Destiny Lies Waiting

by Diana Rubino

  Ian Holland bustled out of his cottage, his hands covered with candle wax. He was thin, except for a paunch hanging over his hose, his tunic belted tight as if to hold the sagging bulk in.

  His eyes danced in amusement and three blackened teeth peeked out at her when he smiled at her in welcome.

  When Denys explained who she was, he bowed and swept his hat over the floor, bowed to her maid, bowed to her grooms, and bowed to the mounts.

  First she showed him the woman's miniature in the rosary. He shook his head, no sign of recognition on his face.

  She then asked him about accommodation for her party.

  "The nearest inn is a mile out of Leicester, much more adequate for your ladyship. Alas, we have no accommodation fit for a royal retinue."

  "We are not quite royal, Master Holland. I come here as your peer."

  It turned out Ian Holland was a well-to-do wool merchant. He was also the village's only candle maker, blacksmith, and chapeler, maker of caps.

  Caps were everywhere, of every size, shape and color, caps with rolled brims in the latest fashion, caps of cloth and leather and the roughest burlap.

  She did not ask him why he chose to live as he did and he did not offer and answer. But having once been associated with the Woodvilles, perhaps he'd grown to abhor them, too.

  "I am here because I believe you and I may be related."

  His listened, dipping wicks in melted wax as he did, nodding all the time. "My mother was the Countess of Somerset," he verified. "But I spent nearly my entire childhood at Kenilworth Castle under His Grace The Duke of Bedfordshire's tutelage."

  "Have you other relatives? Brothers and sisters? Cousins? Did your mother have any brothers and sisters?"

  But naught came of all her questions. He was happy well away from court, and certainly knew little or nothing about the Woodvilles.

  As nightfall approached, Ian promised her that first thing on the morrow they would appeal to the Lord Mayor of Leicester and check the churches' birth and death records for the area.

  "I shall help ye my best, young maiden," he said, in a genuine tone. Then he got up and began stuffing a small box with caps.

  "These are for His Grace The Duke of Gloucester, His Grace The Duke of Clarence, and whoever else is lucky enough to pinch what he can. Tell them to come see me when they want more hats; I shall be much obliged to grace every head at court!"

  "'Tis grand of you, Master Ian," she said, smiling at the lovely caps he made with such pride.

  After a simple supper of meat pies and ale, they all rode to Leicester together, Ian leading the way on a wiry old palfrey.

  Planning to be up at dawn to see the priest, whom she hoped would be more accommodating than the abbot in Malmesbury, she went up to the small but charming third-floor room of the White Boar Inn and sank into the well-worn bed.

  The ceilings were so low, the beams nearly touched her head, and the floor was uneven, but the leaded glass windows let a sparkling array of colored moonbeams spill into the room.

  Soon she was dreaming of a faceless family whom she couldn't see nor hear clearly, but whom she knew—and loved—in her heart. If they were anything like happy if humble Ian, she would be more than glad to know them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The hooded followers checked in to the Rose and Crown up the road. But they did not stay there long. In the dead of night, they quietly stole out the back entrance and headed for The White Boar.

  In her sleep, Denys smelled something burning, but she burrowed deeper into the goose down pillow, thinking it was naught but a dream.

  Moments later she almost choked. She opened her eyes and let out a blood-curdling scream. Her lungs filled with smoke.

  Orange tongues of flame reached toward her, leaping out of the darkness. She jumped out of bed and groped for something to cover her naked body, grabbing the coverlet just as the thick smoke was starting to sting her eyes.

  Tears blurred her already dimmed vision. She backed up against the far wall, screaming for help.

  In an instant Ian was there, pushing her towards the window. "Jump, lass!" he shouted. "Just jump!"

  The fire had spread the entire length of the wall and was reaching for the bed.

  With a smooth swoosh the bed caught fire. She gagged on the smoke as Ian shoved her towards the window.

  He was wrapping her in the coverlet and trying to push her out at the same time. The heat was searing.

  Denys looked down and saw the ground, three stories below. Before she could register another thought, she felt a jolting shove and was falling. The blanket began unrolling around her as she fell. She screamed and screamed as the ground seemed to rush up to meet her. Her lungs felt as if they'd burst.

  She wrapped her arms around her head and brought her legs up to her chest.

  The fall seemed to take forever. Then all feeling rushed from her body. Her last memory was the taste of blood as her mind went empty.

  When she awoke, her body throbbed with pain and her right side was like one vast bruise. A serving wench propped her up and forced a goblet between her lips.

  All she could do was nod when a physician bustled in and asked cheerily if she felt fit.

  "Where am I?" was the first complete sentence she was able to speak with her scorched throat. She looked around at the room, bright and nicely furnished, certainly not a common inn.

  Mary, her maid, was at her side in an instant to explain, "We are in the home of the Lord Mayor of Leicester, Mistress Woodville," she said softly. "There was a fire at The White Boar. It burnt nearly to the ground."

  Slowly, fragments of memory began coming back—the flames, the heat, her choking and falling, but never hitting the ground.

  "Where were the rest of you?"

  "We were all on the first floor. We got out all right," Mary replied. "But the governor of the inn and Master Ian, they perished."

  "Sweet Jesus," she whispered.

  She turned her head away and cried softly into the pillow. She felt sick with remorse at what he had tried to do, save her, help her. Though what he had been doing there in the middle of the night was strange…

  As soon as she was able to regain full consciousness and absorb the shock of what had happened, she requested that her servitors fetch the head of the local church, and the birth and death records, which hadn't perished by flood or fire as the ones at Malmesbury had.

  The priest indulged the young lady of royal blood who had so nearly perished in the inn fire, saved only by the coverlet she had been tangled up in, which had acted as a rope to lower her to safety almost the rest of the way down to the ground.

  Propped up in bed, she carefully read the old documents.

  Margaret Holland, Countess of Somerset, had had no living relatives save for her son Ian. She had had a brother who'd died with no issue. There had been no girl babies born to either of them in 1457 or in the years preceding or following.

  She'd run into another dead end, this one culminating literally in death, and stark tragedy. Poor Ian was dead, and she had nearly been killed. All her possessions had been destroyed in the fire. Even the rosary must have perished in the heat of the flames.

  Now she couldn't help but wonder. Had Valentine Starbury deliberately misled her? And had the fire really been a simple accident with a candle?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The trip back to court seemed to take forever in some ways. She felt as though she were crawling back in defeat, yet her life amongst the Yorkist and Plantagenet court was the only home she had ever known.

  Her bruises not having completely healed, she'd hired a litter to carry her. They stopped several times each day to rest and took the most well-travelled roads, stayed at the most bustling inns, and never slept alone in single chambers again.

  Not that Denys slept very much, haunted as she was by what had happened to Ian, and so nearly happened to herself.

  At last, she reached the palace, and left orders that she was not to be di
sturbed.

  She might have known, however, that such an order would be deliberately flouted by the last person in the world she wanted to see.

  The following morning after Denys' return, Elizabeth slammed into her chambers, waking her out of a deep sleep.

  "You trollop, you broke into my trunks! What were you looking for? Do you think finding your parents will make any man want you? I should have flung you on a rubbish heap when they gave you to me. You've caused this entire family nothing but misery!"

  "Please," Denys moaned, pulling the pillow over her pounding head, her eyes still blackened and nearly swollen shut from her fall. "I'm ill. Leave me alone!"

  "Ill, is it? Look at you, you lazy slut. Ridden too hard once too often by the look of you!"

  "I had a bad fall and—"

  She stared at her, and continued her tirade. "Bad fall indeed. The question was with whom. And now, to steal from me after all I've done for you…."

  The garbled screeching continued, making Denys' head pound more.

  Finally the shrieking receded and Denys slid the pillow off her head, gulping fresh air, her hair plastered to her cheeks with sweat and tears.

  "When you're out of that bed, I've a punishment in store for you that will make you wish you'd stayed in an orphanage!" was the Queen's final threat before flinging a tankard at the window. It shattered the panes, sending shards flying in all directions, some landing on Denys' bed.

  The Queen stormed out of the chamber, deliberately slamming the door, rattling the portraits on the walls.

  Denys moaned and fell back into a fitful but exhausted sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  A fortnight after Denys had returned after her disastrous journey to Leicestershire, the moon was full and Queen Elizabeth was in one of her foulest moods.

  With her infant son at the breast of a wet nurse, she now had time for her usual pursuits—screaming orders at the servants.

  The Kennel Master was in disgrace because one of the royal mastiffs had relieved himself in the wagon that delivered sacks of flour from the mill.

  The howling mastiff had been dragged off to a most dire fate, she was sure. Denys dreaded to think of the poor animal's punishment as she heard the Queen's piercing shrieks clear down the corridor.

  "And you!"

  The door to the library swung open now, crashing against the wall. There Her Highness stood rigidly, her crimson veil billowing out behind her, making her look as if she'd just risen from the flames of hell.

  "I saw you sneak in here!"

  As the servitors in the corridor scurried away in tears, several with scratches and bruises over their faces and arms, the scowling Kennel Master stalked off, mumbling under his breath. They were alone.

  "I shall come back later, Aunt Bess," Denys said, already half out the door.

  "Stay where ye here right now!" the Queen thundered.

  So Denys obeyed.

  It was better than being humiliated and perhaps slapped across the face later that evening before the entire court.

  No sooner was she back in the chamber than Elizabeth lashed out at her, trying to shove her against the wall.

  Denys instinctively covered her face to ward off the stinging blows.

  "Thief! Sneak!" she shrieked, her face blotched with rage, her eyes spitting sparks of fury. "Admit you broke into my trunk! Admit you went through my letters!"

  She flung a shoe at Denys, who ducked just in time. The heel made a gash in the paneled wall before hitting the floor.

  "I know not of what you speak!"

  With the servitors outside the corridor, she felt safe enough to rise, straighten her skirts and sidestep her way to the door once more. "Of what do you accuse me this time? I never broke in anywhere!"

  "You broke into my private trunks, tore through my letters, damaging them! I know it was you, trying to find your parents!"

  "Nay, I did not!" she retorted, but almost as soon as the words had left her lips, she wished she could take them back. Because if she had not done it, she knew only too well who had been trying to help her….

  If indeed this was not some plot between them to incriminate her…

  "Well, they are dead, and would not want you anyway, you scurvy bastard! Now get ye gone from my sight, you skulking little slattern, before I cut off your arms and beat you with the bloody ends!"

  Denys decided the only way to fight her aunt was with the truth. She drew herself up to her full height, and glared. The Queen actually took a small step back.

  "Whatever wretch broke into your trunks, it was not I. I have not even been here save for the last time we spoke."

  "You are a conniving liar," Elizabeth countered in a faltering voice.

  "No, I am not." Without another word, Denys turned her back on the Queen and departed the chamber.

  "No respectable man would have you!" Elizabeth shrieked, her venomous tone echoing through the corridor.

  There had been a time when the verbal attacks had struck her harder than any blow Elizabeth had ever landed across her face. But now they meant nothing.

  Her suspicions turned over and over in her mind as she made her way back to her room. Only one person could have broken into that trunk. If he actually had.

  It made her suspect all the more that a big charade was going on. That Valentine Starbury was now in the Woodville camp, deliberately setting the trap she'd fallen into and nearly losing her life in the process. Who was Bess trying to fool?

  Valentine and Bess were in on this together, they had to be, and the thought made her ill with fear. The trouble was, that stolen letter seemed to be a whole lot of fuss over nothing.

  Which meant that perhaps there was something to it after all…

  CHAPTER FORTY

  It had been a month since the fire. Denys had finally regained her strength, and she was now able to ride once more.

  Nothing remained but the emotional scars, so she prayed several times daily for the souls lost in the fire. She avoided everyone in the palace however, keeping to her rooms, and insisting she wanted to see no one.

  Save only for the still irate Queen, no one dared cross her threshold. Though her treacherous heart longed for Valentine, she was sure he had betrayed her.

  She ate food only from the hand of her maid, and made sure she was never alone by day or by night. As soon as she was well enough to ride, she started making plans to head north to Richard and Anne. She couldn't write of her suspicions. They were far too dangerous to commit to paper.

  But Richard would know what to think, what to do. He might once have believed finding her family was a mere romantic notion. Now it seemed a matter of life and death.

  But in the midst of making her plans to escape from the stifling palace and decide what to do next in her search for her real family, she heard some unsettling news.

  Richard had bestowed the governorship of Yorkshire upon Valentine Starbury, and the King had agreed to the appointment, allowing his councilor to depart Westminster. Valentine was to leave court and travel north, where he would reside.

  Relief mixed with an emotion she couldn't define. Yet at the same time, she felt more trapped than ever. Richard had been her last remaining hope, and now even it was being denied her.

  She dared not even pour her heart out into a journal, for who knew what the Queen would do if she ever left her chamber for mass?

  She sat silently praying for guidance. What road should she take now that heading north would be impossible?

  Although burdened by the heaviness the search for her family wrought upon her, she knew she simply had to find them.

  But perhaps she was going about it the wrong way, she decided. Let them think that she had given up, and she might find out more from her unsuspecting family. Let no one think anything was amiss between her and Valentine, that they were just two busy people whose duties kept them apart.

  To allay suspicions, she wrote to Richard, as she knew he always loved to hear court news.

&
nbsp; With great effort, she kept her letter gay and breezy. She refrained from any outpouring of loneliness over missing their long talks, their intense chess games, their hard rides over the moors.

  She knew Richard's schedule was fraught—hence, she omitted the tragedy she'd just lived through. She didn't want Richard to think she was soliciting his pity.

  Her pen flew across the parchment, jotting down anecdotes about the goings on at court, especially the most noteworthy event of late—