Thy Name Is Love (The Yorkist Saga)

by Diana Rubino

  "So George has been put in his place," Denys said. "Until next time."

  "I don't think there will be a next time," Richard said, shaking his head. "He has done more, much, much more. He rounded up some rabble, spread the word that Edward practiced the Black Arts and was poisoning his subjects, and babbled that his son young Edward is a bastard. If that weren't enough, he accused Isabel's former servant of poisoning his son. The servant was brought before a jury and hanged. George concocted all these trumped-up charges to suggest she'd been a Woodville accomplice.

  "He sounds as though he has lost all reason," Valentine commented grimly.

  "Indeed, going up against my aunt in so open a fashion is the height of madness."

  "To retaliate, Elizabeth started driving Edward round the bend with tales about George, what an evil scoundrel he is, recounting all the times he'd tried to usurp the throne. The last night I was there, at the high table, Elizabeth declared that her sons by Edward would never ascend the throne unless George were removed from the line of succession completely."

  "So where did they leave it?" Denys asked. "Surely Edward would not let any harm come to his brother, not for the Woodvilles' sake."

  Valentine had been sitting through all this listening very intently, growing more somber by the minute.He fiddled with his rings almost nervously, his wife noted, with his eyes fixed to the floor.

  "Elizabeth insisted that George be arrested and put in the Tower. And if she gets her way, his days are numbered."

  Denys gasped and Valentine registered a look of anticipation. His eyes brightened. He leaned forward.

  Richard continued, "I pleaded with Edward to give this some thought. But he told me as much as it pains him to say so, he believed George's suppression would be the best thing. He actually went along with his wife. Oh, that witch!"

  "Now Elizabeth's sons are one step closer to the throne," Valentine said quietly, no emotion in his voice.

  Richard sat up and shot Valentine an enigmatic glance. "And so am I."

  The minute they were home and the door closed behind them, Denys reached out and clutched Valentine's arm, a pang of fear piercing her heart. "Valentine, this is all very frightening to me."

  He flicked off his cloak and began removing his pourpoint and shoes even before they were up the stairs.

  "Fret not, Dove. Richard knows what's best for the kingdom. Elizabeth Woodville has been driving them all mad. You should know that better than anyone, being raised by the old harpy. Richard detests them almost as much as you do, and with good reason. They have made his family's life a living hell."

  "But something tells me Edward wasn't the only one who wanted George out of the way."

  "I do admit, he wouldn't beat out Henry Tudor in a popularity contest."

  "Valentine, did you notice how calm Richard looked through all that?"

  He gave a lazy smile. "When have you seen him not look calm?"

  "You realize George's elimination would further assure Richard's succession."

  "Well, at least Elizabeth Woodville wouldn't be queen anymore," he said with a wry smile.

  "Do not jest, Valentine. The kingdom is crawling with pretenders."

  "The biggest pretender we have to worry about is Henry Tudor, and he's in exile in France. He rears his ugly head when his mother bribes someone to spy for her, but do not worry your pretty head about it. Margaret Beaufort is living at Hawarden on the Welsh border, and she knows her last spying mission had better have been her last, or it's the Tower for her, too. The crown is safe on Edward's capable head."

  "And I hope it stays that way." She didn't want to discuss politics tonight—a subject she dreaded anyway. Tonight was their six month's anniversary, and she wanted politics out of their bedchamber, for she had other plans. Plans that had little to do with chit-chat.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  That evening she took a leisurely bath in the cushioned tub filled with perfumed rosewater. As the sweet fragrance soothed her, her thoughts remained on Valentine and what she was planning for this eve. She pictured him in bed, his body warm with sleep, his muscles relaxed, his breathing calm, his face peaceful and relaxed.

  She thrilled at the idea of sliding under the covers with him, fondling him gently under the sheet, arousing him, teasing him into wakefulness, feeling his warm lips parting gently beneath hers...oh, she wanted him!

  She ran a hand up her thigh slowly, imagining it was his touch. She wanted to make life easier for him, to share his laughter and his troubles, to assure him that he had nothing to prove to her, were he king or a common artisan. She wanted him at her side when she found her family, to share his joy, his pain, his life.

  Oh, it was so strange, this warm yet scary feeling, causing her heart to flutter with a bouncy rhythm. She'd dug far enough beneath his surface, past all the insecurities he'd masked with arrogance and found the gentle, loving man she'd been sought, who flooded her with warmth every time she thought of him.

  Her own live, breathing storybook knight. "Not only do I love him, I'm in love with him!" she whispered, gazing out the window through the trees that parted to make the path leading to their home.

  She rose from the tub and wrapped herself in the towel. "I've fallen in love with you, Valentine!" she sang softly. It didn't matter whether he heard her because in just a few moments, she would show him.

  All was quiet when she slipped into her chamber. She unwound the towel and slipped on a satin nightdress, brushed her hair until it shone, dabbed rose and lavender oil on her neck, on the insides of her knees, elbows and thighs, and stole away to his chambers. She opened the door to his inner chamber and tiptoed in. Valentine's face glowed in the candlelight beside him. She stood for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall as he slept.

  She positioned a log in the hearth, lit it, and soon the chamber was aglow.

  She crept into bed next to him and began caressing the mat of curls on his chest, slid her hand lower and fondled his inner thighs with the tips of her nails. He was naked under the coverlet. He stirred with a sleepy groan and his manhood surged against the covers, arousing a pulsating ardor throughout her, sending an urgent fan of flames through her loins. A warm moistness began to flow through her and she tore the nightdress off and whipped it across the room.

  He opened his eyes; she saw the bright flash of blue ringed by the golden lashes. He smiled sleepily and turned to face her. With a soft moan, he held out his arms and enveloped her in his warmth.

  Her lips trailed a gentle column of kisses down his neck, as soft as rose petals against his clean skin. His fingers wound through her hair and tenderly fanned it over his chest. In the gathering light their hot breaths mingled and their mouths found each other.

  She kicked the coverlet away and tossed it on the floor, their bodies prolonging a desperate embrace, Valentine's awareness flooding her with a pang of desire. His fingertips slowly moved down to lightly fondle her breasts, and a dizzying wave of unbearable want ripped through the lower part of her body. She arched her back towards him and he pulled away gently.

  "Not yet," he whispered, his lips and tongue sipping leisurely at the valley between her breasts as his hands moved further down to make feathery patterns on her stomach and thighs.

  Wild with desire for him to fill her, she reached down and encircled him in her hand, sliding up and down over the throbbing shaft, clasping the silky globe that caused him to shudder convulsively. She gasped his name again, as her breaths were ragged with the exquisite torture he was inflicting on her with his hands and tongue, now nipping at the insides of her thighs as her legs wound round his head.

  After several agonizing moments of teasing, with his tongue flicking over the sensitive flesh of her thighs and abdomen, he nestled his head in between her legs and with a shuddering rush of longing, she grasped at his hair, letting wave after wave of flaming fury rent through her, bursting in an eruption of resplendence.

  His body covered hers now. Her thighs parted and, running he
r lips lightly over his neck, she found him and took him inside her, slowly, slowly, until he was hers completely. Their bodies arched, eased and tensed, like the pinnacles and dales of a dreamy piece of music, each chord blending, filling the world with richness and tone, loudness and softness. She closed her eyes and felt his passion pour into her.

  In the aftermath of soothing release, he clasped her hands and they caught their breaths, nestled in the soft feather mattress. They lay together in silence, the dying fire in the hearth reduced to an orange bed of embers. The torch in the hallway outside threw out weak shadowy light, mingling with the sunlight that was beginning to shine in narrow lines through the drawn curtains. They talked of his family, how he wished his father could see his beautiful wife, and their hopes of finding her own family. Once again, their nearness precluded any serious talk.

  His lips and tongue were nipping at her breasts now, and she took in a ragged breath.

  "You may journey to the ends of the earth to find them, as long as you come home to this..." He ground his hips against her, once again hardened with desire, causing her to gasp in wonder. She buried her face in the golden hair, sprinkled with the sunlight dancing over him as he moved down the length of her body, causing her to arch towards him instinctively.

  "I love you," he whispered.

  "Oh, Valentine, it means so much for me to hear that," she replied, her breath ragged.

  "Cold?" he asked, slipping his arm around her neck, nuzzling her hair, his warm breath bringing goose bumps to the surface of her chilly flesh.

  "Not anymore," she answered, her voice barely a whisper, for he took the breath out of her whenever he touched her like this.

  "Dove," he murmured again and again, parting his lips to join hers. Fingers splayed, she stroked his hair, wanting to touch him everywhere, not knowing at what point to stop.

  He finally drew away and looked deeply into her eyes, bringing her down on top of him as he lay back. The heat from the fire warmed her back and intensified the hot trail of kisses he blazed across the hollow of her neck.

  "I'd like to take you for a walk through the woods," he whispered. "I found a cave in a little clearing near the castle a long time ago, and I used to love going there as a child."

  "How did you find it?"

  "Oh, just by exploring. And I'd like to do some more." His voice broke as he took her again into his arms. Their thighs pressed tightly together and he brought his lips to hers, breathing slowly, searing kisses into her, causing blood to rush through her throbbing veins. She expelled short, hot breaths from her parted lips as he pulled away slowly. She moaned in frustration, her body throbbing for more of his warmth, more of his electrifying caresses.

  He ran his hand along her curves with exquisite mastery as she wriggled closer against his thick mat of chest hair, thrusting her fingers through the spindly roughness, such a contrast to the smoothness of his face.

  "Lie back. I want to do everything," he murmured, his voice rumbling from the depths of his throat like the rustling of silk on velvet. She stretched out as his lips played upon her cheeks, her eyelids, her chin. Hot shivers rocketed through her. He searched out the hollow of her neck, teased and tasted the sweet fragrance of her perfume singeing the air with every beat of her pulse.

  His fingers fanned over one breast, lightly and with torturous pleasure. She gasped as he lowered his mouth to her breasts, slowly tracing a circular path with his tongue. He moaned as she traced a finger up the curve of his back. When his hands had ridden down her body and found the core of her desire, she arched herself against his rigid manhood, sliding him into her slowly, their bodies trembling with a yearning, mounting passion.

  When he made love to her, she thought she was soaring into another existence. Every touch of his fingertips, every caress was magnified, intensified by thousands, her body one thirsty sponge of receptiveness, her nerve endings alive, responding, begging. The climax was an eruption of sensuality; an explosion of pent-up tension.

  Then they lay still dizzily, relaxing.

  He got up and tossed another log onto the fire, then came back to bed and drew the curtain around them. This new strange sense of decadent freedom aroused her wildly.

  He leaned over and kissed her. The scent of his body aroused even her taste buds. His hands were so nimble and skillful as he caressed her, their mouths locked together. His body then covered hers and all she could hear was his heavy breathing. Her hands found and massaged him until he felt adequate to satiate her again.

  She eased him inside her and he started thrusting slowly, gyrating and moving with her. He stroked her, fondled her, played her like the strings of an instrument. He put her to music, their bodies attuned to each other in an exquisite blend as they exploded into crashing chords, fading into oblivion as the music ended.

  "I've never wanted anyone this much in my life," he whispered. They lay locked together, letting the ebb of their pulsating bodies subside, drinking in each other's awareness, tasting shared delights.

  "I never knew it could be like this," she sighed, trying to push away the uneasy feeling which gnawed at the back of her mind that to love so intensely was to risk all.

  The chill air invaded their cocoon of love once again, compelling them back to earth as Valentine's Esquire of the Body entered to dress him for the day.

  A week later, a messenger arrived bearing Richard's standard, with a brief note from him. George had been sentenced to death and executed.

  "My only consolation is that he went as only George would have wanted to go," Richard wrote. "He was drowned in a cask of Malmsey wine."

  She glanced at Valentine through tears of sadness.

  "I can assure you he went with a smile, Dove," Valentine said, although his voice was dry and heavy with defeat.

  She went into their chapel alone, to say a prayer for George's soul. She closed her eyes and could see his cordial smile, could hear him telling one of his bawdy stories. Whether they were true or not didn't matter; he never failed to evoke roaring laughter. George, who'd wanted to sit on the throne so badly, he'd tried every subversive act to seize it.

  George, who had betrayed his own brothers.

  George, whose ambition had accompanied him to the grave.

  She felt the grimmest sense of foreboding as she prayed. Executions were bad enough. One of such cunning was worse.

  And try as she might, she could not help but wonder what it meant for them all now. Elizabeth was nothing if not vindictive to anyone who seemed to thwart her desires or not treat her with the deference she demanded as her due for herself and her entire upstart family.

  Now Richard was a step closer to the throne. Which meant Valentine was about to reach the pinnacle of his power. Yet the closer they were to power, the more there was to fear…

  She shuddered in terror, feeling as though someone had walked over her grave. Who would be the next to die in the quest for the English throne? she wondered.

  Valentine, seeking her out and sensing her unease, gave her a reassuring hug. "Oh, come now, Dove. Why do you think someone else is doomed to perish just because the King couldn't take any more of George's antics?"

  But his words brought no comfort to her. She loved her husband more than she ever thought possible, but to love so intensely was to risk all. Despite his leading her from the chapel and sweeping her into his arms for the most passionate embraces, at the back of her mind, Denys could not help thinking that the kingdom was destined for tragedy.

  And George's execution would be just the beginning.....

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Valentine and wife Denys clasped hands, and he led her with pride out into the sunshine to stroll through the grounds of Middleham Castle to survey the festivities.

  It was Hocktide, the second Tuesday after Easter 1483, and the kingdom was in the midst of a two-day festival that included a holiday for the villeins.

  Sir Valentine Starbury's and his closest friend Richard, the Duke of Gloucester's tenants, were all
making merry at Middleham Castle. They'd brought eggs, and their gracious lords had reciprocated with a feast.

  All day they had held tournaments, jousting, games, and puppet shows. Striped tents fluttering with flags dotted the grounds. Birds chirped, pleasant voices and laughter rang out. Children chased each other in a rowdy game of tag, screaming in delight.

  The brightness of daffodils and bluebells brought forth the promise of spring, and the air was sweet with primroses, May blossoms, apple, cherry, and pear blossoms from the orchards. The sky was an endless tapestry of azure streaming with wispy velvet clouds.

  It couldn't be more perfect, Denys decided, gazing all around her at the idyllic setting, before turning up her eyes to her tall, handsome husband, whom a quirk of Fate had bestowed upon her and she now never ceased to thank Heaven for.