Rose of rapture (37 page)

"Perhaps," the Lady Juliet conceded, "but I'm certain I do not need to tell ye the gossip about the Count's preferences, Agatha. One cannot help but think 'tis strange of him to be wooing Lady Hawkhurst—if rumor is to be believed. And I, for one, did not notice he paid her any more heed than was courteous until her brother. Lord Rushden, arrived. 'Tis well known the Ashleys are extremely close. To befriend one is to become the other's companion as well. I'll wager that Lord Hawkhurst has no intention of seeing his young brother-in-law fall prey to the Italian's clutches."

"Juliet!" the Lady Agatha gasped, horrified.

The Lady Juliet merely shrugged, having lost interest in the subject.

"'Tis merely my own conjecture, of course," she said, "but I wouldst not be surprised to learn 'twas true. However, ye may believe what ye choose, Agatha."

The matter thus disposed of, the Lady Juliet turned to view the two combatants on the field.

Had Isabella overheard the two women's conversation, she would have been beset with anxiety for her brother. But her ears had discerned nothing of the exchange, and so she knew no fear for Giles. Only worry for Warrick filled her mind, for despite the jousts being but games, accidents did happen, and she had no wish for her husband to be injured or killed.

She was unaware her face softened as she caught sight of him, looking like some dark and pagan god upon his mighty brown destrier with its golden-cream mane and tale. His armor glinted silver where the sun's rays struck it, enveloping him in a blaze of flame as he saluted the King and Queen, then wheeled his steed to pace slowly down the stadium. His gold-lined, brown satin cloak swirled down in shining folds fi*om his broad shoulders; the hawk embroidered on its back proudly proclaimed his heritage for all to see. His tobacco-brown hair, streaked with gold and shagged back in wings on either side, and his aquiline nose reminded all uncannily of the bird whose badge he wore—as the bend sinister on his shield reminded them of his bastardy. In battle or game, he would be a deadly opponent.

When he had reached the end of the field, Warrick turned and dipped his lance toward Isabella in acknowledgment of his lady. She was touched by the unexpected gesture, and as the audience

roared its approval, she caught Ragnor upon her wrist and raised him high, as though in victory. The hawk, somehow sensing all eyes upon him, flung back his head and gave a shrill wild cry that echoed sweetly across the arena. His fierce amber eyes pierced the Earl's own, and for a moment, it seemed almost as though Warrick and Ragnor were one and the same. Then the Earl broke the spell, donning his helmet, fewtering his weapon, and charging down the field toward his opponent.

Lord Montecatini, at the opposite end of the stadium, spurred his own horse forward, meeting the onslaught grimly: for briefly, the bird's sharp scream had disturbed him. Superstitious, he had thought it an ill omen and had shivered with a sudden, strange premonition, as though someone had walked over his grave. Deliberately now, he forced the unnerving notion from his mind and tried to concentrate on the bout. Though he had no taste for tilting, he was far from being a novice at the sport. Having regained his composure, he studied Warrick with cool assessment as the Earl galloped toward him. Perceiving Warrick's line of attack, the Count shifted his shield accordingly and aimed his own lance expertly. The hooves of his ebony stallion thundered over the turf along the wooden barrier that separated him from his foe. His red-and-gold satin cloak, with its rosettes bearing the badges of griffins, shimmered down from his shoulders like molten fire in the sunlight. His black eyes narrowed, watching Warrick closely for any perceptible movement.

There. Now!

Violently, the two men engaged arms, lances shattering viciously against shields. The Italian rocked in his saddle from the impact, even as the Earl did, for Warrick had not guessed the strength concealed by Lx)rd Montecatini's slender figure.

"God's blood, brother! That was close." Caerllywel whistled as he caught the bridle of the Earl's prancing destrier while Warrick's squire Rhys ran forward with a new weapon. "I thought ye said the Count did not fancy jousting."

"Aye." The Earl nodded tersely. "Still, I should have suspected the whoreson was no fool at the game. Christ's son, but the Italian cavalier is no Court card after all."

"For God's sake, keep your guard up!" Caerllywel warned. "I mislike the look of him, and that was a bad blow ye took. If ye had not switched your shield in time..."

"Do not fear, brother," Warrick said. "I am never twice a fool. I shall be ready for him this time, and then we will see whether or not he persists in his attentions to my wife and her brother."

Caerllywel's eyebrows lifted.

"Though ye paid her a signal honor this day, I did not know ye cared so deeply for 'Sabelle—or for Giles," he commented.

"What is mine, I hold, brother, as well ye know," the Earl told him fiercely before spurring Gwalchmai into the second run.

Again, lances splintered sickeningly upon shields. Isabella half-rose from her bench, one hand going to her throat as a startled cry of anticipation and bloodlust, somehow different from its previous cheering, suddenly rose from the crowd. The King leaned forth in his chair, snapping to attention. That the bout was the most exciting one of the day could not be denied; but without warning, it seemed to have taken on a serious—almost macabre—note that did not belong to the sport.

Elizabeth, the Queen, glanced coolly at her husband, whose hand had tightened upon the chalice of wine he was holding.

"Methinks this joust is no longer a mere game, Ned," she stated, her icy blue eyes glittering. "It appears that Lord Hawk-hurst is even more jealous of his bride' than Court gossip has rumored. I do believe he intends to kill the Italian. What will Rome say to that, I wonder?"

"Hawkhurst is not such a fool, Bess," Edward replied curtly. "He means only to humble the Count; I am certain."

"And what of Lord Montecatini? Dost think he intends but to 'humble' Lord Hawkhurst?"

"I do not know. Who can guess what goes on in the minds of foreigners?"

Elizabeth smiled with cruel amusement.

"If he slays your favorite, Ned, do not say I didn't warn ye."

As the audience waited tensely, the two men prepared for the final charge of the bout. Isabella's hand gripped her maid's arm so fervently that her nails dug into Jocelyn's flesh.

"Oh, Anne. I don't understand why, but I—I think they mean to kill each other," Isabella breathed, then wailed, "Oh, why doesn't the King put a stop to it?"

"I do not know, 'Sabelle"—the Duchess spoke thoughtfully. "Ned must not feel there is any danger, or I'm certain he wouldst call a halt to the proceedings. After all, the Count is a guest in our country, and Lord Hawkhurst is one of Ned's favorites. He cannot mean to let them battle to the death."

But Isabella was yet afraid as the two men set their gilded spurs to their horses' sides, and the pounding of hooves once more rang out over the field.

Warrick's eyes, like slits behind the visor of his helmet, met

Lord Montecatini's ominous gaze unflinchingly. The hawk, with its talons poised to strike, embroidered upon the back of the Earl's cloak seemed to take flight as the breeze caught the material, sending it rippling. The golden griffin that emblazoned the back of the Count's cloak stalked its prey across a sea of red. The beasts clashed, snarled with fury, clawed wickedly at one another until, at last, as though in slow motion, Isabella saw the eagle-headed lion fall, a bright splash of liquid crimson gushing from the wound her husband's lance had made.

An eager, almost unnatural yell came from the throats of the spectators as they leaped to their feet, thirsting for more. Even the King and Queen were standing, watching, waiting.

"My God!" someone shouted. "The Italian's dead!"

"Nay," Isabella whimpered. "Nay."

Warrick had already dismounted and run to his opponent's aid. Quickly, he ripped off Lord Montecatini's helmet, pushed back his mesh hood, and tore away those pieces of armor that had not been broken during the joust.

The Count groaned and smiled faintly as the Earl exposed the gash in the Italian's shoulder and moved to staunch the flow of blood.

"I congratulate ye, my lord," Lord Montecatini said dryly. "The taste of victory is always sweet. Shall I survive, do ye think?"

"Aye." Warrick nodded. "'Tis only a flesh wound and clean. Methinks 'twill not prove mortal."

"And my face, my lord?"

"Your face? Christ's son, Montecatini! Ye might have been slain!"

"Aye, but I am yet alive and wouldst know of my dark beauty. 'Tis my one overwhelming vanity, ye apprehend, this face of mine."

"A few scratches only. 'Twill not be scarred."

The Count sighed with relief.

"Thank God for that. Ye are a worthy foe, Hawkhurst. Methinks we will meet again."

"Be warned: Next time, I mean to kill ye," the Earl threatened through clenched teeth.

The Italian laughed shortly.

"Aye, I suspected as much."

"Keep away from my wife—and her brother," Warrick ordered grimly.

"I have but befriended them, my lord."

"Do not seek to play me for a fool, Montecatini. I know what ye intend."

"Do ye? I wonder. There is only one thing sweeter than victory, Hawkhurst—revenge. I shall have it, I promise ye."

"The boy will scorn ye," the Earl hissed.

"Dost truly believe so, signorel I fear ye must enlighten me, then. Why, then, didst ye challenge me?"

"Had I thought your victims were all willing ones, I should not have done so. But a man who dabbles in potions—and no doubt the Black Arts as well—is without morals or scruples. 1 have some slight knowledge of the drugs ye Italians employ, Montecatini. I wouldst not see young Giles made your slave by a craving for the poppy's nectar. I trust, after today, ye will perceive the wisdom of leaving England—before ye arc forced to do so. I do not think that Rome will look lightly upon this affair, and I don't believe ye wish to be recalled home in disgrace."

The Count shrugged, his black eyes unfathomable.

"A minor nuisance only, my lord, I assure ye. My family stands high at the Italian Court, very high indeed. Methinks they will manage to salvage my position. Ye have played your hand and lost, Hawkhurst."

"Have I? Giles is one of Gloucester's favorites, Montecatini, and a staunch Yorkist as well. If ye trifle with him, ye will have to answer to the Duke—and the King."

"But then, I am not subject to the whims of the Plantagenets— or to the laws of England, am I, my lord? Besides, 'tis no longer just a matter of the boy. Ye have humbled my pride, signore. That I shall not easily forget or forgive."

"Methinks I am well able to defend myself," Warrick rejoined inscrutably. "After all, / was the victor here today, was I not?"

"Aye, ye have that satisfaction, Hawkhurst." The Italian's teeth flashed whitely as he smiled again. "Let us hope ye are equally adept at guarding your wife." The Earl inhaled sharply. "Ah, that strikes home, does it not?" l^ord Montecatini continued. "I thought perhaps 'twould."

"If ye touch my bride, ye will die most unpleasantly; I swear it," Warrick vowed.

"Dost think so? In Italy, they say I lead a charmed life."

"Even so, Montecatini, I wonder how ye wouldst like living it if something were to happen to your face."

With that parting shot, the Earl walked away, having derived considerable pleasure from seeing the Count blanch momentarily with fear.

Sighing with relief, Isabella settled back upon her bench as she watched her husband leave the arena. The Italian was wounded but not dead, and Warrick was alive and unhurt. That was all that mattered.

"Lord Montecatini will live to fight another day, it seems," Anne observed as the Count's squires pulled him to his feet and helped him off the field.

"Aye," Isabella agreed. "Thank God for it. For a minute, I feared that Warrick had slain him."

The remaining bouts, which included Caerllywel's, were uneventful. Though a relief to Isabella, the rest of the audience soon grew bored and were glad to see the judges begin to compare notes.

"My Lady Hawkhurst?" A small page tentatively approached the box.

"Aye."

"My Lord Hawkhurst wouldst have a word with ye, if ye please."

"But of course." Isabella rose hurriedly to her feet, wondering what her husband wanted. "Oh, I do hope nothing is wrong. Anne, ye will excuse me, won't ye?"

"Of course." The Duchess smiled. "The tourney is almost over anyway. Already, I see the judges conferring among themselves as to which contestant garnered the most points this day."

"Well, if 'tis Earl Rivers, then there's no chance of my being crowned queen, so I won't miss anything. Nay, Jocelyn," Isabella protested as the maid stood. "Ye stay, and see the end, so I will know who won the honors. I will be safe enough with my husband to protect me. In fact, after today, I seriously doubt any courtier will be foolish enough to speak to me."

This soon proved to be the case, for although many admiring glances were cast in Isabella's direction as she followed the page through the crowd, her previously gay cavaliers were noticeably reluctant to attract her attention. Only the most brazen and high-ranking of courtiers, such as Lord Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, dared to accost her and tease her about her husband's now-infamous jealousy. Blushing, the girl scurried on, wishing that Warrick had not made his possessive nature toward her so public and through such means, particularly as Lord Montecatini had pursued her almost indifferently, without the fervent ardor

that had characterized many of her cavahers. Indeed, now that she thought about it, Isabella believed the Count had joined the chase only because it had been the fashion to do so. Certainly, he had been much more talkative to Giles than to her. She wondered curiously why, then, Warrick had singled out the Italian for punishment. Somehow, it seemed rather odd.

'Through there, my lady." The page, as they reached their destination, indicated the open flap of a pavilion, drawing the girl back, with a start, to the present.

"But—but this is not my husband's tent," she stuttered, confused, for Warrick had pointed out his pavilion to her that morning, and as she now attempted to recall it, she did not think it had resembled at all the one she now stood before, nor did she spy any banner to tell her to whom this tent belonged.

The boy shrugged.

"I don't know about that, my lady. This is where my lord said I was to bring ye...."

"Do not fear, lad," Isabella reassured the youth, who was gazing up at her somewhat anxiously. "I have not accused ye of any wrongdoing. 'Tis merely that this is not my husband's pavilion. However, perhaps he has some reason for wishing to meet me here. Here." She handed the page a silver coin. "Please go, and tell my maid ye have seen me safely delivered to my husband."

The boy scampered off, as though glad to escape from her presence, causing Isabella to smile a trifle ruefully to herself and to shake her head slightly with amusement. Children! Briefly, she wondered idly when she might have one, then, mortified, hastily pushed the notion from her head as she remembered how such an event would be brought about. Marry-go-up! Warrick would know instantly that she had been standing outside, daydreaming about their lovemaking. What on earth would he think? Still a little flushed and flustered by the unbidden pattern of her thoughts, the girl took a deep breath to calm herself and entered the tent.

"Lionel!" Isabella was so stunned, the word burst from her lips involuntarily.

"Aye, 'tis I." The heir of St. Saviour stepped from the shadows, where he had been waiting. "Nay, 'Sabelle, don't go. Please. I'm sorry to have misled ye, but I simply had to see ye."

"I'm sure I don't know why. We have nothing to say to each other."

"Don't we?" he asked, his voice low and throbbing with pas-

sion. "Oh, 'Sabelle," he whispered feverishly, catching her hands

before she reahzed what he was about. "Ye cannot tell me ye

have not hungered for me, as I have hungered for ye since our

parting."

"I can and will. What was between us is past. Now let me go. Ye have a wife, and I have a husband who is notorious for his jealousy."

The girl glanced about anxiously for someone who might come to her aid, but she and Lionel were quite alone in the pavilion; he had seen to that, of course.

"Dost think I care for my wife—or your husband?" the heir of St. Saviour snapped. "Oh, God, 'Sabelle. When I think of what I have lost in ye, I damn Gilliane Beaumaris to hell and back! What is she, compared to ye? And what is Hawkhurst? He does not love ye as I do; I swear it!"

"Gilliane is your wife," Isabella repeated coldly, trying to pull her hands from his tight grip. "And ye have shamefully abused her. Why, do ye know she did not even have money today to buy a fan—the most meager of devices—that she might keep cool beneath the sun's rays? And her garments are pathetic, fit only for the lowliest of scullery maids! I have no doubt that ye beat her besides, for she is terrified of ye, my lord; and I—I am disgusted by your treatment of her, Lionel! I knew ye for a cheat, but until now, I had not thought ye cruel. Now take your hands off me! Warrick is my husband, and I wouldst not play him false, especially for ye."

The harsh words smng, as they were meant to. Snarling under his breath, Lionel yanked her into his arms, causing Ragnor to squawk loudly. Wrathfully, the heir of St. Saviour knocked the hawk from Isabella's shoulder.

"Ragnor!" she wept, horrified, and tried to reach the bird, who was fluttering helplessly upon the ground; but Lionel restrained her.

"That is what I think of your husband, my lady!" the heir of St. Saviour growled, his blue eyes glittering with rage and raking her lustfully. "Your husband! What does he know of ye? / know ye. I know ye as he never will. Oh, 'Sabelle, 'Sabelle."

He pressed his lips hotly against her throat, as though he would devour her with his mouth.

"Nay, ye do not," Isabella retorted, seeking once more to escape from him, "else ye wouldst not be attempting to woo me in this fashion. 'Tis crude and deceitful, but I guess I should not have expected any better from ye. For the last time, my lord, I

am warning ye: Release me, or I shall scream this tent down about your ears!"

"Nay, 'Sabelle, ye will not, for what would your husband say if he found ye here... in my pavilion... in my arms?"

"Against my will, Lionel!" the girl reminded him sharply.

"Dost truly think that Hawkhurst would believe that? Nay." Lionel gave a small, nasty laugh. "I thought not. Come, dearest heart. Ye are a maid no longer. I ask only that ye give to me what that whoreson Welsh bastard has had of ye."

Isabelle gasped with shock at his crudity. Managing to free one hand, at last, she brought her palm up and boxed his ears smartly, struggling furiously in his grasp all the while.

"Let me go, ye contemptible scoundrel!" she raged. "How dare ye insult me in such a manner? God's wounds, but Warrick shall kill ye for this! Let me go! God damn ye! Let me go!"

But Lionel only laughed again, tearing at her bodice as he flung her to the earth and fell upon her. And in that moment, Isabella knew, without a doubt, that she did not love him, had never loved him. How could she have? She had not known him. He had been but some romantic figure bom of a childhood promise and sought to fulfill a dream. Why, he wasn't fit to wipe Warrick's boots! Warrick, who had mocked her, married her, made love to her

"God damn ye!" she cried once more. "Ye are no better than Lord Oadby!"

Without warning, the heir of St. Saviour abruptly ceased his assault, for her last accusation battered his senses as none of her previous words had done; and in the sudden lull that had fallen between them, Isabella was somehow able to break loose of his hold and flee. Staggenng to her feet, grabbing up Ragnor and clutching him and the torn renmants of her gown to her breast, she ran.

Once outside the tent, she paused a minute to catch her breath, then looked about apprehensively to be certain no one had observed her flight from Lionel's pavilion. She inhaled sharply, the fresh air she'd taken in seeming to choke in her throat as her grey-green eyes met her husband's golden ones. For only an instant, she was frightened; then joy filled her heart until she thought she would burst from it. How he had found her, she did not know or care. He was there, as he had always been there. It was enough.

"Warrick. Warrick!" the girl sobbed with relief, throwing herself into his arms.

But there was no welcome in his strong embrace, and his dark visage, when she gazed at him again, was as hard as stone. Slowly, in sudden understanding, she drew away from him, all her earlier dread returning.

"Warrick, please. Please. 'Tis—'tis not what you're thinking. Oh, God. 'Tis not what you're thinking! I—I can explain."

"I am quite certain ye can, madam," the Earl said, his voice as cold as ice and chilling her to the bone. "However, I do not choose to be made a fool of again. Sweet Jesii," he suddenly swore bitterly and thrust her from him. 'To think I had begun to care for ye."

Then he turned and walked away.

BOOK THREE

'Windswept ^oors

St* C^ — ^^ —Ci v»^

Chapter Twenty-Six

Hawkhurst Castle, England, 1480

TO THINK I HAD BEGUM TO CARE FOR YE.

Warrick's words hammered like a death knell in Isabella's brain. Oh, God damn Lionel Valeureux to hell and back! 'Twas he who had caused her husband to turn against her. Her husband, whom she had just begun to heal, whom she had just begun to love. Aye, love. Isabella knew, with certainty now, that it was so. She had fallen in love with her husband. Lord Warrick ap Tremayne, Earl of Hawkhurst. Now—now, when it was too late, she dared to face what was in her heart.

Oh, God, oh, God!

How she longed to bury her face in her hands and weep bitterly for what she had lost. But she did not. To do so would be to disgrace herself before Warrick and his men. Once they had reached the sanctuary of Hawkhurst Castle, the giri would find a quiet place in which to lick her wounds. Until then, she must remain strong so none would guess how her heart was dying inside of her.

Only Giles and Caerllywel suspected her pain, for they alone knew what had happened that day of the King's tourney. And

though together, vahantly, they had accosted Warrick and forced

him to listen to the truth of the matter, he had not beheved them.

"Ye love her," he had snarled. "Both of ye! Ye wouldst say anything to protect her. Well, I am not such a fool as to believe ye. Now get out. Get out of my sight! And take that cheating witch 1 married with ye!"

That had hurt worst of all—the fact that Warrick had no longer even wanted her. Quietly, Isabella had moved her possessions into the antechamber of their room and there had shared a pallet upon the floor with Jocelyn until they had left the Tower and London behind. How endless the nights had seemed as Isabella had lain huddled next to her maid and pressed her face into her pillow to muffle her racking sobs so none would hear her weeping. How filled with agony the long hours had been as she had waited restlessly, sleeplessly, for Warrick to return to their chamber. Sometimes, it had been almost morning before he had come in, more often than not inebriated, though he had held his liquor well. Isabella had not known where he'd spent his nights and had not asked. That he'd sought out arms other than her own, she'd had no doubt. She would have been greatly surprised, though highly gratified, to learn he had but sat in his horse's stall in the stables and drunk himself into a stupor while pouring out his heart and soul to his much-bemused destrier.

Then, one mom (having grown weary of passing his evenings upon a pile of hay), the Earl had ordered his wife to pack her coffers. They were leaving London, he had told her curtly. He was taking her home to Hawkhurst Castle. Isabella had not wished to go, but still, she had made no protest against him. A devil had taken hold of Warrick, and she was not the only one who'd been more than a little frightened of him those days.

Now, as her husband's fortress came into view at last, the giri's heart sank with despair: for she had no doubt that Warrick intended to shut her away here, alone, and return to Court without her. Aye, this would be her prison, perhaps for life. She had sinned against her husband (or so he thought); and he had tried and condemned her without mercy, sentencing her to Hawkhurst Castle for her crime. He might as well have delivered her to that infamous dungeon known as Little Hell in the Tower, Isabella thought, for such a prospect could not have been bleaker or more daunting than the one she now faced.

The Yorkshire moors, to which the gid was accustomed, were wild and often rocky, but their gently swelling crests did not jar the eye as the land here did, for the hills of Devon were steep

and savage. Rugged granite and sandstone promontories dropped sharply into wooded plains, desolate heaths, and marshy valleys, which were a legacy of centuries past, when the sea had swept in to drown die lower terrain. Even now, in the distance, Isabella could hear the roar of the ocean above the drizzle of the depressing rain and taste the cool, salty spindrift that swirled in a blanket of mist upon the wings of the wind.