Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  whiteness of his face, the blank opaqueness of his slate-blue eyes. Hesitantly, they stirred and looked to him for reassurance, but the Duke had none to offer.

  Dear God. Ned was dead. Had been dead for days.

  Nay! Nay.' 'Twas not possible! Edward of the three suns was not just a king; he was the sun itself in splendor, a golden god at whose feet all of England had knelt.

  Dead. Dead. Dead...

  Gloucester turned and staggered unseeingly from the great hall. He never even heard his beloved wife, Anne, crying his name.

  Her Grace the Duchess of Gloucester, Anne, was frightened, more frightened than she had ever been in her life. She had never before seen Richard like this. Cold. Silent, Withdrawn. He was devastated by grief yet drawn with grim determination too as he prepared for the worst battle of his life; and she did not know how to help him. That was what hurt the worst of all. She, whom her husband had never failed, was failing him now, in his greatest hour of need; and because of her helplessness, Anne was afraid, so desperately afraid, for the man she loved more than life itself. If only she could find some way to comfort him, lessen his sorrow, ease the terrible burden that had fallen upon his shoulders; but she could not. She was but a woman; Edward Plantagenet had been a king. Anne alone could not lighten the heavy responsibility with which His Grace had charged his brother.

  In his will, Edward had named Richard, Duke of Gloucester, Lord Protector of young Ned, now Edward V, boy King of England.

  It was an awesome position, and the man who wielded it must tread carefully—or lose his very life.

  Much as Anne tried to forget the history of her country, she could not. Thomas of Woodstock had been an uncle of the boy King Richard U. When Richard had reached his majority, he'd had Thomas arrested and murdered. Humphrey, Thomas's son, had been named Lord Protector of the boy King Henry VI. Like his father, Humphrey had been arrested; a day later, he'd been dead. This in itself was enough to alarm Anne. What absolutely terrified her was that both Thomas and Humphrey had held the title that was now her husband's: Duke of Gloucester.

  It seemed an ill omen.

  Richard was weary, so very weary. He closed his dark slate-blue eyes and laid his head on his arms on the table before him.

  All his life, he had been Ned's right arm. Richard had sailed with his brother on the flight into Burgundy when Neville had betrayed them. Richard had ridden at Ned's side in the Battles of Bamet and Tewkesbury. Richard had been there in France when his brother had bargained with King Louis XI and signed the Treaty of Picquigny. Richard had marched into Scotland, when Ned had been too ill to do so, and had recaptured Berwick and entered Edinburgh unopposed after soundly defeating King James HI and his army of marauding Highlanders and Border Lords.

  And though Ned was gone now—dead—still, he reached out to Richard from the grave.

  Richard had written to Lord Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, at Ludlow, requesting him to bring young Ned to a rendezvous point somewhere on the journey south to London so they might enter the city together. Anthony had cordially agreed to the meeting, which was to take place in Northampton; but still, Richard's mind was uneasy. Lord Hastings had sent a second messenger to Middleham, informing Richard that the Queen and her Woodville kin meant to overthrow his protectorship of young Ned They had already won England's Chancellor, Archbishop Thomas Rotherham, to their cause and were wooing Lord Thomas Stanley, the Fox. Richard knew the forthcoming battle with the Woodvilles for control of the throne would be the fight of his life. He wondered how many would side with the Queen against him. So far, the only bright note he had received had come from his cousin Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, who had offered to accompany him on his journey south and to place a thousand men at his disposal.

  Sighing, Richard picked up his pen to reply to his cousin's message. Buckingham's offer of assistance was indeed heartening, for he had long borne a grudge against the Woodvilles, who had forced him to marry the Queen's sister Katherine. But still, Richard could not forget that his cousin was Lady Stanley's nephew by marriage as well. As he accepted Buckingham's offer, Richard prayed that blood was thicker than water, though he knew that when it came to winning a throne, nothing was sacred.

  On Tuesday, April 29, 1483, Richard rode into Northampton, only to discover that Lord Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, had already come and gone—taking young Ned with him. Richard, angered by this deceit, was waiting impatiently for Buckingham's

  arrival when Anthony returned, accompanied only by a small party of men. He apologized for his earlier absence and explained that young Ned had wished to press on to Stony Stratford. The excuse was a lame one, and Anthony flushed slightly, guiltily, upon delivering it. The truth was that his nephew Sir Richard Grey had reached him with a message from the Queen, in London, ordering him to cancel his rendezvous with Gloucester. Under no circumstances—Elizabeth had underlined these words twice— was Gloucester to be permitted to get his hands on young Ned. Possession of the boy King was the key to gaining control of the Crown. The Queen had commanded Anthony to bring young Ned to London posthaste and assassinate Gloucester. This last, however, Anthony knew he could not undertake. He would move heaven and earth for his sister Elizabeth; but murder he would not do. A man had his conscience after all, and God was an entity with whom even the Queen could not intervene.

  Still somewhat flustered, Anthony took his departure, and Buckingham rode in, full of news—most of it unpleasant.

  Edward had been properly laid to rest at Windsor a week ago Sunday. Richard need not worry that the ceremony had not been fitting. The Queen, in her own cold way, had loved Ned; and though she had not attended the funeral rites, she had made certain he was buried with all honors and glory. Elizabeth herself had been busy at Westminster, persuading the council to outfit a fleet of ships, whose command had been given to her brother Sir Edward Woodville. Her eldest son. Lord Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset and, since March, Deputy Constable of the Tower, had seized possession of the treasury. In addition, the Queen had succeeded in prevailing upon the council to disregard Edward's Will naming Richard Lord Protector of the boy King and had gained its consent, as well, to her demand that young Ned be crowned at once. The coronation was set for May the fourth, this coming Sunday.

  Richard inhaled sharply at that. Once young Ned was crowned, Richard's protectorship would come to an end. By God! How did she dare—that common-bom bitch from Grafton Regis, who had kept her thighs closed until Ned had married her? By what right did she countermand Richard's authority—that cunning, coidhearted whore, who had hounded Ned into executing his brother George, Duke of Clarence, and who would have gotten rid of Richard too, had she been able.

  Abruptly, Richard stood and banged his fist down on the table.

  By God! It was not to be borne, and he would not bear it!

  "Francis"—he turned to Lx)rd Lovell—"rouse the men. We ride for Stony Stratford immediately."

  They reached the town at dawn's first light. There, Richard arrested, among others, both Lord Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, and Sir Richard Grey and ordered them imprisoned in Pon-tefract Castle.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Hawkhurst Castle, England, 1483

  THE MEN CAME SUDDENLY, WITHOUT WARNING; BUT at first, Isabella was not alarmed. Since the King's death, numerous large parties had passed by Hawkhurst on their ways to London. Had Isabella not been with child, she and Warrick would have been among those making the journey. As it was, the Earl had said his wife's health and well-being were far more important to him than politics; and he would not make the trip to London with her in her present condition, nor would he go without her. Now, Isabella smiled softly to herself at the thought, childishly pleased, for she had not wished to be parted from her husband. Then, shaking her head a little over her selfish delight, she eased the small Welsh pony and cart that Warrick insisted on her driving now (horseback riding was too dangerous for her, he claimed) over to the side of the road to allow the rapidly oncoming troo
p of men room to pass. A tiny frown knit her brow. There was something vaguely disturbing about the entourage, but Isabella couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. Briefly, she was puzzled by the matter; then shrugging, she turned her thoughts to a subject she preferred—Warrick.

  How kind and considerate he was, even if Isabella did think him a trifle overzealous in his protection of her. After all, it wasn't as though she were ill. Except for the usual bouts with morning sickness, her pregnancy was progressing smoothly. Still, Warrick persisted in treating her as delicately as though she were a fragile china doll. Ofttimes, the girl was tempted to laugh at what she considered her husband's foolishness; and sometimes, she did, gaily, until Warrick joined in sheepishly, understanding she was but teasing him. Still, it was nice to be pampered, and Isabella was glad to know her husband looked forward to the babe's arrival with as much joy and excitement as she did. She patted her rounding belly gently, filled with love and anticipation. She couldn't wait to hold Warrick's child in her arms!

  The thundering hooves of the nearing cavalcade brought her back, with a start, to the present. The men seemed to be bearing down on her at a frightening pace. Did they intend to ride her down? Surely, she had given them ample room in which to pass. Suddenly apprehensive, the girl clucked to the pony, maneuvering even farther to the side of the path, so that they were almost in i danger of toppling into the ditch that ran alongside the rough road.

  All her concentration riveted on getting out of the way, it was not until Isabella once more looked up that she finally recognized what it was that had nagged her earlier about the men. They were garbed completely in black livery, which bore no identifying arms.

  A little shiver of fear chased up her spine at the realization, for it could mean only one thing: The men were either disguised knights of some lord, or bandits, and either boded ill for whomever crossed their path.

  Thoroughly scared now, Isabella grasped the pony's reins more tightly, urging the animal into a gallop as she turned the vehicle around.

  She was not totally alone. There were crofters working in the fields, but still, the villeins would be of small use against the armed troop on horseback.

  Fool! Fool! Isabella chided herself mentally, recalling how she had laughed at Warrick's suggestion that her three faithful knights accompany her on her outing today.

  Why, she was only going to old Berta's cottage, she had said, well within sight of Hawkhurst's walls. Warrick must stop suffocating her with attention! She was only pregnant, not helpless!

  Now, chagrined, the girl gazed longingly at the keep in the distance, wishing she had paid more heed to her husband. Oh, surely, the Earl's sentries had spied her distress and were, even now, sending men to her aid!

  The crofters, who had observed her plight, were shouting and running toward the road, their hoes and scythes in hand. But as Isabella had surmised, they were defenseless against the entourage in pursuit of her, and she screamed at them to fall back, lest they be killed.

  The pony was racing along furiously now, and the wheels of the cart rattled and bounced precariously over the path. Once, after a particularly nasty jolt, the girl was nearly thrown from her seat and narrowly missed being toppled into the ditch. Her heart leaped to her throat at the thought of being overturned, but she dared not slow the beast. The animal's short, stocky legs could not outrun those of the destriers pounding after her. Even now, the cavalcade was quickly gaining on her.

  To her horror, Isabella saw a large rock protruding from the road ahead. Frantically, she swerved to avoid it, but one of her wheels struck the stone sharply anyway, and the front axle shattered at the impact. The cart veered dangerously, wood splintering along the ground, until, at last, the pony broke free of its harness, and the vehicle plunged into the ditch.

  Fueled by the power of terror, Isabella righted herself and managed to climb down awkwardly from the cart; then she began to run. But it was no use. In moments, she was the prisoner of the unknown men in black livery.

  Desperately, she struggled against them, but they easily subdued her, then tossed her upon a horse they had apparently brought along with them for just this purpose.

  At least, Isabella realized dimly through her fright, they were not bandits. They had planned and come prepared to kidnap her deliberately—but why? Did they mean only to hold her for ransom—or worse?

  She did not know. She did not recognize any of the brutal men who had taken her captive; and when, tremulously but indignantly, she dared to question their identities and motive in abducting her, they stonily refused to answer.

  Finally, utteriy petrified, discouraged, and bereft, the girl ceased her queries and, tears stinging her eyes, rode on in silence.

  Isabella did not know how long or far they had galloped before the violent, unremitting jolting started to take its toll on her. She

  ground her teeth together to keep from crying out in sheer anguish as, at first, tiny twinges of pain, and then shards of shooting agony, began to rip through her belly.

  Oh, God, not the babe, she prayed fervently. Please, God, not the child!

  Until this moment, all her mind-numbing fear had been for herself. Now, her heart was wrenched by a new and even more panicking terror. What if she lost her babe?

  "Please, please, slow down," she begged. "I am with child."

  But her desperate cries went unheeded. In fact, when they heard the sounds of pursuit and realized that Warrick and his men had given chase, the kidnappers sped on in frenzied haste.

  Hurry, Warrick! Oh, please, God, hurry! Isabella screamed silently.

  And far away, as though he could hear her, the Earl, like a man driven by the devil, grimly pushed his knights harder and harder. Several of his men's less-able destriers actually staggered and went down; but still, Warrick pressed on determinedly, praying that Gwalchmai would not falter beneath him.

  By nightfall, the Earl had caught up with his wife's abductors.

  The ensuing battle was short and swift, for Warrick fought like a madman, as did Madog and Caerllywel, who accompanied him. Even gentle Emrys wielded his sword with a fury previously unknown to him. Again and again, viciously, steel struck steel, until, at last, the earth was littered with decapitated bodies and stained bright red with blood. When the horrible melee was finished, only one of Isabella's captors, barely standing, remained alive.

  Though Warrick, Madog, and Caerllywel tortured the captive unmercifully, he doggedly refused to name his lord; and finally, Madog, angered, slit the man's throat. The knight gagged as blood, punctuated by an odd whistling sound, spewed from the mortal wound; then slowly, he sank to his knees and crumpled into a heap upon the ground.

  Moments later, Isabella fainted into her husband's strong arms, a sudden, thick warm moisture seeping between her thighs.

  Isabella was not well. All of a sudden, the world she knew seemed to have gone quite mad; and to one only recently recovered from a miscarriage and still suffering from depression because of it, the thought was even more disturbing than it would have been under normal circumstances. Her head pounded horribly as she lay down upon the massive canopy bed in her chamber at the

  Tower. Old Alice placed a wet cloth on the girl's forehead, and, with relief, she closed her eyes at the cool, comforting touch. She wished desperately that Jocelyn would return with one of the Court physicians.

  But the Tower was in an uproar over the King's death and the Queen's subsequent machinations to seize control of the Crown. TTiere was no telling how long Jocelyn would be. No one with any sense showed his face at Court these days, lest he be drawn into the struggle for power being waged between Elizabeth and Richard.

  Richard would win, of course. Unlike the rest of the Court, Isabella had no doubt of this. She need have no fear for her savior, only for Warrick, who had come to the Tower to plot and plan now that his liege was dead.

  Oh, if only she had not lost the child! she thought for the hundredth time.

  She might have kept her husband
at home, at Hawkhurst, where they both belonged. But she had miscarried the babe, and she cursed bitterly the unknown person responsible for the shock that had caused her loss. Isabella was certain the evil, deranged Lady Shrewton was the culprit; Warrick was not so sure. In any event, it was unlikely they would ever know the truth of the matter.

  Physically, Isabella had recovered from the terrifying ordeal of her abduction, but mentally, she was still dazed and depressed over the loss of her child. She wished that Warrick had not insisted on traveling to London, but he had remained adamant about his decision.

  '"Tis true I did not carry the babe in my body, sweetheart," he had said, "but my grief at its loss is no less than yours. I know 'tis little comfort, but ye are young, just seventeen. In time, there will be another child. Meanwhile, life must go on, and we must look to our future—and that of the babes we will have, cariad. 'Tis necessary we go to Court, 'Sabelle; otherwise, I would not ask it of ye. Ye know I would not. 'Tis that I cannot know fully what is happening there if I remain here at Hawkhurst. Besides, the doctor suggested a change of scenery might do ye good."

  Though he had not pressed her further, Warrick had been deeply upset and anxious about his wife. Hawkhurst was a remote and isolated castle, and Isabella would not be happy confined behind its walls for safety. Though he had not told her of his fears, Warrick had felt certain her abduction had been instigated by Lord Montecatini. The Count had not, to Warrick's knowledge, returned to England, but the Earl knew the Italian was a