Rose of rapture (30 page)

Though now titled Lady Stanley, Margaret still referred to herself as the Countess of Richmond. It was as though she found it difficult to remember the title had been stripped from her by the Yorkists, and she had' had two husbands since the death of Edmund Tewdwr, Earl of Richmond, a Lancastrian who had died a prisoner of the Yorkists in Carmarthen Castle, leaving Margaret, at thirteen years of age, a widow. Shortly after Edmund's death, the Baroness had given birth to her only child, a son whom she had named Henry and whom she adored above all else. Though his claim to the throne descended through his mother, through the illegitimate line of John of Gaunt by his mistress Katherine Swynford, Henry Tudor was now the sole surviving Lancastrian heir.

Isabella glanced uneasily at her husband at the thought, for she had suddenly recalled too that Henry was a Welshman. His paternal grandfather had been Owein Tewdwr, a Welsh bard who had secretly married Katherine of Valois, the old King Henry VI's mother. His father, Edmund, had been the old King's half brother. Henry himself was the old King's nephew. Aye, Henry Tudor was a Welshman. Isabella was sure of it, for even now.

Warrick was calling Margaret's son not Henry, but Harry. LX)rd Harry Tewdwr, Earl of Richmond, though the title was no longer rightfully his, any more than his claim to the Crown was legitimate. Still, King Edward IV thought Henry enough of a threat to have attempted to capture him in the past. But so far, Henry had managed to elude the King.

As I would have, Isabella thought, if my ambitious, loving mother were my eyes and ears at Court.

She gazed again at Margaret and wondered what clever schemes the Baroness plotted and planned behind those large dark eyes so often turned upward toward heaven. There were those at Court who foolishly dismissed Margaret as a good but simple woman, but Isabella, as she watched the Baroness surreptitiously, was not one of those so easily misled.

Following her first husband's demise, Margaret had married Sir Henry Stafford, whose nephew, another Henry Stafford, was now the Duke of Buckingham and wed to the Queen's sister Katherine. Isabella looked at the young Duke seated at the high table. He too held a claim to the throne, she remembered, legitimately, through Thomas of Woodstock.

His Grace the Duke of Buckingham, Henry Stafford; Henry Tudor, the last of the Lancastrians; Lady Margaret Stanley, his ingenious, doting mother; and Lord Thomas Stanley, the Fox, the Baroness's third husband. Without warning, Isabella shivered at the thought of such a dangerous combination.

And what of Warrick, her husband, who was half-Welsh?

Waerwic is always for the winning side, my lady.

"Art cold, 'Sabelle?" Warrick inquired curiously, noting her faint shudder and observing how still and silent she had suddenly fallen.

"Nay." She managed a small laugh as she stared up at him, stricken, her heart constricting in her breast.

Richard. Oh. Richard, my lord Duke who is so kind. They would wrest the Crown from your beloved brother the King if they could. I know, somehow, 'tis true.

"'Twas nothing, my lord, a slight draught; that's all. 'Tis gone now," the girl lied, for the strange feeling that had possessed her still persisted, chilling her to the bone.

Only a fortnight past, she had vowed to love, honor, and obey the man who had knelt beside her before the priest. Only tonight, she had determined to win the heart of that same man who had become her husband. But Isabella had not realized then that someday, Warrick might also become her enemy.

She could no longer look into his eyes, those amber orbs that would search out relentlessly her innermost thoughts: and she was glad when a knight, bearing a covered silver dish ornately encrusted with jewels, approached the table, though she wondered at the sudden tittering of the courtiers that just as quickly faded to a strange, expectant silence.

"My Lord Hawkhurst"—the knight spoke and bowed with an exaggerated flourish—"His Grace begs ye accept this small token of congratulations on your recent marriage." He lifted the lid to reveal a brown-and-gold hawk, which, though still alive, had been securely bound up and lay helplessly amid a bed of white rose petals.

Isabella gasped, then gave a small cry of horror at the bird's plight and what she knew was a nasty jest on the King's part: for none present, having heard the story of what had occurred that afternoon, could have mistaken the meaning of Edward's wedding present to the couple.

"Oh, cruel. Cruel!" the girl whimpered and attempted to spring to her feet, intending to release the poor hawk at once. ,

Warrick's arm, however, shot out rapidly to encircle her waist— lovingly, it seemed, to those who watched—but to Isabella, it was as though she had been imprisoned by an iron band: for her husband's grip had tightened wamingly, almost painfully, around her, restraining her impulsive action.

The Earl smiled wryly at the knight who had delivered the trussed bird, then glanced casually about the great hall.

"I see that His Grace has not lost his sense of humor during my absence," Warrick said loudly enough for all to hear. A smattering of appreciative laughter rang out but then died as still the courtiers watched and waited, like animals stalking their prey. "Come, 'Sabelle." Warrick rose and offered his arm to her, his eyes cautioning her to do nothing rash. "Methinks the King would like to meet ye."

Trembling with rage, she stood, her grey-green orbs flashing defiantly; and though she was desperately frightened by the idea of bringing Edward's wrath down upon herself and her husband, she made no move to lay her hand on Warrick's arm.

Instead, in the breathless silence that had once more fallen over the great hall, she took the heavy plate dish from the knight and set it on the table. Then she drew the dagger at her waist and, crooning soothingly to the hawk all the while, deftly cut the thongs that tied it. The bird stirred and struggled to rise but could not. The girl saw, with fury, that one of its wings was broken. Having, by now, learned how hateful those at Court could be,

Isabella knew they would not hesitate to mock both her and Warrick unmercifully if the hawk continued to fail in its pathetic attempts to fly. It was not to be borne. She would not have Warrick made a fool of again. Swiftly, she caught the jesses that trailed from the bird's sharp talons and, with a graceful motion, swung the hawk upward to settle upon her wrist. The bird wavered unsteadily for a moment, then gained its balance, its yellow eyes meeting hers fiercely for just an instant, as though in recognition of the bond that had been borne between them. It lifted its head proudly to gaze about the room and gave a shrill sweet cry of victory. A few white rose petals that had clung to its claws drifted down to scatter heedlessly upon the floor, then all was once more still.

For perhaps a minute more, the great hall was hushed, then suddenly, a wild cheer accompanied by a burst of admiring applause for a deed well done swelled from the courtiers, echoing to the rafters as Isabella raised the hawk high for all to see.

Flushed with triumph, she turned to her husband and, to her surprise, for she had feared he would be angry, saw his eyes were glimmering with pride and approval instead.

"Brava, 'Sabelle," he whispered, lifting her free hand to his lips to kiss it. "Brava, my lady."

And in that moment, Isabella could have sworn he loved her.

On her husband's arm, the girl walked nervously toward the high table. Whether or not Edward was wroth, she could not tell. She had glimpsed the King and Queen earlier upon entering the great hall, of course, but she had not realized she would be presented to them this evening. She had thought such would take place upon the morrow, at Westminster Palace, where formal Court was held. Anxiously, Isabella bit her lip and glanced down at her gown, wondering idly if it was grand enough for the occasion, though it seemed the least of her worries right now.

"Smile, 'Sabelle!" Warrick suddenly hissed in her ear, startling her. "Ye look as though ye are on your way to be executed at Tower Green. There is naught for ye to fear. Ye were magnificent, and Edward has shown us both great favor."

"Marry-go-up, my lord! How? By mocking us before the whole Court by giving us this pitiful hawk on a bed of white roses?"

"Nay." Again, Warrick grinned sardonically. "That was merely a jest on Edward's part. The real gift was the plate, of course, and it must be worth a small fortune."

"Oh. Oh!" Isabella's eyes widened as, at last, she understood. "Then—then the King is well pleased with our marriage?"

"Aye."

"Well, he certainly chose a cruel way of showing it! My lord Duke of Gloucester would never have been so unkind. Methinks your Edward is not the man his brother believes him to be."

"Be that as it may, he is still my liege—and yours. Do not be so foolish as to spoil the victory ye have won, 'Sabelle."

"Nay, my lord. I shall not. But do not ask me to love the King, for I cannot."

Warrick's eyes gleamed speculatively at that, but he said nothing further.

Edward Plantagenet, the King, was thirty-eight years old but looked older. He had been but nineteen when he'd won his glorious victory at Towton and claimed the throne for his own. England's tall golden god, he'd been then, a brilliant military commander who had wrested the Crown from King Henry VI and whom the commonfolk had welcomed with open arms and adoration. But Ned's subsequent years of dissolute living had taken their toll on him, tarnishing his splendor. The body that had once been so lithe and powerfully built had thickened and coarsened from overindulgence in rich food and drink. The hand-j some face had grown slack and soft from the easy, careless years of late. The eyes that had been as clear and blue as a summer sky were now bloodshot from too many late nights of carousing with a string of never-ending women. Only the glossy mane of blond hair remained to tell Isabella why England had once looked upon their King as a golden god and taken him so dearly to their hearts. Had Isabella known him then, she might have loved him. But she had not, and so she felt nothing but an odd sense of tragic waste as she knelt before her liege.

This was Richard's brother, and yet, how unalike the two men were. There was nothing of Richard's sombemess, his kindness, his haunting sadness, about Edward. Nay, just as Dickon was the darkness, so Ned was the light, a dying sun, perhaps, but a sun just the same, a passionate fire that was consuming itself, burning itself out with its own intensity. There was a cruel deviltry in the King's eyes that made the girl shiver slightly as he bade her rise; and she did not miss the way he appraised her body and desired what he saw.

Her heart gave a little lurch of apprehensiveness, for even at Rushden, rumors of Edward's insatiable lust for women had reached her ears. There were many at Court who, at one time or another, had been the King's mistress; and Isabella had no wish to share his bed.

"So ye are my ward the Lady Isabella," Edward was saying

as, with a guilty start at having allowed her thoughts to wander in the King's presence, the girl came back to the present. "I did not realize what a favor I had done Warrick by choosing ye for his wife. Not only are ye beautiful, but clever too." He indicated the hawk that still perched upon her wrist. " 'Twas indeed a deed well done, my lady."

"Thank ye. Your Grace." Isabella spoke at last, glad the King was not angry with her. "My lord and I are most appreciative of your wedding present and hope ye are well pleased with our marriage."

"I am, my lady, though I confess a small regret at your loss. Dickon told me ye were quite a taking little wench, but I'm afraid I failed to recognize my brother's taste was more exquisite than I thought. I can see indeed why my courtiers have dubbed ye the Rose of Rapture."

"Ye flatter me. Sire." Isabella blushed faintly, not wanting to encourage the King, particularly as the Queen was staring at her most venomously.

Elizabeth Woodville was older than her royal husband but looked younger, for she had taken great care to preserve her cold, haughty beauty. Even now, it was easy to see why Ned had been bewitched by her. Her smooth skin was as fair as cream, and her regal face appeared as though it had been sculpted from the finest of marbles. She shaved her brow, as did most of the Court women, so little could be seen, beneath her hennin, of the famous silver-gold hair that was said to cascade, like a shimmering waterfall, to her knees. But her high forehead set off to advantage her delicately arched brows and wide, pale blue eyes, which glittered like ice. Her straight, classical nose flared proudly above a slightly pouting, rosebud mouth whose lips, at the moment, were thinly compressed with ill-concealed jealousy.

Isabella knew instinctively that the Queen hated her, for the girl's own silvery beauty rivaled Elizabeth's—and Isabella was much younger than the Queen. Elizabeth was barely civil to the girl, and Isabella was glad when, after talking with Warrick for a time, the royal couple allowed the newly weds to depart.

Much to the disappointment of the courtiers, who had hoped to become better acquainted with the girl, Isabella and Warrick did not remain for the dancing that followed supper but instead sought their chamber. There, Isabella set about at once to mend the hawk's broken wing while Warrick ordered his squire Rhys to go down to the mews and see if a bird perch might be obtained from the King's falconer. Finally, Ragnor, as the girl had decided

to call the hawk, was settled in for the night; and Isabella turned shyly to her husband.

She wanted to make love with him, to begin her campaign to win his heart, but she did not know how to make her wishes known. Silently, she took the cup of wine he offered her and sipped it nervously, trying to think of something to say. The words, however, did not come easily to her.

"Warrick, I—I—" She broke off abruptly, biting her lip.

"Aye?" he asked, raising one eyebrow as though amused.

Suddenly, she knew he knew what she wanted. She stiffened a little, squaring her small shoulders proudly, believing he intended to mock her. The soft, pleading light in her eyes died, and she turned away, a sharp stab of anguish piercing her heart. It was no use. Even if she succeeded in putting Lionel from her heart and mind, she could never win Warrick's love. The shell he had built around himself was too impenetrable, and he was too afraid of being hurt ever to let down his guard and invite her inside the walls that protected him from the world.