Rose of rapture (10 page)

The Earl shrugged.

"I do not think so, my dear," he said. "Your brother will not be the first young man to suffer a tragic accident, and ye will not be so high and mighty, I'll wager, once ye find yourself in a Moorish whorehouse. But first, I shall have a taste of what ye almost wasted on Lord Lionel, ye stupid little tart."

Lord Oadby grabbed the pitchfork so suddenly from Isabella's hands that she was taken by surprise and lost her hold on the weapon. She had not thought his gluttonous, gout-ridden figure capable of moving so fast. Then, before she realized what was happening, the Earl dealt her a cruel blow with his fist. The girl reeled, falling to her knees, her head spinning dizzily from the impact of the punch as she cowered upon the floor, petrified. Blindly, she attempted to crawl away, but before she could escape. Lord Oadby was upon her, straddling her. pinning her down beneath the weight of his considerable bulk. His fat, groping fingers caught her wildly clawing hands easily and pinioned them above her head. Then, with a jeering smile of satisfaction and triumph, he ripped open the lacings on her robe and tore her shift in half, exposing her heaving breasts to his leering stare.

"I'm going to enjoy taking your maidenhead, my dear," he told the terrified Isabella crudely, his slack mouth fairly drooling as he gazed down at her stricken countenance.

She screamed hysterically, and he slapped her hard across the face to silence her outcries. Then, with his free hand, he began , to fondle her breasts, squeezing them and pinching her nipples. Tears of shame and horror and rage at her helplessness streamed down the girl's cheeks as she moaned and tried to stifle the ragged sobs that rose in her throat, choking her. This couldn't be happening. This just couldn't be real!

Lord Oadby, thinking the fight had gone out of her at last, groaned and rose slightly, fumbling with his hose. Isabella seized the opportunity to bring one knee up sharply between his legs. The Earl gasped with pain at the unexpected assault and rolled off her, doubled over in agony. Unsteadily, the giri managed to get to her feet. She began to run, but Lord Oadby, forcing himself to recover, heaved his gross body up and grabbed her hair, yanking her back. Isabella struggled furiously against him, and as they spun about crazily, locked in mortal combat, the Earl lost his footing and, nearly taking the giri with him, toppled over the edge of the loft. His lips parted with incredulity, his arms flailing wildly, he fell, striking his head against the solid wooden door of one of the stalls below. He crumpled into a large heap and was still.

Still dazed with shock and terror, Isabella leaned cautiously over the precipice, not quite believing her tormentor had been bested. The odious Lord Oadby lay slumped beneath her like a pile of blubber. His neck was twisted at an odd angle, and blood was seeping from a huge gash at the back of his head. He was, the girl recognized with mingled horror and relief, quite dead.

She sank to the floor of the loft, sobbing uncontrollably as she clutched the torn remnants of her nightclothes to her and rocked back and forth like a dull-witted child. After a time, she giggled nervously, then laughed and laughed hysterically until the tears ran down her face. With difficulty, she forced herself to stop. She gasped raggedly for breath, then, upon realizing, at last, that something would have to be done, attempted to rise. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself and made her way slowly down the ladder, not daring to glance again at the Earl's inert, sprawled form.

Minutes later, she was shaking her sleeping brother awake.

"Giles!" she whispered urgently. "Giles, wake up!"

"Hmmm," he moaned, then licked his lips to moisten them and swallowed, making a soft, sucking noise. "Hmmm." He stirred and shifted his position while Isabella looked quickly at her brother's tutor to be certain that Master Jaksone still slept soundly in the antechamber of Giles's room.

"Giles!"

"What? What? What is it?" He suddenly sat straight up in bed, wide-eyed as he stared about in confusion. He blinked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and then cried, "'Sabelle! What are ye doing here? What's wrong?"

"Shhhhh. Keep your voice down!" she warned lowly. "There's been an accident in the stables. Lord Oadby is dead, and 1 need your help."

Wide awake now, he took in the state of her apparel and inhaled sharply.

"Godamercy, 'Sabelle! Did he rape ye?"

"Nay, but 'twas only by the grace of God that I escaped. Come quickly. We must think what is to be done."

Her brother was already hauling on his clothes as silently and rapidly as possible. In moments, the two were out in the corridor.

"Wait, 'Sabelle. I'll get Lionel. We may need him."

Briefly, she paused, considering, then nodded in agreement. Her beloved would not betray them. Giles slipped down the hall, only to reappear a short time later with his foster brother. Lionel was still tucking his shirt into his hose, and his golden visage was shadowed with anger and concern. He strode forward worriedly upon spying Isabella and took her hands in his.

"'Sabelle! Art hurt?" he asked.

"Nay." She drew comfort from the warmth of his touch, glad he was there, holding her close.

"By God, the whoreson bastard!" Lionel's voice shook with rage. "I should never have let ye go to the stables alone!"

Giles stared at them sharply at that but said nothing. Lionel was his foster brother. If he had been trysting in the moonlight with Isabella, it was with honorable intentions, Giles was sure. Besides, the girl had had little enough happiness in her life as it was. He did not begrudge her a few moments of stolen joy.

"Come," Isabella urged. "We must hurry, else someone may find the body."

"Jesus Christ!" Giles cursed when they had reached the stables. He kicked the Earl's corpse viciously. "The pig!" he spat.

"Oh, Giles, what are we to do?" Isabella inquired anxiously, biting her lip. "We dare not let anyone discover what has happened, for many know of Lord Oadby's perfidy to us; and perhaps none would believe my story, thinking we wished our warden ill. And, oh, Giles! We didst swear to have our revenge upon him! Fiat! Let it be done. Remember? We cannot risk having anyone investigate the Earl's death and find some reason to bring the King's wrath down upon us."

"No one who knew Lord Oadby would doubt your word, 'Sabelle," Giles assured her. "Still, perhaps 'tis best not to take , any chances. In truth, we do not know what sort of friends the Earl may have had at Court, and if they are at all like him, we would not be safe from their vengeance."

"I have thought of a plan," Lionel announced. "We must dress the swine in his hunting clothes and take his body out to that ravine—ye know, Giles—the one in the woods, where the waterfall runs down into that little stream. We must throw the corpse down into the gully, as though the whoreson bastard suffered a fall from his horse while out hunting and broke his neck. How fortunate for us that the pig didn't ride well and was as fat as a toad besides. No one will doubt that the clumsy glutton pressed his overburdened steed and took a fatal tumble. The churl used his spurs often enough most cruelly on the poor beast, did he not?"

"Aye." Giles nodded. "It might work. It might indeed. The whoreson bastard often hunted alone—although methinks his prey was but poor wenches, with whom he made savage sport." Her brother's face looked deadly in the flickering torchlight, and Isabella shivered uncontrollably for a moment. "We shall have to hurry," Giles continued, "for already, dawn draws near; and we must leave here in the morning as we'd planned." "Oh, Giles, nay!" the girl cried.

"Aye, dear sister, we must. 'Twould seem odd to change our plans at the last minute, and 'twould give cause for suspicion if

we stayed, and then Lord Oadby's body was discovered. Ye must be brave enough to face, without us, whatever tomorrow may bring."

"Giles is right, 'Sabelle," Lionel declared, giving her hand a gentie, reassuring squeeze. "Come. We have much to do and scant time in which to do it."

"'Sabelle, go back to the keep," Giles ordered, "and fetch Eadric, Thegn, and Beowulf. I know, from your letters, that they love us well and can be trusted. Inform them of what has happened. Then tell them they are to relieve the sentries on guard duty at the main gate and that, in the morning, they are to say they saw the Earl ride out early, alone, to go hunting. When Lord Oadby does not return, they are to lead a search party to find him. Be certain they understand that they—and they alone—are to search the area around the ravine. 'Twill be simpler if they are the ones to discover the body, as they will know how to answer any questions put to them.

"Lionel will go with ye and get Lord Oadby's hunting clothes whilst I strip the corpse and saddle the Earl's horse. Hurry now!" Giles reiterated urgently. "Each moment we delay does but bring the dawn closer."

At last, after what seemed like hours, the conspirators had carried out their scheme and, exhausted, sought their beds. Though as weary as the rest, still, Isabella lay awake, numbly going over and over again in her mind the events of the night. It was with difficulty that she pushed the horrible memory of Lord Oadby from her thoughts and tried to concentrate instead on Lionel, her beloved.

Thus, it was only later—much later—that she recalled that though the heir of St. Saviour had sworn to make her his, he had mentioned no word of marriage. And though Isabella tried desperately to ignore it, to reassure herself of Lionel's love for her, a small, fearful doubt about his feelings toward her crept into her heart and mind—and would not be banished.

Chapter Seven

The Hills, Wales, 1453

THE NIGHT WAS AN EBONY VELVET BACKDROP, against which the pale sheen of the ghostly grey fog, which hung low and thick over the land, swirled with an unworldly shimmer. Above, the mist-ringed moon shone through the branches of the trees with a silvery haze that drifted across the well-worn paths twisting like a maze through the savage Welsh hills. From the distance came the cry of some lone animal, but other than this, the darkness was still save for the quick, ragged gasps of the woman who now leaned against an aged, bent tree for support and tried to catch her breath. The pause in her flight was brief. After casting a furtive glance over her shoulder, she began once more to run, her bare feet as fleet as the hooves of a deer bounding through the forest.

This mom, she had been the daughter of a powerful Welsh chieftain, Owein, and the wife of a handsome Welsh lord, Bryn-Dyfed. Tonight, she was naught but a captive of her enemies, the English. After the bloody battle, her father had managed to get away to some hiding place, where those of his men who remained would join him. But her husband had been slain—she

ROSE OF RAPTURE ^

had seen him fall, his head split open by the blade of an enemy ax—and she had been taken prisoner to be held for ransom. Only her wits had allowed her to escape. She smiled grimly to herself as she thought of how easy it had been to fool the two stupid sentries who had guarded her. Still, the lord who was her captor was not so easily deceived.

Even now, from behind, the sound of pursuit was audible to her keen ears, and spurred her on. The path grew steeper. The woman's pace slowed as she clambered over the sharp rocks that jutted from the earth. She screamed as the echo of laughter rang out through the night, and a man's hand grabbed her ankle from below, hauling her down to the flatter ground. She struggled desperately in his arms, but at last, he pinioned her wrists behind her back, then dealt her several sharp slaps across the face.

"Bastard!" she hissed, knowing now that escape was impossible. "EngUsh dog!"

The man only laughed again, his teeth flashing whitely in the moonlight.

"Ah, Hwyelis"—he caught her tangle of rich brown hair, forcing her face up to his—"what a merry chase ye have led me! But now... ye are mine!"

He ground his mouth down on hers hard, then abruptly flung her to the earth. For a moment, he stood towering over her like some tall golden god, noting the way her long lithe legs gleamed where her skirts had ridden up to her thighs; the way her full soft breasts heaved beneath the thin material of her gown; the way her generous, lush mouth parted and trembled; the way her mysterious, pale blue eyes glittered as she pulled the knife at her waist to defend herself. The man glanced at the dagger carelessly, as though it were little more than a pin to prick him.

"Dost mean to use that on yourself or me, my lady?" He lifted one eyebrow devilishly, as though amused.

"On ye, Tremayne!" she spat. "Think ye that I wouldst let ye touch me—ye, an enemy of my people?"

"But not your enemy, Hwyelis," he purred softly, "not after tonight. After tonight, I shall be your lover, and when I am through with ye, ye will beg me to take ye and make ye so."

"Nay!"

"Shall we see, my lady? I will even make ye a wager to add spice to the sport."

"What sort of wager?" Hwyelis gazed up at her captor suspiciously, wondering if he had thought of some means to trick her as she had his sentries.

"I will wager ye this: If. even once, during my taking of ye, I cause ye to cry out with wanting for me, then when the child of our mating is eight years old, ye will bring him to me, to be raised as I see fit."

"Child? How can ye be so sure there will come a babe of our mating, Tremayne?"

"I feel it, Hwyelis—in my bones and in my blood. I knew, from the first moment I saw ye. that I must have ye, my lady. That is why I have not yet ransomed ye back to your father. Aye, ye will give me my son. Hwyelis: have no doubt about that.**

She tossed her head scornfully.

"And if I do not cry out?"

"Then ye may keep the child—a bad bargain for me, since the puny brats my wife has bred are sickly lads, like their mother, not likely to survive till manhood; and since my previous mistresses—God, curse my luck—proved barren. I need an heir, my lady. I am the last of my name."

"Dost think me a fool?'" she asked, sneering. "A half-Welsh bastard is not likely to inherit the earldom of a powerful Englislj lord, Tremayne. Tis a trick! Ye do but lie to deceive me!"

"There is a little-known clause in the Hawkhurst charter that permits such a descendance if there are no legitimate males of the line remaining. On my honor, I swear 'tis so," he continued when she remained silent. "Ah. that sweetens your temper toward me, Hwyelis, does it not?" The Lord grinned wryly as he saw her eyes suddenly narrow with calculation.

"Ye must have me first—and win the wager!" She pointed her knife at his heart threateningly, defensive again. "And I shall slay ye before ye do either!"

"The wager stands then?"

"Aye."

"Your word on it, my lady."

"Ye have it."

Lord Hawkhurst laughed loudly once more, then kicked the dagger from her hands and fell upon her.

"Ah, ye will be a fit mother for my son. Hwyelis. Thou art as wild as a savage hawk, my lady, but 1 shall tame ye nevertheless; never ye fear, my sweet Welsh witch." he breathed, his lips silencing any response she might have made.

Then there was nothing for her but his lovcmaking and. sometime later, her single cry of surrender as he drove strongly between her thighs and smiled down at her with triumph in his strange amber eyes.

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As though he could not believe his ears, the sentry stared down at the lone woman and four young lads who stood outside the portcullis of the old castle.

"Did ye hear me?" the woman called angrily. "I am the Lady Hwyelis uerch Owein, and this boy"—she pushed one of the children forward—"is Waerwic, son of Lx)rd Hawkhurst. I demand ye admit us at once. I warn ye: Tremayne will have your head on a platter if ye turn us away."

The young guard was new at this post and did not know what to do. At last, he summoned the master-at-arms, who boxed the sentry's ears smartly for keeping the Lord's former mistress and his child standing outside in the hot sun. Nine years had passed since the master-at-arms had laid eyes on the Lady Hwyelis, but he would not soon forget that rich cascade of tangled brown curls or those mysterious, pale blue eyes that had so enchanted his lord.

"'Tis indeed the Lady Hwyelis, one of the Lord's favorites!" the master-at-arms informed the guard. "Ye will be lucky if the Lord does not put ye in the stocks! Why, the poor Lady is nigh to fainting from her long journey and the heat. Raise the portcullis at once, fool!"

"But—but, sir, how was I to know? She is without an escort— or even a horse!"

"No matter. It be the Lady Hwyelis right enough."

Once inside, Hwyelis and her children were taken to a chamber where they could refresh themselves before Lord Hawkhurst, who was out hunting, returned. There, Hwyelis stared at her reflection in the looking glass and sighed. She had donned her finest garments for the trip to Devon, but now, they were bedraggled, stained with salt water from her crossing of the Bristol Channel and dirt from the roads she had walked upon after leaving her small boat. With the help of a serving maid, she did her best to repair the damage, for there were no ladies-in-waiting to attend her. The Lord's wife had died, along with the two small sons she had given him.

Hwyelis gazed at Waerwic. 'Twas good she had kept her bargain and brought the boy here, to Hawkhurst Castle. One day, he would be its lord; and despite the fact that the keep was old and, from what she had seen, in sad disrepair, it would offer him a far better future than the savage hills of Wales. Here, Waerwic would become an earl, a man of property and importance. In Wales, the most he could hope to attain would be service to some

lord. She smiled at the eight-year-old, solemn-faced lad, who did not yet fully understand why they had journeyed so far from home. All he knew was that his grandfather, Owein, had been very angry at their going.

"Hwyelis, thou art a fool!" Grandfather had thundered upon learning of their plans to travel to England. "Dost truly think the English dog will recognize the brat? Ha! 'Tis more than likely the pig will not even recall your name! God's blood! Have ye not shamed us enough already? Three bastards ye have borne, and both Powys and Newyddllyn willing to marry ye!"

Hwyelis had tossed her head proudly, unmoved by her father's wrath and his tirade.

"I am not a woman to be bound to any man. I told ye I'd no wish to wed when ye gave me to Bryn-Dyfed, though I didst love him well. My life is my own. Tremayne will remember; he is not a man to forget. He will claim the boy as his and make Waerwic his heir. I shall not throw away such an opportunity for my son simply because his grandfather chooses to be a fool!"

And so they had come to Hawkhurst.

Aye, Tremayne will remember, Hwyelis thought as she continued to study her son.

The boy had her rich brown hair, streaked with the gold of his father's, and his father's odd yellow eyes, filled with mystery like Hwyelis's own. There could be no mistaking the child's heritage.

"Hwyelis!" Lord Hawkhurst burst into the chamber at last, and one glance at him told her she need not worry that he would cast the lad aside. "Ye came! After all this time, ye came!"

Then he swept her into his arms and kissed her; and a thousand memories of the long sweet nights they had lain together in the Welsh hills, before she had been ransomed, flooded her very being. In her fashion, she had loved Tremayne, as she had loved all those with whom she had shared her body. It was good to feel his arms about her again. Lord Hawkhurst's eyes glittered as they raked her eagerly, and he remembered too. In the end, he had been forced to let her go, but he had never forgotten her, for she was a woman a man did not forget.

"Hwyelis," he said once more, scarcely daring to believe she was here, was real.

She gave a little tinkle of laughter, as though guessing his thoughts, and flung her head back in that arrogant manner he recalled so well.

"Tremayne. I have come, as promised."

He sighed.

"After all these years, I am still Tremayne to ye. Why dost not call me by my Christian name? 'Tis James, as well ye know, my lady."

She smiled.

"Tremayne suits ye better, methinks."

He chuckled with amusement at this, then embraced her again before, at last, he turned to the children.

"Why, what's this, Hwyelis? Am I supposed to choose which son is mine? Ah, my lady, didst think I wouldst not know my own spawn? Ye, lad"—he pointed to Waerwic—"step forward. What is your name, lad?"

The boy bowed.

"Tis Waerwic, my lord," he answered boldly, without a trace of fear of this big, muscular man who had so heartily caressed and kissed his mother.

"Ye have taught him well, Hwyelis," Lord Hawkhurst observed. "Dost know who I am, Waerwic? Waerwic! Ah, ye cannot go through life here with such a name. After all, ye are half-English and my heir. From now on, ye shall be known as Warrick. Well, Warrick, dost know who I am?"

The boy glanced at his mother and then back.

"My father, my lord."

Lord Hawkhurst's booming laughter rang out once more.

"Aye, and so I am."

The days that passed were happy ones, for Lord Hawkhurst was much taken with his son and had no objection to the boy's half brothers either. It was good for the lad to have such close ties to Wales. They would serve him well in the future, Tremayne thought, though even he did not know just how well his son was to profit from his heritage and childhood bonds. That was to come later, much later, long after the Earl lay buried in his grave, and a war-torn England proclaimed a Welsh upstart King.

Lord Hawkhurst showered all the boys with a careless, haphazard warmth that stemmed from his deep fondness of and affection for Hwyelis, who again shared his bed. He would have taken her to wife and said as much, but she only laughed gaily and shook her head.

"Nay, Tremayne, I am a wild thing, not meant to be caught and caged. I must be free to love where I will and part without care. Ye know that."

Aye, how well he did. He had tamed her once, for a time, but

only because it had pleased her to be his. He had never bound her to him. He could not. It would have killed her spirit and left her but an empty shell. The Earl held her as long as he could, but eventually, the time came when Hwyelis grew restless and longed for the hills of Wales and gave thought to the future of her other three sons. 'Twas not right that they remain in England, the land of their enemies. They were pure Welsh, and Madog was Bryn-Dyfed's heir.

She told Tremayne she must go, and though he was sorrowed by her leaving, he realized he could not keep her. It was as she had said. She belonged to no man, for she was a woman meant to be free.

Warrick, however, was too young to understand this. He was bereft with emptiness and fright as his mother hugged him to her breast in farewell, enveloping him in the fragrant forest scent of the wild roses and moss that belonged to her alone. He clutched her frantically, clinging to her tightly, as though he would never let her go. 'Twasn't true! She just couldn't be leaving him! She was his whole world, everything he knew; and yet, she was actually smiling and ruffling his hair as though he were but a stray pup for whom she had found a home.

"Mama, please," he begged, "say 'tisn't true... that ye aren't going away."

"But 'tis true, Waerwic," she told him gently. "I must return to Wales, and ye must stay here. 'Tis our fate to be parted from each other."

"Nay. Nay! Don't leave me, Mama. Oh, please don't leave me!"

But she only set him from her, straightened her back, and mounted the mare that Lord Hawkhurst had given her. She spared Warrick not even a single glance as she rode through the iron portcullis of the keep, so he never saw the tears streaming silently down her cheeks. Bitterly wounded, he ran to the stables and hid, flinging himself down upon the hay in the loft and weeping great, wrenching sobs. The only woman he'd loved and worshiped all his life had deserted him.

After a time, in a small comer of his mind, something hard and cold was bom at the cmel thought and lay in icy dormancy, waiting to flourish.

At ten years of age, Warrick was sent to a neighboring estate for fosterage. Lord Drayton, one of Lord Hawkhurst's closest friends, was pleased to have the Earl's heir given into his care and did

his best to see the boy was well trained. Warrick worked hard at the tasks put to his doing—harder than most, for though he was recognized as his father's heir, the boy was taunted unmercifully by his foster brothers for being a half-Welsh bastard. "Savage," they called him—and worse—when there was no one to interfere, often making him the butt of vicious jests and beating him when they wished to teach him a lesson.

Such harsh treatment might have broken a gentler, weaker lad, but it only served to make Warrick strong, firing him with a grim determination to succeed in besting them all. This he did by mastering his weapons—the broadsword and shield, the battle-ax, the lance, the momingstar, the crossbow and longbow, and the dirk—so proficiently that soon all were afraid to challenge him. He walked among them without fear then, his head held high, his pride his only comfort in his lonely existence.

Whenever he could, Warrick slipped across the Bristol Channel to Wales too, to learn a different form of fighting—the guerilla warfare with which the Welsh had managed to keep the English from conquering Wales. There also, he grew close to his half brothers, his only friends, and dutifully visited his mother, Hwye-lis, though he could never quite forgive her for deserting him. It was there as well, in the wild hills of his early childhood, that he met Brangwen, the woman to whom he later gave his whole heart.

Warrick asked her to marry him, not realizing that beneath her outward facade of breathtaking beauty lay a black core of evil. Unlike Hwyelis, who gave herself freely for the joys of loving and sharing, Brangwen gave only to lure and ensnare and finally destroy. She took pleasure in wielding her wicked power over men and seeing them brought to their knees. She used Warrick, promising to wed him, then when she was certain he was hers, she laughed in his face.