Rose of rapture (57 page)

Dear God. Jocelyn. Jocelyn and Alice. How could Isabella, even in her own paralyzing fear, have forgotten them?

"Jocelyn!" the girl cried. "Alice!" When there was no response save for the hysterical wails of fright that came from the manor house, Isabella turned pleadingly to the Count. "My maid. My nurse. Please," she begged, "make your men let them go."

Once more, the Italian smiled superciliously and shrugged.

"Nay, 1 shall not. The men must, after all, have their bit of sport; and 'twill, mayhap, ease the lust in their loins and make them less eager to slake their desires upon ye, signora. We've a long way to journey, and 'twill be difficult enough to guard ye as 'tis. In fact... Florio!"

"Aye, signore?"

"The maid, the nurse—how are they?"

"The maid, signore ... she fight like a wild thing, but the men have their way with her. She be young and pretty, after all, and worth the struggle, nay? But the nurse... she was too old to bother with. They slit her throat."

"Tell the men to bring the maid along," the Italian ordered. "She will be useful in keeping the men from my prize."

Without warning, incredible grief and rage and hatred welled up in Isabella's throat at Lord Montecatini and his callous, inexplicable assault upon her and hers. She thought of her knights and her old nanna, lying cold and lifeless in the manor house, mercilessly slain at the hands of the Count's men; and of Jocelyn, inside Grasmere, even now being raped repeatedly and not knowing her agony was to continue as long as the Italian saw fit to let it. So great was Isabella's anger that she actually shook with wrath, felt, for the first time in her life, a blinding, overwhelming urge to hurt and maim and kill.

"Ye bastard!" she spat. "Ye despicable bastard!"

Lord Montecatini only laughed; and in that moment, as though sensing her horrible torment and helplessness, as once Isabella

had his, Ragnor gave a shrill, wild, murderous cry and flung himself from the girl's shoulder, straight toward the vain dark Count's beautiful, laughing face. As though possessed by some fiend, Ragnor seized that handsome visage, sank his sharp beak and punishing talons deeply into the Italian's flesh. Lord Mon-tecatini screamed and screamed again, a high, inhuman sound that made Isabella's skin crawl even as, in her benighted ire and thirst for revenge, she spurred Ragnor on with a terrible, hoarse, unnatural cry for blood.

The Count's men stared in horror as, frozen with mortification, they watched him struggling convulsively to escape from the bird's torturing grip. In a blind frenzy, he clawed at the hawk, tried to pry it from his face; but still, Ragnor held tight and went on ripping and tearing at the Italian's dark countenance. Lord Montecatini toppled from his destrier, rolled frantically, spasti-cally, upon the snow-covered ground as his hands sought to yank the bird free, until, at last, with another piercing screech of triumph, the hawk flapped its wings and rose.

Against the dying winter sun, into the dusk, Ragnor soared, higher and higher, until suddenly he dropped into a dive, hurtling his body downward like an arrow. Isabella's breath caught in her throat as she gazed upon his beautiful descent, never taking her eyes from the bird, never moving, though he swooped straight toward her. Finally, when it seemed as though he would strike her, Ragnor checked his flight, spreading his wings wide once more. Understanding his intent, Isabella raised her ungloved hand high, and the hawk came proudly to light upon her wrist. Time hung suspended in that moment he perched there, having paid her the ultimate compliment by returning, unrestrained by jesses, to her hand. His talons curved into the softness of Isabella's skin; tiny droplets of blood spurted from the small wounds, but she did not care. As she stared into his fierce yellow eyes, she knew now why he had waited so long to fly. Some primal instinct inside of him had demanded that the debt he owed her be paid.

"Godspeed, Ragnor," the girl whispered. "Fare thee well."

Once more, the bird screamed and rose, soaring into the sky, until finally Isabella could see him no longer. The hawk was gone.

A lump choked in her throat at the thought. Her eyes brimmed with tears at his loss, even though she knew, like Hwyelis, he was a wild thing, not meant to be caught and caged. Isabella loved him. She must not call him back but let him go instead. If Ragnor returned, it must be of his own free will; and somehow.

some way, the girl knew, deep down inside, that one day, he would ride again upon her shoulder. They were one—she and Ragnor—bound together by the cruel jest of a drunken king and the vicious revenge of an Italian count.

Even as Isabella thought of Lord Montecatini, he groaned, recalling her, with a start, to the present.

"Beatrice," he rasped, his hands still clasped tightly over his dark visage. "Fetch... Beatrice. I—I must have her to... tend my—my face."

"Signora Shrewton!" Florio cried in response to his master's demand, nearly causing Isabella to fall from her saddle in shock and horror. "Signora Shrewton!"

The squire glanced about, frowning, in search of the evil Countess, but she was nowhere to be found. Then suddenly, someone breathed, "Dio mio. Look!" and everyone turned to where the man pointed.

There, through the upper story windows of Grasmere, the crazed Countess could be seen moving from chamber to chamber, setting each one afire with the torch she carried in one hand. Even as they watched her, the sound of her strange wild laughter reached their ears, making the napes of their necks crawl.

"Ye deranged bitch!" Florio called, shaking his fist at the manor house, but Lady Shrewton did not hear him. "'Signore'' — he turned back to his master—"the woman ... she has gone completely mad. She is burning down the manor house and pays us no heed."

"My face, my face," the Count moaned again, apparently not having heard a word his squire had spoken. "I must have Beatrice to tend my face. Oh, my face, my face. 'Tis ruined, ruined for life."

Poor Florio did not know what to do, but one man, bolder than the rest and finally recovering his senses, stepped forth and, without ceremony, tossed the Italian upon his black destrier.

"Get hold of yourself, signore," the man said tersely, "or we're all likely to have our necks stretched at the end of a gallow's rope. Your face will be scarred for life, all right, but you'll live. Angelo, Luigi. Go inside, and get that crazy bitch."

"Forget it, Vincenzo. The place is an inferno, and the bitch is roasting alive. She won't be around to tell any tales. Bring the girl, and let's get going."

"Wait. Here come Davide and Maurizio with the maid. Giorgio, fetch another horse."

Isabella's face blanched with pity and horror, and bilious gorge

from her stomach rose sickeningly to her throat as she caught sight of Jocelyn being led forth from the burning manor house. The maid was clad only in a rough cloak that one of the men had thrown about her. and she was shivering uncontrollably with shock and cold as she stumbled unseeingly through the snow, half-dragged along by the men. Of her young son there was no sign.

Sweet Jesu. How can ye be so cruel? Isabella asked God silently. The child was but four years old.

And for the first time, the girl was glad she had borne no babe of Warrick's making.

Oh, Warrick, Warrick! her heart cried out piteously. Where are ye, my lord, my love?

But naught save the crackling flames that engulfed Grasmere answered.

Warrick was sickened and chilled by the sight of the manor house, burned and blackened to but an empty shell of its former splendor; and inside of his oddly constricted breast, his heart was as desolate as the stark ruin before him.

Isabella. Oh, God. Isabella!

If she had died in the fire that had claimed Grasmere, he had no way of knowing it: for though a charred bone here and there gave evidence of a human body that had perished in the blaze, there was no way of telling to whom the bone had belonged.

Not 'Sabelle, Warrick prayed feverishly. Dear God, not my sweet Rose of Rapture.

"My lord! My lord!"

The excited shouts of his men brought him back, with a start, to the present. They were hurrying toward him eagerly, a strange woman, holding the hand of a young boy, in their midst.

Nay, it could not be! It could not be! Was it—was it—

"Uncle Waerwic! Uncle Waerwic!" the child shouted, breaking free of the woman's restraining grip and running forward.

"Arthwr! Thank God! Arthwr!" Warrick cried, hugging the lad close as the boy raced into his outstretched arms. "Arthwr."

Hope surged in the Earl's breast that the child might be able to tell him something, but the small, fervent expectation was quickly dashed as slowly, carefully, so as not to frighten the lad, he questioned the child, only to learn nothing. Still, there remained the woman. Warrick motioned for her to be brought forth and introduced.

"My name be Mary Brown, m'lord, from up Eden's Folly

way," she announced and dropped him a shy, awkward curtsy tinged shghtly with awe and fear. "But I know no more'n the babe. I found him wandering in the woods, crying out pitifully for his mama, poor mite. But she weren't nowhere to be found, so I took him in, thinking someone would come fer him sooner or later. I—I didn't mean no harm by it. His clothes... they was real fine, m'lord, so I knowed he weren't common, and I couldn't jest stand by and let him starve"—this a trifle defiantly.

"Of course not," Warrick agreed warmly. "Ye did the right thing, lass. Do not be thinking otherwise. Ye shall be richly rewarded, I promise ye."

"Well, thank ye, m'lord. 1 won't say as how a bit of coin wouldn't be welcome; but I ain't greedy, and 1 hope I'm a kind woman and know my duty and don't need to be bribed into doing it. Now. Where was I? Oh, aye. But other than saying his house had burnt up, the poor mite knew nothing. Course, we'd all spied the fire and come a'running. It blazed so bright, m'lord; 'twas like a beacon there on the hill. Ye could see it fer miles in all directions; ye could. I'll warrant it frightened the poor mite something terrible, fer he has bad dreams; he does. Wails out something fierce in his sleep at night. Whimpers something awful fer his mama, which is only natural, of course. 'Tis the other thing he says that worries me."

"What other thing?" Warrick asked. "What else does the child say?"

"Well, I can't rightly understand part of it, m'lord, fer it don't make no sense to me; and the rest of it ain't fitting to repeat. My mama done raised me proper; she done."

"Tell me anyway," the Earl urged. "Do the best ye can. Please, Mistress Brown. 'Tis very important."

The woman flushed and bridled with pleasure at his addressing her so. Why, he was a right nice man, was Lord Hawkhurst, not like some of the high and mighty nobles she'd met, who'd treated her like dirt.

"Well, m'lord, it sounds like the lad's saying, 'See Nora—'" Here, she broke off and blushed with embarrassment, biting her lip, but went on at Warrick's prompting. "See Nora.. .slut. See Nora slut. That's what the boy says, m'lord; but as I told ye, it don't make no sense to me. There ain't no Nora hereabouts that I know of, specially a—a woman what ain't proper."

See Nora slut. See Nora slut.

What on earth could the child be saying? And then suddenly,

Warrick had it, and his heart turned cold with fear in his breast. Dear God.

Signora slut! Signora slut!

That's what the boy was saying. 'Twas the Italian—the Italian had kidnapped Isabella, was holding her prisoner somewhere for his own evil purposes—whatever they might be. Aye, Warrick's wife was alive. Suddenly, the Earl was sure of it.

Dear God. What was his beloved 'Sabelle suffering at the hands of that treacherous piece of slime—and where had the Italian taken her?

Arising from her stupor, her senses sharply magnified, Isabella stared wildly about her chamber, her nerves taut and screaming silently for the potion that Lord Montecatini had promised her earlier, the sweet poppy's nectar, that pure raw powder, without which she was certain she could not now survive. Her body craved it—desperately—and still, the Count did not come.

God's blood! Where was he? Where was he?

Frantically, she chewed her ragged fmgemails—some of which were already bitten down to the quick—in an effort to distract herself. When that proved fruitless, she jumped up from the bed and began to pace the floor restlessly, tearing crazily at the robe she wore, until its silk material hung in tattered shreds about her.

Once or twice, she caught sight of herself in the mirror, but the reflection that gazed back at her meant nothing to her. Isabella did not recognize the gaunt, wild-eyed, hollow-cheeked woman who was herself.

With quick, jerky movements, she fingered the ornate bottles of scent that sat upon her dresser, but the delicate flacons held nothing that interested her; and after a moment, with a little sob of rage and despair, she swept her hand across them, sending them shattering to the floor.

"Temper, temper, signora," Lord Montecatini cautioned as finally he entered the room. "A glassblower in Venice spent many long hours creating those crystal treasures, and in a single instant, ye have destroyed all his hard work."

"I don't care!" Isabella spat rebelliously, hating him, despising his maimed, twisted face, which was now crusted over with scabs. "Did ye bring it?"

"Patience, signora. Ye must learn to cultivate patience," the Count chided, wishing to prolong her torment as long as possible. "In due time, ye will get that which ye desire."

Slowly, he reached into his doublet and drew forth a small pouch; then he moved to the hunting table along one wall, taking great pains to avoid glancing in the mirror as he passed it. He lived, aye; but his life had been his face, and his face was ruined. He could not bear to look at himself, though he forced everyone else to, beating them savagely if they dared to hide their eyes from his hideous visage. He would never be thought a beauty again, would never again know the glow of envy and adoration his handsomeness had brought when he had preened before a lover. And the Tremaynes were to blame! If not for them, his life would not have been ruined!