Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga) (24 page)

 

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Marguerite of Anjou's perplexing message arrived at Burleigh House
the day after court returned to Westminster.
Denys rewarded the messenger generously with a night's stay in one
of their comfortable guest chambers, a hearty meal, and a handful
of gold coins. She tore at the message with trembling hands as
Valentine looked over her shoulder anxiously.
"She must know who gave me to King Henry. She was there, she must
know..." she reassured herself as she broke the seal and tore open
the parchment.
Marguerite's spiky handwriting stood in contrast to the flowery
French in which it was written. Several men named John had served
King Henry, but the oldest and most loyal had been with him from
the very start. John Pasteler was his name, his surname meaning
pastry cook, his occupation at the time of his service to the
King. Marguerite wrote about having remembered seeing him carrying
a babe and giving it to the King, who immediately handed it over
to one of the serving wenches.
Denys was sure her heart stopped when she read this—it was the
answer she'd been looking for! But there was more. She read on.
Marguerite mentioned John Smith, whom Valentine had heard about.
He, too, had cradled a baby in his arms not long after—or was it
before? Marguerite wrote.
She wasn't certain—her memory was beginning to fail her in old
age. She went on to mention the births that had taken place at
court during the years in question. A girl child had been born to
one of the King's pages whose name was John Norris. The kitchen
wench with whom he'd sired the child went off, leaving the child
as a ward of the King, but Marguerite didn't know what became of
this child.
One of their ushers had been named John, and he and his wife had a
baby whom she remembered seeing the King hold at one time—both
parents died of consumption and Marguerite was not aware of the
child's fate.
There were so many! She could have been any of those babies.
Marguerite's failing memory only left Denys confused and
discouraged.
"Oh, Valentine, this is worse than not knowing, now I shall never
know." She felt more lost than she ever had.
He hugged her tightly, his heart breaking for her. But in his mind
he was trying to remember every John he'd ever known in his
life—from his earliest memories to his life with the Plantagenets
after his mother died. "We'll find him, my darling, I know we
will."
She finally began to relax in his arms and breathe more easily as
Margaret's letter fluttered to the floor.
Christmas took place in Westminster Palace. On Christmas Eve, the
great hall glowed with the Yule Log, scented with the heady aromas
of the holly, ivy, and bay that adorned the palace halls. All of
London was swathed in candlelight and a fresh blanketing of snow.
The green boughs adorning the doors and parish churches brought a
joyful mood.
Carolers' harmonic voices blended with the usual shouts of the
peddlers. Plays were acted out in the streets as well as in the
palace.
As the court participated in the ritual New Year's Day exchange of
gifts, the King gave lavishly to his councillors, retainers and
staff. He presented Denys with several dozen ermine bellies she'd
admired when his tailor had visited, the less-luxurious miniver
having gone out of fashion.
His gift to Valentine was an assortment of Italian marble blocks
for Dovebury's fireplaces, for which the laborers would arrive
after the holidays to carve and fit. Their gift to Richard was a
jewelled covered tankard which he immediately gave the pet name of
Perkin. She thought it silly that men "named" their tankards, but
since she made the startling realization that they named their own
privy members, the thought of naming a tankard didn't seem so
bizarre. She and Valentine had lain in bed many a night until the
wee hours, whooping with laughter in trying to guess what some of
the royal entourage named their male members.
"I wouldn't expect Richard ever named his!" she'd said, knowing
Richard would consider the practice pure debauchery.
"I don't know," he'd replied. "Dickon's of that regal dignified
lot. He probably calls it Ethelbald or something of the sort. But
somebody like George—now he would have named his Wee Willie." They
exploded into a fit of giggles. Even the ladies of the notorious
musicales had never divulged the names of their husbands'
manhoods.
Valentine's favorite tankard was named Percival, or Percy for
short, and on Christmas Eve, he and Richard clinked tankards, the
King and his most trusted Chancellor toasting each other's health,
their arms wound round each other, joking and ribbing like the
best of friends they would always be.
"Valentine..." He and Denys had just finished dancing, the wine
was flowing, the courtiers were laughing, and she was aglow from
the two gobletfuls of malmsey she'd just imbibed.
Slipping her hand under the table, she fondled him.
As he glanced around furtively before his own hand slid under her
skirts and rode up her thigh, she cooed, "How is Canute the Great
tonight?" The usual holiday games were played, such as "king of
the bean." A bean was hidden in a loaf, and whoever found it would
be king of the feast. All the serving staff were invited to the
hall to partake of the feasting and the usual enormous consumption
of food and drink.
The hall flowed with mummers, masked pantomimists, jugglers,
fools, ale and wine. Richard's court was not as lusty as Edward's
had been, but one would occasionally stumble upon an amorous
couple among the palace's alcoves and nooks during this festive
season.
But the mood of the King was not a festive one. Although Valentine
was better able to hide his anxiety, he spent more time with
Richard and his council than he ever did during that holiday
season.
Richard's spies informed him that by summer, Henry Tudor would
descend once more upon England. With this hanging over his head,
Denys knew she could not bother him with trying to help her find
this mysterious John person who was the only link to her family.
She hardly saw Richard anymore except for in the evenings when he
appeared in the great hall, which was no longer often.
With Anne ill and his impending preparations for yet another
battle with Henry Tudor, Richard's time was not his own. When she
did see him, it was during his regular visits to the chapel for
services, where he sat with his head bowed, deeply in thought, and
barely had time for a passing hello before rushing back into his
council chambers or to Anne's bedside.
As Chancellor, Valentine spent long hours plotting late into the
night how to ward off Tudor, how many troops to raise, how to
fortify the coast.
Denys was proud and uneasy at the same time.
"This isn't like work to you at all, is it, Valentine?" she asked
him one night as they sat in their winter parlour after the
evening meal. "‘Tis like a game to you." His head wasn't bowed,
his brow wasn't furrowed from deep disturbing thought and dark
shadows hadn't formed around his eyes.
In contrast to Richard, who seemed to be bearing the burden of the
world on his shoulders, Valentine was thriving on it all. He wrote
speeches to deliver to Henry Tudor, drew up treaties and pacts,
planned alliances by betrothals, plotted ways to drive Tudor back
to France. He drew pictures of battle formations, using chess
pieces to represent the opposing armies. It was indeed a game to
him; he loved manipulating all these lives and testing Henry
Tudor's patience, trying to outsmart and outmaneuver him.
He was loving every minute of it; it was the power he'd always
hoped to attain. She tried not to let it bother her, for he spent
his every spare moment with her. He still had time to go riding or
dancing in the great hall or sit before the fire with her, and
make love to her with exquisite tenderness.
"What do you mean...game?" he replied, not looking up, his eyes
fixed to the list of the peerage that supported the crown.
"All this...planning alliances, rounding up support, devising
schemes to exchange lands and territories, preparing us for
battles."
"We must maintain a strong defense, for Tudor has one most astute
spy, namely his mother."
"But Margaret Beaufort is in prison."
"Aye, but she's married to Lord Stanley and I don't trust him. He
made his peace with Richard by agreeing to support him, and
Richard made him Constable of England, even though I advised
Richard against it. He's turned on us before. He joins whichever
side looks better to him at the time. Richard is just too trusting
sometimes."
"Oh, but I'd hoped we'd heard the last of Henry Tudor.
I wish you could obliterate him with one swift stroke." Valentine
put down his pen and shook his head at her, smiling. "It takes
more than military force to bring down an enemy, my dear. It takes
diplomacy. Richard hasn't the eloquence his brother Edward
possessed, but he's got the military strength and the mind to
execute a brilliant battle.
Wiping Tudor from the face of the earth would solve our immediate
problem, but would not serve our best interests in the long run.
‘Twould be like putting a square inch cloth on a festering stab
wound. Our power base is not large, and if Tudor is defeated,
someone else will come along in his place. We need to make pacts
for peacetime, as well, in order to keep the peace."
On Twelfth Night, the great hall was glittering with decorations
in shimmering greens, reds and golds. The Yule Log blazed in the
hearth, the wine flowed and course after course came streaming in
on gold and silver plates. But once again, the seat next to the
King on the dais was empty, as were his eyes when Denys observed
him up close. She knew he had more on his mind than ever before.
Not only did he have an imminent invasion to prepare for once
again, but his wife was not expected to live.
She approached him after Valentine began to tuck into yet another
plate of roast swan. "Richard," she said, glancing at the mountain
of food on his plates that his taster was happily consuming
instead. "Is Anne ill this evening?"
"Aye, taken to her bed once again, under physician's orders. All
the festivities finally did her in."
"They all love her so. After the contempt Bess wrought upon the
kingdom, Anne is a beloved queen indeed. I am so sorry she has
been so frail as of late." She'd lost count of Anne's many
miscarriages, and knew Anne would have taken any risk to give
Richard heirs. "I am so sorry things turned out the way they did
for you, Richard."
"I am too, my dear. But it is the way it is." She saw his sad eyes
scan the great hall and the courtiers dancing, laughing, and
reveling in the holiday festivities. "The doctors advised me to
shun her bed."
"Pardon?" She leaned forward to hear it again; she couldn't have
heard correctly.
"I was ordered to shun her bed. I shall never have my heir." He
took a deep breath and expelled it raggedly as his eyes filled
with tears.
Her gaze landed on several of the courtiers' faces to make sure
they weren't watching. She hated the thought of anyone seeing the
King crying. "Please do not say that. You have heirs; you have
nephews."
"I know that and I love my nephews with all my heart.
But they are not mine. They are not my sons—blood of mine and
Anne's." She knew what he meant and her heart burst with sorrow.
Maybe if things had gone differently, if they had followed Bess'
orders and married, he might have his heirs today. But she and
Richard could never have loved each other in the true sense. It
never could have worked. And she never would have married
Valentine.
"Let me go to the Queen now, I shall cheer her up. I shall sing
for her and play upon my lute. May I go to her?"
"Of course you may. She truly loves you like a sister." In his
eyes spoke all the gratitude she knew he didn't have the strength
to speak.
Anne's chamber was glowing eerily in the hearth's flames. The air
was close. The Queen's lady-in-waiting was standing over her bed,
holding out a linen cloth for her to cough into. Several more
cloths were piled on the floor and Denys could see they were
soaked with blood.
She approached the bed that dwarfed the emaciated figure.
Memories flooded her mind: the glorious wedding gown Anne had
given her, the kindness she'd shown Denys when it seemed like
everyone, including Richard, had nudged her aside. She sat at the
edge of the bed, praying fiercely for this noble soul, the Queen
consort so beloved by her subjects, reduced to this sorrowful
figure coughing her life's blood away.
She dismissed the maid and took her place at Anne's side. Anne
looked at Denys through eyes glazed with exhaustion.
"Oh, Dove, how kind of you to come to me when you could be joining
in the festivities." Her voice was barely above a whisper, as if
every word took a major effort. Denys did not want to tell Anne
that the mood in the great hall was far from festive. "How is
Richard? Is he faring well?"
"He is holding his head up high, as always, Anne. He is very much
looking forward to your joining him again, as is the entire
kingdom." She shook her head. "I shall never be able to return,
Dove. I am simply lying here waiting for God to take me."
"Anne," Denys grasped one limp hand in hers and warmed it between
her own. "Anne, do not talk that way.
You will be fine. You have been ill before, we all have! You will
recover. You must, Anne. You know how much the King needs you."
"God needs me, Dove. But Richard has his kingdom. I am but one
weak and insignificant being."
"Anne, you are the Queen! No one knows better than I how much he
loves you."
"He has never shown it, Dove. I see you and Valentine together,
laughing, he holds you in his arms, he lifts you up and twirls you
about...Richard has never told me. He has never left my side
except to go to battle or serve his kingdom, but he has never made
me the center of his life, as he was mine."
"But that is his way, Anne. He has always kept to himself.
Do not think for a minute that he does not love you."
"Then why has he never told me?" Anne had another fit of coughing
and Denys held a clean cloth to her lips. The hacking left her
unable to hold her head up, and she sank back into the pillows
with a raspy sigh. Denys plumped them up for her.