Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga) (8 page)

"Owen, where are we? There hasn't been a house in sight. Are you
sure we didn't turn north by mistake and are in the far reaches of
Scotland?" she gasped, her lips frozen into numbness, hardly able
to form the words.
Continually she raised her hand to her nose and lips but it did
nothing to warm them. Her hands were like blocks of ice, her
fingers stiff, barely able to hold the reins. She was so
exhausted, her mind periodically shut itself off and she began
blacking out for seconds at a time, jolting awake only with the
horse's unsteady gait or a sense of slipping.
Drifting in and out of consciousness like this disoriented her.
When her head jerked up, she didn't know where she was. She cried
out, her eyes wildly alert, yet seeing nothing.
Owen inched up, reached over and nudged her shoulder.
"Are you all right, lass?" His voice sounded familiar and
comforting, but she hadn't the strength to turn and face him.
"Aye, I think so."
"Good. Because we're approaching a rise here, and I hope your
horse has the strength left to climb it. If she don't stiffen up
solid, she'll come out of this with the strongest hind legs in the
kingdom."
"Where are we?" she croaked, her voice hoarse with exhaustion, her
lips unable to form the words properly, but he understood the gist
of her plea.
"If my bearings are correct, this be Todburn Forest," Owen called
over his shoulder. "On the other side of this is will be
Manchester. We shall be able to stop there."
"Thank God."
He handed her a flask and she groped for it, trying desperately to
clasp her stiffened fingers round it, but it slipped to the
ground, and was swallowed up in the deep sea of snow.
"I've got another, but if ye can't grab it, I can reach over and
hold it to your lips, lass."
"Never mind," she whispered, her lips cracked and dry. Her teeth
had begun to chatter so that she didn't think she could manage a
flask held to her lips. Instead she opened her lips and let the
snow that had started falling anew melt on her tongue. She thought
it would chill her, but it was a most blessed relief.
The party was quiet as they trudged along through the expanse of
trees. Dead branches scraped against her cheeks as they wound
their way through, the path now buried. Her face was scratched,
bleeding, and raw.
She was barely able to close her eyes against the branches that
stuck out in her way, but had not the energy to lean over to avoid
them.
Then something came out of her confused jumble of random thoughts
and told her to pray as she never had before. Not just the words,
but a prayer from the heart.
By now she'd lost all feeling, and knew her exhaustion had become
a prelude to the deep sleep she felt sure that she was about to
enter.
But somehow she wasn't afraid. She welcomed death as a warm
passage into a world of comfort and light.
Through her stiffened lips she mouthed the prayer she'd found at
random: "Keep me and defend me from all evil and from my evil
enemy and from all danger, present, past and to come..."
She begged mercy for her soul, bursting with sadness at the
thought of never seeing Valentine again. She pictured his face,
racked with worry as it had been after she had nearly been killed
on her last excursion.
She regretted not having trusted him enough to tell him the truth
about where she was going. Oh, if only she hadn't been so
stubborn, refusing his help, blaming him for the tragedy in
Witherham near Leicester, and suspecting him of plotting with
Elizabeth, he could be on his way to rescuing her now!
Please,
Valentine
, she begged, wishing she could clasp her hands
together in prayer, but they were nearly frozen around Chera's
reins.
Please forgive
me! I didn't mean to hurt you. To leave you forever. If only I
could have another chance, I'd be the best wife any man could
have!
She began to cry, not for her own impending death, but for him.
How she'd departed so callously, treated him so high-handedly in
their marriage with never a thought for what he needed.
She formed an image of him in her mind: how his eyes lit up when
he saw her, the way he had held her that night before the wedding,
his refusal to take her physically unless she loved him.
How she regretted never telling him how secretly fond of him she
really was.
Oh, Valentine,
if only I had another chance, I'd make it all up to you
,
she sighed inwardly, trying to stop the tears before they froze
her eyes shut.
I
do care, I really do.
But it's too
late, all too late. We shall meet again in our next life,
Valentine,
she told him in her heart.
God willing, we shall meet
again and I shall open my heart to love just as you once asked.
Then, in her blurred daze, that familiar spark of anger ignited
and gave her weary body the slightest inkling of coherence. No!
She couldn't die without ever seeing him again. He needed her!
They had so much to share, so many changes and turning points in
their lives to enjoy as man and wife together. Early death was not
in her plans. She could not, simply
would
not die, until
her destiny here on earth was fulfilled!
She forced her fingers to move, the skin so cold and stiff she
thought it would crack and expose bone, but she started slowly,
then in a few minutes' time, they were partially mobile. She
called out to Owen for another flask. After some fumbling in his
saddle bag, he yanked one out and leaned over to give it to her.
Stretching, she reached and groped, pulled off her glove and
grasped it with her bare hand and held it to her lips. The
soothing liquid trickled down her throat like life being breathed
back into her. She licked her lips and they warmed, tingling as
sensation slowly returned.
"I can feel my lips, I can talk, oh, my feelings have come back!"
she exclaimed as Owen nodded.
"They be good tidings, and I have even better news for you as
well, for I see a shelter of some sort up yon."
Shelter
.
The word to her gave her the same comfort as the words ‘feather
mattress' would under normal circumstances. Her heart leapt and a
surge of excitement tore through her ragged exhaustion.
"Where?" she whispered, squinting through the falling snow.
Owen veered off to the right and she followed. The snow was not so
deep here in the thick of the forest, and Chera was easily able to
walk in the footsteps of Owen's horse.
Through the blur of bark and branches she could make out a mass of
fallen trees a few feet high, arching across the ground like a
makeshift cave. It was shallow, it was low, but it had a cover,
and the ground appeared clear and dry. It would provide a scanty
but very real shelter from the harshness that was doing its utmost
to ravage her spirit, her strength, her life. "Oh, sweet Jesu!"
she sighed, tears welling up in her eyes, her lashes still weighed
down with bits of ice. "Thank you."
"She's all in," a distant voice said. "Lay a blanket in there and
let her lie down." She felt a pair of hands slide under her back
and behind her knees. Her head lolled to one side as someone
carried her to the shelter, wrapped her in a blanket and lay her
on the ground under the woven branches.
The voices around her blended, then faded away as she slipped into
darkness. Yet she was not afraid. Suddenly the warmth she'd so
desperately craved was there, like the embrace of God.
Be this death?
she wondered, as a golden light flared into her vision.
Valentine, my love…
She embraced her fate now, love in her heart, at peace at last.

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The sound of shouting jolted Denys awake. Glazing the snow around
her, patches of brilliance shone through the weave of branches
over her head.
As her eyes opened on the sight before her, awareness returned in
disjointed patterns and gave way to sheer terror. Dark figures
tore at each other's throats, cursing, grunting, spitting.
Highwaymen were attacking her party! They were filthy, ragged,
with sinister slits for eyes, mercilessly attacking her three men.
The contest was already unequal, but now two more leapt out of the
woods, armed with longbows and arrows. She gasped in horror as a
black hail of arrows shot across her, only feet away, and she
heard the sickening pierce of human flesh. Bright red spurted out
and soaked the snow.
One filthy monster lunged at her. Before she could utter a cry, he
tore her cloak, and began crushing her with his bulk. Greasy
strands of hair fell over his face and into his eyes as he dragged
her downwards.
Her arms flailed, beating the sides of his arms. He forced her
legs apart. She balled her fists and beat his back, but he clearly
enjoyed the struggle. He yanked her skirts to her thighs, and the
raw cold bit her skin. His stench made her want to retch. But she
could barely even draw in breath as he pinned her.
He grunted, trying to wriggle out of his hose. His breath was a
foul blast across her cheek with every heave he took.
She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth.
Oh, God, please God, let
this nightmare end.
Suddenly he emitted a high-pitched animal-like wail, his body went
limp, and he collapsed on her. She struggled for air under his
dead weight.
Then a pair of powerful arms lifted him up and Peter rolled the
lifeless body face upwards onto the ground. He had already pulled
his dagger, coated and dripping with blood, from the assailant's
back.
He put it to one side and gathered her to him. She trembled like
the fragile branches around them.
"‘Tis all right, love, I killed ‘im. ‘e's dead now," he soothed
her as he rocked her back and forth, her tears of fright painfully
stinging her frostbitten flesh.
Seeing that their leader was in a lifeless heap on the ground, the
band of thieves swiftly rounded up their horses, leaving Owen and
Bruce lying prone in the dirt.
She saw Chera rear in protest as one of them yanked on her reins
and pulled her away. Too stunned to even move, she sat stock still
save for her shivering until complete silence took over again. She
could hear agonized moaning just outside the clump of branches
under which she sat, but hardly even knew how to move her limbs.
But something propelled her onwards. Dizzy with hunger and
fatigue, she crawled out of the shelter and up to Owen's figure
lying in the snow.
His breath coming in tortured gasps, and she knew his end could
not be long. Still on her hands and knees, the snow soaking her
clothes and stinging her skin with numbing cold, she carefully
worked the arrow from Owen' chest as more blood spurted out of the
wound. A deep red puddle spread over his cloak, telling her all
too clearly how serious his wound was.
"Owen...Owen," she whispered.
His eyes opened and stared up into the sky, unfocused, and his
breathing becoming raspy and hollow.
Bruce and Peter rushed to his side now, covered in blood
themselves, though not nearly as badly off as their comrade. She
could tell they were bearing the pain of their wounds ever so
bravely. They lifted Owen as best they could and dragged him back
into the shelter. Numbly, she crawled back in after them.
"Put his head in my lap," she said as she struggled to sit.
Branches painfully dug into the top of her head.
They placed his head in her lap and she cradled it.
"We're going to try and get some help," Peter said as they backed
out of the shelter on their knees.
"How? They've taken our horses, baggage, everything we had, even
Chera!"
"It's stopped snowing and the day is bright and clear. We should
be able to manage on foot. We shall find something to help us, if
only the tracks of the thieves, so we can get back what is ours.
Or at least find help. They'll be local. They'll know where the
settlements are hereabouts, and that will mean help for us all."
"No, it's too dangerous—"
"So is staying out here with naught," Peter said quietly.
All the men nodded, even poor Owen.
"We shall separate," Bruce said. "I still have my compass. If I
head north-west and Peter heads south-west, one of us should be
able to reach help and rescue the others. Peter and I shall meet
up hence."
"You really mean to leave us
here
?" she asked in horror.
"You must stay here with Owen. Worry not. Someone will be back to
fetch you. If Peter and I both go, ‘twill double our chances of
finding help. Have you a better idea?"
"Nay." She shook her head, unable to grasp the horror of the
situation, much less dream up an innovative idea to get them out
of it.
"Fine. God willing, one of us will return soon with help for us
all. Let us go, Peter."
"But what if the brigands return?"
"We have killed their leader. They will not dare."
She didn't ask how he could be so sure, but now was not the time
to argue. Not if they had any hope of saving Owen. So despite all
her fears, she nodded. "Very well. Go."
Peter offered her his dagger. "Hide it in your sleeve. If anyone
does come, well, you know what to do."
She blanched, but nodded. "I'll protect him."
Peter looked surprised at that, but gave an encouraging smile.
"Good lass. We'll make an owl call twice when we return so you
shall know we're coming with help."
"Thank you. I'll see you soon," she said in a tone ringing with
confidence, even though inwardly she was terrified.
She watched them depart, and saw the two men separate after a few
paces, while she gently rocked Owen's head, talking to the partly
conscious man soothingly.
"They
will
be back soon, Owen. They
will
return with help. We shall get
out of this, we shall all be fine."
He began to stir, and his eyes focused on her face. A hint of a
smile broke through the wanness and he took several tortured
breaths before he was able to speak.
"I am dying, lass, I am breathing my last."
"Nay, you are not! We s-s-shall get h-h-help. They have g-g-gone
to get h-h-help," she stammered between shivering lips.
"Listen to me. Do not say a word, just listen."
He licked his lips, took another wheezy breath and sputtered. She
turned his head so he could spit a glob of blood upon the earth.
He turned back to her.
"I can tell you now because in but a few moments I shall be gone,
so ‘twill matter not. I remember...after having been in King
Harry's service, I returned to him many years hence to assist him
in matters of the treasury.
"It was during that stay, at Mass, I saw a man handing a babe to
him—oh, she couldn'a been more than six, seven months old. ‘Take
good care of her,' the man said. ‘She may be of value someday.'
That was all I remember him saying.
"King Harry took the babe and looked down at her. His face was a
blank, like he knew not what to do. Then he straightaway handed
the babe to the nursemaid, who bustled off."
He paused to take a deep breath, turned and coughed more blood on
the ground.
"Oh, Jesu! When was this? Do you know what year?"
"What year..." A series of sighs followed a faint shake of his
head. "I was forty, or was I...I must have been forty, it had to
be then..." His voice grew weaker and she leaned way over to hear.
"I was born in fourteen-seventeen, so it had to be
fourteen…fifty-seven?"
"The year I was born!" Her heart leapt. "Owen, who was this man
who gave the babe to King Henry?"
"His name was..." He succumbed to a fit of coughing, worse than
any of the others, and he tossed his head from side to side. Blood
seeped through his clenched teeth. She managed to pull one of her
skirts up to his mouth to wipe away the blood.
"John," he gasped, his breathing shallower now. For a moment it
stopped. He was still.
Then it rattled again and his chest rose feebly as he struggled
for air.
"John!" she repeated, begging him with her eyes, locking into the
gaze that left her and was now staring straight up at the sky,
"John who?"
"John..." It came out in a whisper. He coughed, sputtered, and
took his final breath. His eyes opened wide and bulged, then the
lids slipped over them for the last time. His features relaxed and
settled into eternal stillness. His chest no longer rose and fell.
No more air or blood escaped his lips.
He was gone.
"Owen! Owen! Oh God, Owen, no!" She lowered her head over his
lifeless form and wept. And with him any further clues about her
real identity.
It grew dark, and darker still. His head was heavy upon her lap,
and she struggled to free herself from under him. Laying his head
gently upon the ground, she said a prayer for his soul, then
curled up into a ball at the entrance of the shelter, crouching
next to his corpse, slipping out of consciousness and into
blackness once again. 
John...John...John.