Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga) (22 page)

"Do not get too taken in with his flowery language, his theatrical
hand gestures or his boundless energy. He tires me out just
listening to him!"
"Valentine, we are fellow explorers trying to shape our destinies,
nothing more."
"As long as that is all,
bella
." Without giving her a chance to
reply, his lips descended upon hers and with his tongue and hands
swept her up into a swirling apex of ecstasy beyond anything that
even Cristoforo Colombo could find.
When she entered the solar the next day, she glanced over at the
oaken chest where she kept the genealogical tables and other
important documents. Something looked amiss. She hadn't opened the
chest since before the tragedy in the woods, but behind the glass
door she could see the papers were in untidy, as if someone had
been rifling through them. She opened it and examined the papers.
Then she realized what was wrong. The genealogical tables, the
ones she'd procured at court, Anne Neville's, and the ones she'd
sent to neighboring shires for—were all gone.
Before the court went on progress, Richard saw his way clear to
send her the names and whereabouts of two of King Henry's
servitors named John. She and Valentine were to investigate these
and join the progress later, for she had the itinerary and knew
where the King and his retinue would be every day.
John Grantham had been King Henry's chief steward and was now
serving a family of nobles in Windsor. John Lyghtefote was a bit
older, and had been King Henry's barber. Thinking he was the surer
bet, she went to him, and left John Grantham to Valentine. She
travelled the several miles to Maidstone, where John Lyghtefote
resided, on the back of her palfrey and with a retinue of
servants.
The weather was warm and the sun was as bright as the golden wheat
and rye ripening in the fields. She tried to put the recent
burglary out of her mind, but it ate away at her like a festering
sore: who had stolen her tables? It couldn't be Elizabeth—she was
sequestered away without any connection to the outside world save
for her servers, who didn't dare meddle. Mayhap she'd sent someone
else to impede her search, and it frightened her as she looked
over her shoulder every few minutes.
She couldn't bring herself to feel safe, although her escorts
surrounded her, their hands poised on the hilts of their daggers.
John Lyghtefote was easy to find; he had a small shop at the edge
of the market square next to a butcher's stall. As always, the
crowd parted when her retinue passed through the narrow streets;
the merchants stopped hawking their wares, the crowd stood still
in its tracks, squeaky wheels ground to a halt, and voices hushed
at Valentine's splendid colors draped over the mounts. After
stopping and asking a merchant where John Lyghtefote was to be
found, she approached his small shop and dismounted.
She introduced herself to the sleepy old man, explained her
situation, showed him the miniature and, as expected, watched as
he shook his head slowly, a look of apology on the wrinkled face.
"Sorry, milady, ‘twas not I who delivered a baby to the King, or
even saw an infant there. The young Prince of Wales was born
there, but we all knew he'd been born there, for Queen Margaret's
screams could be heard in the far reaches of Scotland."
She prodded him for memories of any other Johns he might have
served with, and John Grantham's name came up, as well as a few
others, but they were dead. She asked for their names anyway, just
to verify it. He was able to come up with one more John, John
Butts. He lived near Smithfield and had been King Henry's
Exchequer. She wrote down his name, thanked him and, blinded with
tears of sadness and frustration, headed home to wait for
Valentine.
He arrived back the next evening, his visit to John Grantham
bearing no more fruit than her journey had done.
He'd recorded the name of one other John, however, that Lyghtefote
hadn't come up with. His name was John Smith; he'd been one of
King Henry's gentleman ushers, but no one knew where he'd wound
up.
Finally the dam burst and she released all the sadness and
frustration she'd kept inside these last few months. "Oh,
Valentine, I shall never know who I am. This is becoming more
unbearable every day," she sobbed into his tunic and he wrapped
his arms around her, hugging her tightly.
"We shall find them, Dove, dead or alive, we shall find them. We
have these other names here; all is not lost."
"How can Elizabeth be so cruel as to not tell me who they are?" He
shook his head. "I honestly do not believe she knows."
Now Denys was considering that possibility. No one could be that
heartless; she shuddered at the thought of where she would be if
Elizabeth hadn't taken her in. Putting aside for a moment the
fantasy about being King Henry's natural daughter, she imagined
once again being one of those poor children begging for alms in
Saint Giles. How ironic—now Elizabeth was virtually homeless—with
no one to support her.
Two days later when Valentine was able to alter his schedule, they
both travelled to Smithfield to visit John Butts.
"Exchequer is a high position," she reassured herself aloud as
they exited the city gates and cantered down the road through the
fields in the dusk. "He should know, he must know..." The parish
priest was more than willing to direct them to John Butts' home.
It was a comfortable timber framed cottage perched on the borders
of his farmland. The sky grew dark as Valentine and Denys
approached the house from which not one light shone in any of the
leaded glass windows.
"Perhaps he is not in residence," Valentine remarked as he helped
her dismount. They hitched their horses up to posts at the front
door and he knocked. No one answered, but Valentine noticed the
door was ajar. He knocked, but still no reply came from within.
"We can't just barge in on him, Valentine," Denys exclaimed,
grabbing on to his sleeve as he swung the door open and called out
loudly.
"Well, it's not like I didn't knock!" he retorted in an impatient
manner that echoed her mood exactly.
They crossed the threshold, Denys cringing with embarrassment at
this unwelcome entry into a stranger's home, and entered the dark
cottage. Valentine groped his way along the wall, finding a torch
and lighting it. Their feet stopped shuffling through the worn
rushes on the floor as they let the torch blaze into life.
"Hallo?" Valentine called out once more, heading for the staircase
and peering upwards, shaking his head at the silence that
surrounded them. The torch's weak light cast a glow over the
furnishings: a trestle table, chairs, cupboards.
She followed him across the hallway into a solar.
"There's no one in, Valentine, let us depart and..." When she
turned to exit the solar, she saw it. She leaped back in shock as
she emitted a horrified scream.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
In an instant Valentine was at her side and she clung to him,
trembling, pointing at the figure sprawled on the floor, a
lifeless form under a heap of burned and blackened rushes, the
features charred beyond recognition.
Valentine approached the body, lowering the torch, and she looked
away, too stunned to even beg him to get them out of there. "He's
been burned to death," he said, circling the body, his knees and
head bent to get a better look. "And this doesn't look like any
accident. Someone murdered him."
"Oh, the poor man!" Her voice was as scratchy as a briar patch,
her body trembling in fear and dread that whoever committed this
heinous deed was still lurking about.
"We must raise a hue and cry, and fetch the bailiff!" They exited
the house after Valentine shut the door tightly, and they headed
to the cottages of the four nearest neighbors, informing them of
their find, to carry out the hue and cry.
Led by the sleepy villagers, Valentine and Denys proceeded to the
home of the bailiff, hoping the coroner would arrive quickly and
try to find out who'd murdered John Butts.
That same evening, Valentine rounded up all their servers and
questioned them about the violated oaken chest. None of them had
seen anyone enter the house at any time.
He and Denys believed their trusted staff and ceased their
questioning.
"Someone is trying to thwart my efforts, and it is now all the
more unlikely that it could be Elizabeth," she said to him after
they dismissed the staff. ‘Tis a murderer, Valentine, a
cold-blooded murderer!"
"Don't be frightened, my darling." He held her close and stroked
her hair. "I'll never let any harm come to you. I shall post two
extra guards at the door round the clock and I do not want you
travelling anywhere without two armed escorts. Not even to go
marketing; you are never to be alone!" She shivered and wrapped
her arms more tightly around his warm, strong body. Somehow she
knew she would never be harmed with Valentine at her side.
"Oh, Valentine, who else but Elizabeth could possibly want me to
remain in the dark about this?"
"Why, it could be..." But he was unable to think of any other
possibility.
Physicians examining the body of John Butts determined that he'd
been dead at least two days when Valentine and Denys found him.
"That would have been the same day I went to see the other John,
who told me about Butts," Denys said. "Valentine, someone has been
following me. Whoever it is knows our every move!" Once again he
held her, trembling, and tried to calm her.
But by now he was far from calm.
She planned to solicit more of Richard's help after joining him on
progress. They set off for Windsor, where they planned to meet the
court, and while there, they received word that Henry Tudor had
invaded from France.
"Why does he not give up?" she exclaimed as the inner courtyard of
Windsor Castle filled with caparisoned horses led by armored men,
plumes and banners streaming out behind them.
"He is no match for us," Valentine replied as she clutched at his
arm, encased in gleaming silver. "We shall return shortly, do not
fret." Led by the King, the army of 9,000 converged and rode off
to fight off their deadliest enemy.
While they were away, Denys gathered the names of the Johns they'd
procured on the last mission and, surrounded by her armed retinue,
determined to find them. John Smith, John Drury, John Freke and
John Knolles were the last four names they had. But where to find
them? Then a thought popped into her mind. Why not ask Marguerite
of Anjou? She'd been married to King Henry all those years; surely
she must know! The old Queen dowager had nothing to lose; she was
exiled away in France and probably would welcome such a
challenging task.
She sat down and in her nearly flawless French, penned a letter to
the woman who was quite possibly her last hope. She dispatched the
letter by messenger, and hoped Marguerite was not too bitter about
the turn her life had taken to help a woman who, in many ways just
like her, was also lost.
She was bursting to tell someone, anyone, about her exciting new
idea. She dashed a note off to Valentine, but doubted he would
ever get it. The only person besides Richard who'd shared in her
triumphs and shattering disappointments was none other than the
Queen, Anne Neville.
She called for Anne, and together they strolled the castle grounds
followed by some of their ladies and Valentine's hired bodyguard,
the sun's rays glinting off the River Thames like floating gems.
They stood on the bridge, overlooking the calm currents and
watched the swans glide by.
"Anne, I have come up with another possible lead, one I should
have thought of a long time ago. Marguerite of Anjou!"
"Why, that is interesting," Anne replied, a flush of color
returning to her cheeks. "She may have been there when you were
given to King Henry—she was his wife, after all."
"And if she does not remember, she can tell me who those Johns
were!"
"That is a joy to hear, Dove! I truly hope your search comes to an
end soon. How fares life with Valentine? I remember how
apprehensive you were on the eve of your wedding." Valentine
hadn't left her thoughts for a second; even when she was excitedly
scratching out her letter to Marguerite of Anjou. Her heart took a
nervous leap and her stomach sickened as it always did at the
thought of him in battle once more.
She wanted to gush forth with her declaration of love for
Valentine, but Anne was still in mourning attire for her son and
Denys didn't want her to feel any worse by hearing of marital
bliss. But, she thought again, this was Anne, the surrogate sister
who'd honored Denys with her very own wedding gown, and having met
Valentine, she was grateful to Anne for being Richard's wife when
he otherwise would have no one.
"Oh, Anne." She smiled, the sun glinting off her hair. "I have
grown to love him so very deeply! I am sick with worry over him
right now."
"Oh, they will be all right. They cannot go wrong. ‘Tis so
marvelous to hear how you've grown together. You are such a
beautiful couple. So suited to each other," Anne replied, tossing
a stone in the water and watching the ripples, her brown eyes
thoughtful.
"And to think Elizabeth married me to him for a punishment!" Denys
laughed bitterly. "Just another of her cruel acts that backfired."
"Ah, yes, he is a rare gem indeed. Were I married to Valentine, I
would don a suit of armor myself and guard him with raised lance!"
The remark alarmed her. "Why? Is he that bad a soldier?"
Anne turned to her and laughed. "Oh, nay, Dove, Richard has
nothing but praise for Valentine's military talents! I was
referring to his powerful looks, his handsomeness! That is
something I would want to guard jealously! Just ask any of the
other ladies at court; they twitter and sigh and nearly swoon when
he walks by!"
Denys shook her head. "Oh, really now?" She knew he'd had his pick
of the lot at court after his return from France, swaggering into
the great hall, wenches of every shape, age and size clustering
about him like bees to honey, but none of this occurred since
they'd been married. "Where am I when all this sighing and
swooning is taking place?"
"Oh, sometimes you are off on your missions to find your family.
Mayhap you do not notice."
"I would notice a bevy of swooning wenches swarming round my
husband!"
"‘Tis not that obvious. Most are quite covert about it.
Richard has told me on the last few campaigns they resided at the
nearest lord's castle and Valentine was always at the center of
attention...the ladies' attention, that is. ‘Tis quite harmless,
Dove. Do not take it to heart. Just be pleased you have such an
attractive husband whom many fair maidens would love to have
sweeping them off into the sunset!"
"And when all this sighing and swooning occurs, does he return any
of their ardent admiration?" She'd seen Valentine flirt, he was an
incorrigible flirt at that, probably having perfected the art at
that lusty French court. But just how much he still dallied, she
did not know, and was resentful that she didn't.
"Oh, Richard says he cold-shoulders them politely, but quite
firmly. ‘Tis all very amusing to him, I expect. Do not worry about
a thing, Dove. Valentine would never stray."
"I witnessed some of his antics with the wenches at Elizabeth's
court, before we were betrothed, of course. But now? Nay, it
bothers me not." Anne nodded and turned her gaze back to the
river.
"Good." But the topic was hardly closed.
"I know Valentine is handsome, Anne. Painfully handsome.
But do not envy me. I trust him, but it is those...women I do not
trust. You know what can happen when a man succumbs to the
feminine wiles of an engaging wench."
"Do not fret, Dove. He is safe enough. As long as you love him and
he loves you. He certainly loves you." She glanced over at Anne,
still with a shred of disbelief that the young girl standing next
to her was the Queen— and she mistrusted no one.
"Aye, I know he does, Anne," she replied softly, believing it,
believing it deeply. "He loves me now."
"There is one lass I would be wary of, Dove, but not in any
serious way; she is but a child and still harbors dreams of fairy
stories in her young heart."
"Who is it?" Denys asked, her heart stepping up a bit.
Someone was after her husband? Oh, she did not need another
problem! "‘Tis only Elizabeth's daughter. She fancies Valentine
something fierce." Anne laughed, brushing it off with a toss of
her head.
"But do not fret. As I said, ‘tis simply a young girl's fancy."
Bess' daughter Elizabeth was not exactly young. There were many
times when she herself wondered why Bess had never married her
off. Not only that, she was quite beautiful, with shining hair and
eyes like the midnight sky, possessing all Bess' lost beauty of
youth, the fair skin, the tall and willowy posture. She was
probably the most beautiful of the younger women at court. And
sweet on her husband!
"Why did you not tell me this before, Anne?" Denys' voice
hardened, causing Anne to face her and place a reassuring hand on
her arm.
"I did not think it important. It still is not important. She is
like a falcon set free from a cage, Dove; Elizabeth only recently
released her to Richard, just think of how you would feel if you'd
just been released from sanctuary. All she wants to do is spread
her wings a little."
"Perhaps they are due for a clipping," was Denys' curt reply.
"Dove, she may be an adult by virtue of her age, but in her mind
she is still such a child. This is her first taste of freedom."
"Then do I have to pour verjuice all over my husband to render
that taste just a trite bitter?"
"She resides up at Middleham for the most part, Valentine hardly
sees her.
He hardly fancies her, I can assure you." She could see Anne was
amused. But she knew how hard Valentine always tried to please and
hated to reject anyone—for any reason. It could be taken the wrong
way, especially with an impressionable maiden like Elizabeth.
"Dove, you are not jealous! It means nothing, really! Surely you
had crushes on older men when you were young." Nay, no one real.
Just her made-up storybook knight.
But whether it meant nothing or not, it bothered her. It bothered
her because she now knew what Valentine had gone through in trying
so desperately to capture her heart.
"Aye, Anne. It probably means nothing." But it bothered her still.
And now that Elizabeth was free, she couldn't help but wonder if
her husband's biggest admirer wasn't carrying her fancies just a
bit too far.
"Anne, someone broke into my oak chest at Burleigh House recently
and stole all the genealogical tables."
"Oh, dear." Anne's eyes darkened with mystification.
"Was anyone harmed?"
"Nay, not at all. And neither was aught else disturbed. It was as
if they knew just where to go."
"Has young Elizabeth ever been to Burleigh House?" Anne had been a
step ahead of her the whole time. It surprised Denys; she'd never
credited the meek and unassuming queen consort with much in the
way of skepticism.
"Aye, she's been a few times for feast days and such. But
Elizabeth? Why would she want to—"
"Perhaps she is working on her mother's behalf."
"Nay, she wouldn't. I have heard her confiding in Valentine; she
was as anxious to escape Bess's clutches as I'd been. I couldn't
help feeling a bit of empathy for the lass, knowing what she'd
been through, having been there myself."
"Mayhap it has something to do with her feelings for Valentine. In
her naive child's mind she may hope Valentine will tire of you and
your endless quest eventually and turn to her."
"Anne, you are more astute than I ever thought possible.
Has Richard ever solicited your advice on matters of state?"
"Oh, never, Dove! He leaves all the matters of statesmanship to
Valentine. Besides, that is one area in which I would never
interfere. We must not forget who my father was. He went to his
death by meddling in places he had no business. I intend to die a
natural death, not at the hand of the executioner's axe!" Anne's
strong words made her shiver, only because she was right. With so
many factions vying for the crown, politics was the most dangerous
game of the times—it rivalled plague in her eyes.
"You are right, Anne. I suppose it is wise for you to let Richard
run the kingdom as he sees fit. But stay out of it I can't. My
husband is in too perilous a position. I constantly fear for him."
"He is a capable soldier, Dove. Do not become a prisoner of your
own fear. Accept fate, like I do, and you shall breathe easier."
Anne's complacency with the world was borne from resignation;
she'd never been well, and knew the consumptive ills that weakened
her so would carry her to an early grave.
But Denys was a fighter, and she was going to find her true line
even if it meant a messy death, the same death she so dreadfully
feared for her husband.
Valentine and his retainers marched through the gates in a
triumphant line, banners streaming behind them. Valentine
dismounted, and his squire removed his helmet and gauntlets so
that he could give his wife a loving embrace.