Destiny Lies Waiting

by Diana Rubino

  In the Queen's privy closet were stacks of padlocked trunks. Their contents had to be cataloged somehow. He had to find what he was looking for, even if it meant staying her all night pawing through every one of Elizabeth's tawdry chemises.

  No one, not even the creator of the heavens, could challenge the organizational skills of Elizabeth Woodville. Her compunction for methodical organization unsettled him almost as much as her diabolical personality.

  He recalled that when she dined with the King in the great hall, each meal had to be served her orderly way, with every last plate cleared away and each goblet rinsed before another course began. Every server had to check in and out upon entering and departing the palace. Each horse had its name etched on its stall. Every bale of hay and slop bucket had to be accounted for. Each expense had to be recorded, and only by the fastidious Queen herself. She drove the poor Lord Steward round the bend with her constant inventorying of the bake house, buttery, and saucery to make sure there was no waste or peculation.

  She sat with the controllers every Wednesday to balance the accounts. Not a groat was spent without her approval, and God help the auditor who added up a column wrong or forgot to carry a digit, for he was dismissed immediately.

  Torches blazed in the window of the Queen's chambers until the dark hours of many a night, as she scrutinized the account books with those hawk's eye of hers.

  So why would she not file away any documents pertaining to her beautiful silver-haired charge? He knew the information had to be somewhere. He just hoped he could find something of use in case her journey to Malmesbury turned out to be a fool's errand.

  He flipped through a leather-bound ledger on her writing table, neatly penned in straight columns. He thumbed through another ledger, and another.

  Finally he found a book that did not deal with finances. It listed her brothers, sisters, their spouses and children, and their birth dates and places.

  Each name had a number next to it—what did that mean?

  Undoubtedly it was a code of some sort, an index to her elaborate filing system.

  His finger ran down the list of names, turned the page and skimmed another list.

  The Plantagenets: Edward; the departed Edmund; George; Richard, and their sisters, with their dates and places of birth. Some had numbers next to them, some did not.

  He turned another page. The Woodvilles were a huge clan. The listing went back to the early 1300s, before Edward III. She certainly knew where she'd come from.

  Then he saw it, on his way back, retracing all the names. It had no birthplace or date next to it, just the number 5. The name he'd been looking for. Denys Woodville.

  So what was this 5 anyway? Other names had 5s next to them, and he checked them—the names of Elizabeth's aunts, uncles and cousins.

  As it grew dark, he grabbed a torch from the bedchamber and retraced his steps into the private close-room, settling among the trunks.

  Then he noticed a Roman numeral on the front of each trunk. The trunk embossed with the numeral "I" was at the very bottom. "V" was at the top.

  Using a night stool for a stepladder, he swung the trunk out over his head and let it drop. Dust billowed out as it hit the floor. He climbed down, twisted the flimsy lock until it broke and flipped the lid open.

  It was crammed with letters, their musty odors mingling with the scent of the wax that had once sealed them.

  They all had one thing in common: they'd been written by people with a '5' next to their names in the book.

  Now, which letters pertained to Denys Woodville?

  The torch was down to an orange glow as he reached the last letter.

  Straining his eyes to see, he stood and stretched his legs.

  He found what he'd been looking for.

  A short letter with flowery script covering one side of the page, it was signed Margaret Holland, Countess of Somerset. Now who the devil was she?

  Its significance lay in the body of the letter, where 'the babe' was referred to several times.

  It was dated "Monday next after Martinmas, 1457," adhering to the tradition of using saints' days to date letters. Martinmas...

  Running through all the saints' names and dates he could recall, he remembered it was on 11 November, the feast of the plowman, when the great slaughtering of the animals took place.

  He'd done all he could for one night; it was pitch dark and the torch had dwindled down to almost nothing. Shoving the trunk back into its place, he groped his way out of Elizabeth's closet and into the antechamber.

  The torches glowed in the distant corridor. He thought about returning with another torch, but he was tired, hungry, and felt choked with dust.

  He would take his ease, and tomorrow morn he would be back to look more thoroughly through trunk 'V.'

  As he was passing through the outer chamber, he heard footsteps. Flattening himself against the wall, he glimpsed a white apron as a server lumbered down the hall. She was corpulent, her dress was filthy, and she exuded a stench he could detect from ten feet away. It was Kat, the cooking wench who was always stuffing her gob with food and licking her greasy fingers.

  The only female cook in the court's employ, by virtue of her bulk and strength, she was how he had pictured Dove as per Richard's guileless description. If anyone could give bat guano a run for its money, it was this slag.

  Mayhap she would just waddle by and not notice him.

  Suddenly the footsteps stopped, and he knew she'd caught him. He had to think—and fast. "Good eve, my kind lass. And what brings you to the Queen's chambers at this late hour?"

  "What brings ye 'ere?" Her sharp accusing tone betrayed a crude East London accent. She stood, arms akimbo, and he slowly crept back along the wall.

  She entered the antechamber and slammed the door shut. Now they were confined, one-on-one, in this suddenly too-close space.

  "I was on a clandestine royal mission. 'Tis frightfully dark in this labyrinthine palace," he said breezily as he shoved the letter down the back of his hose. He casually wiped his forehead.

  The only time he'd ever stuttered had been that day in the chapel when he realized who Dove was, and he'd certainly had reason to be stunned.

  But this odious wench was making this the tightest spot he'd ever found himself in. He feared he was in more trouble than the time he'd set up separate dalliances with King Louis' two daughters, and they'd both arrived in the garden at the same time! He'd nearly shriveled to a prune hiding in the fountain behind a trio of marble cherubs.

  He broke out in beads of cold sweat. Oh, why couldn't he be as calm a fibber as Richard!

  "Well, are ye goin' t' tell me the truth, white knight, or shall I report ye to 'er 'ighness the Queen?"

  "Kat, I was simply..." He tried to appeal to her by using her name. "I'm not trying to hurt anyone. You know how much I respect the King and Queen."

  This frump was as revolting as Dove was beautiful, and he tried to conjure up her visage, but his imagination ended where this woman's chins began.

  "Tell me what you're doin', then."

  "Simply on a mission for the King. It seems our good Queen mislaid the privy seal, and the King needs me to fetch it for him. But she would be a mite miffed if she knew the King sent me here, so do promise you won't tell her I was rummaging about her personal effects?"

  Kat gave him a withering look. "Privy seal my hairy arse. 'Twas a good try, though."

  "But 'tis true!"

  "I bet you're sneakin' round for your mate The 'Og. I seen the two o' you diddlin' together so much, methinks you're queer for each other or some such."

  He'd heard those of low birth referring to Richard as "The Hog" from his emblem, the White Boar. No one of nobility would dare refer to him this way—except maybe the Woodvilles.

  "Per'aps if you take me mind elsewhere, I'll forget I ever seen ye 'ere and I won't tell 'er 'ighness ye were 'ere."

  "Take your mind off it? Very well then. How about a game of mental chess? I'll go first. King's
pawn to king four." He backed away with a congenial smile.

  "Nah!" She licked her lips, baring rotted teeth. He found himself involuntarily shielding his privy parts with his left hand.

  "How 'bout ye acquaint me body with yours?"

  "How about ye acquaint your body with a fresh cake of soap?"

  "What I 'ad in mind 'ad naught to do with clean." She made a lunge for him.

  He fluidly slid out of the way. Her mole and blackheads came more clearly into focus. Ripples of fat dangled like windblown draperies from her arms. She giggled and tried to bat her eyelashes, but this pathetic attempt at femininity didn't faze him. He was too busy counting her chins.

  "Alas, there is naught I can do to pleasure you. I've got a physical defect that has impeded my manhood, as it were. I am not a man in the true sense."

  That was easy enough to say at the thought of physical contact with her. He felt a churning in his gut as his bowels threatened to let loose.

  "Ye speak the truth, me lord?" Her voice dropped in pitch, and he guessed she was trying to sound sexy. But the combination of Kat and sexy was as appetizing as an apple fritter crawling with maggots.

  "Aye, I speak the very truth. I was wounded in the Battle of Tewkesbury, both me and me horse. We rode into battle man and destrier, and came out a pair of geldings."

  He reached behind him to smooth the letter, which was bunching up between his cheeks. "The beast soon perished, poor thing. But I...nearly lost it, should I say. Had to have it fairly stitched back on."

  "And it don't work no 'ow?" she asked in wonder.

  "I can have a wee with it, but naught else," he said with a sigh.

  She took a gaping leer at his crotch. "Them bulges look real enough to me and good enough to eat, me lord. Couldn'a been that bad a wound." Her eyes narrowed and she came closer.

  He retreated as far as he could go. His back was now pressed against the wall.

  She shuffled her feet, thrusting out her breasts in what she probably thought was a feminine gesture. He would have killed for a swig of mead.

  Her rancid odor made him want to retch. Not so much for fear of the Queen's wrath, he wanted to escape simply out of regard for his stomach. "Naught was lost. It just ceased to function in the carnal sense."

  "Your story warms me 'eart, white knight," she uttered, the hairy arms coming at him, flab swinging like a couple of loose sandbags. "But I wanna see for me self."

  She pressed him up against the wall and thrust her pelvis into his. He let out a woof of breath as her bulk hit him and the stench assailed him.

  "If ye aren't tellin' the truth, your rooster will. Ye like that, pretty boy?" she urged, her breath quickening as her sadistic excitement mounted. "If ye truly can't prick the garter, ye'll just 'ave to find another way to show me you're a man. You 'ave two 'ands and a tongue."

  "Nay, 'tis not quite that simple. I cannot bed a woman, any woman," he protested desperately, swallowing the bile that bubbled at the back of his throat.

  "Oh, just me rotten luck! I found me self a bloomin' sheep-shagger!"

  "Nay. I'm taking vows. I shall be Father Valentine ere too long, since I shall never sire any heirs. You wouldn't violate sacred vows, now would you?"

  He turned his head away from her putrid breath.

  She stood quietly for a long moment, then backed away slowly. "Nay. Ye be joshin'."

  "Just for entertaining carnal thoughts of me makes me wonder about you now, Kat. I have a few questions of my own to ask of you."

  "Go on, ask me 'ow I like it." She cupped his crotch and he cringed as if backing into a wild pig in heat.

  "Might you be a witch, Kat? I've heard tales about you weaving an evil spell or two." He gingerly plucked her hand away.

  "Nay!" She shrieked as if poked with a hot iron. "Nay, I be no witch, me lord, I be just a common servin' wench, I 'ad no idea ye were...are..."

  "You are aware of the fate of witches," he replied, slipping the gold crucifix from around his neck and dangling it on its chain before her. "Must I reel off a list of tortures they've been known to endure when found out?"

  "I said I ain't no bloomin' witch!" She was backing out of the alcove now with obvious alarm. The air became more breathable with every step she took.

  "Perhaps you are the one I should be telling Queen Elizabeth about. Just what were you doing up here anyhow?"

  "Cleanin' the palace! Scrubbin' the bloody privies! Look at me 'ands! Look 'ow raw they be from scourin'!"

  "Cease!" he commanded, and she froze.

  "What's that I see on your left hand? Be that a witch's mark?" He forced himself to approach her and grabbed her clammy hand.

  "Nay! 'Tis but a mole, me lord!" She snatched her hand away, then quickly hid them both behind her back. 'Tis naught, I ain't a witch, please..."

  She was sobbing now, and he was beginning to feel sorry for her. By now he was convinced that her fear adequately precluded any tattling about this incident.

  "Then be gone lest I demand you remove your chemise and prove you've not an extra teat!"

  "Nay! I be gone, I..." she backed away, crashing into the opposite wall, then turned and fled, disappearing in a cloud of body odor and kitchen grease.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he looked both ways before removing to his own chambers, where he ordered a bath and scrubbed every inch of his body.

  He lit a small fire and burned the letter. He didn't dare keep it in his possession, or return to Elizabeth's chambers to put it back.

  "Oh, Dove, what I wouldn't do for you!"

  A painful longing for her made his heart ache worse than his loins. But he prayed that what he had learned would bring him one step closer to winning her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A couple of days later, Valentine entered the gatehouse at the ancient and elegant Pomfret Castle, dismounted, and handed the reins to a stable boy. A page led him to Richard's chambers, where he was conferring with his council.

  After a few moments, Richard dismissed them and greeted his friend. "Val, what took you so long to arrive? I thought you'd changed your mind and decided to join the court on progress."

  "Nay, progress is too much like battle with none of the glory. I needed to attend to an important task before I joined you."

  "Well, I'm glad to see you. You may lodge within if you wish."

  "Nay, I'll return to London."

  "I thought you would."

  They walked out of his council chamber and Richard led him to the courtyard. The gentle breeze played with Valentine's hair.

  Taking a deep breath of the fresh country air, he closed his eyes and let the twittering birds serenade him in this moment of peace.

  "Sounds like a monumental task if it took nearly a week," Richard said.

  "'Twas indeed," Valentine replied, realizing how long the journey had been and how hungry all this fresh air was making him. "Is there anything to eat?"

  Richard laughed, and nodded. "Come on."

  After Valentine enjoyed a hearty repast of roast quail breast, wings of swan, plus mussels, whelks and cockles, along with several slabs of buttered freshly-baked bread, a bowl of strawberries and a handful of almonds washed down with ale, they headed back outdoors.

  "Don't say we're heading for a graveyard."

  Richard smiled and removed his hat, stroking the feather thoughtfully. "Nay, we'll just sit here on the mound and enjoy the fresh air."

  As soon as they were seated, he said, "So what delayed you, and why are you so keen to get back to the capital when you've only just arrived?"

  "I'm helping Dove find her real family, Dickon, but she doesn't know it. 'Twould be a thrill and a reward to know I've helped her in her quest. It may even help to capture her heart, but that's not my only motivation."

  Richard gave a tight smile. "I know that, Val. I know how much you care for her. But I beg you, do not get too caught up in her fantasy of another family. That is a part of Dove that you will find enchanting and at the same time exasperating. T
he way she builds entire fictional realms round herself.

  "If a situation doesn't exist to her liking, why, she just fixes it in her head, even if it is not real. And it is difficult, if not impossible, to tell her otherwise. Even if she is right about what she thought she heard when she was seven years old, it could have been Elizabeth displaying her customary cruelty in toying with Dove's emotions. Playing up to her wistful and imaginative nature. Should this not come to fruition, even you may not be able to console her."