Rose of rapture (51 page)

"'Sa—belle." He tried weakly to hold out one hand to her, but the effort was too much for him. He gave a small moan of anguish. "I—I didst love... ye, ye know "

"Lionel! Lionel!" Isabella screamed and ran to his side, but she was too late.

Lord Lionel Valeureux, Earl of St. Saviour-on-the-Lake, was dead.

She felt numbed by the realization. Hot, bitter tears stung her eyes—not for Lionel really, but for what he had symbolized— her first love, her youth, all that was past, all that might have been ... but was gone. Gone with the golden god who had proven such a false idol and beside whom she knelt so sorrowfully.

'"Sabelle." Warrick gendy touched her shoulder and raised her to her feet. '"Sabelle."

He held her close, tenderly, for a moment, stroking her hair soothingly, whispering words of comfort and understanding, while she clung to him and wept.

But oddly enough, it was Gilliane who dried Isabella's tears.

"Do not weep for Lionel, my lady," the injured girl said, having finally regained consciousness and determined what had happened. "He is not worth your tears. Cry instead for the babe he cost ye, for 'twas Lionel who didst set his men to kidnap ye that day upon the moors, bringing on the miscarriage ye suffered afterward."

"Nay!" Isabella was stricken. "Nay!"

"Aye, my lady. 'Tis the truth," Gilliane insisted softly. "He never meant to harm ye, of course, but when it became known ye had lost your child, Lionel did say he was glad ye were not to bear Lord Hawkhurst's babe."

"Oh, Warrick." Isabella glanced up at her husband, sensing the sudden pain and rage and loss he felt. Lionel had cost them their child, the babe they had so eagerly awaited, had so grievously mourned; and Isabella had yet to conceive again, perhaps would never feel the quickening of Warrick's child in her womb. "Oh, Warrick. I did curse Lady Shrewton for the evil deed, and all this time, 'twas Lionel who was to blame."

"And I thought 'twas Lord Montecatini," he rejoined. "Damn my pride! Had I but believed ye that day at Lionel's tent, I should have been on guard against him and any further treachery on his part."

"Do not blame yourself for that, Warrick. Ye didst not realize how obsessed he had grown in his determination to have me. I don't think any of us did." Isabella's tone was bitter yet oddly confused, for she was hurt and stunned by Gilliane's revelation. "He was like a child crying for the moon simply because he could not have it. Still, strangely enough, methinks, in his own peculiar way, he really did love me after all."

"I'm sure he did, 'Sabelle," Warrick told her. "How could anyone help but love ye?"

Then suddenly, without warning, the Earl sank to his knees, as did Giles and Caerllywel. Jocelyn and Gilliane awkwardly hastened to curtsy. Without even turning to discover the cause of this sudden humility, Isabella too quickly knelt and bowed her head. There could only be one reason for this sudden, wordless obeisance—Richard, the King.

For an instant, the chapel was hushed and breathless as His Grace's dark slate-blue eyes, somber and grieving, surveyed the sight before him. Then he sighed and spoke, his voice low and weary as it broke the stillness.

"This"—his hand swept the chapel—"is God's house, a place

where those who seek peace for their souls do come. Why hast thou instead done murder here, Lord Hawkhurst?" Richard's voice rose, shaking slightly with anger. "Tell me: Why hast thou desecrated God's house with your foul deed? Am I so wretched, so accursed, that this is what my kingdom has come to?"

"Nay, Your Grace, nay!" Warrick intoned quietly but with conviction. "Would to God it had been anywhere but here."

"My Lady Hawkhurst, see to your husband's wound, and tell me what has happened here."

Slowly, as Isabella bound up Warrick's arm, she explained what had occurred. At the end of her recital, the King sighed once more, a man bereft.

"'Tis true," he breathed to himself. "I am accursed. I do but taint all those whom I hold dear." Then, recalling himself to the present, Richard said, "My Lady St. Saviour, ye are free of a most unhappy marriage. I do bestow upon ye all your husband's worldly possessions and give ye leave to enter a convent to find the peace ye seek."

"Oh, Your—Your Grace," Gilliane whispered, tears brimming in her eyes as she kissed the King's hand. "Sire, ye are most kind and good. I shall pray for ye always."

"Aye, do that, my lady," Richard uttered softly. "Perhaps God will listen to ye."

Then soberly, the King turned away, the silence in the chapel echoing painfully through the empty, aching chambers of his heart.

Chapter Thirty-Five

IT WAS AUGUST 8, 1485, WHEN HARRY TEWDWR, WITH

a force of two thousand French mercenaries, landed in Wales at Milford Haven. Despite those who would have restrained him, Harry was the first ashore. For a minute, he stood silently, surveying the land of his birth and childhood, from which he had been exiled for fourteen long years. His heart swelled in his breast, and for an instant, those who watched could have sworn there were tears in eyes as he knelt and kissed the ground. A great cheer burst forth from the crowd that had gathered there to greet him, but still, Harry did not rise. His uncle Jasper laid one hand upon Harry's shoulder.

"Harry?"—Jasper spoke lowly, somewhat disturbed, for his nephew was not usually wont to give so free a rein to his emotions.

The moment of unguarded expression passed.

Slowly, Harry got to his feet, slightly surprised to discover his men-at-arms, their swords drawn, ranged between him and the spectators.

"Is Richard Plantagenet so near then, uncle?" he queried wryly, indicating his knights.

Jasper flushed a little-

"Nay," the older man replied. "We didst but fear there were others present who might seek to do ye mischief."

"Put up your blades, sirs," Harry told his men. "We are among friends here. This is my home."

Home. How good it was to say the word at last, after all these long years.

Cautiously, the knights began to sheathe their swords. But scarcely had their steel met scabbards than they were drawing the blades again, surrounding Harry protectively from the lone rider who now approached at a rapid pace.

Reining in sharply the snorting destrier before them, the rider dismounted, took off his helmet and gauntlets, and strode toward them, apparently unconcerned that Harry's men had moved to block his path.

"My lord of Richmond," the stranger hailed Harry. "My name is Rhys ap Thomas, and I have a boon to ask of ye." Before Harry could speak, the stranger had thrown himself face-up on the ground before Harry's feet. "Come," Rhys bellowed. "Step over me. Sire."

A much-bemused Harry and his men surveyed the stranger warily yet with some amusement as well. If 'twas a trick to assassinate Harry, 'twas a poor one, for Rhys ap Thomas was a big man, his breastplate, heavy. He would not rise easily without aid, and his current position left him most vulnerable to attack.

Seeing no danger, Harry shrugged and started forward, deciding to honor the peculiar request.

"Hold, Harry," Jasper ordered softly, laying one hand upon his nephew's arm. "The man means to do ye some injury; I'm sure of it!"

"I do not see what harm he can offer me, Uncle, from such a strange vantage point—unless, of course, he intends to cut off my privates."

"Harry!"

Harry grinned like a mischievous lad at the startled expression on his uncle's face, then walked forth to step over Rhys ap Thomas's body.

Rhys roared with laughter and triumph as, seeing naught amiss, Harry's men grudgingly assisted the giant to his feet.

"'Tis done," Rhys crowed. "I have fulfilled my oath."

"Which was?" Harry inquired curiously, eying, with shrewd assessment, the stranger before him.

Rhys ap Thomas, he thought, would be a good man to have at his side in battle.

"I swore to King Richard of England that Harry of Richmond would enter Wales only over my belly," Rhys answered Harry's question. "And so ye have done. Sire. Never let it be said that a Welshman does not keep his vow." Then he drew his sword and offered it, hih first, to Harry. "Ye will hear rumors. Sire, that I fight for King Richard. Do not believe them. I am your man, Sire, now and always. Fiat!"

Harry's heart swelled at the words, even though he took them, as he did all things, with a grain of salt. The northern lands of England might belong heart and soul to Richard Plantagenet, but by God, Wales was his—Harry Tewdwr's!

And it was.

That evening, the town of Cardigan opened her gates, without hesitation, to him; and throngs of people flocked to line the streets, their cries of welcome filling the air—and his heart— with joy.

"God save the King!" they shouted in Welsh. "Long live King Harry I"

And in his native tongue, Harry replied. The people of Wales went wild. Not for nearly a thousand years had they heard Welsh spoken by an English king. They surged forward to offer him and his men food and drink. That which was not given freely, Harry paid for and guarded his men like the Cadwallader dragon, which he had taken for his badge, to be certain they committed no outrages upon the town.

Word of his generosity and courtesy spread like wildfire through the countryside of Wales. With joy, Aberayron, Llanrhystyd, Aberystwyth, and Talybont flung open their gates to greet him, and the fierce fighting men of Wales began to swell his ranks. They came from as far away as Merioneth, Caernarvon, and Denbigh as Harry's ever-growing cavalcade passed through Machynlleth, Caerwys, and Newtown on its way to Shrewsbury— to fight against Richard Plantagenet.

On the advice of Sir William Stanley, his uncle by marriage, who had joined him, Harry then proceeded east toward Leicester. From Nottingham, in the north, Richard Plantagenet marched toward the same destination.

It was between Cannock and Lichfield that Harry, much to the frantic horror and confusion of his men, disappeared. Not feeling well, he wished to be alone for a while—something that was nigh impossible among all those who constantly surrounded him— and in addition, he wanted to meet the faithful knights who waited for him at the edge of the woods in Cannock Chase.

However, as dusk fell, elongating eerily the shadows cast by the old, gnarled trees of the forest, he wondered if he had been wise to slip away from his men without telling them. He glanced about warily, cursing himself for his foolishness and realizing suddenly what an easy target he would be for an assassin's blade. Only the soft shrill cry of a hawk relieved his fears. Eagerly, he started forward at the sound.

"Waerwic! Forgive me. For a moment, I didst think ye had deserted me."

"Never that. Your Grace." Lord Warrick ap Tremayne, Earl of Hawkhurst, smiled as he knelt to kiss Harry's hand. "We did but lose our way once in the darkness."

"Madog, Caerllywel, and—nay—it cannot be!" Harry exclaimed. "Emrys?"

"Aye, Sire. 'Tis I."

"But ye were no more than a lad when last I saw ye. Ah, 'tis good to see ye again, all of ye."

"In more ways than one, eh. Your Grace?" Madog questioned with a laugh. "Come. We shan't keep ye in suspense. Sire," he continued as he led the way toward a group of men and wagons waiting for them deeper in the woods. With a wave of his hand, he indicated the contents of the vehicles. "Behold, Your Grace. With York's own guns shall Richard of Gloucester be beaten."

Harry's eyes glittered with anticipation and speculation as he caught sight of the cold metal bombards gleaming ominously in the moonlight that streamed down in a silver spray between the branches of the trees.

"God's blood, Madog," he swore softly. "Where did ye get them? Do not tell me they came from Waerwic's keep."

"Nay, from Rushden Castle, in York, Sire."

"And I still say 'twas wrong to take them!" Caerllywel spoke for the first time, his voice defiant as he faced his liege and his brothers, then turned, with a muttered oath, to kick viciously at a wheel of one wagon.

"All's fair in love and war, brother," Madog stated coolly, annoyed by his brother's outburst.

"God damn it, Madog! Giles Ashley is Waerwic's brother-in-law—and our friend! Have ye no sense of honor?"

Madog's nostrils flared whitely.

"I honor my king—and my duty to him! Giles did say the fortress was at Waerwic's disposal whenever he wished."

Caerllywel laughed shortly, bitterly.

"That didn't give ye leave to steal three of his cannons!"

"Enough!" Harry commanded. "Right or wrong, the deed has been done, and I confess I am in sore need of the guns—no matter how they were obtained." He turned to Warrick and raised one eyebrow, saying dryly, "I presume, from this little exchange, that the Ashleys are still staunch Yorkists."

"Aye, Your Grace."

"And I also presume, Waerwic, that your wife, at this moment, knows nothing of your whereabouts."

"Nay, Sire."

Oh, God, 'Sabelle. 'Sabelle!

Her hurt, questioning eyes, when he'd left her, had haunted Warrick every step of the way. Like everyone else at the Tower, she had heard the news of Harry Tewdwr's landing at Milford Haven and had guessed what it was to mean to her, to Warrick, and to Giles.

"So," she had said. "I am to be torn, after all, between my love for ye and my love for my brother. Go, then. I shall ask naught of ye, except—except—" She had broken off, inhaling raggedly, tears stinging her eyes, those fathomless twin pools of grey-green. Her hands had fluttered helplessly to her breast, and her voice, when she had spoken again, had trembled a little. "Except that if ye meet Giles upon a battlefield somewhere, do not—do not slay him."

"Nay, 'Sabelle. I give ye my solemn vow that I shall not."

Warrick would not break that oath to her. 'Twas bad enough that he had stolen the bombards from Rushden. He ought not to have done it. He couldn't imagine what had possessed him to let Madog talk him into it. Caerllywel was right. What they had done was wrong. Well, there was no help for it now. And somehow, Warrick thought, had their roles been reversed, Giles would have done the same thing, would, even now, understand, as Isabelle never would. War was a man's business after all.