by Diana Rubino
Valentine, glorious, vibrant Valentine, my knight in shining armor, whom I would have given anything to love, had I not feared him being so tarnished by greed, ambition, and lust.
She tucked the sketch of her possible female relation back into the bosom of her gown and held her hand over it and her aching heart.
And now Richard, whom I thought was true, but seems as capable of guile as any Woodville, and appears to be siding with Valentine and using me as a pawn in whatever plot they have between them.
Please, whoever you are, Mistress, please help me save myself, and find my way to my true family. To true love.
But when all in the rose garden remained silent, Denys at last dried her tears and bestirred herself. She was still alive, and where there was life, there was hope. She wasn't going to let these unplanned happenings master her destiny.
Events were things; they had no beating heart, no blood, no life—no mind. And she was damned if she was going to let a thing—a mere non-entity—master her fate.
She might not know who her family was, but as Valentine had said, she was who she was, her own person, and that would have to be enough.
In the end, she would triumph. This was merely the road leading to that end. But it was going to be fraught with detours, rugged terrain, and streams swollen with muck. She would simply have to take the rough with the smooth.
Anyone would have thought she'd conjured Valentine right out of a storybook. He was so noble, with wonderful worldly prospects.
But part of that fancy had been to fall in love with her dashing knight—and it simply hadn't happened. She told herself that they weren't suited to each other in any way. She was too uneasy about him on every level, as a man, lover, husband, to ever be happy with him.
Even if Richard was correct and Valentine was not guilty of all she suspected, Denys felt sure that to try to turn her courtly lover of the rose garden into a faithful and honest husband would be to court disaster.
She was certain that even if she allowed her heart to open to him at last as she longed to, she would always be just another priority somewhere on his long list in his life. She would never come first in his heart or head, but instead far below all the other demands upon him: the King's council, his political duties here in the north, his friendship with Richard, his need to be the center of attention amongst the women of the court, and his aspirations for greatness.
She couldn't bear to be a mere cipher in his life, doing naught but patiently waiting for him to return from a battle or important matters of state. He was a dashingly handsome and debonair lover, but the truth was, he wasn't husband material. Certainly a statesman. Surely a hero. But not domesticated.
Valentine was the stuff of legend, fairytale. She ached for the mundane: a family of her own, and a sense of belonging, of being treasured and valued. She knew she was never going to find that at court or in the upper echelons of English royalty.
Denys longed for an ordinary, real life, a genuine marriage, not a politically expedient one. She wanted a man who held her in his arms every night, and made her feel as though she truly belonged.
That man was not Valentine, and never could be. Better to admit it now, than be trapped for the rest of her life in a loveless union. For however long Valentine chose to allow her to remain alive…
A waft of wood smoke coming from one of the castle chimneys was enough to set a chill up her spine as she recalled the horror of the inn fire that had so nearly killed her, and taken the life of the one man who might have been her kinsman and held the key to her real identity.
She leapt to her feet, bunching her peach-colored skirts high around her knees as she began to run. Valentine was expected at any moment. Richard had told her to wait here for him. But how could she smile in the face of the man who had betrayed her so foully?
She was hurrying from the garden as if the hounds of hell were after her when she heard a cry of, "Denys! Dove! Wait!"
Oh Lord, it was Valentine!
She froze on the spot for a brief moment, staring at him across the courtyard. Her gaze drank in his brilliant golden hair, his bright blue eyes, his sumptuous deep blue and silver raiment making him even more dazzling than she remembered. Every inch the successful courtier…
She recalled Richard's command to her that she do nothing, say nothing, that would make Valentine aware of her suspicions regarding his being complicit in some nefarious plot of the Queen's.
But though her head told her to stand her ground, play her part as Richard had advised, her heart was a different matter.
He had betrayed her. Almost sent her to her death in Leicestershire. She simply could not look into his eyes, feel his touch, accept his kiss, pretend to be engaged to him, with that knowledge cutting through her soul to the very heart of her.
Her feet began to move of their own accord now, faster than before.
"Dove, wait! Dove, what is it? What's amiss?" Valentine shouted, but it was already too late.
He chased after her through the large door leading into the castle keep, but all he heard was the echoing of desperate scurrying footsteps along one of the many corridors within. Much as Valentine ached to be with her at last, after their weeks of separation, his beloved Dove was already gone.
He stood staring, ground his teeth in frustration, and went to seek Richard for some sort of explanation as to his betrothed's headlong flight from him as though she had seen the Devil himself.
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If you enjoyed this novel, then I am sure you will enjoy other novels by Diana Rubin.
The Yorkist Saga(Medieval Period)
Thy Name is Love
The Yorkist Saga(Tudor Period)
The Jewels of Warwick
The Crown of Destiny