Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga) (5 page)

 

CHAPTER EIGHT
Denys had feared that the addition of a husband in her life would
prove an onerous and oppressive cross to bear. In fact she soon
found herself wishing for even the merest glimpse of his sparkling
blue eyes as his duties to the realm took precedence even over
their honeymoon, which should have been theirs to enjoy
uninterrupted in accordance with tradition.
But her husband was the man of the hour in the North, and so
Valentine's responsibilities as governor took him all over the
shire. There were endless council meetings at Richard's official
residence at Pomfret Castle, and trips to the surrounding towns to
look in on his tenants, ascertain the profitability of their
efforts, and settle disputes.
As a result Denys was left alone for weeks on end, and she soon
felt heart sore at being so alone. She did go to visit Anne from
time to time, but she always seemed so busy, so content, that
Denys felt lonelier than ever once she returned to Lilleshal and
found no one awaiting her there save her maid Mary.
Everyone in the household was kind and capable, however, so she
tried to make the best of her new situation by carrying out the
plans she had first made, gathering supplies and arranging to
visit the poor villagers.
It brought her out from behind four walls, made her feel wanted,
and she smiled through tears at the looks on their faces when she
and her escort rode into an impoverished hamlet, handing out sacks
of food and soft linen squares. They were a decadent luxury in
themselves, but when wrapped around coins, they were like a gift
from heaven.
The dialect was strange to her, but she could certainly make out
the many thanks they shouted up to her, the angel on horseback.
Back at the castle, she also kept busy by overseeing the
household, supervising the marshal as he aired the hall, freshened
the rushes, and cleaned and beat the hangings. She assisted in
helping the steward order and inventory supplies. She sat with the
controller and balanced the accounts.
Denys even went into the kitchen to help prepare meals, startling
the staff. One of her favorites was ‘Brawn in Comfyte,' a dish
made by grinding boar meat in a mortar, mixing with almonds, then
boiling with sugar and cloves. It was then thickened with cinnamon
and ginger, and pressed into shape with a linen cloth.
She shocked everyone, from the steward down to the apprentice
cooks, with her culinary skills. She loved trying variations on
recipes and mixing different types of herbs, substituting mint for
garlic or cinnamon for parsley.
Her ‘lampreys in galytyne,' a roast seafood dish made with
powdered ginger, raisins and bread, became her specialty.
They grew peas, beans, cabbages in the castle garden hotbeds, and
she was told that in the summer and autumn there would be apples
and pears in the orchards near the castle. She had to make due
with dried ones as the winter weather seemed to linger, but her
sizable kitchen garden grew several spices and herbs, sheltered as
it was, and with a canopy over it which could be pulled open or
shut as needed to protect the tender shoots.
She hired live-in musicians, and accompanied them on their lutes,
viols and pipes. She formed quartets and quintets, and arranged
her favorite songs with different harmonic parts for voices of all
ranges.
She had an organ delivered, set up in the great hall, and played
it a least a couple of hours each day. The strains of music eased
her loneliness, but only somewhat.
She insisted on music until the wee hours, rotating all the
musicians in shifts so the house would never be silent. The
trouble was, they seemed to do nothing but sing of love, until she
grew more heartsick at being so alone in her married home.
When not engaged in all the activities around the castle, and the
weather was too inclement to venture outside the castle gates, she
spent endless hours poring over genealogical tables conveyed to
her from the governors of the shires and the mayors of as many
Wiltshire towns as she could discover that were near to where she
had last sought her family, and which were large enough to have
such a personage residing there with whom she could correspond.
She also contacted every abbot and abbess in the district, for all
the churches kept records of births, marriages and deaths. She did
not really know what she was looking for. She had no names or
places to go by, only the vague date of around Martinmas 1457 to
help her, which so far as she knew, was around the time she had
been born.
Valentine's information had not been off the mark, but it might
have been one way to lure her even further in to whatever web
Elizabeth Woodville might have woven for her. And which was why in
some senses she was glad to be alone to plot and prepare, for when
the time came, he would not be able to stop her from seeking her
destiny, which had lain waiting for her for so long.
She sent a copy of her sketch to each of her correspondents, and
prayed someone would recognize her as a possible relative, or give
her a crumb of information which would tell her where to look
next.
Throughout it all, she ached to be able to confide in someone, but
even had her husband been at home, her misgivings over his past
conduct and future ambitious would have been enough to give her
pause.
Still, it would be nice to start feeling more like she belonged
here, she decided one day, rising from her desk, her back aching
from the effort of having passed the rainy day penning still more
letters to Wiltshire.
She gazed out at the lovely if rain-drenched landscape, and hoped
Valentine was safe and warm somewhere. She hugged her arms around
her waist, and finally admitted to herself just how much she was
really looking forward to Valentine's homecoming.
Awaiting his return from York one afternoon with a restlessness
that simply would not be contained, she mounted Chera and rode a
few miles in the direction his last note to her had indicated him
to be.
The freezing air filled her lungs with exhilarating crispness as
she burrowed deeper into her ermine cloak. The remnants of the
previous night's frost dusted the earth with a sparkling blanket
of blue-white that turned her breath to crystals in the slanting
sun.
Thin streams of smoke curled skyward from the villagers' cottages
surrounding her. All was quiet; the only sound was the dull
clopping of Chera's hooves on the hard earth.
She halted the palfrey and, from atop the hill, swept her eyes
over Lilleshal and her grounds. The sandstone glowed and the
stream twinkled in the sun's weakening rays. Smoke billowed from
the chimneys, and lights flickered in the oiled paper windows and
occasional glass windows as the surrounding shadows grew longer,
casting a gleam over the earth.
She yanked on Chera's reins and galloped back, a rush of warmth
welling through her. She could not wait to nestle before the fire
in the parlor, her fingers wound round a tankard of mead.
The thought of being with Valentine again soon gave her a rush of
uneasy anticipation.
She supped with the staff in the great hall, not tasting the food,
but glancing up every time a newcomer entered in the hopes that it
might at last be her husband.
Finally, heartsore, Denys gave up, and headed back to her chambers
to write a few more letters before bedtime.
When at last Valentine arrived, around midnight, she was already
abed, but something made her leap up, drag on her night robe, and
hurry down the corridor to meet him.
He was already ascending the stairs, heading for his bedchamber. A
cold breeze scented with outdoor freshness rushed at her when he
passed by. She indulged her gaze on the hard muscles under his
short doublet.
"Valentine! Welcome back!"
He turned, a momentary look of questioning in his eyes, as if
surprised to see that she actually lived there. They'd seen so
little of each other since the wedding, and her manner had been
anything but friendly.
At first, the fact that he had not tried to press his conjugal
rights had been a great relief to her. She'd planned on blissful
independence as the mistress of the manor, running the household
as she saw fit, and a man intruding upon her person, or a babe
coming, was the last thing she wished for.
But she hadn't realized how empty a house full of dutiful
servitors could be until his distance had become so unbearable as
to render them almost strangers in their own shared home.
"What awakens you at this hour, Dove? I thought I was lighter on
my feet than that. Or are you a poor sleeper? I can remove you to
the stables if you require complete solitude."
She could see his cheeky grin in the torchlight behind him,
casting a halo about his head.
"Do not jest, Valentine. It has been terribly lonely here."
He looked surprised. "I thought you would be thoroughly engrossed
in covering every square inch of the place, tiptoeing through the
secret underground passageway, exploring the cellars."
"Snooping is your style, not mine," she said with a lift of her
chin.
He gave a thin smile. "Do not be so sure, my lady. You and I are
more alike than you care to admit. When we want something, and I
do not mean anything money can buy, I mean intangibles, like the
truth, we stop at nothing to achieve it. You should have fun
exploring round here. And, if you tire of the indoors, there are
old churches and graveyards, a Roman ruin or two, a few Druid
megaliths. York is full of Viking remnants.
"The graveyard of Saint Alkelda at the foot of Middleham Castle is
rich with old tombstones, and the church is just as interesting.
With your vivid imagination, you can recreate past worlds and
transport yourself back in time to the days of the pagan
rituals..."
He moved closer and she automatically took a step forward.
"...where they sacrificed the most beautiful virgins on the pyres,
who screamed for mercy as the flames consumed them. Just think, if
you had lived in those days, you'd be dead already!"
"Oh, cease! You're spooking me! You are no comfort at all!" she
said with a petulant frown, shoving at his chest and then heading
back to her own room.
He laughed, removing his cloak and draping it over his arm. "You
left a warm feather bed and ventured into the cold corridor and
stairs for comfort? What sort of comfort could possibly await you
out here?"
"The comfort of human companionship. But I seem to have been
mistaken. There is none to be found here," she said with a sniff.
He caught her hand and turned her to face him.
She wanted to tug it away and stalk back to her chambers, but she
couldn't tear her gaze from his tousled hair, his handsome face
flushed from the chill evening air.
The tunic, emblazoned with his coat of arms in his colors of red
and gold, was stretched taut over his powerful arms and chest.
Though he was cold from the ride through the frozen night, he
emanated waves of warmth that were coiling about her, casting a
spell.
She longed to feel his arms around her, to hold him close so she
could press her cheek to his chest and spark some desire in him,
just as he had always done in her, from the moment they had met.
The moment he had handed her that one perfect rose. It was a pity
she had been stung with thorns of suspicion ever since.
His eyes were hard, wary, as he stared down at her. "If I recall
correctly, dear wife, you bade me farewell long ago at your
chamber door, when the palace guard so brashly dragged me away.
You've been so intent on finding your family, you've shunned any
help I wished to offer. Are you fixing your attentions on me now
because you still haven't found your kin?"
She shook her head. "‘Tis nothing to do with my quest. I am
lonely, that's all. I'm not used to these surroundings. And poring
through family trees that lead me nowhere just adds to my
desolation. And despite all you have said about wanting a real
marriage, a real wife and helpmeet, you have ignored me so. I feel
more unwanted than I ever did before we wed."
Her voice broke in a desperate sob despite herself. Stinging tears
sprang from her eyes and she longed for him to gently wipe them
away.
But he merely released her hand, and actually began to head for
his room, wriggling out of his doublet as he went, not even
looking her way.
"I simply wanted to greet you, my Lord, and welcome you home, that
is all," she said to his retreating back.
He reached his own door, slipped out of his spurs and boots with a
toe to heel movement, and fixed his eyes on her.
"Aye, I admit it was a heartfelt greeting and I do appreciate it,
but I am weary, not to mention ravenous. So I shall let you return
to your cocoon of slumber whilst I enjoy some repast. A warm bath
and bed are all I am fit for. I shall be better company on the
morrow, I promise."
"Oh, let me help!" she exclaimed.
Before she even knew she had moved, she was not only at his
chamber door, she was clasping his hands, winding her fingers
round his, feeling their cold seep into her. "Let me prepare your
bath for you!"
He broke free gently with a shake of his head. "I have a groom
attend to my needs. No lady of nobility should perform such menial
chores as tending a man's bath."
"But you are my husband and...I believe we'd both enjoy it."
He sighed heavily. "By the King and Queen's orders I am your
husband. Certainly not by the will of your heart. Nay, Dove, I
have seen enough love to know when it is true, and this certainly
is not. As such I shall not force this issue, nor will I loll
about waiting for your heart to open to me. I know your only
mission in marrying me was to escape the guardianship of Elizabeth
Woodville and gain the freedom to avoid an even worse marriage
than one to me. And to find your family, not to love me."
She was stung by his accusations, but the sad part was that they
were far too close to the truth to even dare protest.
"Since I've come to terms with the reality of that situation, of
the true nature of our marriage, I shall not compromise nor
dishonor you, and I have been doing my best to avoid thrusting my
unwanted company upon you."
"Oh, but—"