Rose of rapture (50 page)

"Dear God. Art mad? Even were ye free, / am not—"

"Why, we'll kill him too, that half-Welsh bastard," Lionel stated, his eyes filled with a strange and terrifying light. "Aye, 'tis the only way, 'Sabelle. I sec that now. Now come, dearest heart, and give me the candlestick," he coaxed slyly. "We must hurry if we're not to be discovered."

"Dear God," Isabella repeated like a mindless puppet. "Ye are mad. I love my husband! I love him, do ye hear? I'd not marry ye if ye were the last man on Earth!"

"Oh, come, 'Sabelle. This is no time for ye to tease me. I've always been the man who held your heart; ye cannot deny that."

"I can. I do!"

Briefly, Lionel made no response to her outburst, merely looked at her, considering. Then he began to walk toward her purposefully.

"I'm sorry to hear ye say that, 'Sabelle," he told her ominously. "Very sorry indeed. I would have done anything for ye, ye know."

Slowly, understanding her danger, Isabella backed away from him, petrified but unwilling to leave the still-unconscious Gilliane to his savage mercy. If only she could run for help! But Lionel stalked her every step. One sudden move would provoke him into making a lunge for her. As it was, he kept his careful distance only because of the candelabrum she held threateningly in her hands. The girl bit her lip, wondering how long she had been in the chapel, how long it would be before she was missed, and

Warrick or Jocelyn would come searching for her. If only she

could stave off Lionel's attack until then. She could feel the

beginnings of hysteria rising in her throat, and with difficulty,

she choked the ragged sobs down. She could not afford to give

way to her emotions—not now, not with death staring her in the

face.

How strange it was that Lionel, a man she'd once believed she loved, meant to kill her. Almost dctachedly, she wondered what it would feel like to have those hands, which had once caressed her so tenderly, strangling the very life from her body. She inhaled sharply at the thought and shook herself mentally, forcing the morbid speculation from her mind.

"My lord... Lionel ... ye are not yourself. Of course, ye are distraught. Your wife has suffered an accident. I know ye did not intend to hurt her," Isabella lied. '"Twas not your fault she struck the pew. 'Twas an accident," the girl reiterated slowly. "Go, and fetch one of the Court physicians. I will stay with Gilliane until ye return."

"It won't work, dearest heart," Lionel purred, "much as i^ grieves me to admit it. I saw your face, just now, and there was no love in it for me, only for him, that half-Welsh bastard!" Lionel spat. "Oh, 'Sabelle, 'Sabelle. We could have been so happy, ye and I. We were happy.. once. Where did it all go wrong, I wonder?"

To the girl's surprise, Lionel truly sounded sad; for a moment, she almost pitied him. She steeled herself against the emotion. He was like one of the Scottish wildcats about which Giles had told her. If she showed oqe sign of weakness, one hint of fear, Lionel would turn on her in a minute, tearing her to shreds. And it would do no good to scream. She had screamed earlier, and no one had come to her aid. The chapel was deserted at this late hour.

"We were never happy, ye and I," she said, "for our love was built on lies, your lies, my lord, lies that I, young and trusting fool that I was, believed."

"Sweet y^5M," he groaned. "I loved ye, 'Sabelle; I did!"

"Nay, Lionel. Had ye loved me, ye wouldst never have lied to me. Ye only wanted me, as ye want me now—now more than ever, perhaps, for I am not yours and never will be."

"Because of him, that—"

"'Half-Welsh bastard,'" Isabella finished wryly. "Aye. Warrick is that—and more. But ye will never understand that, my lord. Ye scorn him because of the blood that runs in his veins.

a circumstance of birth in which he had no choice; and ye hate him because 'tis he who holds my heart. Yet, I love him for those very same reasons. Warrick's birth has made him vulnerable, and he holds my heart because he has been man enough to admit to that vulnerability, to let me inside the walls that protect him from those like ye. He needs me, and in a strange way, I need him too. We are alike, Warrick and I, as ye and I never could be."

"Aye, I see that now... when 'tis too late—too late for both of us," Lionel said. "I cannot let ye go, 'Sabelle. I meant to murder my wife, and ye know it. Ye will tell Richard, and then I will have nothing: for somehow, that stupid slut 1 wed managed to win Anne's heart, and the King does love those whom the Queen held dear."

This is the end, Isabella thought. Lionel is going to slay me. Oh, Warrick, Warrick, my lord, my love

"Run, my lady! Run!"

Both Isabella and Lionel turned, startled, at the command. The girl's heart thudded wildly in her breast with relief. It was Jo-celyn—Jocelyn, heavy with Caerllywel's child but, even so, prepared to defend her mistress. Even now, she was advancing toward them, the torch she held in her hands thrust out threateningly.

"Jocelyn! Get Warrick. Lady St. Saviour is here. She's had an accident, and I dare not leave her," Isabella called as she continued to watch Lionel warily, trying to guess his next move.

She could almost see the wheels clicking furiously in his brain as he studied the three women: Isabella, slight but determined; Jocelyn, pregnant but valiant and now hesitant, not knowing whether to stay and fight or to run for aid; and Gilliane, helpless and unaware. With a sudden, swift movement, Lionel lunged at Isabella, wresting the sconce from her grasp and swinging at her wildly. Just in time, she managed to avoid the fatal blow. The candlestick came crashing down upon a pew, splintering the top of the wooden bench. Hurriedly gathering up her skirts, the girl raced toward the altar, intending to use one of the remaining candelabra there as a weapon to replace the one that Lionel had wrenched from her hold. But he stopped her with one awful sentence.

"Don't move, dearest heart," he instructed, "or I'll kill her."

She turned and saw he was standing over Gilliane's inert body, his sconce poised to strike. Isabella gasped.

"Nay!"

"Oh, aye, 'Sabelle," Lionel jeered. "Now get over here, and tell your maid to do likewise, or I swear I'll slay this frigid, barren bitch I married."

"I think not, my lord."

The voice that had spoken was cold and hard and deadly, but Isabella had never loved it more than she did in that moment when she looked up to see Warrick standing on the small staircase above them. His dark visage was a murderous mask of rage, and a muscle was working in his tightened jaw. Quickly, before the much-surprised Lionel could gather his wits, Warrick leaped to the floor and kicked the candlestick from Lionel's hands. It smashed against a wall and then fell upon the floor, cracking the inlaid marble.

"Ye didst promise we would meet again, my lord," Warrick growled. "And so we have. Draw your sword, ye whoreson coward, for I mean to kill ye."

For an instant, Lionel's face was white with fear, then deliberately, he grinned, tossing his mane of blond hair like a strutting cock, its comb.

"With pleasure, my lord. I have waited a long time for this," he declared.

Steel scraped upon steel as blades were yanked from scabbards. Curtly, the two men saluted, then started to circle slowly, intently, not even glancing around as Caerllywel and Giles burst into the chapel, drawing up short at the sight that met their eyes.

Upon spying her brother and Caerllywel and realizing they would intervene if Lionel attempted any treachery, Isabella, recovering her senses, made her way to the font at the main door of the chapel. There, she dipped her handkerchief into the holy water, then moved, with Jocelyn, to care for Gilliane. To her relief, Isabella saw the girl was, at last, beginning to stir. Isabella pressed die wet cloth to Gilliane's forehead and felt gingerly for any injuries the girl might have sustained, but there appeared to be nothing other than the cut, swollen bruise that had formed where her head had struck the pew.

Scarcely six feet from where Isabella and Jocelyn knelt by Gilliane's form, the duel between Warrick and Lionel had been engaged. The deadly broadswords of the two men clashed with a resounding ring that echoed ominously to the rafters of the deserted chapel and seemed to jar every bone in Isabella's body. She gritted her teeth to keep from screaming out in protest against the battle and forced herself to concentrate on Gilliane. Still, it

required all of Isabella's effort not to watch the two men, especially when, out of the comer of one eye, she saw Lionel make a wild lunge at Warrick and her husband barely manage to parry the wicked thrust. She gasped, trembling with fear for the man she loved, and turned away, swallowing hard to choke down the sudden lump that had risen in her throat. Isabella was thankful when Jocelyn, sensing her distress, moved to shield her from the sight.

"Take heart, my lady," the maid encouraged her with a small smile. "My Lord Hawkhurst knows what he is about."

"Aye." Isabella nodded. "But Lionel has become a madman. There is no telling what treachery he may attempt."

"Caerllywel and my Lord Rushden will guard my Lord Hawkhurst against any evil, my lady."

"Aye. Ye are right, of course; I know. Come, Jocelyn. Help me shift Lady St. Saviour to a more comfortable position. Nay, Gilliane. Do not try to rise just yet. You've had a nasty fall."

The fight continued, blades clattering against each other with a grating scrape that seemed to crawl along Isabella's tortured nerves. She dabbed at the wound on Gilliane's head. From habit, Isabella crooned softly to the girl, as she would have done an aching beast, although she could not have said what she told the injured Gilliane to comfort her. Isabella was only dimly aware the girl had ceased her tiny moans of pain, was content to lie quietly in the arms that cradled her so tenderly.

"What is happening, Jocelyn?" Isabella asked at last, unable to bear the awful sounds of the duel any longer.

Jocelyn turned, glancing over her shoulder, then just as soberly gazed back at her mistress.

"My Lord St. Saviour is faltering. 'Twill not be long now, my lady. Nay, do not look, my lady. Ye will only distress yourself further. I assure ye my Lord Hawkhurst has suffered no mortal wound."

Once more, Isabella gasped.

"Then he is hurt!" she cried, realizing, without warning, the implications of her maid's statement.

"A cut on the arm—no more, my lady."

"Care for Lady St. Saviour. I must see to my husband."

"Nay, my lady, please. Ye are too gentle to witness what must occur "

Isabella paid no heed to Jocelyn's pleading, quickly shifting Gilliane's body so the girl now lay in the maid's lap, then spring-

ing to her feet, one hand held to her mouth to stifle her whimpers of fear as she saw the blood that dripped slowly down her husband's arm.

'"Sabelle."

Giles was there, supporting her, as her knees buckled, and she almost swooned.

"Oh, Giles, he is losing too much blood!" Isabella wailed softly as she clung to her brother for comfort.

"Nay, dear sister. 'Tis but a scratch, I promise ye. Many times have I seen men lose far more and survive. 'Tis Lionel who is done for, I'm afraid."

Isabella looked at the man she'd once thought she loved and recognized that Giles had spoken the truth. Lionel was breathing heavily, rasping horribly for air as he staggered upon his booted feet, wielding his weapon more and more haphazardly, as though it had somehow grown too heavy for him to lift. His golden hair was sopping wet. An almost feverish sweat beaded his brow, ran down into his eyes, momentarily blinding him, and soaked his dark blue doublet, mingling with the blood that stained the coat as well. His left arm dangled uselessly, nearly severed from its socket, where his shoulder had been deeply gashed by Warrick's sword. There was a gaping wound in Lionel's belly too—a fatal injury; Isabella knew. But still, he fought on. Even the Earl was slightly appalled.

"Give it up, man!" Warrick snapped tersely. "Ye are as good as dead now."

"Nay... ye... half-Welsh... bastard," Lionel responded grimly, shaking his head, then laughed shortly, an eerie, mirthless sound. "I shall... have ... that... which is mine, that which ... ye stole from me!"

"Don't be a fool, St. Saviour! 'Sabelle was never yours and never will be."

"She... would have been, had it... not been ... for ye!"

"For God's sake, man—"

Warrick had not time to say anything further, for just then, Lionel lunged at him again with all the desperate strength of a madman. With difficulty, Isabella smothered the screams that rose in her throat as the two men slipped and slid on the blood that lay slick upon the marble floor. Furiously, in a last ditch effort to slay the Earl, Lionel pressed his attack harder, slashing crazily at Warrick but succeeding only in knocking a candlestick from the altar. The heavy gold sconce crashed upon the floor and rolled awkwardly until it was still. Lionel's blade swung on.

shattering the devotion candles on their wrought-iron holders to one side of the dais. Glass flew in all directions. Flames sputtered from those wicks that had been lit in prayer. The altar cloth caught fire.

"Caerllywel!" Giles called a warning but unnecessarily.

Warrick's brother had already moved to stamp out the small blaze that had started. The acrid smoke stung Isabella's nostrils, mingling with the awful smell of blood and making her long to vomit. Behind her, she could hear Jocelyn quietly retching into her handkerchief; but still, Isabella could not tear her eyes from the scene before her.

Whoosh, whoosh went the deadly weapons, hissing dangerously through the air to clang together with a horrible whack, followed by the awful scraping of steel upon steel. Sparks spat from the metal. Boots thudded upon marble as the two men thrust, parried, the corded muscles in their bodies taut with the strain of the terrible battle.

Then suddenly, it was over. Without warning, Lionel inhaled sharply, as though taken by surprise. He swayed, stumbled, dropping his sword as he clutched his belly, from which blood was now mortally gushing. The blade clattered upon the marble like a death knell before Lionel himself fell, sprawling upon the floor. Blood spurted from his nostrils, trickled down from one comer of his mouth as his head rolled limply, and his arms began to slacken. His lids fluttered once or twice; then, with difficulty, he focused his blue eyes on Isabella.