just fine. This is not a major battle. Fauconberg hasn't a chance. His choices are to either surrender immediately, or lose his head on the block tomorrow."

  Lose his head on the block. The words stunned her. She turned and looked up at him.

  His gaze was intense; his eyes looked violet in the twilight. He'd shaved and washed. He looked so clean and touchable. Desirable.

  She couldn't hold back. The thought of him being put to death was too much to bear. She gripped his hand and led him to a more private spot near the stables where she was sure they could not be seen or overheard.

  "Aye, I have had a shock indeed. I just learned something I thought it best to warn the King about before it's too late."

  "What is it, Dove?"

  Valentine was all ears now, no longer the lover, but the soldier once more.

  She took a deep, steadying breath. "I don't want to make things worse, but well—"

  "Go on, pet, you can tell me."

  "There is something you need to know. Elizabeth just spewed forth the most dreadful gossip. It's going to go round the palace like wildfire, and—"

  She couldn't bring herself to go on; tears choked her words.

  "Calm down first. Then tell me."

  Valentine extended his arms and brought her to him, holding her close, pushing back the tendrils that had fallen over her forehead.

  As he continued to hold her, she sensed that he wanted her to come to him, to lay her head on his shoulder and seek his comfort.

  "Now tell me."

  "She accused you of murdering Guilford, her sister's husband, under the guise of the last battle."

  He was still and silent for a long time. Too silent.

  Wouldn't a man who was innocent begin to exclaim and defend himself?

  She expected him to lash out and snap off a tree branch, start flailing it about as if brandishing a sword before Elizabeth's throat, cursing the evil witch to eternal damnation.

  But his reaction, when it came, shocked her even more. He was laughing!

  "How can you laugh at this? How?" she hissed angrily, slapping his chest now with alternating hands.

  He held her at arm's length and shrugged. "'Tis absurd, that is how. I did not even witness the killing. I was not even in the vicinity! Richard and I were ordering the troops to gather more supplies. When we returned to camp, that is when we heard the terrible news."

  "And you have witnesses to attest—"

  "Aye, Richard, and the King himself. We reunited to head back to our headquarters together, made a new sortie, and returned again once more for new shields and some water. The battle was nearly done, so we rested together, and Edward and I discussed what to do next to root out the traitors still fomenting rebellion. Over an hour later, the body was brought in, still fresh from its wounds, and on the far flank, opposite where we had been fighting."

  Denys was satisfied with the accounting he was given, but shook her head. "Then how does Elizabeth dare to accuse you?"

  "She knows nothing of the battle, and she's miffed because I wouldn't pay court to her ungainly sister recently. But 'twas the end of the evening and I was all in. Fret not over false accusations, Dove. They are only words, and words mean sod all," he said, in a calm, unaffected tone, gathering her to him once more.

  "But she's had innocent men arrested on trumped-up charges and dragged to the block. The hapless Earl of Desmond got the axe for simply telling the King he should have married better!"

  "Yes, but that was true, and Desmond admitted to it. I didn't kill anyone, and I can prove it. So can the King and Richard and the hundred and sixty or so soldiers and nobles who were with me. If I really had killed Guilford, then perhaps I'd have something to be worried about. But I am no murderer, and I am shocked that you should think me capable."

  "Nay, never," she said, shaking her head vehemently. "But you don't know the Queen, Valentine. It matters not whether the accusations are false. You must inform the King and make sure the royal signet is in its place about his most royal this time!"

  He was laughing again.

  "So that's how the bitch did it. I always wondered. Poor Desmond…."

  "Damn it all, Valentine, this is not funny!" She wanted to protect him and pummel him at the same time.

  "Come here," he whispered. "And this is not a jest either. In fact, I've been dreaming about this since that day in the garden when we last met."

  He took her in his arms and lowered his mouth to hers.

  She allowed her worries to fall away as she eagerly let him claim her lips, for she'd been dreaming of him since that day, too.

  His kiss was warm, soft and deliciously slow and leisurely. She let her arms wind round his neck. Her fingers played through his hair. She'd wanted to touch that hair for such a long time. It felt even softer than it looked.

  Inhaling, she detected a trace of the outdoors as their kiss came to an end and she ran her lips lightly over his neck. As if they both feared what was going to happen next, they pulled apart gently at the same precise second.

  Huddled in the warm circle of his arms and resting her cheek on the softness of his tunic, she forced herself to breathe calmly. She didn't want him to sense the effect he was having on her. Surely he could feel her heart thumping through all these layers of clothes!

  She took a tiny step back, fighting her excitement at just being this close.

  "What were we talking about?" he murmured as their hands found each other's and their fingers intertwined.

  "Uh—evil gossip. The Queen accusing you of murder. She's done it before, Valentine. I don't want it to happen to you. Just go to the King, please. Tell him what's been said, where the maligning has come from, and—"

  "Dove, evil gossip is something the nobility are behooved to rise above," he said, his eyes burning into hers.

  "But she is not noble!"

  "All the more reason to fight my own battles fairly."

  "And get stabbed in the back for your pains," she argued.

  He sighed, and patted her on the shoulder. "Your find feelings do you credit, my dear."

  "Then let your common sense do credit to yo
u!"

  He smiled tenderly. "Let me tell you something about Valentine Starbury, my dear. What sets me apart from the rest of these courtiers, royalty excepted, of course, who live in fear of loose lips more than the horror of plague or the devastation of war, is that I do not give a horse's feak what others say about me. As long as I, and those who care about me, know the truth, 'tis all that matters.

  "The King knows I did not kill Guilford, Richard knows, and I pray you know. This time the Queen cannot cry wolf. There were simply too many witnesses—the King being one of them. So she'll have to find another way to punish me for not succumbing to the dubious charms of her spinster sister."