The Perfect Bride (34 page)

Simon
and Amanda exchanged glances as Lady Biddle left. "Do you suppose it will
still be like that with us after we have been married for twenty-five
years?" Amanda asked.

Simon
drew her closer. "I cannot imagine otherwise," he replied, nuzzling
her earlobe.

"There
is just one thing." Amanda studied the various weapons suspended on the
walls — until his wandering hands made that task impossible. "Might you be
able to do without so many lethal weapons around the castle? I find them rather
unsettling."

"Do
you?" He trailed butterfly kisses along her neck, destroying her concentration.

"The
war is over, Simon," she managed.

Suddenly,
he lifted her off her feet, cradling her against his chest. His warlike gaze
radiated green fire.

“Yes,”
he agreed. “And to the victor belong the spoils."

Claiming
his prize, Simon carried her up the stairs.

EPILOGUE

"I
cannot bear it, Mortimer."

"Edward
does seem to be in rare form tonight."

"The
screams! The ungodly screams! They are worse than ever. This is truly Hell!"

"I
wish you would not say that word, Isabella. I fear you tempt fate."

"What
of it? Nothing could be worse than this!"

"I
disagree, my dear. For all the inconvenience we suffer, it is only Edward we
must endure. I imagine the fires of Hell are a great deal worse."

"Hah!
Hell would be a pleasure compared to this place. At least there would be others
like us..."

"Isabella!
Do not speak so!"

"After
all these years you still fear your shadow, Mortimer."

"I
have no shadow to fear, my dear."

"Do
not play word games with me. You know, Mortimer, I am beginning to weary of
you. I think I should like to see if Hell has more to offer."

"I
fear you would regret it, my dear."

"Never!
I challenge all of the powers that be to show me this place called Hell. I
daresay it is a paradise of sinful delights."

"Isabella,
hush!"

"Sinful
delights! Do you hear me, Mortimer? I have not had one moment of pleasurable
sin in five hundred years. I deserve something for that. I want what I deserve!
I demand it!"

A
fiercely spiraling wind suddenly whirled through the tower, bringing a flash of
lightning and an ominous roll of thunder. Light illuminated every cobweb, every
stone and rotting timber. Even the fireplace blazed to life.

Then
the blustering gale vanished, leaving behind only an eerie silence.

"Isabella?"

There
was no response.

Mortimer's
wistful sigh drifted over the vaulted ceiling. Slowly, his solitary moan was
joined by another that gradually escalated into a familiar screech.

"Still
here, Edward? Yes, I can hear that you are. One can be thankful for a little
constancy, at any rate. Have I ever told you how much I admire your voice? No?
Well, perhaps now would be a good time, although I imagine we shall have a
great deal of time together over the centuries. Yes, together. What? Why,
Edward, I never realized that you cared."

THE END

AUTHOR’S  NOTE

History
portrays Edward of Caernarvon as the weak-willed son of the outstanding English
king of the Middle Ages, Edward I. Edward II grew up a lonely lad who longed
for companions of his own age and sex. Among his favorites was Piers Gaveston,
a vain and sarcastic man who offended many, including Edward's wife, Isabella
of France, daughter of two sovereigns and the sister of three kings. For their
marriage in 1308, Isabella brought with her a vast portion from her father and
a magnificent trousseau, much of which Edward promptly passed to Gaveston.
Gaveston held sway over the king until the Earl of Warwick had the courtier
kidnapped and murdered in 1312.

The
king's new favorite, Hugh le Despenser, induced Edward to deprive Isabella of her
estates in 1324. The next year she left for France and, with her lover, Roger
Mortimer, raised an army against her husband. Edward was deposed in favor of
his son and confined to Berkeley Castle. (Sommersby Castle is my own
invention).

By
all accounts, Edward's end in 1327 was ghastly. Heavy feather beds or possibly
a table were employed to hold him down while a hot spit was thrust into him and
twisted until he died. At the coronation of her son, Edward III, Isabella shed
hypocritical tears for her husband, but popular disgust at the manner of his
death turned opinion against the ruthless queen.

Edward
III had Mortimer literally ripped from Isabella's arms at Nottingham Castle and
taken to Tyburn, where he became the first person executed there. Isabella died
in 1358 and was buried in London's Grey Friars Church, where Mortimer had been
entombed years earlier. Carrying her hypocrisy even to the grave, notes
historian Agnes Strickland, Isabella "was buried with the heart of her
murdered husband on her breast."