"Buckingham botched it, of course," Warrick stated wryly, swirling the brandy in his chalice a little. "He tried to deceive ye, as we knew he would, but the people refused to rally to his cause. Even his own cousins would not come to his aid but opposed him in battle instead. Richard's men took Buckingham prisoner and marched him to Salisbury, where Richard is camped. There, they brought Buckingham up before Sir Ralph Assheton, the Vice-Constable, and charged him with treason. Buckingham was found guilty and executed the next day. He died badly, I'm told, a coward to the end."
"And the Woodvilles?" Harry inquired.
"Hiding in sanctuary or fled."
"I see." Harry paused, considering. "Well, then," he continued, "there's no need for me to linger here. I do but endanger ye, as well as myself, Waerwic, especially as my mother has informed me your wife is a devout Yorkist."
"Aye, my lord," Warrick answered smoothly the question in Harry's eyes. "Our political differences be a source of pain to us both. She loves Richard, for he and his wife, Anne, were most kind to her when she was a child."
"Richard is indeed fortunate to have so loyal a subject," Harry remarked somewhat dryly.
"Aye, my lord," Warrick noted frankly, then went on somewhat defiantly, "But I wouldst not part with my 'Sabelle all the
same, Harry, for I do love her dearly. Twas she who healed the bitter wound that Brangwen's betrayal of me left. If you'd rather I were not your man—"
"Nay, nay," Harry interrupted. "I'm glad of the happiness ye have found with your wife, Waerwic, no matter her loyalties; and I do apologize if I sounded harsh. Tis merely that I am weary of this waiting and do long for Wales, for home. I wouldst not ask ye to give up your wife for me, and I was not questioning your loyalty to me. I know ye have served me faithfully."
"Then there is something else, Harry, that methinks ye should know before returning to Brittany."
"Aye, what is it?"
Warrick took a long draught of his brandy, then uttered slowly, "I do believe the Princes are dead."
Harry inhaled sharply at this. For a moment, his heart raced as he considered how the demise of the Princes would place him that much closer to the Crown he so desired. Then finally, he shook his head, his pale visage tinged slightly with regret.
"Nay, Waerwic. It must be vicious rumor only. From what I have learned of him, I do not think that Richard Plantagenet would have murdered his brother's children. He stands to lose much by their deaths, and there are too many others who stand to gain if such were to happen. I do not believe that Richard would make such a mistake."
"Nor do I, my lord. Methinks 'twas Buckingham who did the deed, probably during Richard's absence from London."
"Buckingham was a fool, Waerwic. Ye said so yourself," Harry pointed out. "I doubt if he was bright enough to have carried out such a plan on his own. He would have to have had someone more clever than he was behind him, a puppeteer who pulled his strings. Who would have aided him in such a plot?"
Warrick's lids lowered warily over his amber eyes, for there were limits to a man's friendship after all.
"I do not know, my lord," he responded, in a voice he hoped was even, as he stared down into his chalice, unable to meet Harry's eyes.
"Come. Out with it, Waerwic!" Harry ordered, sensing there was more to it than Warrick was telling. "Ye have your suspicions, surely, if ye truly believe the Princes are dead and that Buckingham murdered them."
"Aye." Warrick nodded, confirming this, then paused deliberately. "But I do hesitate to speak of them to ye, Harry. Methinks ye wouldst rather not know whom I suspect."
There were only two people so close to Harry that Warrick would have refused to name them; and of those two, one had been in Brittany with Harry, too far away to have planned the murderous scheme with the meticulous attention to timing and detail necessary for success.
Without warning, the cabin grew suddenly still. Inside, a coal sparked and snapped upon the brazier, and the flames of the candles wavered with a gusty draft of air. Outside, the rain still poured down, beating, without mercy, upon the roof of the cabin and the deck of the tossing ship. The wind whined and howled ominously, tearing at the trailing canvas of the furled sails and causing the vessel's masts and timbers to creak and groan as they strained against the gale. The waves of the Channel roared and slapped against the hull of the ship as though to batter it to pieces.
Harry's countenance was white, his breathing so shallow, he seemed scarcely to breathe at all. His heart, in his chest, felt as though it were constricting into a tight hard knot, squeezing the air from his body.
How could his mother have committed such a foul deed? Harry, had wanted the Crown, aye—but at any price? Aye, perhaps 'twas so. If he was honest, he knew he must share the guilt of his mother's crime—the murder of two innocent boys.
"I do hope she prays for all our souls," he muttered quietly at last, then buried his head in his hands, like a man bereft.
Like a shadow, Warrick slipped softly from the cabin and gently closed the door.
Isabella sighed and stirred faintly as she felt the bed sink with the weight of the warm body that slid in next to hers. Though the chamber was in darkness, and she was still drowsy with sleep, she would have known that fainiliar scent anywhere; and eagerly, she stretched out her arms to her husband.
"Warrick," she breathed, snuggling closer to his naked flesh. "Oh, how I have missed ye!"
He gave a low laugh.
"And I, ye, sweetheart. But what makes ye so certain 'tis I, 'Sabelle?" he asked. "Have I not told ye before 'tis unwise to be so sure of things?"
"Hmmm. But even were I blind, I wouldst know ye anywhere, my lord, my love. Besides," she teased, "ye are the only man who could have gotten past Caerllywel into my room."
"Aye," Warrick agreed. "He was like to slit my throat until he realized 'twas I who sought entrance to your chamber. Thank
God, 'twas not Madog I did leave behind to guard ye. Doubtless^ ye would have awakened to find yourself a widow."
"A dreadful thought, Warrick." Isabella shuddered involuntarily. "Do not speak of such things to me. How was our home? Still standing?"
"Aye, there has been much damage done by the storm, but already, the crofters have set about to repair it. I cannot tell ye how my heart swelled with pride, 'Sabelle, when I saw what they had already accomplished on their own. Before I married ye, most of the villeins would doubtless simply have left after such a catastrophe. I have much to love ye for, cariad."
"Then do love me, my lord, for it has been more than a month since ye have lain with me, and I have hungered for ye these many nights past."
"And I, ye," he murmured before his mouth found hers in the blackness.
The earth seemed to fall away beneath her, as that swoon that always swept through her body at his touch jolted her now and left her trembling with quickly wakened passion in his arms. Her lips quivered vulnerably beneath his, stirring in Warrick an odd thrill of desire as he kissed them, tasted them, parted them with his tongue. Almost fiercely, he explored the inner sweetness of her mouth, ravished it, savored it, growing more demanding with each lingering moment. Isabella's tongue entwined with Warrick's own, touching, swirling, filling him with delight. It had indeed been too long since they had lain together.
As they kissed, they caressed each other lovingly, their hands moving slowly over bare, tingling flesh, exciting it to even greater heights of sensation. Warrick's fingers cupped Isabella's breasts; his thumbs brushed her nipples lightly, making her shiver with pleasure as the rosy tips stiffened to taut little peaks. And though she could trace only the outline of his face in the shadows, she knew his golden eyes were dark with passion. She reveled in the thought that he desired her, that she had managed to tame—if only for a little while—this powerful man who wore the hawk's badge.
His lips melted across her face to her temple, the silky strands of her hair. His breath was warm upon her ear, and the words he whispered there made her heart beat fast
with joy.
"Cariad," he sighed, his voice low and husky. "My beloved Rose of Rapture. How I want ye. I will never get enough of ye. Ye have bewitched me, sweetheart."
"If so, 'tis but the spell of love that binds ye, Warrick: for I
am no sorceress, though ofttimes, like now, I have thought there was magic in our nights."
"Aye, I too have felt it. We were meant for each other, 'Sa-belle, belong together, now and for always. Naught will ever part us; I swear it!"
He buried his face in her silvery mane, which cascaded out, like a glorious waterfall, over the pillows. So soft, it was, like strands of silk. He kissed the tangled tresses and slowly wrapped them about his throat, drawing them, like trailing ribands, across his skin.
"Sweet, sweet," he muttered.
Isabella's arms tightened about him and slipped down his body to his hips to caress the strong thick muscles that rippled in his back as he moved against her, pressing his flesh to hers so closely that she could feel the ridges of the white scars from battle that marred his chest, his belly, his thighs. Another woman might have thought the rough old wounds were ugly, but to Isabella, each one was a chapter in Warrick's life, a test of courage he had passed with flying colors. >
His mouth covered one breast while his hand crept down to fondle the warm, moist, secret place between her flanks, even as Isabella's fingers found his manhood and urged him to enter her, for she was eager for him and as ready as he.
Soon, he was driving down into her, filling her to overflowing with his maleness. Wantonly, she arched her hips to receive him, wanting him, aching for him. Hot wild desire coiled itself within her, like a taut drum being drawn even tighter before suddenly it burst to reverberate through her body in roll after roll of ecstasy.
And then they were on their sides, the rhythm of their love-making adjusting smoothly to this new beat, throbbing in perfect synchronization as Warrick thrust into her faster and faster, his face now buried in that soft place upon her shoulder, his teeth nipping lightly there, sending tiny electric shock waves through her blood to mingle with its feverish pounding.
Isabella cried out, gasping, as again the sweet, torrid tremors of delight shook her; and Warrick suddenly crushed her to him, shuddering with pleasure against the length of her body.
Quietly, they lay together, the stillness broken only by the sounds of their breathing as slowly the primitive, tempestuous force that had held them in its wake subsided. Warrick cradled Isabella tenderly against his chest, one hand ensnarled in her damp hair as he pressed her head to his shoulder and kissed her.
"I love ye," he said.
"And I, ye," Isabella responded softly before closing her eyes and drifting into slumber, secure in the knowledge that she was safe in her husband's protective arms.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sheriff Hutton Castle, England, 1484
IT HAD BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE ISABELLA HAD COME home, to the wild moors of Yorkshire, and her return was not a happy one. She stared out bhndly over the gently rolling terrain, not seeing, at all, the hills covered with a riotous cascade of heather and bracken, trailing broom and gorse, ferns and gillyflowers. The sunlight spilled over the land like melting butter, and the clear rills that wound their ways through the stony knolls shone blue and dappled beneath the branches of the ashes and pines, the poplars and oaks, and the spreading yews.
"They do say ..." Anne took a deep breath, then sighed heavily. "They do say 'tis—'tis God's judgment upon Dickon, ye know, for—for murdering his nephews," she said painfully, startling Isabella back to the present.
The girl turned, noting how thin and frail the Queen looked. Anne's pale face was drawn with grief; her dark, haunted eyes were recl-rimmed from weeping and ringed with mauve shadows from lack of sleep. Her trembling fingers kept clutching and tearing at her handkerchief nervously; and every so often, her
body was racked by a hacking cough that was alarming. The Queen was ill, Isabella knew.
"Ye know that is a lie, Anne," the girl stated flady. "Twas Buckingham who slew them."
"But no one will ever believe that, 'Sabelle, especially now." The Queen's tone was bitter. "Dickon will go down in history as the man responsible for the murder of two innocent boys. Oh, God, 'Sabelle. Young Ned was only twelve and—and little Dickon but ten. Ned—" Her voice broke, but she mastered it and went on. "My Ned was ten too, almost eleven. He—he would have had a—a birthday soon. He was—was so excited about it "
Isabella bit her lip with anguish for the Queen as once more Anne's eyes filled with tears. They had buried Richard and Anne's only child, Edward, in the church of St. Helen and the Holy Cross just that day. Without warning, the boy had suffered some sort of internal rupture. Nothing could be done. In minutes, he'd been dead.
The girl closed her eyes tiredly. Was it God's judgment on Richard? His was not the hand that had killed his nephews; but had he not proclaimed them bastards, taken the Crown for himself, might they be alive today? No one would ever know, and 'twas useless to ponder the question. What was done, was done.
Suddenly, Anne was seized by another fit of coughing that shook Isabella from her reverie. Concerned, she hurried to the Queen's side, supporting her fragile body until she could reach a chair and sit down. Still, the spasms racked her as she held her handkerchief to her mouth in an attempt to stifle the horrible rasps.
"Your Grace, Anne, let me send for the physicians, please," Isabella begged, but the Queen refused.
"Nay," she gasped. "Nay! I'll be all right in a minute."
But when the fit had finally passed, the girl knew, suddenly, terribly, that the Queen had lied to spare her. Isabella's heart turned cold in her breast, shriveling up into a hard little ball of fear and agony, for she knew there was no hope to be had. She felt as though, without warning, an iron band had enclasped her lungs, growing tighter and tighter until she could not breathe. Tears stung her horror-stricken eyes as she pressed her quivering hands to her mouth and shook her head with shock and grief and, most of all, an overwhelming pity.
"Oh, Anne," she wept sofdy, the sobs choking in her throat. "Oh, Anne!"
Isabella knelt and grasped the Queen's hands, slowly opening them to reveal the handkerchief that Anne had held to her lips earlier. Flecks of blood, a dark, ugly red, stained the fine, white linen square. It was the lung tisick, Isabella knew, and it was mortal. Aime's sister, Isabel, had died of it.
"Oh, Anne. I'm sorry, so very sorry."
"Don't, 'Sabelle. Please, don't. I don't think I—I can bear it if—if ye cry." The Queen's face was pinched with agony.
Isabella turned away, unable to bear the dark, pleading eyes that gazed at her so helplessly, filled with fear and the knowledge of death. Fiercely, the girl brushed away the hot, blinding tears of sorrow and anger that were now streaming down her cheeks. Oh, God. It just wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair! How could God be so cruel as to take from Richard his child and now the shadow at his side that was his beloved wife, Anne? Anne, sweet Anne, cut off in the bloom of her youth—
"Does—does Richard know?" Isabella asked haltingly.
"Nay, and I don't want him to.. .not yet. I want to keep it from him as long as—as long as possible." ,
"Oh, Anne. 'Twill kill him; he loves ye so. Is there... nothing to be done?"
"Nay. 'Twas the same with Bella."
"How long—how long before—" Isabella broke off abruptly, unable to continue.
"I have a little time left to me yet, 'Sabelle. A few months, or more, if I'm—if I'm lucky. Oh, help me, 'Sabelle; please, help me! Ye alone know my secret. If the others find out, they'll summon the physicians; they'll tell Dickon; and I cannot burden him now ... not now. Surely, ye see that! Oh, 'Sabelle. I helped ye all those years ago; do not turn away from me now; 1 beg of ye!"
"Of course, 1 won't. How couldst ye even think such a thing? 'Tis only that... the physicians might know something, anything. ..."
"Nay. Do ye not think we did all we could for Bella? i t
ell ye there is naught to be done. I'm going to—to die, and soon. Until then, I've got to be strong, 'Sabelle; I've just got to! For Dickon's sake. Oh, if only we could have stayed at Middleham, lived out our lives in peace and quiet there. I would have been so happy. We never wanted any more than that, Dickon and I, not then, not now, not ever. We never wanted the Crown."
"I know." Isabella rejoined softly. "1 know."
Almost desperately, Anne clasped Isabella's hand tighUy. The Queen's eyes were bright, feverish; her skin, nearly translucent beneath its pallor, was stretched too tautly over her bones. Her breathing was shallow, ragged, as though she could not get enough air.
"Promise me—promise me you'll look after Dickon," she rasped as yet another fit of coughing seized her.
"Ye know I will," Isabella whispered, sobs choking her throat once more as she hugged Anne's frail body in an attempt to prevent her from being racked painfully by the spasms. Then suddenly the girl cried, "Oh, Anne. Ann^! Ye are so young, too young to die! Whatever will we do without ye, we, who have loved ye so?"
"Ye will go on, dear 'Sabellc. Ye must. Ye must not fail me, do ye hear? Dickon will need ye more than ever when I'm— when I'm gone, for I—I do fear the worst is yet to come. Pray for me, 'Sabelle. Pray for us all. And—and think of me sometimes—"
"As long as I live, Anne, I promise ye! I'll not forget ye... ever! As long as I live, ye shall be always in my thoughts and prayers; I swear it!"
On March 16, 1485, after returning to London, Anne died. Isabella was with her beloved friend until the heart-wrenching last, clasping the Queen's pale thin hand in her own, feeling Anne's flesh growing colder and colder until, at last, Isabella realized the Queen was dead.
Still, the girl did not let go, vainly trying to keep Anne with her for just a little while longer. Through the blur of her tears, Isabella saw those who hovered in the Queen's chamber moving to carry out the necessary funeral arrangements; dimly, the girl heard the muffled sobs of Anne's women and, in the distance, the tollmg of the church bells that marked the Queen's passing. Isabella knew she should release Anne's hand and go to comfort the sorrowing maids. The Queen would have wanted her to do that, the girl knew. But it was not until she looked up and saw Richard's face, from across the bed where Aime lay, that Isabella rose.
Rose of rapture Page 41