Though she did not care for him, Edward Plantagenet would be her king until he died; and Richard, his brother, would be her savior forever. They were York—and all it stood for and everything that Isabella had ever believed in—through and through. She would not let that go without a fight.
She squared her small shoulders determinedly and walked on across the windswept moors to the sea, where, in the distance, she could see the savage hills of Wales rising up before her, like far ships, come to conquer England's shores.
"Christ's son! What's this?"
Isabella turned, startled, at the sound of the voice behind her: for it was still her practice to bar all but those closest to her from her menagerie, and all of Warrick's knights knew and obeyed this. Slowly, puzzled, she rose from where she knelt, wondering what was going on. There must be something wrong that one of her husband's men-at-arms had d^ed to enter; but as she approached the doorway, the girl saw two strange yet oddly familiar men and their squires standing there in some confusion, their horses half-in, half-out, of the stables. Somehow, she knew one man was a lord, the other, a knight, though there was little difference in their garments. They both wore cloaks of green lined with gold and bearing rosettes upon which were the badges of cockatrices; green doublets slashed with gold; and green hose and high, black leather boots. Across their chests were the same sort of savage breastplates that Isabella had seen upon Warrick and Caerllywel the first time they had come to Rushden. And just as she had instinctively known Warrick to be a lord and Caerllywel, a knight, so she recognized the same of the two strangers.
Why, they must be guests, she realized at last, then wondered curiously why the servants had not taken care of them.
"Pardon me, my lord," she said courteously, "but ye must take your men and horses to the other end of the stables. As ye can see, this section now serves a different purpose, and few besides myself are allowed in here. But ye are strangers, of course, and could not have known that. I do not understand why the grooms have not come forth to assist ye. Perhaps they did not hear your arrival. Let me call them for ye, my lord."
The lord, who was obviously in charge, appraised her body
crudely with his pale blue eyes, causing her to blush and think she looked little better than she had the first time that Warrick had ever seen her. She had tied a kerchief on her head, as was her custom when visiting her menagerie, and her gown was a little mussed from kneeling in the straw. Nevertheless, her hair was hanging freely about her ripe, slender figure, and the lord, an astute man, saw at a glance the haunting beauty that was Isabella's.
"Well, well," he drawled, grinning. "Whom do ye belong to, I wonder? And why is he so foolish as to keep a tempting morsel like ye hidden away here in this—this place?"—this with some disgust.
Before Isabella, surprised and slightly offended by his lack of respect, could answer, the knight, with a quiet smile, spoke up.
"Perhaps she is as wild as these creatures, brother, and in sore need of taming."
The men all laughed at this, but still, the lord's eyes glimmered with curiosity and speculation.
"Methinks mayhap you're right, brother," he agreed. "There is indeed something wanton about her. You've only to look into her eyes to know. Still, her master is a fool to believe keeping her in such a place as this will achieve his ends. I'll warrant she wouldst find my method of breaking her to the bit much more.. .enjoyable. Who is your master, wench?" he questioned abruptly, then made an impatient movement with his hand, cutting off her response. "Nay, do not bother to reply," he told her curtly, "for it matters not. I've a fancy for ye; I have. Consider yourself mine from now on," he instructed arrogantly, reaching out to tease one lock of her hair. "You'll like my manner with women far better than your master's, I assure ye."
Outraged, Isabella gasped with shock and yanked the tress from his fingers. Why, how dare the lord indulge in such a brazen piece of impertinence toward her? Even the courtiers had never been so bold.
"How dare ye, my lord? Your manners are not fit to woo a sow!"
The girl's voice shook with wrath, and her body trembled. She was Lady Isabella Tremayne, Countess of Hawkhurst, not some maid who must cower before the lord's insults and advances.
"Brother, don't," the knight pleaded, all trace of his previous, gentle merriment now gone from his face.
The lord only laughed and strode toward Isabella deliberately, his intent plain and alarming. The girl was horrified. Why, he meant to rape her—and before the amused eyes of his men as
well! She couldn't believe it. She had heard of men who engaged in such sport, but never before had she been exposed to such. But then, what did she know of a man's behavior toward a maid who was not noble bom (for by now, the girl was certain the lord thought her some yeoman's daughter)? Perhaps all women of common birth were subjected to such treatment at the hands of men. Terrified, Isabella pivoted to flee, but the lord caught her cascading mane once more and, with a single jerk of his hand, sent her sprawling in a pile of hay. Almost immediately, he fell upon her and pinned her furiously fighting body to the earth. His hands tore at her clothes; his carnal lips sought hers.
"Let me go!" she cried desperately, mortified, twisting her head this way and that to avoid his searching mouth. "Damn ye! Let me go! I'm—I'm—"
"Come," he interrupted before she could inform him of her identity. "There is no need for ye to play coy with me, wench," the lord coaxed smoothly. "I'll be generous enough with ye."
"The maid has said she does not want your generosity, brother," the knight observed. "Release her now. Ye have teased her long enough."
"Nay, I mean to have her," the lord vowed, "whether she wants me or not. But if you've no stomach for the sport, brother, then leave us. And take the squires with ye!"
Isabella gasped again and renewed her struggles frantically as roughly the lord attempted to shove her skirts up about her thighs. Finally, managing to free one hand, she smartly boxed his ears.
"You'll pay for this," she warned, rasping for air as he growled and caught easily her fist. "I promise ye, you'll pay if ye don't release me, apd now!"
"Oh? And just who's going to make me, wench?" the lord inquired, lifting one eyebrow as though he found her threat diverting.
"My husband, my lord," Isabella retorted proudly. If the lord thought her without protection, he would soon learn otherwise. "He'll slay ye for this, I promise ye. Now—let—me—go! I'm— I'm—"
"Ye have promised me much, wench," the lord broke in again before she could tell him who she was, "but naught yet that which I desire. Come. What say ye? I assure ye your husband will not mind parting with ye. In fact, I'll warrant he's tired of ye by now anyway."
"I doubt that!" Isabella snapped, infuriated. "Since we are but newly wed."
"What a pity. Still, I shall compensate him most handsomely
for his loss, I assure ye," the lord uttered, caressing, with his fingers, the hollow between her heaving breasts that swelled with rage above her bodice.
"Then prepare to do so with your life, my lord!" the girl spat. "For if I'm not mistaken, 'tis his steel ye now feel at your neck!"
The lord stiffened, for he did indeed feel the prick of a blade upon his flesh. He tried to crane his head around to see who held the weapon so threateningly against him, but the sword jabbed him wamingly, cautioning him to be still.
"Emrys!" the lord called to his knight. "Why dost thou stand there, doing naught?"
"Perhaps because Caerllywel has a dagger at his throat to ensure just that," Warrick answered grimly in response. "Though I'm certain the sport ye had planned was not to his liking, Emrys is your brother and would no doubt make some foolish attempt to save ye if he could."
"Sweet Jesu Waer—Waerwic?" the lord queried hesitantly, startling Isabella now more than ever.
"Aye, 'tis I, " her husband purred silkily, his voice now having taken on a dangerous, deadly edge. "Now get up, Madog, slowly, and tell me what ye mean by trying to rape my wife."
"Your wife! God's wounds, Waerwic! I did not know she was so; I swear it! Ye know I wouldst never have touched her otherwise! For God's sake, brother! 'Tis the truth; ye have my oath on it!"
Isabella did not know whether she was more surprised to learn the lord was her husband's brother Madog—although as he now rose, she saw the resemblance at once—or to find that Warrick blamed her not at all for what had happened.
"My Lady Hawkhurst"—Madog turned to her, his hands spread apologetically—"I am indeed sorry. Had I realized—"
"Ye wouldst not have touched me, of course," Isabella finished tartly, still frightened and upset and now more angry than ever. "A fine attitude, my lord. Ye take only those maids who are lowborn and helpless against ye! Well, I warn ye right now that should I discover ye attempting to force yourself on any woman here, regardless of her rank, ye shall still feel the bite of my husband's steel. I do not know how things were before I came to Hawkhurst, but ye will find now that they are greatly changed!"
"Brava!" a woman's voice exclaimed as she clapped her hands with approval. "A woman's body should be given freely, with joy, not taken, as though she were but chattel."
A sudden silence fell as the men looked guiltily at the woman
and flushed. For a moment, they seemed like nothing more than young boys caught in some forbidden act, and had Isabella not been so wroth, she would have laughed at the expressions on their faces.
"A notion far too advanced for your time. Mother, surely," Warrick rejoined, at last, as he strode forward, bowed low, and kissed the woman's hand.
Caerllywel, hastily releasing his hold on his brother Emrys (a hot-tempered lot, these Welsh, it appeared), quickly followed suit as Isabella stared in amazement at Warrick's mother. Lady Hwyelis uerch Owein.
Although the girl guessed the woman must be in her forties, the years had been kind to the Lady Hwyelis. She was tall and slender, with a grace that Isabella knew belonged only to those who were a part of the moors and forests, as the girl herself was. Hywelis's rich brown mane hung freely to her waist, indicating that she thought of Hawkhurst as home, for no woman wore her hair unbound outside of a family keep. Her honey-gold skin was as smooth as a young maid's, marred only by a few fine lines around her startlingly pale blue eyes, which gleamed with mystery. She had the same handsome facial structure, aquiline nose, and sensuous mouth that marked all her sons; but she was not truly beautiful. Still, one never realized that: for when she smiled, as she did now, Hwyelis's entire countenance lit up, glowed with that rare, deep, inner light bom of the joyous, earthy knowledge that one has lived—and loved—to the fullest.
She stretched out her hands to Warrick's wife; and as Isabella grasped them, the girl knew, somehow, some way, that she had found in the Earl's mother a strange peace she hadn't even recognized she'd been searching for.
"My lady," she whispered and knelt, pressing her forehead to Hywelis's knuckles. "My lady."
If Warrick and the others thought this greeting odd. Hywelis did not. She gripped Isabella's palms tightly in her own for an instant, waiting for the tears she knew had started in the girl's eyes to pass. Then, gently, the Earl's mother raised Isabella to her feet and kissed her.
"So ye are Waerwic's wife," Hwyelis breathed. "I was afraid, so afraid, but now I see there is nothing at all to fear."
And if Hwyelis's sons thought this even stranger still, Isabella did not.
"Nay, my lady," she answered softly.
Warrick sensed that something of greatest importance had
passed between his mother and his wife, but he could not guess what it had been. It was not until years later that he learned that in that first moment of their meeting, Hwyelis had known instantly that Isabella loved him truly, with all her heart.
The hush was broken finally by the sound of Isabella's animals recalling their mistress and the rest to the present. Warrick presented his brother Emrys to the girl, then she explained to them all about the menagerie. Hwyelis, especially, took a genuine interest in the beasts and bent to pet each one while Isabella stood by quietly, knowing instinctively that the creatures would accept Warrick's mother as easily as they did their mistress.
"And this one?" Hwyelis asked as she moved toward Ragnor, sitting upon one of the bird perches. "Who is this?"
"That is Ragnor, my lady," the girl replied as she hoisted the hawk onto her shoulder, "my special love. He was a gift from the King."
"And what is the matter with him?"
"I do not know, my lady. His wing was broken, and although I set it, and it has mended, still, he cannot fly." ,
Hwyelis studied the bird thoughtfully for a minute, then turned her pale blue eyes to gaze at Warrick. Then she looked back at Isabella, and once more, something passed between them.
"Do not fear, child," Hwyelis told the girl. "'Tis only that he is not yet ready. When the time is right, Ragnor will fly, 1 promise
ye."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
ISABELLA HAD NEVER KNOWN WHAT IT MEANT TO BE a part of a large family before, but with the arrival of Hwyelis, Madog, and Emrys, she soon learned. Somehow, even more than it had done at Christmas, the keep seemed to come alive, to be filled with an electric anticipation. The girl never knew what might happen. One moment, the four half brothers might be laughing together like the best of friends, and in the next, they might have drawn steel against each other like the worst of enemies. Yet, somehow, their fierce quarrels, bom of hot tempers, always came to naught, for the blood bond between them was as strong as that between Isabella and Giles. It was just that it was different, as the brothers themselves were different. They were all tall and broad-shouldered and bore similar facial features; but there, the resemblance ended.
Madog, the oldest, had his father Bryn-Dyfed's coal-black hair, which contrasted strikingly with the pale blue eyes he had inhented from his mother. The most militarily inclined of the four, he had a mind that (when not bent on ravishing a pretty maid) coldly and calculatingly pored over strategies in battle and ferreted out his opponents' most vulnerable weaknesses. He was accounted a brilliant war commander and a dangerous foe; and
those who had once sought to wrest his inheritance, Gwendraeth, from his grasp had discovered, much to their misfortune, that, at fifteen, Madog had needed no one's protection. He had soundly defeated his enemies (without the aid his grandfather had so obhgingly offered) and had sent them scurrying, tails between their legs, back to their own fortresses. Now, at thirty, there were few men in Wales who dared to cross him. He was indeed a lord worthy of the cockatrice badge he wore.
With his brown hair streaked with the gold of his father's and his father's amber eyes, Warrick was the most moody and mysterious of the four. In battle, he did his duty and did it better than most, but he was not obsessed with war like Madog. He was certainly a great deal more sensitive, but this was tempered with a hard edge—those walls that made him so difficult to know and grow close to. Ofttimes, he was darkly brooding and withdrawn, almost indifferent to those around him, even those he cared for; and they would know they had trespassed on his privacy, his need for solitude that only Isabella and Hwyelis fully understood. Because he hid behind a mask, he was, at twent;^-seven, the most dangerous of the brothers, for the simple reason that one never knew what he was likely to do.
There was little of his father, Powys, in Caerllywel. With his mother's rich, dark brown hair and pale blue eyes, he was the court jester with a heart of gold. In battle or game, he was a worthy opponent, for they were good sports, both. Still, all things considered, he loved nothing so much as gaiety. Wooing pretty maids, playing at pranks, drinking, dicing—he joyed in all these and went through life lightheartedly pursuing its pleasures. Yet, he had a serious side as well, one that enabled him to sense unhappiness in others; and he did his best to ease the burdens of those he cared for. He was as gallant to a common wench as he was to a queen, as friendly to a simple yeoman as he was to a lord. Unlike Madog and Warrick, he was not feared,
perhaps; but at twenty-four, he was loved and usually managed to charm his way through most of the crises in his life.
Emrys had his father Newyddllyn's chestnut hair and green eyes and thus least resembled his mother in physical appearance. He was, however, the most closely aligned to her in temperament, for he joyed in life and the living of it. He was not very adept at battle, knowing just enough to defend himself; and inwardly, he hated war, though he knew men must defend their homes and honor. If it were necessary for him to ride into battle, he would frequently be found upon the field, tending the wounded and
dying, desperately fighting off his enemies only if attacked. Of a scholarly bent, he had studied medicine and was well versed in the arts of healing. He loved Madog dearly (as he did his other brothers as well) but disapproved of him and, at twenty-one, had chosen to serve him in the as-yet-unfulfilled hope of teaching him a better way.
But it was Hwyelis whom Isabella truly loved, and the two women soon became the closest of friends. It was almost as though HwyeUs had taken the place of Isabella's own dead mother, Lady Rushden; and now, more than ever, the girl often felt a pang of regret that she had not known her mother well before Lady Rushden had died. For the first time since Lady Rushden's death, the girl understood what she had subconsciously missed and longed for all those years: for only now did she feel she had an older and wiser head to guide her, someone to turn to, to lean on, a shoulder to cry on, someone with whom she could share all those little things that women share.
Often, as Isabella went about her daily chores, she would consult Hwyelis about various matters, glad of the older woman's advice.
"What do ye think. Mother Hwyelis?" the girl would inquire.
And Hwyelis, her pale blue eyes twinkling, would smile and respond, then hug Isabella affectionately.
The older woman seemed to understand, without being told, what the girl had suffered in her past. But then, because Hwyelis was a child of nature, like Isabella, she sensed a great deal that went unspoken, even though the girl, usually so shy, easily poured out much of her heart and soul to the older woman. In return, Hwyelis told Isabella the story of her own life and talked of her sons, especially Warrick, about whom the girl never tired of hearing.
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