"I know, I know. But what else can I do? God's wounds! What else can I do?"
"Wait the bastard out. Sooner or later, he must make a move."
"And if 'tis to kill 'Sabelle— Sweet Jesul" Warrick groaned, stricken. "I'd never forgive myself."
"He has no reason to slay her yet," Emrys pointed out logically, "not until he can get his hands on ye. 'Tis ye he really wants, if what he told ye is true. Christ's son! The man is mad! Ye don't kill someone for opposmg ye politically."
"Oh, come, Emrys. 'Tis done all the time."
"A dagger in the back in a shadowed corridor? Aye. But like this? Nay. The man is mad, I tell ye. Ye must wait him out. Let him make the next move. 'Tis what Madog would have done; believe me."
"God's blood! Would that our brother were here now to guide me. He would know how to get into that God damned keep!"
"Forget it, Waerwic. 'Tis impregnable. That is why they call it Black Rock."
Once more, Isabella's nerves were raw and screaming silently for the potion that would tame the savage talons that clawed their way through her veins. She did not even care that Lord Mon-tccatini had let her out of her chamber for the first time in three months. She knew only that the warm spring sunlight hurt her eyes and that the Count had yet to give her the draught, though she pleaded with him hysterically to do so.
Instead, he merely dragged her, stumbling, along behind him brutally, dealing her a vicious slap when she fell and groveled at his feet, clinging to his legs to keep him from kicking her as she begged him for the potion.
"Si alzi! Get up!" the Italian growled, yanking her roughly to her feet and boxing her ears. "Your husband dares to defy me, and I must teach him a lesson."
"Warrick?" Isabella asked, dazed, her head ringing from the painful blows. "What is he doing here?"
But she inquired only as a matter of conversation. She did not care if Lord Montecatini answered, did not care what Warrick was doing at Boldon-by-the-Sea. She cared only about the small pouch filled with powder, which the Count carried in his doublet.
"Oh, why won't ye give me my draught?" she cried, trying desperately, dementedly, to wrench it from its place of concealment. "I need it! Oh, why won't ye give it to me?"
"Presendy, I shall, signora," the Italian responded smoothly. "Ye have but to do one tiny thing for me first."
"Oh, anything. Anything!" Isabella promised rashly, not caring what it was he wished her to do.
She would even kill for the sweet poppy's nectar; she craved it so.
"Good," Lord Montecatini said as, at last, they reached the outer wall of the fortress. "Do ye but climb up on the battlements and walk a little ways so your husband can see ye."
Isabella was not afraid of heights; she had lived around them , all her life. And in her hysterical stupor, she gave no thought to the fact that no sane man would have done what the Count now asked of her, that she could easily and probably would lose her balance and fall to be battered upon the rocks fifty feet below.
Instead, she pulled herself up onto one of the embrasures, then clambered up higher still onto the merlon on one side. She swayed precariously for a moment, so the Italian reached out to steady her from behind, but she felt no fear. Not even when Warrick's men, far below, finally spied her and began to shout frantically and point at her did she sense her danger. Thinking it was some sort of game, and remembering the potion that would be her reward for winning, she jumped to the next merlon, teetered there for an instant, then skipped onto the next. And all the while, Warrick watched from below, his heart in his throat.
"My God," he breathed. "Is she mad?"
"Nay." Emrys shook his head. "'Tis my guess the whoreson has drugged her."
"Dear God," Warrick said, and started forward. "I'm going in."
Only the combined strength of his men held him back, for he was like a madman in his fear and rage.
"Don't be a fool, Waerwic!" Emrys exclaimed. "Ye cannot help her, and if ye deliver yourself up to the bastard, you'll be
playing right into his hands. Don't ye see? 'Tis what he wants ye to do. 'Tis why Isabella is up there now, risking her life!"
And so Warrick stood and watched helplessly and died a thousand deaths with each little leap his wife made upon the battlements. And when it seemed as though he could stand no more, she fell.
"Si alzi! Get up!" Lord Montecatini snarled as he got to his feet and brushed himself off after being toppled by Isabella's fall. "Disgusting bitch!" he sneered when she continued to lie there upon the walkway, stunned and dazed. "I ought to slay ye as I did your brother!"
It took her a moment, but somehow, some way, through the haze of her drugged state, Isabella grasped his words and was shocked and sickened by their impact.
"Nay! What—what are ye saying?" she questioned, her voice sharp and shrill as she staggered to her feet. "Tell me, ye whoreson bastard!" she cried, grabbing hold of the Count and shaking him wildly. "Tell me! What do ye mean.'' Ye ought to slay me as ye did my brother?"
Irately, the Italian knocked her away, then laughed, a short, ugly sound.
"I mean just what I said, ye stupid slut. 'Twas I who killed your brother. Ye blamed your half-Welsh bastard of a husband for the deed; but 'twas I who killed Giles."
"But—but how? And—and why?"
"I poisoned the sleeping draught ye asked me to prepare for him. 'Twas a kindness, really, to put the lad out of his misery; and I knew you'd blame the Earl for the deed, turn against him, and make his life hell. He'd humiliated me, ye know, that day of the tourney, caused me to be recalled to Rome in disgrace; and I'd sworn to have my revenge upon him—the whoreson."
But Isabella was no longer Ustening, for only one thing that Lord Montecatini had said had registered on her brain.
/ poisoned the sleeping draught ye asked me to prepare for him.
Dear God. 'Twas by her hand that Giles had died. 'Twas she who had given him the fatal potion. Dear God.
She went crazy then, running at the Count like a madwoman, clawing at his hideously twisted face, tearing at his doublet, kicking his shins. Viciously, made unnaturally strong by her craving for the sweet poppy's nectar he had yet to give her, she pummeled his torso. Enraged by her assault, the Italian struck
out at her savagely, but still, she fought on like a wild thing, forcing him back, until he was pressed up against one of the embrasures.
Then suddenly, the battle was over; and Lord Montecatini was falling.. .falling—
Gasping for breath, Isabella stared down at his broken body, which lay mangled upon the jagged rocks far below. The Count was dead. She had killed him, pushed him over the battlements of Boldon-by-the-Sea; and she was glad she had done it.
Unsteadily, her head spinning, she swayed a little on her feet and realized dimly, in some dark comer of her mind, that she needed help. Like a wounded animal, she wanted the one person who loved her most in all the world, the one person who had always been there for her. She flung back her head and cried out hoarsely, a strange, pitiful little wail.
But even so, he heard it, and his heart leaped with joy in his breast at the sound.
Warrick, she had said. Warrick.
Unless defended, no fortress, no matter how strongly buih, is^ impregnable; and upon learning of their Lord's death, the Count's men decided to run, escaping by the postern gate to the ship that waited for them just off the shore.
Warrick let them go. It was enough that he had managed to gain entry to the castle. It was enough that he held Isabella tightly in his arms once more.
Chapter Forty
The Moors, England, 1490
SOME THOUGHT IT WAS THE WIND THAT SOUGHED across the moors and sent the tall grass rippling, thought too it was the rain that fell from the misty twilight clouds this eve. Only Isabella knew it was not so.
Twas the plaintive sighs of those she'd known—and loved— whispering faintly in her ear; and the tears of those long dead, who haunted her still, though Warrick had asked her earlier this day
to let them go.
Alone, with her ghosts, she walked on past the cemetery, where Caerllywel was buried, and they had erected a stone for Madog, though he lay not there.
She was well now. Warrick and Emrys had made her so, though she did not know how they had lived through the terrible, long months of her gradual withdrawal from the sweet poppy's nectar that had been her bane. Only Warrick's deep love for her had allowed her to survive the horrible ordeal. He had always been her strength and her solace, as Hwyelis had known.
Hwyelis lived with them now, along with Emrys and Jocelyn. Dear Jocelyn, who had survived too, for Arthwr's sake, and was
learning to love again, thanks to Sir Bevan's gentle courting of her. Isabella was certain that, in time, Jocelyn would fully recover from her fear of men. Then the maid and Sir Bevan would wed, and children would play in the courtyard of Hawkhurst.
Hawkhurst. Home.
Pausing, Isabella turned to gaze back at the fortress in the distance. There, now, Warrick would be waiting for her, lighting a candle, like a beacon, in their chamber window to guide her home.
Presently, she would go back, would run to his outstretched, loving arms, and tell him of his babe that grew, at last, within her, the first of their children, who would fill up the empty keep and make it ring again with laughter—though they would never take the places of those who had once lingered there, those whom the girl now gently bid farewell. It was time now to let them go. Isabella belonged to the living, to her husband, with whom she would forget the sorrow-filled past and look toward a futiu"e bright with the promise of joy.
From the castle ramparts, where Ragnor was now perched, came a shrill cry that sweetly pierced the silent night. The bird' had returned to her, as she had somehow known he would. He was hers now, forever, just as Warrick was.
"Hurry," the hawk seemed to be calling. "Hurry home, car-iad."
Home. Warrick.
Gathering up her skirts, Isabella began to run toward the light from Hawkhurst that shone steadily in the darkness, an imwav-ering flame of love.
Author s Note
Because this novel deals, in part, with the life of King Richard in of England, and because, in this book, the author has chosen to portray him in a much kinder light than that in which he is traditionally seen, she feels she owes some explanation to her readers for this departure.
Contrary to popular belief, there is no actual proof that Richard murdered the two boy Princes; and it is the author's own personal opinion that he did not do so. The case that has traditionally been made against him is rife with speculation, riddled with conflict, and, again in the author's own personal opinion, ludicrous in the extreme. She regards it as little more than Tudor propaganda, stemming primarily from the works of Sir Thomas More, based on the recollections of John Morton, Bishop of Ely, one of the men directly responsible for placing Henry Tudor on the throne and hardly an unbiased observer.
Cases equally as persuasive, if no less built on conjecture, can also be made against King Henry VII, and Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, both of whom had as good, if not even better, reasons than Richard for wishing to do away with the Princes. The author personally views Buckingham as the most likely suspect and for that reason has made him the culprit of the crime (in collusion with Lady Margaret Stanley) in this novel. There is some evidence that the meeting, upon the road, between Lady Stanley and Buckingham actually did occur, and there is still much debate about what may have passed between them. Certainly, it is strange that Henry made little effort to determine the
culprit(s) responsible for the murders; and if Richard had indeed slain the Princes, it would seem logical that Henry would have widely proclaimed the fact. He did not, suggesting that he either killed the Princes himself or knew who did and did not want the matter delved into too deeply.
For the reader who is interested in learning about the various cases that can be made against all three prime suspects, the author suggests Richard the Third, by Paul Murray Kendall (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1956, Appendix I, pp. 465-495), in which an excellent examination of the mystery is discussed.
There is, in addition, no evidence that Richard was a hunchback, as is popularly believed, had a withered arm, walked with a limp, or was in any other way physically deformed. None of the chroniclers of Richard's time make mention of any physical defect, and it was not until after his death that this rumor was given credence. Certainly, it is difficult to believe that in a superstitious age, such as Richard's was, he would have publicly exposed his naked body, as he did at his coronation, if he had suffered any such malformation.
There may be some actual basis for the famous Shakespearean line (in The Life and Death of King Richard III): "A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" Many historians believe there was indeed once a marsh upon the site of Market Bosworth and that Richard's destrier may, in reality, have floundered there during the battle. For this reason, the author included the words.
There are two other points of note that the reader may regard as fiction but that are historically accurate. King Edward IV did, in fact, view three suns in the sky prior to winning the Crown. The pecuhar solar effect is known as parhelion and is produced by the formation of ice crystals in the upper atmosphere that causes the sun's halo to reflect bright images. And, strange as it may seem, a solar eclipse actually did occur on the exact day of Queen Anne's death, proof enough for the commonfolk that Richard had sinned against God in taking the Crown.
0<
For the reader who questions why Isabella survived after contracting rabies, a disease generally thought to be fatal, the author can say only that some ancient folklore claims a cure for the illness was known during the time period in which this book is set. Whether or not such was indeed the case has yet to be ^covered. However, the author has no doubt that there is much ancient knowledge that has been lost over the centuries; and for this reason, she felt justified in allowing Isabella to survive. The author would also remind her readers that there is, in addition, one rare instance of recovery from rabies on modem medical record (1971).
Lasdy, the author would like very much to thank her dear friends Mary Railey, Roberta Gellis, and Janice Young Brooks, who listened to her so patientiy during her writing of this novel, mulled over difficulties with her, and gave her such helpful advice. She is especially indebted to Mary for her suggestion that Isabella contract rabies, to Robbie for her suggestion that Lady Margaret Stanley act as the brains behind Buckingham, and to Janice for discussing the details as to how and when Buckingham might have committed the crime. The author would also like to thank her dear friend and editor, Fredda Isaacson, for being so patient, understanding, and encouraging when it sometimes appeared as though this book would never be finished.
REBECCA BRANDEWYNE
K
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