Rose of rapture Page 5

  In all the confusion, it had not been until they were ready to depart that the boy had noticed his sister's absence and begged leave from the Duke to find her and bid her good-bye. And though Gloucester had been eager to be on his way to Middleham Castle

  to see his wife, Her Grace Anne, and their new firstborn, Edward, something in Giles's face had made Richard give the lad permission to seek out Isabella.

  Now, as the children slowly approached, the Duke was glad he had done so. He too had known the bittersweet pain of parting.

  "Ah, here they come, your grace." The Earl observed the youngsters' arrival with relief.

  "I do hope your grace will forgive them." The Countess tittered nervously. "I'm sure that Lord Oadby and I have done our best, but—"

  "Quite so," Gloucester stated dryly, gazing hard at Lady Shrewton.

  Unfortunately for the Countess, she reminded Richard of his brother Ned's latest mistress, whom the Duke could not abide the sight of.

  "Your grace." Though shaking inside, Giles stepped up manfully in the little silence that had fallen and swept Gloucester a deep bow. "I do apologize for having kept ye and your men' waiting so long. I did not realize how quickly time had passed. Please, allow me to present my sister, Lady Isabella."

  The girl bit her lip, distraught, and once more, tears stung her eyes as, at last, she recognized the full import of what she had done. In her overwhelming sorrow at Giles's leaving, she had behaved unforgivably before the King's brother. Isabella sank into a low curtsy and waited, eyes downcast, for the Duke's displeasure to fall upon her. To her surprise, for she had feared both she and her brother would have their ears boxed for their impertinence, Richard only took her hand and gently raised her to her feet.

  "So ye are the young maid who is the cause of our delay," he said, but his eyes were kind.

  "Aye, your grace. I'm sorry, your grace," Isabella mumbled, still not daring to look upon Gloucester's face.

  "Well, what shall we do with ye, I wonder?" The Duke studied the girl thoughtfully, noting the raggedness of her garments and the way they hung on her small thin frame.

  "I—I suppose I must be punished, your grace."

  "Are ye often punished, child?" Richard questioned softly and did not miss the frightened, covert glanced that Isabella threw Lady Shrewton.

  "Only when I am bad, your grace." The girl's tone was so low, he almost didn't hear her.

  "Well, I'm certain mat isn't very often," the Duke declared, raising his voice slightly and fixing the Earl and the Countess with an unflinching stare. "Ye wouldst not be one of my wife's favorite little maids otherwise."

  "Your—your wife, your grace?"

  "The Duchess of Gloucester, child."

  "I—I am one of her favorites, your grace?" Isabella queried with puzzlement, thinking she had misunderstood, for she did not know the Duchess.

  "Aye^ in fact"—Gloucester reached into his doublet and drew forth a shiny gold sovereign—"she sent ye a present and begged me to ask ye to remember her in your prayers." He pressed the coin into the girl's hand. "Will ye do that, my lady?"

  "Oh, aye, aye, your grace," Isabella cried, looking up, for the first time, and gazing at him marvelingly, much startled and deeply touched.

  This was the man said to have murdered the old King, Henry, who had died suddenly last year in the Tower; but in that moment, the girl knew the rumors were not true.

  Richard was not tall, and his body was slender, but Isabella, with her deep sensitivity, saw in the Duke the same quiet, inner strength that was her own, and she recognized a kindred spirit. Here too was a man who had suffered greatly in his past, for Gloucester had spent much of his childhood alone, in solitary confusion and upheaval; and the grief and bewilderment of those years was to shape his character for the rest of his life. Tom from his mother and sisters at an early age; his father dead on a battlefield and one brother, Edmund, murdered while Richard was yet a child; his brother Edward so suddenly crowned King; he himself knighted when he was but nine; the bestowal of his dukedom shortly thereafter; the betrayal by his cousin the Earl of Warwick; the hurried flight into Burgundy; the treasonous acts by his brother George, Duke of Clarence; the Battles of Bamet and Tewkesbury, which had left the Kingmaker dead—all these events had left their mark upon Richard, Duke of Gloucester, for all time. The pain that was always with him radiated from his somber slate-blue eyes. The slight crease between them told Isabella more eloquently than words just how often he brooded late into the evenings; and her heart went out to him.

  She knew then, somehow, that she would love this man for as long as she lived.

  "I shall inform her grace Anne of your kindness, child," Richard continued. "And ye must write to her and tell her how

  ye are doing. She would be most displeased to learn ye were unhappy and that all at Rushden was not well."

  The Duke saw Lord Oadby and Lady Shrewton blanch at this and knew his point had been taken.

  "Oh, aye, your grace. I shall write her this very day," Isabella promised fervently.

  "And now, my lady, I must bid ye farewell. Kiss your brother goodbye, and wish us well on our journey."

  The girl clung tightly to her brother for a moment, then reluctantly drew away and said, "Godspeed, your grace. I shall remember ye always. May God keep ye and Giles until we meet again."

  Gloucester and her brother turned and swung up into their saddles, clapping their heels hard to their horses' sides. Isabella waited until they had galloped beneath the iron portcullis and clattered over the drawbridge to the hard road beyond. Then, hurriedly, she ran inside the keep, up the stairs to her chamber, and through the French doors that opened onto her balcony. Unmindful of the danger, she hoisted herself up onto the stone coping so she might watch the entourage until it was out of sight. As though he sensed her eyes upon him, Giles glanced back at the castle and waved. Her tiny countenance lighting up with joy, the giri waved furiously in return, nearly losing her precarious balance in the process.

  Her brother was gone.

  Her shoulders drooping with dejection at the realization, Isabella slid from the coping and went back inside, where she flung herself upon her bed, weeping bitterly.

  "There now, my lady"—Alice, her nanna, had come to comfort her. "Tis not as though the young Lord will be gone forever."

  The old nurse stroked the giri's hair soothingly, for she treasured her charge and hated to see Isabella hurt.

  "Oh, Alice, why did Giles have to go away?"

  "La, 'tis the custom, my lady, as well ye know," Alice reminded her. "Lord Rushden will learn well under the tutelage of the Duke of Gloucester. 'Twas silly and most ill-behaved of ye to run away and delay their departure. They lost two good hours of daylight because of it, and mayhap now they will not be able to find adequate lodging for the night. And look! You've torn your gown besides with this nonsense of hiding from us all. 'Tis like as not you'll be severely punished for your disobedience, my lady." Alice's mouth was set grimly in a thin line of worry and disapproval

  "What does it matter?" Isabella inquired wearily, then buried her face in her pillow to muffle her racking sobs.

  But the girl was not punished after all; and thereafter, when her life at Rushden improved considerably, Isabella clasped the gold sovereign to her breast and, each night, said a quiet prayer for Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and his wife, Anne.

  Chapter Five

  Rushden Castle, England, 1478

  THE AFTERNOON SUN SLANTED DOWN IN FIERY RAYS upon the land, touching the lush, sweeping green heaths and golden fields with brilliant warmth. In the distance, the contentedly grazing forms of cattle, sheep, and goats dotted the hillsides that sloped down into the moors ridged here and there with pale white stone. Along the spurs of rock themselves, gently laughing brooks sometimes babbled their ways to quiet pools that lay in the whispering hush of small forest glades dappled with the sunlight that streamed through the branches of the trees. A breeze stirred faintly, soughing plaintively to
the great old oaks and pines, the ashes and poplars, wherein birds twittered melodically, and squirrels chattered gaily. Closer to the keep were the sounds of the crofters as they went about their chores and, now and then, the rattle of a lumbering cart upon the road, followed by the shouts of children and the barking of dogs as they chased the vehicle until it disappeared. From the outer ward of the fortress itself came the heavy, rhythmic clang of the blacksmith's hammer, but between the blows, all was still.

  Isabella Ashley shifted impatiently from one foot to the other

  as she gazed out over Rushden's vast domain from her balcony— as she had done every day since receiving Giles's last letter.

  Much had happened in the intervening years since last she'd seen her brother. In 1475, Giles had written that the Duke of Gloucester and his men were to take part in King Edward IV's campaign against the French King, Louis XI. But there had been no great battle after all, because cowardly Louis had bribed Edward, with a pension, to leave France. The Duke had been against his brother's acceptance of the monies and the signing of the Treaty of Picquigny as well, which had caused the French King to take an extreme dislike to Gloucester. Afterward, the untrustworthy Louis had subsequently entered into a plot with Richard and Edward's brother George, the traitorous Duke of Clarence, to overthrow the English throne. Edward had arrested George for treason and had imprisoned him in the Tower. As he had done so many times before, Richard had pleaded for his vain and foolish brother's life, but this time, Edward had remained firm. Brother or not, the Duke of Clarence must be executed. Upon learning of his fate, George, with some macabre sense of humor, had demanded he be sealed in a butt of malmsey wine, therein to drown. This perverted wish had been granted, and only Richard mourned his brother's death.

  Sick at heart, the Duke of Gloucester was going home to Middleham. As Rushden Castle was on the way, Giles had written, Richard had decided to break his journey there. Now, Isabella waited eagerly for the men's arrival.

  "Oh, Alice. Surely, they will come today!" she cried.

  The nanna smiled indulgently at the girl, whose enchanting face was filled with anticipation and longing.

  "So ye have said for more than a fortnight now, my lady— and without result," Alice teased.

  "Today will be different. I feel it in my bones," Isabella countered brightly.

  Alive with joy, she hugged herself, danced a few lightly skipping steps across the balcony, then pirouetted with a flourish that made her skirts swirl high, showing a flash of shapely legs that shocked the nurse.

  "My lady!" Alice reprimanded with horror. "The watchmen will see ye from the towers! Come inside at once!"

  Disregarding the nanna's order, Isabella laughed breathlessly as she whirled to a stop, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling.

  "Today is special," she stated firmly, excitedly searching the wide expanse of terrain again.

  Alice shook her head with silent resignation. The nurse had done her best, but there had been no taming the girl. The years of being allowed to run wild and forgotten had left their mark upon her for all time. Isabella was as fey as the animals she found in the woods and upon the moors and brought home to the castle to tend. Hers was not the classical beauty sought by most women, but a strange, haunting loveliness as uncapturable as evening mist. Indeed, sometimes, Alice believed the girl was a changeling child, a forest nymph or a water sprite swaddled and left in the ornately carved crib that had once stood in the nursery. It might have been true after all, for Isabella moved like a fairy queen, with a shy grace reminiscent of gossamer wings fluttering gently on some soft and magical wind; and she could vanish quietly from a place in a manner that often made one wonder if she had simply disappeared to return to that land of elfin creatures whence she had sprung.

  At thirteen years of age, her silky silver-blond hair streamed down to her narrow hips like a shimmering haze of moonbeams shot through with streaks of winter frost. Her velvet skin was fair, its sheen almost silvery too in certain light. Below her finely chiseled nose was a soft, full pink mouth, which could tremble vulnerably on occasion. Her jaw met her swanlike neck in a faintly shadowed hollow that curved down into gracefully sloped shoulders. The budding breasts that swelled above her slender waist were gently rounded, promising a ripeness at maturity; and though she was not tall, her lithe limbs were delicately proportioned.

  But all this, as oddly alluring as it was, seemed to blur, to fade elusively, when one looked into her eyes—for it was Isabella's eyes one always remembered. Framed with silver-blond brows, and fringed with thick, striking black lashes, they were wide, fathomless, and deep grey-green in color, like a sea before a storm. Often distant, almost unworldly, those eyes appeared as though, without effort, they could gaze into a man's soul and discover his innermost secrets. Sometimes, if the truth they found was too painful to endure, the eyes would shutter against the knowledge; still, one would know that Isabella had glimpsed one's darkest thoughts.

  It was startling in the girl; it would be spellbinding in the woman.

  Someday, my lady will suffer for those eyes, Alice thought sadly, for despite all the harshness she has endured in her life, she knows little of the cruelties of the world.

  And it was true. Those at the castle who, over the years, had

  come to know and love her thought of Isabella as a fragile child, needing to be protected from the unkindnesses that would have wounded even those made of sterner stuff. In a tacit, well-meaning agreement bom of pity for her unhappy existence, they had done their best, within the limits of their abilities, to shield the often lonely girl from those things they had realized instinctively would hurt her.

  For the most part, after Giles's leaving, she had lived a solitary life, wrapped up in her lessons and her menagerie; and because of this, the sweet and caring disposition that had been hers since birth had somehow managed to survive. But for all her gentleness of character, Isabella was not without strength and temper. It was simply that her strength was the quiet kind, which stems from within, like a candle glowing in the darkness or a willow bending in the wind. And her temper arose rarely for herself but rather in answer to the injustices perpetrated by others against all of God's creatures. Having known suffering, the girl could not bear to see it in others, and she would battle like a small fury against it.

  But no thought of life's heavy burdens weighed upon her soul this day, and so Isabella was as bright and carefree as the fey nymphs and sprites to which others often likened her. Her laughter gurgled forth in a melody that might have belonged to the pipes of Pan; and old Alice roused herself from her silent musing, at last, at the girl's sudden cry of joy.

  "He comes, Alice! Giles comes!"

  The men were tired and dirtied with the stains of travel, but there was not one among them who would have complained to the Duke who rode at the head of their cavalcade. Their silence arose not from fear, however, but from love. The Duke grieved inside for his dead brother George, and none who followed him would have added to his pain by voicing discomfort. So they pressed on and said naught.

  Presently, ahead in the distance, they spied their destination. Stem and tall, Rushden Castle loomed before them. With its thick, grey stone walls, machicolated battlements, circular watch-towers, and deep moat, it was much like any other stout, inland keep. But it was a fortress that had served the Yorkist cause— and served it well—and for that alone it was a welcome haven to the eyes of the men.

  There, they would be greeted warmly and be served the best the castle had to offer—and without the thinly veiled mdeness

  that often characterized those keeps whose sympathies lay secretly with the Lancastrians. At Rushden, no eyes would watch the men covertly with sly resentment, grudging each mouthful of the intentionally poorly cooked food they consumed. There too, the bathwater would be warm, the soap soft, and the maids pretty. The men would lie upon clean rush pallets in the great hall and sleep soundly, with no fear of stealthy intrigues or the itch of hordes of lice and bedb
ugs to disturb their slumber.

  Perhaps, after supper, Lionel could be coaxed to sing, and some of the ache in the Duke's heart for his dead brother would lessen with the ballads. There would be dancing, and mayhap acrobats and jugglers would perform and the fool tell a merry jest that would bring a smile to the Duke's lips and lighten his dark eyes, which were now haunted with sorrow.

  As the men neared the keep, they saw the Duke's oblique words of warning to Lord Oadby and Lady Shrcwton had been wisely heeded, for the vast acres of land were well kept, the crops, well tended. The crude, thatched cottages of the crofters were plain but built sturdily, and each boasted a small vegetable > patch. The villeins themselves were, for the most part, clean and healthy; the garments upon their backs, although neatly mended in places, bore few signs of ragged neglect. When the retinue passed, the men hoeing the fields halted their work, bowed, and doffed their caps with respect; several beamed cheerfully and called happy greetings to the young Lord of Rushden.

  "Welcome home, my lord! Welcome home!"

  The women laid aside their baskets to drop pretty curtsies and smile shyly at the party on horseback while children scampered gaily alongside the road.

  At the sight of them, the Duke of Gloucester roused himself, smiled, and tossed the bolder brats a scattering of silver coins. The youngsters whooped with excitement as they dashed to collect the shillings that glittered brightly in the dirt.

  Aye, the men were glad the Duke had thought to sojourn at Rushden Castle. Even the most weary spirits lifted as the cavalcade quickened the pace of its steeds and hastened onward in orderly progression.