"Oh, swQetJesii," she gasped. "Oh, sweet 7^5m."
Then, before she could help herself, she doubled over in agony, retching upon her gown and the paving blocks of the street. Ragnor, sitting upon her shoulder, nuzzled her cheek gently and gave a soft squawk, sensing her distress, while Jocelyn, who had not yet glimpsed the gory sight, cried out with concern.
"My lady. My lady, let me help ye. Oh, come away. Come away. Ye are ill! Sir Eadric, Sir Thegn, Sir Beowulf. Come.' Help my lady."
But Isabella paid no heed to her maid or the faithful knights who started forward at Jocelyn's command. Like a woman crazed, Isabella was already forcing her way wildly through the crowd, toward the sickening thing that, just that mom, had been His Grace Richard Plantagenet, King of England.
Cruelly, humiliatingly, he had been stripped of his clothing to be paraded, naked, through the streets of London for all to gape at and mock. Someone had tossed a tattered remnant of his once-proud banner over his body as a last indignity; and Isabella saw, as she pressed closer, that the lilies dripped with scarlet, and the leopards were mangled beyond all recognition. Oh, the arms of England. Brought down, brought down, as Richard had been...
Screaming, weeping hysterically, she rushed forth to touch him, to see if somehow, some way, he did yet live, though she knew her desperate prayers were all in vain. His hands—those tender hands—were white, too white, drained of his life's blood by the thongs with which they'd bound him to the donkey. People laughed and jeered to see her running alongside the beast, clutching frantically at Richard's face, caressing the strands of his black hair, damp and lank with sweat and blood. But Isabella did not care. She fell and scraped her knees, but she didn't feel the pain: for she could see now the felon's rope they'd tied about his neck.
as though he'd been a common criminal—Richard, her king. She staggered to her feet and raced on, Ragnor's shrill cries of fear and confusion piercing the air and causing the throng that howled and leered to fall back before her in fear at the spectacle she presented.
"Richard! Richard!" she cried, deranged with shock and grief. "Richard!"
But he did not answer; and as the frightened donkey trotted on, prodded savagely forward by the pikes of the Tydder's raucously crowing men, Isabella saw, to her horror, that Bow Bridge was too small, too narrow, for the procession to cross freely. Packed tight the soldiers were, and in the cacophony of their passing, the donkey stumbled, and Richard's dark head was bashed against the stone wall of the bridge. There came the sound of splintering bone as the face that Isabella had loved so dearly was crushed and battered; once more, she fell and retched and forced herself to rise, to run on amid the hateful laughter and insults of the crowd. Chortling, one of the Tydder's men pricked her with his pike, causing her to lurch dazedly upon her feet. She grabbed at his stirrup to keep from falling yet again, but with a sneer, he kicked her away, and she sprawled upon the cobblestones.
"One of the traitor's whores, was ye?" he jibed down at her, then grinned. "Here, take this then. 'Tis more'n ye deserve, but I hates to see a wench cry, even if she be but a whore."
He tossed something at her feet, then rode on.
Dumbly, Isabella reached out for the thing that lay there on the street. Woodenly, her fingers closed about it, and she saw it was a coin—a single gold sovereign. Oh, God. Oh, God. How long ago had another given her such a coin and asked her to pray for him—and Anne?
Oh, Anne. Anne! I'm glad you're dead. For the first time, I'm glad you're dead, that ye didst not live to see what I have seen this day
Blindly, Isabella clutched the sovereign to her breast—and wept.
She had thought she need bear no more, that God had asked all he could possibly ask of her. But she was wrong. Isabella knew that when they brought Giles's broken body to her and laid it gently on the bed. He lived. Still, he lived, but she did not know how. His legs were mangled beyond repair, and she knew, if by some miracle, they managed to save the twisted, shattered limbs, her brother would never walk again.
Weakly, his eyes fluttered open; he grasped her hand and tried but failed to give it a slight, reassuring squeeze.
"'Sa—belle," he whispered, moaning faintly. "Dear sister. Do not—do not blame... Warrick. 'Twas no more—no more than his duty. I would have... done the same—"
"Hush. Don't try to talk, Giles," Isabella said even as she wondered what he had meant.
He was feverish and babbling; that was all. Surely, that was all.
"I—^I must, in case—in case I... die. Warrick—^Warrick didn't know ... the horse would—would crush me. I could have... leapt clear, but I—I never was much good at—at that." Giles smiled a little at the poor jest, remembering Scotland. "Then too... there was—was Richard. I—I thought only of.. .Richard, until 'twas— 'twas too late—"
"Giles, please. Whatever 'tis, 'twill keep. I'm going to get ye something to help ye sleep. Your legs..."
"I.. .know. Done for."
"Jocelyn." Isabella glanced up worriedly. "Go, and find Lord Montecatini, for I doubt if any of the physicians are available. Ask the Count to prepare a sleeping draught for my brother. The Italian will know what 'tis. 'Tis the same potion he gave me once."
"Aye, my lady."
Isabella turned back to her brother and saw he had fainted. 'Twas Just as well. Grimly, carefully, she began to remove his battered mail so she could tend the pitiful, broken sticks that had once been his legs.
Lord Montecatini smiled superciliously to himself as, choosing his herbs most carefully, he studiously mixed the sleeping draught that Jocelyn had requested. Poor Giles. What a pity, and such a handsome young man too. Well, there was no point in letting him suffer, was there? After all, they put animals out of their misery, didn't they? And if, at the same time, the Count accomplished his revenge as well, then so much the better. He had waited a long time for it—too long.
His dark visage an inscrutable mask, the Italian turned back to Jocelyn, handing her the potion.
"Here is the sleeping draught, mistress," he said. "Lord Rush-den will find the taste bitter, but 'tis only because I have added a few herbs that will ease his pain."
"Oh, thank ye, my lord." Jocelyn spoke fervently with appreciation. "My lady will be most grateful. She loves her brother dearly, ye know."
"Aye, 'tis a terrible thing... and most... awkward for Lord Hawkhurst, most awkward indeed."
"Aye, my lady was well nigh crazed when she learned of it. She'd thought, at first, that Lord Rushden had been rambling, had been delirious with agony. But then, his squire explained what had happened, so there was no mistaking, after all, what Lord Rushden had said."
"Well, surely Lady Hawkhurst will forgive her husband," the Count suggested smoothly. "After all, 'twas an accident, and ye said the injury to her brother is not mortal."
"We pray not, my lord, but we don't know for certain. As to whether or not my lady can find it in her heart to forgive Lord Hawkhurst, I cannot say. He has yet to arrive, but my lady has already said she never wants to see him again as long as she lives. If Lord Rushden dies..." Jocelyn's voice trailed off uncertainly.
"Aye, therein lies the difficulty, does it not? What a shame," the Italian remarked.
But inwardly, he was still smiling.
For an eternity, it seemed, Isabella felt nothing. Her heart stopped beating, and her mind was a black, empty cavern, devoid of emotion. Then, without warning, her stomach heaved, as though the earth had suddenly shifted beneath her feet, and great, ragged sobs forced themselves from her throat.
'Tisn't true, she thought dumbly, numb with shock. 'Tisn't true.
But the hand she clasped so tightly in her own was cold, as cold as Anne's had once been; and Isabella knew that Giles was dead.
Still, she gazed up pleadingly at Jocelyn, silently begging the maid to tell her it wasn't true. But Jocelyn's sober, pitying eyes fell before Isabella's own stricken ones, and the girl knew there was no hope.
"How, Jocelyn?" Isabella asked, stunned an
d bewildered, crystal tears beginning to stream slowly down her face. "Why? 'Twas but his legs; I know. I didst not think there was any wound inside of him."
"There must have been, my lady. Do ye—do ye not recall
how he rose suddenly, as though in agony, and clutched his belly? There must have been some injury inside of him that we couldst not see, couldst not have healed...."
"Nay. He was but bruised. Even his ribs were not shattered, as they would have been, had the horse completely crushed him. I tell ye 'twas only his legs that bore the weight of the steed. Oh, do ye—do ye not think so, Jocelyn?"
"Nay, my lady. Oh, forgive me, my lady," the maid went on in a rush, "but methinks—methinks ye do love your husband and do not, in your heart, wish to blame him for your brother's death."
"But what else can I do?" Isabella queried softly, weeping harder now, trying to force the hollow, sick feeling from her insides. "Giles is dead. My brother is dead." Her voice rose piercingly. "And Warrick is to blame. Oh, God. Oh, God. He swore to me... Warrick swore to me he wouldst not harm my brother."
"And I didst keep my vow, 'Sabelle," Warrick said quietly, entering the chamber, at last, in time to hear his wife's last words., "'Twas but Giles's horse I slew."
She turned slowly at the sound of his voice and stared up at him uncomprehendingly, her fathomless grey-green eyes wide with confusion, shadowed with accusation, and haunted by pain. It was as though she saw a stranger there, and Warrick's heart was stabbed with sudden apprehension.
"My brother is dead," she told him tonelessly. "The steed didst fall and mortally wound him."
"Nay!" Warrick cried, shocked, disbelieving, his voice now fervent and pleading as he realized why Giles lay so still upon the bed. Nay. Nay! It could not be true. Twas only the boy's legs that had been crushed. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. "'Twas Giles's horse I slew—no more," Warrick reiterated feverishly, understanding now the strange blank light in Isabella's eyes and fearing she would turn against him for all time. "And 'twas but his legs that were caught beneath the animal; I swear it! I thought—I thought he would have time to leap clear. He could have—when the beast staggered to its knees—if only—if only..."
"If only he had not been thinking of Richard," Isabella finished, her voice a small sob of agony that tore at Warrick's insides, twisted them into knots, then ripped them apart.
"Aye," he uttered lamely, knowing the reminder of the King, on top of her brother's death, had wounded her even more deeply.
Even Warrick was sickened by the thought of how disgracefully Harry Tewdwr and his men had treated the body of Richard Plantagenet, the lack of respect they had shown him. Richard had not deserved what they had done. He had been a king. Warrick prayed that Isabella would never discover how they had strung up Richard's corpse in the marketplace, where, even now, the people of London came to jeer and spit upon the naked form of the man who, just that mom, had been their king.
"Oh, God! Oh, God! Get out of my sight!" Isabella wailed suddenly, raggedly, startling Warrick back to the present. "If not for ye, Richard and my brother wouldst still be alive. Alive, do ye hear? Get out! Get out! I never want to see ye again as long as I live!"
"'Sabelle—"
"Nay, don't touch me! I'll kill ye! I'll kill ye—as ye slew my brother! My brother..."
The girl's voice choked off as the sobs in her throat strangled her yet afresh, and she gasped wildly for breath, fearing she would suffocate. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with the aftermath of her outburst. Dear God. She loved him still. Whatever her husband had done, she loved him still; and her love for him and Giles was tearing her apart.
"'Sabelle, cariad." Warrick tried desperately once more to bridge the awful chasm that had come between them. "Please. I wouldst comfort ye if I could."
"Nay. Ye cannot," Isabella intoned dully, as though she herself were no longer among the living. "Giles is dead, and ye are to blame for it. Oh, God." She looked up at Warrick again, her eyes filled with such torment he could not bear it. "I tried—^I tried to save him. I thought—I thought too 'twas only his legs; but there must have been some injury inside of him: for even the Count's sleeping draught did not ease Giles's pain; and suddenly, a little while after I'd given him the potion, he doubled up in agony and he—he died!"
The Count's sleeping draught.
Over and over, the words rang in Warrick's mind, clawed at his brain, spurring him to rage and hunger for revenge for the terrible hurt done to Isabella.
The Count's sleeping draught.
He knew now what had caused Giles's death, for though Giles's legs would have been permanently crippled from the horse's fall, Warrick was positive now that the wound had not been fatal. He'd been too upset, when he'd learned of his brother-in-law's
death, to think straight- Now, 'twas all so clear to him what had
happened.
Dear God. 'Twas by 'Sabelle's own hand that Giles had died! The realization hit Warrick like a sharp blow, stunning him, sickening him. Dear God. In her blind trust and ignorance of the Italian's true, evil nature, 'Sabelle had unknowing murdered her brother. She must never know, must never find out. 'Twould destroy her if she did. No matter if she hated him forever, Warrick must never tell her 'twas the Count's fatal potion, which she had given her brother, that had killed Giles.
Dear God, Warrick prayed. Make me strong enough to keep silent, strong enough to bear the burden of her blame, though she hardens her heart against me, turns her love for me to hate
for all time Aye, make me strong, God. I love her. I love
her more than my life. Better I am destroyed than 'Sabelle... dear 'Sabelle... my sweet Rose of Rapture.
"Wouldst ye—wouldst ye send Caerllywel to me?" she asked, bringing him back to reality, longing for that cheerful face, for the comfort that Warrick could not give her, and sniffing pitifully, in a manner that wrenched his heart yet again.
Oh, sweet Jesu. How could he tell her? She had borne so much already. How could he tell her, pierce her with still further sorrow?
"Would that I could, 'Sabelle." Warrick spoke lowly, earnestly. "Oh, God. Would that I could. But I—1 cannot. Caerllywel—" His voice broke, but he mastered it and went on. "Caerllywel was—was slain this mom at Market Bosworth."
"Nay! Nay!"
But it was not Isabella who cried out against this new anguish. 'Twas Jocelyn, Jocelyn, whom they, in their torment, had forgotten. Warrick and Isabella were stricken with shame and remorse, even as they mourned Caerllywel. They had loved him, aye; he had been their brother, by blood and by marriage. But they had not lain with him, loved him in that way only a woman loves a man, or felt his child stirring within as Jocelyn had done. No matter how grieved they were by his death, they could not know the horrible sadness, emptiness, sickness, that welled up in Jocelyn as she gazed at Warrick pleadingly, her eyes begging him to say that Caerllywel still lived, that death had not taken the father of her unborn babe. But the pain in Warrick's golden orbs matched Jocelyn's own; and she knew there was no hope that he was mistaken.
"Oh, Jocelyn," Isabella breathed, her own sorrow forgotten in light of the maid's.
Isabella and Warrick still had each other—if they could prevent the shadow of Giles's death from coming between them. But Jocelyn had no one. She could only pray that Caerllywel's laughing image filled her womb, would be safely brought forth into the world so she would yet have some part of her husband.
"Nay!" Jocelyn sobbed brokenly once more and fainted.
Worriedly, Isabella and Warrick knelt over the maid's inert form, their own terrible losses put aside for the moment. Giles and Caerllywel were dead, aye; but there would be time to mourn them later. Jocelyn was alive—and she needed them.
Even as they examined her shallowly breathing body, warm liquid began to gush from between the maid's thighs, soaking her gown.
" 'Tis the child," Isabella said. "The shock of—of Caerllywel's death has brought on her labor."<
br />
After studying his wife searchingly for an instant and receiving her silent agreement, Warrick gently lifted his brother-in-law's corpse from the bed and, after laying Giles tenderly upon the floor, put Jocelyn in his stead.
It was some hours later when, at last, Isabella placed to her maid's breast the small bundle of joy that was Caerllywel's babe— the son he would never know.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
IT WAS THREE DAYS LATER WHEN GILLIANE'S MES-
sage came; and for a moment, as she gazed down at the scroll's contents, Isabella could not bring herself to reply.
Nay. 'Twas too much to ask of her. 'Twas just too much to ask. She had borne enough.
But even as the thought occurred to her, Isabella knew she would go all the same. She owed Richard that.
And so, her heart heavy in her breast, the girl went to the Convent of Grey Friars.
It did not seem possible, she thought as she rode along, that life went on around her, as though death were nothing, had touched none save her. Her eyes bright with unshed tears, Isabella tried desperately to shut out the babble of voices and laughter that surrounded her. Still, the loud, raucous cries of the merchants hawking their wares pierced her ears and made her ache inside. The din somehow seemed so disrespectful, almost mocking. She gazed at the faces about her and wondered how many had, these days past, come to the market not to buy, but to spit upon the man who had been England's king. And Isabella hated them. Hated them as much as she despised Harry Tewdwr, who had
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