Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga) (19 page)

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
King Richard III had the most splendid coronation in the history
of the kingdom. Denys was thrilled to be a part of it, and swelled
with pride at Valentine's achievements, but still her heart was
distressed at the thought of his assuming the exalted positions
Richard wished him to take.
So she forced herself to enjoy the fanfare as the King and peerage
rode to the coronation in unequalled magnificence.
The procession rode through the streets of London the day before
the coronation amidst magnates, prelates, knights and household
attendants. The crowds cheered along the route from the Tower to
Westminster.
Richard, finally out of mourning, was draped in a purple velvet
ermine-trimmed gown over a blue cloth of gold doublet, surrounded
by his pages, dressed in white cloth of gold gowns. Anne, weakened
and frail, rode in a richly decorated litter, attended by her
ladies on horseback dressed in crimson and blue satin.
To Denys, the most resplendent figure was Valentine, in a robe of
blue velvet blazing with gold threads that glistened in the
sunlight, shooting back almost blinding rays of gold. The
procession made its way to Westminster Abbey.
Denys walked in state alone behind Richard's sister, while
Valentine walked directly behind the King, as first officer of the
coronation, with the honor of bearing his train.
The red cloth was rolled out and the procession, led by musicians
and heralds, made its way to the Abbey. A great cross led the line
of priests, abbots and bishops. Then came the principal magnates,
bearing swords, maces, the Duke of Westminster carrying the
scepter. The Duke of Windsor carried the jeweled crown in his
hands.
Richard walked with a bishop on either side, a cloth of estate
borne over his head. A troop of earls and barons preceded the
lords who carried the Queen's regalia, then Anne walked alone with
one of her ladies bearing her train. Following them was Denys, and
another line of noble ladies, knights and squires.
The procession entered The Nave and a burst of singing began. The
King and Queen walked to the head altar, were anointed with the
sacred chrism, then were arrayed in cloth of gold. Cardinal
Bourchier set the crowns upon their heads, and the music burst
from the organs. High Mass followed, and after receiving
Communion, the procession retraced its steps over the red cloth
amidst the sound of trumpets, clarions, and the organ.
The coronation banquet took place later that afternoon in
Westminster Hall, a feast of many courses at which Richard sat in
the middle of the high table on the dais, Anne at his left. Cloths
of estate were held over their heads and Valentine served him with
dishes of gold and silver.
Throughout the hall led by the King's Champion, resounded the cry,
"King Richard!" As darkness fell, attendants began entering the
hall bearing flaming torches. Before the procession of subjects,
Denys approached the royal dais. She dipped in a low curtsy, took
his hand and kissed Uncle Ned's coronation ring. Only now did it
hit her—it was no longer Uncle Ned's. It was King Richard's.
"God bless you, Your Highness," she whispered and looked up at the
jewels embedded in his crown. His eyes did not glitter quite so
brightly, but he gave her his first smile as King.
All this while in sanctuary, her sons sequestered in the Tower,
Elizabeth Woodville knew she'd lost everything in the space of two
months. The invasion by sea had also failed.
"God damn that Valentine Starbury!" she spat. And how he had
survived that barge accident, she'd never know. She could flog
herself for having told him to go to Stillington!
"Oh, how greedy I have been," she wailed, gazing forlornly at the
miniatures of her two sons, whom she knew she'd never see again.
"If only I'd wanted less, how much more I would have had!"
Richard's first appointment as King was to Valentine, whom he made
Chancellor of England. Along with that came an annuity of eleven
hundred pounds, plus the castles of Stokesay and Rockingham.
Prince Edward seemed relieved to have been spared the burden of
kingship; he simply wanted to be a boy.
"Oh, Valentine, I shall never get used to your being involved in
all this," Denys said as the moon lightly dusted their bed with a
pale beam streaming in through the open window of their chambers
in Warwick Castle.
"The throne is secure, and Elizabeth is a shriveling old woman.
Henry Tudor is more of a threat than she'll ever be."
"But he is in France. He hasn't set foot on English soil in ages."
"Nevertheless, he and his spies and his followers exist and we
must look out for him," Valentine replied. "His mother was seen
handing Bishop Rotherham a large parcel, and we don't think it's a
donation to the church."
"Are you considering capturing Tudor and taking him prisoner? Or
fighting him again?" That old fear crept up on her again like a
lingering ague.
"Nay, Richard is not like Edward once was. He likes to leave well
enough alone. ‘Tis not his style to strike first."
But Denys couldn't help thinking that her husband's was to do so.
"Just do not provoke anyone, Valentine. I could not bear to lose
you in battle."
"So you're madly in love with me and can't stand to be torn from
my loving embrace?" he asked playfully, enfolding her tightly,
causing her to shiver under the thick coverlets.
"Nay. Well, aye, but I hate battles, hate wars. I wish we could
just have peace."
"Well, then why don't you make yourself more comfortable," he
whispered, wrapping his arms round her waist and sliding the
coverlet to the floor, leaving them clad in their robes on the
cool linen sheets.
"A lot more comfortable." He ran a finger down her side, over the
curve of her body. "We are men. We can't help fighting. Just the
way we can't help loving." Already her pulse was racing.
He rose, tossed another log onto the expiring flame and returned
to bed, pulling her down gently next to him, his eyes running the
length of her body, causing little volcanoes to erupt at her pulse
points as renewed burst of desire surged through her.
"Now, what were we talking about?" he asked, his face glowing in
the flickering flames, reflections of their fire lit evenings
together. She momentarily lost all sense of time and that
romantic, night-time feeling came over her as she moved closer to
him, raising her lips, wanting with dire urgency to kiss him.
"Fighting, loving..." he whispered, holding his index finger to
her lips, tracing their delicate pout.
"Something like that."
"No more talking." She caught her breath as she felt his arms
encircle her.
She melted into his embrace and ran her hands over the smooth
musculature of his chest. Her fingers found the belt of his robe
and began to untie it. The robe fell open, revealing his exquisite
nakedness. She slipped her hand between his thighs. He inched
closer and she felt his body against hers, warm, hard, impatient.
Her hands explored, caressed, felt his throbbing urgency.
Quickly, yet gently, his hands rode the curves of her body and she
felt the rush of warmth from the fire against her flesh. Their
mouths locked in a fiery kiss that tasted of unsated love, warm
embers and mint. She tugged at the robe and slid it from around
his shoulders. He slowly brought her to her feet and they swept
across the floor in a silent pavanne until her back touched the
edge of the velvet-cushioned window seat. He gently leaned her
back and she felt her feet leave the floor as her body reclined on
the window seat's softness. Still standing over her as she now lay
supine, he kissed her, slowly and deliberately, over every inch of
her body.
She held her arms out to him, hungrily wanting him to envelop her,
possess her, love her.
Still standing, he parted her thighs and as he caressed her,
entered her, moving her with him as he leaned over and buried his
face against her breasts, his tongue flicking lightly over them.
She wrapped her arms around his back and he continued to love her
with expert mastery.
Afterward, he carried her back to the bed and lay beside her—his
scent blending with the earthy essence that she felt even more
strongly with her eyes closed. She reached out and he was
there—right next to her. She released an overflowing reservoir of
passion for this man. She swallowed hard, her next breath coming
in a gasp.
He lowered his head and she raked her fingers through his thick
hair, breathing in its fresh clean scent. His tongue explored the
sensitive hollows of her neck, flicked her earlobe, making her
shudder. His lips and tongue explored the curve and swell of her
breasts in agonizing gentleness.
They kissed and explored and stroked—her arms urgently pulling him
closer, closer, until he was all hers, in her, with her, hers in
every sense of the word. Together they soared and drifted, the
only sounds being those of their desperate need for each other and
the sharp crackling fire. Finally when she felt as if both their
bodies would burst, she screamed, she cried, caught up in the most
blissful rapture she'd ever felt.
She heard Valentine's voice as if from a far off tunnel, groaning,
"Only you, only you..." Afterward, he looked into her eyes,
seemingly confident that he had satisfied her completely. He
propped himself up on an elbow and lifted a strand of hair from
her moist cheek. "Love and war," he said. "How alike those two
passions are."
At Valentine's ancestral estate of Fiddleford Manor, Denys spent
hours in the gardens planting roses, lilies, geraniums, all the
flowers she loved, enjoying their delicious fragrances wafting
through the house with the cuttings she brought in each day. It
was almost as peaceful as their Yorkshire sanctuary, but something
about the buzz of London life was beginning to attract her. In
trying to adapt to the city, she began to enjoy the narrow winding
streets, the vendors shouting out the virtues of their wares, the
throngs of people, the bustle of commerce along the Thames.
She walked the dusty streets alone on occasion, just like any
other common subject, and lost herself in the crowd of brightly
colored cloaks, hose and shoes, drawn faces, and the smiles of the
children all rushing about to perform whatever tasks life demanded
of them. She entered the poor areas, she and her escorts handing
out breads, meats, fruits from her garden, the likes of which
these people had never seen. It rewarded and saddened her at the
same time.
Would she have become one of these, had Elizabeth not adopted her?
Could the ragged little girl who'd ravaged the strawberry tart and
licked her fingers be her sister? She never stopped wondering.
Now that Richard was King, she had to make an appointment for an
audience with him. This irked her to no end; he'd always been so
accessible. How she missed the freedom to saunter past the guards
through each of his outer apartments, then clear through to his
retiring chamber.
Now he was unapproachable. But today, finally, she was going to
get to see him—alone, without a hovering
entourage.
Two palace guards escorted her into his audience chamber in the
White Tower where he sat signing papers. The crown rested on a
pillow well within his reach. He looked up at her and a thin smile
began, but didn't quite make it.
He stood to greet her. She curtseyed and kissed the coronation
ring. But now she wanted to speak to him as an old friend.
"Oh, Richard, you look grand tending to your duties, but so tired.
Is it all catching up with you?"
"It has caught up with me and surpassed me, leaving me in the
dust," he replied wearily, easing back into the chair and resting
his head in his hands for a moment before resuming his erect
posture. "An enormous responsibility; it is just overwhelming.
Sometimes I find it hard to believe I am actually here; I keep
expecting Edward to come walking through that door any minute and
shoo me away."
"I find it hard to believe, too, Richard. Part of me refuses to
believe Uncle Ned is gone. I still see him when I close my eyes, I
can still feel his hands around mine, I can hear his laughter."
She shook her head and wiped a tear. Would she ever stop grieving
Uncle Ned, or ever stop missing him? "But you are handling it
beautifully! I am sure within a short time, you will fall into a
comfortable routine and adapt to your position as King just like
any other job."
"Routine? That will take years. There is so much to do."
"Valentine loves every minute of it, as I was afraid he would." He
looked at her and his eyes sharpened, almost regaining that
glimmer of confidence. "My newly appointed Great Chamberlain and
Admiral of England is more popular than I!" He said it without a
trace of resentment or jealousy.
"I've noticed. I wish I could slow him down at times."
"‘Tis your wifely duty to deplete his energies when he becomes a
bit too feisty," Richard said, tilting his head and drumming his
fingers on the table, his rings glittering in the sunshine pouring
through the chamber.
"That just seems to revitalize him even more," she quipped back.
"Just ask Elizabeth's potion crone. I'm sure she can concoct a
batch that will arouse and pacify him at your will; she's cooked
up enough potions to kill both my brothers."
"Richard, please. What happened is in the past. Do not think of
her. I have finally put her out of my mind. She can harm us no
more. It fairly galls her that you are King. It must! Just think
of how furious she is, languishing in her hovel, the last of the
Woodvilles wiped from the palace grounds as if struck by plague.
Her attempts to kill Valentine and me failed. The kingdom is yours
now. You must bear its burdens, but you must also enjoy it. ‘Tis
grand taking part in tournaments and feasts and banquets, without
Bess excluding me from royal events."
He lifted the last paper he'd signed, admiring the royal seal,
then gazed off into the distance. "Aye, ‘tis grand, is it not?"
"Richard, I am here not only for an audience with you, but to ask
of you a favor."
He tossed the paper back on the pile and sat back in the chair.
"What do you need, an increase in Val's salary, a castle on the
sea, perhaps?"