Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  “Does it matter to you?”

  “Yes, by God, it does!”

  “Why? Do you intend to avenge my honor? Or do you intend to tell him that you passed me by—to maintain your own?”

  “By God, Elise!” Percy swore savagely, clenching his fists at his side. “What happened?”

  “I wonder if it really matters,” Elise replied quietly. She turned away from him, placing her hands upon the cold stone of the castle wall. What had she expected from him? she wondered bitterly.

  More than this! her heart cried out. How had she ever imagined she might explain it all reasonably? To Percy—of all men. With his sense of blood and right and wrong. Might she have said, “Henry was really my father, Percy, and so I stole his ring. I stole it because my mother, who was a Bordeaux peasant, scratched all that she had together to buy it for him. I didn’t want that truth known—you can understand that, Percy, can’t you?—and so I told the wrong lies to the wrong man?”

  No. There was no way to explain such a thing to Percy. She had been blind to believe that she might. And yet it still hurt so badly; she couldn’t believe that it was a man who claimed to love her, who she had believed she loved with all her heart, who was suddenly calling her a harlot. Percy had become as cold and rigid as the stone of the wall she touched. She had known him, yes. She had known all the good things about him: his love of poetry and music, his gentle side, his sense of honor and loyalty. She had also known he was the third son of a minor Norman baron; he had always been ambitious. Material things mattered to him, just as prestige among his peers mattered to him.

  “What game do you play with me, Elise?” Percy demanded harshly. “You were ‘tricked,’ you say. Were you drugged or drunk? Or did you play a game with him, too? I know the ways of women well, milady duchess. The voice says no, the eyes say yes, and a man can be goaded just so far. Did you tempt him, Elise, saying no, meaning yes? Playing Jezebel with the same vigor as any common whore?”

  Her nails scraped over the stone when she spun about to face him, her chin high, her eyes flashing.

  “You have known many such women, sir?”

  “Aye—”

  “How many?”

  “What difference does it make? I am a knight, I travel with the king, and I fight his battles. I am long on the road, sometimes weary and in need of comfort. And I am a man.”

  “And it seems to me, Percy, that you are a man far more ‘used’ than ever I shall be.”

  “What?”

  “I’m quite certain that you heard me.”

  His hands balled into fists again at his sides; she saw him glance surreptitiously toward the closest tower. The guards are there, Percy, and they can be here in moments . . .

  “God rest his soul, but this is Henry’s fault for doting upon you so, Elise! A woman bears a man heirs; she must be chaste and loyal, for who would raise another’s bastard?”

  Elise smiled. “Montoui is mine, Percy. My child will be the rightful heir—no matter where I bed.”

  “Bitch!” Percy snapped suddenly. “And to think that I believed you to be the most pure, the most beautiful—the most devoted of women! You talk like a daughter of Satan!”

  The desire to laugh was beginning to overwhelm her. Almost, Percy; I’m the daughter of Henry II. She did not speak.

  “Perhaps you had best leave, Percy—before you find yourself tainted with my wickedness.”

  Percy turned from her this time, hesitating as he stared unseeingly out at the stars. There was a hurt and haunted look about his eyes when he at last faced her again.

  “I am sorry, Elise.”

  “For what, Percy? The things you have said, or the way that they have gone?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he murmured, pressing his palm against his temple and closing his eyes. When they opened once more, there was a different look about them. He stepped toward her and she stiffened when he took her into his arms.

  “Elise . . . I have desired you so very long . . .”

  He drew back, then abruptly pulled away the headdress she had so carefully chosen. Her hair tumbled free, a streak of gold against the ebony sky. He threaded his fingers through it at the nape of her neck, gripping hard. “I have dreamed of having you . . . with your hair so, tangling about me, teasing my flesh. No other man should have had it so . . .”

  “Percy, you are hurting me.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. “We could still be married. You would first have to seek shelter with a religious house where godly sisters might watch you until your time, until we are certain that there shall be no child.”

  “Percy, I will go nowhere. If you choose not to trust me in my own home, there would be nothing for which to wait.”

  “Elise, I offer you a chance for us—”

  “Percy! Don’t you understand! There is nothing that I seek if there is no trust! You don‘t really care what happened; all that matters to you is that I have somehow become tainted! Without the love, without the trust, I do not want the marriage! I do not need land, Percy—I have the land. I am the duchess. I—”

  “Elise!” he interrupted her, and as she stared into his eyes, she realized that she had let her own temper fuel his. He was furious again as he continued: “You are a fool! Women marry where they are told! And, yes! You come to me tainted by another man, then claim you will still have your way! Have it so, then! But watch your step, my beauty. Richard the Lion-Heart is not the doting Henry; perhaps he will give you to an old and decaying man who will not care where a young wife has been!”

  “Percy, you are hurting me! Let go of me!”

  His grip eased; he closed his eyes tightly and shuddered. “Elise, Elise, try to understand. I’ve wanted you so long. I’ve waited and waited for marriage, for our union to be honorable, and now I discover this. God help me, I believe I’m losing control of my mind. What was mine was taken, you understand?”

  Elise shook her head, wanting to cry out, too hurt and angry and confused herself to do so. “No, Percy,” she murmured, faltering for words as his touch became a gentle one again.

  “I loved you, Elise. I loved you so very much.”

  Loved. So he no longer loved her now. And he was holding her, close to his body. She could feel his length, his warmth, his touch.

  A touch that became halting, his fingers winding into her hair, arching her throat and bringing her eyes to his. The hazel seemed fevered, almost maddened. “Have me tonight, Elise,” he urged her. “You gave yourself to a stranger; give yourself to me. I might be so beguiled as not to care—”

  His lips descended cruelly upon hers, bruising with intensity. Elise fought the degrading onslaught with fury. This was not what she had wanted from him! She had craved sympathy and understanding, and the love he had vowed. All she had received was fury and punishment.

  Elise emitted a furious sound from deep within her throat and managed to twist her head from his.

  “Go, Percy! Leave me be, or I swear before heaven that I shall call the guards!”

  “I will tell them that you’re a harlot—”

  “They serve Montoui, and they serve me. Is that it, Percy? You still abhor the fact that you cannot receive a virgin—but you would be the Duke of Montoui?”

  She knew from his hesitation that it was so. Keeping her shoulders rigidly squared, she began walking briskly toward the stairs that would bring her back to the keep. “You needn’t ride out at night, Percy. Montoui offers the hospitality of a meal and a night’s rest to you and your fellows. You may tell them that I have been taken with a severe headache. It will not be far from the truth.”

  He did not reply to her. Elise heard only the stillness of the night as she hurried through the keep, and to the lower tower entrance to her chambers.

  * * *

  Jeanne started from where she had been dozing by the fire at the creak of a hinge.

  The duchess had returned—quickly, it seemed.

  Elise did not speak to Jeanne, but came to the f
ire herself, standing there silently as she warmed her hands.

  Jeanne knew for a certainty that things had gone badly, that Elise had not been able to withhold the truth from Percy.

  She will burst into tears, Jeanne thought. Surely she will burst into tears, and perhaps it will be good, for she can cry away the sharpness of the pain.

  But Elise did not burst into tears. She stood before the fire for so long that it was Jeanne who could no longer bear the pain.

  “Milady?”

  “He was horrible, Jeanne. Arrogant, angry, and despicable. He said things to me that should have made me hate him. So why does it still feel as if my heart has been gouged out?”

  “Oh, Elise,” Jeanne murmured miserably. She wanted to go to the girl and comfort her; yet she stood too straight and proud to be offered comfort.

  “I despise myself,” Elise murmured almost curiously, “because I fear that I might still love him. I wonder if he has behaved as all men might. I just believed so much in our love . . .”

  A sigh racked her slender frame. The white of her gown and the gold in her hair captured the flames of the fire and shimmered with an ethereal beauty.

  Then suddenly she spun about, facing Jeanne with her eyes blazing.

  “And he—Stede!—is to be rewarded with half of England! One of the richest heiresses alive is to be given him. Titles and lands and . . . oh! I will not let it happen! He has taken everything from me—and somehow, Jeanne, I swear it, I will take everything from him!”

  Jeanne tried to murmur something soothing, but she took a step backward from her young mistress. She had never seen the beautiful blue eyes blaze with such a fevered fury. Never seen such tension and anger radiate from such a slender form . . .

  She meant it. The Lady Elise was determined. No matter what stood in her way, she was determined to destroy the knight who had brought her to this moment.

  “He will not have Gwyneth of Cornwall—no matter what I have to do!”

  Jeanne found herself seized by a fit of cold shivers. There was a ruthless quality about Elise’s voice that was terrifying.

  “No matter what I have to do!” she repeated, and her eyes narrowed to dangerous, glittering slits as she stared at the fire.

  IX

  “Riders, milady! Coming from the east!”

  Elise struggled to waken as Jeanne burst into her chamber and threw open the draperies that closeted her bed. She had been awake most of the night, unable to sleep until dawn, and now she felt as if she were trying to emerge from a great fog.

  “Oh, milady, do awaken! Come to the window!”

  Elise urged her weary limbs from the bed. When her bare feet touched upon the cold stone of the floor, she was startled to full awareness, and hurried to the turret to stare out eastwardly.

  They were still about three miles distant—a contingent of ten men in full armor. A pair of matching dappled grays, adorned with silks and feathers, drew a handsomely appointed litter.

  Elise strained her eyes to study the men. The banners they carried were gold and red, and as they moved steadily closer, she began to make out the emblem.

  It was that of a lion.

  “They come from Richard,” she said excitedly.

  “Oh!” Jeanne exclaimed, clapping her hands together as she hovered behind Elise. “They return Isabel to us!”

  “And more,” Elise murmured uneasily. “You do not send ten men in full armor with emblems blazing beneath the sun just to return a servant . . .”

  “What do you think they want?”

  Elise frowned. “Not war—that is for certain. All know that our garrison is five hundred strong. They come as an official emissary . . . I still don’t understand—”

  “Milady!” Jeanne chastised softly. “Even I understand! Richard sends his men so that you may swear homage to him.”

  “Perhaps,” Elise murmured. As a “duchess,” she should owe fealty to the French King for her lands, but since Montoui was so small it had always paid homage to the directly bordering Angevin lands. Therefore, she owed fealty to Richard now; Richard, in turn, owed fealty to Philip of France for his Continental holdings.

  Elise should have been rushing to dress, she realized, but something was holding her to the window. The party kept moving forward, and the closer they came, the more compelled she felt to watch. There was something familiar about the leader.

  How could there be? she wondered. He was in full armor; he wore a helmet and a visor, and a mantle of encompassing black over his chain mail. There was no way to recognize his features, or even the color of his hair . . .

  Her heart seemed to stop and then thunder with a suffocating intensity.

  It was him. She did not need to see his features to recognize the way he sat his horse, taller than those who rode with him. There was only one other man who sat a saddle so powerfully, and that man was Richard himself.

  And it was not the Lion-Heart who rode. It had to be Stede.

  “It is him!” she whispered aloud, the sound of her voice rigid with the fury that enveloped her. How dare he ride to her castle so brazenly! It was like a sacrilege. He had destroyed her life, and now he sought her hospitality as if it were he about to be crowned king, and no matter what the past, she owed him homage . . .

  “‘Him’? Milady?”

  She barely heard Jeanne’s puzzled question. A flush of heat wrapped all around her; she felt as if she could gouge at the stone wall and tear it to pieces.

  “ ‘Him’?” Jeanne persisted.

  Still Elise ignored her, at last spinning from the archer’s slit to confront her with blazing eyes. “I shall wear the blue with the fox trim, Jeanne. The headdress is quite high. And the golden earbobs and matching necklace Father brought back from Jerusalem. Hurry! They come closer and closer. The guards will halt them at the gate, but as they come from Richard, they will be allowed entrance. And it would not do to keep such an emissary waiting.”

  Jeanne lowered her eyes. “Aye, Lady Elise. We will hurry.”

  She left Elise at the window as she returned to the chamber to lay out the specified clothing. Him! So it was the man who had brought such grief to her lady, riding toward the castle as if he owned it! Jeanne decided there and then that the man should pay for his arrogance. But if she were going to seek revenge on her mistress’s behalf, she would have to hurry.

  “Milady?”

  “Coming, Jeanne!”

  Elise was ready at the main entrance to the great hall before the men entered. Only three came into the hall; Elise assumed that the others were soldiers who as yet had not earned titles or knighthood. They would, no doubt, be gaming now with her own off-duty guards.

  Her heart beat hard as she watched the three men come toward her, removing their helmets and faceplates.

  Bryan Stede wore a mocking smile, which increased her irritation to a state where she found it difficult to remain still and exude the pure air of icy nobility she intended. She stared at him coolly, with her head high, her dress portraying her wealth and importance. You will not make me shiver or shake, Sir Stede, she thought furiously, nor goad me into childish temper. There will come a day when I strike vengeance, and you will be totally disarmed by then . . .

  But it was not Bryan who spoke to her first, and for a moment her anger melted away as Will Marshal stepped toward her, his dark countenance brilliant with the warmth of his smile.

  “Milady Elise!”

  He bent over her hand with a winning gallantry, all the more so, for Will Marshal was known for being the harshest of warriors, and not a gallant at all.

  “Will!”

  Elise hugged the man who had been Henry’s most loyal warrior, his right-hand man for years, even when vehemently disagreeing with his monarch. She stood back to see that the third man in the party was Geoffrey Fitzroy.

  She had met her half brother a number of times—and she liked him; he was proud, tall, and well built—and was resigned to his fate as a bastard.

  She wondered
if, had her own birth been known, she would have handled life as well as Geoffrey. He was twenty years her senior, and as he smiled at her now, she wondered uneasily if he knew of her relation. Worse still, she wondered if this gathering now meant that Richard knew.

  “Duchess,” Geoffrey murmured, stepping forward and courteously taking her hand, as Marshal had, to plant a brief kiss decorously upon it.

  Elise exhaled a long-held sigh. They had come to return Isabel and remind her that Richard would now be king—nothing more. She glanced quickly to Bryan Stede. He stood several steps behind the other two men, watching her with amusement laced with something else.

  A smoldering anger, such as her own?

  She did not wait for him to approach her; if he touched her, she would scream. Gracefully, she indicated the fire beyond her and the trestles of the banqueting table.

  “Welcome to Montoui, messires. May I offer you wine while you state your business?”

  Will Marshal, who had known her since she was a child, was not about to stand upon ceremony. He slipped an arm about her shoulders as they approached the table. “Ah, Elise! How good it is to see you. You grow more beautiful daily! And it is quite a relief to see you so, for I was heartily worried when I learned that you had been present for a meeting with our thieves.”

  Chills swept along her spine. She longed to turn about and stare at Bryan Stede and demand to know what he had told these men. But she dared not, for fear of giving herself away. She held her back erect, wishing that Geoffrey and Bryan were ahead of them, and not behind them.

  “Were the thieves apprehended?” she asked quietly.

  “Alas, no!” Marshal said irritably. “Apparently they disappeared through subterranean tunnels within Chinon!” Will shook his head as if to whisk away the anger and un-pleasantry, and then he chuckled. “And to think our friend—Stede, here—mistook you for a thief!”

  She forced herself to laugh along with him, and as they had reached the table, she did turn to face Stede, murder in her eyes. “Vastly amusing, isn’t it, Sir Stede.”

  “I found the night . . . intriguing,” he said smoothly, setting his helmet upon the table.