Rose of rapture Read online

  Like a flash of quicksilver, Isabella fairly flew out of her chamber, dashed down the long corridors and curved stone staircase to the great hall below, and shot through the massive oak doors to the inner bailey that barricaded her brother's keep.

  It seemed forever before the entourage she had glimpsed in

  the distance drew near, at last, and called their lord's name to the sentries.

  Faster, faster! the girl chanted silently as the iron portcullis was slowly cranked up on creaking chains. Never before had it taken so long to raise! Next came the barrier at the inner gatehouse, then there were perhaps a hundred men or more massing in the courtyard, their armor flashing brilliantly in the sun, their horses' hooves ringing out sharply over the cobblestones. But Isabella had eyes only for one.

  "Giles!"

  How tall he had grown and how fair. He was no longer the boy she remembered but a young man now. His silver-blond hair gleamed almost white in the summer sun, and his hazel eyes sparkled in his tanned face as they caught sight of her. His lips curved into an answering smile of delight before he shouted '"Sabelle!" in reply and dismounted with a single leap, tossing aside the reins of his steed carelessly as he ran toward her.

  "Dear brother, art well? Have ye won your pennon? Art really a squire? Didst truly bring me a present?"

  She bubbled over with questions as she flung herself into his outstretched arms and felt them close around her tightly; and he laughed and said, "Aye, and aye, and aye, and aye." And all was once more right in the world.

  After a time, they drew apart, and her brother studied her in a way that made Isabella blush faintly with shyness and expectation, aware of the changes in her own body as well as in Giles's.

  "You're beautiful, 'Sabelle, as beautiful as I knew ye wouldst be," he told her finally, and her lovely little countenance shone with pleasure and adoration at his praise.

  "I quite agree, Giles."

  Isabella glanced up at the rich timbre of the voice that had spoken and immediately sank into a deep curtsy as she extended one hand.

  "Your grace. Rushden Castle is again honored by your presence."

  "The little maid I recall is all grown up," the Duke of Gloucester noted as he raised her to her feet. "Hast remembered your prayers, my lady?"

  "Aye, indeed, your grace. How could I have forgotten?"

  "I am glad," Richard stated, then turned to greet Lord Oadby and Lady Shrewton, who were standing apprehensively to one side.

  The years had not been kind to the greedy Earl and Countess.

  Lord Oadby's gluttonous figure had grown to monstrous proportions, and he suffered from gout. Lady Shrewton's once seemingly attractive face now sagged with wrinkles she attempted to disguise beneath layers of paint, and the flirtatious moue she made as she swept the Duke her curtsy appeared only grotesque.

  "Welcome to Rushden Castle, your grace," the Earl greeted Gloucester nervously. "All is in readiness for your grace."

  "Ye and Lady Shrewton having been given ample warning of my arrival this time, no doubt," Richard responded dryly. "Well, we shall see."

  Then he strode inside, pointedly ignoring the Countess. She shot the Earl a quick, frightening glance, her face looking as though it were going to crumble beneath its thick mask of powder; then she stared over at Isabella to be certain the girl did not appear to be lacking in any respect to which the Duke might have taken exception. Lord Oadby's pig eyes followed those of his mistress, and he licked his lips slightly at the sight, for he seldom saw Isabella. She took care to keep out of his way. Well, well. The fey little bitch had grown up to be quite an enchanting maid. The Earl filed the thought away for future reference, then took Lady Shrewton's arm, hustling her inside after Gloucester and whispering orders curtly in her ear.

  Isabella never even noticed them. She was still gazing raptly up at Giles, who was smiling down at her teasingly.

  "Well?" the girl asked breathlessly, scarcely able to contain her anticipation. "What is this present of yours, dear brother? Ye have sent me so many already—the fan, the carillon, the bolt of silk—that I cannot imagine what I am still lacking. In truth, ye have been far too generous, Giles."

  "Nay, those were but trifles. Think back, dear sister, to the day of our parting. Was there not a promise given then?"

  Isabella thought hard for a moment but could not recall—

  "Wait! Aye, I remember now!" she cried. "Ye promised to bring me the most handsome courtier in all of England and said he would strew roses at my feet!"

  "And I have found, demoiselle, that Giles is a man of his word." Lord Lionel Valeureux, heir to the earldom of St. Saviour-on-the-Lake and Giles's foster brother, bowed low and laid a bouquet of white roses at Isabella's feet.

  For the first time in her life, the girl was struck dumb. No mere mortal, this, but a young god, descended from the sun, surely! Even her brother, who was all things in Isabella's eyes, dimmed a little before the blinding brilliance of the man before

  her. He was tall and well built; his muscles were hard yet supple from the past six years of training for knighthood. He wore the Gloucester livery, but the royal-blue satin cloak lined with gold, which swirled down from his shoulders, bore rosettes upon which were the badges of lions—the St. Saviour coat of arms—instead of Richard's white boars. His doublet too was of rich material, also royal-blue in color and slashed with gold. A sword hung at his narrow waist. Gold hose of the finest weave and high, black leather boots adorned the strong legs he had planted in a cocky, self-assured stance.

  His skin was as dark as honey; already, his handsome visage showed the shadow of a beard. His windswept blond hair was the gold of captured sunlight, and Isabella found she longed to reach up and touch it—just once—to see if it was as soft and silky as it seemed. His nose was straight; his lips were full and sensual; his jaw was square, determined. And his eyes—oh, Jesu —his eyes! Wide set beneath thick blond brows and lined with blond lashes, they were as blue as the summer sky—like his hair, a legacy of his Norman ancestors' centuries of intermarriage with the Saxons.

  Isabella looked into those eyes—and was lost.

  She felt as though she were soaring on the wings of the wind, for she discovered she was breathless with exhilaration. Her heart raced too frantically in her breast, and her mouth was so dry, she could scarcely swallow. Giles had chosen well indeed!

  Lord Lionel continued to gaze down at her, inhaling sharply as he felt his loins quicken with hot desire. Giles had not told him how strangely haunting the girl's beauty was. In that moment, Lionel wanted her and determined to have her, never dreaming it was to become an obsession that would last as long as he lived.

  Isabella managed to recover her manners and her tongue at last, bringing him to his senses as she spoke.

  "My lord." She swept him a slight, graceful curtsy and retrieved the flowers he had laid at her feet.

  Once again, he bowed low, this time over her hand, his lips just brushing her fingers, in the fashion of the Court.

  "Enchante, demoiselle," he drawled, his blue eyes glittering with appreciation and desire.

  Isabella blushed prettily.

  "Je suis aussi, seigneur." Her voice was so low, he almost didn't hear her words.

  And so simply did Isabella's love for Lord Lionel Valcureux begin.

  * * *

  Ah, what a feast there was that evening! Rushden's servants had outdone themselves. Proud of their lord—if not his warden— they would not see Giles shamed again before one of such importance as the Duke of Gloucester by setting a niggardly table or being slow to carry out their duties. They hurried swiftly to and from the cookhouse, their arms heavily laden with platters and pitchers. No less than five courses were laid before the guest of honor (though Lord Oadby and Lady Shrewton groaned secretly at the expense).

  Ten fat suckling pigs had been slain and roasted in their dripping juices, each mouth stuffed with a single shiny red apple that gleamed softly in the brightly blazing candlelight. Twenty pl
ump, freshly killed chickens and twenty geese apiece had been baked and glazed with special sauces. There were trenchers piled high with beef, mutton, venison, goat, and rabbit that had been brought from the cool larder. Grilled fish—pike and carp and perch— lay upon skillfully arranged beds of lettuce garnished with large chunks of moist lemons, smaller cherries and berries, raisins and nuts, and slices of hardboiled plover eggs. Great tureens of lamprey eels and all manner of vegetables steamed alongside hot bowls of thick cream gravy, which waited to be ladled upon slabs of good rich bread. Meat and fruit pies and a selection of tarts to tempt even the most jaded palate were wheeled in on carts laden with other assorted pastries and sweetmeats, as well as red currant jelly and quince preserve. All this was washed down with tankards of cold ale and chalices of the best wine chosen from Rushden's dark cellars. There were, in addition, three subtleties presented to win the Duke's favor, each of which signified some aspect of the Yorkist battle for the Crown.

  The first was an artfully crafted cheese display called Three Suns, which represented the three suns that Edward had seen in the sky before winning the throne. All cheered as they saw the three huge rounds of yellow cheese that depicted the suns. Then there was a crystallized fruit dish announced as The Crowning, which showed Edward being crowned King and that was met with appropriate shouts of "Fiat! Fiat!" And fmally, there was brought forth a towering white confection, shaped like a rose and flowing with honey, which was heralded as York Forever and to which all raised their cups in toast.

  Once the three subtleties had been carried around for all to see, they were given places of honor on the sideboard, and the meal continued.

  The great hall rang with the raucous babble of voices and laughter. Isabella, seated between Giles and Lionel at the high table, was so excited, she could scarcely swallow a mouthful from the many plates arrayed before her. Never before had she seen such a display at Rushden! It was as though they dined with the King himself, for the girl was convinced nothing could have been finer. Her eyes sparkled as she listened raptly to the conversations going on about her—tales of Court and battles and faraway places—and she felt very ignorant for knowing so little of such matters, despite her lessons and her brother's letters. She worried that Lionel would think her stupid and dull, though he flattered her expertly, outrageously, bringing blushes to her cheeks, while Giles laughed and looked on with loving approval. She felt so awkward and nervous and most unlike herself that whenever a little silence fell, she bubbled over with talk to fill it, then abruptly broke off, realizing she was chattering like one of the squirrels in her menagerie. She knew she had drunk too much wine, for her head was spinning, and she felt hot and flushed. Her pulse raced as she stole covert glances at Lionel beside her and wondered if he had guessed she had fallen madly in love with him at first sight.

  It wasn't possible; surely, such things didn't happen.

  But they do, she thought. I had only to look into his eyes to know—Oh, surely, he felt it too! 'Twas as though suddenly an arrow pierced my heart—and I thought the bards' songs of Cupid were only a myth!

  Isabella blushed again and tried to concentrate on the entertainment: the pretty maids in colorful costumes, who danced on light feet; the acrobats and jugglers, who performed wondrous tricks of tumbling and sent bright balls spinning with a whirl of flashing hands; and the fool, who told bawdy jests and, with sly maliciousness, imitated those who sought to make sport of him. Isabella prayed the nasty dwarf would not see into her heart and expose her girlish dreams to ridicule.

  After supper, the long trestle tables were dismantled and pushed back against the walls; and the gay lilt of the flute, the thrum of the lute, and the echo of the harp filled the air with music designed to lure those present into dancing. To Isabella's surprise and astonishment, Richard rose and solemnly bowed low before her, ignoring the red flush of rage and embarrassment that stained Lady Shrewton's cheeks at being pointedly insulted. Honored, thrilled beyond belief, the girl sank into a deep curtsy and extended her hand. She, Lady Isabella Jane Ashley of Rushden,

  was to dance with the second most important man in all of England! She would never, not as long as she lived, forget this night or the Duke's dark, sober eyes fixed kindly upon her face as he guided her through the intricate maze of steps, then gently laid her palm in Giles's outstretched hand when the music changed.

  "So, dear sister," her brother said, his eyes twinkling at Isabella's highly apparent happiness. "Need I ask what ye think of my choice for ye?"

  "Oh, Giles, is it so obvious?" she queried anxiously. "Have I made a fool of myself?"

  "Nay." He laughed. "Ye have made Lionel the envy of every man present."

  Indeed, it was true: for none could help but mark the favor that Isabella showed to the heir of St. Saviour, and there were many who would have given much to be in his shoes. Lord Oadby, especially, was most displeased with the manner in which his ward was displaying her charms and fawning over Lionel as though he were a prince. How on earth had the tacky little caterpillar metamorphosed into such a beautiful butterfly without ^ the Earl having realized it? Lord Oadby made a mental note to' pay more attention to the progress of his wards in the future— especially the female ones.

  Isabella did not see the lasciviously narrowed gaze of her warden as he watched her closely, lustfully contemplating the possibilities of being the first to taste of her innocence. She had eyes only for Lionel, who had claimed her hand for the third dance.

  My Lord Lionel, now and for always, she vowed passionately to herself as she smiled up at him with the blind trust of youth.

  Never had the days seemed so endless and yet passed so swiftly— too swiftly: for Isabella was young and in love in a way only the young can be—when love is new and shining like a beckoning star, and one rushes toward it without hesitation. It had come in a fleeting moment of breathlessness, a blinding flash of glory; and she reveled in it. First love is like that, clean and fresh, unmarred by the remembrance of pain that tarnishes later loves, no matter how hard one tries to polish it away, never realizing that sometimes, the dim patina, like that of old pewter, is more valuable for its scars.

  The Duke of Gloucester had gone, taking his men. But, seeing the girl's crestfallen face and perhaps recalling his own sad, solitary youth, Richard had given Giles and Lionel leave to stay

  as long as the summer sun shone in the pale blue sky.

  Every morning, Isabella rose, flung open her balcony doors, and begged the trees to keep their leaves just a little while longer; and perhaps because she was a child of nature, they seemed to hear her pleas and understand. Every day, she and Giles and Lionel rode beneath the shade of the spreading oaks and yews, the ashes and pines; and life was good. Never had the girl felt so alive, so filled with joy that she brimmed over with laughter and exhilaration. She galloped recklessly through the woods; she danced wildly in the meadows; she hugged herself with secret delight at night, when she lay in bed and thought of Lionel. She would mourn Giles's departure, but Lionel's leaving ... ah, Lionel's leaving would be the death of her; she was sure. And so each day with him was like a treasure, to be held close and cherished.

  It was as though some strange madness possessed her, for she was giddy with love. She could not wait to become Lionel's wife. Isabella had seen the way his eyes raked her budding young body and smoldered like embers with desire. She had felt the electric touch of his fingers and his lips upon her hands. She was certain it was only a matter of time before he gained permission for their marriage.

  Oh, Lionel. Lionel!

  The girl did not know she had cried the words aloud until she heard the echo of their refrain. She was soaring high above the ground; the swing that hung from a massive oak was her wings, and Lionel's arms were the arms that pushed her. He laughed.

  "Higher, 'Sabelle!" he called. "I shall make ye go even higher!"

  "Nay! Nay, already I grow faint."

  "Then jump." He was suddenly there before her, his arms spread wide. "
Jump! I shall catch ye."

  She never doubted for a moment that he would. She let go of the swing, flying through the air into Lionel's outstretched arms. They closed about her tightly, and then she and he were falling, falling... tumbling upon the wild summer grass, their laughter ringing out over the small, hushed clearing wherein the swing hung. They stopped at last. Lionel looked down at her, his eyes darkening in a way that sent shivers up Isabella's spine.

  He wanted her, wanted her with the hot passion that had come upon him like a fever the first time he'd seen her. It was all he could do to keep from ravishing her then and there. But he held back, for Isabella was no bored Court lady seeking a little amusement during her husband's absence, nor was she some yeoman's

  daughter who could not cry out against his rape of her. Isabella was a young maid of noble birth, Giles's sister, and, most important, the King's ward. Like the rest of His Grace's property, one damaged Edward's wards at the risk of one's life. Isabella would expect Lionel to marry her—and rightfully so. He swore silently at the thought, for much as he might have wished it, he was in no position to wed the girl. He was already betrothed— to Lady Gilliane Beaumaris of Devizes.

  Lionel's eyes narrowed, glittering with anger and disgust as Gilliane's plain brunette image filled his mind. He had no desire to marry that timid brown mouse who squeaked and scurried from his presence; but she was the daughter of his father's best friend, and the betrothal had been arranged while Lionel and Gilliane had been in their cradles. There was nothing he could do about it, and his impotence in the matter galled him. Why should he be forced to marry Gilliane when a woman like Isabella lay within his grasp?

  He was a Valeureux, damn it! Descended from the Normans who had conquered all of England. His bride ought to be thq creme de la creme of women, not some colorless little mouse who would give him a parcel of brats as puny as she. He gazed down at Isabella raptly, his eyes still dark and hungry in a manner that almost frightened her. She was a prize worth having, this slender, silvery forest nymph whom Lionel held in his arms. Ah, what sons she would breed him. fine strong sons a man would be proud to call his own.