Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  Will and Geoffrey carried him together with great but tender effort, and Elise could not pretend she did not witness the pain and anxiety in their features. I did not poison him! she wanted to cry out—but as yet, she had not been accused by them.

  The physician ordered that a brew of curdling milk, moss, and a number of herbs be prepared. Elise was numb as she oversaw the execution of the foul-smelling concoction.

  Hadn’t she wanted this? she asked herself over and over. Hadn’t she just told him how she longed to see him dead?

  But not like this! She was not a coward, nor was she a murderess. And now . . . This would hang over her head like a cloud of the most degrading suspicion . . .

  Elise carried the vile brew up the stairs herself; she was greeted at the chamber door by a worried Marshal. “Stay out, Elise, this is not pleasant. And the physician tells me that this”—he tapped the chalice with the curdled-milk mixture—“is to see that his insides are cleaned.”

  “Will—”

  “We stopped at a farmhouse on the way here,” Will said absently, more to himself than to Elise. “The physician says it is highly possible that rotten meat might have caused this.”

  Rotten meat! So at least Will did not suspect her of murder—yet. Dear God! She didn’t even know what she felt anymore. She hated Stede—surely she hated him! But she couldn’t wish such a death on him . . .

  Yet if he lived . . . would he accuse her openly? He had held to his strength long enough to threaten her direly . . .

  Tense and bewildered, Elise wandered back down the stairs. She sat, oblivious to time, as the men remained in the chamber above. At long last, Geoffrey Fitzroy came down the stairway and sank into a chair near hers.

  “Geoffrey?”

  He smiled at her gently. “He will live.”

  Elise did not know whether to feel relief or panic. “Thank God,” she said softly, sure that Geoffrey would expect such a comment.

  His eyes were on her with a tender bemusement and she flushed uneasily. “Shall I order something for you, Geoffrey? Are you hungry? I haven’t paid any attention to the time—”

  “Nay, Elise, I am not hungry.” Geoffrey grimaced. “The physician gave Bryan that obnoxious brew in order to force him to be sick, and take the poison from his system. I shan’t be hungry for a while.”

  “Oh,” Elise murmured.

  “You must see to your packing, Elise. Remember, our loyalty is to our new king now. Eleanor languishes in prison, and it will be a long journey of rough riding to free her quickly! A week through the Continent, perhaps, and days through the English countryside. At least.”

  “How can we leave now?”

  Geoffrey chuckled. “Stede is a man of steel, dear Elise. A night’s rest, and he shall be ready to go. Already he is swearing at the poor physician for the wretched sickness which has cured him!”

  Elise managed a weak smile, but she could find little amusement at the thought. She could well imagine Bryan Stede swearing his head off, and the picture was not a pleasant one.

  Geoffrey laughed, then hesitated a moment and Elise watched him, thinking that she liked him very much. His hair was graying, his features were weathered, and he was not yet forty; still there was a lot of Henry in this son. And more. Geoffrey possessed a gentle wisdom born of a precarious position in life; he was steadfast, honest, and loyal.

  “Will you be pleased to be a companion to Eleanor in the days ahead?”

  “Nothing could please me more,” Elise replied softly.

  Geoffrey drummed his fingers on the table, apparently idly. Then he spoke quietly once more. “Elise, I feel I should warn you of two things. I know that you are my sister, as does Richard.”

  She could not control the gasp that escaped her. She barely knew the Lion-Heart; she had seen him but once or twice. Geoffrey she had met several times in her father’s company; they shared the taint of illegitimacy. She felt she could trust him, and she even felt that she could trust Richard. But if Richard and Geoffrey both knew, who else might? Not John—please, not John. Henry, who had loved him, hadn’t trusted him. John Lackland, youngest of the legitimate Plantagenet brood . . . God had not created a man more conniving or selfish. If Prince John was in possession of this information, he could make her life a mockery . . .

  Geoffrey reached across the table and drew his knuckles gently over her cheek. “Don’t go so pale on me, sister. Richard is not such a monster, although I admit, he has shown me little courtesy. For all that I believe he did hound our father to his grave, he is not a man without honor. Look how he has seen to Henry’s commitments with men like Stede and Marshal. Both men bested him, yet he shows them no rancor.” Geoffrey paused. “Elise, I believe we were really sent here because Richard fully intends to keep your secret, and give you all his royal protection.”

  Elise lifted her hands, then dropped them. “If he keeps my secret, I will need no protection. Unless,” she added softly, “John knows.”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “John, I’m certain, knows nothing. And I’m certain that he will not find out anything—from Richard, at least. Or me.” He smiled.

  Elise smiled slowly in return. “You know, Geoffrey, I think I like you a lot,” she said. And she really did like this half brother of hers very much. She could remember how frequently he had traveled with Henry; the son who would receive so little in the way of rewards had always given Henry the greatest loyalty. She really didn’t know him all that well; his visits with Henry had been sporadic. But she had seen him now and again all through her life, and so in a way, perhaps she did know him well. He could often be very quiet; he moved in the background, in the shadow of kings, and yet he watched and learned, and came to his own observations with intelligence and wit.

  “I’ve a thing about blood,” he said lightly. “Which brings me to my second warning.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t make an enemy of Bryan Stede.”

  “Why?” She hadn’t meant to whisper; she had wanted to demand. “Surely,” she added, giving strength to her voice, “the man has some scruples. He cannot call me out, and if he chose to wage a war—”

  “Elise! Elise! Bryan Stede has many scruples! Too many. He was always willing to speak his mind to Henry; when he served Henry, he boldly defied Richard. You play games with a man you cannot best.”

  “What are you saying, Geoffrey? I did nothing to Stede.” Did Geoffrey, too, believe that she would stoop to poisoning an enemy?

  “I do not know what passed between you,” Geoffrey said, “and I am accusing you of nothing. I am just warning you that he will seek until he finds that for which he searches. He suspects something about you, and not knowing what it is, he may well wonder that it isn’t far worse than the truth. Perhaps you should tell him.”

  “Never! And why should I? He will marry Gwyneth and live far, far away from Montoui! He will be nowhere near me.”

  “Elise, you’ve a lot of Henry in you—too much, perhaps. I have seen your mind working like the gears that grind for a drawbridge. You’ve some kind of a grievance with the man, and you intend to harm him.”

  “I? What could I do?”

  “The innocence is lovely, Elise, but I don’t believe it.”

  “I despise the man, yet I swear to you, Geoffrey, I am glad that he did not die here today.”

  “Perhaps you should not be so glad,” Geoffrey said, suddenly somber. “And believe me, I spent years learning from our father. It is possible to cripple a man—and never touch him—by the use of cunning and guile. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You always knew how to manipulate Henry—to your way of thinking. Bryan isn’t Henry. I like him well, he is a friend of mine, a great friend. But he is tenacious, determined, and very strong, Elise, in mind and body. So whatever it is that has so inflamed your wrath, leave it be, Elise. Don’t become his enemy.”

  “Why this warning, Geoffrey? Has Bryan Stede threatened something against me?”

  “No.”

 
“Then—?”

  “I know you both; I felt the tension in the very air when you spoke earlier. From both of you, I could almost feel the sparks, like lightning. You are accustomed to command and having your way—so is he. I’m just warning you that he can be a very, very powerful adversary. I repeat, don’t be his enemy.”

  Elise smiled sweetly and stood. “I’m not his enemy, Geoffrey,” she lied blandly. “In fact, I shall go like a good duchess to see to his welfare.”

  “I wish I believed that.”

  She walked to the stairway, then turned back, pausing awkwardly for a moment.

  “Geoffrey, I grew up virtually alone. I do not know how to say this, but I am glad to have you.”

  He smiled. “I could be your father, you know.”

  “But you’re not. You’re my brother, and I’m glad.”

  She hurried on up the stairs, blushing a bit at the sudden bond that had been drawn between them. Two royal bastards. Why not?

  She rapped tentatively at the chamber door. It creaked open and Will Marshal greeted her. “He is much better, Elise.”

  Will’s relief and pleasure were evident; Elise wished she could share the feeling. But at least she could be relieved that Stede had not accused her in front of others of attempted murder.

  “May I see him?” she asked Will.

  “Aye, and as you will be with him, I will join Geoffrey in a staunch cup of ale, if I might!”

  “Of course, Will. As always, make my home your own. Call Michael; he will be glad to serve you.”

  “My thanks, Elise. Should he worsen again, the physician has gone to the kitchens.”

  Elise nodded. Marshal stepped past her and she nervously closed the door before approaching the bed.

  They had stripped him of his armor and tunic. He lay upon his back, and though the covers had been drawn to his chest, the vast bronze strength of his shoulders was bare. His hair appeared as pitch against the white of the pillow; the clear-cut severity of his features was enhanced by the softness of the bed.

  She was almost afraid to approach him, but she did. His eyes had been closed; they flew open at her approach and his mouth formed into a hard line.

  “Stede, I swear to you that I did not—”

  “Cease with the lies! You will not hang, nor will your head lie upon the axman’s block. I do not involve others in a petty battle with a woman.”

  “The devil take you, Stede!” Elise flared instantly. “I will never hang—Richard will not allow it. I tell you this only because it is true—”

  “I don’t believe you know how to speak the truth, Duchess. You so imbue facts with lies that you have no credibility. And Richard has no fondness for women; you needn’t believe that he lives by chivalry alone.”

  “I am not—”

  “Spare me!” He winced as he struggled to sit within the bed.

  She would have been tempted to help him, except that even now, she didn’t trust him if he could reach her. He looked angry enough to strangle her if he could just wind his fingers around her neck.

  “I do not share Richard’s complete contempt for your ‘tender’ sex,” he continued, “but you are one woman I would gladly beat black and blue.”

  “You wouldn’t dare touch me now—”

  “Wouldn’t I? Don’t ever count on such a thing, milady Duchess!”

  He was tired; weary and drawn with illness. His eyes were heavy-lidded as they fell upon her, yet she did not doubt the validity of his words for a moment. If anything, he seemed to offer his greatest danger when he was the quietest.

  She threw up her arms and spun about in disgust. “You are not only a despicable bastard, Stede—you are a stupid, despicable bastard! I did not poison you!”

  “Lady, you are a murderess at heart!”

  “You, Stede, are a fool.”

  “Whatever . . . I am willing to let this drop. But keep clear of me, Duchess. For should you come too close, I may remember that you attempted to kill me twice.”

  “Pity I didn’t succeed.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  “May I remind you, Stede, that this is my castle?”

  “Remind me of whatever you like. But no more tricks.”

  Elise would wonder later why she always lost control with him; now, she gave herself no time for thought. She flew back across the room like a wildcat and threw a searing cuff against his cheek. “You son-of-a-bitch! You assaulted and raped me and now tell me to stay away from you! I wish I had poisoned you! I would have done a thorough job of it and—”

  He didn’t get sick like normal men. Although his complexion was gray and strained, his grip was as sure as iron as he caught her arm and staggered from the bed to drag her close. He was naked, she thought dismally as she found herself grating her teeth as he crushed her irrevocably to his person. And she was trembling despite herself, hauntingly aware of his warmth and sinewed masculinity . . .

  “You arrogant little bitch! Maybe it is time that you learned a lesson about playing games with men—”

  “As God is my witness, Stede, I will scream!” Elise hissed.

  She would have to, she thought, watching his face. The anger that flashed dark fire from his eyes was such that she thought he could readily snap her like a twig.

  “You think to attack like a man, then scream like a woman.”

  “I have learned all the lessons I care to from you, Stede. And I will gladly use in combat whatever weapons are at my disposal.”

  He laughed suddenly, dryly, bitterly, and threw her none too gently from him before wincing, then hobbling back to the bed, with no thought of modesty.

  “So we are engaged in combat, Duchess? I will remember that. And I will use whatever weapons are at my disposal, too, milady.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  He turned his face wearily into his pillow and spoke harshly. “It means, Elise, that you have chosen battle. And you have set the rules; there are none. No code of honor or of chivalry. All is fair. And it means . . . that if you are not out of this chamber by the time I finish speaking, I will forget that this is your castle, and that you are a duchess, and remember only that you have tried to murder me—twice. Now, perhaps I am not prepared to do murder myself—yet—but I will gladly see that your tender flesh receives a good deal of pain by my hand and I will not care if you flood the duchy with your screams while I assure myself that you shall share my discomfort and pain.”

  “Bastard!” Elise hissed, deciding that an exit at this time might be the wisest move.

  “Take care that you do not say the words so many times that you find yourself bearing one. Or would the noble Percy care, or even know, since you seem to be a mistress of deceit?”

  Despite her respect for his strength, she found her feet carrying her toward him once again.

  He spun about on the bed, eyes narrowed warningly.

  “Elise! Have you never learned the art of retreat? I will give you no more warnings!”

  She clenched her fists at her sides and forced herself to remain still.

  “Enjoy the hospitality of the castle, Stede,” she said coolly. And she spun gracefully about, exiting with all the dignity she could muster.

  Once outside, she leaned heavily against the door.

  She was quaking miserably, inside and out.

  Composure! Why couldn’t she maintain any around him? It was her only chance against him, and somehow, she had to win. Had to see that he was stripped of all that he desired.

  He had taken it all from her. The dream, the illusion of love, and a life of beauty—all were as shattered as her innocence.

  And now . . .

  Now he was even convinced that she was a murderess.

  Not a murderess, Stede, but a thief, yes. For I will keep my distance from you, but I will rob you as you have robbed me.

  With that forceful thought in mind, she squared her shoulders and hurried to her own chamber, calling for Jeanne to help her pack.

  PA
RT II

  “LONG LIVE THE KING!”

  X

  Fontevrault Abbey

  Anjou

  Henry’s corpse was carried in state from the castle of Chinon, and through the narrow streets of the town. Across the bridge of the Vienne, sparkling peacefully beneath the sun. Through the forest, green and quiet, and at last to the abbey of Fontevrault. Bishop Bartholomew of Tours read the holy rites of burial beneath the high-domed roof of the granite abbey. The air was cool and fresh; Henry was at peace at last.

  Richard was in attendance, as was Geoffrey Fitzroy. There was still no sign of Prince John Lackland.

  Hiding from Richard’s wrath, having heard that his brother was rewarding none of the traitors who had joined his ranks from his father’s side, Bryan thought dryly as he watched the ceremony from his place beside Marshal. Pity that his cunning doesn’t extend to the knowledge that Richard will protect him as he might an errant schoolboy.

  But John Lackland was not his major concern at the moment—nor, to be honest, was Henry or the burial.

  His eyes continued to fall upon Elise de Bois. Upon her knees on the abbey floor, she gave the appearance of the sweetest of saints. She wore white: a gown of shimmering silk, trimmed with white ermine. Beneath a gossamer headdress, her great wealth of hair spilled down her back like the rich and radiant burst of a sunrise. It was impossible not to be mesmerized by that hair, not to feel one’s fingers itching to reach out and touch it, as a child would long to reach out for a sweetmeat.

  Especially when one had a memory of it that had little to do with the mind, and everything to do with the senses. He had seen her clothed in nothing but that hair; he had felt its silky softness caress the rough contours of his own body.

  She raised her head, and a stabbing sensation rippled through his body. Silent tears dampened her cheeks; her delicate features were drawn with pain. There was no denying that she had sincerely cared very deeply for Henry.