Destiny Lies Waiting (14 page)

She swept a generous helping of leavings into a linen satchel to bring to the poor on the morrow. The palace wasted more in one feast than most people ate in a month.

Then she went in search of a friendly face and some real conversation. And information.

She found Richard sitting cross-legged at a window seat nibbling on a pheasant leg, a pitcher glittering beside him.

Denys approached him, and as much as she wanted to ask him if he knew where Valentine was, she restrained herself.

"Richard, may I say the Yorkists are the greatest warriors that ever lived!"

"Not really, Dove. There was Richard the First and the Crusades."

"Oh, but the Crusades were over religion, Richard! You and King Edward's army fight for our land, our kingdom. That's what really matters!"

"A spot of mead?" He motioned to a passing steward who brought a full goblet.

She took a bigger gulp than she should have and grimaced at the cloying sweetness. "So was anyone else seriously wounded?"

"The usual casualties on both sides. Oh, and Anne's little hubby of two days was slain, if you consider that serious."

"Dear God! How?"

"Stabbed in the heart three times," he replied in his customary calm manner, though she could not help note a certain tone in his voice….

"Oh, how terrible!" Then she understood. She didn't dare ask who had done the deed. She could easily guess. "Poor Edward. A casualty of his family's worldly ambitions."

"Aye, terrible for his mother. But not quite so terrible for me." He continued eating as if discussing a mere jousting match, not the death of a young man, a crown prince, who had held such promise.

Her eyes slid closed, and she relished a brief moment of relief, but guilt flooded her. An innocent young lad was dead. "So this means Anne is free to marry you again."

"Isn't she now."

She could see he was trying to keep a straight face.

"Oh, poor young Edward." Denys heaved a sigh through mixed feelings; she almost forced the guilt to prevail. She had no right to be relieved.

"How ironic," Richard went on. "Anne's father and new husband both slain in the same battle. So much for Queen Elizabitch and her most nefarious plot to keep me from marrying Anne. It blew right up in her bat-fowling face."

His voice had a rough edge to it, but she attributed it to all the stress he'd been through. "And there's some truly sad news." His voice took on a hint of irony.

"What?"

"The King held a conference this afternoon. He sent me to bear a most unpleasant order to the Constable of the Tower."

"What kind of order?"

"An order of execution for old King Henry the Sixth," Richard replied. "He is to die at dawn."

"Oh, Jesu." She shook her head and crossed herself. The feeble man would have lived hadn't it been for his domineering wife Marguerite of Anjou, and all her dissidents.

"But must he die? He is feeble in the mind. He has not been responsible for any of the dreadful things done in his name."

Richard sighed, and patted her shoulder. "It is inevitable, Dove. He must be eliminated. Otherwise, people will just keep on rallying around him. Mercifully, his will be a peaceful passing."

She shivered. What horrible times these were! Why was life worth so little?

"I shall say a prayer for his soul."

"You do that. And no more politics tonight. I'm positively weary of it. Have you seen Val about?"

He looked around quickly, then wiped his hands on a linen napkin.

Her heart did a little dance at the sound of his name. "Nay. Not since the victory parade ended. He said he had a council meeting to attend. But until this hour? Perhaps a mob of maidens attacked him afterwards."

"In that case we won't see him for a fortnight."

Richard took a swig of mead and smiled. "But that's highly unlikely. He likes his maidens one at a time these days." He threw her a glance and she looked away.

"You're sure about that?" she asked stiffly.

"I thought you were heeding my wishes and giving him a chance," he said.

"There is still something about him I can't help fearing."

"Oh, don't let the size of his codpiece scare you. 'Tis merely a prop...and it's borrowed." A smile tugged at his lips.

She rolled her eyes. "'Tis hardly that." She knew what she feared most of all—her growing fondness of him.

"Well, your storybook knight is soon to receive a preferment. I have asked the King to grant him a higher title and some lands for all his loyalty during these battles."

"What title would that be? Earl of Churl?" she carped.

He cast her a sideways scowl. "Duke of Norwich in all likelihood, a title held by many of my ancestors. That is, if one of Elizabitch's lot doesn't pinch it first."

"Perhaps they should this time. Give Valentine Starbury a dukedom that rich and he will be waving it in all our faces until we puke of disgust."

Richard shook his head and said mildly, "He is already an earl, but I have never seen him put on false airs. He certainly knows only too well that most of us gain our titles only from the death of another who held it before us, in this case, his father.

"The previous Earl of Pembroke died when Valentine was only nine, and his mother of a broken heart when she heard the news. So forgive him if his manners seem less than impeccable to you, for like you, he has not had the benefit of two tender parents to raise him. And while you do think he is far too big for his boots, just stop to consider for a moment that they have been very large boots to fill."

"I see," she said, swallowing past the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat.

"He is a brave man, Dove. He tries ever so hard to be a great soldier."

"Mayhap that's the trouble then. He tries too hard at everything." She forced herself to stop scanning the hall for that golden head.

"Have you seen my new nephew, the Prince Edward?" Richard asked a moment later.

She was a bit disappointed that he'd changed the subject; something inside wanted to keep talking about Valentine.

Denys nodded and smiled. "Aye, I have. Suckling at the wet nurse. He's a sprightly nipper indeed."

"Edward is mighty chuffed. And I cannot tell you how relieved I am now that he has a male heir. Perhaps now George will come to his senses and realize his claim to the throne has just moved down a notch." He added, his tone vague, "As did mine, I suppose."

"But I trust the House of Lancaster will rise again, and there's still Henry Tudor to contend with," she said with a sigh.

Richard waved his goblet impatiently. "Fie on Tudor. I expect we will hear no more of him. He went running back to France, when his ambitious mother's funds could no longer feed his army."

"Well, I know the realm is safe as long as you and Uncle Ned and the right soldiers are leading the vanguard into battle."

She was not sure what Richard might have said, for his attention was distracted by movement in the great hall.

It was getting late and the courtiers were beginning to all get up and drift from the tables as servers cleaned up, and some of the palace dogs fed on the leftovers.

She bade Richard goodnight and headed for her own apartments, furtively glancing round one last time for that blond head and broad chest.

But alas, Valentine was not about.

The kisses they had shared still scorching her lips, Denys gathered up her sack of food for the poor and retired to her chambers to dream of the bold knight who made her limbs turn to mercury, and her heart smolder like molten gold.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Candles blazed throughout the conservatory. The scented summer breeze rustled the velvet curtains.

Queen Elizabeth sat in the special throne made for post-childbirth. Every carved chair, every stool, and every cushion on the floor was taken as the court ladies sat in a circle toying with their lutes, flutes, viols, and rebecs.

Their chirpy prattle drowned out the twangs and hoots of the instruments, which served as mere props. There was only one reason for this gathering: gossip.

Denys would rather have played her lute in the peaceful solitude of the gardens, but for her, the musicales had one advantage: she could catch up on the Woodvilles' antics.

Elizabeth's tongue was as loose as a wonky milk tooth, even when she wasn't in her cups. Of course no one dared disagree with her; they'd either be publicly disgraced or, if of lower rank, unfittingly punished.

So she was all ears as the woman wittered on.

They'd finished prattling about recipes, fashions, and people who weren't there. So naturally the topic drifted towards the more risqué variety of hen talk.

George's wife Isabel Neville led them off in her singsong voice as she strummed random chords on her lute. "Well, was George ever snockered yester eve. I poured him into the bed, and when he tried to plug me, his willie was as limp as the plume wiltin' from his bloody bycocket!"

"Ah, like most men," cackled Elizabeth's sister-in-law Margaret. "I have just the remedy for ye, Belle, dear. Take a pinch each of sage, cloves and saffron, beat it together, and stir in the juices of three fresh oysters. Serve it to 'im in a powdered ox horn and he'll be bubblin' up to ye like a boilin' frumenty!"

"You mean dip his gear in it and slosh it about?"

"Nay, ye make him drink it, ya bloomin' loon!" The voices exploded into a cacophony of titters.

"Aye, I would try that, but where can I fish up a trio of oysters?" chirped Isabel.

Then Elizabeth's sister Elinor piped up. "I haven't had any in so long, I forgot what it looks like! Oh, aye, now I remember." She held up the lute pick. "That's about the size of it!"

The other women snickered and twittered, nodding in agreement, head-dresses bobbing like apple stems in a dunking barrel.

"I measured it one time, aye, I did. 'Twas no bigger'n a pine cone needle."

"Aye, and you need to soak it in a pipe of verjuice to get it up, and it tastes just as foul!"

Another voice interjected: "I need a winch and pulley to get old Jack cranked," chimed in Coletta, wife of one of King Edward's council members.

"Give him one sip of hippocras and he's done fer until the next new moon! I've need keep his bald-headed hermit salted all winter, for it only peeks out with the spring thaw!"

"Once a harvest moon's good enough for him!" retorted another "lady" of the court, tapping her foot.

Denys shuddered, and once again wished she had never been tarred with the label Woodville if this was the kind of woman she had to be associated with.

"That's how he knows when 'tis Twelfth Night!" quipped another. "That's the only time I give the old man his supper!"

"Well..." And now it was the Queen's turn, and all heads turned to the regal head held high, one severely plucked brow rising jovially. "...my Ned's battering ram puts a plough ox to shame. I need to climb a trebuchet to land on Golden Boy when I go vaulting!"

They tittered and giggled at the thought of the ancient missile discharger in the bedchamber.

"But then Ned is younger than I. Follow my example, ladies, younger paramours are best to mend your kettles, for these old sods peter out faster than a trencher soaking up pig grease!"

"The Earl of Devonshire and I had a tumble not a fortnight ago!" bragged Lord Lumley's wife.

Denys blinked in surprise; the boy Earl was barely fifteen years of age.

"Ye got to stand back a fair bit when he unsheathes his pork sword!"

A few more young knights' names came up, in ever more indecent detail.

Denys taking it all with a pinch of salt, and even trying to find it amusing, until a name went round the group that pricked up her ears.

"The Earl of Pembroke—now, I'd like to pound his stalk to a pulp."

The others smacked their lips, nodding in agreement.

Denys blushed hotly when she found herself wondering what kind of lover Valentine Starbury, Earl of Pembroke, would be.