Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  ''Aye.'' Lord Montecatini nodded. "Still, 'tis poor satisfaction for the trouble the bastard has caused me, continues to cause me. I am foiled, made to look a fool at every turn. Even Geoffrey has begun to treat me as though I were naught save a bumbling sciocco" the Count complained, referring to his latest lover. "Well, I shall deal with him soon enough, the ungrateful idioto Ferite di Dio! A mere knight he was when first I took an interest in him. Now that he has attained a barony, he thinks he no longer has any need of me. Well, Geoffrey shall discover his mistake shortly. In the meantime, 1 must think of a plot for ridding myselt of Hawkhurst. For too long, he has been a thorn in my side. But I must take care. No one must know 'twas by my hand the whoreson died, or 'twill certainly be the end of my most lucrative position here in England. Rome will not countenance another disgrace. Dio! If only the Earl were not such a favorite of Henry's. If only I could get my hands on Hawkhurst's wife!"

  Lady Shrewton's sly, evil eyes widened with surprise at this, for she had never known the Italian to be remiss in learning everything that went on in the Tower—and indeed all of Londoij as welL

  "But—but, my lord... have ye not heard?" she asked. "The whore is to be released tomorrow from Bloody Tower."

  "Nayl" Lord Montecatini's black orbs narrowed with speculation. "E vero? Ye do not lie, signoraT

  "Nay, my lord. Of course not. 'Tis common knowledge. I am surprised ye had not learned of it already."

  "That bumbling sciocco Florio!" the Count snarled of his squire. "Florio! Floriol" he shouted irately, bringing the terrified young man running. "What is this I hear about Lady Hawkhurst being set free tomorrow? Ye did not inform me of her release."

  "N—nay, signore" the squire stammered nervously under the Italian's piercing stare. "I—I assumed ye already knew of it, and I—I did not think 'twas necessary to report the matter, signore."

  "Ye did not think. Ye did not think," Lord Montecatini mocked, then cruelly boxed the young man's ears. "Idioto! / am the one who does the thinking around here. Si alzi! Get up, ye sniveling fool! Groveling at my feet will not save ye from the punishment ye so richly deserve. Go, and await my displeasure in the schoolroom. I shall join ye presently to teach ye a lesson ye will not soon forget!"

  "Oh, nay, signore" Florio pleaded desperately. "Please, please do not make me—"

  "Silenzio, sciocco!" the Count snapped. "Go—before I decide

  I have no further use for ye at all and take more ... permanent measures against ye!"

  Petrified, the squire fled; and Lady Shrewton heaved a great sigh of relief that she had not been the unfortunate one ordered to the schookoom for one of the Italian's lessons.

  Still, she cowered a little as he turned his glittering black gaze on her, and for a moment, she thought wildly that it was true that Lord Montecatini was in league with the devil.

  "Does she go home, then—to Hawkhurst—the bastard's lovely little Rose of Rapture?" the Count inquired with a sardonic curl of his lip.

  "Nay, I do not believe so," Lady Shrewton replied, praying she was right. "Methinks the trull will go to Grasmere, her manor house. 'Tis said that for all of the Earl's ardent wooing of her, the slut has yet to forgive him for her brother's death,"

  "And this... Grasmere. What is it like?" the Italian queried.

  "'Tis but a manor house, my lord, as I told ye—not built for defense. 'Twould be an easy enough place for several men in disguise to assault, especially now that the King has prohibited the wearing of livery. None will even remark upon the men's appearance. Aye, 'twould be easy enough," she reiterated. "Indeed, I do not know why Hawkhurst did not besiege the place when the bitch refused to admit him."

  "Don't be a bigger fool than ye already are, signora," Lord Montecatini snorted. "Attack his own wife? Slay his own men in the process? The very idea is ridiculous!"

  Hurriedly, Lady Shrewton sought to recover the Count's good will, which she had lost.

  "No one need know who took the whore—except Hawkhurst, of course, the fool," she sneered. "Methinks there is very little the Earl would not do to save the trull's life; he is so besotted with her. And if he were to be slain in the process—" Abruptly, she broke off, shrugging noncommittal ly.

  "Beatrice." Lord Montecatini, in one of his rare moods of pleasure, smiled down wolfishly at her. "For once, ye have been of use to me. Do ye bring me my jewel box, and I shall give ye an onyx bracelet that will go nicely with your gown."

  It was snowing hard by the time that Isabella reached Grasmere, but she did not care. She was home—home—after over a year of solitary confinement in Bloody Tower. Henry Tudor had wished to teach her a lesson, and he had. Isabella would not lightly enter into any more plots against the King. The last Lancastrian sat

  firmly upon the throne of England. He would not see it wrested from his grasp by a mere slip of a Yorkist girl—no matter how high in his favor her husband might stand. Her husband. Warrick. Isabella was certain the length of her imprisonment had been meant also to punish her for deserting her husband and making him unhappy. In fact, the Tydder's last words to her, before she had left Court, had been for her to return to Warrick at once.

  "The affairs of Hawkhurst Castle are yours, madam," the King had stated coldly. "Do not seek to meddle in mine again,."

  And Isabella had known she must once more live as Warrick's wife. Not only had the King commanded her to do so, but before her leaving Bloody Tower, Warrick had wrung from her lips her promise to return to him.

  "Swear it," he had ordered grimly, "on your oath, 'Sabelle."

  And so she had—not because he had forced her to do so, but because, by then, she had realized the uselessness of fighting him. She loved him still. She had not been able to deny it any longer. The long days and nights that Warrick had spent overwhelming her body and filling up her senses had told her that.

  "On my oath, I do swear that I will live again as your wife," she had said softly, "but I need time, my lord.. .time to adjust. Let me go home to Grasmere for just a little while. Hawkhurst— Hawkhurst will seem so empty without ye and—and Caerllywel and the others."

  Warrick was to remain behind at Court for a time to settle some business affairs for the King, and Caerllywel... Caerllywel was dead, as were Giles and Madog.

  At last, Warrick had agreed.

  "I shall come for ye in the spring, cariad," he had told her. "For I do love ye."

  And Isabella, her heart torn apart inside of her, had whispered, "And I—I love ye, my lord. But I am ashamed and sick at heart that I do."

  Now, at the thought of him, her grief and sorrow of the past years suddenly overwhelmed her; and as Grasmere loomed up before her in the misty twilight, it seemed, to her fanciful nature, that even here, as never before, ghosts from the past haunted her. Almost as though they really stood there before her, Isabella could see her grandmother beckoning to her from the porch of the manor house, and her mother and father smiling at her from the shadows of the trees. Laughing, and whole once more in body, Giles came running to greet her, and she watched herself, a child, racing eagerly toward his outstretched arms. Then, as

  the snow flurried across the lawn, the image blurred, running like a watercolor in the rain, and faded into a picture of Rushden. There, upon the cobblestones of her brother's courtyard, she knelt before Richard, Duke of Gloucester, then rose and took the single gold sovereign he held in one outstretched hand. Isabella closed her eyes in pain at the memory, and when she opened them again, the vignette was gone, had been replaced by a swing in a moonlit meadow, where Lionel knelt upon dew-sheened grass to pledge his love for her.

  Roses—white roses—lay scattered upon the ground, and as she bent to retrieve them, she heard the laughter of the gay courtiers who wooed her in vain: for her heart had been given for all time to Lord Warrick ap Tremayne, Earl of Hawkhurst. She could almost smell the scent of the newly mown hay that had filled the stables that summer when first she had seen him. Even now, he was striding toward her, as he had then, so dar
k and handsome. A little behind him came Caerllywel, laughing Caerilywel, holding a damp-feathered hat in his hand as he escorted her to her box at the tourney.

  The snowflakes danced and swirled about her, but still, Isabella paid no heed, lost in the past as Grasmere's white-covered lawn became the jousting field at Edward's palace in Greenwich. For a moment, Anne smiled down at her, as soft and lovely as though she truly lived and breathed once more; and tears stung Isabella's eyes, and a ragged little sob choked from her throat.

  When Jocelyn and Sirs Eadric, Thegn, and Beowulf spoke to her, Isabella did not hear them, did not see the concern upon their faces as they gazed at her searchingly, puzzled as to why she was not riding on and confused by the odd still expression on her countenance.

  They did not know that, in her mind, Madog's eyes were raking her with hot desire, which turned to contrition as he begged forgiveness upon learning she was his brother's wife.

  Oh, God, oh, God. She tried to stop the recollections from coming, but still, they haunted her.

  It was not until she tasted a single icy crystal droplet, bittersweet upon her lips, that Isabella realized the tears were freezing on her cheeks; and she forced herself to ride on toward Gras-mere—and her ghosts.

  They came, as Lionel's men had come for her that day upon the moors of Devon so long ago, in plain black livery that bespoke naught of their lord. But Isabella thought nothing of it now, for

  the Tydder had prohibited the wearing of arms-emblazoned livery. It was only when the troop of men drew near that the first tiny inklings of fear chased up her spine; and, some instinct warning her, she began to run. From the lawn, where they had been building a snowman, she snatched up Caerllywel's young son, Arthwr, who, not understanding their danger, set up a wail. The boy's head cradled tightly against her breast to soothe him, Isabella raced inside the manor house and slammed and bolted the door, crying out frantically for those who would protect her.

  Valiantly, her faithful knights did fight to save her life and honor, but Grasmere was not a castle—'twas only a simple manor house, not built for defense—and the men who attacked it were vicious and brutal in their assault.

  The battle was short and swift, though it seemed to Isabella it was a nightmare that went on unendingly and from which she could not awaken. Numb with shock and disbelief and horror, she stared at the shattered lead-glass windowpanes that were scattered upon the floor of the great hall, the sharp slivers mingling with the blood of her knights who lay dying—or dead. Her beloved Eadric's eyes gazed up at her sightlessly, and dear Thegn was recognizable only by his blood-bespattered clothes. Gravely wounded, Beowulf limped toward her, frantically urging her to flee.

  "Ye—ye must try—try to get to the—the stables, my—my lady. 'Tis—'tis your only chance."

  But Isabella knew it was no use. The manor house was surrounded, and already, the black-liveried men were battering down the stout doors, forcing their way inside. There was no place to hide, except in the upstairs chambers, and the savage intruders would find her there quickly enough anyway. Nay, Isabella would not now leave the faithful knights who had tried so courageously to shield her all her life, any more than she had deserted them earlier, during the fight, when they had commanded her to seek a place of safety.

  This could not be happening. This could not be real. Who was there who wished harm to her and hers, who had so suddenly, without warning, wrought this evil upon them? And why? Dear God, why?

  Isabella was only dimly aware of old Alice and Jocelyn huddled in one comer, attempting to shield young Arthwr's eyes from the dreadful carnage and the men who were, even now, streaming into the great hall. Blindly, Isabella reached for the dagger at her waist, yanked it free, and held it out threateningly. She would

  not to be taken without a fight, and if worst came to worst, she would slay herself before being ravished by these brutal men.

  "If ye are reivers, take what ye want, and go," she said. "There is naught here to stop ye now."

  But the black-liveried intruders only laughed and strode toward her menacingly, cutting Beowulf down, without mercy, as he made one last brave-hearted but futile effort to defend his mistress.

  "Beowulf! Beowulf!" Isabella wailed with anguish, but she could not help him now. He was dead. Her eyes stinging hotly with tears, she stared in terror at the pitiless men who had murdered her knight. "At least—at least tell me who ye are and why ye have done this wicked thing!" Isabella cried as the intruders closed about her warily, eying the blade she wielded so purposefully. "I—I don't want to die in ignorance."

  "Have no fear, signora." One of them spoke. "Tis the Lord's wish ye be not harmed, so put down that knife, and come peaceably. 'Tis our heads if we hurt ye."

  Isabella was so stunned and bewildered by the man's words, she only vaguely realized that her title had been spoken in Italian. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she was faintly alarmed by the fact. But as the only Italian she knew was Lord Montecatini, and he had always been kind to her, she did not make the obvious connection. Instead, she backed even farther away from the men who approached her, until, at last, she was pressed against a wall, and there was nowhere left for her to run to. Unexpectedly, one man braver than the rest made a grab for her dagger and surprised her so that three of the other men were able to wrest the blade from her grasp and take her prisoner, though she struggled furiously against them. Ragnor, so much a part of her now that she had forgotten he sat perched upon her shoulder, squawked wildly and tore at them fiercely with his beak, causing them to fall back, cursing. But finally, the men held her fast, and Isabella closed her eyes tightly as she tried to prepare herself to be raped, for she had not believed the words of reassurance that had been offered her.

  But, again to her amazement, no harm was done her. Instead, she was merely yanked from the great hall, thrust out onto the lawn, and propelled roughly toward the stables, whence more black-liveried men were riding, leading her mare, Cendrillon. Only when she was mounted did the Count, who had watched the melee from a distance, at last appear, galloping up on his huge black destrier, which pranced and snorted dangerously under

  the pressure of his slender iron hands upon the steed's reins.

  "Lord—Lord Montecatini!" Isabella gasped as, smiling at her wolfishly, he took the bridle of her horse from one of his men and wrapped it tightly about the pommel of his own saddle.

  "Ye are surprised, signora, nay?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow demoniacally. "But then, of course, ye do not understand any of this, do ye? No matter." He shrugged. "Twill all be explained to ye in time."

  "My lord—" Isabella began coldly but was stopped abruptly by the terrified screams that suddenly pierced the air.

  Dear God. Jocelyn. Jocelyn and Alice. How could Isabella, even in her own paralyzing fear, have forgotten them?

  "Jocelyn!" the girl cried. "Alice!" When there was no response save for the hysterical wails of fright that came from the manor house, Isabella turned pleadingly to the Count. "My maid. My nurse. Please," she begged, "make your men let them go."

  Once more, the Italian smiled superciliously and shrugged.

  "Nay, 1 shall not. The men must, after all, have their bit of sport; and 'twill, mayhap, ease the lust in their loins and make them less eager to slake their desires upon ye, signora. We've a long way to journey, and 'twill be difficult enough to guard ye as 'tis. In fact... Florio!"

  "Aye, signore?"

  "The maid, the nurse—how are they?"

  "The maid, signore ... she fight like a wild thing, but the men have their way with her. She be young and pretty, after all, and worth the struggle, nay? But the nurse... she was too old to bother with. They slit her throat."

  "Tell the men to bring the maid along," the Italian ordered. "She will be useful in keeping the men from my prize."

  Without warning, incredible grief and rage and hatred welled up in Isabella's throat at Lord Montecatini and his callous, inexplicable assault upon her and hers. She thought of her knigh
ts and her old nanna, lying cold and lifeless in the manor house, mercilessly slain at the hands of the Count's men; and of Jocelyn, inside Grasmere, even now being raped repeatedly and not knowing her agony was to continue as long as the Italian saw fit to let it. So great was Isabella's anger that she actually shook with wrath, felt, for the first time in her life, a blinding, overwhelming urge to hurt and maim and kill.

  "Ye bastard!" she spat. "Ye despicable bastard!"

  Lord Montecatini only laughed; and in that moment, as though sensing her horrible torment and helplessness, as once Isabella

  had his, Ragnor gave a shrill, wild, murderous cry and flung himself from the girl's shoulder, straight toward the vain dark Count's beautiful, laughing face. As though possessed by some fiend, Ragnor seized that handsome visage, sank his sharp beak and punishing talons deeply into the Italian's flesh. Lord Mon-tecatini screamed and screamed again, a high, inhuman sound that made Isabella's skin crawl even as, in her benighted ire and thirst for revenge, she spurred Ragnor on with a terrible, hoarse, unnatural cry for blood.

  The Count's men stared in horror as, frozen with mortification, they watched him struggling convulsively to escape from the bird's torturing grip. In a blind frenzy, he clawed at the hawk, tried to pry it from his face; but still, Ragnor held tight and went on ripping and tearing at the Italian's dark countenance. Lord Montecatini toppled from his destrier, rolled frantically, spasti-cally, upon the snow-covered ground as his hands sought to yank the bird free, until, at last, with another piercing screech of triumph, the hawk flapped its wings and rose.