by Diana Rubino
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 reach
ed 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.
"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 t
urn 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.