Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga) (14 page)

"Margaret Beaufort holds a rather distant claim to the throne. She
may even come forth in a bid for it—for herself or for her son.
The throne is literally up for grabs at the present."
"You mean she may finance yet another army for Henry Tudor and try
to usurp the throne? With all this going on?" The mere thought was
preposterous.
"I know not if it'll be Henry Tudor or just another ugly
Lancastrian lot. But all hell can break loose and it will happen a
lot faster if I simply go trotting off into the sunset!" She
realized the gravity of his situation, of the painful decisions he
had to make, how quickly time was running out. No longer the young
knight and Lord of his northern realm, Richard now carried the
weight of the entire world on his shoulders. And it showed.
She turned away from his discomfited gaze out the window to the
inky depths of the busy river, streaming with barges and trading
vessels, then further beyond at the vastness of the realm, the
stretch of marsh to Battersea and the blue-green Surrey hills
beyond. The increasingly threatening clouds hovered upon them. She
felt trapped between many elements of the unknown, at the mercy of
whichever way this voyage took them—helpless, out of control for
the first time. She prayed.
"We'll just have to take one step at a time. Do not talk of
thrones or pretenders just yet," Richard added quickly. "‘Tis too
early to tell. I am here; that is the important thing, and I am
not leaving."
"And it all will go exactly your way?" she asked, turning to face
him. "You don't have the command over life that you think you do."
"It may not necessarily fall into place the way I want it to, as
hard as I may try," he answered, reaching up to rub his eyes. "I
believe you can't argue with fate. Our lives are charted from the
day we are born. ‘Tis in the stars; since the beginning of time
man has known that. It's the way we fit into the scheme of things.
Whatever's planned for us is going to happen whether we want it to
or not. I was summoned here for a reason; ‘tis my fate to be here,
and I am not going to defy fate."
"Nay, I don't believe in the stars or the supernatural. I believe
that I've got a free will, and I use it. I make the decisions; I
am not ruled by any gods or whatever the Babylonians dreamed up.
It's pure science. You're not in someone else's hands, because you
are in your own hands." Such a confident individualist as Richard
could easily thwart fate and control his own life.
"Enough has gone amiss in my life, things happened beyond my
control," he said.
"They went amiss because you let them."
"Oh, really, I let my father die, then? Nay, you can thank the
bloody Lancastrians for that!" he snapped.
"We all die, Richard. It's part of the cycle. We all get to heaven
in the end, no matter which path takes us there.
Some of us lose our parents, some outlive our brothers and
children." He looked at her and gave a solemn nod. Looking
closely, she could see his hands were trembling slightly.
Oh, how she wished they could just escape all this! "Am I not
trying to do what is right for this kingdom?" he implored.
"I understand your fears, I appreciate that you are deathly
afraid. But I cannot afford that luxury. I cannot run away; I
cannot be afraid. I must decimate the Woodville faction and thwart
any other rebels, may it be Margaret Beaufort or her pox-faced
son. I must go now, Dove. I need to summon my first Council."
She turned to leave. "Very well, I shall go, but please tread
carefully. Watch out for all of them."
"They are busy enough watching out for me." The usher opened
Burleigh House's front door to Sir Valentine, outfitted like
royalty. He swept off his plumed hat and Denys fell into his arms.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After a private dinner in the solar, which she hardly touched,
they sat together watching the early summer sunset.
"What happened at that Council meeting?" she dared to ask at last,
though she dreaded the news and the need to talk of anything other
than their romantic future, the loving marriage they had created
for themselves which was now under threat by forces not even her
daring husband could control.
He stroked her hand reassuringly. "Parliament proclaimed Richard
Protector and Defensor of the Realm, as per Edward's will."
"Protector and Defensor? And what about you?"
"He made me his chief councllor, for the time being."
"For the time being? The only step above that is king." He took a
generous swig of wine. "This is happening fast enough so that I
can't even think straight. Don't rush things, please, Dove," he
said, staring deeply into the jewels of his ring.
"But you're enjoying all the politics, aren't you?" He stood and
turned to face her.
She looked at him in the sinking sun. Despite the boundless energy
he always thrived on, he'd had an enormous amount of
responsibility thrust upon him in a short time and it was
beginning to show, to replace that innocence of those early
carefree days.
His hair rustled in the breeze through the open window.
He blocked out all light except of that shining around his figure
like an aura. She could never leave him, even if Richard turned
out to be a power hungry dragon usurping the throne from his
nephew, forcing Valentine to assist him along the way. There was
no turning back now. His presence drew her to him, especially now
when he was running his thumb up the inside of her wrist so gently
. . .
"Oh, Valentine, this is what I began to dread, ever since you got
that note announcing Uncle Ned's death and Richard rushed you off
to court with him. We'll never see our beloved home again." Tears
of longing sprang to her eyes as she pictured her lovely garden,
those purple moors.
London had none of it. London had nothing for her but bitter
memories of court politics, back-stabbing and power mongers. Now
they were caught up in it all.
"Oh, cease your dreading, Dove. Ponder the good parts. With
Richard as Lord Protector, we will be royal courtiers and could
have any castle, any manor, any lands we wish.
"We will have the second largest retinue of servitors to the
royals themselves, the court banquets and feasts will be ours to
attend as we wished. That will be you and me at the high table
instead of Elizabeth's brothers and their tatty wives.
That will be me riding through the town to the blasts of clarions
and trumpets. All ours, Dove, riches beyond your wildest
imagination! "Think of the gowns, the silks, the satins, the
ermine and sable furred capes trailing on the floor behind you,
the cloth of gold and silver, sparkling jewels on your fingers and
around your beautiful neck." He reached for her, but she pushed
him firmly away.
"I want none of those things. I want to go back to Yorkshire, to
our cozy home, to the realm I love! I do not want Westminster
Palace and all its grandeur! I care not about jewels and banquets
and royal trappings. Or dare I say ‘traps'?"
"Well, this is what
I
want, Dove. Ever since age nine,
when I suffered my father's death, I wanted to live the life he
never lived, to have what he'd fought for but never lived to
attain. Now is my chance to make him proud of me—" He hesitated,
then said in a somber tone, "to make you proud of me, too."
"I am already proud of you! I was proud enough of you when you
were governor of Yorkshire."
"This is something I must do, Dove. Just the way you must find
your family. I'll never be king, so this is my chance for
greatness. This is my quest."
"It all scares me, Valentine." She was barely able to speak, her
mouth was so dry with fear. "We've already got the Lancastrians as
enemies. We've got Henry Tudor vying for the crown, and his mother
spying on the court. The Woodvilles are as treacherous as ever.
Now there's Richard moving in on the throne with you at his side.
Why couldn't he leave us in Yorkshire?"
"He needs me," was his simple answer, without a trace of conceit.
And she knew all too well that was true.
"My father's last words to me were to give something back to my
kingdom—something great." He spoke as if to God, in a tone she'd
never heard him use before. His voice rumbled with emotions that
sent a chill up her spine. "Now is my chance."
"Valentine, I know you want to honor his memory. But you were
doing that already so beautifully. I'm sure he didn't want you to
be a martyr—or a saint."
"Nay, although being a saint is all well and good. Saints make the
most beloved leaders. They are revered and worshiped by us mere
mortals throughout history. But they make paltry husbands. And
tedious, boring, lifeless lovers."
He rose and approached her, her already nervous heart leaping in
anticipation. The last wedge of light was fading in the window's
colored glass as he gathered her into his arms and began kissing
her tenderly on the forehead, nose, cheeks and lips.
"They are modest..." he murmured, running his fingertips over her
throat and down to the neckline of her bodice, "...and
priggish..." causing her to shiver under the tortuously delicate
touch.
"It will all work out, I promise," he was whispering into her ear,
nibbling at it lightly as his hands began unlacing her bodice.
"You have nothing to fear, I shall always look after you."
And oh, how she wanted to believe him. She felt her knees buckle
under her and he swept her into his arms. She wanted no harm to
come to any of them; she knew full well that the slightest
disagreement between Valentine and Richard would mean destruction
for them all. They had too many enemies. How she hoped the
delicate balance could be upheld. The entire kingdom depended on
it.
"My love, I want to give you a life fit for a queen." He sighed
and looked about for a split second, then turned into the nearest
room, which happened to be the solar. He placed her in the
cushioned window-seat overlooking the garden, the sun's last rays
caressing the petals and darkening the green leaves and silver
birch, casting gold and orange tones on the walls. His hair had
darkened with the fading light but shone like the rippling
wavelets of the river beyond them.
"No more talk of politics tonight, just talk of love," he
whispered, untying her skirts and letting them slip to the floor.
She was searching his lips with hers, her hands nimbly exploring
the thick locks of his hair, the taut muscles of his arms and the
long, rangy body that made her pulses leap with excitement.
He responded immediately, lowering his body onto hers and
returning the kiss with the same trembling emotion, his gently
parted lips smothering hers, his body bursting to conquer hers
once again.
With the setting sun casting a golden tincture upon their bodies,
they came together in an orgy of exploration, their passion
mounting with each intoxicating touch. An array of wild sensations
pulsated through her at his light, too light touch that left her
straining against him for more.
He deliberately held back, her heart pounding, her eyes half shut
to the misty haze around her as the soft breeze played a docile
dance upon her flesh. He'd removed her clothes so swiftly she
didn't realize she was naked until those now familiar pangs of
desire caused her pulses to throb. She caressed him and felt him
harden under his hose, opening her eyes to gaze downward at the
hose hugging his bulges as if it would burst any second.
She tugged at the confining garments and he slipped out of them
easily, threw aside his surcoat and flipped off his shirt. She
shivered in the breeze and under his caresses, and he covered her
body with his. He grasped her legs and wound them around his
buttocks, not entering her yet, but tormenting her with prolonged,
agonizingly slow strokes.
Inside she was a blazing fire that could only be doused by the
effusion of his passion. She reached down, felt his demanding
hardness against her and eased him into her. He submerged into her
with a mounting rhythm, slowly at first, then accelerating into a
pounding desperation.
Suddenly he thrust his hips forward and stopped, letting her
continue and she moved against him, his hardness stationery inside
her, until she burst into a consuming flame, her breath and body
in time with the spasmodic pulsating of her body, as her mind
soared and let her body take over.
With one final forward thrust, he released a surge of emotion that
made him cry out her name again and again.
They eased to a halt, their sweat mingling, their hair plastered
to their heads. His eyes bored through her as never before,
penetrating her soul. All the energy had vanished into serenity,
leaving nothing but two blue embers glowing with his satiated
desire for her.
"‘Tis you, Dove. You're the only woman I've ever loved. Please
don't ever leave me. I could never survive alone. I would let my
animal instincts get the best of me. For that is what men are.
Animals. Fighting, gorging, spitting animals. I need you to keep
me tame." His eyes locked with hers as their bodies had just a few
minutes ago in dizzying rapture.
"Making love to you keeps you tame? It turns you into more of a
wild man than I can picture you on the battlefield." She smiled
and let a hand dawdle on his thigh.
"You call me wild? With that bucking, writhing body beneath mine,
moaning my name for half of London to hear?" He spoke between
light feathery kisses on her neck.
"I was simply performing my marital duties." He laughed, flicking
his tongue over her neck, gently brushing the damp tendrils out of
her eyes. "No woman makes love to a man with such passion, with
such intensity, and considers it a mere duty."
"I was never given any instruction in how to engage in the
activity, my Lord. Not even by Bess Woodville."
"Then you simply have a natural talent for it." The next morning,
before Denys was awake, Valentine received a message from
Elizabeth in her Westminster sanctuary.
She was inviting them to a small fete in honor of her daughter
Elizabeth's sixteenth birthday. The note stated that the child so
wished to see her step-cousin and her husband.
He thought quickly and smiled at an idea that popped into his
head. He woke Denys and told her about the invitation.
"I am not going," she declared, nestling back under the coverlet.
"I have naught to say to Elizabeth Woodville. We said our final
farewells when she sent me from court for the last time."
"Then do you mind if I go?" he asked, spreading her hair over the
pillow and watching as the sun made it sparkle like a splaying of
diamonds.
"What do you care about her daughter? And why do you wish to see
Elizabeth Woodville, for that matter? Have you not been exposed to
enough of her cruelty and deception? She wants something,
Valentine. She would not invite us to a fete simply because she
enjoys our company."
"Young Elizabeth is but a child; a helpless cub caught in a bear
trap. ‘Twould do her the world of good to have some company.
Besides, you share my sentiments exactly. But she is not the only
one who wants something. I want something from the Queen, and I
intend to get it." He kissed Denys' forehead and turned to leave.
"Wait!" She reached out from under the coverlet and grabbed the
bottom of his tunic. "What are you planning to do, Valentine?"
"I plan to beat that old codger at her own game," he declared and
strode out of the chamber.
Denys was unable to sleep after Valentine left. Her stomach was
churning with fear. She knew he was headed for trouble, involving
himself so closely with this power struggle for the crown.
She rang for her lady-in-waiting to bring her some breakfast and a
bath. She would persuade him to go back to Yorkshire with her, but
this time really try to convince him that he was much more needed
by his subjects in the north than here at this treacherous court.
"Your Highness, ‘tis so good to see you." Valentine held Queen
Elizabeth's claw-like hands in his and bowed before his deposed
dowager Queen, plopped on cushions on the floor like an over-aged
hen. "It has been such a long time. I sincerely hope we can bury
any differences we may have had in the past."
"Your taking my niece off my hands has more than made up for any
differences we may have had, Valentine," she replied. "And that
was a long time ago. So much has happened since then." She shook
her head sadly, wisps of wiry gray hair escaping her headdress and
floating around her head like the stray strands of a spider's web.
Young Elizabeth then appeared and Valentine greeted her cordially.
"And Lady Elizabeth, you look ravishing. My, you grow more
beautiful with every birthday, and I daresay after another sixteen
you will be twice as beautiful as you are now."
Queen Elizabeth's figure was indeed slender, no bumps, no curves.
She was quite boyish, in fact, except for her long hair cascading
down her back. Her sulky pout caused her lips to swell, the only
feature Valentine found appealing as he bowed before her. He felt
no physical attraction.
She put a hand to her blushing face and giggled, bowing her head,
rushing over to where her mother was and, sitting on a wooden
stool, spread her skirts around her.
Queen Elizabeth's other children were present as well as the few
hangers-on that had stood by her in her time of transition. They
regarded Valentine with an air of suspicion, knowing he was such a
close friend of Richard's.
After a modest meal, during which Valentine noticed young
Elizabeth ogling him and giggling every time he glanced her way,
Queen Elizabeth brought him to an outer chamber and, with a
pathetic batting of her lashes, proceeded to open the conversation
he'd anticipated.
"Valentine," she began, employing a tone he'd only heard when she
was cajoling her late husband into raiding the treasury for
another trunk-load of sable pelts, "The Duke of Gloucester has
pledged his allegiance to my son and as you know, has set the
coronation date for the twenty-third of May."