This Ravished Rose

  “YOU RAVISH ME AS IF I WERE SOME TRULL!”

  “Are you not?” sneered James. “You seemed to know the fevers of the flesh quite well when I met you.”

  “You know full well that I was virgin when we first lay together.” Katherine sat up in bed and strained to see his face.

  “I do not care, but you will not disgrace my name with your whorish tricks.” James leaned over and fastened his hungry mouth on hers. She twisted her legs in an effort to escape, but he settled more firmly on her as he bit and worried her lips. Did he mean to beat her to death in the very act of love?

  Then humiliating endurance turned into fiercest pleasure. And Katherine knew she was his willing, participating prisoner—his to tear and rend so long as he did not stop!

  Anne Carsley

  This Ravished Rose

  Futura

  Macdonald & Co London & Sydney

  First published in Great Britain in 1982 by Futura Publications, a division of Macdonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd London & Sydney

  Copyright © Anne Carsley 1980

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition ' including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN: 0 7107 3023 3

  Printed in Great Britain by Hazell Watson & Viney Ltd Aylesbury, Bucks

  Futura Publications

  A division of Macdonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd Holywell House Worship Street London EC2A 2EN

  Table of Contents

  This Ravished Rose Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  To LaVine Rogers, my encourager, Donald MacCampbell and Maureen Moran, who made the reality

  Author’s Note

  The novel takes some license with the character of Elizabeth Woodville, but there were some in her own day who called her witch. All agree on her overweening ambition and it is thoroughly documented as to the means she took to rid herself of those who disagreed with her, both in her own right as Queen of England and as wife of Edward IV.

  The character of Richard III is taken from authorities outside the Tudor tradition and from modern interpretation. Again, it is well documented that Edward did indeed thank God for Richard and his victory over the Scots in a letter to the Pope in the fall of 1482. The love of the City of York is documented in the rolls of that city even after the Tudor was on the throne.

  Liberties have been taken with the events of the summer of 1483, only in the sense that it might have happened this way. Buckingham’s rebellion is fact, the reason is obscure. It might have been.

  A great number of texts have been used as background, two of the most invaluable have been Paul Murray Kendall’s “Life in Yorkist England” and “Richard III.”

  The mystery of what happened to the princes in the tower appears only tangentially in the novel and remains just that.

  Chapter 1

  Hill of Death

  The man’s rasping breathing grew fainter as the spring afternoon was shading toward dusk. His twisted brown fingers writhed in contrast to the stillness of his body while his once smiling mouth was drawn into a grimace. In the part of his mind which could still reason against the gripping pain, Antony Hartley knew that he must attempt to communicate with his weeping daughter in some manner. There was so much to say; it would come belatedly, yes, but how to make her understand? He had heard her prayers in the weary nights—supplicating, angry. Then there was the pain and, struggle as he might, he could not speak.

  Katherine felt the wasted body relax slightly and withdrew her hand, grateful for the surcease which allowed him to believe he was again in the bright world of which he had been so flamboyant a part, a world she knew only from the fading tapestries, their triumphant figures now dull and dingy. She prepared the stew, sewed a rent in her only other gown, and scrubbed the already clean table top. The hammering in her head was so familiar by now that she seldom thought of it.

  Suddenly she threw down the cloth and stepped to the door for some air. The moors rose purple in the distance as a faint mist began to drift. A bird called to the coming night and a chill breeze touched the girl’s hot face. She pushed the sleeves of her work gown higher.

  Antony groaned heavily and Katherine whispered to the Virgin as she sank to her knees on the bare ground just outside. Ever since the day last year when he had fallen from his chair while reading, never to speak or move again of his own volition, she had tended him with the infrequent help of the neighbor’s simple but capable daughter, performed all the household duties, gathered the meager yield of the garden, washed, cooked, read, and wept alone. Once the priest who traveled between the villages in this remote part of northern England had come. She could still hear his words, meant to be kind but filled with cold reality. “There is nothing for him but prayer, daughter. Is there no kinsman to whom you can turn in this need? I would gladly carry messages.”

  His pity and concern were as real as his curiosity. Stories had gone around about the knight who was a recluse and his convent bred daughter, but none knew the truth of the matter. It was known that they lived meanly, with none of the fripperies you might expect. A comely girl, the priest had reflected, as she stood there in her patched green dress, her eyes flecked with brown and green, the unbound reddish hair tumbling to her waist. Tears shone in her eyes but her voice had been hard and a curved scar near the full mouth stood out white against the sun-touched skin.

  “None save Him whom you serve and to whom I pray always.”

  Father Peter had been quite horrified at what happened next. She had not knelt to ask his blessing but instead had suddenly dissolved into tears. He had lingered but she retreated from him, murmuring incoherently at his exhortations. Finally, he had taken an uncomfortable leave, promising to remember her in his prayers.

  Remembering, Katherine unclenched her long hands with their ragged nails and spread them on her knees. She thought of her life before her father had presented her with his strange choice almost two years ago, and the shared times with him were now infused with light. They had walked on the moors in the long evenings, arguing theological puzzles, comparing plants, discussing philosophy, literature, his travels. In winter, snow drifted to the windows and the fierce winds swirled over the thatched roof of the cottage while they read aloud by the fire.

  Once she had said, “You never tell me about your life, the court and King, or how it was with you and my mother.” She had wanted to say more but there was that about Antony that held even his daughter at a distance.

  His fading gold brows pressed together as he answered, “There is much that I cannot tell you for your own safety. I am content now. Let be.”

  She
was left to her own imagination which was fruitful enough, but Antony retreated into his own world for days afterward. Katherine never mentioned the subject again.

  Visitors had been rare; the priest came several times a year, neighbors helped in case of illness, sometimes a traveler or two straying from the main road asked directions. Yearly a messenger arrived from London with rare books obtained at great effort and expense. These had been fewer of late and she had noticed several of the costlier rings gone from his fingers.

  Still, she had been happy, more so than ever before in her nineteen years. Only by blocking out all speculation could she bear what was soon to be.

  A strangled cry from Antony took her quickly to his bedside. He fought to sit up, his face flushed and tormented. He resisted all her attempts to make him comfortable, twisting away from the slender arms and practiced hands. Blind fury made her cry out,

  “What is it? What more can I do? Enough, blessed Lord, enough!” Jerking back, she fell over the sword which was never far from his sight. Of eastern make, it was richly jeweled and ornamented with a shimmering blade. She looked down at it, then at the twisted form of its one time bearer, remembering the tall knight with fair hair who had illumined her childish world as he alone could do.

  Time faded then and she heard herself saying, “How far away is the crusade, my father? Will you take me with you?”

  His warm laughter caught her, carrying away fear and awe. She knew the others were watching. How she would boast later of this day! The sun glinted off the red cross on his breast and burned into the heraldic beasts of his shield. He was larger than her whole world and it was with satisfaction that she heard stem Dame Emma, her nurse, whisper, “How few take the cross these days. We are fortunate indeed.”

  Guided now by the anxious eyes she placed the sword close to Antony’s hand. He gave a desperate flail and his eyes met hers for a second, then looked off. A garbled mutter which might have been the beginning of a word emerged as the faint consciousness which was all that remained of Antony Hartley flickered for the last time. The word was clearer now.

  “Edw . . The remainder of it clogged in his throat as he coughed and died.

  Katherine looked at the still form, then at her shaking hands. Automatically she covered him with the worn mantle close at hand and, kneeling, began the prayers for the dead. The purple dusk gathered in the little room.

  The next day she and Ida Lathan, the dull witted neighbor girl who, with her two brothers, had often helped the Hartleys, worked at the laying out, arraying Antony in his knightly garments. The tissue thin robe was ancient cloth of gold, the gloves supple with age and trimmed with lesser jewels. His cloak was furred purple velvet and on his head the polished hauberk shone. The eastern sword lay under his crossed arms. His face was smooth and somber in the rigor.

  “He looks a great lord,” said Ida awed.

  Katherine’s eyes were suddenly bright with the tears she had been unable to shed during the long night. “Ah, he was that and more. Sir Antony Hartley, Crusader and once great friend to our sovereign lord, King Edward.”

  She knew now, as she had known then, that that name never spoken in all their time on the moors was on Antony’s lips in his dying struggle. Ida, curious, would have questioned her further but Katherine’s rigid posture quieted her.

  “The priest has not been in the village for some months and it is not known when he will return. A man must have Christian burial lest his ghost walk,” Ida said at last.

  Katherine shivered. Was this long drawn ritual of death ever to end? Part of her mind measured out calm words even as she thought incoherently that she could not leave him as if he were an animal in a field, yet what was she to do, now and afterwards? What could a lone woman do with no kin or protector? There were only a few coins in the house and she would not sell the few jewels that still seemed to belong to Antony.

  “We will bury him on the hill and I will speak the words. When the priest comes, tell him all that has happened. He will know what to do.”

  All her life Katherine was to remember the afternoon of her father’s burial. The cool wind was blowing up heavy clouds as shadows alternated with sun. The hastily gathered greenery fluttered at the sides of the open grave. A rattle of thunder sounded as the neighbors, standing at one end, looked to Katherine at the other. She pushed aside the black mantle and lifted her head. The warm, resonant voice of Antony moved once more in her mind, “Sweet Cat, what do words matter in the end of things, after all?”

  She began to speak hesitantly in English, then changed to Latin as the phrases of the service returned to memory. The light that had blazed so swiftly and brilliantly upon Antony in this life, and which had been his undoing, might yet be more peaceful in the next. So his daughter prayed and for the space of that little time believed.

  Later she passed out bread and ale in the cottage and was profuse in her thanks. The Lathans ate and drank, speaking somberly of her loss, God’s will and the need for acceptance. They were stoic people of the soil to whom death was natural and Katherine was grateful for the respite their presence gave.

  “I would ask one thing more of your charity,” she said, “that after I have been alone with my sorrow for a time, you or your brother will ride with me to the convent beyond the village where I intend to seek succour.”

  It was the first and only idea that had occurred to her, there was no other choice. She had only a wild longing to get away from this lonely place and try to make some plan for her life. The veil, perhaps? All that was restless in her rose up, but the practical thought of warmth and food and adequate clothes won out. She half smiled, thinking of the same curious blend of traits that her father had had. The shocked eyes of Ida were on her now.

  “Take what is here for yourselves. I will not return but will pray for guidance.”

  She saw the Lathans exchange looks and knew that they took her vagaries for sorrow’s witlessness. Tales would be told at the market for time to come and it would be long before the penniless knight and his daughter were forgotten in this north country.

  “I will take you, gladly, but we must leave before the rains begin. The convent is at least four days journey.”

  Lathan was counting up the work time lost and no gain except possibly in heaven.

  Katherine rose and even in her worn gown and un-coifed hair there was the air of the gentry about her. “I will be ready to depart on the day after tomorrow. There will be no delay on the journey.”

  Then she was alone as she had been for many months.

  In the midst of packing, a very simple matter for she had little, she took down one of the tapestries and carried it up to the raw, high mound. There she covered it, anchoring down the edges with heavy stones. As she stood back to survey her work, she gazed once more at the embroidered stag as it was pursued by warriors who rushed toward the turrets of a distant castle. There was stillness all around her, the world seemed poised and still. She sank down on the ground, then put her head on her drawn up knees and let the racking tears come as they had not done for months. In the early days of Antony’s illness the sight of her reddened eyes had upset him so much that she could not weep and the desire had finally been buried. Now she sobbed and cried aloud, tom by loss and fear for the future. When the threatening rain did come, she gave it little heed. The drops hammered on her head and ran coldly down her neck but she continued to tremble.

  At last the outburst was done and Katherine came back to herself. Her father was dead and a part of her life was ended. Beyond that she could not think. She threw herself on the pallet in the cottage and slept, wet as she was, as though drugged.

  Chapter 2

  Meeting at Moonrise

  Four days later, Katherine sat on the pallet hastily prepared for her by Mistress Burns, wife of the proprietor of the White Boar Inn. She had had to stop, much to Lathan’s barely veiled disgust, when fever, stoked by exposure and exhaustion, burned so high in her that her ears began to ring and the ground rose
up to meet her. The inn, named after the heraldic device of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, the King’s brother who ruled in the north, had suddenly loomed up out of the dales as if in answer to Katherine’s prayer for endurance.

  Katherine had thought her request for lodging and a bath quite reasonable but the hard-faced woman had stared and backed away. Through the throbbing in her head, Katherine had heard her question Lathan.

  “Has she been near the plague? You would not admit it if she had, of course. I have a good mind to send you both packing. We don’t need the custom that badly.”

  Lathan had mumbled something about lady, dead father, an errand of charity, out all night in the rain. It had worked for he was since gone to his loft and she packed in this tiny room with the three serving girls and an ancient crone who apparently helped scrub the floors. The bath had been denied. Katherine remembered with a pang that other people did not find that a pleasure, rather it was considered an aberration. Even Antony had laughed fondly at her in that regard.

  She stood up unsteadily. A cup of wine might help to ease her head. The few inhabitants of the inn’s common room, men-at-arms going to join their current lord, an older merchant and his wife traveling to visit their son in a distant village, a brisk older man of affairs and his clerk, were settled over ale and meat pies and gave only desultory glances at Katherine as she slipped by. The combined odors of food and people in the seemingly airless room made her suddenly nauseated. She ran for the door, almost knocking over a man who was just entering.

  The moon was rising and the fresh, cool air somewhat restored her. The hills rose dark in the direction from which they had come. A horse snorted in the stables nearby. She drew her mantle closer around her aching throat and shivered even as the sweat trickled down between her breasts. A long sigh escaped her. What was this strange tiredness that never left her these days?