Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  Poor, lonely boy! The more that Isabella learned of her husband, the more she loved him. He had suffered, even as she had. No wonder his courtship of her was so slow and careful. Warrick was like Ragnor, not yet ready to fly, to speak of the love for her she knew now was in his heart. Yet, he showed his caring in so many other ways that the girl was content.

  Often, at night, when she lay in the circle of his warm embrace, basking in the afterglow of his lovemaking, she wondered how she had ever thought she loved Lionel, now Earl of St. Saviour-on-the-Lake. When Isabella recalled those days long past, it seemed almost as though she had lived them in a dream instead of reality. She realized now that she had been too young and

  naive, her childish mind filled with too many foolish, romantic dreams, to understand that love—true love—never comes in a blinding flash of glory as she had thought it had come to her. Instead, it grows slowly, like a rose, from a seed that gradually sprouts, buds, and unfurls its petals beneath the sun—and the rain. Aye, that was the true measure of love, surviving the hard times, as well as the good, perceiving the faults of one's beloved—and loving him still.

  Isabella had seen Lionel as some young golden god, and she had worshiped him as such, scarcely daring to breathe at knowing he was hers. But Warrick ... ah, Warrick was indeed a man. For though he too often reminded the girl of some ancient pagan god, she knew he was not. She had seen his feet of clay, had touched them, had kissed them, and had been glad to find them flawed. Now, more than ever, did she recognize that Lionel had been but a dream, and Warrick was reality.

  She smiled to herself in the darkness as her husband stirred, reached out his arms to her, and drew her near, knowing instinctively that she did not sleep.

  "Sweetheart," he murmured drowsily against her ear, his breath warm upon her face. "Is something troubling ye?"

  "Nay, my lord," she rejoined softly.

  "Yet, ye are still awake"—he spoke half-questioningly, slowly raising himself on one elbow to study her.

  "Aye. But there is naught amiss, Warrick. I was but thinking."

  "About what?" he asked, his fingers beginning to slide caressingly over her flesh, reawakening her desire for him, which he had sated earlier.

  "About ye," she said, sighing with pleasure as she snuggled closer to him, her heart swelling with joy and contentment at the now-dear, familiar touch of his hands.

  "Ah," he breathed, somewhat teasingly, as though to hide his true thoughts. "A serious matter indeed to hold slumber at bay. I had not realized I weighed so heavily on your mind. What is it about me that keeps ye awake, 'Sabelle?"

  "Right now, 'tis your hands, my lord," she jested lightly.

  He laughed lowly for a moment, then sobered.

  "Come sweetheart. Tell the truth now. Ye must never lie to your lord."

  "I wouldst not; but even so, ye wouldst not believe me if I told ye what was in my thoughts."

  "How do ye know?" he inquired. "Did 1 not tell ye once 'twas unwise to be so sure of things?"

  "Aye."

  "Then answer the question, 'Sabelle," he coaxed gently, kissing the comer of her mouth. "I am your husband. 'Tis my right to know what ye think of me."

  Isabella wondered what was in his mind at that, but Warrick had his eyes half-closed against her, so she could not guess. Still, it seemed to her tiiere was more than just curiosity behind his probing. His demeanor, as he waited for her response, was a shade too casual for the matter to be unimportant to him. Somehow, she sensed he cared desperately what she thought of him; and now, tonight, the girl decided she would tell him. She took a deep breath.

  "I—^I was thinking about how much I love ye, Warrick," she said.

  She felt him stiffen beside her, and his hands tightened on her body.

  "God's blood!" he swore quietly, fiercely. "Do not lie to me, 'Sabelle. Never lie to me about a thing like that."

  She swallowed hard, her heart jerking queerly in her breast; but still, she managed to say, "I told ye, ye wouldst not believe me, my lord."

  He released her so suddenly, she was startled, and flung himself, with a growl, from their bed. Frightened, Isabella sat up, drawing the sheet up to hide her nakedness as he fumbled around momentarily in the darkness, then lit a candle, which he set upon the table next to the massive four-poster. The light shone in the girl's face, but she did not turn away from it as Warrick sat down on the bed and laid his hands on her shoulders, his eyes staring at her searchingly.

  "Now," he uttered. "Say again what ye told me when 'twas dark, and I could not see your face."

  "I love ye, Warrick."

  He inhaled sharply, and for a moment, as the girl gazed at him, she feared she'd lost him for all time.

  Then he queried, " 'Tis true then? Ye do not lie?"

  "Nay, my lord."

  "And that day at Lionel's tent?"

  "He had deceived me into coming; and when I told him I wouldst have none of him, because I wouldst not betray ye, my husband, he grabbed me like a madman and attempted to force himself upon me. I was so angry, I accused him of being no better than Lord Oadby. He—he seemed to regain his senses at my words, and I was able to escape from him. That is all, my

  lord. Lionel did kiss me, aye, and tear my gown, but there was

  no more to it than that. I swear: for I knew then, that day, that

  I did not love him, had never loved him. 'Tis ye who have my

  heart."

  "Oh, 'Sabelle, sweetheart," Warrick muttered as he suddenly crushed her to him. "Ye do not know how long I have waited to hear ye say those words."

  Then he ground his mouth down on hers hard, kissing her forever, entwining his fingers in her mass of silvery-blond hair, as though he feared he might somehow lose her. Feverishly, he rained searing kisses on her temples, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, and then her lips once more. He could not seem to get enough of her, and Isabella gloried in the notion.

  "Oh, my love, my love!" she cried, clutching him to her. "I've wanted for so long to tell ye what was in my heart, but I was afraid, so afraid ye wouldst not believe me. After that day at the tourney, I feared ye would never speak to me again. And when it seemed as though yc no longer even wanted me..."

  "Oh, 'Sabelle, I did, sweetheart. I did. 'Twas just that I couldn't bear the thought of being hurt again. I had begun to care for yh, ye see; and when I believed ye had played me false, I attempted to put ye from my heart and mind so ye couldst not wound me further. But I could not dispel your image, no matter how hard I tried. All those nights without ye, I did but dream of ye."

  "Yet, ye didst not come to me."

  "Nay, like a fool, I sat in the King's stables and cursed ye to my horse!"

  "Oh, Warrick, nay." Isabella stifled a small giggle of relief at knowing he had not deceived her after all. "Did ye really?"

  "Aye."

  "And I thought—I thought..."

  "That I had sought another's arms?" he inquired gently.

  "Aye."

  "I do not ask of ye what I do not offer in return, 'Sabelle. Come. Let me show ye."

  As long as she lived, Isabella would never forget this night: the touch of Warrick's hands as he drew away the sheet to bare her nakedness to his passion-darkened eyes; the heat of his lips upon her mouth, her breasts, her belly, as he kissed every part of her tingling body; the feel of his weight as he lay atop her, driving into her, filling up her senses with all that he was—and more. With a thousand shooting stars, the galaxy swirled up to engulf her, so she knew not where her burning flesh ended and

  Warrick's began. They were as one as they spiraled down into the all-enveloping blackness at the center of the blinding conflagration. Flames of fire blazed wildly through Isabella's veins, roaring in her ears as she cried out sweetly her surrender; and Warrick whispered huskily, "Cariad, my love, my Rose of Rapture," before he wrapped her long blond hair around his throat and told her he loved her.

  Chapter Thirty

  ISABELLA'S FACE. WHICH OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN fill
ed with joy, was instead marred by a troubled frown as she stared down at the letter she held in her hands. The message was fi"om Lady Stanley, Harry Tewdwr's mother, who had continued to correspond, despite the girl's attempts to discourage this; and now, more than ever, Isabella was certain the Baroness had an ulterior motive in writing to her. Lady Stanley's true messages, the girl was sure, were directed to Warrick. He read the letters without any apparent interest, but later, Isabella would often find him closeted with his brothers, deep in discussion. And although the men spoke in low-voiced Welsh, which, despite Warrick's instruction, she still had difficulty understanding, conversation nevertheless broke off abruptly if she chanced to enter the room. Sometimes, she wished that Madog, especially, had never come to Hawkhurst, for she felt certain he was the fuel that fanned the flames of rebellion she believed were smoldering at the keep. Madog, who so joyed in war, would think nothing of enlisting his brothers' aid in his battles. Isabella's heart leaped to her throat at the idea. She loved Warrick, her husband. She did not want him to be killed, either in war—or at the hands of an executioner

  for treason. Aye, treason, that ugly word that had sent so many to their deaths.

  She closed her eyes and gave a small cry of agony at the thought, crushing Lady Stanley's letter. Fervently, Isabella prayed the Baroness would cease writing to her, though this seemed unlikely. Lady Stanley was clever, very clever. Her messages to the girl were innocent enough except to those who, like Warrick, knew how to read between the lines. Should the correspondence ever fall into the wrong hands, nothing could ever be proven against the Baroness. After all, what harm could there be in her letters to Isabella, who was known to be a staunch Yorkist who supported the Crown?

  The girl longed to throw the message down a garderobe, as she had the straw baby that Lady Shrewton had given her long ago, but she dared not. Warrick would definitely be suspicious of such behavior, and she would do nothing to ruin his newfound love for or trust in her. Besides, if she kept quiet, Isabella might conceivably learn something of importance and somehow, some way, prevent from taking place whatever was being plotted against the throne.

  Oh, if only Madog would go home to Gwendraeth! Perhaps then, Warrick would not be drawn into whatever was being planned. Her hopes were in vain, however, the girl knew. Ca-erllywel and Jocelyn were to be married at harvest; and of course, Madog, Emrys, and Hwyelis wished to attend the ceremony. Even now, they had not quite forgiven Warrick for wedding Isabella without their being present at the rite. The Welsh, like the Scots, were a very clannish race, it appeared.

  Even after the harvest, there was to be no escaping from Madog, for he himself was to be married; and all were to journey to Gwendraeth for the nuptials. As Warrick was Madog's heir, Madog's first wife having died in childbirth and his only child having been stillborn, Madog had (or so he'd said) wanted to tell his brother the news of his forthcoming wedding in person. Naturally, Madog hoped, this time, to get a son of the marriage, who would then be his heir. Besides, they had all wanted to meet Warrick's bride as well, so they had come to Hawkhurst.

  Isabella sighed as she glanced down once more at Lady Stanley's letter and tried to smooth out the crumpled parchment so that Warrick would not know how distraught she'd been at its receipt. Bitterly, she cursed the Baroness and Margaret's son, the Lancastrian heir, Harry Tewdwr, under her breath. If not for

  them, Isabella would have been happier than she'd ever been in her life.

  Wales, or Cymru, as the Welsh called it, was a wild, savage land; and, following their sojourn at Gwendraeth for Madog's wedding, as they traversed the terrain's steep, rocky hills to the Bristol Channel, Isabella was glad to be going home. It was not that she disliked Wales—indeed, she had found its untamed beauty breathtaking—but the Welsh were, to her, a strange, barbaric race; and she had known litde ease at Gwendraeth. The castle, although well guarded and heavily fortified, had been most primitive in condition; and she had understood, for the first time, how, before her arrival, Warrick and Caerllywel had lived at Hawkhurst without truly realizing the many comforts the keep had lacked.

  Further, the talk at Gwendraeth had proven most unsetding to Isabella: for much of Wales, it seemed, bore little love for England, its long-time foe. Isabella was certain the Welsh would not hesitate to support the Lancastrian heir, Harry Tewdwr, whp was one of their own, should he be so bold as to attempt to wrest the Crown from the Yorkists.

  Inside her ermine-furred cloak, the girl shivered; but it was not the cold of the dying winter that chilled her.

  That night, at the inn in which they stayed, Isabella had become so anxious about the matter that she finally dared to broach her fears to Warrick. But her husband said nothing to put her mind at ease.

  "A man must do what he thinks is right, sweetheart," Warrick told her.

  "But what ye intend is treason, Warrick!" she cried. 'T know, in my heart, 'tis! As long as he lives, Edward Plantagenet is the rightful King of England."

  "Aye, and as long as he lives, he will be my liege, for there is no man who will succeed in wresting the throne from Edward's grasp, 'Sabelle. But even a king does not live forever, cariad, and methinks that Edward's endless nights of carousing have taken their toll on him. He has grown slack and soft, and his power and the people's respect for him have lessened. I tell ye this, 'Sabelle: If he dies, England will not accept his son young Ned as her ruler. She has suffered before under the reign of boy kings, and she will not endure such again."

  Isabella bit her lip at the thought. King Richard II had been only ten when he'd ascended to the throne; the real power of the

  Crown had lain in the hands of his uncle John of Gaunt and a regency council chosen specifically so that no one could gain complete control of policy. Naturally, England had not prospered under this weak government, and in 1381, the peasants had revolted. Even after Richard had attained his majority, England had continued to suffer under his reign; and when John of Gaunt had died in 1399, his son, Henry Bolingbroke, had forced Richard to abdicate and had proclaimed himself King Henry IV of England. Richard had retired to Pontefract Castle, where, it was rumored, he had been murdered.

  Then, in 1422, Henry IV's grandson, less than a year old, had inherited the throne. Isabella knew what England had endured under the saintly but simpleminded King Henry VI's reign. She had lived through the last few years of it.

  Young Ned Plantagenet, Edward's son, was only twelve.

  '"Sabelle," Warrick continued seriously, "ye do see that if Edward were to die, the power of the Crown would fall into the hands of the Woodvilles, don't ye?"

  "There is my lord Duke of Gloucester," she suggested.

  "Young Ned scarcely knows Gloucester," her husband replied. "Tis Lord Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, who has reared the boy at Ludlow."

  "Nevertheless, Warrick, young Ned is the rightful heir to the throne; and even if he were not, there are others with claims far more legitimate than Harry Tewdwr's."

  "Perhaps," her husband conceded. "But legitimate or not, the fact remains: He is the sole, surviving Lancastrian heir. If we are not to have the Yorkist Woodvilles, we must have the Lancastrian Tewdwr."

  "I am a Yorkist, my lord, as is my brother," Isabella reminded him quietly, "as our father was before us and his father before him. We will never change our allegiance. Wouldst ye meet Giles upon a battlefield somewhere and slay him?"

  "I hope not, 'Sabelle." Warrick's voice was earnest. "But if it comes to war, I shall do my duty against my enemies like any man of honor."

  "If it comes to war, / will be your enemy, Warrick," the girl pointed out, with a small sob of despair, before she turned and ran from the room.

  Blinded by tears, she sought out Hwyelis, who was accompanying them back to England. Falling to her knees and laying her head in the older woman's lap for comfort, Isabella poured out her grief and fears to Warrick's mother. Hwyelis listened

  until the girl was finished, stroking Isabella's hair soothingly all the while.

/>   Then the older woman sighed and said, "I do not know what my sons are planning, child, and I do not want to know. War is a man's business, after all, and not a very pleasant one at that. But I do know this: Ye love Warrick, and he loves ye, something that has given me much joy. No matter what happens, your place is by his side."

  "And—and what of my allegiance to the King, my lady?" Isabella wept.

  "My dear 'Sabelle, His Grace is not yet in his grave. Doubdess, he will live for many years still; and in that time, much may change."

  "Oh, Mother Hwyelis, I hope so," the girl whispered fervently. "I hope so with all my heart."

  But Isabella hoped in vain. A year later, at age forty. His Grace Edward IV, King of England, was dead.

  His Grace the Duke of Gloucester, Richard Plantagenet, stared silentiy at Lord Hasting's travel-stained messenger, who kneh before him. That the youth had ridden long and hard was evident from the grime that covered his clothing, as though he had not bothered to change the garments for days. The contents of the scroll, which he held out to Richard with one hand, were urgent then; the Duke knew without asking. Still, Gloucester did not reach for the letter. Motionless, he stood, gripped by the same terrible premonition that had seemed to strangle him that day at the Battle of Bamet when he had asked after die fate of his cousin Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the Kingmaker.

  Dead. Dead. Dead.. .

  Never again would Richard laugh with Neville, the cousin who had reared him here at Middleham Castle and whom he had loved. Neville, who had put Ned on the throne, then betrayed him and tried to wrest the Crown from his grasp, was dead.

  Strange that the Duke^ should think of Neville now. Neville— and Ned. It was a bad sign, Gloucester thought. Slowly, he took the letter the messenger handed him and broke its seal. For a moment, after reading the scroll's contents, Richard feared he would be ill, would swoon; and briefly, he laid his hand upon the messenger's shoulder to steady himself. He gazed blindly at the great hall of Middleham, which suddenly appeared to have frozen before him as, one by one, his guests began to realize how still and silent he had fallen. They were frightened by the