Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  "Why, there is your answer, my lady," Jocelyn declared. "Ye have only to give the fan to the Lady Gilliane, and say naught to Lord Hawkhurst at all. Then he will know nothing of the matter."

  "Oh, how clever of ye, Jocelyn!" Isabella turned back to Lionel's wife. "My dear Lady Gilliane, do be kind enough to assist me out of this sad tangle. I am newly wed, ye know, and 'twould be most distressing to me to incur my husband's wrath; I have tried so hard to win his favor."

  " 'Twould then be most churlish of me to refuse your request, my lady," Gilliane answered softly.

  "I am most grateful to ye," Isabella told Lionel's wife, handing her the device.

  "And I to ye," Gilliane murmured. "'Tis ye who are most kind."

  "Not at all," Isabella disclaimed, then added excitedly, "Oh, look, Anne! My brother has bested his man!"

  "That was well done of ye, 'Sabelle," the Duchess observed

  under her breath as they enthusiastically applauded Giles's victory on the field. Then, more loudly, she queried, "'Tis his first tournament too, is it not?"

  "Aye, oh, how proud I am of him!" Isabella's eyes shone for her brother.

  "And I of ye," Anne said quietly. "How glad I am that Dickon bade ye write to me that day. Oh, here are two of Dickon's dearest friends. Lord Francis Lovell and Sir Richard Ratcliffe. I must make ye known to them. Why, they have brought us some wine. How thoughtful."

  The women spent some time conversing and laughing with these two gentlemen, both of whom proved most amiable; then Isabella's attention was drawn once more to the stadium as the herald called two more names.

  "Lord Warrick ap Tremayne, Earl of Hawkhurst, and Lord Dante da Forenza, Conte di Montecatini."

  "How odd of the Italian," a woman in the next box remarked curiously. "He is not usually given to entering the lists. 'Tis said he is too vain to risk injury to his handsome face, the arrogant devU."

  "That is so, Agatha," another woman uttered in response. "But my husband, Cedric, who happened to overhear their conversation, tells me the challenge was issued by Lord Hawkhurst; and of course, the Count could not possibly refuse it."

  "Well, naturally, a man must defend his honor. Still, it does seem rather peculiar. I wonder: Did they quarrel, Juliet? Oh, surely not," the Lady Agatha mused. "For doubtless. Lord Montecatini would not be so foohsh as to allow himself to be drawn into an argument. After all, he is one of Italy's ambassadors to England and must refrain from becoming embroiled in our affairs."

  "Hmph!" the Lady Juliet snorted. "Ye cannot tell me consideration of his position would weigh with the Italian if it interfered with any of his own schemes. If ye ask me, the man's a master of intrigue and meddles far more in England's business than we know. However, that's neither here nor there, as I doubt seriously that politics was the reason behind the challenge. Cedric did not say so, but I cannot help but think 'tis the attention the Count has paid to Lady Hawkhurst that made Lord Hawkhurst wroth, for ye know that Lord Montecatini has singled her out most markedly."

  "Oh, that is nothing, Juliet; I'm sure," the Lady Agatha sniffed. "The Rose of Rapture has been the bane of us all since her arrival

  at Court. I vow there's not a cavalier left whose heart remains uncaptivated by her. Even dear Rufiis, whom I always believed to be a most estimable husband, has fallen for her charms."

  "Perhaps," the Lady Juliet conceded, "but I'm certain I do not need to tell ye the gossip about the Count's preferences, Agatha. One cannot help but think 'tis strange of him to be wooing Lady Hawkhurst—if rumor is to be believed. And I, for one, did not notice he paid her any more heed than was courteous until her brother. Lord Rushden, arrived. 'Tis well known the Ashleys are extremely close. To befriend one is to become the other's companion as well. I'll wager that Lord Hawkhurst has no intention of seeing his young brother-in-law fall prey to the Italian's clutches."

  "Juliet!" the Lady Agatha gasped, horrified.

  The Lady Juliet merely shrugged, having lost interest in the subject.

  "'Tis merely my own conjecture, of course," she said, "but I wouldst not be surprised to learn 'twas true. However, ye may believe what ye choose, Agatha."

  The matter thus disposed of, the Lady Juliet turned to view the two combatants on the field.

  Had Isabella overheard the two women's conversation, she would have been beset with anxiety for her brother. But her ears had discerned nothing of the exchange, and so she knew no fear for Giles. Only worry for Warrick filled her mind, for despite the jousts being but games, accidents did happen, and she had no wish for her husband to be injured or killed.

  She was unaware her face softened as she caught sight of him, looking like some dark and pagan god upon his mighty brown destrier with its golden-cream mane and tale. His armor glinted silver where the sun's rays struck it, enveloping him in a blaze of flame as he saluted the King and Queen, then wheeled his steed to pace slowly down the stadium. His gold-lined, brown satin cloak swirled down in shining folds fi*om his broad shoulders; the hawk embroidered on its back proudly proclaimed his heritage for all to see. His tobacco-brown hair, streaked with gold and shagged back in wings on either side, and his aquiline nose reminded all uncannily of the bird whose badge he wore—as the bend sinister on his shield reminded them of his bastardy. In battle or game, he would be a deadly opponent.

  When he had reached the end of the field, Warrick turned and dipped his lance toward Isabella in acknowledgment of his lady. She was touched by the unexpected gesture, and as the audience

  roared its approval, she caught Ragnor upon her wrist and raised him high, as though in victory. The hawk, somehow sensing all eyes upon him, flung back his head and gave a shrill wild cry that echoed sweetly across the arena. His fierce amber eyes pierced the Earl's own, and for a moment, it seemed almost as though Warrick and Ragnor were one and the same. Then the Earl broke the spell, donning his helmet, fewtering his weapon, and charging down the field toward his opponent.

  Lord Montecatini, at the opposite end of the stadium, spurred his own horse forward, meeting the onslaught grimly: for briefly, the bird's sharp scream had disturbed him. Superstitious, he had thought it an ill omen and had shivered with a sudden, strange premonition, as though someone had walked over his grave. Deliberately now, he forced the unnerving notion from his mind and tried to concentrate on the bout. Though he had no taste for tilting, he was far from being a novice at the sport. Having regained his composure, he studied Warrick with cool assessment as the Earl galloped toward him. Perceiving Warrick's line of attack, the Count shifted his shield accordingly and aimed his own lance expertly. The hooves of his ebony stallion thundered over the turf along the wooden barrier that separated him from his foe. His red-and-gold satin cloak, with its rosettes bearing the badges of griffins, shimmered down from his shoulders like molten fire in the sunlight. His black eyes narrowed, watching Warrick closely for any perceptible movement.

  There. Now!

  Violently, the two men engaged arms, lances shattering viciously against shields. The Italian rocked in his saddle from the impact, even as the Earl did, for Warrick had not guessed the strength concealed by Lx)rd Montecatini's slender figure.

  "God's blood, brother! That was close." Caerllywel whistled as he caught the bridle of the Earl's prancing destrier while Warrick's squire Rhys ran forward with a new weapon. "I thought ye said the Count did not fancy jousting."

  "Aye." The Earl nodded tersely. "Still, I should have suspected the whoreson was no fool at the game. Christ's son, but the Italian cavalier is no Court card after all."

  "For God's sake, keep your guard up!" Caerllywel warned. "I mislike the look of him, and that was a bad blow ye took. If ye had not switched your shield in time..."

  "Do not fear, brother," Warrick said. "I am never twice a fool. I shall be ready for him this time, and then we will see whether or not he persists in his attentions to my wife and her brother."

  Caerllywel's eyebrows lifted.

  "Though ye paid her a signal honor this da
y, I did not know ye cared so deeply for 'Sabelle—or for Giles," he commented.

  "What is mine, I hold, brother, as well ye know," the Earl told him fiercely before spurring Gwalchmai into the second run.

  Again, lances splintered sickeningly upon shields. Isabella half-rose from her bench, one hand going to her throat as a startled cry of anticipation and bloodlust, somehow different from its previous cheering, suddenly rose from the crowd. The King leaned forth in his chair, snapping to attention. That the bout was the most exciting one of the day could not be denied; but without warning, it seemed to have taken on a serious—almost macabre—note that did not belong to the sport.

  Elizabeth, the Queen, glanced coolly at her husband, whose hand had tightened upon the chalice of wine he was holding.

  "Methinks this joust is no longer a mere game, Ned," she stated, her icy blue eyes glittering. "It appears that Lord Hawk-hurst is even more jealous of his bride' than Court gossip has rumored. I do believe he intends to kill the Italian. What will Rome say to that, I wonder?"

  "Hawkhurst is not such a fool, Bess," Edward replied curtly. "He means only to humble the Count; I am certain."

  "And what of Lord Montecatini? Dost think he intends but to 'humble' Lord Hawkhurst?"

  "I do not know. Who can guess what goes on in the minds of foreigners?"

  Elizabeth smiled with cruel amusement.

  "If he slays your favorite, Ned, do not say I didn't warn ye."

  As the audience waited tensely, the two men prepared for the final charge of the bout. Isabella's hand gripped her maid's arm so fervently that her nails dug into Jocelyn's flesh.

  "Oh, Anne. I don't understand why, but I—I think they mean to kill each other," Isabella breathed, then wailed, "Oh, why doesn't the King put a stop to it?"

  "I do not know, 'Sabelle"—the Duchess spoke thoughtfully. "Ned must not feel there is any danger, or I'm certain he wouldst call a halt to the proceedings. After all, the Count is a guest in our country, and Lord Hawkhurst is one of Ned's favorites. He cannot mean to let them battle to the death."

  But Isabella was yet afraid as the two men set their gilded spurs to their horses' sides, and the pounding of hooves once more rang out over the field.

  Warrick's eyes, like slits behind the visor of his helmet, met

  Lord Montecatini's ominous gaze unflinchingly. The hawk, with its talons poised to strike, embroidered upon the back of the Earl's cloak seemed to take flight as the breeze caught the material, sending it rippling. The golden griffin that emblazoned the back of the Count's cloak stalked its prey across a sea of red. The beasts clashed, snarled with fury, clawed wickedly at one another until, at last, as though in slow motion, Isabella saw the eagle-headed lion fall, a bright splash of liquid crimson gushing from the wound her husband's lance had made.

  An eager, almost unnatural yell came from the throats of the spectators as they leaped to their feet, thirsting for more. Even the King and Queen were standing, watching, waiting.

  "My God!" someone shouted. "The Italian's dead!"

  "Nay," Isabella whimpered. "Nay."

  Warrick had already dismounted and run to his opponent's aid. Quickly, he ripped off Lord Montecatini's helmet, pushed back his mesh hood, and tore away those pieces of armor that had not been broken during the joust.

  The Count groaned and smiled faintly as the Earl exposed the gash in the Italian's shoulder and moved to staunch the flow of blood.

  "I congratulate ye, my lord," Lord Montecatini said dryly. "The taste of victory is always sweet. Shall I survive, do ye think?"

  "Aye." Warrick nodded. "'Tis only a flesh wound and clean. Methinks 'twill not prove mortal."

  "And my face, my lord?"

  "Your face? Christ's son, Montecatini! Ye might have been slain!"

  "Aye, but I am yet alive and wouldst know of my dark beauty. 'Tis my one overwhelming vanity, ye apprehend, this face of mine."

  "A few scratches only. 'Twill not be scarred."

  The Count sighed with relief.

  "Thank God for that. Ye are a worthy foe, Hawkhurst. Methinks we will meet again."

  "Be warned: Next time, I mean to kill ye," the Earl threatened through clenched teeth.

  The Italian laughed shortly.

  "Aye, I suspected as much."

  "Keep away from my wife—and her brother," Warrick ordered grimly.

  "I have but befriended them, my lord."

  "Do not seek to play me for a fool, Montecatini. I know what ye intend."

  "Do ye? I wonder. There is only one thing sweeter than victory, Hawkhurst—revenge. I shall have it, I promise ye."

  "The boy will scorn ye," the Earl hissed.

  "Dost truly believe so, signorel I fear ye must enlighten me, then. Why, then, didst ye challenge me?"

  "Had I thought your victims were all willing ones, I should not have done so. But a man who dabbles in potions—and no doubt the Black Arts as well—is without morals or scruples. 1 have some slight knowledge of the drugs ye Italians employ, Montecatini. I wouldst not see young Giles made your slave by a craving for the poppy's nectar. I trust, after today, ye will perceive the wisdom of leaving England—before ye arc forced to do so. I do not think that Rome will look lightly upon this affair, and I don't believe ye wish to be recalled home in disgrace."

  The Count shrugged, his black eyes unfathomable.

  "A minor nuisance only, my lord, I assure ye. My family stands high at the Italian Court, very high indeed. Methinks they will manage to salvage my position. Ye have played your hand and lost, Hawkhurst."

  "Have I? Giles is one of Gloucester's favorites, Montecatini, and a staunch Yorkist as well. If ye trifle with him, ye will have to answer to the Duke—and the King."

  "But then, I am not subject to the whims of the Plantagenets— or to the laws of England, am I, my lord? Besides, 'tis no longer just a matter of the boy. Ye have humbled my pride, signore. That I shall not easily forget or forgive."

  "Methinks I am well able to defend myself," Warrick rejoined inscrutably. "After all, / was the victor here today, was I not?"

  "Aye, ye have that satisfaction, Hawkhurst." The Italian's teeth flashed whitely as he smiled again. "Let us hope ye are equally adept at guarding your wife." The Earl inhaled sharply. "Ah, that strikes home, does it not?" l^ord Montecatini continued. "I thought perhaps 'twould."

  "If ye touch my bride, ye will die most unpleasantly; I swear it," Warrick vowed.

  "Dost think so? In Italy, they say I lead a charmed life."

  "Even so, Montecatini, I wonder how ye wouldst like living it if something were to happen to your face."

  With that parting shot, the Earl walked away, having derived considerable pleasure from seeing the Count blanch momentarily with fear.

  Sighing with relief, Isabella settled back upon her bench as she watched her husband leave the arena. The Italian was wounded but not dead, and Warrick was alive and unhurt. That was all that mattered.

  "Lord Montecatini will live to fight another day, it seems," Anne observed as the Count's squires pulled him to his feet and helped him off the field.

  "Aye," Isabella agreed. "Thank God for it. For a minute, I feared that Warrick had slain him."

  The remaining bouts, which included Caerllywel's, were uneventful. Though a relief to Isabella, the rest of the audience soon grew bored and were glad to see the judges begin to compare notes.

  "My Lady Hawkhurst?" A small page tentatively approached the box.

  "Aye."

  "My Lord Hawkhurst wouldst have a word with ye, if ye please."

  "But of course." Isabella rose hurriedly to her feet, wondering what her husband wanted. "Oh, I do hope nothing is wrong. Anne, ye will excuse me, won't ye?"

  "Of course." The Duchess smiled. "The tourney is almost over anyway. Already, I see the judges conferring among themselves as to which contestant garnered the most points this day."

  "Well, if 'tis Earl Rivers, then there's no chance of my being crowned queen, so I won't miss an
ything. Nay, Jocelyn," Isabella protested as the maid stood. "Ye stay, and see the end, so I will know who won the honors. I will be safe enough with my husband to protect me. In fact, after today, I seriously doubt any courtier will be foolish enough to speak to me."

  This soon proved to be the case, for although many admiring glances were cast in Isabella's direction as she followed the page through the crowd, her previously gay cavaliers were noticeably reluctant to attract her attention. Only the most brazen and high-ranking of courtiers, such as Lord Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, dared to accost her and tease her about her husband's now-infamous jealousy. Blushing, the girl scurried on, wishing that Warrick had not made his possessive nature toward her so public and through such means, particularly as Lord Montecatini had pursued her almost indifferently, without the fervent ardor

  that had characterized many of her cavahers. Indeed, now that she thought about it, Isabella believed the Count had joined the chase only because it had been the fashion to do so. Certainly, he had been much more talkative to Giles than to her. She wondered curiously why, then, Warrick had singled out the Italian for punishment. Somehow, it seemed rather odd.

  'Through there, my lady." The page, as they reached their destination, indicated the open flap of a pavilion, drawing the girl back, with a start, to the present.

  "But—but this is not my husband's tent," she stuttered, confused, for Warrick had pointed out his pavilion to her that morning, and as she now attempted to recall it, she did not think it had resembled at all the one she now stood before, nor did she spy any banner to tell her to whom this tent belonged.