taken her beloved Richard's place, and Lord Stanley, the Fox, newly created Earl of Derby, who had plucked Richard's crown from the hawthorn bush and put it upon the Tydder's head.
Oh, God. That she had learned these things. Warrick had sought to prevent her from discovering them, but she had not wanted his protection, did not know if she would ever want it— or him—again. How could she love the man who had slain her brother? How could she not? Sweet Jesu. How she wanted to go to her husband, lay her head upon his shoulder, and share her devastating grief with him. But she did not. Alone, she suffered, as Warrick did. For Richard. For Giles. For Caerllywel. And for Madog, whose body they had never found, who lay in a nameless ditch somewhere, leaving behind his childless young bride forever.
So many. Dear God. Why must there be so many? How could the sun go on shining when darkness blinded Isabella's eyes; how could the flowers go on blooming when the scent of death and decay filled her nostrils every hour of every day? How could her heart go on beating when it was broken, when the love that had flamed within it had turned to ashes?
Nay, she would not think of Warrick now—must never think of him again. She must cut him out of her heart and soul, though it killed her to do it. He had slain her brother; and though Giles, on his deathbed, had begged her to forgive her husband for the deed, Isabella would not. could not, bring herself to do it. To go on loving Warrick would be to desecrate Giles's memory for all time. Isabella must harden her heart against her husband, no matter the pain.
Already, she had taken the first steps in their estrangement. She had barred Warrick from their chamber at the Tower, and he had not protested her action. Still, it hurt to remember the terrible, empty look upon his face, the quiet dignity with which he'd gone—and not returned.
Oh, Warrick. Warrick!
Dumbly, Isabella slid from her horse, approached the gate of Grey Friars, and pulled the bell. Moments later, there was the sound of footsteps, and a young Sister appeared, her eyebrows raised in gentle inquiry.
"I—I've come to see Lady St. Saviour." Isabella said.
Briefly, the nun was puzzled; then she smiled in slow understanding.
"Oh, Sister Anne, ye mean."
"Aye." Isabella nodded, recalling, at last, the name that Gil-
liane had taken in memory of Anne, dear Anne, whom they had loved.
"Come this way," the nun directed softly, opening the gate.
Oh, what they had done to him. Isabella should have wept, would have wept, but she was all cried out. She had no tears left with which to mourn her beloved Richard.
'Twas in the chapel, upon a catafalque, he lay; and as Isabella drew back the coarse woolen cloth with which they'd covered him, she saw they had not even washed his body. Dried blood and mud and spittle were caked upon his dark flesh; the open wounds, where they'd cut him down in battle, gaped, were foul and putrid with rot. Isabella gagged and grew pale, swayed upon her feet a little so that Gilliane, who stood by her side, put one hand beneath the girl's elbow to steady her.
"Twas thus they brought him here," Gilliane uttered quietly, ashamed. "The Sisters were afraid to touch him; though our Mother didst give her consent to his burial here, the nuns yet fear the Tydder's wrath."
"They need not," Isabella responded bitterly. "Already, he has turned his mind to other matters." She thought of how quick Harry Tewdwr had been to prohibit the wearing of livery and to confiscate all the black powder in the kingdom, so the powerful lords who had put him on the throne would not seek to wrest it from him—as they had Richard. "The Tydder has no care for Richard. His Grace Richard Plantagenet, King of England, is dead. 'Tis 'His Majesty' Henry Tudor who now wears the Crown."
"Aye." Gilliane spoke. "I had heard that 'His Grace' was not good enough for the Tydder and that he had Anglicized his name besides."
"Aye," Isabella rejoined. "He calls himself 'His Majesty' Henry Tudor, as though such a grand title and name will pacify England and blot out the stain of what he has done. But 'twill not." Her voice was fierce. '"Twill not! Come. We must do what we can for Richard, our true and rightful king."
Together, they set candles all around him and lit them, so he was bathed in light and reverence. Then tenderly, they washed him, taking care that not a speck of blood or mud or spittle remained to desecrate his corpse. After that, Isabella carefully stitched his wounds until he was as whole as she could make him. Finally, they combed his black hair and dressed him in his garments, which Isabella had stolen from the Tower—the robes he had worn for his coronation.
Gently, Gilliane anointed him and made the sign of the cross upon his forehead while Isabella knelt and wept and prayed,
"Do not mourn him, dear 'Sabelle," Gilliane said, touching the girl upon the shoulder. "He was dead long before this/'
"Aye, I know."
"We are not the only ones who loved him, 'Sabelle. In York, they have written it down ... his death, I mean. 'Twill be there— in the records—for all time: 'Our good King Richard, late mercifully reigning over us. He was piteously slain and murdered, to the great heaviness of this city.'"
"'Tis a fit epitaph," Isabella noted softly, "but 'twill not bring him back."
Then slowly, she rose and pressed a single gold sovereign into the hands clasped peacefully over Richard's breast.
It was done. Now, there was but one thing left: She must take Giles's body to Rushden. Then she could go home, home to Grasmere.
Hawkhurst was hers no longer.
"I have lost her."
How many times had his mind dwelled upon the thought, had he dared to hope it was not true? Warrick did not know. He knew only that the words, spoken now aloud, rang with a finality that hammered like a nail into his heart.
"I have lost her."
"Nay, Waerwic," Hwyelis said quietly as she studied her son, observing how gaunt he had grown,' how weary he looked.
His amber eyes were shadowed by torment, ringed with mauve from lack of sleep. Now, as his shoulders slumped, and he ran one hand raggedly through his unkempt hair, she longed to reach out and touch him; but she did not. Of all her sons, Warrick was the proudest, the one most determined to stand alone against all odds, the one who found it most difficult to ask for help and solace. His silence cried out to her piteously; she knew he had come to her as a small boy does his mother when hurt. Yet, Hwyelis hesitated to offer the physical comfort she realized he so desperately needed; it had been so long since Warrick had done more than kiss her hand in greeting. If she put her arms around him, as she so longed to do, he might withdraw; and not for the world would Hwyelis throw away this chance to heal the scars her leaving of him had made so many years past.
So instead, she used her voice, the sweet, melodious gift that God had bestowed upon her, to soothe this son she so dearly loved—one of two left to her now.
"Ye must give Isabella time, Waerwic. Her brother's passing has grieved her deeply, and at the moment, she blames ye for Giles's death. In time, she will forgive and forget."
"Will she?" Warrick's tone was bitter. "God's blood! If only she knew 'twas the Italian's potion that killed Giles! But then, how could I have told her that. Mother? 'Twould have destroyed her, for 'twas she who gave Giles the draught."
"Aye. Ye didst right to keep it from her. I am proud of ye, my son. Ye have learned to love another more than yourself— something I feared ye wouldst never do after Brangwen's betrayal of ye. Ye had grown hard, Waerwic. Isabella has gentled ye once more."
"And brought me pain. Oh, God! The pain! Would that I had never loved her, could stop loving her now!"
"Ye don't mean that, Waerwic. 'Tis but your wounded heart that speaks so harshly. Nothing worth having ever comes easily, and love is perhaps the most difficult of all to attain: for love— true love—requires that one's body, heart, mind, and soul be given into anotiier's keeping—and given freely, Waerwic, without reservation. That is a commitment most people find too hard to make, and so true love escapes them. Ye are lucky, my son. Ye have di
scovered it with Isabella, and she with ye. She will return to ye in time, once she has searched her heart and found what it holds."
"Oh, Mother, how I wish I could believe ye are right!" Warrick turned to her pleadingly, the anguish on his dark visage almost unbearable.
"Trust me, my son. I am of the earth and wise in its ways, and in my life, I have seen many things. I am like a wild bird that cannot be caught and caged, for to do so would be to kill it in the end. But Isabella...ah, Isabella is like a fawn that seeks refuge in the forest. Ye are her refuge, Waerwic, her strength, and her solace. All her love and joy are found in sharing, and she has chosen ye with whom to share them. Do not despair, my son. As she is the other half of your soul, so are ye the other half of hers. She loves ye more than life itself. She will be yours yet again, I promise ye."
"Oh, Mother, I pray 'tis so: for if I have lost her, I do not think I can go on!"
Then Warrick, proud Warrick, flung himself to his knees before Hwyelis, laid his head upon her lap, and wept. After a moment, her arms closed about him tightly, and tears glistened on her cheeks for the son who was hers once more.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
London, England, 1487
THE BATTLE OF STOKE WAS ENDED. JACK DE LA POLE, Earl of Lincoln, who had been Richard's heir designate, had been slain; and Lord Francis Lovell, once England's Lord High Chamberlain, had drowned while attempting to escape from the Tyd-der's army. Lambert Simnel, an unknown lad who had pretended to be young Edward, Earl of Warwick, son of George, Duke of Clarence, and rightful heir to the Crown, had been put to work as a turn-spit in the royal kitchen. Thus, the ill-fated rebellion against King Henry VII had ended.
But for Isabella, the repercussions of the scheme to put a pretender on the throne of England were just beginning.
Though it was July and hot, she shivered slightly as she huddled in the small boat that was taking her to freedom's end. Rowed by the Tydder's men, the craft moved slowly down the Thames, so all those crowded along the banks would have ample opportunity to view the consequences of treason.
Treason. Aye, Isabella was guilty of plotting to wrest the Crown from King Henry's grasp and now, discovered, was to pay the penalty for her crime. This day, she was to be imprisoned
in the Tower until such time as the Tydder determined to release her—or execute her.
She shuddered at the thought and trembled yet again as Traitor's Gate loomed before her, was swung open wide, and she was rowed inside. Hands assisted her in climbing the stone stairs up which so many others before her had trodden, but still, she stumbled a little and caught her breath, thinking the misstep an ill omen.
As she stood there, waiting, a herald unrolled a large scroll and delivered tonelessly the charges against her, the accusations she had already heard when they'd arrested and tried her. There was but one crime that stood out in her mind, however. Treason. Like an ink stain, the ugly word seeped through the caverns of her brain, blotting out the rest of the long list that was read.
Once more, she quivered slightly. For all that Isabella knew, she had come here to die, and she did not understand why. Her part in the rebellion had been relatively small; there were others who had been far more involved than she, and they had not been taken into custody. Because of this, the girl was as confused as , she was scared, and her bewilderment merely added to her fright.
Impulsively, she glanced back at Traitor's Gate, which was closed now. Through the iron bars, she could see the Thames and London sprawled haphazardly along the river's banks. Swiftly, she imprinted the scene upon her mind. It might be the last time she would ever see it. Then she turned to follow her gaolers to Garden Tower, where she was to be incarcerated. Isabella wished her place of imprisonment had been any tower but that one: for it was there the two boy Princes had been murdered; and instead of Garden Tower, the people of London had taken to calling it Bloody Tower.
That too seemed an evil portent.
Nevertheless, the girl choked down her fear and, head held high, walked bravely toward her fate. Only once did she pause, stricken, when she beheld Warrick standing in the dark dank corridor just beyond. For a minute, she longed desperately to flee, but there was no escaping from her destiny. Isabella swallowed hard as her grey-green eyes met her husband's amber ones and locked, as though they two stood alone there; and suddenly, a hushed little silence fell upon the onlookers, who waited, with bated breath, to see what would happen next.
They were disappointed when nothing untoward occurred: for all knew that, after the Battle of Market Bosworth, the Countess of Hawkhurst had left her husband and had lived alone, in her
manor house, Grasmere, for the past two years. What the Earl thought of his wife's desertion was not common knowledge, but it was known that he had refused King Henry's suggestion that Warrick set her aside and that he had not displayed one spark of interest in the ladies who had attempted to woo him from his solitary state.
After a moment, Isabella turned away and moved on. The blur that had been, for an instant, the Tydder's men sharpened once more into focus. They eyed her curiously, but from the expressions upon their faces, Isabella knew her own countenance showed none of the emotions that were churning tumultuously inside of her.
Well, thank God for it! She wanted no one to guess how deeply the sight of Warrick had affected her. She had not seen him for nearly a year—since the last time he had come to Grasmere to beg her to return to him. Then, though her heart had yearned fervently to heed his pleas, she had forced herself to remain hard and unyielding, and she had once more denied him admittance to the manor house. Later, after watching him ride away, she had run inside from her balcony to her chamber and wept bitterly until Jocelyn had come and, made bold by Warrick's sorrow and distress, had called Isabella a fool.
Oh, Jocelyn, ye were right! the girl thought as she followed her gaolers through the winding halls of the Tower. I love him still, and he loves me. I can see it in his eyes. Oh, why, oh, why didst I not return to Hawkhurst when Warrick begged me to come? Giles bade me to forgive my husband. 'Twas my brother's dying request, and yet, I didst not honor it... could not... cannot. Oh, Giles, am I wrong? Am I wrong?
But there was no answer.
Her brother was dead, and Isabella was alone—in Bloody Tower.
Warrick came, as Isabella had known he would; and unlike Grasmere, here, in Bloody Tower, she was not able to refuse him admittance. He was one of the King's favorites and did as he pleased. So though, at first, the girl tried to deny him entrance to her chamber by informing her guards that Warrick was not to be allowed in, he merely overruled her command and came in anyway.
"What do ye want, my lord?" she managed to ask coldly as she turned her back on him.
"Ye know what I want, 'Sabelle." Warrick spoke roughly. "Ye
have grieved long enough. 'Tis been nearly two years since ye
left me, and I want ye to come home."
She laughed a little, as though she did not care, but was horrified to discover that tears stung her eyes all the same. Hastily, she brushed them away, lest Warrick should see.
"Even if I wished to do so, my lord—which I do not—I could not. I am a prisoner here—or have ye forgotten?"
"Nay, but 'tis an easy enough matter to resolve. I can secure your release from this place any time I choose. After all, your part in the plot to put Lambert Simnel on the throne was so small as to scarcely merit attention."
Her previous puzzlement at an end, in sudden understanding, Isabella whirled angrily at that.
"Sweet Jesu," she breathed. "What a fool I was. 'Twas ye! I thought I was to be executed for treason, and all the time, 'twas but ye who wanted me here—here, where I couldn't lock ye out! God damn ye and Harry Tewdwr! Ye let me believe I was to die—"
"As I have been dying these past two years, 'Sabelle," Warrick , reminded her grimly, fiercely. Then, more gently, "Sweetheart, 'twas a shameful deception, I know. But 1 could think of no other way to see ye again. I love ye, and I do
not believe ye have hardened your heart against me as strongly as ye would like."
"Ye are wrong, my lord," Isabella declared, though she knew he was not. "And even if ye were not, I would hate ye now for what ye have done."
"Would ye, 'Sabelle? Do ye, cariadT Warrick inquired softly, moving closer.
The tears brimmed from her eyes at the old, familiar Welsh endearment. How many times had she heard him murmur it before—in the heat of passion, in the soft afterglow of a moonlit night, and sometimes, during the day, for no special reason at all? My love. My love. But still, she backed away from him. But the room was small, and there was nowhere she could run to. Soon, she was pressed against a wall, and Warrick had his hands on either side of her so she could not escape.
"Do ye, cariadT Warrick queried again.
"Aye," Isabella whispered, but her eyes belied the word, and he laughed.
"I do not think so," he told her, and bent his head as though to kiss her.
"Nay, don't!" she cried. "Don't touch me!"
To her surprise, he shrugged and turned away, though she did
not know what the deed cost him; the very nearness of her, the sweet rose scent of her, had inflamed him so.
"Very well, 'Sabelle. But I warn ye: My patience grows thin. I have waited long enough for ye to get over your grief, for ye to realize that 1 would never have deliberately harmed your brother, and for ye to return to me. I promise ye, ye will not leave this place until ye are mine once more. I shall come again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, until 'tis so. And if ye continue to deny me"—his jaw tightened with determination at the stubborn set of her chin—"I shall take ye by force, and there will be none here to gainsay me."
Haughtily, so he wouldn't know how frightened she was, Isabella tossed her head.
"That is rape, my lord," she said.
"Mayhap," he agreed. "But 'tis as I told ye on our wedding night: Willing or nay, have ye I shall."
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