by Diana Rubino
"Why Wiltshire?" She raised her eyes but not her head.
Denys was studying her aunt intently, and when Elizabeth finally cast her eyes in her direction and saw Denys staring, it unnerved the Queen, just like she'd planned.
"Oh, I would explore a few towns there. Like—Malmesbury, perhaps." She kept staring, but managed to keep her voice level.
Elizabeth's hands fluttered and she cleared her throat. "Now why would you want to go there?"
"Why not? Is it rife with thieves?"
"Just tell me, with all the towns in this kingdom, you specifically single out one poxy little hamlet in Wiltshire."
"Whilst I'm helping the poor, there are things there I'm interested in visiting."
"Such as?"
"Oh, the Abbey has a rich history. Then there's Foxley Manor—oh, and of course, the famous Three Bells Inn, dating from the eleventh century." Keeping her tone as innocent as a saint's, still she stared.
"Foxley Manor?" Elizabeth's tone deadened, like an untuned string. Elizabeth Woodville was the worst actress in Britain.
"Ah, yes, Foxley Manor. I read about it whilst a child. 'Tis quite charming, dating back to Arthur's time. As such, it spurred my curiosity."
"Well—I've never heard of it. I've never even heard of Malmesbury." Her fingers strummed the strands of pearls about her neck.
Denys knew this meant she was lying. She did it all the time.
"Why don't you just go to Saint Giles right here in London? They don't come any poorer than that. Throw a groat into that piteous rabble and they'll gnaw each other's balls to get it. 'Tis more amusing than bear-baiting!" She gave off a sadistic laugh.
"You're sure you've never heard of it? Dig into your memory. Mayhap you can recall something about it. After all, you're as well read in British history as you are well travelled."
A deep flush spread over the Queen's cheeks. Her chest rose with the deep intake of air she held for a long moment. If those pearls had been lute strings, the chamber would've been full of rotten music.
"Nay, I haven't. Goodness knows where the Godforsaken place is." Her bracelets rattled like a snake as she waved her other hand.
"A stone's throw from Swindon, actually. I read that Foxley Manor had some connection to the Woodvilles, and a remote ancestor had been a distant relative of Ethelred the Unready, who built it."
"Well, mayhap I did remember hearing something about it. Aye, it was King Edward's father spinning one of his questionable tales."
What a liar, Denys thought as she continued to stare down the Queen. If Richard never heard of it, it had never been in Plantagenet possession. If anyone knew every scrap of property the Plantagenets ever owned or seized, it was the meticulous Richard.
But her aunt was falling into step as planned. Perfect….
"Then I should be happy to visit there and to have them receive me as a royal niece."
"N—nay, there's no one about. It burnt down."
"An entire town?"
"Nay, Foxley Manor, you dolt. Burnt down ages ago." "A stone keep isn't very likely to burn down."
"'Twas a timber-framed cottage, nothing more. A pile of rot. It no longer exists."
"Ah. Very well then." She felt like she was getting closer to the truth, although she didn't quite know how. Elizabeth's weak attempt to cover her lies was giving her away. It convinced Denys that she had some family connection in Malmesbury. The possibility of not being a Woodville was akin to a catharsis.
Mission accomplished, she rose to leave.
Elizabeth's gray eyes avoided Denys' gaze and looked up to face the sunlight. All the misery of a cold, wet, blustery day was condensed within those eyes. "Dove!"
The Queen struggled to her feet, brushing away Denys' attempt to assist her.
"Foxley Manor does not exist. 'Tis a myth, like Camelot, reduced to sketchy legend. If you care to go on progress for the poor, do so, but not to Malmesbury. 'Tis quite a wealthy town, they've no need of alms. You're wasting your time. Stay in London. I order you. After all, you will have much to do if you are to be married Christmas Day."
A myth. Indeed. The codswallop about it burning down was more believable.
She was closer to the truth than she ever was—she knew it.
"Ah, then I shall, Aunt Bess. As long as you ordered me. Do I get the stipend then?"
"Aye, I shall grant you ten pounds per annum. And if you so insist that your maids be dismissed, so be it. I'll simply add them to my own personal staff. I am a bit short of help here."
Oh, but of course you are, Denys thought, knowing that the Queen barely lifted a finger even to attend to her most basic privy needs.
Forcing herself to curtsy, though she was sure she had never detested her aunt more than at that moment, she backed out of the chamber, her mind whirring with plans.
"I know she's lying!" she hissed out loud as she headed back to the privacy of her chamber.
It had all been so easy in the end. She had not expected the Queen to tell the truth. She had just wanted her to know that she'd acquired information and to see her response. That told her everything she needed to know—that she was on the right track.
She hurried back to her chamber, head high, shoulders straight, feeling like an adult for the first time in her life, one who was besting the Queen, of all people, in order to find her family.
Denys wondered how such a transformation had been wrought. It was that knight—he'd made her feel so worthy of attention, so grown.
As much as Uncle Ned adored her, she was still a child in his eyes.
Richard saw her like a little sister to protect.
But the bold knight, whoever he was, had changed the way she now looked at herself, because of the way he'd looked at her.
She might never see him again, but from the moment they had met, she knew her life would never be the same.
CHAPTER SIX
Graveyard of All Saints Church, Surrey
Valentine Starbury was smiling to himself despite the somberness of his surroundings. Having returned from military training in France and gone straight into battle at Barnet, he was enjoying a brief respite at his family estate, Fiddleford Manor, just beyond the City gates.
How lovely it was to be back in Surrey, with no talk of politics or enemy factions, he thought as he basked in the sun. He was especially happy to be reunited with his dearest friend, who was visiting for the day.
He could never fathom why Richard, Duke of Gloucester, found churchyards so comforting. Valentine relished peace and quiet, but his own manor grounds would have sufficed. He didn't need this much quiet.
Valentine rested against a tombstone. Its coolness soothed his back, as did the graveyard in a strange way, shaded as it was with aged trees, whose leaves rustled in the breeze.
The headstones stood in eternal testament to the people who had toiled their lives away in the area just to die here. Yet nothing was eternal, for even the etchings carved in stone were already wearing smooth with the ravages of time.
Leaning forward, he wrapped an arm round Richard's shoulders and gave him an affectionate squeeze.
"What a pity you've never visited France, Dickon! The French are forever indulging their hands and their tongues and their eyes with pleasure. They've a word to describe every conceivable fancy for which there is no English equivalent!"
"No wonder we beat them at battle at every turn," Richard snorted. "They're too busy carousing even to defend their own land. When it comes to the art of warfare, they reek."
"War isn't everything, Dickon. We must love, too." Valentine gazed out over the cemetery to his birthplace. From atop the knoll where the graveyard lay, he could see across the gently rolling dales where he had frolicked as a child.
Beyond the banks of the Thames, the horizon was patterned richly with cultivated strips of land. The village of Twickenham lay in the distance, the church steeple reaching toward the heavens, circled by the tenants' wattle-and-daub cottages.
The lord's m
anor house sat poised at the foot of the dale, grand and imposing. Horses and their colts grazed alongside a flock of sheep as fluffy as the clouds above. The hills met the sky on that wispy horizon, and were surrounded by lush forests. He smiled fondly. There he had learned the arts of hawking and hunting, and shared his first kiss.
In the thick of the last battle, one of the Lancastrian soldiers had struck out at Valentine with a poleaxe and clipped him on the arm. He'd managed to hold out, helping to smash the center of the enemy line, but his arm had been barely movable until the day before yesterday when he had finally picked up his sword and practiced a little. It still wasn't fully recovered.
Holding it a certain way caused him to wince, so he shifted position to ease the discomfort. He didn't want Richard to know he'd been injured. It was a matter of pride, as they'd always been friendly rivals.
"God's truth, Val, your stay in France certainly brought out the romantic in you."
A few strands of Valentine's hair blew into his eyes and he brushed them away. "Ah, yes, nothing matches the passion a man and woman share when their hearts are one."
Richard nodded. "A pleasurable enough pastime for in between battles, I reckon."
How Valentine wished Richard had gone to France with him! Mayhap he would stop obsessing about warfare.
Richard went on, with a wry smile, "Pray do you compose love songs in your head during Mass?"
"Aye, but just the words, not the music," Valentine quipped. "How about you, Dickon? Have any maidens caught your fancy?"
"Just one," he replied.
"Why but one?" He shifted his arm, trying to ignore the pain.
He shot Valentine a sideways glance. "I've only ever hunted down one at a time, friend."
"Who is she?"
"Anne Neville."
Valentine smiled broadly. "Little Annie? You're still smitten? Why, that's marvelous! You do make a fitting couple."
Richard nodded soberly. "Aye, we do. I even got permission from Edward to marry forthwith. But by the time I called on her with a priest in tow, her father had already sequestered her away so tightly, we could not even elope. That blasted Warwick. I should have known better."
"Why would Warwick keep you apart?"
"'Tis a conspiracy between him and the queen of the witches." Richard cleared his throat and replied, through a resigned sigh, "Because Queen Elizabitch wants to snare me into a union to advance her own tribe, as usual."
"To whom?"
"To her orphaned illegitimate niece."
"God's foot!" Valentine exclaimed, deeply shocked.
"Aye, and several others of his parts besides. Marrying me is as high as her niece can aspire, but her dowry isn't more than an afterthought Elizabeth tossed into the bargain, and a right piddling one at that. 'Tis a bloody insult, compared to what Anne is worth. 'Who better for my niece than the King's brother? Yak, yak yaaaaaaaaak!'" he mimicked Elizabeth's nerve-grating tone perfectly, setting them both wincing.
"Is the niece as well versed in the art of trickery as the rest of the Woodville lot?"
To his surprise, Richard shot him a reproachful look and shook his head. "Nay, not at all. She's a most trusted confidante. In fact, she promptly tells me of every happening in the Woodville camp."
"Does she now? Why would she betray her family to you?"
"She doesn't believe she's a Woodville. There's no resemblance in any way. Moreover, she is a sensible lass and has good reason. She's ashamed of Elizabeth and her relations clawing their way through court circles, like so many vultures swooping upon a corpse. She wants no part of it. Their values are worlds apart, but then the Woodvilles value naught but titles and riches. Look how they managed to cajole Edward into ennobling them and giving them court appointments. Then they got him to finance that poxy navy of theirs. All this with a little help from the Queen, of course. And I need not explain exactly how."
He was tempted to probe his prudish friend with, "Oh, please, Richard, you need explain exactly how," just to indulge in a moment of light amusement at his flustered reaction to the question.
But the conversation was catching his fancy right enough as it was.
"So, the niece—what are her major flaws? Besides the taint of her name and lack of fortune, that is."
Richard paced back and forth between two ornate tombstones and shook his head. "There's naught about her that actually puts me off. Unlike her pomp-gobbling relatives, she prefers religious devotion and the more quiet pleasures of the countryside. Court life holds no allure for her.
"Yet while we have become close enough with me as an uncle by marriage only, I relish her company, but naught else, Val. My humors, if you will, lie stagnant as pond scum when she's near. I feel no..." Richard's head tilted thoughtfully and he raised a finger to his chin, tapping it rhythmically.
"Desire?"
Richard shrugged.
"Passion?"
He looked away and yanked on a blade of grass.
"Rapture?"
"Something like that," he muttered, with a toss of his head, his hair casting a glow of auburn as it shone in the sun. "How do you know about those things, Val? Have you ever felt the intensity of any of those emotions you mentioned? Or are you drawing on what you witnessed at the French court?"
"Oh, I've been smitten in my day, but it wasn't the deep-seated emotional pangs of a man for a woman, the way my father and mother enjoyed. When I was barely old enough to talk, I sensed the amour they had for each other."
Richard grimaced. "Well, I certainly don't feel anything French when I'm with her. 'Twould be like marrying my sister. Now I've barely seven days to escape the travesty."
"There must be another way to duck this marriage." Valentine held up a finger. "Aha! Tell the Queen you prefer the company of men."
Richard looked at him and frowned, the lines deepening between his brows. "What bloody good would that do? She knows I prefer the company of men. I'm a military man, I—"
"Nay, Richard—" Valentine shook his head. "I mean, you know..." He gave Richard a wink. "—one of them."
"You mean—" Richard flicked his wrist.
"Aye! She wouldn't want her niece wed to a poufter now, would she?"
Richard thought a moment and shook his head. "Nah. Wouldn't work. I'd have to act the part, and swishing round court would get me into more trouble than I'm in now." He brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve and crossed his arms over his chest against a sudden puff of wintry December wind.
"Besides, I doubt it would even stop her. She'd see that and try to marry me off to one of her whoopsie brothers," he mumbled.
Valentine nodded. "Hmm. Well, take sacred vows then."
Richard exhaled loudly. "I've no inclination to be a priest, Valentine. God will have me for the rest of eternity. As long as I'm alive, the kingdom needs me more. No, I must find Anne and get her out of blasted Warwick's clutches. Or else I must find—"
Suddenly Richard's eyes lit up and fairly sparkled. "Val." He reached out and laid his hand gently on his friend's arm. "You and I are closer than most brothers, and as such I must discuss something with you. About, er, female response, to put it delicately."
"Pray tell why you chose a graveyard to bring up the subject. Do females play dead when you make your advances?" Valentine, chuckled, rather pleased with his friendly taunt. Mocking each other good naturedly was one of their favorite pastimes.
"Would you do one thing for me?" Richard asked. "Since you're capable and seem more than willing and, er, experienced in this area than I am."
"What one thing is that?" Valentine asked in an offhand manner, eying the picnic basket and hoping it wasn't completely empty.
"Seduce Elizabeth's niece for me."
Valentine's hand froze on the way to the basket. "For you? You mean pretend to be you and sneak into her chambers after the candles are snuffed out? I daresay she would notice the difference after a stroke or two."
Richard's face flamed. "Nay, I mean, instead of me! I
mean, God's truth, you know what I mean. That was my contingency scheme, in case our other plots fell through. She wants someone right out of a King Arthur tale. Care to have a go at it, Lancelot?"
"Oh, grand. So now I'm a scheme." Valentine spread his hands and shook his head in disbelief. "When I said I'd do anything for you, I didn't mean steal your betrothed from under your nose!"
"We're hardly betrothed and 'twould not be stealing. One of her plans was to flee the court in disguise. I couldn't have her wandering the realm—'tis much too dangerous, and as I've said, the girl is decent enough, well reared by the Duchess of Scarborough until she died."