by Diana Rubino
"Ah, but I'll make up for it. She dreams of family, love, laughter. I can give her all those things, if only she'll let me. Besides, I made a promise to you, and I intend to keep it."
Richard laughed. "I knew you would take a fancy to her once you met. In the beginning when you thought I was palming you off on some frumpy old cow, you wanted to jump on a ship and sail to the ends of the world."
Valentine nodded. "Aye, but I never planned to welch on my lost bet. But despite what you say about her great imagination, I'm not so sure she's wrong. Let's just say, well, I found a letter from someone mentioning her. Someone out west, where she has decided to start her search."
"I see." Richard frowned again.
"Her life is very fraught because she is so mistrustful of the Queen and does not want to end up as her pawn in yet another arranged marriage scheme."
"I don't blame her," Richard said with a moue of distaste. "That last one nearly cost us both everything."
"So if I help her find her family, it will be all the sooner that she will be willing to marry me. Wouldn't a double ceremony have been grand!"
"Now you sound like more of a dreamer than she!" he shook his head. Nay, Anne and I needed to be married immediately under a cloak of secrecy. I couldn't afford the luxury of a leisurely courtship like yours."
"Leisurely? Indeed!" Valentine laughed. "Pursuing this minx takes so much of my energy, I'll be lucky to stay awake on the wedding night!"
His old friend laughed. "I doubt that very much. Valentine, breaker of hearts, thy very name speaks of love."
"I want to live up to that promise, but with Denys, my Dove. But we can't move forward, until we all put the past behind us."
Richard clapped him on the shoulder. "I agree with that. It's high time now that we enjoy all we have secured, and get used to living in peace. So I tell you what, I shall go back to London with you, see what I can find out as well. After all, as soon as you know who she is one way or the other, you can make your plans accordingly." He rose, dusted off his hose, and began to turn back toward the castle.
"But Richard, you're meant to be on honeymoon. I can't accept—"
"Anne is a trifle indisposed at the moment, so there is no harm done," he said stiffly.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that—" Valentine said as he followed along behind, trying to keep pace with his energetic friend.
"Nothing more than the monthly inconveniences common to their sex, but I thank you," he said with an airy wave. "So, I shall just get a few things together, and then we're off back to London to solve your mystery."
"Not mine, Dove's. Oh, if only it were that simple. But you know how cunning the Woodvilles can be."
"I do. And I just want to warn you, you may not like what you find. What if she is illegitimate, for example, or her parents were—"
"It matters not, Richard. She has proven herself a pearl of great price on her own merit. But as you say, she won't move forward with her life, or trust in my love, until she is sure of who she is. And more sure of me."
Richard flashed a winning smile. "Ah, yes, well, you can hardly blame her after the false starts the two of you have had."
If he only knew, Valentine thought with a wince as he recalled meeting Denys the second time naked in the river, when he had spouted all that nonsense and injured her pride and spirit so grievously.
"But as I said, don't think she will welcome you just because of your help, or interference, as she may deem it."
"I just want to see her happy, content, truly," he vowed, hand on heart. "She won't rest until she goes west to seek the truth. In the meantime, the least I can do is seek it closer to home, amongst the Woodvilles themselves."
"Then get your bag and steed, and let's go."
Valentine travelled alongside Richard over the broken stone surface of the straight Roman road leading back to London. Their horses' hooves clopped across ancient wooden footbridges over trickling streams.
Taking a detour southwest, they travelled narrow secondary roads through deep woods, surrounded by trees of ash and chestnut that cleared into an expanse of marsh.
The hills were misty beyond and the air was scented with the gorse and bracken surrounding them.
The roads were not as good as the main ones, but they were less crowded, so they made good time. Even better, the dreamy landscape made Valentine dream of his lady love, and how he would love to own land like this one day. Share an estate with her, give her all her heart could desire.
Build a family with her, grow the Starbury clan so he would not be the last of his line….
Whoa, one thing at a time, he schooled himself, also reining in his horse when he realized it too had galloped way ahead without any caution. He slowed to a canter, and waited for Richard and their escort to catch up with him.
First he had to win the lady, and help her seek the truth. Only through careful wooing could he win her. And even then, what if her new family objected? Let alone the Woodvilles.
He stiffened at the recollection of the lies the Queen had been telling about him. Was he sure he wasn't helping Dove just to spite the bitch?
He immediately discounted the notion, but once again, it was a salutary reminder that the Queen was a woman used to getting her own way. Not someone he wanted to make an enemy out of.
But nor was he ever going to give up his beloved Dove without a fight….
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Richard and Valentine reached Leicestershire before sunset on the third day.
Richard ordered his retinue to retire to the local inn, while he and Valentine went on a twilight ride. They rode for a few miles in the peacefulness of the countryside, the cool air on their faces.
They dismounted at the top of a hill and Valentine pulled a half-eaten quail, a shriveled plum and two squashed but quite appetizing fruit tarts from his satchel.
"Care to partake of some repast, Dickon?"
Richard shook his head silently and stood looking out over the open fields, the tilled lands in patches of light and dark green, stretching to meet the sky in a hazy blur streaked with wispy violet fingers.
He sat beside Valentine, drew his knees up and hugged them tightly.
"What is this place called?" Richard asked.
"Market Bosworth, according to the marker I glimpsed," replied Valentine.
They sat in silence as the sun slowly bowed lower in the sky and the breeze strengthened.
Valentine pulled off his surcoat and tunic and, bare-chested, sprawled out in the grass.
"Ah, sweet earth! You should be lying down, your bare skin breathing of the fresh soil."
He attributed Richard's silence to the abrupt changes in his life, so he didn't disturb him further.
Suddenly Richard stood and headed for his mount. "I must be gone," he said over his shoulder.
"Nay, Dickon, stay here and watch the stars come out like we used to do when we were lads. We shall name all the constellations if you can remember them!"
"I cannot stay here another minute. I am chilled all of a sudden."
"Chilled? I was so warm I stripped to the waist. 'Tis a beautiful evening."
"To you, maybe, but I must take my leave. There's something about this place..."
Richard mounted and yanked on the reins.
Valentine could see he was shivering. Valentine's mount caught up with him at the bottom of the hill. "Dickon, are you ill?"
Richard's eyes were glazed, not focusing on Valentine, but on a jumble of dark tormenting thoughts. His face glowed with a sheen of perspiration.
"Have you got fever?"
Richard said nothing, but turned and galloped back toward Leicester, leaving Valentine more confused than usual.
He shook his head as his friend galloped away as though being pursued by demons.
How could someone who sits in graveyards for hours be chilled by a peaceful place like Market Bosworth?
Then he thought of his own inner demons, and sighed. Who was he to judge. He to
o had impulses which drove him on eagerly, desperately. Pride, the longing to belong, to make his father proud, to win Dove's hand as his own.
He looked around, shivered, and drew his clothes back on. He offered up a quick prayer for Richard and Denys to both be granted peace.
As for him, well, he would receive that wish when Dove came home to him. Home. Back to London. To the palace?
Perhaps not forever, but it would have to do for now. Especially since the King would need him once he was back from his progress.
With that thought in mind, Valentine hurried back to his waiting mount, patiently chomping grass. He had much to do to help Dove and the King. Counting the stars could wait until he had his beloved back in his arms again….
"Come home to me soon, little Dove, wherever you are," he prayed as he swung up into his saddle and headed back to their accommodation for the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Malmesbury was an ancient town of narrow winding streets, wattle and daub cottages, and busy shops.
As Denys and her party entered the town through the East Gate and rode down the High Street, they went virtually unnoticed among the bustling villagers.
It was market day, and the denizens were scurrying round with bags of goods slung over their shoulders or over the backs of mules.
She glanced down a few of the little side streets. Timber-framed houses lined the lanes, their roofs leaning in toward each other, nearly touching at the top, blocking out all but a thin streak of sunlight.
A serving wench flipped a pot of slops out of a second-story window. Its contents splattered in the dirt, missing a passer-by, who shook a fist and let out a stream of curses.
Flies swarmed round the piles of excrement already scattered on the ground.
So Elizabeth had lied about something else—she said Malmesbury was a wealthy town, but it was certainly humble enough from where she was sitting.
This was all the more reason to think she had something here hidden that she did not want to revealed. Perhaps I really am a bastard… she thought with a sigh.
But despite that rather grim and shocking thought, she was getting hungry, so they stopped at the charming Three Cups for a repast.
While Hugh stayed and refreshed himself with several more tankards of ale, Denys and her maid went to the market in the main square under a large banner that read "Cross Hayes."
As she passed stalls displaying sweets, biscuits and other treats, her mouth watered at the spicy aroma of gingersnaps.
Dressed in their customary rough woolen clothing, folks scurried through the market, which was alive with squawking chickens and grunting pigs.
Wooden awnings creaked on rusty chains above the stalls. Merchants eagerly pushed their wares on passers-by carrying bags of dry goods, leading horses and donkeys. Burlap bags slapped and pots clanged against the beasts' sweaty rumps.
Expert hands prodded and squeezed piles of fruit. A woman haggled with a fishmonger, despite the fact that the foetor of the commodity in question was quite foul indeed.
Denys purchased a dozen cakes and enjoyed her few moments of freedom walking among the villagers as if she were one of them, trying to catch a word or two as they jabbered on in the unfamiliar Wiltshire dialect.
Her eye caught an array of colorful fabrics and ribbons hanging in one shop, but her eagerness to complete her task pushed her ahead.
She grew even more eager as she walked a bit further and glimpsed the Abbey just beyond the Market Cross.
"Mary, I'm going to see if the Abbot is in. Tell Hugh to go straight there when he's finished in the Three Cups," she instructed her maid.
Taking steady breaths, she began the short walk to the Abbey, convinced it would yield her the first clues in her earnest quest for her true identity.
She leaned on the heavy creaking door and entered the cavernous Abbey, glad to shut the door against the swirling wind.
A priest was standing at an ancient tomb to the left of the altar with his back toward her, and turned just as the slice of sunlight closed on him.
They met halfway down the aisle. "Good morrow to you, Father. I am Denys Woodville and am looking for the Abbott."
"Ah, that be John Aylee. I shall fetch him for thee." He disappeared into the shadows and she sat in a pew, sliding to her knees, praying that her journey ended here.
Moments later, the Abbott approached her, a tall, distinguished looking man with mild eyes.
She slipped out of the pew and greeted him.
"May I 'elp thee, my child?" His heavy Wiltshire accent was difficult to understand.
"I am Denys Woodville, and I would be grateful could you offer me some assistance."
He motioned for her to sit back down in the pew and sat beside her. His peaceful manner comforted her as the sun's colored rays slanting through the stained glass landed in a glowing rainbow on his bald pate.
"'ow may I be of thy assistance, Mistress Woodville?"
"I am looking for my family. I was given to Elizabeth Woodville as an infant ward and told that no birth records exist, but I have reason to believe my family hail from these parts."
He studied her, and sputtered a bit as if taken by surprise. Letting out a puff of air, he spoke as if rehearsed, "Dost th'a know thy family name, Mistress Woodville?"
"Nay, I know not who they were, but I wish to check the records and see who was born that year."
He shook his head, and she felt that exhilarating soaring she'd had upon entering the town slipping away.
"So yer a furrener, I reckon?"
Since anyone from even a few miles away from a place like this was considered a 'foreigner' she nodded, but hastened to explain, "I reside at court now, but I believe my true family hails from here."
"They books of birth records date only to 1350, Mistress Woodville," the Abbot informed her. "They murre recent books were destroyed in floods, oh, nigh on twenty year 'go. I shall fetch the surviving one fer thee nonetheless."
He was gone a long while, and she took the time to pray as she waited. For all she knew, her very own mother could have knelt in the same pew where she now was, hands clasped, head bowed, praying for her daughter's well-being.
Something inside was telling her that she was close to the truth, no matter what the Abbot brought for her.
He returned, handed her the book, and she tried not to tear through the pages in her haste. She turned to 1457, what she believed was the year of her birth. The town recorded three births that year, all boys.
In case 1457 was a mistake, she checked the two years before and after; three of the females born during those years had remained in the parish and were now dead. The others were still living there, all married to yeomen.
"But, Father, do you have any recollection of a baby having been born to folk who died soon thereafter?"
He shook his head. "Nay, lass, but if any furrener had come to Malmesbury to take away a babe nigh on twenty year 'go, I shall have r'memb'r'd it."
"May I ask, Father, do you know of any Foxley Manor?"
He blinked several times rapidly. He finally shook his head. "Nay, naught called Foxley Manor. Could have changed hands, been renamed. The community started wi' the invasion of the Saxons, when it be part of Wessex. The name Foxley dost sound very strange to me."
"How about the deeds then? I need to find Foxley Manor."
"Tha all bin destroyed in flood, Mistress Woodville, right along wi' the birth records. A shame, it was." He shook his head sadly.
She hated to think this, but she had the strangest feeling the Abbot was actually lying to her.
But since she couldn't say so to his face, she merely curtseyed, and thanked him for his tie.
"I'm sorry I can't be of more help, lass. But perhaps it's the will of God. And mayhap some things are not meant to be found."
"Aye, you're right, of course." Denys thanked him and, eyes stinging with tears of disappointment, went back out into the brilliant sunshine which at this moment seemed harsh an
d cruel.
Hugh was waiting for her at the entrance and together they asked some of the townsfolk if they'd heard of Foxley Manor, but none of them had. They either stared at her blankly, eyeing the royal colors draped over Chera, or dumbly shook their heads as if she were speaking another language.
