In a quiet voice of command, which brooked no disobedience, the girl ordered everyone from the room, even Lord Francis Lovell, England's Lord Chamberlain; and strangely enough, no one questioned her authority. One by one, they took their de-
partures until only Isabella and Richard remained. Slowly, the girl made her way to the King's side and laid one hand upon his shoulder.
"Your Grace," she began tentatively, and then, when he did not answer, she said, "Richard."
He glanced up at her then but with no recognition in his slate-blue eyes.
"Dickon," she murmured gently, calling him by the loving name she would never have presumed to use before. "Dickon. Tis I, 'Sabelle."
With an effort, the King seemed to rouse himself, to know her. He blinked once or twice, then spoke haltingly, as though it were almost too much for him.
"'Sabelle," he whispered brokenly, his voice a strangled sob of despair. "Dear 'Sabelle, how she loved ye."
"And ye, Your Grace."
For a moment, there was silence in the empty chamber, that odd, uneasy hush that death brings to the living. Outside, Isabella could still hear the church bells ringing out their mournful knell^ the dirge echoing through the city streets. Though it was yet day and nearly spring, the grey sky was dark—and growing oddly darker. Through the window, the girl could see the queer, ominous blackness that had begun to settle over London as slowly, forbiddingly, the sun was snuffed out, like a candle, in the firmament, leaving a strange ebony void in the heavens, where the yellow ball had been. In moments, the sky was as though it were night.
"Dear God," Isabella breathed involuntarily, one hand going to her throat as, on the streets, the people of London started to cry out with fear, some falling to their knees and praying, believing it was the end of the world. "Dear God."
At the girl's words, the King turned. Briefly, he stared out the window in horror at the unholy sight.
Then, stricken, he uttered lowly, " 'Tis a sign, an ill omen. I have sinned against God, and now he is punishing me."
"Nay, Your Grace! 'Tis not so! Never think it!" Isabella cried.
"Oh, 'Sabelle!" Richard's dark visage was a twisted, tortured mask of agony when he looked at her. "'Tis true. 'Tis true! God has taken away the very light of my life!"
Then, Richard, King of England, flung himself to his knees before Isabella and, burying his face in her lap as she sank to a chair, wept with grief.
Chapter Thirty-Four
London, England, 1485
ISABELLA WAS SICK WITH DESPAIR: FOR EACH DAY, the rumors about her beloved Richard, the King, grew; and as they waxed, so did Richard himself seem to wane. He had always been quiet and somber, of course; but now, his soberness was somehow ominous, foreboding. He did not seem to care whether he lived or died. He had spoken the truth that day of Anne's death. The light in his life had gone out, just as surely as the strange solar eclipse that had marked the Queen's passing had blotted out the sun that day.
In the eyes of the people—and perhaps Richard's too—God had judged the King and condemned him. Gossips whispered that Richard had murdered his nephews and had poisoned his wife to hasten her end, knowing she was too frail to bear him the heir he desired. And, most horrifying of all, the rumors spread that he intended to marry his niece young Bess.
Isabella was stunned to discover the monstrous proportions to which the scandalmongering had grown. She did what she could to stop it, but it was like trying to put a lid on a pot that was
boiling over; the contents bubbled and hissed and seeped out to scald and hurt. Over and over, she damned Lady Stanley and the Duke of Buckingham for the heinous crime they had committed and for which they would never be blamed. Over and over, the girl wept and raged that Richard, who had loved Anne more than life itself, was accused of murdering the Queen. Isabella swore that he would sooner have plunged a dagger into his heart, but few believed her. Most painful of all was the idea that he meant to marry young Bess. Richard's morals were unimpeachable. He had been the most faithful of husbands to Anne—even those who spread the hateful gossip knew better than to charge the King with infidelity. That he would contemplate an incestuous relationship with his niece was ludicrous in the extreme. Every fiber of Richard's being would have been revolted by such a match. Isabella was certain the evil idea sprang from young Bess's mother, Elizabeth, who would stop at nothing to regain the power she had lost. If Elizabeth could not gain influence through young Bess and Harry Tewdwr, she would do it through young Bess and Richard: for Elizabeth did not care what wickedness she wrought as long as the throne was hers once more, and youn^ Bess was like a leaf upon the wind in her mother's path.
Surely, Isabella thought, people could see that!
But still, the malicious whispers persisted, poisoning the King's subjects against him.
Richard could not bear it. The girl knew, when she looked into his eyes, that he could not.
At last, driven beyond endurance, he stood up in the great hall of the Priory of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem and denied the slanderous accusations. Then he sent young Bess, who had left sanctuary and come to Court, away, away from those who would use her and hurt her, as they had wounded him.
Every eve, Isabella went to the chapel at Westminster to pray for the King and Anne, sweet Anne; to light candles for them both, and to leave a single gold sovereign in the alms box.
Tonight, as she dropped the coin into the receptacle, Isabella hesitated, her attention caught by the wraithlike figure who slipped from the shadows and knelt to pray. It was Gilliane, Lionel's wife, now Lady St. Saviour. As usual, she looked as though she had been crying. Isabella's heart went out to the girl. After all, it was not Gilliane's fault that Lionel had not wished to wed her; and despite Gilliane's attempts to please him, Isabella had heard that his treatment continued to be most cruel. Even in the distance.
she could see an ugly bruise upon Gilliane's face. Lionel must have struck her! Isabella's mouth tightened whitely with rage at the thought; and emboldened by her anger, she started forward, intending to offer what comfort she could to the lonely, miserable girl.
"So this is where ye hide to escape from my attentions, madam," a voice sneered, causing Isabella to pause and instinctively secrete herself behind a pillar. "God's blood!" Lord Lionel Va-leureux. Earl of St. Saviour, swore with disgust. "Prayer! I should have respected ye more if I'd discovered 'twas a lover ye didst seek here."
Gilliane cowered upon her knees before her husband, her head bowed, as though expecting a blow. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and trembled a little.
"Ye are my husband, my lord," she said. "For me to take a lover would be to sin against God's Commandments and damn my mortal soul."
"Christ's son, ye stupid slut!" Lionel gave a short, ugly laugh. "If that is the case, then nearly all at Court are destined to bum in hell, myself included."
Gilliane quivered with hurt at the knowledge of her husband's adultery. Though he had flaunted his mistresses before her often enough in the past, the reminder of his many betrayals still brought pain, for she had tried hard to make their marriage work. She bit her lip, and tears sparkled upon her eyelashes.
"I shall pray for ye then, my lord," she told her husband quietly.
"Aye, you'd best pray all right," he growled, suddenly grabbing her hair and twisting her bowed head up roughly. "But it had better be for yourself if ye don't give me an heir—and soon. I'm sick of bedding ye, ye frigid, barren bitch."
"Then set me aside, my lord!" Gilliane cried pleadingly. "Keep that of mine that our marriage brought ye, and allow me to enter a convent, as ye know I so long to do. I shall cause no trouble for ye; I swear it."
"Nay, madam, what ye desire cannot be. Your father would not consent to the dissolution of our marriage; and even if he did, he would, of course, insist upon the return of your property. I am very much aft-aid, madam, that ye and I are bound together for life, however much we may despise the matter. Now get up, ye little brown mouse, an
d scurry away to our chamber. Though I've no stomach for ye, I mean to get an heir on ye yet!"
"Nay, my lord, please," Gilliane begged, beginning to weep. "Ye—ye hurt me, and I—I cannot bear it "
"Then that is your misfortune. I warned ye how 'twould be, did I not? Now get up. Get up, ye simpleminded strumpet!" Lionel ordered curtly.
When Gilliane did not obey, cringing in fear instead, he shook her unmercifully, then slapped her viciously, sending her sprawling upon the floor. Isabella, watching from the shadows, gasped, numb with shock at Lionel's brutality. To the girl's horror, Gilliane, as she fell, struck her head on one of the pews and suddenly lay very still, her face as white as death.
My God! Isabella thought. He's killed her. Lionel has murdered poor Gilliane, and I did nothing to stop him. Nothing! Oh, dear God, forgive me.
Lionel, bent over his wife's body, glanced up sharply at the small, horrified sound that Isabella had made. His cold, glittering blue eyes narrowed as they searched the chapel suspiciously, probing the shadows intently.
Trembling uncontrollably, sick to her stomach with terror and shame, Isabella shrank back behind the pillar, suddenly realizing that if Lionel saw her, he would slay her also. She was a witness to his crime—the only witness. He would have to kill her too, no matter how much he wanted her. Oh, God. If only she could escape, could somehow reach the door. But Isabella knew it was fruitless. If she attempted to creep from the chapel, Lionel would surely spy her. Her only hope was to remain still and in hiding. Petrified, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, she flattened herself against the cold marble of the pillar and waited, scarcely daring to breathe.
After what seemed like an eternity, she, at last, heard the sounds of Lionel dragging his wife's body across the floor. Cautiously, Isabella peeped around the edge of the pillar. Aye, he was carrying poor Gilliane away. Doubtless, he meant to bury her somewhere so she wouldn't be discovered... .Nay! He was but merely shifting her position, placing her at the foot of a small staircase that led down from a door to the chapel. An accident! He was making Gilliane's death appear like an accident. Of course. How well Isabella remembered how quick and clever Lionel had been, years ago, in making Lord Oadby's demise seem so. Her heart pounding in her breast, she waited for Lionel to leave. But he didn't. Instead, he walked over to the altar and picked up one of the heavy gold candlesticks that sat upon the dais. For a
moment, Isabella was puzzled, and then, horribly, she understood.
Dear God. Gilliane was still alive. The blow from the pew had only stunned her, knocked her unconscious. Lionel meant to finish her off with the candelabrum.
"Nay!" Isabella screamed, shocked from her dazed and frightened state at last. "Nay, Lionel! Nay!"
StiU crying out, she ran up the aisle of the chapel, shoving aside her fear for her own safety in light of Gilliane's dire plight. Stricken, Lionel stared at Isabella uncomprehendingly for an instant, giving her the time she needed to tear the sconce from his grasp.
"Ye can't! Ye can't do it, Lionel! I won't let ye! I won't let ye, do ye hear?"
"'Sabelle," he breathed. "'Sabelle." And then, "God's wounds, ye little fool. Don't ye see? 'Tis our chance—our chance to be rid of her once and for all! Give me the candlestick, dearest heart. There has never been a woman for me but ye."
"Dear God. Art mad? Even were ye free, / am not—"
"Why, we'll kill him too, that half-Welsh bastard," Lionel stated, his eyes filled with a strange and terrifying light. "Aye, 'tis the only way, 'Sabelle. I sec that now. Now come, dearest heart, and give me the candlestick," he coaxed slyly. "We must hurry if we're not to be discovered."
"Dear God," Isabella repeated like a mindless puppet. "Ye are mad. I love my husband! I love him, do ye hear? I'd not marry ye if ye were the last man on Earth!"
"Oh, come, 'Sabelle. This is no time for ye to tease me. I've always been the man who held your heart; ye cannot deny that."
"I can. I do!"
Briefly, Lionel made no response to her outburst, merely looked at her, considering. Then he began to walk toward her purposefully.
"I'm sorry to hear ye say that, 'Sabelle," he told her ominously. "Very sorry indeed. I would have done anything for ye, ye know."
Slowly, understanding her danger, Isabella backed away from him, petrified but unwilling to leave the still-unconscious Gilliane to his savage mercy. If only she could run for help! But Lionel stalked her every step. One sudden move would provoke him into making a lunge for her. As it was, he kept his careful distance only because of the candelabrum she held threateningly in her hands. The girl bit her lip, wondering how long she had been in the chapel, how long it would be before she was missed, and
Warrick or Jocelyn would come searching for her. If only she
could stave off Lionel's attack until then. She could feel the
beginnings of hysteria rising in her throat, and with difficulty,
she choked the ragged sobs down. She could not afford to give
way to her emotions—not now, not with death staring her in the
face.
How strange it was that Lionel, a man she'd once believed she loved, meant to kill her. Almost dctachedly, she wondered what it would feel like to have those hands, which had once caressed her so tenderly, strangling the very life from her body. She inhaled sharply at the thought and shook herself mentally, forcing the morbid speculation from her mind.
"My lord... Lionel ... ye are not yourself. Of course, ye are distraught. Your wife has suffered an accident. I know ye did not intend to hurt her," Isabella lied. '"Twas not your fault she struck the pew. 'Twas an accident," the girl reiterated slowly. "Go, and fetch one of the Court physicians. I will stay with Gilliane until ye return."
"It won't work, dearest heart," Lionel purred, "much as i^ grieves me to admit it. I saw your face, just now, and there was no love in it for me, only for him, that half-Welsh bastard!" Lionel spat. "Oh, 'Sabelle, 'Sabelle. We could have been so happy, ye and I. We were happy.. once. Where did it all go wrong, I wonder?"
To the girl's surprise, Lionel truly sounded sad; for a moment, she almost pitied him. She steeled herself against the emotion. He was like one of the Scottish wildcats about which Giles had told her. If she showed oqe sign of weakness, one hint of fear, Lionel would turn on her in a minute, tearing her to shreds. And it would do no good to scream. She had screamed earlier, and no one had come to her aid. The chapel was deserted at this late hour.
"We were never happy, ye and I," she said, "for our love was built on lies, your lies, my lord, lies that I, young and trusting fool that I was, believed."
"Sweet y^5M," he groaned. "I loved ye, 'Sabelle; I did!"
"Nay, Lionel. Had ye loved me, ye wouldst never have lied to me. Ye only wanted me, as ye want me now—now more than ever, perhaps, for I am not yours and never will be."
"Because of him, that—"
"'Half-Welsh bastard,'" Isabella finished wryly. "Aye. Warrick is that—and more. But ye will never understand that, my lord. Ye scorn him because of the blood that runs in his veins.
a circumstance of birth in which he had no choice; and ye hate him because 'tis he who holds my heart. Yet, I love him for those very same reasons. Warrick's birth has made him vulnerable, and he holds my heart because he has been man enough to admit to that vulnerability, to let me inside the walls that protect him from those like ye. He needs me, and in a strange way, I need him too. We are alike, Warrick and I, as ye and I never could be."
"Aye, I see that now... when 'tis too late—too late for both of us," Lionel said. "I cannot let ye go, 'Sabelle. I meant to murder my wife, and ye know it. Ye will tell Richard, and then I will have nothing: for somehow, that stupid slut 1 wed managed to win Anne's heart, and the King does love those whom the Queen held dear."
This is the end, Isabella thought. Lionel is going to slay me. Oh, Warrick, Warrick, my lord, my love
"Run, my lady! Run!"
Both Isabella and Lionel turned, startled, a
t the command. The girl's heart thudded wildly in her breast with relief. It was Jo-celyn—Jocelyn, heavy with Caerllywel's child but, even so, prepared to defend her mistress. Even now, she was advancing toward them, the torch she held in her hands thrust out threateningly.
"Jocelyn! Get Warrick. Lady St. Saviour is here. She's had an accident, and I dare not leave her," Isabella called as she continued to watch Lionel warily, trying to guess his next move.
She could almost see the wheels clicking furiously in his brain as he studied the three women: Isabella, slight but determined; Jocelyn, pregnant but valiant and now hesitant, not knowing whether to stay and fight or to run for aid; and Gilliane, helpless and unaware. With a sudden, swift movement, Lionel lunged at Isabella, wresting the sconce from her grasp and swinging at her wildly. Just in time, she managed to avoid the fatal blow. The candlestick came crashing down upon a pew, splintering the top of the wooden bench. Hurriedly gathering up her skirts, the girl raced toward the altar, intending to use one of the remaining candelabra there as a weapon to replace the one that Lionel had wrenched from her hold. But he stopped her with one awful sentence.
"Don't move, dearest heart," he instructed, "or I'll kill her."
She turned and saw he was standing over Gilliane's inert body, his sconce poised to strike. Isabella gasped.
"Nay!"
"Oh, aye, 'Sabelle," Lionel jeered. "Now get over here, and tell your maid to do likewise, or I swear I'll slay this frigid, barren bitch I married."
"I think not, my lord."
The voice that had spoken was cold and hard and deadly, but Isabella had never loved it more than she did in that moment when she looked up to see Warrick standing on the small staircase above them. His dark visage was a murderous mask of rage, and a muscle was working in his tightened jaw. Quickly, before the much-surprised Lionel could gather his wits, Warrick leaped to the floor and kicked the candlestick from Lionel's hands. It smashed against a wall and then fell upon the floor, cracking the inlaid marble.
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