Rose of rapture (54 page)

Dear God, Warrick prayed. Make me strong enough to keep silent, strong enough to bear the burden of her blame, though she hardens her heart against me, turns her love for me to hate

for all time Aye, make me strong, God. I love her. I love

her more than my life. Better I am destroyed than 'Sabelle... dear 'Sabelle... my sweet Rose of Rapture.

"Wouldst ye—wouldst ye send Caerllywel to me?" she asked, bringing him back to reality, longing for that cheerful face, for the comfort that Warrick could not give her, and sniffing pitifully, in a manner that wrenched his heart yet again.

Oh, sweet Jesu. How could he tell her? She had borne so much already. How could he tell her, pierce her with still further sorrow?

"Would that I could, 'Sabelle." Warrick spoke lowly, earnestly. "Oh, God. Would that I could. But I—1 cannot. Caerllywel—" His voice broke, but he mastered it and went on. "Caerllywel was—was slain this mom at Market Bosworth."

"Nay! Nay!"

But it was not Isabella who cried out against this new anguish. 'Twas Jocelyn, Jocelyn, whom they, in their torment, had forgotten. Warrick and Isabella were stricken with shame and remorse, even as they mourned Caerllywel. They had loved him, aye; he had been their brother, by blood and by marriage. But they had not lain with him, loved him in that way only a woman loves a man, or felt his child stirring within as Jocelyn had done. No matter how grieved they were by his death, they could not know the horrible sadness, emptiness, sickness, that welled up in Jocelyn as she gazed at Warrick pleadingly, her eyes begging him to say that Caerllywel still lived, that death had not taken the father of her unborn babe. But the pain in Warrick's golden orbs matched Jocelyn's own; and she knew there was no hope that he was mistaken.

"Oh, Jocelyn," Isabella breathed, her own sorrow forgotten in light of the maid's.

Isabella and Warrick still had each other—if they could prevent the shadow of Giles's death from coming between them. But Jocelyn had no one. She could only pray that Caerllywel's laughing image filled her womb, would be safely brought forth into the world so she would yet have some part of her husband.

"Nay!" Jocelyn sobbed brokenly once more and fainted.

Worriedly, Isabella and Warrick knelt over the maid's inert form, their own terrible losses put aside for the moment. Giles and Caerllywel were dead, aye; but there would be time to mourn them later. Jocelyn was alive—and she needed them.

Even as they examined her shallowly breathing body, warm liquid began to gush from between the maid's thighs, soaking her gown.

" 'Tis the child," Isabella said. "The shock of—of Caerllywel's death has brought on her labor."

After studying his wife searchingly for an instant and receiving her silent agreement, Warrick gently lifted his brother-in-law's corpse from the bed and, after laying Giles tenderly upon the floor, put Jocelyn in his stead.

It was some hours later when, at last, Isabella placed to her maid's breast the small bundle of joy that was Caerllywel's babe— the son he would never know.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

IT WAS THREE DAYS LATER WHEN GILLIANE'S MES-

sage came; and for a moment, as she gazed down at the scroll's contents, Isabella could not bring herself to reply.

Nay. 'Twas too much to ask of her. 'Twas just too much to ask. She had borne enough.

But even as the thought occurred to her, Isabella knew she would go all the same. She owed Richard that.

And so, her heart heavy in her breast, the girl went to the Convent of Grey Friars.

It did not seem possible, she thought as she rode along, that life went on around her, as though death were nothing, had touched none save her. Her eyes bright with unshed tears, Isabella tried desperately to shut out the babble of voices and laughter that surrounded her. Still, the loud, raucous cries of the merchants hawking their wares pierced her ears and made her ache inside. The din somehow seemed so disrespectful, almost mocking. She gazed at the faces about her and wondered how many had, these days past, come to the market not to buy, but to spit upon the man who had been England's king. And Isabella hated them. Hated them as much as she despised Harry Tewdwr, who had

taken her beloved Richard's place, and Lord Stanley, the Fox, newly created Earl of Derby, who had plucked Richard's crown from the hawthorn bush and put it upon the Tydder's head.

Oh, God. That she had learned these things. Warrick had sought to prevent her from discovering them, but she had not wanted his protection, did not know if she would ever want it— or him—again. How could she love the man who had slain her brother? How could she not? Sweet Jesu. How she wanted to go to her husband, lay her head upon his shoulder, and share her devastating grief with him. But she did not. Alone, she suffered, as Warrick did. For Richard. For Giles. For Caerllywel. And for Madog, whose body they had never found, who lay in a nameless ditch somewhere, leaving behind his childless young bride forever.

So many. Dear God. Why must there be so many? How could the sun go on shining when darkness blinded Isabella's eyes; how could the flowers go on blooming when the scent of death and decay filled her nostrils every hour of every day? How could her heart go on beating when it was broken, when the love that had flamed within it had turned to ashes?

Nay, she would not think of Warrick now—must never think of him again. She must cut him out of her heart and soul, though it killed her to do it. He had slain her brother; and though Giles, on his deathbed, had begged her to forgive her husband for the deed, Isabella would not. could not, bring herself to do it. To go on loving Warrick would be to desecrate Giles's memory for all time. Isabella must harden her heart against her husband, no matter the pain.

Already, she had taken the first steps in their estrangement. She had barred Warrick from their chamber at the Tower, and he had not protested her action. Still, it hurt to remember the terrible, empty look upon his face, the quiet dignity with which he'd gone—and not returned.

Oh, Warrick. Warrick!

Dumbly, Isabella slid from her horse, approached the gate of Grey Friars, and pulled the bell. Moments later, there was the sound of footsteps, and a young Sister appeared, her eyebrows raised in gentle inquiry.

"I—I've come to see Lady St. Saviour." Isabella said.

Briefly, the nun was puzzled; then she smiled in slow understanding.

"Oh, Sister Anne, ye mean."

"Aye." Isabella nodded, recalling, at last, the name that Gil-

liane had taken in memory of Anne, dear Anne, whom they had loved.

"Come this way," the nun directed softly, opening the gate.

Oh, what they had done to him. Isabella should have wept, would have wept, but she was all cried out. She had no tears left with which to mourn her beloved Richard.

'Twas in the chapel, upon a catafalque, he lay; and as Isabella drew back the coarse woolen cloth with which they'd covered him, she saw they had not even washed his body. Dried blood and mud and spittle were caked upon his dark flesh; the open wounds, where they'd cut him down in battle, gaped, were foul and putrid with rot. Isabella gagged and grew pale, swayed upon her feet a little so that Gilliane, who stood by her side, put one hand beneath the girl's elbow to steady her.

"Twas thus they brought him here," Gilliane uttered quietly, ashamed. "The Sisters were afraid to touch him; though our Mother didst give her consent to his burial here, the nuns yet fear the Tydder's wrath."

"They need not," Isabella responded bitterly. "Already, he has turned his mind to other matters." She thought of how quick Harry Tewdwr had been to prohibit the wearing of livery and to confiscate all the black powder in the kingdom, so the powerful lords who had put him on the throne would not seek to wrest it from him—as they had Richard. "The Tydder has no care for Richard. His Grace Richard Plantagenet, King of England, is dead. 'Tis 'His Majesty' Henry Tudor who now wears the Crown."

"Aye." Gilliane spoke. "I had heard that 'His Grace' was not good enough for the Tydder and that he had Anglicized his name besides."

"Aye," Isabella rejoined. "He calls himself 'His Majesty' Henry Tudor, as though such a grand title and name will pacify England and blot out the stain of what he has done. But 'twill not." Her voice was fierce. '"Twill not! Come. We must do what we can for Richard, our true and rightful king."

Together, they set candles all around him and lit them, so he was bathed in light and reverence. Then tenderly, they washed him, taking care that not a speck of blood or mud or spittle remained to desecrate his corpse. After that, Isabella carefully stitched his wounds until he was as whole as she could make him. Finally, they combed his black hair and dressed him in his garments, which Isabella had stolen from the Tower—the robes he had worn for his coronation.

Gently, Gilliane anointed him and made the sign of the cross upon his forehead while Isabella knelt and wept and prayed,

"Do not mourn him, dear 'Sabelle," Gilliane said, touching the girl upon the shoulder. "He was dead long before this/'

"Aye, I know."

"We are not the only ones who loved him, 'Sabelle. In York, they have written it down ... his death, I mean. 'Twill be there— in the records—for all time: 'Our good King Richard, late mercifully reigning over us. He was piteously slain and murdered, to the great heaviness of this city.'"

"'Tis a fit epitaph," Isabella noted softly, "but 'twill not bring him back."

Then slowly, she rose and pressed a single gold sovereign into the hands clasped peacefully over Richard's breast.

It was done. Now, there was but one thing left: She must take Giles's body to Rushden. Then she could go home, home to Grasmere.

Hawkhurst was hers no longer.

"I have lost her."

How many times had his mind dwelled upon the thought, had he dared to hope it was not true? Warrick did not know. He knew only that the words, spoken now aloud, rang with a finality that hammered like a nail into his heart.

"I have lost her."

"Nay, Waerwic," Hwyelis said quietly as she studied her son, observing how gaunt he had grown,' how weary he looked.

His amber eyes were shadowed by torment, ringed with mauve from lack of sleep. Now, as his shoulders slumped, and he ran one hand raggedly through his unkempt hair, she longed to reach out and touch him; but she did not. Of all her sons, Warrick was the proudest, the one most determined to stand alone against all odds, the one who found it most difficult to ask for help and solace. His silence cried out to her piteously; she knew he had come to her as a small boy does his mother when hurt. Yet, Hwyelis hesitated to offer the physical comfort she realized he so desperately needed; it had been so long since Warrick had done more than kiss her hand in greeting. If she put her arms around him, as she so longed to do, he might withdraw; and not for the world would Hwyelis throw away this chance to heal the scars her leaving of him had made so many years past.

So instead, she used her voice, the sweet, melodious gift that God had bestowed upon her, to soothe this son she so dearly loved—one of two left to her now.

"Ye must give Isabella time, Waerwic. Her brother's passing has grieved her deeply, and at the moment, she blames ye for Giles's death. In time, she will forgive and forget."

"Will she?" Warrick's tone was bitter. "God's blood! If only she knew 'twas the Italian's potion that killed Giles! But then, how could I have told her that. Mother? 'Twould have destroyed her, for 'twas she who gave Giles the draught."

"Aye. Ye didst right to keep it from her. I am proud of ye, my son. Ye have learned to love another more than yourself— something I feared ye wouldst never do after Brangwen's betrayal of ye. Ye had grown hard, Waerwic. Isabella has gentled ye once more."

"And brought me pain. Oh, God! The pain! Would that I had never loved her, could stop loving her now!"

"Ye don't mean that, Waerwic. 'Tis but your wounded heart that speaks so harshly. Nothing worth having ever comes easily, and love is perhaps the most difficult of all to attain: for love— true love—requires that one's body, heart, mind, and soul be given into anotiier's keeping—and given freely, Waerwic, without reservation. That is a commitment most people find too hard to make, and so true love escapes them. Ye are lucky, my son. Ye have discovered it with Isabella, and she with ye. She will return to ye in time, once she has searched her heart and found what it holds."

"Oh, Mother, how I wish I could believe ye are right!" Warrick turned to her pleadingly, the anguish on his dark visage almost unbearable.

"Trust me, my son. I am of the earth and wise in its ways, and in my life, I have seen many things. I am like a wild bird that cannot be caught and caged, for to do so would be to kill it in the end. But Isabella...ah, Isabella is like a fawn that seeks refuge in the forest. Ye are her refuge, Waerwic, her strength, and her solace. All her love and joy are found in sharing, and she has chosen ye with whom to share them. Do not despair, my son. As she is the other half of your soul, so are ye the other half of hers. She loves ye more than life itself. She will be yours yet again, I promise ye."

"Oh, Mother, I pray 'tis so: for if I have lost her, I do not think I can go on!"

Then Warrick, proud Warrick, flung himself to his knees before Hwyelis, laid his head upon her lap, and wept. After a moment, her arms closed about him tightly, and tears glistened on her cheeks for the son who was hers once more.