Rose of rapture

This book made available by the Internet Archive.

Copyright © 1984 by Rebecca Brandewyne

All rights reserved.

Warner Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103 IA Warner Communications Company

Printed in the United States of America

For my photographer, Howard Eastwood, and his wife, Donna, who always make me look so good in pictures;

and

For Barbra Wren and Barbara Keenan, dear friends and special ladies.

The Players

AT RUSHDEN

Lady Isabella Ashley of Rushden, a noblewoman

Lx)rd Giles Ashley, Earl of Rushden; brother to Lady Isabella

Lord Perceival Renfred, Earl of Oadby; warden to Lady Isabella

and Lord Rushden Lady Beatrice Biggs, Countess of Shrewton; mistress to Lord

Oadby Maude, a villager Jocelyn, daughter of Maude

AT HAWKHURST

Lord Warrick (Waerwic) ap Tremayne, Earl of Hawkhurst; bastard son of Lord James Tremayne (deceased)

His Half Brothers:

Lord Madog ap Bryn-Dyfed of Gwendraeth, legitimate son of

Lord Bryn-Dyfed of Gwendraeth (deceased) Sir Caerllywel ap Powys, bastard son of Lord Powys Sir Emrys ap Newyddllyn, bastard son of Lord Newyddllyn

Lady Hwyelis uerch Owein, their mother

AT ST. SAVIOUR-ON-THE-LAKE

Lord Lionel Valeureux, heir of St. Saviour-on-the-Lake; later,

Earl of St. Saviour-on-the-Lake Lady Gilliane Beaumaris of Devizes, betrothed to Lord Lionel

AT COURT

King Edward IV (by usurpation) of England Queen Elizabeth (nee Woodville), widow of Sir John Grey; wife to King Edward IV

Rose of Rapture

The weathered granite stones stood up

Like obelisks

Against the summer sky.

The names of those

Who slept beneath the windswept moors

Were faded now

With time.

Still, sometimes, she fancied She could hear their voices yet.

It was not the gently stirring breeze

That sent the tall grass rippling.

But the plaintive sighs of those she'd known—

And loved—

Whispering faintly in her ear.

It was not the rain that fell.

But the tears of those long dead.

She did not seek them out,

But still, sometimes, they haunted her.

The villagers watched her lonely sojourns

And thought her fey,

That solitary figure

With the hawk upon her shoulder.

They shook their heads silently when she passed

And crossed themselves.

Murmuring a quiet prayer for her soul.

And she—she walked on with her ghosts. Remembering the days of roses and rapture.

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Chapter One

The Moors, England, 1490

SOMETIMES, IF ISABELLA CLOSED HER EYES AND tried very hard, she could still see the solid, grey stone towers of Grasmere etched against the pale blue curtain of a summer sky. High above the gossamer wisps that were the serene white clouds, the sun would be shining with yellow warmth; and like prisms, the diamond-shaped, lead-glass windows of the house, struck just so by the bright rays, would be reflecting a thousand dancing rainbows upon the gently sloping lawn. Trellises of roses, the white roses that climbed the manor walls, would be in full bloom; and Isabella would be running, breathless with laughter, across the sweet, newly mown green grass.

That was how she wished to remember it, as it had been during her youth, when the winds of war—and love—had not yet touched her. But always, the sight of Grasmere burned and blackened, an empty shell of its former splendor, crept in to spoil the cherished memory.

She too had changed. Bittersweet wounds had left her heart and soul forever scarred.

There were dark doors in her past that would remain closed.

though the footsteps of her thoughts sometimes led her to stand before them. There were places to which she would never return, though she'd once held a fondness for them in her heart: Rushden, her brother's keep, and Grasmere especially. Ghosts haunted her in those places: careless, laughing faces and dark, brooding ones; faces she had loved. For her, they did not lie buried in the graveyards, though she could see the names and dates of some chiseled into the weathered granite stones, fading even now. Nor were the others gone, though she knew some lay in unmarked ditches, hastily dug, then filled again.

No, those who had lived and loved so passionately were with her always: but especially, they lingered in those places of her past.

There were other places, of course, where the memories haunted her; and these Isabella could not escape. Westminster was one. There, like faded tapestries, shadowed figures of old moved before her eyes and played out their lives as though they were real and lived and breathed once more. In the pageantry of her mind, she knelt again at Court before the feet of kings and queens: Edward, of the three suns, who had outshone them all until his rich indulgence had taken its toll on him, exacting a price that had cost England dearly. But Ned had not known that. He had been cold in his grave by then, leaving only the memory of his handsome but dissipated face, filled with drunken laughter at some merry jest told by his raucous mistress Jane Shore—and disdainfully ignored by his queen, Elizabeth. Beautiful, mysterious Bess Woodville, who had schemed her way to the Crown. The King's Grey Mare, they'd called her, she, who had moved with the haughty grace of Melusine and whose cold laughter had rippled like the silver strands of a mountain stream. It was said she was mad now, shut up in a convent with naught but Edward's bastard daughter Grace to attend her. Isabella shuddered at the thought, knowing even the highest could be dragged down to the depths of hell. Aye, Bess had reaped the harvest she had sown with her plots and her ambition, her hatred of Richard.

Richard. Dear Richard, whom Isabella had loved so fiercely and fought for with such unwavering devotion, understanding the man and believing in him, though others had not. Even now, historians dipped their pens into their inkwells to forever blot his character. She had read their words and longed to cry out fervently against them.

Nay! A thousand times nay! He was no hunchback, as their ill-drawn caricatures portrayed, no ugly dwarf, no deformed mon-

ster. Such tales were false and cruel! True, he was no golden god, like most of the Plantagenets, but a dark, somber youth, who paid for his passions with his life. Aye, one shoulder was slightly more developed than the other from swinging his heavy battle-ax, but except for that, he would have looked like any other man. He was the best of men—and kings. He should have lived.

But Richard had been slain in battle at Market Bos worth, and Henry had taken his place. Cold, calculating Henry, who ought to have died instead—

Nay, 'twas treason to think such thoughts, Isabella reminded herself sharply.

God would punish her, as some said that God had punished Richard, taking from him the beloved shadow at his side, sweet Anne, cut off in the bloom of her youth. Isabella had sat by the Queen's sickbed, had held Anne's trembling hand in hers, and— so that Richard might be spared the knowledge—had concealed the handkerchiefs that had come away spotted with blood from the Queen's lips and lungs. At Anne's death, the light of Richard's life had forever darkened. Aye, Richard had been dead long before Market Bos worth, long before Henry had come to wrest the Crown from his grasp.

Henry, the upstart Tydder, who had married Edward's daughter Elizabeth; gentle Bess, so different from her mother, who had also borne that name. Together, they had founded a dynasty built on the blood shed by those who had ruled before them.

Aye, so many lay dead now—those who had changed the course of history forever—and their memories were now blurred and distorted by time. The powerful Earl of Warwick, the Kingmaker, some had called him, had been slain in the Battle of Bamet. Marguerite, who had been a queen once too, had wasted away in abject poverty, forgotten, in some broken-down chateau in France; and her husband, another Henry who had been King, had been murdered, some whispered, in the Tower. His Grace the Duke of Clarence, George Plantagenet, imprisoned in the Tower too, had drowned in a butt of malmsey wine. Bonnie Lord Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, who'd had the royal favor once, had been condemned as a traitor to the Crown. Sir Richard Grey, whose brother Lord Thomas Grey, the gay Marquis of Dorset, ought to have been the one hanged for treason instead, had died with Earl Rivers. And His Grace the Duke of Buckingham, Harry Stafford, laughing-eyed Buckingham, had forfeited his head to the executioner's ax, a coward to the end.

Aye, most all were dead now, like so many others whom

Isabella had loved—and hated; those who had been the victims of the ruthless schemes and machinations plotted by the powerful and the ambitious,

Only Henry, the Tydder, had survived; wary, watchful Henry, who now reigned from the throne where Isabella's beloved Richard had once sat. The civil war that would someday be known as the Wars of the Roses was ended: the white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster intertwined, had become as one under the Tydder. Peace had come to England at last.

But for how long? Isabella wondered, looking out over the endless horizon. Men still dared to plot and plan, and the shadows of the Tower were still ever long and far reaching. She shivered at the thought, remembering.

She was safe, for a time, within the grey stone walls of which she was now lady, with the mighty sword of her lord to defend her. Many times, she had seen that blade glitter in battle, had seen its steel flash like lightning as it had plunged deep and true. And yet, Isabella had lain in the strong arms that had wielded that sword, and she had found them tender and loving. She had felt her lord's carnal mouth, which could curl jeeringly, kiss her lips gently in the darkness as he'd sought to drive the ghosts that haunted her from her soul. Even now, after all these years, her flesh still burned when he touched her, took possession of her, his hard body shielding her from everything save him.

She turned her gaze to the keep in the distance. He would be there, waiting for her, as he was always. Even now, she could see his tall, handsome figure searching for her. He spied her, at last, and ceased his stride. He would not intrude on her privacy if she did not wish it. He knew there were moments of solitude that must belong to her alone, and he respected that. Isabella glanced out once more over the windswept moors. The voices of the ghosts had grown fainter, as though perhaps this were the last time she would ever hear them. She hoped it was so; she had borne so much—only her lord would ever know how much: for it had been his shoulder she had leaned on, his love that had been her strength.... Her heart pounding slowly in her breast, Isabella lifted her skirts and began to run toward her husband's outstretched arms.

"Look, Ma." The child of a villein pointed. '"Tis the Lady of the castle. Oh, is she not lovely?"—this a trifle awed.

"Aye, there be no denying that, daughter. But she be a fey one nevertheless. Make the sign, Moll, and say a prayer fer the poor woman's souL"

"Don't ye do any sech a thing, Moll," another crofter chided. "And ye hesh yer mouth, Nellie Sims!"—this to the child's mother. "The Lady be no more fey than yerself!"

"Nay? Then how do ye explain that hawk, Sarah Plunkett? 'Tis always there, perched up on her shoulder, glaring at ye— the wicked bird! 'Tain't natural, a wild thing like that behaving so odd. 'Tis her familiar, most like; that's what I say."

"Nay, 'tain't, and if'n ye had more sense and less envy, ye'd know the Lady's had it fer many a year. She told me about it once, when I asked her. Its wing was broke, and she mended it, taming the beast whilst it healed. There ain't a kinder woman alive than the Lady. Why, didn't she come to yer house and sit up all night with yer Danny boy when he were ill with the fever, never giving a thought to whether she'd catch it herself, though she were scarcely up from her own sickbed? Saved his life; that's what, and ye telling yer Moll to cross herself as if the Lady was a witch. Fer shame, Nellie Sims!"

The other had the grace to flush guiltily.

"Well, if'n she ain't fey," Nellie offered grudgingly, "then why does she roam the moors like a little lost waif? Answer me that, then, Sarah Plunkett."

Sarah sniffed primly, as though she were privy to information that was none of the other's business.

"It be a tragic tale, Nellie Sims, and not fer the likes of ye to be hearing and making mock of. But the Lady's got her reasons." Sarah's voice lowered, and she shook her head pityingly. "She's got more than her share of reasons, poor soul."

Nellie snorted, still disbelieving.

"Well, if'n I had a man like the Lord," she announced, as though she could indeed get such a man if she wanted, "I wouldn't waste my time daydreaming about the past and wandering all over the countryside; that's fer sure."

"But, Ma, Pa says ye don't stay home now," Moll put in artlessly.

"Ye hesh yer mouth, Moll Sims!" The child's mother rounded on her angrily. "Ye're too young to be speaking up so bold to yer elders. 'Tis brassy, ye are; that's what. I'll smack ye where it counts if'n ye don't mind yer manners, and I'll pinch off yer ears too fer listening when they ain't supposed to be."

"I'll tell ye what, Nellie Sims," Sarah stated bluntly as Moll began first to sniffle, then wail at her mother's sharp reprimand, "ye're jest miffed 'cause the Lord ain't interested in yer sly tricks. Trying to make up to him, ye have been. Nay, don't deny it, fer

Vm not the only one who's seen ye. Godamercy, woman! Ye oughta stop making sech a fool of yerself. Everybody knows the Lord ain't got eyes fer anyone but the Lady. Look at 'em." The villein nodded to where Isabella was now standing in the circle of her husband's strong arms. Her face was lit up radiantly with joy as she gazed up into his, and he was smiling down at her lovingly. "A body'd swear they was newlyweds, even after all these long years," Sarah marveled, then sighed wistfully, wiping a tear from her eye with the comer of her apron.

"Which jest goes to show ye the Lady is fey." Nellie smirked triumphantly with mean satisfaction. "Ain't nobody but a witch could've kept the Lord faithful all this time. Ah, he was a man fer the ladies once—before her. She's bewitched him; that's what."

Nellie Sims would have been very surprised to know that at that exact moment, her thoughts were the Lord's own. Softly, half-mockingly, he voiced them aloud to Isabella.

"The crofters think ye fey, my love. Is it true? Have ye indeed cast some spell upon me or laced my ale with some potion? I swear ye grow more beautiful with every passing day, and I—I love ye more dearly each time I see your winsome face. 'Tis hard to believe so many years have come and gone. Ah, sweet Jesu. What did I ever do to deserve ye, my love?"