Rose of rapture Page 32

  The boy shrugged.

  "I don't know about that, my lady. This is where my lord said I was to bring ye...."

  "Do not fear, lad," Isabella reassured the youth, who was gazing up at her somewhat anxiously. "I have not accused ye of any wrongdoing. 'Tis merely that this is not my husband's pavilion. However, perhaps he has some reason for wishing to meet me here. Here." She handed the page a silver coin. "Please go, and tell my maid ye have seen me safely delivered to my husband."

  The boy scampered off, as though glad to escape from her presence, causing Isabella to smile a trifle ruefully to herself and to shake her head slightly with amusement. Children! Briefly, she wondered idly when she might have one, then, mortified, hastily pushed the notion from her head as she remembered how such an event would be brought about. Marry-go-up! Warrick would know instantly that she had been standing outside, daydreaming about their lovemaking. What on earth would he think? Still a little flushed and flustered by the unbidden pattern of her thoughts, the girl took a deep breath to calm herself and entered the tent.

  "Lionel!" Isabella was so stunned, the word burst from her lips involuntarily.

  "Aye, 'tis I." The heir of St. Saviour stepped from the shadows, where he had been waiting. "Nay, 'Sabelle, don't go. Please. I'm sorry to have misled ye, but I simply had to see ye."

  "I'm sure I don't know why. We have nothing to say to each other."

  "Don't we?" he asked, his voice low and throbbing with pas-

  sion. "Oh, 'Sabelle," he whispered feverishly, catching her hands

  before she reahzed what he was about. "Ye cannot tell me ye

  have not hungered for me, as I have hungered for ye since our

  parting."

  "I can and will. What was between us is past. Now let me go. Ye have a wife, and I have a husband who is notorious for his jealousy."

  The girl glanced about anxiously for someone who might come to her aid, but she and Lionel were quite alone in the pavilion; he had seen to that, of course.

  "Dost think I care for my wife—or your husband?" the heir of St. Saviour snapped. "Oh, God, 'Sabelle. When I think of what I have lost in ye, I damn Gilliane Beaumaris to hell and back! What is she, compared to ye? And what is Hawkhurst? He does not love ye as I do; I swear it!"

  "Gilliane is your wife," Isabella repeated coldly, trying to pull her hands from his tight grip. "And ye have shamefully abused her. Why, do ye know she did not even have money today to buy a fan—the most meager of devices—that she might keep cool beneath the sun's rays? And her garments are pathetic, fit only for the lowliest of scullery maids! I have no doubt that ye beat her besides, for she is terrified of ye, my lord; and I—I am disgusted by your treatment of her, Lionel! I knew ye for a cheat, but until now, I had not thought ye cruel. Now take your hands off me! Warrick is my husband, and I wouldst not play him false, especially for ye."

  The harsh words smng, as they were meant to. Snarling under his breath, Lionel yanked her into his arms, causing Ragnor to squawk loudly. Wrathfully, the heir of St. Saviour knocked the hawk from Isabella's shoulder.

  "Ragnor!" she wept, horrified, and tried to reach the bird, who was fluttering helplessly upon the ground; but Lionel restrained her.

  "That is what I think of your husband, my lady!" the heir of St. Saviour growled, his blue eyes glittering with rage and raking her lustfully. "Your husband! What does he know of ye? / know ye. I know ye as he never will. Oh, 'Sabelle, 'Sabelle."

  He pressed his lips hotly against her throat, as though he would devour her with his mouth.

  "Nay, ye do not," Isabella retorted, seeking once more to escape from him, "else ye wouldst not be attempting to woo me in this fashion. 'Tis crude and deceitful, but I guess I should not have expected any better from ye. For the last time, my lord, I

  am warning ye: Release me, or I shall scream this tent down about your ears!"

  "Nay, 'Sabelle, ye will not, for what would your husband say if he found ye here... in my pavilion... in my arms?"

  "Against my will, Lionel!" the girl reminded him sharply.

  "Dost truly think that Hawkhurst would believe that? Nay." Lionel gave a small, nasty laugh. "I thought not. Come, dearest heart. Ye are a maid no longer. I ask only that ye give to me what that whoreson Welsh bastard has had of ye."

  Isabelle gasped with shock at his crudity. Managing to free one hand, at last, she brought her palm up and boxed his ears smartly, struggling furiously in his grasp all the while.

  "Let me go, ye contemptible scoundrel!" she raged. "How dare ye insult me in such a manner? God's wounds, but Warrick shall kill ye for this! Let me go! God damn ye! Let me go!"

  But Lionel only laughed again, tearing at her bodice as he flung her to the earth and fell upon her. And in that moment, Isabella knew, without a doubt, that she did not love him, had never loved him. How could she have? She had not known him. He had been but some romantic figure bom of a childhood promise and sought to fulfill a dream. Why, he wasn't fit to wipe Warrick's boots! Warrick, who had mocked her, married her, made love to her

  "God damn ye!" she cried once more. "Ye are no better than Lord Oadby!"

  Without warning, the heir of St. Saviour abruptly ceased his assault, for her last accusation battered his senses as none of her previous words had done; and in the sudden lull that had fallen between them, Isabella was somehow able to break loose of his hold and flee. Staggenng to her feet, grabbing up Ragnor and clutching him and the torn renmants of her gown to her breast, she ran.

  Once outside the tent, she paused a minute to catch her breath, then looked about apprehensively to be certain no one had observed her flight from Lionel's pavilion. She inhaled sharply, the fresh air she'd taken in seeming to choke in her throat as her grey-green eyes met her husband's golden ones. For only an instant, she was frightened; then joy filled her heart until she thought she would burst from it. How he had found her, she did not know or care. He was there, as he had always been there. It was enough.

  "Warrick. Warrick!" the girl sobbed with relief, throwing herself into his arms.

  But there was no welcome in his strong embrace, and his dark visage, when she gazed at him again, was as hard as stone. Slowly, in sudden understanding, she drew away from him, all her earlier dread returning.

  "Warrick, please. Please. 'Tis—'tis not what you're thinking. Oh, God. 'Tis not what you're thinking! I—I can explain."

  "I am quite certain ye can, madam," the Earl said, his voice as cold as ice and chilling her to the bone. "However, I do not choose to be made a fool of again. Sweet Jesii," he suddenly swore bitterly and thrust her from him. 'To think I had begun to care for ye."

  Then he turned and walked away.

  BOOK THREE

  'Windswept ^oors

  St* C^ — ^^ —Ci v»^

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Hawkhurst Castle, England, 1480

  TO THINK I HAD BEGUM TO CARE FOR YE.

  Warrick's words hammered like a death knell in Isabella's brain. Oh, God damn Lionel Valeureux to hell and back! 'Twas he who had caused her husband to turn against her. Her husband, whom she had just begun to heal, whom she had just begun to love. Aye, love. Isabella knew, with certainty now, that it was so. She had fallen in love with her husband. Lord Warrick ap Tremayne, Earl of Hawkhurst. Now—now, when it was too late, she dared to face what was in her heart.

  Oh, God, oh, God!

  How she longed to bury her face in her hands and weep bitterly for what she had lost. But she did not. To do so would be to disgrace herself before Warrick and his men. Once they had reached the sanctuary of Hawkhurst Castle, the giri would find a quiet place in which to lick her wounds. Until then, she must remain strong so none would guess how her heart was dying inside of her.

  Only Giles and Caerllywel suspected her pain, for they alone knew what had happened that day of the King's tourney. And

  though together, vahantly, they had accosted Warrick and forced

  him to listen to the truth of the matter,
he had not beheved them.

  "Ye love her," he had snarled. "Both of ye! Ye wouldst say anything to protect her. Well, I am not such a fool as to believe ye. Now get out. Get out of my sight! And take that cheating witch 1 married with ye!"

  That had hurt worst of all—the fact that Warrick had no longer even wanted her. Quietly, Isabella had moved her possessions into the antechamber of their room and there had shared a pallet upon the floor with Jocelyn until they had left the Tower and London behind. How endless the nights had seemed as Isabella had lain huddled next to her maid and pressed her face into her pillow to muffle her racking sobs so none would hear her weeping. How filled with agony the long hours had been as she had waited restlessly, sleeplessly, for Warrick to return to their chamber. Sometimes, it had been almost morning before he had come in, more often than not inebriated, though he had held his liquor well. Isabella had not known where he'd spent his nights and had not asked. That he'd sought out arms other than her own, she'd had no doubt. She would have been greatly surprised, though highly gratified, to learn he had but sat in his horse's stall in the stables and drunk himself into a stupor while pouring out his heart and soul to his much-bemused destrier.

  Then, one mom (having grown weary of passing his evenings upon a pile of hay), the Earl had ordered his wife to pack her coffers. They were leaving London, he had told her curtly. He was taking her home to Hawkhurst Castle. Isabella had not wished to go, but still, she had made no protest against him. A devil had taken hold of Warrick, and she was not the only one who'd been more than a little frightened of him those days.

  Now, as her husband's fortress came into view at last, the giri's heart sank with despair: for she had no doubt that Warrick intended to shut her away here, alone, and return to Court without her. Aye, this would be her prison, perhaps for life. She had sinned against her husband (or so he thought); and he had tried and condemned her without mercy, sentencing her to Hawkhurst Castle for her crime. He might as well have delivered her to that infamous dungeon known as Little Hell in the Tower, Isabella thought, for such a prospect could not have been bleaker or more daunting than the one she now faced.

  The Yorkshire moors, to which the gid was accustomed, were wild and often rocky, but their gently swelling crests did not jar the eye as the land here did, for the hills of Devon were steep

  and savage. Rugged granite and sandstone promontories dropped sharply into wooded plains, desolate heaths, and marshy valleys, which were a legacy of centuries past, when the sea had swept in to drown die lower terrain. Even now, in the distance, Isabella could hear the roar of the ocean above the drizzle of the depressing rain and taste the cool, salty spindrift that swirled in a blanket of mist upon the wings of the wind.

  High above, upon a cliff that ascended stonily before her and fell away starkly on the other side in a sheer drop to the sea below, Hawkhurst Castle loomed over the girl, as dark and forbidding as the rocky crags among which it was set. Its tall, powerful towers gleamed ominously against the horizon, its machicolated battlements cutting a cruel, jagged scar across the firmament as a sudden flash of lightning lit the sky. The massive grey fortress had no moat, for there was no need of one. There was no way to gain access to the keep other than by the single road that wound almost dangerously up to the ridge upon which the castle perched like a brooding hawk and whence it had drawn its name.

  Isabella's breath caught in her throat as she eyed the fortress despondendy, for there was nothing welcoming about those stem, gloomy walls, which seemed so different from Rushden's protective barriers. No wonder Warrick had spent so little time here in the past. Besides having crumbled, in places, to wrack and ruin, there was an air of disquiet about the keep that even the bravest of souls must have found unnerving.

  The girl swallowed hard as the stout iron portcullis was lowered on rusty, creaking chains behind her to clang shut with a sudden, eerie bang. They were passed through the inner gatehouse, then Giles and Caerllywel were lifting her down from her mare to follow Warrick into the castle.

  "Do not look so terrified, 'Sabelle," Caerllywel whispered encouragingly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "For all its strange appearance, I assure ye that Hawkhurst has no ghosts. 'Tis merely that the fortress is very old—'twas built during the time of William the Conqueror—and the Tremaynes have been notoriously careless about its upkeep. Waerwic, I'm afraid, has proven no better than the rest at maintaining his inheritance. Like his ancestors before him, he has preferred life at Court and in batde to Hawkhurst."

  "'Tis no wonder," Isabella said with a little shiver as she glanced about somewhat apprehensively.

  The great hall in which they now stood was huge and might

  have been overwhelming in its magnificence, had any effort been made to care for it. As it was, smoke from the torches had stained the walls with black blotches of grimy soot; the sconces themselves looked as though they had not been cleaned in decades. The once-beautiful tapestries had faded with time; many were moth-eaten, rotten, and hanging in tattered shreds. The trestle tables, which no one had bothered to dismantle after the midday meal, were badly scarred and were layers deep in dust besides, as were the benches ranged haphazardly alongside them. The floor was almost knee-deep in filthy rushes, new reeds having been laid down without first removing the old ones. The musty air stank with the foul odor of the decaying straw, which was made even ranker by the scraps of molded food and other offal that had infiltrated the rushes over a period of time. Isabella was certain the putrid reeds hid virtual armies of roaches, maggots, lice, and bedbugs, as well as the rats her ears discerned rustling through straw.

  "Marry-go-up," she breathed with dismay.

  Warrick, who had overheard the remark, had the grace to flush slightly with shame at the condition in which his bride found his home—now her home too. For the first time in his life, it dawned on the Earl just how dirty and sorely in need of repair Hawkhurst really was, especially when one compared it to Rushden, as Isabella and her brother must be doing. Isabella was plainly horrified by the keep; and though less shocked than his sister (for he had sojourned at bachelor households in the past and often found them less than clean), Giles was startled as well. Even Caerllywel was too embarrassed to meet his brother's eyes. Really! the yoimger man thought. The least that Warrick could have done was to have sent word of their coming so his servants might have prepared for their arrival. After all, it was not as though the Earl were still a bachelor. He had a wife to think of now.

  Warrick realized this also, but he told himself he did not care what they thought. Isabella's feelings, especially, were not important to him. But nevertheless, in a sudden fit of anger at his lack of foresight, his hand swept out to knock several silver chalices from one of the tables. The cups clattered to the floor, stirring up a cloud of dust.

  "Christ's son!" he swore wrathfully, then shouted for his steward. "Farrell! Farrell, where are ye?"

  "Coming, my lord. Welcome home, my lord. Sir Caerllywel, how good to see ye again." Master Farrell bowed and smiled, apparently unafraid of the Earl's temper. "I trust ye had a pleasant

  journey, my lord; but then, of course, ye did not. How could ye have done so in this rain? So tiresome. Perth, Anson. Light the hearths—and quickly—so his lordship and guests may dry themselves. Mary, Leah. Bring food and drink," the steward directed, then turned back to Warrick. "Not knowing how many guests, if any, to expect when the sentries announced your arrival, my lord, I had only your chamber prepared. If ye will excuse me now, I will go and have Sir Caerllywel's room made up, as well as chambers for the Lord and Lady." He indicated Giles and Isabella respectfully, waiting expectantly to be presented,

  Abrupdy, Warrick recalled his manners.

  "I'm sorry, Farrell," the Earl stated stiffly. "Isabella, Giles, this is my steward. Master Farrell. Farrell, this is my wife, Lady Hawkhurst, and her brother. Lord Rushden."

  If the steward was surprised by this announcement, he did not show it, though Isabella was certain he could
not help but think that Ragnor, ruffling his damp feathers upon her shoulder, and her own wet, bedraggled appearance combined to present a very strange picture indeed. Farrell merely bowed once more and politely welcomed both her and Giles to Hawkhurst.

  "I'm afraid ye find us in a sad state, my lady," the steward apologized somewhat anxiously. "Had we but known ye were coming... His lordship is so seldom in residence, ye see, we do not maintain very many servants here. However, no doubt that will be changed now, and we shall be able to set matters to rights."

  "I'm sure we shall. Master Farrell"—Isabella spoke warmly, for though she had, at first, suspected the steward of gross neglect and incompetence, she recognized now that his hands had been tied by her husband's total lack of interest in the estate.

  "Are my brothers here, Farrell?" Warrick inquired abruptly, tersely changing the subject.

  "Nay, my lord. Lord Madog returned to Gwendraeth some time ago, taking Sir Emrys with him."

  "And my mother?"

  "She is not in residence either, my lord."

  "Thank ye, Farrell. That will be all for now."

  By now, the men-at-arms who had escorted them on their journey had joined them in the great hall, and the huge, central stone hearths had been lit and a plain but hearty meal brought. Isabella was glad to see the food at least was decent. Before sitting down to dine, she moved gratefully to one of the fires that now burned cheerfully, dispelling some of the fortress's dank

  and dreary atmosphere. The autumn wind and rain had chilled her more than she'd realized. As she stretched her hands out to the blaze, Giles came to stand beside her.

  "Sweet Jesii, 'Sabelle." His voice was low. "I do not know how Warrick came to let his keep fall into such a shambles. It certainly looks as though ye have your work cut out for ye. I almost wish I had not asked Gloucester's permission to accompany ye here. Methinks I would as lief be battling the Scots as trying to help ye set this place to rights, especially when Warrick is so wroth with ye."