Destiny Lies Waiting (18 page)

He grinned. "Hold that thought."

With that, he positioned a huge rolled-brim hat atop his head and turned back to the looking glass.

She slipped away unnoticed, her heart in even more turmoil that it had been when she had arrived.

She had only ever trusted Edward and Richard, and now Richard was marrying and leaving. Trust Valentine? It seemed the height of folly.

Far better to trust to her own luck. And perhaps to her new family.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

On what was supposed to be Richard's wedding day, he entered Pluckley House, George's Mayfair townhouse, and pushed his way through the crowd of jugglers, fools, and random hangers-on, laughing and singing horrendously off key to the minstrels' sloppy playing.

In the great hall George sat at the center of it all, a full-bosomed wench on his lap, holding a goblet to his lips as his left hand 'slipped' down her front, his fingers fumbling with the crimson lace of her bodice.

Richard approached his brother as the punch line of a vulgar joke sent raucous laughter through the room. He held out his arm and shook George, causing a stream of wine to spill down the wench's cleavage.

George's head was between the woman's breasts immediately, lapping up the spilled red liquid. She squealed, throwing her head back in delight.

Then her eyes met Richard's, and she nudged George, who finally came up for air and registered the utmost surprise at seeing his brother.

"Dickon! Ye've decided to partake in some of the more subtle pleasures of life, and it's about bloody time! Grab a tankard and a wench and join the festivities! But shuck off some of that blasted raiment first. Your foppery is a trifle inappropriate here!"

"All right, George, where is she? I demand to know where she is." Richard's voice never rose above a conversational level, and this was no exception, yet it had an ominous undertone that dared anyone to defy it.

George hadn't caught every word, for the music and laughter were thunderous.

"Ay? I didn't hear you." He held up a hand. "Quiet!" he shouted. "His Grace The Duke of Gloucester is present."

The noise died down to a curious buzz to which Richard paid no heed.

"Where is she?"

George wiped the wine from his chin and tossed the wench off his lap. She went tumbling to the floor onto her arse, giggling hysterically.

"Where is who? And do not look so serious, Richard. Enjoy it like me, and your life will be over before you know it!"

"What have you done with Anne?"

"Anne who?"

"Your sister-in-law, Anne Neville, you pribbling puttock, you know who! Where is she?"

George blanched, for his adoring brother had never spoken to him this way. Fury blazed in the young brown eyes. "Calm ye down, Richard. Fuckin' Ada," he chided in a hushed tone.

"I shall calm me down when you tell me where she is."

"By orders of His Highness the King, I no longer have wardship over Lady Anne Neville. Therefore, I neither know nor care where she is."

He vowed through clenched teeth, "I shall find her, George, and when I do, God help you."

The Duke of Gloucester's slight figure glided through the great hall, and he slammed the double doors behind him.

With eyes a glare at the loitering lot regarding him with mystification, George sniped, "Go back in there and douse your hankies 'til you drown."

Richard strode out of Pluckley House, his velvet cloak flowing like liquid. "Poxy turd burglars, the lot of you," he muttered.

The doormen looked at each other, shaking their heads, the age-old question in each of their minds: Did the King's starchy brother ever have any fun?

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Denys decided to visit Richard one more time before his wedding, to wish him well. She had been so full of her own affairs the last time they had met, that she had not rejoiced in his good fortune at securing Anne for himself at last.

She went past the guards through to his retiring chamber and knocked. He didn't answer, so she just went on in, as she was accustomed to doing.

He was bareheaded and in a plain linen shirt and hose, looking like anything but a man about to exchange wedding vows. His eyes were wild, his lips twisted into a tight line. He scurried about the room, wearing one shoe.

"Richard! Why aren't you donning your splendid wedding raiment? Where is your Esquire of the Body? The wedding is but an hour away!"

"Not half it isn't."

She shook her head in disbelief. "What—"

"Not now, Dove, I have somewhere to go." Slipping into his other shoe, Richard jammed a ring on his thumb and slammed his jewel box shut.

"Richard..." She grasped his sleeve, but he slid away like a feather in the wind and headed for the antechamber.

"What is amiss?" She wedged herself in between him and the door.

His eyes bored right through her as he jerked his thumb, but she did not heed his signal of dismissal.

"What has happened? You look like you're about to kill someone."

"I am. But it'll have to wait. And if you don't want us together in a marriage bed on Twelfth Night, you'd best let me go and find Anne."

Denys' heart dropped to her shoes. "Oh, no! She's missing again? On your wedding day? What happened this time?"

"This time, the scheming Queen got through to George, and convinced him that Anne must stay an old maid for him to keep all his wife's inherited loot. So now it's he who's spirited her away to the Devil in hell knows where!" He brushed past her, and this time she let him by.

"Oh, I hope you find her!" she called after him, but he was already gone.

She left his chambers and wandered aimlessly through the corridors, passing courtiers singing, strumming their lutes, or hurrying to their duties. Shuffling her feet through the rushes spread on the floors, she ran her hand over the elaborate frames of the portraits lining the walls, looking into the eyes of the long-dead monarchs, their ancestors and descendants.

Knowing she wasn't part of this long and enduring line twisted her heart. Oh, if only she knew who she was, she would be out of those Woodville clutches so fast!

Forcing herself to push the horror of this reality and her aloneness out of her mind, she found herself wondering where Valentine was.

Lonely as she was, she wanted to hear his pealing laughter and watch the breeze softly ruffle the waves in his hair.

Looking out into the courtyard, she didn't glimpse him among the knights milling about, or the servants rushing back and forth carrying sacks, pails, and firewood.

With their wheels squeaking, wagons loaded with supplies entered the gates. A stray hen waddled by and a kitchen wench dashed after it. But Valentine was nowhere to be found.

As she decided to take Chera down to the river for a walk, the royal messenger she'd sent to the Archbishop galloped up to her. Without dismounting, he touched his hand to his hat.

Her heart stopped.

"Mistress Denys, I've a reply from the Archbishop of Canterbury."

Her breath caught in her throat. She was too stunned even to unfold the parchment that he handed to her, folded over and embossed with an elaborate wax seal.

Her answer had come at last! God willing, the long-buried secrets of her origin were now in her very hands!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"So where did you find Anne?" Valentine asked, putting the finishing touches on his dress for the evening, which included a careful selection of rings and chains from his jewel box.

"In Shoreditch, in the kitchens of a friend of George's, disguised as a cook-maid," Richard replied, scowling out the window.

"Surely you jest."

"'Tis the truth. George spirited her off to the place, the mongrel. Sometimes I do not know how he got into this family! The grief he has wrought upon us turns my blood green! That's why he hates Elizabeth. They're too damn much alike!"

"How did you find her?"

"I went to George's friends first. She was not with either of them, so I went to his enemies. Fortunately, I only had to question twenty of them before I found her. Imagine if I had to go to the entire five thousand!"

Richard remained at the window for a long moment, then began removing his black tabard. "Ah, the funeral's over. I should go back and change into something less dismal."

"What funeral?" Valentine asked as he took a white sarcenet tabard and dark green doublet from his wardrobe and laid them out on his bed.

"The Earl of Hereford. He was executed yester morn for treason."

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!"