Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  "Ye didst promise we would meet again, my lord," Warrick growled. "And so we have. Draw your sword, ye whoreson coward, for I mean to kill ye."

  For an instant, Lionel's face was white with fear, then deliberately, he grinned, tossing his mane of blond hair like a strutting cock, its comb.

  "With pleasure, my lord. I have waited a long time for this," he declared.

  Steel scraped upon steel as blades were yanked from scabbards. Curtly, the two men saluted, then started to circle slowly, intently, not even glancing around as Caerllywel and Giles burst into the chapel, drawing up short at the sight that met their eyes.

  Upon spying her brother and Caerllywel and realizing they would intervene if Lionel attempted any treachery, Isabella, recovering her senses, made her way to the font at the main door of the chapel. There, she dipped her handkerchief into the holy water, then moved, with Jocelyn, to care for Gilliane. To her relief, Isabella saw the girl was, at last, beginning to stir. Isabella pressed die wet cloth to Gilliane's forehead and felt gingerly for any injuries the girl might have sustained, but there appeared to be nothing other than the cut, swollen bruise that had formed where her head had struck the pew.

  Scarcely six feet from where Isabella and Jocelyn knelt by Gilliane's form, the duel between Warrick and Lionel had been engaged. The deadly broadswords of the two men clashed with a resounding ring that echoed ominously to the rafters of the deserted chapel and seemed to jar every bone in Isabella's body. She gritted her teeth to keep from screaming out in protest against the battle and forced herself to concentrate on Gilliane. Still, it

  required all of Isabella's effort not to watch the two men, especially when, out of the comer of one eye, she saw Lionel make a wild lunge at Warrick and her husband barely manage to parry the wicked thrust. She gasped, trembling with fear for the man she loved, and turned away, swallowing hard to choke down the sudden lump that had risen in her throat. Isabella was thankful when Jocelyn, sensing her distress, moved to shield her from the sight.

  "Take heart, my lady," the maid encouraged her with a small smile. "My Lord Hawkhurst knows what he is about."

  "Aye." Isabella nodded. "But Lionel has become a madman. There is no telling what treachery he may attempt."

  "Caerllywel and my Lord Rushden will guard my Lord Hawkhurst against any evil, my lady."

  "Aye. Ye are right, of course; I know. Come, Jocelyn. Help me shift Lady St. Saviour to a more comfortable position. Nay, Gilliane. Do not try to rise just yet. You've had a nasty fall."

  The fight continued, blades clattering against each other with a grating scrape that seemed to crawl along Isabella's tortured nerves. She dabbed at the wound on Gilliane's head. From habit, Isabella crooned softly to the girl, as she would have done an aching beast, although she could not have said what she told the injured Gilliane to comfort her. Isabella was only dimly aware the girl had ceased her tiny moans of pain, was content to lie quietly in the arms that cradled her so tenderly.

  "What is happening, Jocelyn?" Isabella asked at last, unable to bear the awful sounds of the duel any longer.

  Jocelyn turned, glancing over her shoulder, then just as soberly gazed back at her mistress.

  "My Lord St. Saviour is faltering. 'Twill not be long now, my lady. Nay, do not look, my lady. Ye will only distress yourself further. I assure ye my Lord Hawkhurst has suffered no mortal wound."

  Once more, Isabella gasped.

  "Then he is hurt!" she cried, realizing, without warning, the implications of her maid's statement.

  "A cut on the arm—no more, my lady."

  "Care for Lady St. Saviour. I must see to my husband."

  "Nay, my lady, please. Ye are too gentle to witness what must occur "

  Isabella paid no heed to Jocelyn's pleading, quickly shifting Gilliane's body so the girl now lay in the maid's lap, then spring-

  ing to her feet, one hand held to her mouth to stifle her whimpers of fear as she saw the blood that dripped slowly down her husband's arm.

  '"Sabelle."

  Giles was there, supporting her, as her knees buckled, and she almost swooned.

  "Oh, Giles, he is losing too much blood!" Isabella wailed softly as she clung to her brother for comfort.

  "Nay, dear sister. 'Tis but a scratch, I promise ye. Many times have I seen men lose far more and survive. 'Tis Lionel who is done for, I'm afraid."

  Isabella looked at the man she'd once thought she loved and recognized that Giles had spoken the truth. Lionel was breathing heavily, rasping horribly for air as he staggered upon his booted feet, wielding his weapon more and more haphazardly, as though it had somehow grown too heavy for him to lift. His golden hair was sopping wet. An almost feverish sweat beaded his brow, ran down into his eyes, momentarily blinding him, and soaked his dark blue doublet, mingling with the blood that stained the coat as well. His left arm dangled uselessly, nearly severed from its socket, where his shoulder had been deeply gashed by Warrick's sword. There was a gaping wound in Lionel's belly too—a fatal injury; Isabella knew. But still, he fought on. Even the Earl was slightly appalled.

  "Give it up, man!" Warrick snapped tersely. "Ye are as good as dead now."

  "Nay... ye... half-Welsh... bastard," Lionel responded grimly, shaking his head, then laughed shortly, an eerie, mirthless sound. "I shall... have ... that... which is mine, that which ... ye stole from me!"

  "Don't be a fool, St. Saviour! 'Sabelle was never yours and never will be."

  "She... would have been, had it... not been ... for ye!"

  "For God's sake, man—"

  Warrick had not time to say anything further, for just then, Lionel lunged at him again with all the desperate strength of a madman. With difficulty, Isabella smothered the screams that rose in her throat as the two men slipped and slid on the blood that lay slick upon the marble floor. Furiously, in a last ditch effort to slay the Earl, Lionel pressed his attack harder, slashing crazily at Warrick but succeeding only in knocking a candlestick from the altar. The heavy gold sconce crashed upon the floor and rolled awkwardly until it was still. Lionel's blade swung on.

  shattering the devotion candles on their wrought-iron holders to one side of the dais. Glass flew in all directions. Flames sputtered from those wicks that had been lit in prayer. The altar cloth caught fire.

  "Caerllywel!" Giles called a warning but unnecessarily.

  Warrick's brother had already moved to stamp out the small blaze that had started. The acrid smoke stung Isabella's nostrils, mingling with the awful smell of blood and making her long to vomit. Behind her, she could hear Jocelyn quietly retching into her handkerchief; but still, Isabella could not tear her eyes from the scene before her.

  Whoosh, whoosh went the deadly weapons, hissing dangerously through the air to clang together with a horrible whack, followed by the awful scraping of steel upon steel. Sparks spat from the metal. Boots thudded upon marble as the two men thrust, parried, the corded muscles in their bodies taut with the strain of the terrible battle.

  Then suddenly, it was over. Without warning, Lionel inhaled sharply, as though taken by surprise. He swayed, stumbled, dropping his sword as he clutched his belly, from which blood was now mortally gushing. The blade clattered upon the marble like a death knell before Lionel himself fell, sprawling upon the floor. Blood spurted from his nostrils, trickled down from one comer of his mouth as his head rolled limply, and his arms began to slacken. His lids fluttered once or twice; then, with difficulty, he focused his blue eyes on Isabella.

  "'Sa—belle." He tried weakly to hold out one hand to her, but the effort was too much for him. He gave a small moan of anguish. "I—I didst love... ye, ye know "

  "Lionel! Lionel!" Isabella screamed and ran to his side, but she was too late.

  Lord Lionel Valeureux, Earl of St. Saviour-on-the-Lake, was dead.

  She felt numbed by the realization. Hot, bitter tears stung her eyes—not for Lionel really, but for what he had symbolized— her first love, her youth, all that was past, all that
might have been ... but was gone. Gone with the golden god who had proven such a false idol and beside whom she knelt so sorrowfully.

  '"Sabelle." Warrick gendy touched her shoulder and raised her to her feet. '"Sabelle."

  He held her close, tenderly, for a moment, stroking her hair soothingly, whispering words of comfort and understanding, while she clung to him and wept.

  But oddly enough, it was Gilliane who dried Isabella's tears.

  "Do not weep for Lionel, my lady," the injured girl said, having finally regained consciousness and determined what had happened. "He is not worth your tears. Cry instead for the babe he cost ye, for 'twas Lionel who didst set his men to kidnap ye that day upon the moors, bringing on the miscarriage ye suffered afterward."

  "Nay!" Isabella was stricken. "Nay!"

  "Aye, my lady. 'Tis the truth," Gilliane insisted softly. "He never meant to harm ye, of course, but when it became known ye had lost your child, Lionel did say he was glad ye were not to bear Lord Hawkhurst's babe."

  "Oh, Warrick." Isabella glanced up at her husband, sensing the sudden pain and rage and loss he felt. Lionel had cost them their child, the babe they had so eagerly awaited, had so grievously mourned; and Isabella had yet to conceive again, perhaps would never feel the quickening of Warrick's child in her womb. "Oh, Warrick. I did curse Lady Shrewton for the evil deed, and all this time, 'twas Lionel who was to blame."

  "And I thought 'twas Lord Montecatini," he rejoined. "Damn my pride! Had I but believed ye that day at Lionel's tent, I should have been on guard against him and any further treachery on his part."

  "Do not blame yourself for that, Warrick. Ye didst not realize how obsessed he had grown in his determination to have me. I don't think any of us did." Isabella's tone was bitter yet oddly confused, for she was hurt and stunned by Gilliane's revelation. "He was like a child crying for the moon simply because he could not have it. Still, strangely enough, methinks, in his own peculiar way, he really did love me after all."

  "I'm sure he did, 'Sabelle," Warrick told her. "How could anyone help but love ye?"

  Then suddenly, without warning, the Earl sank to his knees, as did Giles and Caerllywel. Jocelyn and Gilliane awkwardly hastened to curtsy. Without even turning to discover the cause of this sudden humility, Isabella too quickly knelt and bowed her head. There could only be one reason for this sudden, wordless obeisance—Richard, the King.

  For an instant, the chapel was hushed and breathless as His Grace's dark slate-blue eyes, somber and grieving, surveyed the sight before him. Then he sighed and spoke, his voice low and weary as it broke the stillness.

  "This"—his hand swept the chapel—"is God's house, a place

  where those who seek peace for their souls do come. Why hast thou instead done murder here, Lord Hawkhurst?" Richard's voice rose, shaking slightly with anger. "Tell me: Why hast thou desecrated God's house with your foul deed? Am I so wretched, so accursed, that this is what my kingdom has come to?"

  "Nay, Your Grace, nay!" Warrick intoned quietly but with conviction. "Would to God it had been anywhere but here."

  "My Lady Hawkhurst, see to your husband's wound, and tell me what has happened here."

  Slowly, as Isabella bound up Warrick's arm, she explained what had occurred. At the end of her recital, the King sighed once more, a man bereft.

  "'Tis true," he breathed to himself. "I am accursed. I do but taint all those whom I hold dear." Then, recalling himself to the present, Richard said, "My Lady St. Saviour, ye are free of a most unhappy marriage. I do bestow upon ye all your husband's worldly possessions and give ye leave to enter a convent to find the peace ye seek."

  "Oh, Your—Your Grace," Gilliane whispered, tears brimming in her eyes as she kissed the King's hand. "Sire, ye are most kind and good. I shall pray for ye always."

  "Aye, do that, my lady," Richard uttered softly. "Perhaps God will listen to ye."

  Then soberly, the King turned away, the silence in the chapel echoing painfully through the empty, aching chambers of his heart.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  IT WAS AUGUST 8, 1485, WHEN HARRY TEWDWR, WITH

  a force of two thousand French mercenaries, landed in Wales at Milford Haven. Despite those who would have restrained him, Harry was the first ashore. For a minute, he stood silently, surveying the land of his birth and childhood, from which he had been exiled for fourteen long years. His heart swelled in his breast, and for an instant, those who watched could have sworn there were tears in eyes as he knelt and kissed the ground. A great cheer burst forth from the crowd that had gathered there to greet him, but still, Harry did not rise. His uncle Jasper laid one hand upon Harry's shoulder.

  "Harry?"—Jasper spoke lowly, somewhat disturbed, for his nephew was not usually wont to give so free a rein to his emotions.

  The moment of unguarded expression passed.

  Slowly, Harry got to his feet, slightly surprised to discover his men-at-arms, their swords drawn, ranged between him and the spectators.

  "Is Richard Plantagenet so near then, uncle?" he queried wryly, indicating his knights.

  Jasper flushed a little-

  "Nay," the older man replied. "We didst but fear there were others present who might seek to do ye mischief."

  "Put up your blades, sirs," Harry told his men. "We are among friends here. This is my home."

  Home. How good it was to say the word at last, after all these long years.

  Cautiously, the knights began to sheathe their swords. But scarcely had their steel met scabbards than they were drawing the blades again, surrounding Harry protectively from the lone rider who now approached at a rapid pace.

  Reining in sharply the snorting destrier before them, the rider dismounted, took off his helmet and gauntlets, and strode toward them, apparently unconcerned that Harry's men had moved to block his path.

  "My lord of Richmond," the stranger hailed Harry. "My name is Rhys ap Thomas, and I have a boon to ask of ye." Before Harry could speak, the stranger had thrown himself face-up on the ground before Harry's feet. "Come," Rhys bellowed. "Step over me. Sire."

  A much-bemused Harry and his men surveyed the stranger warily yet with some amusement as well. If 'twas a trick to assassinate Harry, 'twas a poor one, for Rhys ap Thomas was a big man, his breastplate, heavy. He would not rise easily without aid, and his current position left him most vulnerable to attack.

  Seeing no danger, Harry shrugged and started forward, deciding to honor the peculiar request.

  "Hold, Harry," Jasper ordered softly, laying one hand upon his nephew's arm. "The man means to do ye some injury; I'm sure of it!"

  "I do not see what harm he can offer me, Uncle, from such a strange vantage point—unless, of course, he intends to cut off my privates."

  "Harry!"

  Harry grinned like a mischievous lad at the startled expression on his uncle's face, then walked forth to step over Rhys ap Thomas's body.

  Rhys roared with laughter and triumph as, seeing naught amiss, Harry's men grudgingly assisted the giant to his feet.

  "'Tis done," Rhys crowed. "I have fulfilled my oath."

  "Which was?" Harry inquired curiously, eying, with shrewd assessment, the stranger before him.

  Rhys ap Thomas, he thought, would be a good man to have at his side in battle.

  "I swore to King Richard of England that Harry of Richmond would enter Wales only over my belly," Rhys answered Harry's question. "And so ye have done. Sire. Never let it be said that a Welshman does not keep his vow." Then he drew his sword and offered it, hih first, to Harry. "Ye will hear rumors. Sire, that I fight for King Richard. Do not believe them. I am your man, Sire, now and always. Fiat!"

  Harry's heart swelled at the words, even though he took them, as he did all things, with a grain of salt. The northern lands of England might belong heart and soul to Richard Plantagenet, but by God, Wales was his—Harry Tewdwr's!

  And it was.

  That evening, the town of Cardigan opened her gates, without hesitatio
n, to him; and throngs of people flocked to line the streets, their cries of welcome filling the air—and his heart— with joy.

  "God save the King!" they shouted in Welsh. "Long live King Harry I"

  And in his native tongue, Harry replied. The people of Wales went wild. Not for nearly a thousand years had they heard Welsh spoken by an English king. They surged forward to offer him and his men food and drink. That which was not given freely, Harry paid for and guarded his men like the Cadwallader dragon, which he had taken for his badge, to be certain they committed no outrages upon the town.

  Word of his generosity and courtesy spread like wildfire through the countryside of Wales. With joy, Aberayron, Llanrhystyd, Aberystwyth, and Talybont flung open their gates to greet him, and the fierce fighting men of Wales began to swell his ranks. They came from as far away as Merioneth, Caernarvon, and Denbigh as Harry's ever-growing cavalcade passed through Machynlleth, Caerwys, and Newtown on its way to Shrewsbury— to fight against Richard Plantagenet.

  On the advice of Sir William Stanley, his uncle by marriage, who had joined him, Harry then proceeded east toward Leicester. From Nottingham, in the north, Richard Plantagenet marched toward the same destination.

  It was between Cannock and Lichfield that Harry, much to the frantic horror and confusion of his men, disappeared. Not feeling well, he wished to be alone for a while—something that was nigh impossible among all those who constantly surrounded him— and in addition, he wanted to meet the faithful knights who waited for him at the edge of the woods in Cannock Chase.

  However, as dusk fell, elongating eerily the shadows cast by the old, gnarled trees of the forest, he wondered if he had been wise to slip away from his men without telling them. He glanced about warily, cursing himself for his foolishness and realizing suddenly what an easy target he would be for an assassin's blade. Only the soft shrill cry of a hawk relieved his fears. Eagerly, he started forward at the sound.