by Diana Rubino
Which in a way she was, for she had certainly been educated well, for all she might have been born to an obscure family….
But that was what was so maddening about it all. She had so many little clues, but nothing added up to anything. She had come with such high hopes, but had still had no luck in her search.
Refusing to give up, she approached the oldest person they saw on Silver Street. He was an elderly man leading a mule with one hand, a bag of dry goods slung over his shoulder.
Oh, please let him know! she prayed silently as she and Hugh approached him.
The old man's eyes displayed a sense of recognition when she mentioned the name, as if he were trying to recall a hazy memory.
"Aye," he said. "'Twas once called Foxley Manor, nigh on twenty, thirty year 'go, but changed dwellers several time. I know not who the lord was, but there were divers tenants dwelt there, and now—oh, I haven't bin tha' way in yonks."
"So do you know where it is?" She spoke so fast she had to repeat herself.
He finally nodded. "Aye. 'Tis at the edge of town, due west, on the Bristol road, just on the far bank of the River Avon. Foller the Gaerstons Road to Goose Bridge."
She knew many streets had the Saxon suffix "Gaerstons" meaning the green field, and were either outside the town or led that way.
Hugh nodded. "The river's right over yonder."
Turning back to the old man, he asked, "Do you know the names of anyone who ever lived there, or who lives there now?"
The old man shook his head. "I know not who lives there or lived there, last time I 'eard 'f 't 'twere many year 'go. I don't ge' out round these parts much more, don't hear any local piffle."
"Any Woodvilles live near these parts?" Denys prodded on.
"Nay, no Woodvilles," he replied. "Can't say I ev'r 'eard that name. Me name be Blanchard, but nev'r 'eard of a Woodville round Malmesbury."
She almost envied him, never having known a Woodville. "Thank you. We shall find it!" And with that, she reached into her bag and handed the old man a few pennies for his trouble. He beamed at her, tugged his forelock, and moved on.
She turned to her retinue and pointed with a shaking hand. "Over the Avon!"
Hugh took the lead, and continued down Silver Street.
Over the stone Goose Bridge they rode, her heart thumping, her mouth as dry as salted cod. Then she saw it in the distance, surrounded by trees at the foot of a hill dotted with sheep—a two-story house in red sandstone with a shingled roof, fronted with shuttered oriel windows and an arched oak front door.
She left Chera with her maid and motioned for Hugh to follow her as she dismounted and ran up to the door.
Knocking and rattling the knob elicited no response. She then looked at the front of the house again, but the windows were shuttered tight, so there was no chance of peering in.
She walked back to the door, and her knocking became pounding as she stood there for what felt like an eternity.
But no one answered, and no amount of trying the latch or pushing the door helped. The door was well barred.
Forcing her hope to stay alive, she went round back. A smaller back door was also barred, as she found when she tried to open it.
She fetched Hugh. "I'm breaking in," she declared, moving over to a shutter and pounding it with the heels of her hands.
"You can't break in here, milady. 'Tis a crime. You can be chucked into the bloody Bristol Channel for that, you know!"
"No one will know if we're quiet about it."
"We?"
"Pay heed here, Hugh. This may be my ancestral home. I need to get in there and look for anything remotely connected to my family. Now I'm going in. Stay here and keep an eye out."
"But Mistress—"
"Sush, it will be all right."
She went around to the rear of the house. The back door was nowhere near as grand as the heavy oak gracing the front entrance. It looked a simple affair, but didn't feel so simple when she rammed her shoulder against it.
"Ouch!" She rubbed her upper arm as Hugh came nearer and looked around, shuffling from one foot to the other.
"'Twill have to be a window then. Hugh, fetch a good sized branch."
They both dragged a fallen branch in front of a window and he dropped it there, nearly toppling her with it.
"What'd you drop it for? We've got to ram the shutter in!"
"Please, milady, don't make me do this. I never broke into no place in me life!"
"All I need is some extra weight behind me. Hold me up. I'll do all the ramming. Carry on then!"
She motioned to him impatiently.
Shaking his head, he lifted the branch.
"Now, when I say three, ram it through the shutter with all your might." She positioned it before the window, and drew back.
"One-two-three!" The branch ran through the shutters. She jumped back, nearly falling over him. "Sorry, Hugh."
"Oh, Jesu, help this wench!" he implored, clasping his hands together. "Couldn't ye just have broke the lock and swung the shutters open?"
"Nay, they were locked tight."
She was already stretching up and peering inside through the hole. It was dark and musty, empty and barren. In fact, it looked as though the house had been gutted; not a stick of furniture remained.
She tried to remember ever having lived here, even as a babe. But no recollection came to her as she stood staring. The house was as strange to her as if it were across the Ocean Sea.
She flattened her palms on the window sill. "Right, Hugh, boost me in."
"But Mistress, you could cut yourself—"
"I'll be careful," she said, elbowing the hole wider.
She hoisted herself up by her arms and he gave her a shove. She scrambled over the sill and landed on her hands and feet.
Standing, dusting herself off, she gave him a positive signal, told him to stand guard, and began walking slowly through the stuffy, airless rooms.
It had once been a cozy but elegant residence, and could be again if it were furnished and inhabited.
But now, hollow and shut tight, it gave off a feeling of sadness. She began wishing it were hers so she could pretty it up with cheerful tapestries, elegant furniture and sweet rushes on the floors.
But it was hers. This was her dowry! she recalled.
She climbed a staircase to a series of bedchambers. She unlatched one shutter and let it swing open. The countryside lay before her, the Avon winding through the bottom of the property peacefully. Breathing the clean air, she wondered who'd lived here, loved here, died here. And what it all had to do with her.
Wandering from chamber to empty chamber, she kept her eyes downward for any trinket that might have been dropped.
With her eyes fixed to the floor, she almost missed what was on the wall just over the doorway of what could have been a chapel. It was a set of rosary beads with a silver medal attached, hanging down a bit over the doorway. With her heart hammering, she moved closer and stood on tiptoe to get a better look.
She had to have it. She ran and fetched Hugh, still standing under the broken shutter, his head turning this way and that, on the lookout for passers-by.
"Hugh! Come up here. I found something."
"What?"
"A rosary hung over a doorway. I need you to help me fetch it down. Come up here, will you?"
He must have realized arguing would be futile, for he climbed in the window and in a moment was at the top of the stairway, looking for her.
"In here!"
He stood under the doorway and looked up at the rosary beads. "Lift me up so I can fetch them down," she said.
"Ye would steal it, milady?"
"Who will know? Just lift me up, if you please? It's a clue, I'm sure of it."
Looking away, as if that would negate his act, he lifted her by the waist as if helping her onto a mount.
She reached up and retrieved it; it had only been hanging by a nail. He brought her down and she stood staring at it for a long time
.
Then she turned the medal around, and gasped. It framed a miniature of a young woman.
Oh, God, who could she be? Her own mother?
Denys focused on the eyes, trying to call on a remote segment of her mind to associate that face with a long-ago memory.
The woman was decidedly sad, as if she were in mourning, her lips a thin inexpressive line. Her eyes, dark and troubled, seemed to echo her black raiment. Her only adornment was a single strand of pearls about her neck.
"You don't know her, do you, Hugh?" she asked her escort, who was already halfway down the stairs. She followed, slipping the rosary under her chemise.
He shook his head. "Never seen 'er before."
"She doesn't look anything like me, does she?"
Her voice was despondent, defeated. If only the woman had borne some resemblance to her, she'd have a glimmer of hope.
"Be glad of it, milady," Hugh said over his shoulder as he opened the back door and hurried out. "She looks as though life has been terrible to her."
She shut the door from the inside once more, and then looked around a final time, hoping beyond hope to find some other clue. But there was nothing.
She headed back to the window she had managed to climb in through, and left the same way she had come. Closing the broken shutter as best she could, she realized she couldn't wait to be gone from that lonely place.
This is it, she thought sadly. Foxley Manor. My dowry. My family home. And unless someone could identify the woman in the tiny portrait, she would never know who she was or where she had come from.
Now more than ever, Denys felt lost, utterly lost, with no place to call home, no people to call her own. Her feeling of hopelessness intensified the more she thought about how high her hopes had been when she had started on her quest.
But she tried to regain hope by looking far into the future. Parcels of land that changed hands left a trail, records of ownership. It might seem like a dead end, but there had to be more information somewhere, if not at the Abbey, then amongst the magistrates, or the Court itself.
She was going to find her family and marry a man she loved, and who loved her. None of these political alliances for her. She'd be free of Elizabeth's claws, free to search out a loving, caring mate.
It might be Valentine Starbury, or it might be a different man if he proved untrue and unwilling to stay the course. This was not the end, but the beginning, she thought as she clutched the rosary in her hand. Someone would know who the woman in the miniature was, who the rosary had belonged to.
There were other clues as well. It had been a goodly manor house, not a hovel. Just because it had been empty, did not mean it had been devoid of information.
This was only the first leg of a long, tedious journey. If she did not find them today, she would find them on the morrow. She would.
She vowed there and then that she wasn't going to depart this earth without learning where she had really come from. No tombstone of hers was going to have the Woodville name etched into it.
Holding her head a little higher, her shoulders no longer slumped, she whipped off her head-dress, jammed it into her saddle bag, and let Chera's strong legs fly over the English earth.
She wanted her long hair streaming behind her in the wind, not coiled up and tucked away so properly. She wanted to be free to be herself, no longer constrained by duty and responsibility to a family who merely tolerated her, but one who loved her.
Her servants tried to keep up the pace, but sooner or later, she had to slow down to allow them to catch up. Her emotions began to subside as she slowed her horse to a canter, so that by the time her horse had been cropping grass for a few moments until Hugh reined in next to her, she was mentally and physically exhausted.
"Do we stay, or press on."
"Stay for the nonce."
"Aye, Mistress."
As soon as Mary the maid drew level with them also, she led her party back down the High Street to stay at the White Lion Inn, which had looked warm and inviting, there to plan her next steps.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
But the next morning, indeed, the next few days, yielded no new leads in Denys' quest for her family. She tried the Abbey, and several other local religious houses, but no one was able to identify the woman or the owner of the lovely rosary.
Much as she hated to admit it, after three days Denys was forced to head back to her current residence, Westminster Palace, to get more information and plan the next stage of her search.
Court had just reconvened when Denys returned. The palace was aired out, the privy closets clean, fresh rushes strewn over the floors.
She passed by the great hall, abuzz with preparation for the evening's banquet. Scullery maids were on their hands and knees polishing the tiles and would toil away until they gleamed like mirrors. Servitors scurried about, laying linen cloths, plates and goblets. The crystal salt cellar that separated the nobles from the commoners was set at the high table's center.
Adjusting her head-dress now that she was at court once more, Denys headed towards the chapel for vespers, looked up, and saw Valentine hurrying up to her.
A pang of excitement visited her breast, and she embraced it like a welcomed guest.
His dress was in the splendid fashion of a noble of his rank. His blue velvet doublet was furred with red fox, the sleeves lined with blue satin. A girdle cinched his waist, gleaming in rubies, sapphires and diamonds, matching the sparkling collar round his neck. The rolled brim of his jeweled cap was satin. A long feather trailed from behind it.
"Meet me at the twisted elm. I must speak to you," he whispered as he bowed formally over her hand.
"Why can you not talk me here and now?" she said, casting her glance around the nearly empty chapel.
"The walls have ears."
"I see."
She was disappointed he didn't ask how her quest had gone, after all he'd said at their parting. She desperately needed to release her frustrations and disappointment, and had looked forward to unburdening herself on his strong shoulders.
But he looked too flustered over something else, and was correct about the level of spying in the palace.
His brows drew downwards. "Fear not lest you think I am pressing my unwanted suit," he said quickly, when he sensed her stiffening manner toward him. "My proposed conversation regards your..." He lowered his voice to a whisper, rendering it absolutely necessary to bring his lips to her ear, "...your search."
"You found something? What?" she exclaimed, her small foot stomping on the stone floor.
He put his finger to his lips.
"Just meet me there as fast as your legs can take you." He turned and skirted the worshipers coming down the central aisle, and vanished out the chapel door.
She sat barely listening to the service as she turned over and over in her mind what he had said. About her search… Unwanted suit. Nay, not so unwanted, not any longer, she had to admit with an inward sigh. In fact, while she had been away, she had never wanted him more.
As soon as the priest and servitors departed in their recessional, she picked up her skirts and got to her feet. With a mere bob for her genuflection, she hurried out of the chapel door and she hastened down to the elm tree at the river's edge, the very spot she had met him that fateful night when he had been bathing naked in the river.
She had stolen his clothes then in a fit of ire over all the unflattering things he had said about her to her face, but perhaps it was time to stop holding that pique of her pride against him, and begin to trust him as an ally, mayhap even a lover.
Valentine was waiting for her, watering his mount.
She approached him and demanded, "So, what have you found out?"
She realized she should probably have been more subtle with this clever man, but to her relief, his eyes were bright and anxious. He even looked uncharacteristically agitated, a shock of blond hair escaping his hat brim.
"I came across some information. Margaret Holland, Countess
of Somerset is somehow connected with your—"
"The Countess of Somerset? I know her not—"
The loud pounding of hooves from the direction of the palace on the earth alerted them. She backed into the shade of the tree, looking as though she was simply taking shelter there, while he tended to his animal's needs.
"Good morrow, Sir."
He looked up with a wave of greeting and a bright accommodating smile. "Cheers, Alan. To you, too. What brings you here?"
