his " Once more, Giles was still, then suddenly he swore
under his breath and slammed his fist into his open palm. "God's wounds! I should never have brought him to Rushden. I'm sorry, dear sister, so very sorry," her brother apologized again, "for Lionel did not play the gentleman with ye, and I know he hurt ye deeply."
"Aye." Once more, Isabella acknowledged the truth of this. "Still, I try not to mind it, for I would not have been able to marry him in any event. The King had already betrothed me to Warrick."
"And is he good to ye, 'Sabelle? Warrick, I mean. Has he made ye happy?"
"He is a hard man, but no husband could be kinder, Giles. Though he had no wish to wed me. he is attempting to make our marriage work. I have no cause for complaint. He sees to my every want and need."
"But does he love ye, 'Sabelle? Are ye happy with him, dear sister?" Giles asked again, wanting to be certain that Isabella was not, in truth, miserable and trying to hide the fact from him.
She answered slowly, considering.
"Warrick—Warrick does not love me, Giles, not yet, though I have set about to win his heart. Like me, he was terribly hurt in the past by the betrayal of his love; and the wound has yet to heal. But still, he desires me," the girl told her brother frankly, "and methinks he has come to care for me a little. 'Tis a beginning
at least. And he does give thought to my happiness, which is more than many men would do. I know he would fight like an animal to protect me, even as he did that day at Oakengates. Aye, I am content."
Giles seemed relieved by this.
"Then I am glad for ye, 'Sabelle."
"Then come, dear brother." Isabella smiled and held out her hand. "I wouldst like for ye to know my husband better, for if he is to love me, he must also love ye, who are so much a part of me."
It was nearly three days later when Lord Lionel Valeureux made his appearance at Court. With him was his wife, the Lady Gil-lianc. Despite the fact that he despised her, Lionel had realized it was only proper she be presented at Court, and so he had sent for her to join him in London.
Isabella's fingers tightened whitely on Warrick's arm as she spied Lionel across the great hall, for though she had guessed he too, like Giles, had come to London, she had not realized how the sight of her former lover would affect her. Warrick glanced down at her stricken face, then searched the chamber rapidly for the cause of her distress. His jaw set in a hard line.
"So ye do yet have some tender feelings for Lord Lionel after all, madam," the Earl growled accusingly.
"Ye of all people must know that a wound such as I suffered at his hands takes time to heal, my lord," Isabella reminded her husband quietly. "His appearance took me by surprise. I am sorry I was not better at masking my emotions at his presence, but do not think I love him still, Warrick, for I do not. 'Tis but a wistful sadness for what might have been that pierces my heart a little. I pray ye do not judge me too harshly for that."
"Nay, I do not, my lady. I do but warn ye to remember ye are my wife and that I demand your loyalty to me—in both body and mind."
"I do not forget, my lord. My loyalty is yours and has been since the day we were wed. I wouldst not be so foolish or cruel as to deceive ye—in any manner. May we—may we retire now, Warrick?"
"Nay, 'Sabelle. I'll have no coward as my wife. Ye shall not hide from him but stay, and let him see ye do not wear your heart upon your sleeve for him."
"As—as ye wish then, my lord. Tell me: Is—is that his wife?" the girl asked, gazing at the woman who accompanied Lionel.
"I believe so."
"She—she doesn't look very happy, does she?"
"Nay, madam, she does not. Rhys told me 'twas well known the Lady Gilliane had no desire to marry the heir of St. Saviour— or any other man, for that matter. She is very religious and wished to enter a convent."
"Then I am sorry for her," Isabella said as she studied the Lady Gilliane covertly. "For I do not think that Lionel has treated her as kindly as ye have me, Warrick."
And indeed, this was the truth. Lady Gilliane Valeureux, n6e Beaumaris, was absolutely terrified of her husband. Small, brown, and plain, she reminded one of a shy, frightened mouse and looked just as scared as she stared about the great hall, thoroughly miserable and ashamed.
Earlier, though she and her maids had tried their best to win his approval, Lionel had been, as usual, highly displeased by her appearance. Angered, as always, by just the mere sight of her, he had shouted at her meanly and, after dealing her several sharp slaps for being so stupid and unattractive, had curtly ordered her to change into a decent gown. But Gilliane had had nothing more appropriate. Upon being informed of this, Lionel had ripped open the lids of her coffers and yanked out every one of her dresses, wrathfully flinging them about and trampling on them in disgust when he saw she had spoken the truth. He had then alternately raged at and abused her for over an hour for not having had sense enough to purchase some garments suitable for Court; and Gil-hane had been too intimidated by him to point out that he had given her no money with which to do so. Now, she was even more dejectedly aware that her dull drab attire, which resembled a nun's habit, was hopelessly out of place among the stylish, brilliantly colored clothes worn by the rest of the Court ladies; and though she was trying very hard not to cry, she was petrified she would burst into tears at any minute. That would be disastrous, for Lionel would surely beat her again without mercy once they had reached the privacy of their chamber. She yearned fervently to slip away unnoticed, but she knew her husband would refuse his permission for her to leave the great hall, and so she said nothing of her desire. Instead, she attempted to concentrate on the conversations going on about her and wished desperately that she were not so ugly and slow-witted.
In truth, Gilliane's plainness stemmed far more from her natural timidity than anything else, for her countenance was not disagreeable. She had a pair of fine, soft brown eyes that could
glow quite beautifully upon occasion (though she seldom raised them long enough for anyone to discover this fact), and her upturned nose was set above a gently curving mouth that gave evidence of her sweet nature. Her round cheeks were fair and dusky-pink in hue, and her brown hair curled about her face in a touchingly childlike manner that was really most fetching, had Lionel but taken the time to observe it.
She was not at all stupid. On the contrary, she was, in reality, very intelligent and highly learned, for she had spent most of her life studying diligently in preparation for the day when she hoped to seek her vocation at the cloister near her father's keep. Gilliane had not believed that Lord St. Saviour, upon being told of her religious aspirations, would still insist on her betrothal to his son, or that her father, Lord Devizes, would actually force her to wed Lionel Valeureux. She knew it had been only to join their lands: for though Lionel was his father's heir, Gilliane's father had none. The Devizes charter prohibited women from inheriting. Unless Gilliane were to bear a son, her father's estate, upon his death, would be forfeit to the Crown, leaving her virtually penniless. But the girl had not cared. Had she entered a nunnery, she would have had no need of riches. The small income she would have received would have sufficed.
"Look!" Gilliane was startled out of her reverie by Sir Andre Montague's cry. '"Tis the Rose of Rapture. Come, Edmund. We must discover whether or not she is wearing Geoffrey's bouquet. If she is not, then we have won our wager!"
Feeling more conspicuously malapropos than ever, Gilliane gazed after the hurriedly departing courtiers, who were jesting and laughing as they made their way toward one of the loveliest women she had ever seen in her Itfe. Hesitantly, Gilliane laid her hand on her husband's arm, then ventured tentatively to ask,
"My—my lord, who is that lady there? The one to whom Sir Andr6 is speaking?"
Lionel felt as though someone had hit him hard in the stomach when, frowning, he glanced impatiently at the woman his wife had been curious enough to dare to question him about.
Isabella. Oh, God, Isabella!<
br />
His heart caught in his throat, for she seemed even more beautiful than he had remembered. For just an instant, his golden visage was naked with pain and hunger; and Gilliane, by his side, gave a soft little cry of pity.
"Why, ye love her, my lord," she breathed in sudden understanding. "That is why ye despise me so."
"Aye, ye simpleminded strumpet," Lionel snarled down at her, his hand tightening on the chalice of wine he was holding. "For once, ye got something right."
Gilliane cringed at her husband's hateful words, but still, she dared to inquire again after the woman's identity.
"But who—who is she, my lord?"
"Lady Isabella Tremayne, Countess of Hawkhurst," Lionel replied tersely, a muscle working in his jaw. He took a large draught of the liquor, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "And the whoreson son of a bitch with her is her husband, Warrick, a half-Welsh bastard," he sneered, then gave a short, ugly laugh, his blue eyes narrowing dangerously. "I wonder how she likes his bed, the witch!"
Sir Andre Montague, returning in time to overhear this last remark, spoke.
"If ye are referring to the Rose of Rapture, the answer to your question is, apparently, quite well indeed. Lady Hawkhurst has eyes for no one but her husband, much to her would-be cavaliers' dismay. Though the courtiers have wooed her most relentlessly, she has scorned all their attempts to win her favor. Even so, they still persist in their attentions to her and have even begun wagering amongst themselves as to who will be the man fortunate—or foolish—enough to cuckold Lord Hawkhurst."
"Why, that's terrible!" Gilliane uttered, shocked.
"One of the Court's favorite pastimes, Lady Gilliane, I'm afraid," Sir Andre stated somewhat dryly.
Well, I'm no fool, Lionel thought as he took another long swig of wine from his cup. But if I'm clever, I might get lucky.
Isabella, standing by her husband's side and talking to her brother and Lord Montecatini, shivered suddenly as she saw the way in which Lionel's eyes were raking her body—and before his wife too, the poor girl.
"Is something amiss, Lady Hawkhurst?" the Count queried, raising one dark brow curiously.
"Nay, 'twas naught," she assured him quickly, knowing both Warrick and Giles had guessed the cause of her distress but were too protective of her to comment upon it before the Italian. She gave a little laugh. "For a moment, I thought I spied Sir Geoffrey Twyford coming this way, and I feared he meant to reproach me for not wearing his bouquet, thereby causing him to lose his wager with Sirs Andre Montague and Edmund Lacey."
Briefly, Lord Montecatini studied Isabella thoughtfully, aware she had not given him the real reason behind her sudden discom-
posure. Then, from beneath half-closed lids, he gazed surreptitiously about the room to ferret out the true cause of her unease. Neither Lord Lionel Valeureux's glittering blue eyes hungrily devouring Isabella, nor the Lady Gilliane's misery escaped the Count's detection. He perceived too that neither Lord Hawkhurst nor Lord Rushden had favored Lord Lionel with more than a curt nod of recognition, indicating that they were not on the best terms with the heir of St. Saviour. Inwardly, the Italian smiled. The Fates had indeed been most kind to him of late.
"Twas most foolish of Sir Geoffrey to have made such a wager in the first place," Lord Montecatini continued smoothly. "He has no one to blame but himself for the losing of it, for any fool can see ye have eyes for no one but your husband." He turned to the Earl. "Ye are indeed a most fortunate man. Lord Hawkhurst."
"I have always thought so," Warrick agreed somewhat coolly, for there was something about the Count that disturbed him, although he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.
He had heard certain rumors about the Italian, but that was all they were, for Lord Montecatini was a most secretive man and ' jealously guarded his privacy. There was no actual proof the Count had ever been involved in anything unsavory, although, of course, all Italians were always suspected of dealing in poisons, fatal potions being, apparently, a favorite method of eliminating one's rivals at the Roman Court. Even in England, there were those lords and ladies who so feared being murdered in such a fashion that they would drink from nothing but cups of the finest hand-blown crystal, the glass being thought to render poisons harmless. And there were others who were always careful to pass a shark's tooth over a chalice before sipping from it (it was believed the tooth would turn colors if poison were present in the contents of the cup).
Still, although gossips speculated on Lord Montecatini's knowledge of this murderous art, it was not these rumors the Earl found distasteful. Though poison was not a means that Warrick would have chosen to rid himself of his enemies, it was certainly no more dishonorable than sneaking down a shadowed corridor to knife someone in the back, the method preferred by the English.
The dark hints that the vain, handsome Count favored young men rather than young maids were what gave the Earl a slight sense of disgust and unease whenever he encountered the Italian.
Warrick scrutinized Lord Montecatini carefully, certain the Count had guessed the true cause of Isabella's momentary an-
guish. For some strange reason, the Earl found the thought vaguely discomforting; and he did not like, besides, the manner in which the Italian was staring at Giles. For one unguarded instant, Warrick could have sworn he saw a blaze of lust in Lord Montecatini's black eyes when they looked at Isabella's brother. Without warning, the Earl realized that as his wife was beautiful, so Giles was handsome. The idea that the Count might seek to seduce Giles alarmed Warrick. His brother-in-law was young and relatively inexperienced. He would be at the mercy of a clever, determined man like the Italian. The Earl must take immediate steps to prevent Giles from falling into the Italian's clutches. To do that, Warrick must find some way to be rid of Lord Montecatini and whatever schemes he might be plotting.
"Come 'Sabelle. Giles," Warrick ordered abruptly. "The hour grows late, and as Giles and I have both entered our names on the lists for the King's tourney tomorrow, we should no doubt seek our beds. Do ye tilt, my lord?" the Earl asked of the Count.
"Alas, nay. I have no taste for jousting, I'm afraid."
"But of course. Your.. .preferences are well known. Lord Montecatini," Warrick drawled, deliberately provocative and insulting. "What a pity. Methinks 'twould be most interesting to cross steel with ye."
The Italian did not miss the double meaning of—or warning in—the Earl's words. One eyebrow lifted.
"Indeed? Then, of course, ye must allow me the honor of granting ye that privilege, my lord," the Count stated politely.
"Until tomorrow then," Warrick said. "Come, 'Sabelle. Giles."
Isabella's brother was surprised and slightly offended at being commanded by his sister's husband to leave the great hall, especially as the Earl's rank was no higher than his own. Then Giles recalled how desperately Isabella longed to make her marriage work and how difficult this would be if there were to be trouble between Warrick and him, so he made his adieus politely and followed the newlyweds from the chamber.
Not a one of the three looked back, thereby missing the faintly twisted sneer of amusement that Lord Montecatini wore upon his shuttered face and the sudden flame of anger that lit his black eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Five
THE DAY OF THE KING'S TOURNEY DAWNED BRIGHT and clear that warm summer day of July. Above, the yellow sun shone down mellowly this early mom, although it promised to grow hotter the higher it rose in the brilliant azure sky. Huge, white cotton-candy clouds floated serenely in the firmament, little wisps drifting away, now and then, with the breeze. Below, Tower Green was like a sea of emerald, the trees wafting gently with the wind, their verdant branches rustling. The River Thames sparkled blue beneath the sun, its rippling waters lapping softly at the hulls of the boats and barges that filled the harbor.
All along the shore, merchants hawked their wares, and crowds thronged, hoping to catch a glimpse of some of the more famous personages who were making their way toward the river. Isabella
fairly skipped along on her husband's arm; she was so excited. When they had gone to Westminster Palace, they had ridden by horse, taking King's Road, on which only persons of blood or rank were allowed to travel. To reach Edward's residence at Greenwich, where the tourney was to be held, they were journeying by barge. As Isabella had never been aboard any type of water-going vessel before, she was naturally quite thrilled by the prospect. Even the slight rocking of the barge as Warrick handed
her into it did not dim her anticipation, though Jocelyn grew quite pale and begged her mistress to sit down immediately. Caerllywel laughed as he sprawled down beside the maid, encircling her waist with his arm and vowing cheerfully, at the cost of his own life, to prevent her from drowning, should the vessel sink.
"Oh, sir," Jocelyn breathed with dismay, gazing down at the river that now seemed too close for comfort. "Do ye think there's a chance that might happen?"
"Of course not, Jocelyn!" Isabella asserted, frowning sternly at her brother-in-law. "Caerllywel was jesting, as usual."
"What makes ye so certain of that, my lady?" he asked, his eyes dancing.
"Because ye wouldst say anything in order to gain the opportunity of consoling a pretty maid," the girl responded tartly, though she was not at all displeased by the romance that appeared to be budding between her maid and Caerllywel. "Pay no heed to the rogue, Jocelyn," she commanded firmly. "And tell him he must mend his wayward manners before you'll have aught to do with him."
"Aye," Warrick said with a grin as he took his place beside Isabella under the striped canopy that protected them from the sun's rays. "The devil could well do with some lessons on that score."
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