Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga) (7 page)

BOOK: Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga)
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CHAPTER
TWELVE
In the seclusion of her bedchamber, Denys tried to subdue her
roiling emotions. The repeated rejection of her by Valentine was
almost more than she could bear. She had told herself she would
never love him, but even as she uttered the words, she knew how
hollow they sounded.
To take her mind off her tumult of emotions, she unrolled Anne's
genealogical table and began to examine it more closely for any
clues.
Anne was descended from John of Gaunt, a son of Edward III. Both
Anne and Richard were descendants of Edward III, but so was nearly
every nobleman in the kingdom.
Denys entertained a ripple of excitement in the possibility of
finding her parentage somewhere in this family tree. Was there a
place for her here? Did her name truly belong on this parchment?
She might even be one of Gaunt's numerous descendants; after all,
he'd had three mistresses. God only knew how many bastards he'd
sired.
She rolled the parchment back up, repeating the names of the
long-dead earls and dukes over and over in her mind. Beaufort,
Beauchamp, Neville, Stafford. She'd heard all those names at one
time or another during her childhood.
She went back to her diary and combed through it from beginning to
end, pondering every mention of a visitor or lad being knighted.
She'd made several entries about the feeble-minded King Henry VI,
of his ill-fated battles, his triumphs and failures, and his
overbearing wife, Marguerite of Anjou.
Then she had another idea. If she'd been in King Henry's charge as
an infant, his living relatives might remember her.
Maybe King Henry had even sired her and, slipping in and out of
mental incontinence, had neglected to recognize her!
She could be a princess in her own right, an illegitimate princess
of the dead king, but that still meant her heritage was royal.
She began fantasizing about how she would have lived had King
Henry recognized her as his heir. How different her upbringing
would have been. He had been so gentle, saintly. There would have
been no public belittlings, no angry outbursts—no Elizabeth
Woodville.
But then she would have been a Lancastrian, the deadly enemy of
Richard and his family, Yorkists to a man….
At that thought, she almost crumpled the parchment. It was almost
too terrible to even contemplate being an enemy to Richard, Anne,
Uncle Ned, Valentine…
Did she still want to go ahead with her search, even knowing that
this might be the possible outcome?
She chewed her lower lip, tapping the scroll on the coverlet for a
moment in indecision.
Yes, she did, more than ever now, she concluded with a sigh. Even
were she a Lancastrian by birth, it posed no danger to anyone to
find out the truth and put her mind to rest at last. That might be
her blood line, but it was certainly not what was, or ever could
be in her heart.
The babe had been given to the King as a ward. How then had she
come to be in the possession of the Queen? To protect her when
power had changed hands? In that case, she had to be someone of
sufficient rank for not one, but two kings to have troubled over….
Too excited now to sleep, she dug out of her coffer the original
family tree she'd obtained at court and traced the branch to which
King Henry VI belonged.
He had come down from the Gaunt lineage, while Richard and Uncle
Ned had been descended from both the second and fourth sons of
Edward III, thus giving the Yorkists the better claim to the
throne.
They had finally been victories after years of fighting, and the
old king and his only son were no more. Ned had triumphed, and had
an heir of his own. Surely there was nothing to fear….
She traced Henry VI's line carefully, noting that he had had two
half-brothers, Edmund and Jasper Tudor, Welshmen. She knew Edmund
was long dead.
Jasper could possibly lead her to success, although he harbored
one mark against him—he was married to Catherine Woodville,
Elizabeth's cousin.
She didn't think she could trust any of Elizabeth's relatives any
more than she could trust the Grey Mare herself. But this was a
risk she was willing to take. Now where to locate Catherine
Woodville, and attain a Welsh escort to guide her there?
She thought of Richard, but she dare not even ask. She knew he
would be willing to help, but she did not wish to take him away
from Anne when she was recovering and he was still mourning the
loss of his stillborn child.
Valentine? Nay, he had so many duties…. And certainly would not
want to escort her across the country on an errand he did not
believe in, even were she willing to trust him.
No, she had no choice but to turn to the only person who would
help her, whom she trusted with her life.
Uncle Ned.
She wrote quickly, giving as little detail as possible but
impressing him with her urgency in the matter. Her letter to him
ended with her name smudged in tears at the closing.
These days, she couldn't think of Uncle Ned without crying. How
she longed for him, the dimpled smile, the warm embrace, that wink
of reassurance. She knew he would escort her to Wales personally
had he the time.
She re-read the letter out loud now, to help her feel as if he
were sitting across from her.
Oh, Uncle Ned,
she sighed, closing
her eyes and hearing his hearty laugh. How she longed for those
days again. To think she had taken them for granted, and now,
well, now she felt she might never laugh again.
His reply came so quickly she knew he must have employed a series
of couriers to reach her, just as they did during war time, in
order to convey urgent messages.
As she had hoped, he did not let her down. Not only did he provide
Catherine Woodville and Jasper Tudor's whereabouts, at a manor
home called Talyllyn, he was providing a Welsh escort as well,
expected to arrive forthwith behind the speedy messengers.
He'd ended his note,
"You're forever my little Dove. Love always,
Uncle Ned."
She laughed and cried at the same time, folding the letter
lovingly, kissing the royal seal.
Her heart swelling with excitement, she now wrote to Catherine and
Jasper Tudor on the pretense that she was going to be in Wales,
and would like to pay her kinsmen a visit now that she was newly
married.
She didn't mention the real reason yet. She was taking no chances
that anyone might throw any more obstacles in her way to finding
her true identity.
Now if she could only slip away when Valentine was occupied with
his many pressing concerns….
She called her maid to give her letter to the messengers to take
to Wales, hugged the letter to her from Uncle Ned once more, and
then began to start packing.

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Valentine was inspecting some tenant cottages the day Denys'
escort arrived to take her to Wales to visit her possible
relatives.
Owen Gwynne was at the head of the trio His Highness the King had
sent to guide and accompany her. Denys took an immediate liking to
him. His hair was whiter than snow and his cheeks were a ruddy
brick-red. Aside from being the tallest, he was about the
chattiest man she'd ever met.
Even as Denys assisted her kitchen servers in packing provisions
for the journey, Owen filled her ears with stories of the days of
old, the civil strife under King Henry VI, resulting from
Marguerite of Anjou's antics.
She was thrilled that Valentine was away and would not have a
chance to stop her from leaving. She left him a brief, untruthful
note telling him she was heading south with the King's escort to
attend to some personal business, then happily led the way
west
from
Lilleshal, praying that the next time she returned, she would know
her true name at last.
Not that it was so terrible being Lady Starbury, the Duchess of
Norwich, but hopefully Valentine would understand her reasons and
her need for secrecy.
The other men in the retinue were younger. Bruce was as quiet and
broody as Owen was chatty. She liked Bruce because something about
his manner and carriage that reminded her of dear Uncle Ned. With
the bearing of a true knight, straight and tall atop his mount,
and arms that could wield the heaviest of swords, he seemed as if
he would rather have been born a few centuries ago and accompanied
Richard the Lionheart on crusade, instead of escorting a noble
lady to Wales.
Peter, a freckled Irishman with a shock of red hair, was a
frustrated sailor whose ambition was to explore what lay beyond
the lands found by the Norse, and what lay south, a fascinating
idea to Denys.
Although only a vast desert was known to lie in the southern
lands, she admired his sense of curiosity, a trait she proudly
shared. With the characteristic boasting of Irish sailors who
considered their maritime talents far superior to the English, he
related his beliefs to the company.
"Land lies to our west as well, I tell ye. The Vikings and Norse
barely scraped the surface with their explorations of Iceland and
Greenland and Vinland, and Eric the Red's expedition across the
Danish Channel. Oh, I wish I'd been born at the time of Eric the
Red!"
Her own imagination fired by his tales, she imagined a successful
quest of her own as she rode on. The day was bright and cloudless
as she led Chera headed west with her three guides. She breathed
deeply, the crisp March breeze gently pinched her face.
Her lungs filled with cool air, and she was sure she had never
felt so fresh, so alive. She looked out over the landscape, so
sharp, so clearly in focus. Noble trees framed majestic church
towers that spiraled into the feathery sky. The midday sun spilled
long shadows onto the verdant lands.
In the distance, patches of deep velvety green gave way to a
carpet of colors like stardust. But soon dark clouds began to
lour. The roads grew slippery by the time they reached the
outskirts of Yorkshire. By nightfall, several more inches of rain
had fallen, rendering the roads nearly impassable.
She would just have to bide her time and wait out the storm. While
she longed for the comfort of her own snug chambers, there was no
point in heading back home and running the risk of a confrontation
with Valentine. She wasn't going to let a few drops of rain stand
between her and her destiny.
The days were still short, leaving them little daylight travelling
time. Owen asked her why she couldn't wait until spring was fully
upon them to make this journey. She explained patiently why she
had waited long enough and couldn't tarry any longer. Her family
was out there somewhere, and she simply had to find them. Only
through finding her past, could she ever have a future with
Valentine.
A future she was starting to long for just as much if not even
more than a family of her own…
They spent the first night at a decent tavern, and the second with
a tenant farmer. In the middle of the night, the rain gradually
eased off, so that they were able to set off at daybreak into a
morning as fresh and clean as a newly made bed bedecked with dew.
They'd gorged themselves at breakfast with fresh eggs, salted
bacon and milk. Because the weather was not conducive to stopping
and picnicking along the way, their next meal probably wouldn't be
until nightfall.
Once they were out of her realm, she grew apprehensive, but Owen
seemed to know the roads like the back of his hand, which, as
veiny as they were, closely resembled a map of lanes and paths.
About an hour after the sun peaked, they passed through open
fields, with a copse of trees a mile or so in the distance. The
dewy ground glimmered in the sun. Patches of flowers flecked the
distant hills, the colors slowly burying the more wintry heather
and bracken.
She looked around admiringly, then had to admit to herself that
she was getting hungry again. Much as she enjoyed Owen's chatting
and easy-going demeanor, she wished Chera had wings to soar over
the hills and treetops toward Wales.
But as they plodded along, the rain began to patter icily on her
face. After a while, being outdoors was not so exhilarating any
more. She longed for a fire and a warm tankard. But their chatting
helped make their situation bearable as they continued, helping
her to forget the quickening wind as it whipped round her cloak.
The sun showers and brisk breeze soon gave way to a driving gale,
and with it came a swirl of snow which came down from the north
and gained in power with every passing second.
Gusts of blinding whiteness stung her flesh, numbing her with
cold. Her gloved hands stiffened and she tried to flex them
without dropping Chera's reins. Within minutes of the storm's
descent, she was unable to see Owen's mount at her side.
"Owen!" she shouted, extending her arm.
"Right here, snow maiden," he assured her, and the tips of his
fingers brushed hers as he came up alongside her.
"Stay by me. I'm getting blinded here!"
Chera's mane was now covered with snow and the horse sneezed
several times in rapid succession, stopping as she did. In an
instant, Denys was again unaware of Owen's whereabouts, but
knowing the others were a few paces behind her, she didn't panic.
She was sure he was somewhere up ahead. He'd proven himself an
expert navigator, and she knew he wouldn't get them lost.
She could hear Bruce and Peter singing a bawdy drinking tune, but
she paid no heed as blasts of icy wind harassed her. With her
gnawing hunger and desperate need for a warm bed, even a straw
pallet would be a comfort, so long as it was out of the snow.
By the time they reached the rutted path winding through the
woods, the snow was like a shroud enclosing them in an inverted
cone. She didn't know how Chera was negotiating her way down the
path, for it was swathed in snow; the animal's feet plunged into
its icy depths with every plod.
Darkness was falling. Something told her now was the time to
panic. They couldn't possibly emerge from the woods before dawn.
Where was there to camp? The trees were bare and provided scant
shelter. There wasn't a hut in sight, she was sure, though she
could see little enough anyway.
She could discern nothing but the tall tree trunks and the
blinding snow pelting into her eyes. She could hear the men, but
could not see them.
In the darkness, Owen came trudging up to her on his snow-covered
steed, a lantern flickering and hissing before him. She halted
Chera and the others stopped behind her.
"We must pause," Owen said. "We can go on no longer, not until
daybreak anyway. I am losing my bearings."
"But where shall we sleep?" Denys gasped as the horses converged
into a loose circle, their puffs of breath providing the only
remnant of warmth.
"Sleep?" Owen let out a guffaw and spat upon the ground. "You
should be lucky to kip upon the back of your mount."
"Can you not spread some blankets on the ground so we can camp?"
"Dear child, the snow is knee deep. A blanket will turn to a sheet
of ice. I must stay mounted if I wanna have a wee. The snow is
almost too deep down there to stand, let alone lie. Even if it
weren't, there be packs of hungry wolves about.
"Nay, we must keep moving about so as not to freeze; we must keep
our humors circulating throughout our bodies. We mustn't sleep. To
sleep out here is to never wake. We have wine and other
sustenance. We shan't starve. We can sing and tell stories. Worry
not, my dear, the night will pass soon enough."
She wanted to dismount and stomp her feet on the frozen earth to
get her humours circulating. But as she looked down and saw the
snow up over Chera's knees already, she knew if she did, the snow
would virtually swallow her up.
"Can we make a shelter out of some tree branches?" she asked,
desperate for ideas, willing to do anything if only it would
provide some comfort and refuge from this misery of the elements.
The men all laughed in unison and Peter, the frustrated explorer,
spoke. "Since none of us has an axe, ‘t would be rather difficult,
unless, Mistress Denys, you can gnaw through wood."
Owen declared, "Enough of this recess. We must keep these beasts
moving about. Let us find trees with sheltering branches, and walk
in circles, singing "Day of the Hunt" as we do so. By then
approximately fifteen minutes will have passed. We shall rest at
fifteen minute intervals until daybreak, then we shall resume our
journey.
"We shall all go mad," Denys moaned, in the general direction of
the lantern, for he and his mount were completely invisible.
"We shall die if we do not," he replied sternly, as the opening
lines of the song reached her ears in a cacophony of discordant
and off-key voices.
"How pleasant it is, when the sun is shining brightly,
To ride out early in the morning
With keen huntsmen and hounds as my companions
Chasing the deer among the forest leaves..."
The snow hadn't stopped, but it had eased, and the tree he had
found afforded some shade from the worst of it and the whipping
wind.
However, no one could dismount with hopes of walking anywhere.
Owen and the others whipped out flasks of wine and began imbibing,
passing their flasks around, for their wines were all of different
vintages.
They also shared the few victuals they had brought with them.
Peter had a delicious rough brown bread that was so good that
after one slice, her stomach growled for more. They had apples and
pears, they had chicken and duck. At least they had enough to keep
the hunger at bay for the night, if not the snow.
After another round of songs and ribald jokes, before which they
excused themselves in her presence, she had a feeling she would
survive, and actually began enjoying the moment, the unique blend
of personalities in her company, her sense of belonging, and most
of all, anticipated the end of her journey at which she would—God
willing—find her place in life.
As the wine warmed her and the snow eased, they were able to
almost feel merry at the strange turn of events that had forced
them to remain in the forest for the night.
"Well head out of here as soon as it's light," Peter told her as
she looked around the glade now that she could lift her face
without having snow blow into it continually.
She shifted in her saddle, bringing one leg over to side sideways,
trying to ease a crick in her side. Peter brought out a deck of
much thumbed cards, and began to show her some tricks as she then
shifted in the other direction, and tried not to wish too much
that Valentine was there to share his warmth with her.
The blackness slowly lightened to a pale gray as dawn feebly broke
behind them, lighting the path out of the woods with one golden
shaft of light that Denys hoped was a good omen.
They were all quiet now, all talked and sung out, and she was so
tired she felt barely able to hold herself up. How she longed for
sleep, even a half hour's worth. Never mind a pallet—a stone
dungeon floor would be a comfort, she thought as she patted
Chera's neck and murmured reassuring endearments to the weary
animal who had given her such good service.
The flurries began to gather strength again about an hour later as
the first sign of the day in earnest peeked through the straggly
snow-laden branches surrounding them.
Owen rounded them up and organized them for the next leg of their
journey. "We shall carry on until we see somewhere safe to stop,
anywhere, anything that remotely resembles shelter," he said.
She could tell he was forcing himself to sound cheerful when she
knew he was more fatigued than she.
"According to my judgment, which has failed me but once, and it
had nothing to do with directions, we should be ten miles or so
outside Manchester, a town of comfortable proportions.
"If we can get there, we should seriously consider staying until
this tempest blows over and we are rested after last night's
ordeal."
Denys heartily agreed; her frozen body was so desperate for
warmth, she could almost force her imagination to feel it. A few
moments of intense concentration enabled her to bask in the heat
of an open fire on her hands and feet, to inhale the smoky aroma
of the crackling logs, and it actually brought a smile to her
lips. She thought of her solar at home, of Valentine coming in to
see her, to kiss her and tell her about his day….
Nay, she said, starting upright. That had never happened. It was
just a dream…
Owen made an about face and they were on their way.
The singing began once more, half-heartedly this time. She hummed
along, not knowing the words to the soldier's song, but it was her
last refuge from insanity, for they travelled on and on with no
sign of life. Soon the sun that had given them such hope was
beginning to throw late afternoon shadows upon them, and grey
clouds began to gather once more, filling her with dread.
She soon shut out their weary voices and began to softly sing
hymns, praying as she had not done for a long time.
BOOK: Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga)
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