Rose of rapture (43 page)

"Brava!" a woman's voice exclaimed as she clapped her hands with approval. "A woman's body should be given freely, with joy, not taken, as though she were but chattel."

A sudden silence fell as the men looked guiltily at the woman

and flushed. For a moment, they seemed like nothing more than young boys caught in some forbidden act, and had Isabella not been so wroth, she would have laughed at the expressions on their faces.

"A notion far too advanced for your time. Mother, surely," Warrick rejoined, at last, as he strode forward, bowed low, and kissed the woman's hand.

Caerllywel, hastily releasing his hold on his brother Emrys (a hot-tempered lot, these Welsh, it appeared), quickly followed suit as Isabella stared in amazement at Warrick's mother. Lady Hwyelis uerch Owein.

Although the girl guessed the woman must be in her forties, the years had been kind to the Lady Hwyelis. She was tall and slender, with a grace that Isabella knew belonged only to those who were a part of the moors and forests, as the girl herself was. Hywelis's rich brown mane hung freely to her waist, indicating that she thought of Hawkhurst as home, for no woman wore her hair unbound outside of a family keep. Her honey-gold skin was as smooth as a young maid's, marred only by a few fine lines around her startlingly pale blue eyes, which gleamed with mystery. She had the same handsome facial structure, aquiline nose, and sensuous mouth that marked all her sons; but she was not truly beautiful. Still, one never realized that: for when she smiled, as she did now, Hwyelis's entire countenance lit up, glowed with that rare, deep, inner light bom of the joyous, earthy knowledge that one has lived—and loved—to the fullest.

She stretched out her hands to Warrick's wife; and as Isabella grasped them, the girl knew, somehow, some way, that she had found in the Earl's mother a strange peace she hadn't even recognized she'd been searching for.

"My lady," she whispered and knelt, pressing her forehead to Hywelis's knuckles. "My lady."

If Warrick and the others thought this greeting odd. Hywelis did not. She gripped Isabella's palms tightly in her own for an instant, waiting for the tears she knew had started in the girl's eyes to pass. Then, gently, the Earl's mother raised Isabella to her feet and kissed her.

"So ye are Waerwic's wife," Hwyelis breathed. "I was afraid, so afraid, but now I see there is nothing at all to fear."

And if Hwyelis's sons thought this even stranger still, Isabella did not.

"Nay, my lady," she answered softly.

Warrick sensed that something of greatest importance had

passed between his mother and his wife, but he could not guess what it had been. It was not until years later that he learned that in that first moment of their meeting, Hwyelis had known instantly that Isabella loved him truly, with all her heart.

The hush was broken finally by the sound of Isabella's animals recalling their mistress and the rest to the present. Warrick presented his brother Emrys to the girl, then she explained to them all about the menagerie. Hwyelis, especially, took a genuine interest in the beasts and bent to pet each one while Isabella stood by quietly, knowing instinctively that the creatures would accept Warrick's mother as easily as they did their mistress.

"And this one?" Hwyelis asked as she moved toward Ragnor, sitting upon one of the bird perches. "Who is this?"

"That is Ragnor, my lady," the girl replied as she hoisted the hawk onto her shoulder, "my special love. He was a gift from the King."

"And what is the matter with him?"

"I do not know, my lady. His wing was broken, and although I set it, and it has mended, still, he cannot fly." ,

Hwyelis studied the bird thoughtfully for a minute, then turned her pale blue eyes to gaze at Warrick. Then she looked back at Isabella, and once more, something passed between them.

"Do not fear, child," Hwyelis told the girl. "'Tis only that he is not yet ready. When the time is right, Ragnor will fly, 1 promise

ye."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

ISABELLA HAD NEVER KNOWN WHAT IT MEANT TO BE a part of a large family before, but with the arrival of Hwyelis, Madog, and Emrys, she soon learned. Somehow, even more than it had done at Christmas, the keep seemed to come alive, to be filled with an electric anticipation. The girl never knew what might happen. One moment, the four half brothers might be laughing together like the best of friends, and in the next, they might have drawn steel against each other like the worst of enemies. Yet, somehow, their fierce quarrels, bom of hot tempers, always came to naught, for the blood bond between them was as strong as that between Isabella and Giles. It was just that it was different, as the brothers themselves were different. They were all tall and broad-shouldered and bore similar facial features; but there, the resemblance ended.

Madog, the oldest, had his father Bryn-Dyfed's coal-black hair, which contrasted strikingly with the pale blue eyes he had inhented from his mother. The most militarily inclined of the four, he had a mind that (when not bent on ravishing a pretty maid) coldly and calculatingly pored over strategies in battle and ferreted out his opponents' most vulnerable weaknesses. He was accounted a brilliant war commander and a dangerous foe; and

those who had once sought to wrest his inheritance, Gwendraeth, from his grasp had discovered, much to their misfortune, that, at fifteen, Madog had needed no one's protection. He had soundly defeated his enemies (without the aid his grandfather had so obhgingly offered) and had sent them scurrying, tails between their legs, back to their own fortresses. Now, at thirty, there were few men in Wales who dared to cross him. He was indeed a lord worthy of the cockatrice badge he wore.

With his brown hair streaked with the gold of his father's and his father's amber eyes, Warrick was the most moody and mysterious of the four. In battle, he did his duty and did it better than most, but he was not obsessed with war like Madog. He was certainly a great deal more sensitive, but this was tempered with a hard edge—those walls that made him so difficult to know and grow close to. Ofttimes, he was darkly brooding and withdrawn, almost indifferent to those around him, even those he cared for; and they would know they had trespassed on his privacy, his need for solitude that only Isabella and Hwyelis fully understood. Because he hid behind a mask, he was, at twent;^-seven, the most dangerous of the brothers, for the simple reason that one never knew what he was likely to do.

There was little of his father, Powys, in Caerllywel. With his mother's rich, dark brown hair and pale blue eyes, he was the court jester with a heart of gold. In battle or game, he was a worthy opponent, for they were good sports, both. Still, all things considered, he loved nothing so much as gaiety. Wooing pretty maids, playing at pranks, drinking, dicing—he joyed in all these and went through life lightheartedly pursuing its pleasures. Yet, he had a serious side as well, one that enabled him to sense unhappiness in others; and he did his best to ease the burdens of those he cared for. He was as gallant to a common wench as he was to a queen, as friendly to a simple yeoman as he was to a lord. Unlike Madog and Warrick, he was not feared, perhaps; but at twenty-four, he was loved and usually managed to charm his way through most of the crises in his life.

Emrys had his father Newyddllyn's chestnut hair and green eyes and thus least resembled his mother in physical appearance. He was, however, the most closely aligned to her in temperament, for he joyed in life and the living of it. He was not very adept at battle, knowing just enough to defend himself; and inwardly, he hated war, though he knew men must defend their homes and honor. If it were necessary for him to ride into battle, he would frequently be found upon the field, tending the wounded and

dying, desperately fighting off his enemies only if attacked. Of a scholarly bent, he had studied medicine and was well versed in the arts of healing. He loved Madog dearly (as he did his other brothers as well) but disapproved of him and, at twenty-one, had chosen to serve him in the as-yet-unfulfilled hope of teaching him a better way.

But it was Hwyelis whom Isabella truly loved, and the two women soon became the closest of friends. It was almost as though HwyeUs had taken the place of Isabella's own dead mother, Lady Rushden; and now, more than ever, the girl often felt a pang of regret that she had not known her mother well before Lady Rushden had died. For the first time since Lady Rushden's death, the girl understood what she had subconsciously missed and longed for all those years: for only now did she feel she had an older and wiser head to guide her, someone to turn to, to lean on, a shoulder to cry on, someone with whom she could share all those little things that women share.

Often, as Isabella went about her daily chores, she would consult Hwyelis about various matters, glad of the older woman's advice.

"What do ye think. Mother Hwyelis?" the girl would inquire.

And Hwyelis, her pale blue eyes twinkling, would smile and respond, then hug Isabella affectionately.

The older woman seemed to understand, without being told, what the girl had suffered in her past. But then, because Hwyelis was a child of nature, like Isabella, she sensed a great deal that went unspoken, even though the girl, usually so shy, easily poured out much of her heart and soul to the older woman. In return, Hwyelis told Isabella the story of her own life and talked of her sons, especially Warrick, about whom the girl never tired of hearing.

Poor, lonely boy! The more that Isabella learned of her husband, the more she loved him. He had suffered, even as she had. No wonder his courtship of her was so slow and careful. Warrick was like Ragnor, not yet ready to fly, to speak of the love for her she knew now was in his heart. Yet, he showed his caring in so many other ways that the girl was content.

Often, at night, when she lay in the circle of his warm embrace, basking in the afterglow of his lovemaking, she wondered how she had ever thought she loved Lionel, now Earl of St. Saviour-on-the-Lake. When Isabella recalled those days long past, it seemed almost as though she had lived them in a dream instead of reality. She realized now that she had been too young and

naive, her childish mind filled with too many foolish, romantic dreams, to understand that love—true love—never comes in a blinding flash of glory as she had thought it had come to her. Instead, it grows slowly, like a rose, from a seed that gradually sprouts, buds, and unfurls its petals beneath the sun—and the rain. Aye, that was the true measure of love, surviving the hard times, as well as the good, perceiving the faults of one's beloved—and loving him still.

Isabella had seen Lionel as some young golden god, and she had worshiped him as such, scarcely daring to breathe at knowing he was hers. But Warrick ... ah, Warrick was indeed a man. For though he too often reminded the girl of some ancient pagan god, she knew he was not. She had seen his feet of clay, had touched them, had kissed them, and had been glad to find them flawed. Now, more than ever, did she recognize that Lionel had been but a dream, and Warrick was reality.

She smiled to herself in the darkness as her husband stirred, reached out his arms to her, and drew her near, knowing instinctively that she did not sleep.

"Sweetheart," he murmured drowsily against her ear, his breath warm upon her face. "Is something troubling ye?"

"Nay, my lord," she rejoined softly.

"Yet, ye are still awake"—he spoke half-questioningly, slowly raising himself on one elbow to study her.

"Aye. But there is naught amiss, Warrick. I was but thinking."

"About what?" he asked, his fingers beginning to slide caressingly over her flesh, reawakening her desire for him, which he had sated earlier.

"About ye," she said, sighing with pleasure as she snuggled closer to him, her heart swelling with joy and contentment at the now-dear, familiar touch of his hands.

"Ah," he breathed, somewhat teasingly, as though to hide his true thoughts. "A serious matter indeed to hold slumber at bay. I had not realized I weighed so heavily on your mind. What is it about me that keeps ye awake, 'Sabelle?"

"Right now, 'tis your hands, my lord," she jested lightly.

He laughed lowly for a moment, then sobered.

"Come sweetheart. Tell the truth now. Ye must never lie to your lord."

"I wouldst not; but even so, ye wouldst not believe me if I told ye what was in my thoughts."

"How do ye know?" he inquired. "Did 1 not tell ye once 'twas unwise to be so sure of things?"

"Aye."

"Then answer the question, 'Sabelle," he coaxed gently, kissing the comer of her mouth. "I am your husband. 'Tis my right to know what ye think of me."

Isabella wondered what was in his mind at that, but Warrick had his eyes half-closed against her, so she could not guess. Still, it seemed to her tiiere was more than just curiosity behind his probing. His demeanor, as he waited for her response, was a shade too casual for the matter to be unimportant to him. Somehow, she sensed he cared desperately what she thought of him; and now, tonight, the girl decided she would tell him. She took a deep breath.

"I—^I was thinking about how much I love ye, Warrick," she said.

She felt him stiffen beside her, and his hands tightened on her body.

"God's blood!" he swore quietly, fiercely. "Do not lie to me, 'Sabelle. Never lie to me about a thing like that."

She swallowed hard, her heart jerking queerly in her breast; but still, she managed to say, "I told ye, ye wouldst not believe me, my lord."

He released her so suddenly, she was startled, and flung himself, with a growl, from their bed. Frightened, Isabella sat up, drawing the sheet up to hide her nakedness as he fumbled around momentarily in the darkness, then lit a candle, which he set upon the table next to the massive four-poster. The light shone in the girl's face, but she did not turn away from it as Warrick sat down on the bed and laid his hands on her shoulders, his eyes staring at her searchingly.

"Now," he uttered. "Say again what ye told me when 'twas dark, and I could not see your face."