Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  Since Faegen's death, the giri had kept to her chamber, dis-

  tressed by the eyes of the servants, who watched her apprehensively, waiting for some sign that the madness was upon her. Warrick inhaled deeply, his chest constricting painfully as he recalled Isabella's words to him.

  "I don't want to become as Faegen did, my lord. Please, Warrick, if I—if I do go mad, slay me quickly, oh, quickly," she had begged. " 'Twill take but one blow from your sword, and ye are the only man here I can trust to do it. The others will go on hoping that I—that I won't die, and they will spare me a merciftil end " Her voice had trailed off pitifully.

  "God's blood!" Warrick swore as he remembered the brave facade that Isabella had managed, despite her fear. "There must be something that can be done!"

  "Why do ye care, brother?" Caerllywel was suddenly standing there before him. The mysterious blue eyes that Caerllywell had inherited from Hwyelis, their mother, bore no trace of their usual merriment. Instead, they were quietly accusing. When Warrick made no answer, Caerllywel deliberately repeated the question. "I ask again: Why do ye care, brother?" The word "brother" was almost a sneer. "If she dies, ye will be rid of her. 'Tis what ye wanted, is it not? After all, she's good for but one thing only, and there are plenty of other women for that."

  The Earl's dark visage, when he looked at his brother, was deadly.

  "I ought to slay ye for those words," Warrick said.

  "Why don't ye try? Is it because I do but fling your own back into your face?"

  "Christ's son! I shall kill ye!" the Earl snarled, suddenly springing to his feet and drawing his sword.

  Caerllywel laughed, but the sound was not pleasant. He pulled his own blade from its scabbard.

  "As I told ye once before, ye can try, brother," he goaded sofdy.

  The two men faced each other warily, forgetting, for the moment, the blood bond between them. Briefly, they saluted, and then there was nothing but the clash of steel upon steel that echoed ominously through the great hall. The brothers were evenly matched, and the duel was made even more murderous by the fact that neither man was armored. Again and again, the swords engaged, thrust, and parried until both men were panting from their exertions, wiping the sweat from their brows. This was no childhood game of pretense; it was a furious battle to the death; and either way, both brothers would be losers. Somewhere, deep

  in their hearts, they reahzed this; but they were beyond caring.

  Each meant, with grim determination, to slay the other.

  "Stopl"

  The single cry rang out authoritatively through the great hall. The two men paused and turned to where Isabella stood, stricken, having been summoned by the frightened servants (mad or nay, the girl was still their mistress) to put an end to the fight.

  "Stop, I say. I am still mistress here at Rushden, and I command ye to lay down your weapons at once. There will be no blood shed here, in my brother's keep."

  The two men stared hard at one another for a time, then slowly, their rage having drained from them at the sight of Isabella's pale but lovely countenance, they sheathed their blades. The great hall was silent,

  "Lord Hawkhurst! Lord Hawkhurst!" Sir Beowulf burst into the room. "Oh, my lady, I did not expect to see ye—" The knight's voice trailed off lamely as he became aware of the stillness. He looked rapidly at the Earl, then Caerilywel, then finally, Isabella. He took a deep breath. "Is—is aught amiss, my lady?"

  "Nay, Beowulf," she said quietly. "What is it ye wish?"

  "My lady, I have found an old woman in the village. Her name is Maude. Oh, my lady! She claims she can cure ye!"

  For just an instant, the giri's heart stopped, then suddenly, it began to soar in her breast as though it had wings. She gazed at Beowulf incredulously.

  "'Tis—'tis true, Beowulf. Ye—ye do not jest!"

  "Nay, my lady."

  "Fetch this beldam here at once," Warrick ordered, causing Isabella and Caerilywel to stare at him with astonishment.

  "Aye, my lord. I will, my lord. 'Tis just that—that—"

  "Well, what is the problem?" the Earl demanded impatiently of the knight.

  "Begging your pardon, my lord, but the villagers—the villagers," Beowulf stammered, "well, they swear she's a—a witch, my lord,"

  "Witch or nay, if there's a chance the Lady Isabella can be saved, we must take it. Fetch the woman immediately. 'Sabclle, go upstairs, and wait for us in your chamber."

  The words were curt, but for the first time since his coming, Isabella thought she saw a spark of caring for her deep in Warrick's golden eyes.

  The night was black. The brisk autumn wind, touched by winter's icy fingers, soughed eerily through the long corridors of Rushden Castle. Here and there, along the hall, the torches flickered, when caught just so by the draft, and cast strange, dancing shadows upon the walls.

  Warrick gazed at the bent old harridan who trudged beside him, and despite the fact that he had always considered himself a brave man, he shivered slightly. The wavering flames of the torches and the comers of darkness suited the hag, he thought: for if ever there really existed a witch, he would not have been surprised to learn it was Maude.

  Small in frame and wizened in body, her pointed bones sticking out at sharp angles where they joined, she looked as though she were a hundred years old, and every day of her hard life had been etched into her skin. Never had the Earl seen such a wrinkled face. The loose folds sagged down from her sunken eyes and cheeks; the eyes themselves were as black as obsidian and glittered just as brightly. Her large, humpbacked nose jutted out prominendy above a thin, cracked, and drooling mouth that gaped to show several missing teeth. Those that still remained were black with rot, and the beldam's breath was foul. Coarse dark hairs grew upon her upper lip and chin. Wispy grey strands straggled from her head. The ragged gown she wore was none too clean.

  How can I let this horrible creature examine Isabella? Warrick asked himself for the umpteenth time. How can I not?

  '"Sabelle." He knocked softly upon her chamber door. '"Sa-belle, the woman called Maude has come."

  Old Alice opened the door and bade them enter, frightened though she was by Maude's appearance. Like the Earl, the faithful nanna would not throw away any opportunity to save her mistress's life. Alice alone at Rushden understood just how deeply the girl had suffered during her childhood. In Alice had Isabella confided her joys and fears about Lord Lionel Valeureux and how much she dreaded her forthcoming marriage to Warrick. Alice alone knew now just how terribly afraid Isabella was that she would die, for it had been the nanna who had been wakened by the girl's screams that night after Faegen had died.

  Isabella had clutched her pillow to her breast and wept and gasped "I don't want to die! I don't want to die!" over and over again while Alice had stroked the silvery cascade that had tumbled about the girl's shaking shoulders.

  "There, there, my lady," Alice had crooned soothingly to Isabella in the darkness. "You're not going to die. Whether ye like it or not, you've got a wedding to attend."

  Now, the girl surveyed with dismay the ancient, hunched harridan who had entered the room. Was this the woman who was to heal her? Why, the hag wasn't even clean! But she was all that Isabella had, her one chance to survive. The girl squared her shoulders determinedly.

  I'm not going to die, she told herself. I'm not going to die. Please God, just let me live through this, and I'll marry Warrick and never look at another man as long as I live.

  "Thank ye for coming, Maude," she said and, repressing a shudder, held out her hand.

  "Now show me the place where the mad dog bit ye, m'lady," the beldam commanded, once the amenities had been gotten out of the way.

  Slowly, Isabella raised her skirts and extended her leg slightly.

  "Ah." Maude nodded. "It be well below yer heart. That be good. 'Twill take the madness a while to travel through yer veins. When did it happen?"

  "Three days ago."

  "Then I may yet be in time to save ye."<
br />
  "Can ye—can ye really cure me? The physician said there was nothing to be done."

  "The old fool," Maude snorted contemptuously. "What does he know of the ancient ways and powers, the secrets that have been handed down from one generation to the next? Because of educated fools like him, who scorn the old and grasp eagerly the new, the knowledge of the past will soon be fergotten, lost fer all time. Put yer trust in God, m'lady: fer though the Lord gave us many illnesses to test our faith. He also gave us the means to cure such. There be many plants that grow upon this earth, m'lady, and each one has a special purpose. It be only fools like yer doctor who do not understand this wisdom. Lie down, m'lady, and I will begin my preparations. Ye"—she turned to Alice— "set a kettle of water to boiling on the hearth."

  In silence, Maude opened the burlap bag she carried in one hand and drew forth some recently picked foliage, just now beginning to wither; a handful of gnarled roots and tiny seeds; and a mortar and pestle. With a sharp dagger, she sliced the roots and threw them into the pot of water the nanna had put to heating on the fire. Then, muttering under her breath to herself, the hag placed a few of the plants and some seeds into the mortar and.

  with the pestle, started to grind them up thoroughly. To the crushed flora, she added a bit of the dark brew that now bubbled in the cauldron. Once the paste was finished, the woman donned a pair of thick work gloves, such as those used by the crofters in the fields, and approached the massive canopy bed, where Isabella lay.

  "Why—why do ye need the gloves?" the girl asked.

  'To confound the madness, m'lady," the stooped harridan cackled. "The gloves do not breathe like the body. The madness will not enter them."

  Then, beginning to chant in a strange, singsong voice, the beldam smeared the mixture, which she had concocted, on Isabella's leg. After that, Maude covered the bite with some of the whole leafage that remained and then bound the girl's calf up securely.

  "Now ye must drink some of the brew, m'lady," the hag directed.

  Slowly, Isabella took the offered chalice. The dark liquid was bitter, but somehow, she managed to choke it down. Almost instantly, she felt nauseated and longed to vomit into her chamber pot, but she did not. Maude nodded with satisfaction, then carefully packed away her things and slung her burlap bag over her shoulder.

  "I shall come again tomorrow and each day after that until the madness be gone," she told Isabella.

  "How—how long will it take for me to get well?" the girl inquired timidly, for to some extent, she was frightened by Maude. The woman was indeed a witch!

  "Many days, m'lady. It depends upon when the first symptoms of the madness appear. Mayhap by the time the moon be full, ye will be healed."

  Isabella gasped raggedly for air and tried to scream, but her throat constricted horribly, and no sound came out. She was choking, choking. She could not swallow; but still, the evil hawk, with its macabre black talons, hovered over her, forcing bilous liquid down her throat. She struggled furiously against the bird, but her attempts to fight it were futile, for her hands and feet had been securely tied to the hawk's perch.

  She couldn't breathe. She was so hot; she was burning up. The bird was smothering her, roasting her alive, trying to drown her, anything, so long as it slew her, its helpless prey. She screamed and screamed and screamed, and still, there was no

  sound. The bitter brew trickled down her throat. She could not swallow. She gagged convulsively. The feathers of the hawk's wings scraped her throat, compelling her to down the vile liquid.

  And, oh, the pain! The incredible, terrible pain. It tore wrench-ingly through her body, shards of unbearable agony shooting up and down her spine, pounding in her head, her limbs. She flailed about sickeningly, spasmodically, her muscles twitching violently, uncontrollably. Oh, God, someone, please stop the pain!

  "Oh, my lady. My poor, poor lady." Alice wept and wrung her hands as she stared with horror at Isabella, who writhed wildly upon the bed, tearing at the strips of linen that bound her to the posts, contorting her body grotesquely, unnaturally, in a frenzied effort to free herself.

  Slowly, Warrick drew off his black leather hunting gloves and washed his hands, scrubbing them thoroughly, as though they were tainted. Sweet Jesiil He could not bear the girl's madness. It was killing him inside, and yet, he still could not bring himself to slay her as she had pleaded with him to do. In the final reckoning, even he, whom Isabella had trusted to end her life mercifully, had failed her. He turned accusingly to the old beldam, Maude, who stood watchfully nearby.

  "She is worse." He spoke grimly.

  The harridan nodded.

  "The madness be strong, m'lord, but we will yet prevail."

  "How can ye be so sure?" the Earl asked angrily, his face haggard and drawn with worry.

  "It be the fifth day the Lady Isabella has been like this since the first symptoms of the madness appeared."

  "So?"

  "There be no foam about her mouth, no paralyzing of her limbs, and she be yet alive. She be one of the lucky ones. Aye, we caught the madness in time, m'lord. The Lady Isabella will get well."

  "If you're lying to me ... If she dies, ye old witch, I shall kill ye," Warrick snarled.

  But Maude was not afraid. Her black eyes snapped, and she chortled maliciously as she gathered up her bag.

  "I shall come back tomorrow," she said.

  "Waerwic, ye must get some rest now," Caerllywel stated gently, "else ye will fall ill yourself. Ye have done all ye could do—and more. I shall sit with 'Sabelle for a while."

  "Nay." The Earl shook his head, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

  "As ye wish, then." Caerllywel pressed his brother no further.

  knowing it would be useless. "Come, Alice," he addressed the nanna kindly. "Twill do ye no good to remain here. Waerwic will call us if there is any change."

  Once he was alone, the Earl moved again to Isabella's side. There, he stood gazing down at her and despising himself for the first time in his life. He was to blame for her condition. Somehow, he had brought this on the girl because he'd had no wish to marry her. If only he had cared about her, had forbidden her to touch that Goddmnned hound that day—Oh, Christ, Christ! Caerllywel was right. Isabella was but kind and good; taking pity on all in need, no matter the consequences to herself. And Warrick had treated her with contempt—taking the kisses she had refused to give him, mocking her, frightening her—when he might have won her love instead. Well, God had punished him for it. The Earl was eaten alive with guilt. If the girl died, he would never forgive himself.

  Damn ye, Brangwen! he cursed silently to himself. Because ye turned out to be naught but paste, I have scorned a jewel. Godamercy! What a fool I have been, hard and cruel, wanting to hurt Isabella so she would not hurt me; she, who gives of herself so freely to all those in pain. Caerllywel tried to tell me of her sweet nature, just as he tried to warn me about the evil in ye, Brangwen. Why didn't I listen? I was too proud, too stubborn. Oh, sweet Jesu, let her live. Just let 'Sabelle live, and I'll make her happy; I swear it!

  With this vow, Warrick turned away. It was time again to give the girl some more of the bitter brew and change the compress on her leg. After the first onslaught, the symptoms of Isabella's madness had worsened rapidly, and Maude had not proven strong enough to force the girl to drink or to restrain her wild thrashing while the bite was cleansed and dressed. Only the Earl had the power now to accomplish these tasks. Even Caerllywel could not control Isabella, so Warrick had ordered Maude to instruct him in what must be done. None knew why he succeeded in managing the girl when his brother could not—for Caerllywel was built as powerfully as the Earl—and Warrick did not tell them that his terrible sense of guilt would have given him the strength of ten men, had it been necessary. Donning the black leather gloves, he moved once more to Isabella's side.

  The girl opened her mouth and screamed soundlessly again as the macabre hawk with the ebony claws swooped toward her. Once more, she fought him with all the power of
her madness, but still, he forced the hateful liquid down her throat, compelling

  her to swallow, swallow, swallow, not caring that she was choking.

  Far off, in some sane comer of her mind, she thought she heard a voice sobbing, '"Sabelle. Oh, God. 'Sabelle." But she pushed the image away. 'Twas the malevolent bird, trying to trick her. It did not love her. It would never have whispered her name so hoarsely, so brokenly, so tenderly. Once, there had been a golden god who had spoken her name like that, but he had gone. Oh, come back! Come back, my golden god—

  But even now, far across England at Devizes Castle, unbeknown to Isabella's tortured mind. Lord Lionel Valeureux was repeating the vows that would bind him till death to his betrothed. Lady GUliane Beaumaris.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Grasmere, England, 1480

  ISABELLA ASHLEY PERCHED SILENTLY UPON THE stone coping of Grasmere's widow's walk, gazing out over the vast sweep of the moors below. The terrain seemed to stretch out endlessly before her, like a distant sea, its tall grass rippling like waves when touched by the cool fingers of the spring breeze. Lightly, the wind caressed her still-wan face and tangled the silken strands of her silver-blond hair. Gently, she brushed the billowing tresses from her wide, fathomless grey-green eyes, then stared down with wonder at her trembling hands. Her heart swelled in her breast with joy and awe. She was alive! She could not believe it; miraculously, she was alive. How strange that it should be so and that it was Warrick who had saved her, for Caerllywel had told her how the Earl alone had restrained her wild thrashing to force the bitter brew down her throat, had changed the dressing on her leg two or three times a day to draw out the madness that had possessed her. Now, only the slight, occasional quivering of her limbs remained to remind her she had nearly died. The girl drew her shawl more closely about her, shuddering a little as she pushed the unpleasant thought from her mind.