Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga) (12 page)

Glancing at Valentine, Denys could see the pang of longing in his
eyes, but nowhere did it match the emptiness in her heart. Having
her own child to look forward to would have made this so much
easier. But she stood, quietly taking in all the ooh-ing and
aah-ing over the sleeping infant. She took a moment to pray for a
miracle of their own.
Anne was suffering a slow recovery from the childbirth and was
bedridden. Denys had paid a visit to her chambers, found her
asleep, and backed out again quietly. So it was the three of them,
Richard, Valentine and Denys, alone for the first time since that
day in the court chapel when Valentine had found out who the
‘hideous cow' of Richard's description really was.
Valentine, dazzlingly handsome with a grin of true happiness,
looked elated that the three of them were alone together again,
even if for just this short time, but Richard seemed preoccupied.
The furrow hadn't left his brow, and his stooped posture of old
indicated that he had much more on his mind than reminiscing about
their salad days.
"Let us fetch some wine and cheese and sit out under the stars!"
Valentine exclaimed as they descended Middleham's exterior
staircase. "We can sit up and talk all evening."
But not even Valentine could ease Richard's gloom.
"Nay, Val, a grave matter has just come to my attention and I
would not be good company tonight."
They walked down the corridor towards Richard's private solar and
he sat in a chair at the window, his back to them.
They sat on either side of him and Denys said, "What is it,
Richard? You can tell us."
"George."
Valentine and Denys exchanged troubled glances over Richard's
head, knowing the mere mention of that name meant crisis. "What
has he done now?" Valentine asked.
"For one thing, his wife is dying of consumption. But please do
not tell Anne; she is in delicate enough condition already. If she
knew her sister was about to breathe her last, she would perish
soon after."
"Oh, I am sorry, Richard."
She hadn't known Isabel all that well, but hers seemed like a
lifetime of misery, from her marriage to George at her father's
instigation, to the birth of a son, Edward, diagnosed as
simple-minded.
"The Duke of Burgundy died recently, leaving behind his daughter
Mary. As Burgundy is our biggest ally, King Edward summoned a
Great Council from which I returned yesterday. George was also
present."
He took a deep breath as if reluctant to even mention his
brother's name, and went on. "George has it in his artless mind
that as soon as Isabel is in her grave, he can wed Mary of
Burgundy, and keep Burgundy in the English orbit. He also made no
pretense of hiding the fact that he intended to use this marriage
to pinch Edward's crown again."
"What did Mary of Burgundy have to say about all this?" Denys
asked.
"Mary wants no part of George. She needs a prince, not a greedy
English duke. George was miffed enough about that. Now, to top it
all off, Bess Woodville, predictably enough, wants Mary to marry
her brother Anthony. Another opportunity to advance the
Woodvilles.
"Well, George was livid. He went running through the palace,
screaming and yelling, refusing to eat or drink, insisting Bess
was trying to poison him. He made a right prat of himself.
"Edward is at the end of his tether with the lot of them. I could
see in his eyes how he wishes he could just get away from it all;
start over, and be someone else. Somehow I always thought Edward
wished he'd been born a commoner, without all these perils of
lordly rule and kingship."
"So George has been put in his place," Denys said. "Until
next
time."
"I don't think there will be a next time," Richard said, shaking
his head. "He has done more, much, much more. He rounded up some
rabble, spread the word that Edward practiced the Black Arts and
was poisoning his subjects, and babbled that his son young Edward
is a bastard. If that weren't enough, he accused Isabel's former
servant of poisoning his son. The servant was brought before a
jury and hanged. George concocted all these trumped-up charges to
suggest she'd been a Woodville accomplice.
"He sounds as though he has lost all reason," Valentine commented
grimly.
"Indeed, going up against my aunt in so open a fashion is the
height of madness."
"To retaliate, Elizabeth started driving Edward round the bend
with tales about George, what an evil scoundrel he is, recounting
all the times he'd tried to usurp the throne. The last night I was
there, at the high table, Elizabeth declared that her sons by
Edward would never ascend the throne unless George were removed
from the line of succession completely."
"So where did they leave it?" Denys asked. "Surely Edward would
not let any harm come to his brother, not for the Woodvilles'
sake."
Valentine had been sitting through all this listening very
intently, growing more somber by the minute.He fiddled with his
rings almost nervously, his wife noted, with his eyes fixed to the
floor.
"Elizabeth insisted that George be arrested and put in the Tower.
And if she gets her way, his days are numbered."
Denys gasped and Valentine registered a look of anticipation. His
eyes brightened. He leaned forward.
Richard continued, "I pleaded with Edward to give this some
thought. But he told me as much as it pains him to say so, he
believed George's suppression would be the best thing. He actually
went along with his wife. Oh, that witch!"
"Now Elizabeth's sons are one step closer to the throne,"
Valentine said quietly, no emotion in his voice.
Richard sat up and shot Valentine an enigmatic glance. "And so am
I."
The minute they were home and the door closed behind them, Denys
reached out and clutched Valentine's arm, a pang of fear piercing
her heart. "Valentine, this is all very frightening to me."
He flicked off his cloak and began removing his pourpoint and
shoes even before they were up the stairs.
"Fret not, Dove. Richard knows what's best for the kingdom.
Elizabeth Woodville has been driving them all mad. You should know
that better than anyone, being raised by the old harpy. Richard
detests them almost as much as you do, and with good reason. They
have made his family's life a living hell."
"But something tells me Edward wasn't the only one who wanted
George out of the way."
"I do admit, he wouldn't beat out Henry Tudor in a popularity
contest."
"Valentine, did you notice how calm Richard looked through all
that?"
He gave a lazy smile. "When have you seen him not look calm?"
"You realize George's elimination would further assure Richard's
succession."
"Well, at least Elizabeth Woodville wouldn't be queen anymore," he
said with a wry smile.
"Do not jest, Valentine. The kingdom is crawling with pretenders."
"The biggest pretender we have to worry about is Henry Tudor, and
he's in exile in France. He rears his ugly head when his mother
bribes someone to spy for her, but do not worry your pretty head
about it. Margaret Beaufort is living at Hawarden on the Welsh
border, and she knows her last spying mission had better have been
her last, or it's the Tower for her, too. The crown is safe on
Edward's capable head."
"And I hope it stays that way." She didn't want to discuss
politics tonight—a subject she dreaded anyway. Tonight was their
six month's anniversary, and she wanted politics out of their
bedchamber, for she had other plans. Plans that had little to do
with chit-chat.

 

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
That evening she took a leisurely bath in the cushioned tub filled
with perfumed rosewater. As the sweet fragrance soothed her, her
thoughts remained on Valentine and what she was planning for this
eve. She pictured him in bed, his body warm with sleep, his
muscles relaxed, his breathing calm, his face peaceful and
relaxed.
She thrilled at the idea of sliding under the covers with him,
fondling him gently under the sheet, arousing him, teasing him
into wakefulness, feeling his warm lips parting gently beneath
hers...oh, she wanted him!
She ran a hand up her thigh slowly, imagining it was his touch.
She wanted to make life easier for him, to share his laughter and
his troubles, to assure him that he had nothing to prove to her,
were he king or a common artisan. She wanted him at her side when
she found her family, to share his joy, his pain, his life.
Oh, it was so strange, this warm yet scary feeling, causing her
heart to flutter with a bouncy rhythm. She'd dug far enough
beneath his surface, past all the insecurities he'd masked with
arrogance and found the gentle, loving man she'd been sought, who
flooded her with warmth every time she thought of him.
Her own live, breathing storybook knight. "Not only do I love him,
I'm in love with him!" she whispered, gazing out the window
through the trees that parted to make the path leading to their
home.
She rose from the tub and wrapped herself in the towel. "I've
fallen in love with you, Valentine!" she sang softly. It didn't
matter whether he heard her because in just a few moments, she
would show him.
All was quiet when she slipped into her chamber. She unwound the
towel and slipped on a satin nightdress, brushed her hair until it
shone, dabbed rose and lavender oil on her neck, on the insides of
her knees, elbows and thighs, and stole away to his chambers. She
opened the door to his inner chamber and tiptoed in. Valentine's
face glowed in the candlelight beside him. She stood for a moment,
watching his chest rise and fall as he slept.
She positioned a log in the hearth, lit it, and soon the chamber
was aglow.
She crept into bed next to him and began caressing the mat of
curls on his chest, slid her hand lower and fondled his inner
thighs with the tips of her nails. He was naked under the
coverlet. He stirred with a sleepy groan and his manhood surged
against the covers, arousing a pulsating ardor throughout her,
sending an urgent fan of flames through her loins. A warm
moistness began to flow through her and she tore the nightdress
off and whipped it across the room.
He opened his eyes; she saw the bright flash of blue ringed by the
golden lashes. He smiled sleepily and turned to face her. With a
soft moan, he held out his arms and enveloped her in his warmth.
Her lips trailed a gentle column of kisses down his neck, as soft
as rose petals against his clean skin. His fingers wound through
her hair and tenderly fanned it over his chest. In the gathering
light their hot breaths mingled and their mouths found each other.
She kicked the coverlet away and tossed it on the floor, their
bodies prolonging a desperate embrace, Valentine's awareness
flooding her with a pang of desire. His fingertips slowly moved
down to lightly fondle her breasts, and a dizzying wave of
unbearable want ripped through the lower part of her body. She
arched her back towards him and he pulled away gently.
"Not yet," he whispered, his lips and tongue sipping leisurely at
the valley between her breasts as his hands moved further down to
make feathery patterns on her stomach and thighs.
Wild with desire for him to fill her, she reached down and
encircled him in her hand, sliding up and down over the throbbing
shaft, clasping the silky globe that caused him to shudder
convulsively. She gasped his name again, as her breaths were
ragged with the exquisite torture he was inflicting on her with
his hands and tongue, now nipping at the insides of her thighs as
her legs wound round his head.
After several agonizing moments of teasing, with his tongue
flicking over the sensitive flesh of her thighs and abdomen, he
nestled his head in between her legs and with a shuddering rush of
longing, she grasped at his hair, letting wave after wave of
flaming fury rent through her, bursting in an eruption of
resplendence.
His body covered hers now. Her thighs parted and, running her lips
lightly over his neck, she found him and took him inside her,
slowly, slowly, until he was hers completely. Their bodies arched,
eased and tensed, like the pinnacles and dales of a dreamy piece
of music, each chord blending, filling the world with richness and
tone, loudness and softness. She closed her eyes and felt his
passion pour into her.
In the aftermath of soothing release, he clasped her hands and
they caught their breaths, nestled in the soft feather mattress.
They lay together in silence, the dying fire in the hearth reduced
to an orange bed of embers. The torch in the hallway outside threw
out weak shadowy light, mingling with the sunlight that was
beginning to shine in narrow lines through the drawn curtains.
They talked of his family, how he wished his father could see his
beautiful wife, and their hopes of finding her own family. Once
again, their nearness precluded any serious talk.
His lips and tongue were nipping at her breasts now, and she took
in a ragged breath.
"You may journey to the ends of the earth to find them, as long as
you come home to this..." He ground his hips against her, once
again hardened with desire, causing her to gasp in wonder. She
buried her face in the golden hair, sprinkled with the sunlight
dancing over him as he moved down the length of her body, causing
her to arch towards him instinctively.
"I love you," he whispered.
"Oh, Valentine, it means so much for me to hear that," she
replied, her breath ragged.
"Cold?" he asked, slipping his arm around her neck, nuzzling her
hair, his warm breath bringing goose bumps to the surface of her
chilly flesh.
"Not anymore," she answered, her voice barely a whisper, for he
took the breath out of her whenever he touched her like this.
"Dove," he murmured again and again, parting his lips to join
hers. Fingers splayed, she stroked his hair, wanting to touch him
everywhere, not knowing at what point to stop.
He finally drew away and looked deeply into her eyes, bringing her
down on top of him as he lay back. The heat from the fire warmed
her back and intensified the hot trail of kisses he blazed across
the hollow of her neck.
"I'd like to take you for a walk through the woods," he whispered.
"I found a cave in a little clearing near the castle a long time
ago, and I used to love going there as a child."
"How did you find it?"
"Oh, just by exploring. And I'd like to do some more." His voice
broke as he took her again into his arms. Their thighs pressed
tightly together and he brought his lips to hers, breathing
slowly, searing kisses into her, causing blood to rush through her
throbbing veins. She expelled short, hot breaths from her parted
lips as he pulled away slowly. She moaned in frustration, her body
throbbing for more of his warmth, more of his electrifying
caresses.
He ran his hand along her curves with exquisite mastery as she
wriggled closer against his thick mat of chest hair, thrusting her
fingers through the spindly roughness, such a contrast to the
smoothness of his face.
"Lie back. I want to do everything," he murmured, his voice
rumbling from the depths of his throat like the rustling of silk
on velvet. She stretched out as his lips played upon her cheeks,
her eyelids, her chin. Hot shivers rocketed through her. He
searched out the hollow of her neck, teased and tasted the sweet
fragrance of her perfume singeing the air with every beat of her
pulse.
His fingers fanned over one breast, lightly and with torturous
pleasure. She gasped as he lowered his mouth to her breasts,
slowly tracing a circular path with his tongue. He moaned as she
traced a finger up the curve of his back. When his hands had
ridden down her body and found the core of her desire, she arched
herself against his rigid manhood, sliding him into her slowly,
their bodies trembling with a yearning, mounting passion.
When he made love to her, she thought she was soaring into another
existence. Every touch of his fingertips, every caress was
magnified, intensified by thousands, her body one thirsty sponge
of receptiveness, her nerve endings alive, responding, begging.
The climax was an eruption of sensuality; an explosion of pent-up
tension.
Then they lay still dizzily, relaxing.
He got up and tossed another log onto the fire, then came back to
bed and drew the curtain around them. This new strange sense of
decadent freedom aroused her wildly.
He leaned over and kissed her. The scent of his body aroused even
her taste buds. His hands were so nimble and skillful as he
caressed her, their mouths locked together. His body then covered
hers and all she could hear was his heavy breathing. Her hands
found and massaged him until he felt adequate to satiate her
again.
She eased him inside her and he started thrusting slowly, gyrating
and moving with her. He stroked her, fondled her, played her like
the strings of an instrument. He put her to music, their bodies
attuned to each other in an exquisite blend as they exploded into
crashing chords, fading into oblivion as the music ended.
"I've never wanted anyone this much in my life," he whispered.
They lay locked together, letting the ebb of their pulsating
bodies subside, drinking in each other's awareness, tasting shared
delights.
"I never knew it could be like this," she sighed, trying to push
away the uneasy feeling which gnawed at the back of her mind that
to love so intensely was to risk all.
The chill air invaded their cocoon of love once again, compelling
them back to earth as Valentine's Esquire of the Body entered to
dress him for the day.
A week later, a messenger arrived bearing Richard's standard, with
a brief note from him. George had been sentenced to death and
executed.
"
My only
consolation is that he went as only George would have wanted to
go
," Richard wrote. "
He was drowned in a cask of Malmsey wine
."
She glanced at Valentine through tears of sadness.
"I can assure you he went with a smile, Dove," Valentine said,
although his voice was dry and heavy with defeat.
She went into their chapel alone, to say a prayer for George's
soul. She closed her eyes and could see his cordial smile, could
hear him telling one of his bawdy stories. Whether they were true
or not didn't matter; he never failed to evoke roaring laughter.
George, who'd wanted to sit on the throne so badly, he'd tried
every subversive act to seize it.
George, who had betrayed his own brothers.
George, whose ambition had accompanied him to the grave.
She felt the grimmest sense of foreboding as she prayed.
Executions were bad enough. One of such cunning was worse.
And try as she might, she could not help but wonder what it meant
for them all now. Elizabeth was nothing if not vindictive to
anyone who seemed to thwart her desires or not treat her with the
deference she demanded as her due for herself and her entire
upstart family.
Now Richard was a step closer to the throne. Which meant Valentine
was about to reach the pinnacle of his power. Yet the closer they
were to power, the more there was to fear…
She shuddered in terror, feeling as though someone had walked over
her grave.
Who
would be the next to die in the quest for the English throne
?
she wondered.
Valentine, seeking her out and sensing her unease, gave her a
reassuring hug. "Oh, come now, Dove. Why do you think someone else
is doomed to perish just because the King couldn't take any more
of George's antics?"
But his words brought no comfort to her. She loved her husband
more than she ever thought possible, but to love so intensely was
to risk all. Despite his leading her from the chapel and sweeping
her into his arms for the most passionate embraces, at the back of
her mind, Denys could not help thinking that the kingdom was
destined for tragedy.
And George's execution would be just the beginning.....