before, an Isabella who had learned well the lessons he had taught her and was boldly applying her talents to please him. For a moment, he again wondered why. But the thought was fleeting, for soon, she had driven all but his lust for her from his mind.
Lingeringly, sensuously, she pressed the length of her body over his. Then slowly, very slowly, she undulated against him, her flanks rubbing his briefly, enticingly, as her mouth seared its way down his chest, tickling the soft mat of dark fur there. Her lips found his nipples, stimulating them as he had her own, nibbling at them with her teeth, teasing them with her tongue until they hardened as rigidly as her own had done; and she wondered if he felt the same radiating ripples of delight she had known earlier. It seemed he did, for he gave a small groan, and his fingers dug into her back, kneading the sinuous muscles that stirred beneath his hands.
Her mouth drifted down to his belly, then lower still, to his thick strong thighs. Her tongue trailed its way down first one leg, and then the other, tormentingly until, at last, she kissed the spheres of his manhood and let her lips slide tauntingly, languidly, up the bold shaft, then down, then up once more, her tongue flicking quickly along his flesh. When she sensed he could endure no more, she poured what remained of the wine upon him. Then her mouth closed around him, sucking at him, taking him deep into her throat before her tongue swirled about him deliciously, fluttering here and there like a hummingbird until he strained against her and gave a low cry.
She raised her head at the sound; her fondling hands moved to his waist, where they tightened upon him as deliberately she pulled herself up and poised herself above him briefly, then lowered herself upon him, engulfing his fiery sword with her velvet sheath. Again and again, she enveloped him, riding him faster and faster until she could feel the tension in her womanhood building, heightening, and then erupting in a blaze of glory. She clutched him tightly with her dark, molten core as her climax came and, with it, his own, his hands gripping her hips as he thrust into her wildly, crushing her to him, impaling her upon his blade until, at last, they were still.
Warrick's heart pounded crazily in his breast, for he had seldom made love, in the past, in the manner he had just experienced with Isabella. For an instant, he understood what it meant to be taken, for there was no other way in which to describe what his wife had just done to him. Still panting for breath, he stared up at her wonderingly. Her head was flung back; her shinmiering
mane of hair was wet and clinging to her wantonly; her lips were parted as she too rasped for air. Her skin glistened like satin with a fine, dewy sheen and was flushed with the rosy afterglow of their violent lovemaking. He had never seen her look more exciting, more beautiful, like some savage pagan goddess in her naked splendor. He reached up to cup her breasts with his hands as she bent to kiss him one last time before easing herself from him, then curling up next to him, her head on his shoulder.
What had she done to him, his witch of a wife? For somehow, Warrick felt different, changed. Briefly, the alteration puzzled him; then suddenly, he recognized what it was. Brangwen's bitter ghost had ceased to haunt him. To his surprise, he found he could not even recall her face. How could that be when he had loved her so, hated her so? He did not know. He knew only that it was Isabella who now filled his thoughts, Isabella's lovely countenance that shone clear and pure in his mind. Witiiout his even realizing it, a deep sense of peace invaded his soul as, link by link, the chains of his past fell away; and he was free.
"Oh, 'Sabelle," he said. "Oh, 'Sabelle, what magic have ye wrought upon me?"
But the sorceress who had so enchanted him did not answer. She was fast asleep, a soft smile of triumph curved upon her mouth.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ISABELLA AWAKENED IN THE MORNING TO A CHAM-ber full of roses, white roses. Slowly, she sat up and stared with amazement at the room, thinking, for an instant, that she had somehow wandered into the royal gardens. Then the chamber door was flung open wide, and old Alice bustled in, carrying yet another large bouquet.
"Oh, good morning, my lady," the nanna greeted her. "So, you're awake at last, and high time too, for 'tis nearly noon. Still, the Lord said ye were to sleep as long as ye wished, so we didn't disturb ye," Alice rattled on as she set the basket of long-stemmed blossoms down and began rearranging them. "I'll have your breakfast in just a minute, my lady."
"Alice."
"Aye, my lady?"
"Where—where did all these flowers come from?"
"Why, from the courtiers, my lady, all, that is, except for that single bloom lying there on the table. That one came from the Lord. Oh, isn't it exciting, my lady? They've been arriving all mom. Goodness knows where we're going to put them all—"
"Take them away," Isabella directed sofdy as she reached out and picked up the solitary rose that lay beside her bed, for to her, it was the most perfect blossom in the room.
She buried her face in its velvet petals, her fingers trailing caressingly down the gay riband of white silk that had been tied around the stem in a bow.
"I—I beg your pardon, my lady." The nurse, thinking her ears had deceived her, gazed aghast at her mistress. "But did ye say— did ye say—"
"Take them away, all of them, save for this one." Isabella indicated the flower she held in her hand.
"But—but, my lady!" Alice sputtered, stunned. "What—what will I possibly do with them all?"
"Give them to the Church or the poor. I care not. This single bloom is the only one I desire."
"Aye, my lady."
The nanna shook her head and sighed, believing her mistress had surely lost her mind. Nevertheless, Alice gathered up the basket she had just brought in and carried it from the chamber, calling to Jocelyn and the others to come and help her. Isabella smiled to herself as she heard the maids' small cries of dismay and bewilderment at the news that all the roses except for one must be removed at once, followed by their grumbling under their breath as they entered the room and began the arduous task.
Again, the girl inhaled deeply of the fragrant blossom she had pressed to her nostrils, then touched the petals wonderingly before tossing back the covers of the bed and rising. It was then that she saw the note that lay upon the table where the lone flower had been. With trembling fingers, she broke the wax that sealed it. The single word, written with a commanding flourish upon the page, leaped out at her, black and bold: Warrick. She smiled once more, her heart beating with joy in her breast. Warrick. Her husband. The bloom and note clutched to her chest, Isabella danced a few lightly skipping steps across the room, much to the surprise of Alice and the maids, who looked askance at the girl, as though fearing she'd gone quite mad. At the sight of their stupefied faces, Isabella whirled to a stop and broke into peals of laughter.
"My lady. Are—are ye all right?" Jocelyn asked.
"Aye, oh, aye, Jocelyn, Did my lord say when he would return?"
"Sometime this mom, my lady."
"And 'tis nearly noon now! Oh, we must hurry. Quickly, Mathilde, Edith, take away the roses. Alice, Jocelyn, come, and help me get dressed at once."
At last, Isabella was clothed in a most becoming gown of brown satin and a gold surcoat, Warrick's colors.
She blushed with shame and yet deUght as she thought of her husband and how wantonly she had made love to him last night. Aye, there was no other way to describe it. She had been the aggressor. She had made love to him. What had he thought, she wondered. That she was bold, brazen? Yet, she must have pleased him, for he had given her the rose—
The girl fidgeted impatiently as Alice and Jocelyn plaited her long thick hair into two braids, then deftly coiled the plaits about her ears. As a finishing touch, Isabella tucked Warrick's blossom into the left braid. Left. For taken. She was determined that after this mom, there would be no doubt in the courtiers' minds that she belonged to her husband—and to him alone.
Singing softly to herself, she then moved to the bird perch that Rhys had managed to obtain yestereve from the mews and w
here Ragnor now sat, waiting. Talking quietly to the hawk all the while, Isabella slowly removed the hood she had covered him with last night. He stirred and peered about fiercely, blinking his yellow eyes rapidly a few times to accustom them to the sudden light. Finally, he seemed to recognize the girl. He squawked and attempted to flap his wings, nearly falling off the bird perch and scaring poor Alice half out of her wits.
The nurse screamed and dropped the vase she was holding. One hand fluttered to her ample, heaving bosom, where her heart was now thudding much too quickly.
"Oh, my lady!" she gasped. "I'm sorry, but such a fright the creature didst give me. In all the excitement, I'd quite forgotten about it."
"'Tis all right, Alice," Isabella assured the flustered nanna, who had stooped to retrieve the scattered flowers and shattered glass. "There is naught to fear. Ragnor will not harm ye. He cannot fly."
"So I see, my lady. What a pity the poor thing's wing is broken," Alice clucked.
"Aye, but I have set it, and 'twill mend with time."
As will Warrick's heart and soul, I hope, Isabella added earnestly to herself.
After the nurse had left the chamber, the girl plucked a dish of beef, left over from her breakfast, from the hunting table that ran along one wall. Carefully avoiding his sharp beak and talons, she started to feed the chunks of meat to Ragnor, certain he was hungry. But despite her attempts to encourage him, he ate little, for the beef had been cooked. Isabella made a mental note to tell Rhys the hawk must have raw meat in the future. Once Ragnor
had ended the small meal, she caught hold of his jesses and, after setting him on her wrist, succeeded in coaxing him up to her shoulder. There, he appeared content to perch quietly, surveying his surroundings.
"Oh, my lady. Surely, ye don't intend to take that bird with ye to Westminster Palace," Alice chided as she bustled back in to carry out yet another large bouquet.
"Is that where my lord means to escort me today?" Isabella inquired curiously. "But of course, Ragnor shall go with me. He's quite famous, ye know, and now a part of me besides."
As Warrick is now a part of me, and I of him, she thought.
Almost as though he had sensed her musing about him, her husband strode into the room at last. He paused, studying the girl intently for a moment as she turned to him, waiting breathlessly for his approval. His half-closed eyes raked her, casually, it seemed; but Isabella, who had lain with him yestereve, knew better. He was observing the colors she wore, the rose intertwined in her hair, and the hawk upon her shoulder. She wished desperately she might guess what he was thinking, for no trace of emotion showed upon his face, although his amber orbs were glowing with desire—and something more.
"Good morning, my lady," Warrick said.
"Good morning, my lord."
"I trust ye slept well."
Was there just a hint of a smile about his lips? The girl blushed.
"Very well, my lord."
"I see the courtiers have lost no time in making their admiration of ye known." Warrick spoke dryly as he glanced about the chamber, which was still half-full of blooms.
"Aye, still, there was only one blossom that interested me, my lord. I have told my maids to send the rest to the Church or distribute them among the poor."
Warrick's eyes gleamed speculatively at that.
"How disappointed your cavaliers will be, madam," he drawled.
"All but the one whose rose I kept, I hope."
"Oh, he is pleased, my lady, very well pleased indeed. Come, 'Sabelle. Westminster Palace awaits us."
Westminster Palace was very old, for the building of the original structure had been initiated by Edward the Confessor. It stood between the Benedictine abbey located on the Isle of Thorns, a low, marshy area on the shore of the River Thames, which was overgrown with hawthorn bushes and brambles, and the river
itself. Over the centuries, the monastery had been sacked and burned many times by marauding Danes, but the palace itself had managed to hold fast against attack. Following Edward the Confessor's death, subsequent rulers had taken up residence in the palace and had continued the construction that Edward had begun. William the Conqueror had finished much of the edifice, and his son, William Rufus, had raised the huge Westminster Hall, where King Henry lU had once entertained over six thousand guests on New Year's Day. Henry himself had redone the old wooden hall in stone and transformed the royal bedroom, where Edward the Confessor had died, by having artists paint the ceiling with angels and the walls with rich blue, gold, and red representations of divine favors being bestowed upon kings.
In 1236, because the River Thames had no embankments, the great hall had been flooded, and men had actually rowed their boats into it to reach their chambers. In a later year, the waters had just as suddenly receded, leaving behind a vast sea of mud in which large quantities of fish had been stranded. In 1267, a mob had forced its way into the palace and had drunk up the King's wine and defaced and broken the glass windows.
By the time that Richard II had become King, Westminster Palace had been in sore need of repair. In 1394, Richard had commissioned his architect. Henry Yevele, to start the work of restoration on the palace. They had heightened the old walls and fortified them with buttresses. Then they had knocked down the pillars that had supported the roof and, in a brilliant feat of medieval engineering, had replaced the entire structure with a magnificent hammer-beam roof made of oak and ornamented with carved angels.
Warrick told Isabella that just one of the timbers in the elaborate, soaring canopy weighed almost one hundred and forty-three stones.
The arched roof was truly beautiful. The great hall itself was lined with curved apertures, and, at one end, there was a huge cathedral window. Tiers of stone steps led up to the dais where the King and Queen sat to hold Court. The entry way on one wall was flanked by tall, heavy brass candelabra; a small staircase, adorned by intricately worked statues, led down to the great hall from another portal. It was through this door that Isabella and Warrick made their appearance, causing a stir among the courtiers gathered at the palace.
The newly weds moved slowly through the throng, pausing, now and then, to chat with those whom the Earl deemed worthy
of notice. Several gay cavaliers flocked to Isabella's side to inquire whether or not she had received their bouquets; and much to her admirers' disappointment, with a light, lilting laugh, she confessed she had given all the flowers away, except for the precious, solitary bloom from her husband.
"If the King's gardens have a single white rose left, I shall be much surprised," she quipped, "for my chamber was filled to overflowing with blossoms no doubt stolen from His Grace. There was but one, however, that found favor in my eyes."
She laid her hand upon Warrick's arm and smiled up at him sweetly. Someone remarked that the Earl was indeed a lucky devil, and after acknowledging the comment, Warrick led Isabella away, leaving those behind cursing his jealous nature under their breath.
The Countess of Hawkhurst, it seemed, was one flower they would not be picking.
After the newlyweds had paid their respects to the King and Queen, Warrick took Isabella shopping in the marketplace, where he bought her a filigreed silver bracelet. Then they returned to the Tower. There, Warrick said he must leave her in order to take care of some business, and instead of going back to their chamber, Isabella decided to visit Lion Tower and view again the royal menagerie. There were many wild beasts in the care of the Master of the King's Bears and Apes. There were lions, tigers, leopards, lynxes, and bears. There was an elephant kept in a great house that been especially built for such and a polar bear that was trained to catch fish from the Thames. There was a wolf that was most highly prized, for the animals were scarce in England. There were even an eagle and a porcupine.
Most of the creatures were housed in cages with wooden lattices; and the cost of their upkeep was considerable, much to the sheriffs of London's dismay, for they were required to bear part of the expense of maintaining the m
enagerie. Each lion daily consumed a quarter of a sheep; for purchase of their food, the leopards were allotted sixpence a day, the bears, four.
In light of this, Isabella was outraged that the human prisoners in the Tower dungeons were allowed daily but a penny apiece for their rations.
Even the ravens that flew freely about the palace were given a weekly ration of three shillings' worth of horsemeat: for there was an ancient legend that said if the ravens ever left the Tower, the palace was doomed to fall and, with it, all of England.
As Isabella neared Lion Tower, she saw a crowd had gathered
around the barricade that encircled a deep pit below. Curious, she moved toward the mingling mass, wondering what was going on. After a time, she managed to edge her way up to the stone wall and peer down into the pit. She gasped with horror as she saw it was an animal baiting that drew the onlookers, but still, she could not seem to tear her eyes away. Below, three powerful lions were pacing restlessly back and forth, occasionally snarling and swiping at each other with their deadly claws. Fresh blood stained the stone floor of the pit, and a scattering of feathers drifted here and there. After several minutes, a door was opened, and another live cock was thrown to the cats, who instantly ripped the hapless rooster to shreds.
Sickened unto death by the gruesome sight, Isabella turned away, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth to keep from vomiting. Hot, angry tears stung her eyes, and she sobbed, stricken by the cruelty of the spectacle. Blindly, she tried to push her way through the now-cheering throng. But the crowd, still eagerly lusting for blood, refused to fall back so a path might be cleared for her. Almost panicking now, the girl glanced about wildly, ' seeking somebody to aid her in escaping from the mass, but there was no one.
"Not a pretty sight at all, is it, my lady?"
With a sense of relief, Isabella sought out the voice that had spoken to her. It belonged to a strange woman who was garbed in a cheap black gown, which had seen better days, and a steepled hennin, whose wispy, tattered black folds veiled her face.
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