Destiny Lies Waiting (26 page)

Her mind shut out Elizabeth's screeching and wandered. The newcomer with the exalted title was the handsomest and most dashing man at court, save for King Edward. Not an evening went by when he wasn't flirting, teasing, or twirling the giggling ladies about the floor.

True, he vanished early on many an occasion, but she'd refused to question his whereabouts. Valentine was no saint. No man of rank was. But there was not yet any degree of understanding between them that would give her the right to do so.

And she knew Elizabeth of old. She did nothing without a reason. This was yet another attempt to blacken Valentine, though why she was so determined to ruin him was beyond her.

First Elizabeth had spread rumors far and wide that he had murdered her own brother-in-law, when he had been nowhere near the part of the battle where the man had died.

Now this attack on his morals, which meant that either she had something against Valentine, or she'd wheedled him into being her latest cohort and this was all an act to cover it up.

Knowing her aunt the way she did, and still harboring doubts about Valentine, it could as easily be the former as the latter.

In which case, his information about the Duchess of Somerset might be a mere ruse, or even some trap…

She began to wonder if the ambitious Valentine Starbury had accepted some nefarious proposition in exchange for a Woodville favor or two. After all, the highest titles were always bestowed upon her relatives. Giving the Dukedom of Norwich to a non-Woodville carried more than a vestige of suspicion.

Why had she not seen it all before…

She grew more wary by the second of Valentine Starbury as Elizabeth raged about her unseemly behavior.

"Nay, I was out for a walk, he stopped to water his mount. His squire Alan was with him. He can bear witness that there wasn't anything the least bit lover-like or inappropriate in the chance encounter."

Denys felt the walls closing in on her, and determined never to show the Duke of Norwich a fraction of the ardor all those other silly twits lavished on him.

She would remain aloof and keep her distance for her own protection. Now all she had to do was convince her heart.

At last Elizabeth seemed to believe her protestations. "If this is true, then mayhap you are the only girl in England or France who has not had her head turned by the prancing young buck."

"I am wise to his flirtatious ways and do not plan to let his too obvious charms ensnare me. That was the sum total of our conversation at the river. I ran into him, he stopped to flirt. I told him to stay clear of me, for his attentions are wasted on me. He left with Alan the squire and I thought no more of the matter than of the buzzing of a flea. So what if he has bedded every damsel at court? I do not care. I shan't be one of them!" She nodded in resolution.

"I thank you for your concern, Aunt, and am sorry you were so upset at the notion that I had been duped, or compromised in some way, but I assure you, I have been well brought up and would never succumb to the blandishments of a, er, wandering minstrel."

Elizabeth scowled. "Humph, you may be saying sooth, you may not. So I choose to believe you, you wagtail. So now it is my duty to make sure you do not engage in any further such dalliances."

Denys put one hand on her heart. "I swear to you, I have not—"

"Save your breath. I am securing you another suitable marriage, and this time you'll wish you'd married Richard Plantagenet! You will have no more chances to cavort in an unseemly manner. No longer will you be allowed mar the Woodville name."

"The Woodville name is more marred than the heads upon Micklegate Bar!" she spat back despite herself.

Elizabeth swung a hand, and Denys instinctively jumped back to avoid the blow.

The older woman's eyes narrowed, but she did not try to slap her a second time.

"Get out. But so help me, if I see you as much as walking in the same tracks as that flirt-gill whilst you are still a maiden, I shall whisk you off to a nunnery, or worse! Now get ye gone. Go scrub out a privy. 'Tis all you're fit to do! Just be gone from my sight!"

Denys wasted no time, and fled, not even daring to ask who she intended to marry her off to now.

She felt as if her world were at an end. Her first thought was to confide in Valentine, but after all that Elizabeth had said about him, and her threats, that avenue was well and truly closed to her, even if he had not been away.

No, she could trust no one except her own family. Yet how could she find them, when every lead seemed a red herring or dead end? She hurried down the corridor, wishing her only friend Richard were there to help…

And telling her foolish heart to stop longing for Valentine, and a love that could never be.

That evening when Queen Elizabeth's maids were undressing her, she caught a glimpse of something strange. The lock on her top trunk was broken and it was not placed perfectly squarely atop the others. Someone had moved it and opened it!

Elizabeth ordered one of her maids to fetch it down. She flipped it open and sifted through every letter. They all appeared to be in order, but she checked the old ledger just to make sure. She'd listed every letter in that trunk and from whom it came, but didn't recall seeing Margaret Holland's letter in there.

She checked again and sure enough, it was missing. She thumbed through the other letters again.

None were missing… Just that one…

The Queen rounded up her bevy of maids, attendants, ushers, pages, barbers, and higher ranking staff members, including King Edward's gentlemen of the chamber, Lord Chamberlain and Lord Treasurer. They stood rigidly as she grilled them, one by one, on their whereabouts during the last fortnight, and if they knew aught about the missing letter.

Kat the cook looked as innocent and bewildered as any of them. And the unfortunate ones that faltered were thrown out, left to fend for themselves.

Elizabeth knew she'd dismissed these servants unjustly, because she had a good idea who'd stolen that letter. But all the same, knowledge was power, and she certainly liked to wield it.

The question was, what had Denys made of the letter, and just how much could she guess from the contents?

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Nearly the entire court had gone to a tourney in Smithfield, leaving Denys without a single ally.

The King was gone, Valentine with him. Richard was back in the north, and Denys trusted no one save her maid now, as she tried to carry out her plan to find her family.

She dreaded the thought of the prospective husband Elizabeth was dredging up for her. Surely this time it would be a punishment—and every time she wondered who this fly-bitten lout would be, she forced it out of her mind. All she cared about was finding her family. Then she would be safe…

As if she could ever feel safe with the court circle such a nest of vipers.

The only lead she still had was the one Valentine had given her before he had been dragged off by the King. It might well be a ruse, but in many cases she had learned a great number of truths even from Elizabeth's lies. Mayhap she would be able to do so again.

With her travelling retinue in tow, she started out on her journey to meet the Countess of Somerset's descendants.

But first she stopped to call on the Duke of Clarence at Pluckley House.

"George, can you tell me who Margaret Holland, Countess of Somerset was?" Denys asked the ever-smiling Duke of Clarence, apologizing for interrupting his banquet, however bawdy.

"Oh, lovely to chat with you, my dear lady, stay!"

He shoved a brimming wine goblet into her hand and led her over to the end of his high table, away from the laughing, milling guests and twangs of the instruments in the gallery above.

"I would love to stay, George, but—"

"A young Genoese explorer by the name of Colombo is about to arrive from Bristol. He has been to the far reaches of Iceland, and the desert shores of Africa! Whilst he be busy bragging about his travels, I would see if he can negotiate tankards of malmsey the way he can negotiate the waters. I heard those Italians are weaned on the
vino
, so this will be an interesting bout indeed!"

"Oh, George, I'd love to stay and watch you drink him under the dais, but I am in haste to embark upon a quest of my own, just like this...what was his name?"

"Cristoforo Colombo. Quite a mouthful, do you not think?"

"Aye. I need to ask of you a few questions, then I must be gone." She fidgeted with nervous excitement, unable even to sit.

George sensed her anxiety and nodded. "Very well, my dear, but the tourney of bevvies we're about to have will put the kingdom's every knight to shame! Now what about Holland?"

"The Countess of Somerset, Margaret Holland. Do you have any recollection of her at all?"

George stirred his wine with his forefinger, then sticking the digit into his mouth, sucked on it thoughtfully for a moment.

"As I recall, Margaret Holland died about ten years ago and her title reverted to the crown. Then King Henry bestowed it upon Edmund Mortimer's sister Cecily, descendants of Edward the Third's son Lionel. But they are of no blood relation to the original countess."

"Ta, George. You are a well of knowledge."

"All the more reason to lament a wasted talent," he said, nodding slowly. "And how goes life with you, dear lass? Has Sir Starbury succumbed to your charms, or shall I say, how hard has he fallen?"

"He appreciates the beauty of any female, be it human, beast, flower, fish or fowl," she replied, her heart surging at the mention of Valentine's name. "He sees me as just another plaything at court."

To her surprise, he shook his head. "Oh, 'tis not so, lass. I see the way he looks at you. 'Tis not the lusty eye of a rogue, nay, dear one. That's the gaze of stars sweeping over the heavens. His eyes are the stars, and you're his heaven!"

She loved the way the eloquent George chose his phrases, so mystical, yet portraying such a vivid picture. He was a master poet in the guise of a court jester.

Not even Uncle Ned, in all his striking good looks and military acumen, could ever match George's gift of golden-tongued gab.

But alas, she had to take it for the flowery rhetoric it was. Certainly not truth. Now that Richard was gone, Valentine was in the King's council chambers more than ever and she hardly saw him, so she got her distance from the dashing knight whether she wanted it or not.

She thanked him and let him get back to his banquet. It was supposedly his wife's birthday, but looking round his great hall, she didn't see Isabel anywhere. No surprise there; George hosted many a raucous gala to which he'd neglected to invite the guest of honor.

She then went to the local abbey and verified that George's recollection had been accurate. Margaret Holland was dead and someone else had been rewarded the title for the sake of political expediency.

Margaret had had a son, Ian, who lived in the small village of Witherham, near Leicester. She was glad George's memory served him best when in his cups.

As Denys left the abbey, she decided that perhaps her birth records did not exist, but the Countess of Somerset's certainly did.

She was so lost in thought, that when she left the abbey, a trio of well-dressed, hooded men trailed her not too far behind.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Witherham was so small, they'd passed through it three times without even realizing it. As usual, her retinue of maid and grooms captured the villagers' attention.

They rushed from their wattle-and-daub cottages to stare at the young woman upon the graceful mount draped in the royal colors. Apparently no one of importance ever passed through there, except maybe prisoners being dragged to their execution.

The village consisted of two narrow lanes lined with small cottages, an ancient stone church and graveyard at one end, a barn at the other.

Green strips of farmland and open meadows surrounded it, nestled in a valley surrounded by lush hills dotted with shrubs and sheep. The clouds dipped low to meet the hilltops over a feathery horizon.

Ian Holland bustled out of his cottage, his hands covered with candle wax. He was thin, except for a paunch hanging over his hose, his tunic belted tight as if to hold the sagging bulk in.