Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  “I almost split a gut when I saw this giant limping toward the castle! And Richard accosted him before we could get another pair of boots on his feet!”

  Elise forced her lips to curl into a smile as she stared at Stede. “Ah, but meeting our new monarch bootless seems to have caused little harm. I hear that those who served Henry best are to receive the richest rewards.”

  “’Tis true,” Geoffrey said. “Seems my brother possesses some sense. Loyalty cannot be bought, but can be rewarded.”

  Stede was staring steadily upon her. Elise thought that at that moment she would have gladly sold her soul to the devil for a moment’s strength to tear him to shreds. He had the audacity to stand there as if they had shared nothing more than a brief tussle and that all that had happened was that she had stolen his boots . . .

  A feeling of heat crept over her again, and it had nothing to do with the fire burning in the grate. Thank God he had made no confessions regarding the night; they would all know . . .

  And now, though Percy was gone, she could still cling to a certain amount of dignity. But it was galling. Each time she looked at him, she remembered his touch, and the heat seemed to set her ablaze, with fury, with weakness, with the desire to run away and pray that a cooling wind could rid her of memory . . .

  No, she could not rid herself of the memory. Not until she had found a way to strip him as he had stripped her; rob him, violate him of something dear.

  She would find her chance. If she played each scene with dignity. She could be a consummate actress when she chose, and she was determined to find a way to Eleanor, before Stede could receive his promised goods, to strip him of the lands and rank he desired.

  “Ah!” she said politely, glad to see that Jeanne hurried in from the kitchen hallway with a silver tray bearing four goblets. “Here is wine, messires, so that you may wet travel-weary throats.”

  Jeanne bobbed before Will Marshal, who took the front cup; Geoffrey accepted the second with a murmur of thanks. Stede reached for the third cup, and Elise was both puzzled and annoyed when Jeanne staggered suddenly with the tray, almost dropping the goblets.

  “Oh!” she cried out in distress, catching the veering goblet with her free hand. She handed it to Stede; it was not the one he had reached for.

  “Sir Stede, forgive me,” Jeanne pleaded.

  “’Tis nothing,” he said lightly, smiling gently at the flustered Jeanne. Elise did not like to see his smile; it made him appear younger; it softened the severity of his features and made him look quite handsome. He had wasted no charm upon her, yet he was readily willing to forgive a servant when many a knight would have cuffed the offender.

  Jeanne brought her the last goblet and Elise frowned curiously at her maid. Jeanne merely bobbed another little curtsy, then hurried out of the room.

  “Ah . . . this certainly soothes the palate!” Marshal approved. He drained his goblet and set it upon the table. “And now, milady, we will speak of the nature of our visit.

  “We left your servant Isabel with the valet who greeted us when we entered.”

  Elise nodded. “Yes, Michael will see to her comfort and care. I was quite gratified to hear that she lived. But there is more, is there not? I assume you have come to ask that I swear homage as the Duchess of Montoui to Richard the Lion-Heart. Assuredly, Marshal, I shall do so. By God’s decree, Henry is dead. Richard is then the legal heir, and I support the legal heir.”

  She noted that Bryan Stede was doing little of the speaking. Why was he along? she wondered. Merely to taunt her with his presence? Whether he spoke or not, she knew that he was there. Towering over both Geoffrey and Marshal, silent, dark and powerfully trim in his armor. She felt the threatening sting of his indigo eyes even when she did not meet them, and she felt tremors rack her limbs even as she stood straight. If only she could pummel him! But she could not, and so she had to live with the rage that consumed her until she could do him a different kind of harm . . .

  Cunning can be more powerful than brawn, Sir Stede! she thought as she ignored him to continue to smile at Marshal.

  “Then,” said Marshal, unaware of the tumult that raced through her mind, “you will kneel to Richard’s surrogate and swear allegiance?”

  “Gladly,” she agreed pleasantly, taking a step forward to seize Marshal’s hand.

  He chuckled. “Not I, Lady Elise! Bryan Stede wears the Lion-Heart’s ring. It is to him you must bow.”

  Never! Elise thought, and yet she could ill afford to offend Richard.

  “I fancy,” Geoffrey offered a bit dryly, “that my brother considers Bryan his most effective counterpart. He is the only man Richard must face eye to eye.”

  Elise smiled and approached Bryan Stede, searching coldly for an expression in his deep blue eyes. They were enigmatic, yet she felt the sense of a storm within him, and knew then that he had come in anger. She had managed to humiliate him before Richard by stealing the horse and boots of such a great knight.

  She stretched her hand out toward him; he offered his own. Even as she saw the lion engraved in gold upon the ring, she remembered the touch of his hand. Sweeping over her. Intimately. The firm caress of the long fingers. The inescapable heat . . .

  Before he could act, she drew the ring from his finger and spun gracefully from him, accosting Marshal with an innocent laugh. “Do let me bow to you, dear Will! I remember your friendship with our sovereign Henry so clearly; my allegiance will be all the more heartfelt!”

  Again, allowing no room for a reply, she grasped Will’s fingers, slipped the ring on him, and sank lithely to the floor. “I, Elise de Bois, Duchess of Montoui, do hereby pledge my loyalty and allegiance to Richard Plantagenet.”

  She stood as quickly and gracefully as she had slid to the floor. “Now, messires, I assume all is settled.”

  “Not quite,” Marshal replied.

  “Oh?”

  “Richard has asked that you attend Henry’s funeral.”

  A lump formed in her throat and for a moment she allowed her eyes to fall to the ground. “Yes, of course I shall attend.”

  “We shall be your escort, of course.” He paused. “There is still more.”

  Elise raised her eyes curiously to Will. He smiled.

  “King Richard also requests that you accompany us as we journey to free the queen.”

  “Eleanor!” Elise exclaimed, startled.

  “Aye—Eleanor. His first act will be to free his mother. He will be held up here with business for several days.” Will paused, frowning distastefully. Then he said, “None of us has seen Prince John since he deserted his father, and Richard is determined to find him. But he also wants his mother freed immediately. Then, he hopes that she will travel the land on his behalf, so that the people will welcome him when he arrives upon English soil for his coronation.”

  Elise smiled slowly with true enthusiasm. Opportunity was reaching out to her! Richard had asked that she serve the very woman she was longing to see. It would be a long journey, though, she reminded herself. Henry, she knew, would be interred at Fontevrault Abbey, as he had requested during his lifetime. For all time, then, he could lie in his Angevin hills, not far from the castle where he died. After services, they would have to travel through Anjou and Normandy, and cross the English Channel before riding once again toward Winchester, where Eleanor was incarcerated.

  Yes, it would be a long journey, with Stede at her side, so it seemed. But they would not be alone, and she would reach Eleanor.

  “I shall be greatly pleased to accompany you to the queen! When do we leave?”

  “With the dawn, milady. You will accompany us to Fontevrault, where we will put Henry to his final rest. And then we will be off for England.”

  “I shall be ready at dawn,” Elise promised.

  “Very good,” Marshal approved. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see that the men are housed for the night.”

  “Michael will arrange accommodations,” Elise murmured.

  Marshal nodde
d and strode toward the door. Geoffrey followed him, and Elise waited for Stede to turn about and do so, too. He did not. Elise allowed her smile to slip from her features as she stared at him with undisguised hatred.

  “Get out of here!” she hissed at him.

  He shrugged and pulled out a chair, sitting easily despite his armor. “It does not take three men to arrange sleeping quarters for the night.”

  “I don’t care what it takes. I want you away from me. Your arrogance is disgusting; you have no right to be here.”

  “I was ordered to be here.”

  “Ah, yes! By Richard.”

  Stede shrugged once again, yet she saw that there was nothing complacent about the fire in the indigo depths of his eyes.

  “Richard intends to make me one of the most powerful men in England. That is not a bad reason to serve a legal king.”

  “That’s right!” Elise exclaimed sarcastically. “Gwyneth of Cornwall and all her lands. You will be rich and powerful indeed, Sir Stede. Does it all mean that much to you?”

  “Only a fool would turn down such wealth—and power—as you say.”

  “Only a fool,” Elise replied dryly.

  He lifted a dark brow cryptically. “You sound bitter, milady.”

  “Bitter, no. Furious, yes. You have no right to sit in my hall. No right to come into this room. You know how thoroughly I despise you!”

  He laughed, and the sound was one of true amusement. “Would you have rather I announced to Richard that I dared not go near the Lady Elise, and she told me that she was experienced, yet I found myself deflowering her? That would have led to my explaining the situation, and telling him that you had robbed his father’s corpse of a ring. Should I have done so?”

  Elise did not answer the question. “You are a fool to taunt me, Sir Stede. You will find that although I have not the wealth or power of Gwyneth of Cornwall, I can extract a certain vengeance.”

  He rose, and started walking toward her. Elise discovered herself edging backward. She was in her own castle, yet his sheer strength was a menace that defied propriety, the staunch stone of her walls, and all five hundred of her men-at-arms.

  “Take one more step,” she hissed, “and I will scream for my guards.”

  “You may scream all you like, Duchess,” he told her. “I will not be threatened by a lying, thieving woman.”

  There was a poker by the fire. Elise spun about and grabbed it menacingly. “And I will not be touched again by a barbaric rapist!”

  “’Twas hardly rape, Elise.”

  “’Twas hardly anything else!”

  He paused, yet she saw that it was only to laugh at her. “Do you hate me so because I did not fall to my knees to beg your pardon? Perhaps I should have come to you with a tear-stained face, begging your forgiveness and your hand in marriage? You would have loved that! Savored the opportunity to tell me that you despised me and would rather marry a crippled, aging peasant! But, of course, such words would have meant nothing, since you are so enamored of Sir Percy Montagu. I believe your judgment is a bit at fault, but I bear you no rancor.” He swept her a mocking bow and murmured quite skeptically, “I wish you and young Percy long life and happiness.”

  She didn’t move for a moment. Hate seemed to fill her so completely that she couldn’t even breathe. She couldn’t allow it to control her . . .

  “Sir Percy is twice the man you can ever hope to be, Stede,” she said coolly.

  “What a pity. Tell me, have you told him of our . . . meeting?”

  “It’s none of your affair.”

  “What? Surely it is!” He mocked her, and she knew it. “I must prepare myself for the time when your future husband comes at me to avenge your honor!”

  “I have prayed from the time we met, Stede, for God to strike you down dead!”

  “Why bother with God? Send the manly Percy!”

  He took another step toward her and she could see the laughter clearly in his features. For some absurd reason she imagined him with the vague Gwyneth of Cornwall: a woman eager to greet him, to feel his arms about her. She imagined him with his smile, harsh features made strong and handsome by tenderness. He was an experienced lover; Gwyneth would probably find great joy.

  “One more step, Stede, and I swear I shall call the guards—and use this poker on your insolent face.”

  “Will you really?”

  “Do you doubt my rightful hatred?”

  “What I don’t doubt,” he said icily, a stern tension tightening his features and erasing his smile, “is that you are a temperamental vixen who has brought about her own downfall. You are the Duchess of Montoui; that is apparent to me now. And Will swears that the Duchess of Montoui is a lady of wealth, so I have come to believe that you were not an accomplice to the cutthroat thieves who so dishonored Henry. But you did steal the ring. We both know that. Why? It is a mystery, Duchess, an enigma I find that I cannot allow to elude me.” Bryan paused, watching her, awaiting her reaction. Was there an honest reason she had stolen the ring? And if not, then what? It might mean something. Once, when the Viscount of Lien had died, his youngest son had carried his father’s crest to a neighboring viscount—a signal that the father wished the younger son to inherit, and the viscount to engage in battle against the rightful heir.

  Would Elise de Bois be involved in some such similar scheme?

  She smiled at him, and her smile was both beautiful and bitter, sweetness and poison.

  “If I am a mystery, Stede, it is a mystery that you will never unravel. If I am a temperamental vixen, keep clear of me. For I do despise you—and I despise all snakes and rats!” Her tone was rising at an alarming rate. His voice alone made her furious, and his words also touched off a new shaft of fear; he still wanted to know why she had taken the ring. Why she had lied . . .

  Percy, she thought bitterly, was already lost. But she still had Montoui. And she would never chance losing it, just as she would never give Stede, of all men, the satisfaction of knowing the truth. She had lost far too much in her quest to give away her secret.

  Would he never leave her be? How dare he stand before her, still issuing demands! Her hatred rose to a dizzying level; it drove her determination to be regal and calm completely from her mind, and she raised the poker against him, snarling, “Damn you, Stede!”

  A sudden step brought him before her; she thought he intended to break her arm as he wrenched the poker from her. She was too startled by his swift movement to cry out, and then too unnerved by his touch. His eyes bore into hers as the poker fell and he jerked her close to him.

  “Nay, damn you, Duchess!”

  She felt the towering length of him against her like hot steel, and the instinct to fight was stronger than that to cry out for help.

  “Stede, I promise you that you will bring about your own downfall! I will see you—”

  “Tell me the truth of the matter!” he thundered in abrupt interruption. “Cease the tricks and lies and we can come to peace over the episode!”

  “I will never tell you anything, Bryan Stede! You will let me go! This is my duchy . . . my castle! I am not at your mercy, and never will be again! Let go of me! I loathe you—”

  She broke off sharply as his hold on her suddenly loosened. His bronzed features took on a ghastly gray color and he doubled over, clutching his stomach. To her amazement, he fell to the floor with a thunderous clash of chain mail and stone.

  “Stede?” she inquired curiously, keeping her distance, but kneeling down beside him.

  His head tilted toward her and she saw that his eyes were laced with agony; his features remained gray and twisted into a mask of intense pain. He whispered and she came near him to hear his words.

  “If I live—”

  “What is it?” she cried out, stunned. He couldn’t be acting. No one could feign such a crippling torture.

  She was unprepared as his trembling hand shot out, ripping away her headdress and lacing into her hair. She cried out as his vise grip brought
her sprawling to the floor beside him.

  “Murderous bitch!”

  “What? I did nothing—”

  “Twice . . . now. You tried . . . to stab me. Now . . . poison. God help me if I live . . . you will pay . . .”

  His eyes closed, glazing over. The grip upon her hair slowly relaxed. Stunned, Elise pulled away from him in desperate confusion. Was he really dead? It was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? No! Not like this! She was not a murderess; she would never resort to poison . . .

  It was strange to see him sprawled upon the cold stone of the castle floor, his great length and muscled breadth of shoulders rendered powerless. His body shook with a sudden convulsion and she stood, ready to tear for the door and call for Marshal.

  She had not gone a step when she was jerked back by the hem of her gown. Again she found herself sprawling over his body. His eyes were open again, yet they were covered with a deathly glaze. “I will live . . . live to see . . . unholy bitch! I thought you would fight face . . . to face . . . I will . . . flay you within an inch of... life . . .”

  “I did nothing to you!” Elise railed.

  His eyes closed, but his hand was still clutched into a fist, tearing at the beautiful blue silk of her tunic. He appeared to be dying, and yet he used his strength to hold her. She felt the fire of him exuding into her, the muscles that crushed against her beneath the cruel bite of his mail. His lashes raised slowly and for a moment his eyes focused clearly upon her.

  “Bitch . . . I will . . .”

  His hold fell. She was free.

  Elise scrambled to her feet, screaming. A moment later Marshal, Geoffrey, and two of her own guards were rushing into the room. Marshal was on his knees beside Bryan Stede, and Geoffrey was giving orders that a physician was to be found and brought immediately.

  Elise felt as if she were in a dream as the physician arrived, gravely examined Bryan Stede, and asked if there were a chamber where he might be taken. She heard herself speak, saying that he might be brought up to the chamber adjoining hers, the room where she had slept as a child. It was not a vast chamber, but the bed in it was large and well aired; the windows also faced the east and brought in cool breezes. Family and special guests were usually offered the room, so she knew that the linens would be clean and fresh, and that the trunks within the chamber would offer extra towels and bedding should they be needed. The wardrobe might even carry some of her father’s old nightgowns and short Norman tunics.