Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  Over the years, around this primary fortress had been built a series of gateways, walls, bastions, and towers that made the palace one of the most formidable strongholds in all of Europe.

  They entered the residence by means of the Lion's Gate, riding across a stone causeway and the wooden drawbridge that spanned the outer moat. Then came a barbican known as Lion Tower (for it was there the King's royal menagerie was housed), followed by another drawbridge and portcullis that barred the way to the Middle Tower. Beyond the Middle Tower was yet another causeway and drawbridge that stretched across the inner moat to the Tower at the Gate, the gatehouse of the outer ward. After passing through that portcullis, they reached the Bell Tower, which guarded the inner bailey and housed the warning bell that called the fortress to arms. Then came the towers that were built into the inner wall. There were so many of these that Isabella, as Warrick pointed them out to her and told her their names, thought she would never get them all straight.

  On the western wall was Beauchamp Tower, where Thomas Beauchamp, third Earl of Warwick, had been imprisoned in 1397. On the northern wall were Robyn the Devylls Tower; Flint Tower, which contained the most horrible dungeons in the fortress and was sometimes called Little Hell; Bowyer Tower, where the King's bowmaker had his workrooms and lodgings; Brick Tower, and Martin Tower. On the eastern wall were Constable Tower; Broad Arrow Tower; and Salt Tower, which had formerly been known as Julius Caesar's Tower, because it was said the Romans had built their first wooden fortress on the site. On the southern wall were Lanthom Tower; Hall Tower (which was sometimes called Record Tower, as it was there the official records were kept); and Garden Tower. On the outer wall, opposite Hall Tower, were St. Thomas's Tower, named for Thomas a Becket, which stood guard over Traitor's Gate and whose stairs led directly to the Thames; Cradle Tower, which also had a gate that opened

  onto the river; Well Tower, which contained the vault; the Tower Leading to the Iron Gate; and the Tower Above the Iron Gate.

  In the center of all this stood White Tower, flanked on either side by Cole Harbour, which was actually two towers joined by a walkway, and Wardrobe Tower.

  Isabella was certain she would become lost several times before learning her way about the vast palace, so once they were comfortably installed in their lodgings and had bathed and eaten a light repast, she asked Warrick to show her about the residence. The tour started off pleasantly enough, but the girl was soon sorry they had not kept to their chamber after all when several of the courtiers, spying Warrick's return, foisted their unwelcome presence on the newlyweds and began flirting outrageously with Isabella. Though she did nothing to encourage their attentions, still, they persisted, not in the least daunted by her attempts to rebuff them or Warrick's darkening frown. The final straw came when one brash young cavalier, made heady by several cups of wine, worshipfully fell to his knees and dubbed Isabella the Rose of Rapture, then proceeded to strew in her path a bunch of white roses, which he had picked earlier from the King's gardens, reminding her, painfully, of Lionel for a moment.

  At this point, Warrick lost his temper and, grabbing the squire up by the scruff of his neck, shook him roughly before sending the young man on his way with a well-aimed kick to his posterior. Red-eared, the courtier snatched up his cap, which had fallen off, and, bowing and muttering his apologies to Isabella amid the laughter of the rest, hastily made his departure. Shortly thereafter, the remainder of her cavaliers also found it prudent to make their adieus, and the girl was left alone with a highly enraged husband.

  "Madam," Warrick growled as he faced her wrathfully, his hands clenched tightly by his sides, as though he were trying to prevent himself from striking her. "Ye purposely encouraged those men to dangle after ye as though ye were no better than an East End trull!"

  "My lord, I did not!" Isabella gasped, hurt and angered by the unfairness of the accusation. "I was but pleasant, as well ye know. 'Twas your jealousy of the courtiers' attentions to me—and not my behavior—that caused your temper to grow so foul. Now ye do but seek to vent your ire on me because ye made a fool of yourself over a young lad's drunken flattering of me. Doubtless, the tale will be all over Court by this eve! How I will hold my head up, I do not know," the girl sniffed disdainfully.

  Her eyes tlashed as she tossed her head, seemingly impervious to her husband's blackening visage, though inwardly she quaked and thought it most unfortunate they were standing at the top of the steps that led down to Traitor's Gate. Below, the River Thames rushed through the iron bars of the barricade, lapping at the stone stairs that were green with slime; and for a moment, Isabella thought of all those who had been rowed through that gate to ascend the steps and then had rarely left the Tower alive. Briefly, she shuddered, and Warrick, guessing her silent musings, frowned sardonically.

  "Not being a king, I can hardly send ye to the block on Tower Green, my lady. Be glad of that and the fact that we are not in Lion Tower, for I wouldst be sore tempted to feed ye to the wild beasts there!"

  "Would ye?" Isabella asked, picking up one of the roses that lay at her feet and pressing its blossom to her nostrils. She inhaled deeply of the sweet fragrance, then looked again at her husband. "Would ye, my lord? Art so eager to be rid of me then?"

  For a moment, Warrick stood silently, staring at her. Then he' swore under his breath and muttered, "May God bum ye for a witch, 'Sabelle!"

  The girl turned away from the intensity of his gaze, not at all displeased by his answer. Her husband might not love her, but he did want her. It was a begirming, she thought. The beginning of a seed that might grow with time and flourish into the most lasting of flowers.

  She tossed the rose into the Thames and smiled softly to herself as Warrick suddenly took her in his arms and brought his mouth down over hers hard.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE GREAT HALL WAS CROWDED TO OVERFLOWING

  when Isabella and Warrick reached it that evening for supper, but the Earl quickly found places for them at one of the trestles near the high table. There, they shared a trencher together, as was the custom at Court, and were waited on by Warrick's squire Rhys, who stood just behind them and served them well.

  Warrick introduced her to many of those seated at the trestle. Among them were two of his rivals. Lord Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset and the Queen's older son by her first marriage, and Lord William Hastings; Sir Richard Grey, the Marquis's younger brother; Lord Thomas Stanley, who was called the Fox, for his ability somehow to be always on the winning side, and his wife. Lady Margaret Stanley (nee Beaufort), whose son by her first marriage, Henry Tudor, lived in exile, in Brittany, because he had a distant claim to the throne, and the Plantagenets were notorious for eliminating their adversaries; and Lord Dante da Forenza, Conte di Montecatini, who was one of the Italian ambassadors to England and who was directly on Isabella's right.

  The Count was an extremely vain and breathtakingly handsome man, with dark skin, jet-black hair, and ebony eyes that glittered appreciatively every time they fell upon the girl. He was built

  slenderly, but Isabella guessed that his body was like finely tempered steel beneath his expensive, exquisite clothes, for though his artistically formed hand closed lightly around his chalice when he lifted the cup to his lips, she had the uncanny impression that he might as easily have crushed the goblet between those slim fingers. There was a strange magnetism about him that attracted yet repelled her, for it was as though he were some sort of sleek, exotic snake, silkily coiling and uncoiling himself next to her on the bench upon which they sat. Every movement he made was languid and graceful, almost too sensuous for a man; and Isabella discovered herself faintly disturbed by him, although she could not have said why, for there was no fault to be found with his manners. The Italian seemed to sense her unease and turned the full depths of his striking charm on her to win her favor, but still, the girl continued to feel vaguely discomforted by his presence. Once, she had to repress a slight shudder when he smiled at her disarmingly, his eyes glinting
with a cold admiration that held no desire. It was almost as though he admired her as a beautiful object, detachedly, without wanting. He flattered her prettily, expertly, but somehow, Isabella felt there was a note of insincerity in the words; they came too easily to his lips for her liking. Nevertheless, she forced herself to converse pleasantly with the Count, thinking that perhaps she was being unfair, that mayhap his strangeness was due only to the fact that he was foreign and therefore different.

  "So, signora, I have heard ye are called the Rose of Rapture, and now I see, with my own eyes, why the courtiers have named ye thus," the Italian told her. Isabella flushed, mortified that the tale of what had occurred that afternoon had already spread so quickly through the palace, though she had expected as much. Upon viewing her red-stained cheeks, the Italian smiled apologetically. "I am sorry, signora," he said. "Please forgive me. I did not mean to embarrass ye, though ye are even more becoming when ye blush so shyly. Perhaps I should not have brought up the matter."

  "Nay." The girl shook her head. "Tis quite all right, my lord, I assure ye. Doubtless, all here know the story by now and will make mention of it, for 'twill seem a good jest to many. Being newly wed, my husband and I have borne our fair share of teasing. 'Tis only that I hoped this particular tale would not become grist for the gossips' mill; 'twas such a foolish incident."

  "Oh, nay, signora" the Count protested. "'Twas most romantic—or at least so I have been informed. They say your

  husband loves ye so much, he cannot bear for another man's eyes to gaze upon your beauty and so guards ye most jealously. And indeed, 'tis easy enough to see why it should be so."

  Again, Isabella's cheeks grew pink, their soft warm glow almost matching the color of the gown she had chosen to wear that night. Of pale damask silk, the dress was cut low across the bodice to reveal the gentle swell of her creamy breasts and fell in narrow folds that clung to her slender waist and rounded hips. The gown was complemented by a silver surcoat and steepled hennin, from which swirled yards of billowing pink-and-silver material. Isabella's long mane of hair was piled atop her head beneath the hat, exposing the clear, lovely lines of her face and throat.

  Her fathomless grey-green eyes darkened slightly at the Italian's words. Oh, if only it were true that her husband loved her beyond all reason; but she knew it was not so. Still, 'twas far better the Court believe such than learn the veracity of the matter.

  "Warrick is a good husband to me, my lord," she murmured, then turned away, only to fmd her husband's amber eyes watching her speculatively from beneath half-closed lids.

  Isabella quivered a little as a small shiver of desire chased down her spine. In a few hours, perhaps less, if Warrick were impatient for her, they would be alone in their chamber, and he would make love to her. But tonight would be different. Tonight, they would recapture the magic they had known that first time of their mating. Somehow, the girl felt certain of this. She glanced down at her hands, remembering Caerllywel's words. Aye, tonight would be different. She would lay to rest, at last, the shadows of Brangwen's and Lionel's ghosts, which stood between them, and set about slowly to win her husband's heart. She had vowed as much, and if she was to be happy with Warrick, Isabella knew she could do no less. It was not the path she would have chosen to follow, had a choice been given her, but it was the fork in the road she had taken nonetheless; and there was no turning back for her. She did not know if she could ever gain her husband's love and trust; she did not even know if she desired it. She knew only that she had to try.

  "Lord Montecatini appears to fmd ye most enchanting, 'Sa-belle," Warrick spoke, startling her back to the present.

  "Does he? I hadn't noticed, my lord."

  "Hadn't ye?"

  "Nay. As your wife, I have eyes only for ye, Warrick."

  He was surprised and faintly puzzled by her words; she could

  tell. But she saw he was intrigued as well, if a trifle suspicious.

  "What manner of game do ye seek to play, madam?" he asked.

  "No game at all, my lord." For life and love are not games, she thought. "No game at all."

  For an instant, her eyes met his over the rim of the chalice she had raised to her lips. She held his gaze momentarily, as though they were truly lovers; then her lashes swept down to hide her thoughts, and she turned away, feeling somehow awkward. She was not a sorceress, no matter what her husband thought, and trying to bewitch him into falling in love with her was not going to be easy. Warrick was so clever. What if he discerned her intentions toward him? How horribly amused and hateful he would be. Well, Isabella would just have to take that chance.

  She was glad that Lady Margaret Stanley had spoken, claiming Warrick's attention.

  As the Baroness talked softly to Warrick, Isabella studied the woman covertly, for Margaret interested her. The Baroness was small and plain: for though her features were handsome and elegantly chiseled, she wore no paint and was somberly dressed, being an extremely pious woman. But Margaret's dark eyes, though often modestly downcast, were shrewd, missing nothing; and Isabella suspected that a highly intelligent brain lay beneath the Baroness's outwardly saintly facade.

  Though now titled Lady Stanley, Margaret still referred to herself as the Countess of Richmond. It was as though she found it difficult to remember the title had been stripped from her by the Yorkists, and she had' had two husbands since the death of Edmund Tewdwr, Earl of Richmond, a Lancastrian who had died a prisoner of the Yorkists in Carmarthen Castle, leaving Margaret, at thirteen years of age, a widow. Shortly after Edmund's death, the Baroness had given birth to her only child, a son whom she had named Henry and whom she adored above all else. Though his claim to the throne descended through his mother, through the illegitimate line of John of Gaunt by his mistress Katherine Swynford, Henry Tudor was now the sole surviving Lancastrian heir.

  Isabella glanced uneasily at her husband at the thought, for she had suddenly recalled too that Henry was a Welshman. His paternal grandfather had been Owein Tewdwr, a Welsh bard who had secretly married Katherine of Valois, the old King Henry VI's mother. His father, Edmund, had been the old King's half brother. Henry himself was the old King's nephew. Aye, Henry Tudor was a Welshman. Isabella was sure of it, for even now.

  Warrick was calling Margaret's son not Henry, but Harry. LX)rd Harry Tewdwr, Earl of Richmond, though the title was no longer rightfully his, any more than his claim to the Crown was legitimate. Still, King Edward IV thought Henry enough of a threat to have attempted to capture him in the past. But so far, Henry had managed to elude the King.

  As I would have, Isabella thought, if my ambitious, loving mother were my eyes and ears at Court.

  She gazed again at Margaret and wondered what clever schemes the Baroness plotted and planned behind those large dark eyes so often turned upward toward heaven. There were those at Court who foolishly dismissed Margaret as a good but simple woman, but Isabella, as she watched the Baroness surreptitiously, was not one of those so easily misled.

  Following her first husband's demise, Margaret had married Sir Henry Stafford, whose nephew, another Henry Stafford, was now the Duke of Buckingham and wed to the Queen's sister Katherine. Isabella looked at the young Duke seated at the high table. He too held a claim to the throne, she remembered, legitimately, through Thomas of Woodstock.

  His Grace the Duke of Buckingham, Henry Stafford; Henry Tudor, the last of the Lancastrians; Lady Margaret Stanley, his ingenious, doting mother; and Lord Thomas Stanley, the Fox, the Baroness's third husband. Without warning, Isabella shivered at the thought of such a dangerous combination.

  And what of Warrick, her husband, who was half-Welsh?

  Waerwic is always for the winning side, my lady.

  "Art cold, 'Sabelle?" Warrick inquired curiously, noting her faint shudder and observing how still and silent she had suddenly fallen.

  "Nay." She managed a small laugh as she stared up at him, stricken, her heart constricting in her breast.

  Richard. Oh. Richard, my l
ord Duke who is so kind. They would wrest the Crown from your beloved brother the King if they could. I know, somehow, 'tis true.

  "'Twas nothing, my lord, a slight draught; that's all. 'Tis gone now," the girl lied, for the strange feeling that had possessed her still persisted, chilling her to the bone.

  Only a fortnight past, she had vowed to love, honor, and obey the man who had knelt beside her before the priest. Only tonight, she had determined to win the heart of that same man who had become her husband. But Isabella had not realized then that someday, Warrick might also become her enemy.

  She could no longer look into his eyes, those amber orbs that would search out relentlessly her innermost thoughts: and she was glad when a knight, bearing a covered silver dish ornately encrusted with jewels, approached the table, though she wondered at the sudden tittering of the courtiers that just as quickly faded to a strange, expectant silence.

  "My Lord Hawkhurst"—the knight spoke and bowed with an exaggerated flourish—"His Grace begs ye accept this small token of congratulations on your recent marriage." He lifted the lid to reveal a brown-and-gold hawk, which, though still alive, had been securely bound up and lay helplessly amid a bed of white rose petals.

  Isabella gasped, then gave a small cry of horror at the bird's plight and what she knew was a nasty jest on the King's part: for none present, having heard the story of what had occurred that afternoon, could have mistaken the meaning of Edward's wedding present to the couple.

  "Oh, cruel. Cruel!" the girl whimpered and attempted to spring to her feet, intending to release the poor hawk at once. ,