Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga)

by Diana Rubino

  "Valentine," she whispered into his ear and he stirred, mumbling some incoherent non-words. He was still on the battlefield, arrows flying above his head, men falling to their deaths, beaten lifeless to the ground. The pounding of hooves and clanging of armor rang in his ears along with the cries of men in agony, with rage and fury, each side fighting for what they felt was rightfully theirs. He moaned aloud, thrashing about, kicking the coverlet off his naked body.

  "Valentine..." The soft voice came through the noise, like the caress of feathers against his skin, suffocating in his silver enclosure. He reached out for a clod of earth or a tent flap, but instead felt the curves of a woman's body, the fullness of her breasts, the thighs parted, the sheath's warm moistness ready for him.

  He pressed his hard body against her softness, his desire growing more sensitive to the feel of the velvety down as the thighs closed around him, squeezing him gently in exquisite agony. Then his mouth descended upon hers with such force their teeth actually met and then he was devouring her, his hands winding through her hair, his tongue probing harshly, meeting hers, and a low growl escaped his throat as he crushed his body to hers.

  His chest crushed her breasts, his pelvis ground into hers, his hardness bruising the insides of her thighs as he parted them with his knee. He grasped her hands together in his, bringing them up over her head. He straddled her, his tongue flicking over her neck, his lips nibbling her lips, murmuring all the time, "Ma femme, je t'ame..."

  "And you are my man, Valentine. I love you too."

  "...my love, my love," he moaned as his lips blazed a fiery trail down her neck, between her breasts. Then he flicked his tongue over the sensitive buds until she shuddered with a wild wave of desire in her loins.

  He mounted her, naked, his engorged manhood standing out before him, swollen and ready to conquer her. Her firm legs, conditioned from years of riding, wound around his back and pulled him down to her. His arms were so lean, so muscular, supporting himself as he teased and tormented, touching her then pulling away slowly until she thought she would scream with desire for him. His hair fell onto her face and he brushed it over her cheek like a feather before pulling away.

  His mouth left hers and his lips, slowly, with agonizing tenderness, traced the hollow of her neck and once more sought her breasts. "Valentine," she gasped, but he did not hurry, he did not rush to a shattering climax, prolonging the sweet agony for as long as possible. His hands moved lower to caress the tops of her thighs as he explored and stroked, so slowly and gently.

  She moved against him, faster as her passion mounted. His fingers were inside her now, probing so delicately, idling then moving on, and she cried out as a primitive wave of desire clutched her heart. She clenched her teeth as her arms wound around his head, kissing that soft hair, grabbing it in bunches, feeling the wavy locks slip through her fingers as his tongue slowly and lightly licked at her breasts.

  Her hand sought and grasped him, and she rasped, "Valentine, make love to me now, please, I cannot wait..." and she held him encircled in her hand, stroking him with the tips of her fingers, bringing him slowly to her entrance, closer and closer.

  His hips jerked back and he let her continue stroking him, and finally he eased himself into her. She cried out as a series of explosions tore through her, torturing her with exquisite bursts of pleasure, each wave of ecstasy leaving her longing for more. Their movements intensified and he drove into her with the force of a battering ram. She yielded to him completely, gasping for air as his mouth claimed hers, slowly, lovingly, in such stark contrast to the fierce thrusting of his manhood into her essence.

  He clutched at her buttocks and with a ragged moan, unleashed his desire in a frenzy of passion that sent a galaxy of stars bursting behind her closed lids. The fierce thrusting calmed to a placid rocking. They continued to move in a sedate rhythm. He remained inside her and let his lips linger on her neck, bringing her face to his, greeting her with softened lazy kisses. They nibbled and pecked, in the extended and prolonged relaxation of afterglow.

  Mingled with the dampness and the warm elixir of their passion, he murmured as he continued to stroke her hair and plant tiny, more concentrated kisses on her nose, her lips, her cheeks, in a placid conclusion.

  Side by side, their heartbeats slowed to a normal pace, arms and legs intertwined, as delicious sleep overtook their senses.

  It was noon and they'd just risen from bed and dressed. Their breakfast, left at the door by his groom, had remained untouched. As Valentine placed rings on each of his fingers, he was telling her about the battle. "We were at Agincourt, the very field upon which that milestone of history occurred, when Edward made King Louis an offer of peace," he explained.

  "Everyone was for it, including Louis, who accepted the offering eagerly. Louis not only agreed to peace, but he will be paying Edward fifty thousand crowns a year and he also paid a fortune in ransom for the return of Marguerite of Anjou. She is to return to her birthplace and spend the rest of her days there. However, there was one person against this peace treaty with France and refused to sign it."

  "Who?"

  "The born enemy of the French, our Duke of Gloucester."

  "Richard opposing the King's treaty? How did Edward take it?"

  "With characteristic good nature, as he presented Richard with another grant of estates."

  "Why, I am astounded. That is the first time Richard ever disagreed with Edward on anything."

  "I think Richard is coming into his own and does not find it necessary to see everything Edward's way. After all, he just about rules the entire north; Edward has practically made him king here."

  "And you think it's going to his head?"

  "Well, I wasn't going to say it, but he has had a few skirmishes with some of the other councilors here."

  "You included?"

  "Nay, we've never had a harsh word to say to each other." He shook his head and then smiled. "But enough of war and national politics," he said, winding tendrils of her hair around his fingers and nuzzling her neck. "I have a session right here in my little Yorkshire realm I'd like to begin."

  A new wave of desire scampered through her and she breathed a sigh as he planted small kisses on her face, her neck, his tongue darting in and out of her ear, causing her to shiver with excitement.

  "You started it," she murmured, pressing her body to his, feeling its strength and growing hardness against her thighs.

  "Nay...I'm starting this..." he whispered and lifted her off her feet, carrying her back to the bed, placing her on the edge.

  "Valentine, we've barely risen!"

  "Oh, I'm more than barely risen, my dear."

  He removed her chemise and let her skirts tumble to the floor. Her satin undergarments slid away like droplets of oil from her skin and he laid her back on the bed. Her heart began to race in anticipation of the rapture that was to follow, her breathing quickened in excitement. "Oh, how I missed you," he murmured, burying his face in her hair.

  She raked her hands through his hair, desperate for his touch, aching for the warmth of his skin next to hers. But he pulled away, stood at the foot of the bed and looked at her for a long minute, his eyes sliding up and down her smooth curves, swelling breasts and firm thighs as if for the first time.

  "God, you are so beautiful," he murmured, shaking his head as if in awe.

  "Am I?" she whispered, holding her arms out to him, trembling with emotion, yearning for him, but he deliberately stayed just out of her reach.

  "Do you want to take off my clothes?" he asked, pulling the strands of gold from around his neck, slipping the rings from his fingers and letting them spill to the floor.

  "But you just put them on."

  "‘Tis no fun taking off your own clothes."

  "Aye, I do, come over here, please, Valentine."

  "Nay, on second thought, I think it may excite you more to watch me."

  He began slowly slipping out of his pourpoint, then tossed it away. He glided across the
chamber and stood in the window, the noonday sun casting a glow about his lean body, making him look like a god just descended Olympus. He slipped the tunic over his head, then, bare-chested, strutted about the chamber, flexing his arms, rippling his biceps as the beautifully developed muscles obeyed his every move. He strode over to her and brought her to him, kissing her deeply, letting their flesh touch, sending a wave of fire between them.

  He pulled away and peeled off his hose, one leg at a time, and twirled them in the air before flinging them aside. He was now completely naked. He plucked the long feather from his cap and approached her, waving it through the air.

  "You think my hands are magic, wait until I tickle you with this."

  He brushed her breasts with the very tip of the feather, causing her to squirm in delight as the delicate down brushed her sensitive nipples. A rush of desire spread from the pit of her stomach and fanned out to her most sensitive nerve endings. He let it slide down her body, over her abdomen, along the soft sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. It felt like nothing she'd ever experienced.

  Lighter than the softest caress of his fingertips, it teased and tormented in its subtle and fleecy gentleness, like a whisper of a breeze on her skin. She moaned in delight and arched her back instinctively, aching for him to come to her. Slowly he trailed a line back up her front with the feather's tickling ends, brushing over her breasts, then making one last stroke over her thighs.

  He lay on his back and pulled her on top of him. She sat up and straddled him as he continued to stroke her with the feather.

  "Let your hair fall over me," he whispered, his voice husky, his breaths coming in rapid gasps. She pulled the combs from her hair, lowered her head and let the silky ends brush against his chest, neck and face. He wound tendrils around his fingers and kissed them gently, then pulled her down to him.

  She tasted the sweetness of wine on his tongue as it met hers, probing slowly then becoming more urgent as their passion mounted. He was hard, he was ready; she eased him into her and rode him slowly, enjoying this feeling of supreme command, controlling their movements, the degree of penetration.

  She teased him this time, easing him out, then plunging back down upon him, causing him to moan in ecstasy with every thrust until finally their urgency culminated in waves of pulsating urgency. In the throes of passion they consumed each other, lost in the fervor of one beautiful body united with another, a desire bordering on indecency. She ground against him until his passion subsided and he begged her to stop, exhausted.

  "Nay, I shall not stop," she declared, just as he teased her in holding back when she was ready and pulsating with desire. She continued her thrusts until he was completely satiated and she could no longer feel him inside her. She laughed wickedly, moved her head down to his exhausted manhood and teased it with her tongue. He gasped in surprise and fanned his fingers through her hair until once again he was ready, and she repeated the performance, riding him gently at first, then pounding harder and harder until the blazing release, and she lay supine atop him, her body now exhausted.

  Now she felt like the wanton strumpet that Elizabeth had accused her of being. But she smiled because it felt so wickedly wonderful.

  On the land granted to him by the King in Wetherby, near York, Valentine began building a sumptuous manor, calling it Dovebury, meaning "Dove's Castle." She didn't realize just how magnificent it was until she sat down with the steward and auditors and ran over the expenses he'd run up. Thousands of pounds to have three hundred thousand bricks purchased and carted to Wetherby, a legion of Flemish laborers to lay them, a team of architects to design the main house and its outbuildings, in the tradition of Westminster Palace, but on a smaller scale.

  The house, from the plans she'd seen, resembled a castle enough to be considered one; double-moated, built around a quadrangle, with towers at each corner of the crenelated curtain walls; marble from Florence, stained glass from Venice, tapestries of Arras that looked like the trees in Sherwood Forest when rolled and stood on end. Included in the estate were stables, gardens, and a chapel. Just like Valentine, it was to be a regal paragon of nobility.

  "Valentine, we do not need this!" she exclaimed one evening whilst supping in the solar in private, without the staff. He merely smiled and broke into laughter when she lifted her goblet to take a sip of wine and a sparkling diamond and ruby necklace slid to her lips. He stood behind her to clasp it around her neck, and brushed his lips over her gently as she shivered in delight.

  "Valentine, this is really not necessary, I do not need all these gems dripping from my neck!" she exclaimed, fingering the teardrop-shaped ruby that nestled between her breasts.

  "Nay, it is not necessary, not essentially necessary. That is the beauty of it all! I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life showering you with gifts."

  He kissed her warmly, and all thoughts of berating him for his extravagance fled in an instant.

  Thus several months of easy contentment followed. One day blended into another as they went about their daily routines, while their nights passed all too quickly in a blaze of love. There were, however, some events which marked time passing.

  "He looks like an absolute angel," Valentine whispered as they leaned over the cradle to gaze upon Richard and Anne's newborn son Edward.

  Glancing at Valentine, Denys could see the pang of longing in his eyes, but nowhere did it match the emptiness in her heart. Having her own child to look forward to would have made this so much easier. But she stood, quietly taking in all the ooh-ing and aah-ing over the sleeping infant. She took a moment to pray for a miracle of their own.

  Anne was suffering a slow recovery from the childbirth and was bedridden. Denys had paid a visit to her chambers, found her asleep, and backed out again quietly. So it was the three of them, Richard, Valentine and Denys, alone for the first time since that day in the court chapel when Valentine had found out who the ‘hideous cow' of Richard's description really was.

  Valentine, dazzlingly handsome with a grin of true happiness, looked elated that the three of them were alone together again, even if for just this short time, but Richard seemed preoccupied. The furrow hadn't left his brow, and his stooped posture of old indicated that he had much more on his mind than reminiscing about their salad days.

  "Let us fetch some wine and cheese and sit out under the stars!" Valentine exclaimed as they descended Middleham's exterior staircase. "We can sit up and talk all evening."

  But not even Valentine could ease Richard's gloom.

  "Nay, Val, a grave matter has just come to my attention and I would not be good company tonight."

  They walked down the corridor towards Richard's private solar and he sat in a chair at the window, his back to them.

  They sat on either side of him and Denys said, "What is it, Richard? You can tell us."

  "George."

  Valentine and Denys exchanged troubled glances over Richard's head, knowing the mere mention of that name meant crisis. "What has he done now?" Valentine asked.

  "For one thing, his wife is dying of consumption. But please do not tell Anne; she is in delicate enough condition already. If she knew her sister was about to breathe her last, she would perish soon after."

  "Oh, I am sorry, Richard."

  She hadn't known Isabel all that well, but hers seemed like a lifetime of misery, from her marriage to George at her father's instigation, to the birth of a son, Edward, diagnosed as simple-minded.

  "The Duke of Burgundy died recently, leaving behind his daughter Mary. As Burgundy is our biggest ally, King Edward summoned a Great Council from which I returned yesterday. George was also present."

  He took a deep breath as if reluctant to even mention his brother's name, and went on. "George has it in his artless mind that as soon as Isabel is in her grave, he can wed Mary of Burgundy, and keep Burgundy in the English orbit. He also made no pretense of hiding the fact that he intended to use this marriage to pinch Edward's crown again."

  "Wh
at did Mary of Burgundy have to say about all this?" Denys asked.

  "Mary wants no part of George. She needs a prince, not a greedy English duke. George was miffed enough about that. Now, to top it all off, Bess Woodville, predictably enough, wants Mary to marry her brother Anthony. Another opportunity to advance the Woodvilles.

  "Well, George was livid. He went running through the palace, screaming and yelling, refusing to eat or drink, insisting Bess was trying to poison him. He made a right prat of himself.

  "Edward is at the end of his tether with the lot of them. I could see in his eyes how he wishes he could just get away from it all; start over, and be someone else. Somehow I always thought Edward wished he'd been born a commoner, without all these perils of lordly rule and kingship."