Destiny Lies Waiting (7 page)

He could load up on malmsey and she'd look better with every gobletful.

He suddenly had a thought. "I tell you what." Valentine sat straight up. "Let us play our favorite game, that we always enjoyed as lads. I've been practicing my sword skills religiously. I daresay I've become quite adept. Let us have a duel, a friendly duel, with blunted swords, of course. If I lose, I shall honor your request. But if I win..."

He held his hands out in a giving gesture. "She's all yours—at least until you rescue Anne from her father's clutches and marry her."

Valentine knew his sword-wielding skills would help earn him a dukedom someday. This was much-needed practice. He stretched out arms, flexing his bad one gingerly at first, and then with more freedom. It felt good enough.

"Challenge accepted, my friend," Richard said, his lip easing into a wily curl. "Don your armor and say your prayers forthwith! I shall expect you back here when I hear the clanging of those church bells. You win; you may do as you will. I win; you will take Dove off my hands."

Dove…

As much as Valentine loved winning, why had that one little word suddenly sapped the fight in him?

CHAPTER SEVEN

A short time later, the men returned to the field just beyond the cemetery to carry out their duel.

Richard unsheathed his sword and held it up. "You shall pay for this, my friend! Prepare to lose every vestige of your dignity!"

"There's no shortage of dignity in this world, Dickon. I shall simply collect some more!"

Valentine slammed his visor shut. His arm had begun throbbing in spasms of agony. His tight grip on the sword's hilt caused rods of fire to shoot clear up to his shoulder. But he couldn't back down now. Not when his pride was at stake.

The verbal sparring now at an end, Richard and Valentine circled each other, closer, and closer still, until the gleaming weapons finally clashed with a ringing of metal. The sun cast a blinding ray of brilliance off the swords' sharp edges. Dodging the boulders, wall, and eventually even the tombstones, the two noble soldiers entered the heat of the blazing duel, equally matched in strength, finesse, and desire to win.

Valentine knew he was a fair opponent for the highly skilled Duke of Gloucester despite his injury. They balanced each other fittingly, as had their fathers, who had died together in battle.

Valentine's movements had just a bit more fluidity, his split-second timing catching his opponent out more than once despite the fact that his arm stung like a nest of wasps.

Richard cursed under his breath in frustration as his friend dodged him yet again.

Valentine took pride in his agile footwork. He darted to the left and to the right, causing Richard further vexation. Although the shorter and leaner of the two, Richard fumbled, parried, then regained his timing, only to falter again.

"You shan't win this time, Val!" Richard's voice was strained beneath his own helm.

Valentine was glad his own visor was shut, for his lips were twisted into a grimace of determination and pain. His penetrating gaze pierced the slits of his helmet, the sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. Yet still he would not give up.

"Dic—Dickon!" he panted as their swords clashed, slid, and clashed again. Damnation. His injury wasn't as healed as he'd thought. "We needn't spar over this wench any longer!" Valentine rasped, his voice hoarse with pain.

Every clash of his sword now seemed to rip straight through his arm. "I surrender! I'll personally help you find someone else for her!"

"'Tis too late now! May the best man win, Val!" Richard called out confidently as Valentine's sword slipped in his weakened hand.

Richard's gleaming sword slashed the air, coming within inches of Valentine's throat.

But Valentine's expert maneuvers finally had his opponent cornered. Richard lost his balance, slipped and crashed backward into a slanted headstone.

Valentine moved in on the faltering Duke and let out a cry of victory. But a searing stab of agony shot through his arm, and he stumbled, giving Richard just enough time to regain his footing.

Valentine's arm went limp, his knees buckled under him, and his sword slipped to the ground like a swooning maiden.

Richard stood over him, raised his weapon and aimed for Valentine's heart...

Then laughing heartily, he tossed it aside.

Richard bent over to help Valentine to his feet. Valentine stood wearily, his arm hanging at his side like dead weight. He moaned aloud, trying to bend his elbow, clutching it with his good hand.

"Val, are you all right?" Richard sounded more stunned than concerned.

Valentine nodded quickly, leaning on the sturdy Duke of Gloucester, whose breath was as calm as if he'd been partaking of a banquet. "Just a slight injury. 'Tis nothing, really."

"From our duel?"

He shook his head. "Nay, from a minor brush with a battle axe at Barnet."

"Why did you not say so? I never would have let you raise a sword, you great puddin'!"

Valentine flicked up his visor and sighed. "Nay, I lost fairly. I shall court your cow, though I'd prefer if you'd just pack her off to a nunnery."

"You will only court her if you're physically able."

"'Tis only my arm that I've hurt. My other appendages are quite intact, I assure you," he added, under his breath.

"Very well, I shall arrange for you to meet her on the morrow. But first you must see the royal physician for that arm."

Richard bent over to retrieve both swords. They headed back to Fiddleford Manor slowly, with Valentine trying to flex his fingers every so often. Even this simple movement sent arrows of pain through his arm.

"The things I do for you."

Richard's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Oh, cease your worrying. Have I ever let you down before?"

Valentine shook his head, rolling his eyes toward heaven, then quickly back down to earth, just in case Richard's cow came clumping by.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The great hall of Westminster Palace shimmered elegantly. Candles glowed in multi-tiered chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, which was splashed with the signs of the Zodiac.

The tiles gleamed under the ladies' satin slippers and the gentlemen's leather shoes, the pointy ends fastened to their knees with sparkling chains. Couples twirled gaily as the minstrels' delightful tunes floated from the gallery above. Laughter, like the clinking of glass wine goblets, echoed throughout the tapestry-hung hall. Fresh rushes strewn about the floor sweetened the warm evening air.

King Edward and Queen Elizabeth sat at the high table, their heads together, jewels and gems threaded through their ermine-trimmed robes, a swaying sleeve spilling a tankard of wine as he playfully slipped a grape into her laughing mouth.

The hall was jammed with Elizabeth's siblings and sons from her first marriage, all now titled and landed. Her sisters were all married off to nobles. Her brothers held high positions: Anthony was a Knight of the Garter, Lionel was the Bishop of Salisbury, Richard and John were Knights of the Bath, and Edward was the commander of their private little fleet of ships that supposedly guarded the coastline.

Yet despite the superfluity of Woodvilles, even Richard seemed to be enjoying himself. He was as far as possible from his power-hungry in-laws, off in a corner with his older brother George, in the throes of animated conversation.

George was the Duke of Clarence, a perfidious subversive who caused his brother the King constant torment. All his slipshod uprisings and campaigns were aided by the Earl of Warwick, commonly referred to as the Kingmaker. Each slapdash revolt had ended in humiliating defeat for George, intensifying the rift between the brothers.

They'd recently called a truce after George's most treacherous coup, in which he had attempted to seize Edward's throne. Thwarted once again, George was basking in the afterglow of reconciliation, nestled in the family bosom.

Long may it last, Richard and Valentine both prayed as they watched him.

Richard, though younger, offered a dignified contrast to George, whose checkerboard cloak kept slipping off one shoulder. The Duke of Clarence's shoes were crimson with pointed toes nearly two feet long, little bells secured to the toes. A court jester in the guise of a nobleman, Valentine thought.

Richard, on the other hand, dressed like a monk by comparison. And he had never ever been anything other than loyal to his brother, for all his talent as a natural warrior.

Conversation and laughter rang out. The courtiers were exulting in the company of their beloved King Edward. The kingdom was at peace.

But Valentine Starbury was miserable amid all the jollity. And trying desperately to get drunk.

All the laughter and closeness made him feel like an outsider. Pangs of jealousy gnawed at his insides like hunger as he sat alone at the end of the dais. His chin was cupped in his palm, his other hand thrust deeply into his pocket, turning a coin over and over.

He was the best dressed man at court, save for the King himself. His short doublet was trimmed in sable, accentuating his narrow waist and lean hips, encircled with a gold girdle. Black satin hose molded to his legs. His hat was in the latest bycocket fashion, two peaks rising from the front and back, its brim emblazoned with metal studs.

But tonight his collar choked him, his sleeves bound his arms like shackles, and his shoes confined his toes so that he couldn't even wiggle them.

At least his injured arm wasn't giving him too much trouble. It was his conscience and his worry over flouting the Queen's plans for Richard and her niece to marry that gave him an ache.

Or was it just a kind of peculiar loneliness he just couldn't seem to shake whenever he was at court?

The scene before him was familiar yet strange; after three years in France, although happy to be back on English soil, he found it hard to slip back into the culture. Even the accents still sounded foreign to him. He needed to get reacquainted with court life here, renew old friendships and reflect on what he'd left behind, from the new perspective of a man fully grown.

He tuned out the noises around him and tried to conjure up his mother's voice, but could only recall her ragged breaths as she sobbed the tragic news to her nine-year-old child: "Father perished in the battle, my son..."

No. Not My Lord Father.
The strong, tall soldier who'd handed Valentine his first sword, taking each finger and wrapping it round the cold handle. The battle had also taken Richard's father, the great Richard of York, and knowing they were in heaven together comforted Valentine.

But it hadn't consoled Mother. She had lay down one night, hugging Father's pillow in her arms, sighed deeply and never awakened.

Valentine had sat and watched her the whole time. As night gave way to a dewy dawn, her lips froze into a peaceful smile. He remembered resting his head on a soft breast as he looked up to see Richard's mother, tears spilling from her eyes, hugging him to her to comfort him in his time of need.

Valentine had joined the bustling Plantagenet household that day, and been as close to Richard as to a brother ever since.

He had a lot of catching up to do with his surrogate family, Edward and George, after over a year away, but now was not the time. No, now he was on his mission for Richard, he reminded himself with a pang. A mission he did not wish to succeed in, but also did not wish to fail.

Trying to cheer himself up, he mentally kicked himself in the arse for the hundredth time. He cringed at his defeat in that duel with Richard. He should have known better than to tax an injured arm.

Adding to his dismay was the scowl of distaste he displayed every time a woman walked by. Glancing at every female face in the great hall, he wondered which one was the wench he was doomed to woo. Even her silly nickname escaped him—'twas the name of a bird, oh, what was it—Swan?

No, much too elegant. Ducky? Goosey? Oh, God's foot, what was it? The one time Richard mentioned her name, his mind had raced miles away, rehearsing the motions of battle as he did constantly, whether waking or dreaming.

Wishing she would appear so he could get it over with, Valentine squinted and searched for the eyes of bile, the hair of straw. But no one matching that description flitted, whirled, or even waddled past him. She was probably in her chambers translating Homer, if she was as bright as Richard claimed.