Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga) (16 page)

"That old..." She clenched her fists and stamped her foot.
"Stay away from her, Valentine, please! I almost lost you because
of her! You almost lost me!"
"And she is about to lose everything. Now do you see why Richard
does not want any son of hers to be king?"
"Well, as long as she lives, yes." She cradled his head in her
arms until he fell asleep, then slipped out of the Bishop's house
with a promise of returning right after vespers.
The Bishop entered Valentine's room later that night with a small
wooden casket. Valentine sighed in disappointment as he flipped
the lid open to a pile of torn and yellowed papers; what could
possibly be of importance in here? But, with nothing else to do,
and not having the strength to take his leave, he began leafing
through them.
He scanned each document without interest, until his eyes landed
upon the names Edward Plantagenet and Lady Eleanor Butler. He
scrutinized the document, again and again, not able to believe
what he was reading. His mouth fell open. His heart lurched and
began to thud recklessly.
He let out a ragged breath.
Could it be true?

 

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Valentine pounded on the floor, summoning a server to fetch the
Bishop immediately.
"What is this?" he exclaimed when the Bishop, panting and wheezing
from exertion, entered the chamber.
Stillington swiped the paper from Valentine's hand, held it at
arm's length and raised and lowered his head like a rooster
looking it up and down.
"Ah, the Patent Rolls for when our dearly departed King Edward was
but a lad. A-ha, this should well change things round here. I
forgot I had this." Stillington read the passage aloud and
Valentine sat up in bed, almost as breathless as when he had been
pulled from the Thames
.
"This is a plight-troth with Edward Plantagenet and the Lady
Eleanor Butler, before he married Elizabeth Woodville. I'd
forgotten all about this! They did exchange vows right under my
nose, they did. The Lady Butler was a widow, quite young, in fact,
at the time.
"Aye, laddie, Good King Edward was never legally married to the
old Woodville harridan at all, not at all! That putative prince of
hers is about as fit to be king as that pack of hounds doin' their
four-legged frolic out there in the gutter."
"But this is amazing. Why did this never—"
"Oh, His Grace did pay me well to keep my gob shut through his
lifetime. And so I did, through his lifetime. But he needn't have
worried; in recent years, I'd lost most of my memory and now I
just be an old man who burns everything for firewood. It be a
miracle that one managed to survive. ‘Tis quite old, it is. Twenty
year and a bit, I should say."
"You said you promised King Edward you'd not speak of this in his
lifetime. But now that his life has left him, why—"
"If this be made public, ‘twould change the course of history,
lad." Stillington nodded. "‘Twould be steering the very crown of
England with our own hands." He held out his hands, bony and
slightly atremble. "Well, mayhap not my hands."
"But do you see what the Woodvilles are trying to do to this
country? We're at the brink of civil war!"
"Ho, ye need not convince me, laddie." His tongue played with a
loose bottom tooth. "I would see that Woodville harridan and her
bastards sailing through Traitors' Gate afore anyone in this
kingdom, I...
"Then you do agree that the Lord Protector must know of this
immediately."
"Aye, he'll know what to do with this, won't he, lad? Heh, heh.
This be good as the crown upon his head. Aye, I shall accompany
you to His Grace the Lord Protector but not ere you recover—"
"I be recovered! See?" Valentine struggled to sit up.
Stillington held out an arm and pushed Valentine back down into
the pillows. "Recovered my tallywags! Ye must stay abed yet, lad!
You get up and start playing silly buggers, you'll be right here
flat on yer back like a plaguer!"
"Nay, Your Excellency! We have to go now!" Valentine leapt out of
bed and, hit with a wave of dizziness, crumpled to the floor,
grabbing onto the Bishop's shoes with the last thread of strength
in him.
The servers lifted him and lay him on the bed, pressing a cool
cloth to his head and covering him with a pile of blankets, for
he'd begun to shiver.
He awoke the next day with a renewed surge of strength after
breaking his fast with bacon, eggs, fresh brown bread and ale.
Stillington was in the solar eating when Valentine entered, fully
dressed in the ill-fitting but elegant tabard, cloak and hose the
bishop had provided.
"What are you doing...get ye back to bed, laddie, ye nearly got
the wind knocked out of ye!"
"I feel fit, Your Excellency, we must go and inform the Lord
Protector! Except we shall not be going by barge if you do not
mind."
Valentine grabbed the yellowed paper and buried it under his cloak
as if it held the secrets of the universe. He took the old man by
the arm and slowly, much too slowly for the restless Valentine.
They soon exited the house and mounted two of Stillington's old
but still strong palfreys.
"To the Tower of London, post haste!"
He yanked on the reins, the sheet of parchment rising and falling
under his cloak with every beat of his hammering heart.
He hadn't found the truth about Denys' family in quite the way he
had imagined, but this changed everything. His head swam at the
very thought of it as he rode on through the night. Who would now
be king? He hardly dared hope for his friend--or what it would
mean for Valentine and his wife if it did come to pass…

 

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Denys entered through the Great North Door of the kingdom's most
magnificent graveyard, Westminster Abbey.
Everything about Westminster Abbey was glorious and resplendent.
The door's gaping arches soared high, flanked by stone columns,
beaten with age into a rustic beauty.
Subdued light spilled through rows of arched windows on either
side of The Nave, fondling each corner and fold of every carved
tomb. The hollow recesses of intricate design allowed a fragment
of their radiance to peek through the shadows and speak silently
of immortal splendor. Her eyes widening at the wonder of her
surroundings, she stretched her neck to take in all the stories of
centuries above, below and around her.
Thick stone pillars at a dizzying height supported the fan
vaulting in the arched ceilings. Her feet whispered over worn
stone slabs fitted together, carved with names and lifespans of
those whose bones reposed beneath them. The ancient letterings
danced in rhythm with the singular pulsing heartbeat shared by all
the spirits entombed within.
Beneath these slabs, in the vaults below, lay the remains of
kings, queens, knights and royal infants carried away in the first
breaths of their lives. Chapels branched out from The Nave, graced
with the same haunting beauty, glowing with candles hurling
ghostly movements on the shadowy carvings.
Between the towering pillars crowned with vaulted arches, the
walls bore carved effigies of the great immortals, their eyes
staring blankly into the eternity their souls had long ago
entered. Splendid tombs, stone and marble sarcophagi were adorned
with gilded angels and effigies lying prone with hands clasped
towards heaven, prayers in Latin etched into their marble caskets.
The pillars and tombs glowed in shades of pale beiges and tans,
adorned by the stained glass that radiated like jewels in tones of
ruby, sapphire, and emerald. Her beginnings as well as those of
her countrymen were enshrined in these ancient walls.
All at once she felt so small, so insignificant, yet exulted in
the joy of being alive enclosed within centuries of death. She
breathed deeply. The air bore the musty stillness of age. Even the
air reposed peacefully, surrounding her with its age-old
godliness. Opening her mouth in a thoughtful sigh, she tasted it.
With its invisible yet potent strength and heavy closeness, it
filled her. She began to wander, to lose herself among these
elaborate tombs, to read about the lives they left behind. She
caressed the cold marble.
Wanting to be alone with no chance of being disturbed at her
worship, she headed for the Abbey's most secluded chapel, Saint
Paul's. It contained naught more than an altar and a confession
booth. Hidden away in a corner, hardly anyone even knew it was
there. Its only light glowed from a single candle within.
Ascending its two worn stone steps, she peered through the spikes
topping the arched door. Not a soul dwelt within. She headed for
the altar, knelt, bowed her head, clasped her hands. Prayed.
She spent her most private devotion time in this chapel. The
peacefulness was overpowering.
After a moment, a sound disturbed her; a soft sweeping over the
flagstones. Were they simply scurrying mice or human footsteps?
Then she heard deep voices; hushed, conspiratorial. With the
educated clip of the higher classes. Speaking over each other, yet
maintaining a whispery tone. They were heading directly towards
the chapel.
She turned and faced the doorway. There stood John Alcock, who was
Bishop of Worcester and President of the Council. She couldn't
pray with him here.
Just as she rose to leave, another man came into view— Edward
Woodville, an arrogant upstart the nobles hated even more than his
sister.
They entered the chapel, yet they didn't see her, halfway hidden
in the shadows of the altar. They turned and waited as others
approached. She had no intention of slipping out now. She had to
stay and hear what Woodville was plotting—he had to be up to
something. They wouldn't have sequestered themselves like this to
swap ale-quaffing stories.
Silently, she ducked into the confessional booth and closed the
door behind her. It was dark and the musty air choked her. But as
the voices approached and grew clearer, she held her breath. More
feet scuffed over the worn flagstones accompanied by the clearing
of throats, the rustle of rich fabric.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she could see through the
screen several figures gathered round Edward Woodville. They wore
the alb and cope, the ecclesiastical vestments of bishops. He
acknowledged each one of them, bowing as he did: his brother
Lionel, Bishop of Salisbury; John Morton, Bishop of Ely; Thomas
Rotherham, Archbishop of York; John Russell, Bishop of Lincoln and
Keeper of Privy Seal; and Edward Story, Bishop of Chichester.
Every bishop on the council.
Woodville took command of the floor and began to speak. She
couldn't believe what she was hearing…
"Where is the Lord Protector?" Valentine demanded of a guard as he
and Bishop Stillington reached the White Tower.
"He is within the private apartments, my Lord," he replied, and a
page led them to the residence on the top floor.
Once in Richard's audience chamber, which connected with his most
private retiring-room and close-room, Valentine rapped on the
door. "Richard! Open up, Your Highness, ‘tis I! Valentine!"
Richard appeared in only a wrinkled shirt and hose, his feet bare,
his fingers and neck free of jewels. His hair was disheveled.
Valentine guessed he'd been asleep. He alerted immediately upon
seeing his audience.
"Val! Val, are you all right? Dove told me of your dreadful
accident! I went to His Excellency's house to see you last eve but
you were fast asleep. Do come in!" Valentine, although deeply
appreciative of Richard's concern, was too excited even to think
of that harrowing experience.
"I am fine, Dickon, I feel as strong as ever. We must speak to
you!"
"Aye, very well, I was just taking a short kip." Richard glanced
over at Stillington. They exchanged a polite nod.
Richard ran a hand over his eyes and swung the door open for them
to enter. They followed him into the King's closet, still eerily
strewn with Edward's personal effects, a shaving blade here, a
silver basin there, as if he were to return any minute.
Valentine's eyes connected with one item that outshone everything
else—the very Crown of England on a purple silk pillow, awaiting
its next recipient in bejewelled brilliance.
Richard headed for a velvet-cushioned seat by the window but
Valentine grabbed his friend by the shoulders and turned him
around before he sat. "Dickon! We have news that is about to
change the path of our crown! Look at this!"
He pulled the parchment from under his cloak and opened it
carefully, at the same time offering a dramatic proclamation.
"Your Excellency, I present to you Richard, our Lord Protector."
Valentine acknowledged the self-satisfied grin Richard shot him.
The bishop was regarding the young Lord Protector with awe as
Richard unfolded the parchment and began to read.
His eyes swept back and forth over the parchment, growing wider
with each sentence. When he reached the end, he looked up at
Valentine, alert as ever, shaking his head, his tongue darting out
to moisten his lips. Valentine bolted for a pitcher on the table
beside him, poured a gobletful and thrust it into Richard's hand.
Richard took a few rapid sips. "Is this valid? Edward was
pre-contracted to this woman at the time he married Elizabeth?" he
directed the question at Stillington, who was plucking grapes from
a bunch in a gold bowl.
"Before God and man...hey, these grapes have big pips!" he
scowled, spitting them out the window.
"Edward Plantagenet...to one Lady Eleanor Butler, daughter of the
Earl of Shrewsbury..." Richard mouthed the words, scanning the
roll over and over, his head moving side to side in time with his
eyes.
"Edward wed Elizabeth Woodville hastily, did he not?" Valentine
asked.
"Hastily, it was secretly! He told no one until two years later!
Val, do you know what this means?" Richard leaned forward and laid
his hands on Valentine's shoulders, shaking him gently, as if
waking him from a dream, convincing them both that this indeed was
real. "My path to the throne has just been cleared. Prince Edward
is illegitimate! Both of his sons, in view of this pre-contract."
"Aye!" Valentine nodded rapidly, thrilled for his dear friend,
thrilled for himself and Dove, knowing that his father was smiling
down on him from heaven. Richard closed his eyes, nodding slowly,
as if all this were meant to be. "I am the one God has chosen to
be King! I am he!"
"So how does it feel? How does it feel, King Richard?" Valentine
asked, his head reeling in the mind-spinning events that he knew
were nowhere near over yet. "Well, it feels like...it feels
like..." Richard replied, folding the parchment and pressing it
between his hands.
Valentine began laughing heartily, slapped his knees, sprang out
of his chair and pulled Richard to his feet, hugging him tightly,
rocking back and forth. "It should feel like the wildest, most
ecstatic, exploding, rapturous, uproarious lovemaking you can ever
imagine in your most wicked, erotic fantasies!"
They both then cast a sheepish look at their guest. But the
Bishop, standing off to the side, nodded wholeheartedly in
agreement.
Richard eased out of the embrace, patted Valentine on the shoulder
and, trying to hide a smile, turned to the window and gazed out
over his land.
They finally left him alone, Bishop Stillington bowing his way out
of the chamber until Richard lifted him from his stooping position
and playfully pushed him out.
As he left, Valentine saw the Tower as if for the first time, from
the gleaming floors to the carved ceilings trimmed in gold leaf
and adorned with swaggering chandeliers. As they walked through
the private apartments, he saw the portraits of kings gone by,
depicting centuries of continuing succession. Valentine nearly
skipped along as they passed through the doors and onto Tower
Green.
The gentle spring breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle. He
turned and looked up at the massive White Tower and its four
spires, walked down to the gates and gazed out over the river and
at the hazy Surrey hilltops beyond. All this—the exquisite
palaces, castles, abbeys and the ancient memories they held, as
well as every inch of the lush green land under their feet—was now
a part of his life.
"I did it, my Lord Father, I did it all for you! Now are you proud
of me?" he shouted up at the sky, not expecting any kind of a sign
in reply, but in his heart he knew. He could see his father
smiling.
A nagging twinge tugged at his heart and he forced it away. He
would get Dove to appreciate it all. He knew their love would
overcome any trepidation she would have over this stunning turn of
events and what it meant for Edward's two young sons.
Of course this wouldn't be easy. They had a number of formidable
enemies and hostile factions; the same enemies that had killed his
own father. The kingdom was far from united.
But all Dove had to do was settle in. If her prayer of finding her
family was answered, the entire world would be at their feet! Now
that it was all legal and legitimate, he knew they would easily
adapt to royal life—the life she never had while at the hand of
Elizabeth Woodville, and the life he never had because of his
father's tragic death.
As they exited the Tower's main gatehouse, he felt as if a heavy
weight had lifted from his soul. He was one with his beloved wife.
Now he was one with his kingdom.
He parted company with Stillington and popped round to London's
finest jeweler. He couldn't wait to tell her the news and bestow
yet another glittering creation on his wife.