by Diana Rubino
Valentine stared. "God's truth! Another one! I didn't see him defect to the other side during the battle."
Richard shook his head. "He didn't defect anywhere. He's always been on our side. He just happens to be the last suitor that turned down Elizabeth's sister's hand in marriage. Elizabeth conjured up a list of charges the length of your arm, he went to trial, of course the judges were all her brothers and nephews, and they found the poor bleeder guilty of cavorting with Marguerite of Anjou and therefore guilty of treason. Imagine, Marguerite of bloody Anjou! I doubt her husband ever had a romp with her, and he had a pecker for a brain! But that was Elizabeth's original charge, which escalated and escalated—next thing you know, the sorry sod's in the Tower and they're building a scaffold, then—"
He drew a finger across his throat in a cutting motion. "Were I not the King's brother, she'd find a reason to lop off my head for not marrying her blooming niece."
A clearer picture of Elizabeth Woodville was forming in Valentine's mind all the time as he learned more and more about the Queen. He suppressed a shudder, remembering what Dove had told him about that false accusation. Mayhap he had laughed it off too easily, as Dove had warned.
But he'd spoken to King Edward, who had assured him he'd never be in any danger.
This mollified Valentine, yet he sometimes wondered...like now. "I've learnt when in the presence of Her Highness, I should keep my gob shut."
"Unless it's to tell her how lovely she looks or smells, if you can do that without upchucking," Richard replied as Valentine straightened the sleeves of his doublet.
"I've had to endure a lot worse, my friend. Remember, I spent time in France."
"Ooh, la la pew!" Richard held his nose.
"May I help you choose a tabard for the evening, Dickon?"
"My Esquire of the Body can do that, Val. You needn't bother."
"No bother at all, my good friend. You did me a great service by defeating me in a duel that I was haughty enough to call, that resulted in my having to court the fairest maiden in the kingdom, whose heart I plan to capture. Though I daresay she will be surrendering it just as easily as the Lancastrians gave themselves up to you."
"Is that so?" His brows knit. "It may not be as easy as we thought. But then, we are dealing with an unknown quantity here."
"Oh?"
"The Lancastrians are all men. The fairest maiden in the kingdom is not exactly eating out of your palm, is she, Sir Golden Rod?"
"Nay, but after tonight we may be at the nibbling stage. I have written some enthralling poetry and have picked the sweetest flowers from the garden. I plan to stand under her window and recite my stanzas in the moonlight tonight with my silver tongue. In French."
Richard shot him a snide look. "Your silver tongue would be doing something else in French had you not gobbed off about the duel and driven her away."
Valentine slipped into a newly made pair of pointy-toed shoes and fastened the ends to his knees with ropes of pearls. His new shoes weren't stiff but were wonderfully soft and comfortable.
"Oh, I reckon that on the morrow she will have forgotten all about that. All it takes is some logical exchange and we should reach an understanding."
"Logic? With a woman?"
"Aye, especially with this one. You did tell me she is a rare jewel."
"Then mayhap you're right, Val," Richard replied. "If anyone can make a lass forget what she did yesterday, you can!"
"So when is the wedding to be?"
"On the morrow. Before dawn. And no one knows about it this time. Just Edward, you and Dove. And the priest. And God willing, this time—Anne."
"I shall be there."
Valentine held out his arms and did a few slow dance steps, imagining Dove before him, and felt not just a stirring in his loins as he had for many a wench in the past, but also warmth in his heart.
Taking a deep breath and letting the essence of her perfume fill his head, he hummed a romantic tune, just like it would be as they shared their very first dance . . .
"What on earth are you doing?" Richard's voice brought reality crashing back around him.
"Why, dancing." Valentine blinked, his reverie fading fast.
"Well, since you're having such a gay time, I won't try to cut in," Richard replied with a thin smile. "Enjoy yourself. You and Dove." He winked and left the chamber.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Archbishop's letter had been terse and to the point, as he was a man of few words. Having no records of her birth, he was unable to assist her in ascertaining her true parentage.
She'd dropped the parchment into the fire, her heart heavy, her face streaked with anguished tears.
Now she was thumbing through the journal she'd kept all those years ago, when she and her noble "cousins" had been learning to read and write. She remembered a palfrey Uncle Ned had brought her, the way Thomas Woodville shoved her aside so he could ride it first, how she'd cried and run away to write in her unsteady scrawl about how mean he was.
And now she was reading that troubled child's story, a recap of the events that led up to the startling realization that she was not a Woodville after all.
Finally she found the entry she'd been looking for. "They said Denys bla-bla-bla-bla-bla Malmesbury," the entry read. Now she was going to find out what the bla-bla-bla was. And with God's blessing, that would lead to who she was.
That night, she entered the great hall upon a scene that pierced her heart.
There was Valentine, dancing with the Duke of Somerset's daughter, twirling her about as the entire court looked on, their eyes wide with admiration for the cultivated knight.
Another woman pushed the tittering, blushing lass aside and batted her lashes at Valentine, curtsying as the gallant gent took her hand and led her in a Gelosia, not missing a beat as the music changed tempo.
The courtiers clapped. The King nodded in approval. Elizabeth looked amused. Even George had stopped draining his goblet long enough to watch the charming spectacle.
Just as another eager lady embarrassed herself by diving at Valentine's pointy-toed feet, Dove turned and retreated down the torch-lit corridor in tears.
Later that evening a messenger came to her chamber with a folded and sealed sheet of parchment. Her pulse surged. Mayhap it was another note from the Archbishop and he'd found something!
But her hopes plummeted as she broke the seal and recognized Richard's writing. He was requesting the honor of her presence at his wedding in the dead of night.
Of course she would go, but her heart felt like lead. Of all the people in the world to fall in love with, she had selected the one man she should not, could not have. Or if she had him, she could never keep him.
Her heart felt as though someone had torn it in two as she recalled how he had looked with those other women.
She took a deep breath and threw the missive in the fire. Then she told her servant to leave her for the night, but be sure she was up betimes.
Then she threw herself full length on the bed and wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Richard and Anne were married at last in a hushed ceremony at Westminster Palace's secluded Saint Stephen's Chapel.
Denys' attention was focused not on the couple, but on the tall, powerfully muscled Valentine Starbury.
She couldn't help it, for he was certainly worth staring at. His cape was of the richest red velvet, furred with ermine. Gold studs glittered on the rolled brim of his hat. The Yorkist emblem of the white boar was emblazoned on the chest of his black surcoat.
He stood beside Richard and handed him the gold wedding band, looking every inch as royal as the young Duke of Gloucester.
Richard's eyes looked pleasantly serene as he and his bride marched back down the aisle, Anne's white veil flowing behind her.
Denys smiled at them both as they went past, then felt Valentine's hand on her arm.
She grasped it, then berated herself for taking it a bit too possessively, intimately. Damn the man
, what was it about his touch that sent all reason fleeing.
He escorted her out of the chapel, a peacock with his more drab peahen, though she was wearing her best blue gown.
Despite herself, she felt a surge of pride, being escorted by the new duke for whose attention the court ladies shoved each other aside.
She pretended now as they walked that she and Valentine were actually the bride and groom, exiting the chapel amongst the well-wishers, their gazes meeting for the first time as man and wife.
What kind of husband would he be? Most importantly, would he be faithful? Or would he flaunt his mistresses before the court like Uncle Ned?
Would her wedding night be as rapturous as she'd always dreamed it would be? Or would he take her impatiently, as if the act of love was for men's enjoyment only, and women simply had to tolerate it?
Then she stopped to ask herself why she was entertaining these thoughts.
Wedding Valentine Starbury? Letting him take her virginity? Cor, she had spent too much time at the Queen's bawdy musicales!
She shivered, out of shame as much as delight, and forced herself back to the reality of the moment.
Richard was married. Here was yet another symbol that her childhood was behind her, and she needed to think about the future.
Dutifully, she approached the bride, kissed each of Anne's cheeks, and congratulated her on her happy day.
Anne smiled warmly, almost too radiant, she thought, but oh, didn't all brides glow on their wedding day? The magic would soon be over, and Anne would retire to the mundane life of a nobleman's wife in the far reaches of north Yorkshire.
She will not be smiling a month from now, Denys thought sadly.
She stepped up to Richard and said, "I wish you happiness in your marriage."
He thanked her and whispered into her ear, "Just as I wish you happiness in yours."
She and Valentine were about to part at the chapel door. She kept her breathing even as she let go of his arm, and didn't let her gaze tarry too long. But still, this might be her only chance to speak to him privately before….
Before what, she had no idea. They both separated and went off to live their own respective future lives far from one another? It was a thought almost too terrible to be borne.
She had just about got over the annoyance at his admission that he'd won her by default in a duel. She was even a bit chuffed at how gracious a loser he was. He seemed genuinely happy he'd let Richard beat him.
How flattered she would have been if he'd let Richard win deliberately! But, no, that wasn't the way of a knight with his military training.
But if he wanted her, really wanted her, she needed to know now, or else put him behind her forever. They could not keep blowing hot and cold at one another forever.
So she moved forward with her plan. She knew just how to match his level of haughtiness, and bring him down a few pegs at the same time. So she opened her planned conversation on a serious note.
"Did you speak to the King about Elizabeth's false accusation?" she whispered.
He nodded. "Aye, I did, and he assured me I'll be enjoying the company of my head for many a year to come."
She smiled, relishing a rush of affection for her good-hearted uncle. Oh, how could he have married that woman, of all people?
"I'm truly relieved, Valentine." She let a smile spread over her face.
"I can tell."
"I would invite you to the solar for a game of chess, if your schedule permits."
He eyed her quizzically. "Chess? You play chess?"
"Oh—a little. 'Tis but one of my less ambitious pastimes." She tried to sound nonchalant. "Since the weather looks threatening, I hoped you would be up to the challenge."
"Count me in! I must take the morning meal with the council, but I shall be at the opposite side of your chessboard forthwith."
She nodded, bobbed a curtsy, and took her leave.
Smiling to herself, she wished she could have witnessed that duel, and the look of crashing defeat on that handsome face when he had conceded.
But seeing his surprise at her utterance of "checkmate" in five moves would more than make up for that!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
"Now, chess is my game!" Valentine exclaimed proudly, inspecting the pewter king and queen as Denys took the sunniest window seat in the solar.
"Is it now?" she said coolly.
"Shall we make it even more interesting by predicting checkmate in twenty-five moves?"
Denys laughed to herself. She conveniently omitted to mention that she'd been playing chess since Elizabeth's son Anthony, the more human of the two, had taught her at age three.
"Are you that unsure of yourself, my lord?" she asked him, both pairs of twinkling eyes reflecting the slanting sunlight playing upon the board.
He laughed heartily at that. "I am trying to be easy on you, dear lady. Call your shot and we shall proceed."
"Why not checkmate in five moves?"
She turned the board round, so that he would be playing the white pieces, a great advantage, as he would make the opening move.
"I'll even make it easier for you. You can have white. And you may also prepare for an even more humiliating defeat than at the blunted end of Richard's sword."
He blanched, then covered up his loss of composure with one of his ebullient smiles. "Are the stars positioned in your favor today, or are you just feeling lucky?"
"Both. However, as you are one to challenge those of whom you have no knowledge of their level of skill, it surprises me that you do not wish to play for stakes."
"I never gamble with a woman."
"You gambled for a woman. And you still believe you won her," she said with a sharp look, before settling her skirts about her.
He cleared his throat, and studied the board intently, although he hadn't yet made his opening move.
"Although the trophy yet eludes me, it is quite well within my grasp at this very moment, is it not?" he replied evenly, before moving a pawn forward.
She arched one brow and spread her hands. "Physically, yes, but figuratively, your trophy may as well be out in the heavens for all its proximity to you," she countered, moving her knight out.
Bringing out his corresponding knight, he retaliated, "Infinitely greater prizes have slipped right through my hands, dear lady. But that is not to say that I have not regretted their loss."
Trying not to let his pointed remark distract her concentration, she retorted, "If that is true, then your manual dexterity is even less developed than your swordsmanship."
She brought forth her king's pawn and continued calmly studying her position.
Valentine gave her a mocking smile. "I don't win all my conquests through battle. There is diplomacy, too. I have a most deft tongue when need be. But I assure you, Madame, my skills as a swordsman leave nothing to be desired. As for my hands, they have been known to perform magic beyond anything you can ever envisage." His eyes left the board and burned into her.
"Then why did you not challenge Richard to a thumb-wrestling contest?"
His gaze left her and dropped back down to the game at hand, looking distracted. "Mere child's play."
"Shall we play for stakes then?"
"Of what nature? I am sufficiently landed. I need no trinkets you can convey to me in the form of winnings," he replied.
"I wasn't thinking of tangible goods. 'Tis more like an agreement, similar to the one over which you so haughtily challenged Richard."
"And what agreement might it be?"
She saw she was winning now in more ways than one. He'd completely lost interest in the very game over which these unknown stakes were being discussed.
"If you win, you continue to uphold your pact with Richard and pursue me to your wit's end. If I win..."
Her smile caused him to slump back against his chair, his eyes taking on a dreamy look, reminding her of melting ice. "Then the pact is null and void and you cease your pursuit of me."
He shook his head. "But I cannot! My wager with Richard was fair and square, and I must not renege on it!"
She waved away his objection with one hand. "Richard is wed safely now, so there is no longer any pressing need to marry me off."
"Still, it is a question of honor—"
"This venture we now enter shall supersede it. Do we have a deal, or is your ineptitude at this game such that you cannot afford the risk?"
Playing upon his haughty nature in this manner, she knew he wouldn't dare back down.