Against the dying winter sun, into the dusk, Ragnor soared, higher and higher, until suddenly he dropped into a dive, hurtling his body downward like an arrow. Isabella's breath caught in her throat as she gazed upon his beautiful descent, never taking her eyes from the bird, never moving, though he swooped straight toward her. Finally, when it seemed as though he would strike her, Ragnor checked his flight, spreading his wings wide once more. Understanding his intent, Isabella raised her ungloved hand high, and the hawk came proudly to light upon her wrist. Time hung suspended in that moment he perched there, having paid her the ultimate compliment by returning, unrestrained by jesses, to her hand. His talons curved into the softness of Isabella's skin; tiny droplets of blood spurted from the small wounds, but she did not care. As she stared into his fierce yellow eyes, she knew now why he had waited so long to fly. Some primal instinct inside of him had demanded that the debt he owed her be paid.
"Godspeed, Ragnor," the girl whispered. "Fare thee well."
Once more, the bird screamed and rose, soaring into the sky, until finally Isabella could see him no longer. The hawk was gone.
A lump choked in her throat at the thought. Her eyes brimmed with tears at his loss, even though she knew, like Hwyelis, he was a wild thing, not meant to be caught and caged. Isabella loved him. She must not call him back but let him go instead. If Ragnor returned, it must be of his own free will; and somehow.
some way, the girl knew, deep down inside, that one day, he would ride again upon her shoulder. They were one—she and Ragnor—bound together by the cruel jest of a drunken king and the vicious revenge of an Italian count.
Even as Isabella thought of Lord Montecatini, he groaned, recalling her, with a start, to the present.
"Beatrice," he rasped, his hands still clasped tightly over his dark visage. "Fetch... Beatrice. I—I must have her to... tend my—my face."
"Signora Shrewton!" Florio cried in response to his master's demand, nearly causing Isabella to fall from her saddle in shock and horror. "Signora Shrewton!"
The squire glanced about, frowning, in search of the evil Countess, but she was nowhere to be found. Then suddenly, someone breathed, "Dio mio. Look!" and everyone turned to where the man pointed.
There, through the upper story windows of Grasmere, the crazed Countess could be seen moving from chamber to chamber, setting each one afire with the torch she carried in one hand. Even as they watched her, the sound of her strange wild laughter reached their ears, making the napes of their necks crawl.
"Ye deranged bitch!" Florio called, shaking his fist at the manor house, but Lady Shrewton did not hear him. "'Signore'' — he turned back to his master—"the woman ... she has gone completely mad. She is burning down the manor house and pays us no heed."
"My face, my face," the Count moaned again, apparently not having heard a word his squire had spoken. "I must have Beatrice to tend my face. Oh, my face, my face. 'Tis ruined, ruined for life."
Poor Florio did not know what to do, but one man, bolder than the rest and finally recovering his senses, stepped forth and, without ceremony, tossed the Italian upon his black destrier.
"Get hold of yourself, signore," the man said tersely, "or we're all likely to have our necks stretched at the end of a gallow's rope. Your face will be scarred for life, all right, but you'll live. Angelo, Luigi. Go inside, and get that crazy bitch."
"Forget it, Vincenzo. The place is an inferno, and the bitch is roasting alive. She won't be around to tell any tales. Bring the girl, and let's get going."
"Wait. Here come Davide and Maurizio with the maid. Giorgio, fetch another horse."
Isabella's face blanched with pity and horror, and bilious gorge
from her stomach rose sickeningly to her throat as she caught sight of Jocelyn being led forth from the burning manor house. The maid was clad only in a rough cloak that one of the men had thrown about her. and she was shivering uncontrollably with shock and cold as she stumbled unseeingly through the snow, half-dragged along by the men. Of her young son there was no sign.
Sweet Jesu. How can ye be so cruel? Isabella asked God silently. The child was but four years old.
And for the first time, the girl was glad she had borne no babe of Warrick's making.
Oh, Warrick, Warrick! her heart cried out piteously. Where are ye, my lord, my love?
But naught save the crackling flames that engulfed Grasmere answered.
Warrick was sickened and chilled by the sight of the manor house, burned and blackened to but an empty shell of its former splendor; and inside of his oddly constricted breast, his heart was as desolate as the stark ruin before him.
Isabella. Oh, God. Isabella!
If she had died in the fire that had claimed Grasmere, he had no way of knowing it: for though a charred bone here and there gave evidence of a human body that had perished in the blaze, there was no way of telling to whom the bone had belonged.
Not 'Sabelle, Warrick prayed feverishly. Dear God, not my sweet Rose of Rapture.
"My lord! My lord!"
The excited shouts of his men brought him back, with a start, to the present. They were hurrying toward him eagerly, a strange woman, holding the hand of a young boy, in their midst.
Nay, it could not be! It could not be! Was it—was it—
"Uncle Waerwic! Uncle Waerwic!" the child shouted, breaking free of the woman's restraining grip and running forward.
"Arthwr! Thank God! Arthwr!" Warrick cried, hugging the lad close as the boy raced into his outstretched arms. "Arthwr."
Hope surged in the Earl's breast that the child might be able to tell him something, but the small, fervent expectation was quickly dashed as slowly, carefully, so as not to frighten the lad, he questioned the child, only to learn nothing. Still, there remained the woman. Warrick motioned for her to be brought forth and introduced.
"My name be Mary Brown, m'lord, from up Eden's Folly
way," she announced and dropped him a shy, awkward curtsy tinged shghtly with awe and fear. "But I know no more'n the babe. I found him wandering in the woods, crying out pitifully for his mama, poor mite. But she weren't nowhere to be found, so I took him in, thinking someone would come fer him sooner or later. I—I didn't mean no harm by it. His clothes... they was real fine, m'lord, so I knowed he weren't common, and I couldn't jest stand by and let him starve"—this a trifle defiantly.
"Of course not," Warrick agreed warmly. "Ye did the right thing, lass. Do not be thinking otherwise. Ye shall be richly rewarded, I promise ye."
"Well, thank ye, m'lord. 1 won't say as how a bit of coin wouldn't be welcome; but I ain't greedy, and 1 hope I'm a kind woman and know my duty and don't need to be bribed into doing it. Now. Where was I? Oh, aye. But other than saying his house had burnt up, the poor mite knew nothing. Course, we'd all spied the fire and come a'running. It blazed so bright, m'lord; 'twas like a beacon there on the hill. Ye could see it fer miles in all directions; ye could. I'll warrant it frightened the poor mite something terrible, fer he has bad dreams; he does. Wails out something fierce in his sleep at night. Whimpers something awful fer his mama, which is only natural, of course. 'Tis the other thing he says that worries me."
"What other thing?" Warrick asked. "What else does the child say?"
"Well, I can't rightly understand part of it, m'lord, fer it don't make no sense to me; and the rest of it ain't fitting to repeat. My mama done raised me proper; she done."
"Tell me anyway," the Earl urged. "Do the best ye can. Please, Mistress Brown. 'Tis very important."
The woman flushed and bridled with pleasure at his addressing her so. Why, he was a right nice man, was Lord Hawkhurst, not like some of the high and mighty nobles she'd met, who'd treated her like dirt.
"Well, m'lord, it sounds like the lad's saying, 'See Nora—'" Here, she broke off and blushed with embarrassment, biting her lip, but went on at Warrick's prompting. "See Nora.. .slut. See Nora slut. That's what the boy says, m'lord; but as I told ye, it don't make no sense
to me. There ain't no Nora hereabouts that I know of, specially a—a woman what ain't proper."
See Nora slut. See Nora slut.
What on earth could the child be saying? And then suddenly,
Warrick had it, and his heart turned cold with fear in his breast. Dear God.
Signora slut! Signora slut!
That's what the boy was saying. 'Twas the Italian—the Italian had kidnapped Isabella, was holding her prisoner somewhere for his own evil purposes—whatever they might be. Aye, Warrick's wife was alive. Suddenly, the Earl was sure of it.
Dear God. What was his beloved 'Sabelle suffering at the hands of that treacherous piece of slime—and where had the Italian taken her?
Arising from her stupor, her senses sharply magnified, Isabella stared wildly about her chamber, her nerves taut and screaming silently for the potion that Lord Montecatini had promised her earlier, the sweet poppy's nectar, that pure raw powder, without which she was certain she could not now survive. Her body craved it—desperately—and still, the Count did not come.
God's blood! Where was he? Where was he?
Frantically, she chewed her ragged fmgemails—some of which were already bitten down to the quick—in an effort to distract herself. When that proved fruitless, she jumped up from the bed and began to pace the floor restlessly, tearing crazily at the robe she wore, until its silk material hung in tattered shreds about her.
Once or twice, she caught sight of herself in the mirror, but the reflection that gazed back at her meant nothing to her. Isabella did not recognize the gaunt, wild-eyed, hollow-cheeked woman who was herself.
With quick, jerky movements, she fingered the ornate bottles of scent that sat upon her dresser, but the delicate flacons held nothing that interested her; and after a moment, with a little sob of rage and despair, she swept her hand across them, sending them shattering to the floor.
"Temper, temper, signora," Lord Montecatini cautioned as finally he entered the room. "A glassblower in Venice spent many long hours creating those crystal treasures, and in a single instant, ye have destroyed all his hard work."
"I don't care!" Isabella spat rebelliously, hating him, despising his maimed, twisted face, which was now crusted over with scabs. "Did ye bring it?"
"Patience, signora. Ye must learn to cultivate patience," the Count chided, wishing to prolong her torment as long as possible. "In due time, ye will get that which ye desire."
Slowly, he reached into his doublet and drew forth a small pouch; then he moved to the hunting table along one wall, taking great pains to avoid glancing in the mirror as he passed it. He lived, aye; but his life had been his face, and his face was ruined. He could not bear to look at himself, though he forced everyone else to, beating them savagely if they dared to hide their eyes from his hideous visage. He would never be thought a beauty again, would never again know the glow of envy and adoration his handsomeness had brought when he had preened before a lover. And the Tremaynes were to blame! If not for them, his life would not have been ruined!
To Isabella, each passing second seemed like hours as he poured out a chalice of dark, rich red wine—brandywine. The most potent of all wines made, it was created by boiling down biu-gundy and lacing it with brandy. After taking a few sips to assure himself the wine had not soured, he opened the pouch and shook its contents into the goblet. The thick powder lay there on the surface of the liquid for a minute before sinking to the bottom of the chalice, where the crystals dissolved as the Italian stirred the draught with a silver spoon.
At last, with the caricature of a smile twisting his distorted face, Lord Montecatini turned and handed the goblet to Isabella. Greedily, she upended the chalice, quenching her thirst with the potion.
Soon, she began to return to the dreamlike existence she lived for nowadays. Slowly, slowly, the feeling of languor crept through her veins, cahning her tortured nerves and making her titter slightly at that foolish woman who, just a little while earlier, had paced the chamber floor so restlessly, ridiculously expending all that energy. Now, lying upon her bed, Isabella gazed up dizzily at the cathedral ceiling of the tower in which she was imprisoned. Though it was stained dark and crisscrossed with wooden beams, in her mind, there was no roof at all, just a pattern of brilliant, swirling colors fading up into the sky, pierced by the golden sunlight streaming down from the firmament. She could see herself floating upon the whirl of the flashing, ever-changing kaleidoscope, and she knew she was without substance or form, a goddess who looked down upon her foolish mortal subjects below and laughed. She giggled once more, her head lolling from side to side, her body limp, inert. Drowsily, she yawned, wondering why her eyelids felt so heavy, indeed, why she had any eyelids at all. She was a goddess, wasn't she? She didn't need any eyelids—useless things. Listlessly, she lifted one arm, which felt
like lead, and waved it around aimlessly before, at last, she managed to tug at the feathery black fringe of one eye. But the attempt to remove her eyelid was futile, and Isabella soon abandoned it. It seemed like such a waste of energy. It was much more entertaining to study the cherubic angels who had appeared among the colors above and who were serenading her with their harps and horns. Spastically, she applauded, then laughed idiotically; and Lord Montecatini, who was watching her, grimaced.
Disgusting bitch! he thought. I can hardly wait until that half-Welsh bastard gets a look at his Rose of Rapture now!
Aye, he had chosen well, the Count decided. 'Twas the perfect revenge. Truly, none of the other forms of vengeance he had considered and discarded would have served nearly as well. He had thought of turning Isabella over to his men for sport, but what man who loved a woman would cast her out because she had been forced to become a whore? Not the Earl. Proud and jealous, he might be; but he loved his wife, and the fact that other men had known her, against her will, would not diminish that love. The Italian had thought of scarring Isabella's lovely countenance until 'twas unrecognizable—like his own; but that idea he had too abandoned. A man loved a woman—truly loved her—for what she was inside. Marring Isabella's beauty would not have changed that. Lord Montecatini had even contemplated slaying the girl, but this notion also he had dismissed. He meant to kill her, aye, but only when he had the Earl at his mercy to witaess Isabella's death and be powerless to prevent it.
Aye, turning her into an addict had been the best means of revenge. What man would love a woman who craved the sweet nectar of a poppy more than she did him, would even slay him to get it and never shed a tear at his demise?
Smiling terribly, the Count looked once more at Isabella. No man could love that disgusting creature.
Satisfied that it was so, the Italian reached for a quill and ink. It was time to let Lord Hawkhurst know the whereabouts of his wife.
Grimly, Warrick stared at the dark, massive fortress that rose up forbiddingly before him. Its true name was Boldon-by-the-Sea Castle, but everyone called it Black Rock. Perched upon a sheer cliff overlooking the ocean, its towering black walls were fifty feet high and ten feet thick. It had no moat, for there was no need for one. There was only one way to gain access to the keep; that was a steeply graded road that wound its path precariously
up through the jagged rocks to the fortress. It was one of the most impregnable castles in all of England; and Warrick's heart sank like a stone in his breast as he surveyed it. He would never be able to wrest Isabella by force from the keep.
Oh, God. If only Warrick had the King's men behmd him! But he did not. Lord Montecatini had been far too clever to allow that. Before leaving London, the Count had put about the story that he was returning to Rome on a private family matter; and he had made certain that several of the courtiers had actually witoessed him boarding the ship that had sailed slowly down the Thames toward the open sea.
Warrick, of course, knew the Italian had not returned home but instead had put to shore somewhere north of Bridlington, in England, ridden to Grasmere to kidnap Isabella, then reboarded his ship and sailed still farther nor
th to Boldon-by-the-Sea, which was deep in the mountainous border lands of England.
Upon realizing that Isabella had been taken captive by Lord Montecatini, Warrick's first thought had been to denounce the Count at once openly. After further reflection, however, the Earl had recognized he would only be made to look foolish. He'd had no tangible proof the Italian had abducted Isabella, and all of London had believed Lord Montecatini on the high seas toward Rome, a very unlikely place from which to have conducted a kidnapping.
So Warrick had remained silent and had set about quietly to search for his wife, so none would learn of her disappearance and bring the matter to the King's attention. Harry did not like Isabella, and although he might have believed Warrick's tale of her abduction, it had been more than likely the King would have assumed instead that she had disobeyed his command to return to her husband. But although Warrick had sought diligently for Isabella's whereabouts, he had discovered nothing. Only the message he had received from the Count had given him the information he had so desired—and the tangible proof he had needed of the Italian's duplicity. But Warrick had been unable to show Harry the letter from Lord Montecatini, for in it, the Count had warned he would slay Isabella immediately if he learned the Earl had informed the King of the girl's kidnapping and the identity of her captor.
"What do we do now, Waerwic?" Emrys asked, daunted by the sight of the ominous fortress and bringing the Earl back sharply to the present.
"We wait," Warrick said tersely to his brother. "We wait for the Italian's summons. There is nothing more we can do."
Then he buried his head in one hand so his men would not see the despair upon his face. The Earl had never felt so helpless in his life.
"Waerwic, ye cannot go in there!" Emrys pleaded desperately with his brother. "You'll never come out alive—ye laiow ye won't—and neither will Isabella."
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