Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  “Damn, but the best of luck to you, my friend!” Bryan exclaimed with the greatest sincerity. “Well . . . then it seems that I will see to my own fate shortly, then, doesn’t it?”

  Marshal laughed. “Aye, Sir Stede, it does seem that ’tis your turn to meet with the devil!”

  Bryan halted with visible annoyance just before the entrance to Chinon.

  “What is it?” Marshal inquired.

  “I’ll flay that little ‘charmer’ of yours if I do come across her again,” Bryan replied irritably. His eyes were upon the men who lined the ramparts and stood guard alongside those who wore Henry’s badge. At least forty men walked the ramparts, half of them Richard’s. They were still clad in mail and armor—very proud now to carry Richard’s lion crest upon their shields along with their own family symbols. These were the warriors Bryan had fought in Henry’s long battle against his son and the King of France. Foes to be turned to friends. But men who had once longed to see his downfall, who would still feel a bitter rancor toward him now . . .

  And he was going to have to pass them all minus hose and shoes, mantle and horse.

  “Damn her!” he hissed. Then he swept past Marshal with his spine straight and his hands upon his hips. And he passed by the Lion-Heart’s knights with such a towering power that none noticed that the well-respected warrior was embarrassingly lacking in dress.

  But he knew. And even as he gritted his teeth to meet the Lion-Heart, he was thinking once more that he would love to take a horsewhip to her well-curved derrière.

  Bryan had barely passed through the gatehouse when he heard Richard’s thunderous voice hailing him. He winced, thinking that the “Lion-Heart” did indeed summon with a roar. He squared his shoulders and stopped, standing straight as he watched the new King of England and ruler of half of continental Europe approach him.

  Whatever ill might be said of Richard, no one could deny the fine figure he cut with his stature. He was tall, perhaps a half inch shorter than Bryan, but then Bryan was among the tallest men of his day. He was muscular to the extreme, having spent his days at joust and battle since he had been a lad not full grown. Richard was a true Plantagenet; his eyes were sometimes a stormy gray, sometimes as blue as the sky, and, at rare moments of peace, they could be aqua like the Mediterranean Sea. His hair was wheat-gold, bleached by the sun; his beard betrayed many streaks of a blazing red. Where Richard walked, the ground shuddered. Yet for all that he had battled Henry so long, Bryan knew Richard to be a man of character—with principle. Bryan did not flinch at the approach that would have intimidated a lesser man.

  “Stede! You have taken your time to make an appearance! And bootless, no less. Good Lord, where have you spent the night?”

  “Chasing thieves, sire.”

  “And being robbed yourself, so it appears.”

  “Yes,” Bryan answered simply.

  Richard raised a brow to him, but made no further comment on the subject. Rather, he indicated the doorway to the keep and urged Bryan toward it. “Let us be alone to speak. We have much to discuss.”

  He started to precede Bryan to the keep, then paused, spinning back so suddenly that Bryan was forced to leap backward to avoid a collision with the king.

  “Stede! Do you solemnly swear that you accept me as your sovereign? We have battled long and hard, you and I, but I respect the loyalty you gave my father, and would have it for my own.”

  “Henry is dead, Richard,” Bryan said wearily. “While he lived, I could never pay you homage. Now you are the king, the rightful king, ruler of all his domains. Yes . . . now I pay you all the homage I did give him.”

  “Kneel, Sir Stede, and swear me fealty.”

  Bryan did so. Richard quickly bade him to rise. Then he nodded briefly and headed toward the keep. A fire had been drawn in the great lower chamber, but still Chinon, beloved by Henry, left Bryan cold. The great banqueting hall was sparsely furnished. Table and chairs were curiously bland, with no artistry of carving. They were serviceable, and nothing more.

  Richard went to the head of the table and sat, kicking out a chair by its feet so that Bryan might take it for his use.

  “Sit, Stede,” Richard commanded. Then he grinned. “I never could abide your height!”

  “There is little difference—”

  “I am accustomed to gazing down at other men.” Richard raised a hand; a servant came quickly from the shadows with wine and set it between them. Richard waved the servant away and poured out a chalice for each of them.

  Bryan raised his chalice. “To a long and prosperous reign, King Richard.”

  The two drank. Then Richard banged down his chalice. Suddenly he was on his feet again, pacing the room restlessly, and reminding Bryan of his father.

  “They are already saying that my father began to bleed when I paid my respects to his earthly remains. What do you think of that, Stede?”

  “I think that many things will be said,” Bryan told him bluntly.

  “Damn!” Richard swore, pounding a fist upon the table and staring at Bryan with a fire blazing in his eyes. “I did not know that he was so ill when we battled last.... Will history revile me, or revere me, Stede?”

  “I’m sure, Your Grace, that that remains to be seen.”

  Richard laughed suddenly. “You’ll never really kneel before me, will you, Stede? Or before any man. Ah, well, I was not so much to blame. My brother John actually began this battle years ago before his death. Father himself caused it. He loved to grant us all his titles, to dole out his domains, but he never wanted to relinquish the least bit of his power. We were to be puppets, nothing more. And when we sought to rule, he was of the mind that we were still children to be bullied about by him. He had my brother crowned king during his lifetime, but he wouldn‘t allow him to govern a duchy. But young Henry died and I was left heir—and left to battle Father.” He paused again. “I never wished to see him die so broken, Stede.”

  Bryan looked straight at Richard and shrugged. “The news that your brother John betrayed him is what killed your father, so the physicians say.”

  “Uh . . .” Richard murmured darkly, walking around the table to take a seat again. “John—I’ve no idea where the boy is. Have you seen him?”

  “Not since he disappeared after the battle at Le Mans.”

  Richard drank deeply of his wine and leaned back broodingly in his chair. “No doubt he is in hiding, having heard that I do not reward traitors. But, God’s blood! Doesn’t the young fool realize that I am his brother?” Richard sighed. “He is my blood, and he is my heir. May God help me make him fit for a throne!”

  “Amen,” Bryan murmured, earning a scowl from Richard.

  “I have inherited all of my father’s responsibilities,” he told Bryan, “and I mean to uphold them—almost all. No doubt, Stede, you will tell me, as Marshal did, that my father promised you a great heiress?”

  Bryan shrugged, determined that Richard would not taunt him. He would not play games. Gwyneth would be his, aye or nay.

  “He did. He promised that I would have the Lady Gwyneth of Cornwall.”

  Richard raised a brow. “A great heiress, indeed.”

  “Yes,” Bryan said simply.

  “Well . . .” Richard began. Then he broke off suddenly in laughter. “Stede, I cannot promise one of the greatest heiresses in Christendom to a bootless man!” He smiled. “I’m not saying that I will not reward your long and loyal service to my father. But I’ve work for you. I must remain on the Continent to receive homage as overlord from all my European barons. But I wish my mother released; she will be my regent until I can come to England. You and Marshal will see to her release—and to her travel, for I want her seen by the people across the countryside. The majority of the people loved her; they will be glad to forgive my sins and recognize me when they see her.” He paused. “I’ve also another errand. We’ve a servant here who belongs to the Duchess of Montoui. You will see to that journey, and you will see that Elise is brought here, qui
ckly, for my father to be interred at the Abbey of Fontevrault, as he desired. Oh—and I believe I will have the duchess accompany you and Marshal. Mother might well need a nobly born attendant.”

  Bryan was startled by Richard’s words; Henry should be buried with all haste. Richard was willing to wait for the attendance of the Duchess of Montoui. Why?

  Perhaps, Richard was hoping John would make an appearance by then, Bryan reflected. Whichever, Richard had almost promised that Gwyneth and her lands would be his, so it did not seem an appropriate time to question his monarch. But what was it about Elise de Bois? Temptress, vixen, thief—what was she?

  Bryan closed his eyes quickly, annoyed that he could not forget her or put her from his thoughts. But he couldn’t deny it; he had wanted to see her again—watch her reactions to him—and Richard was ordering him to do so.

  “And then, Stede,” Richard was continuing, his voice growing richly impassioned as he slammed his fist against the table again, “it will be time to prepare for the Crusade! Henry vowed to join Philip in the holy quest to regain Jerusalem and our Christian shrines in the East. My father can no longer do so; it is my destiny, and one that I am eager to fulfill! You will ride at my side, then, Bryan Stede.”

  “Aye, Your Grace, I will ride at your side,” Bryan answered. Why not? He had known that the infidels had taken Jerusalem—all of Christendom had been talking of little else. Knights were God’s warriors; the Crusades were the holiest battles to be fought, for they were fought for His glory.

  The East promised adventure and learning; Bryan would enjoy the change. If all went well, he would leave behind a loving wife, vast lands, and resources, and return to find that he had an heir as well.

  “Go find some boots, Stede!” Richard commanded suddenly. “You must be ready shortly to ride for Montoui!”

  Bryan nodded briefly and rose, heading for the door. Richard called him back and he paused. Richard was rising, and coming toward him.

  “Stede, you will be rewarded. Do you trust my word?”

  “Aye, Lion-Heart. That I do.”

  Richard smiled. Their pact had been made.

  * * *

  Ah, Montoui! Never had home looked so beautiful to Elise, resting in the valley amid the red and gold colors of the sinking sun!

  High atop the last hill that rose before her own lands, Elise paused, taking a deep breath as she stared down upon her castle, her town, her duchy. From her vantage point, she could see the entirety of the stone wall that surrounded the town, which consisted of numerous homes, the mill, the smithy, the Church of the Madonna, the workshops for the potters, the tinsmiths, goldsmiths, and craftsmen of all varieties. Beyond the wall that promised safety for her people in times of battle were the farmlands and the fields, fertile acres where grain and corn and wheat and greens were grown, where sheep and cattle grazed and grew fat. And beyond the farmlands were the forests, alive with game, wild boars and wild birds, and deer in abundance.

  And beyond the walled town itself rose the castle of Montoui. Moated and tall, it shined with a white brilliance at dusk. Elise’s castle was an octagon with eight tall towers, seven to house guests and her men-at-arms, the eighth being the family donjon where her own apartments lay. Home—a place that was warm and beautiful. Bustling and alive. Fires would be burning, meat would be roasting; the tapestries would warm the walls and fresh rushes would be strewn all about the great banqueting hall. Above the banqueting hall her own chamber would await her, the windows facing the east for the morning sun, her bed, draped in silk, covered with elegant linens and furs. Home. She had reached it at last. It had seemed to take her forever to travel the long miles.

  She hadn’t been about to return to her duchy tattered and ragged, and so she had taken back roads until she had come across a toothless and aging crone in the forest. The old woman had been glad to exchange a coarse wool tunic for the fine pair of men’s boots Elise had offered her. And she had been amazed when Elise had thrown the well-woven hose and striking mantle into the bargain.

  Elise had been only too pleased to rid herself of Bryan Stede’s property, and to find that she no longer had to clutch her cloak tightly about herself to remain respectably clad.

  At the outer wall to the town, men-at-arms challenged her, then rushed forward to greet and escort her. She forced a smile to her lips, called cheerful greetings in return, and waved them aside.

  “All is well, my fine sirs! I have returned unscathed!”

  “But milady—”

  The call came from Sir Columbard, Captain of the Guard, but Elise still managed to evade him.

  “Sir Columbard! I am frightfully exhausted. I will beg your leave for a later time!”

  She rode quickly through the one main street of the town that led to the castle drawbridge. Clattering over it, she hurried to give the destrier’s reins to a stableboy as soon as she passed the tower entrance and came into the outer ward.

  But though she had quite easily raised a hand in greeting to her villeins and freemen and had ridden past, she could not deny her stableboy, Wat, his anxious words of welcome.

  “Milady! Bless God that ye’ve come safely home! Since your mare returned—”

  “Sabra returned?” Elise asked quickly.

  “Aye, ’fore dawn, she did! I cared for her well, milady, I promise you, but my hands were shaking, I was so afrighted for you—”

  “Thank you, Wat, for caring for Sabra, and for worrying so. But I am home now, and safe. But so weary!”

  Elise smiled at the earnest young boy, and started to hurry past him.

  “Milady! Wait—”

  She had to pretend that she hadn’t heard him. If she didn’t find the privacy of her chamber soon, and sink into a steaming bath, she was going to start screaming like a lunatic, and then crying her eyes out like a child.

  Only in privacy could she allow herself to vent to her feelings of rage and frustration.

  Five guards in Montoui’s colors of blue and gold warmed their hands at an open fire that burned before the door to the main keep and banqueting hall. They straightened and rushed to kneel at her feet as she hurried toward the hall.

  “Milady!”

  “Thank the blessed Lord!”

  “We’ve searched for you in shifts e’er since—”

  “Please! Dear sirs! Rise. I am well and safe. Just so eager for rest that I beg you to excuse me!”

  With a smile and her chin tilted high, she hurried past them, ignoring their calls in her wake. Whatever business was pressing could wait.

  In moments, she would be free to rant and rave and shiver and shake as she chose, with none to witness such unseemly conduct . . .

  She had managed to pass by the guards with no explanation, but within the banqueting hall—with its warm, welcoming fire and comfortable tapestries—she found Michael de Neuve, her father’s steward and then her own, waiting for her.

  De Neuve had fought with William de Bois as the knight’s squire; he had gone on crusade with his duke to the Holy Lands to capture Jerusalem, then returned to retire from the field and run the castle. He loved Elise as he had her father, and now, though his face was lined with age and his shoulders were beginning to stoop, his sense of responsibility was fierce.

  “Milady! What has happened? I have worried myself ill since your horse returned this morning! And then when the messenger came about poor Isabel—”

  “Hold, Michael, please!” Elise begged, feeling a throbbing headache begin to pound at her temples. “What is this about a messenger?”

  “A rider came from Chinon not an hour ago, milady. He was surprised that you had not returned, and therefore I worried all the more! Isabel lives, though she is sorely injured. They shall return her here as soon as they might.”

  “Isabel lives?” Elise demanded, stunned and incredulous.

  “Aye, milady, ’tis so—”

  “Thank the Lord!” Elise murmured, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. She had been so hurt, and then so furious, tha
t she had forgotten to grieve for the maid. But Isabel lived. Her reckless behavior had not resulted in the death of another. There were things for which she had to be grateful . . .

  “But, oh, milady! What happened?” Michael demanded.

  “The king’s body was set upon by thieves who murdered the guards. I was forced to run through the night, but I am here now. And that is the end of it, Michael.”

  “Thieves! Murderers! Oh, my lady! I knew I should never have agreed to such a foolish whim on your part. Isabel, almost butchered! And to think that it might have—”

  “Michael—stop!” Elise commanded more harshly. “There was no one who could have dissuaded me from my pilgrimage! The king was kind to my parents, kind to me. I felt it my duty to go; nothing would have changed that. Now, Michael, where is this messenger?”

  “Gone, already, milady. I offered all the hospitality of the castle, but as Richard is now at Chinon, he returned immediately. The man assured us that Isabel would be returned, and since a knight named Bryan Stede had seen you, he was quite convinced that you would return at your own speed. Lady Elise, whatever took you so long to return to us?”

  “I stayed to the back roads, Michael.”

  “Back roads! More thieves and murderers and . . . oh, dearest Christ in heaven!” Michael began again, and as much as she loved the old man, Elise wanted to scream.

  “Michael! I beg of you! I am sorely weary. I long only for a night’s rest. And a bath. Summon Jeanne for me, if you will, please; I require a bath. Tell her that I must have hot water, and plenty of it.”

  “Aye, milady, aye,” Michael murmured, shaking his head slightly. His duchess seldom displayed it but she possessed a temper that could make the devil pause. She was speaking to him courteously—the genteel etiquette of Marie de Bois had been instilled within her daughter through rigorous hours of training, but Michael knew Elise. Authority was in her tone now. Her chin was raised, her eyes were dangerously sparkling, and there was no doubt that the lady knew her place in life—and how to use it.