Part 1 (1/2)

The Rose of Lorraine.

by Elizabeth Mayne.

BOOK ONE.

Law is like fire for it lights as truth, warms as charity, burns as zeal.

With those virtues the King will rule well.

SIMON DE MONTFORT.

(c)copyright by M. Kaye Garcia Jan. 1997 cover art by Jennie Dixon.

”This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars...” WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Prologue.

June 10, 1346 Chandos Enceinte ”Wake up, Englis.h.!.+ You'll not spend the night beneath my roof. Get dressed and get out!”

Edward Plantagenet startled awake. A muddy boot struck his belly, making him wince and protect his b.a.l.l.s.

”Go on, get out! Put on your filthy boots and take your stinking carca.s.s elsewhere.”

The boot fell to the floor as Edward stood. Naked, tall, barrel-chested and handsome but tired beyond belief, the king of England stared at Isabella de Chandos and knew the woman had gone mad...again.

”Bella, why?” Edward demanded in a compelling voice. He had a way with women...even angry ones. ”Tell me what has upset you? I will make it better, I swear.”

Her night rail whirled around her legs as she picked up his cotte hardie, sark and hose and threw the lot at him. Red hair raged about her as wild as the tempest and fury that held her in its grip. Every item was wet and sodden, for it had rained for two days now and any man who dared the outdoors, returned drenched through to the skin.

Though lulled by the good ale his host had provided, Edward had sense enough to step into his hose and tighten them over his belly before the woman's husband arrived.

She had progressed to the stately bed and clawed at it. stripping the damask coverlet, tearing the fine linen sheets from the featherbed. The king approached her from behind, hands open to grasp her shoulders and calm her. She had always been a high-strung, sensitive woman of tempers and moods too deep to fathom, but her husband, John de Chandos, was King Edward's most trustworthy man.

”Bella, why?” Edward crooned in a soothing voice. ”Has someone frightened you?”

She spun with a wad of cloth bunched and trailing in her hands, screaming, ”I want you gone! How dare you! How dare you ask more of Chandos. He's done enough for you.”

”Bella, Bella.” Edward laid his big hands lightly on her shoulders, letting the cloths she shoved at him fall to their feet. ”Calm, sweetling. Tell me what is wrong.”

”Wrong?” she screamed in his face. ”Would you cut my heart from my breast? Aye, you would, you heartless b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I know what you plan, what you order my husband to do. You go to war in Normandy, Calais and Lorraine.”

”Your Majesty, what trouble here?” The woman's husband charged into the bed chamber given over to the king.

Sir John was dressed no better than Edward III, in sopping trews and muddy boots. Lord Chandos skidded to a halt on the polished floor. His tanned face drained of color as he caught sight of his wife wearing only a night rail in the king's presence. ”What do you here, Bella, in the king's bed chamber?”

”Merde! Mon mari, can you not see I throw this beast, this roi de guerre out of our house? I won't let him build an army in my yard to attack my father and my brothers. Enough, Edward Plantagenet. Here stands one woman who has the courage to say to you, no, you cannot be king of England and also king of France.” She spat at the king's feet.

Mortified, the lady's husband quickly secured a hold upon her, pulling her away from the king. ”Hush, Bella,” he soothed her. ”You imagine things again.” ”Non!” Rage gave her the strength to twist free of Sir John's grip. ”Liar! I have been to Portsmouth, seen with these two eyes the cogs and boats, horses and carts piled high with arms and tools of war. You invade France. I know it. Do not lie to me, Chandos. Do not lie for your king!” ”Be silent, Bella!” the lord of the manor thundered a command that none who served him would dare disobey. His mad wife was another matter. She ran to the fireplace and took from the mantle a priceless vase. ”Put that down and leave this room at once.”

”He leaves or I do, Chandos. You must choose.”

”Maman, why are you screaming?” A little boy of four years stumbled into the chamber. Behind him a

sleepy older brother was stricken face, all eyes and silent, but shaken so badly his night s.h.i.+rt flapped around his skinny knees like wind-torn willows.

”Madame,” the husband roared. ”Put that down!”

”I swear to you, Chandos, do you take up arms against my father, I will kill your sons and then kill

myself.”

”Bella, you go too far.”

”Non, Chandos, you and your devil-king have gone too far. On my eternal soul, I swear to you, this is all

you will have left. Nothing!” She threw the vase at her husband's head.

Chandos ducked as he lunged for her. The two little boys screamed and the vase, a token from Queen Phillipa for gracious hospitality given in the past, shattered against the castle wall.

”BY OAK, ASH, AND THORN, THE FAERIES MAGIK IS BORN.”.

-1-.

The Well of Souls Lewes, England, 1995.

”Bella, please, not another English cemetery!” Aristotle Wynford. He rolled his eyes as his wife turned onto the Priory parking lot. She touched the Fiat's brake too firmly and pea gravel splattered out from under the wheels. ”d.a.m.n, Bella. My first vacation in fifteen years and you're gonna spoil it with an accident!”

”Calm down, Ari. It's only the gravel in the parking lot.” Bella eased the car into a s.p.a.ce, mentally toying with a Walter Mitty-ish vision of wringing Ari's neck. His constant nagging undermined her confidence about driving in a foreign country. ”I'd be glad to let you take the wheel.”

”Me? Aristotle Wynford, drive? In England? With no speed limits and all these maniacs on the wrong side of the road? Not on your life!”

”Then stop needling me unnecessarily. We're here to get away from stress and relax,” Bella reminded him. ”Keep this up and you'll drive when we tackle the mountains in Wales tomorrow, Ari.”

Ari flashed a toothy grin and reached out to pinch her cheek. Fourteen years ago the gesture had meant she was cuter than a bug. Today, it meant nothing.

”In Wales? Honestly, Bella, are you crazy, woman, or what? I'll be busy enough straining the limits of my Welsh heritage, reading road signs and maps while you drive. I have it on good authority we Wynfords descend directly from an English king--on the wrong side of the blanket, mind you. I wonder how one says navigator in Welsh?”

”We shall have to ask,” Bella replied.