Rose of rapture by Rebecca Brandewyne Page A

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

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    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,