Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  He shrugged. “What difference does it make? We will part ways after the coronation.”

  Will hesitated. Bryan could not see his features clearly in the darkness. “When I am with you both, it is strange. It seems as if thunder fills the room with all its portents of a storm.”

  “That’s not so strange. I think a horsewhip would do her a world of good.”

  Will chuckled. “Well, you needn’t worry. Gwyneth will need no horsewhips; she is sweet and compliant!” Will yawned and stretched. “I’m turning in for the night. Are you coming?”

  “Soon. I like to watch the sea. It appears as if we’ll have rain again tomorrow.”

  “A rough crossing.”

  “But we must make haste.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Will began the trudge from the shore toward the village, and Bryan wondered why he was still staring out at the misted sea. Something was rankling him. When Will had spoken of Gwyneth, he had experienced a strange foreboding. He had tried, when Henry lay dying and his future had loomed so dubiously before him, not to dream. Not to believe that he and Gwyneth might sanctify their relationship with marriage.

  That he would not own vast lands within Cornwall, along the Dover coast. That he would not become the Earl of Wiltshire, and the Lord of Glyph County.

  Now . . . it was all within his reach.

  Yet, there was that foreboding.

  Foolish, man! he told himself. Yet dreamers were fools, and having had none of his own, he could not stop himself from dreaming now of lands. Great wealth, gotten not through some ugly old hag, but through Gwyneth . . .

  It was annoying not to be able to picture her clearly. Light, turquoise eyes kept replacing her. Hair like the sun, rather than like the night—

  “Help! Oh! Helppppppp . . .”

  The sudden scream that pierced the darkness startled him and froze him to immobility, then sent him spinning and tearing toward the village. Halfway there, he paused, listening. Then he heard the scream again, coming from a dense thicket of seaside foliage.

  He knew the sound of the voice. He had heard it railing against him often enough.

  Crashing through the brush, he came upon her. She was furiously battling two assailants: one a youth, the other an older man. Both wore the tattered look of the poor. The older man was toothless; the boy carried a scar across his sullen, sharp-eyed face.

  As Bryan came into the clearing, Elise kicked her way free from the boy, but the man awaited her, brandishing a rusted knife.

  “Don’t fight it, milady. We’ll just ha’ a bit o’ sport and take our leave with a bit o’ yer finery! Be nice like, now, ye hear, and ye’ll not get hurt. I’d hate to slash up such fine flesh—”

  Bryan stepped forward. “Touch her, and you’ll die. She’s a ward of Richard, Duke of Normandy, Aquitaine—and soon to be crowned King of England.”

  The boy started and stared at Bryan, focusing first upon his chest, then raising his eyes slowly. He had to realize that he was facing a knight in full health, full strength, and full armor. Yet he didn’t seem to have any sense. “One o’ him!” the boy cried out. “And two o’ us, Tad!”

  The older man laughed and made some sign to the boy. Bryan’s eyes followed to the boy. Then the older man rushed him, brandishing the rusted knife upward toward his throat.

  Bryan had little choice but to draw his sword hastily and slay the man before the rusted knife could slice his own flesh.

  “Holy Mother! The devil himself!” the boy gasped out, backing up. “I’ll not touch her. I’ll run, I’ll run . . .”

  He was already running as Bryan dismissed him and furiously approached Elise.

  She was gripping the torn mantle about her, yet as Bryan came near, she gazed at him with horror.

  “You killed him!” she cried out, and yet it was, in her heart, as much with guilt as with accusation. If she hadn’t felt so desperately that she needed fresh air, none of this would have happened. The man had been a thief; perhaps he had intended to kill her; still it pained her to know that his death lay at her feet.

  “I’m sorry,” Bryan rasped. “Should I have allowed him to slay me?”

  “You didn’t have to kill him! He is just old and poor!” she exclaimed, determined that he would not know the true depth of her feelings—or that she had known herself she was at fault.

  He paused for several seconds, staring at her. His eyes glittered in the darkness.

  “One should poison only knights who are young and in good health. Is that it?”

  “Believe what you like!” she snapped. Again, he was accusing her! Never would he believe that she had done him no physical harm. She stared down at the dead man, feeling ill. “This was not necessary.”

  “No, it was not. I’m not fond of killing, Duchess. I have done so—in battle. But murder is your game, not mine. What are you doing out here? Your senseless behavior has caused me to shed this blood!”

  “Senseless behavior! I sought only fresh air—”

  “Fresh air! You idiot! This man whose blood you cry over intended to rape you.”

  Her face was bruised and smudged with dirt; her clothing, the beautiful silk and the royal mantle, were ripped and muddied. Still she managed to draw herself to a regal stature and her eyes caught a star fire and glittered their unique turquoise as she faced him and spoke with dry sarcasm.

  “It wouldn’t be something that hadn’t happened before.”

  “Wouldn’t it? I think, Duchess, that you have still to see just how ugly the world can be. Were it not for Richard, I would be tempted to allow you your freedom to learn the true meaning of the word.” Bryan was surprised by the smooth tenor of his voice. His anger was something that gnawed at him, that heated and clawed his body, demanding that he act. Somehow he controlled his temper. Somehow, he kept himself from beating and strangling her—but just barely. He stepped away from her just to make sure he wasn’t tempted further to do her bodily harm.

  “Get back to the tavern. I will follow behind you. Richard has asked us to assure your safety; therefore, I will. If you ever need fresh air again, ask for an escort. If I ever find you alone again, I will tie you hand and foot, and deposit you so before the queen. And don’t, please don’t, make the mistake of thinking that I threaten idly.”

  “I won’t, Stede,” she replied with no humility. “I will heed your warnings. I’d rather not be followed to Winchester by a trail of bloody corpses!”

  She straightened her shoulders, drew the remains of the mantle about her, and strode regally past him.

  His fingers itched to drag her back. His hands stretched toward her and knotted into fists.

  He dropped them. When she turned back, his lips were curled into a grim and wicked smile.

  * * *

  The crossing was horrible. As many times as Bryan had sailed from the Normandy coast to the English shore, he couldn’t remember a time when the sea had been more vicious.

  The sky was a dead gray color, filled with dark clouds that churned and roiled and sporadically hurled cold sheets of rain upon them. Marshal had long since given way to nausea—as had the Lady Joanna and her husband—and spent the latter hours of the journey with his head bowed low over the rail. Bryan was sure that he would join his friend in his misery at any moment. Knights who could sever a head with no thought of distress were as sick as worm-ridden dogs.

  Bryan hovered near Will Marshal, knowing he could do nothing to help, but hoping that his presence could lend sympathy, if nothing else. Will’s knuckles were white against the railing, but he turned to Bryan with a grimace.

  “You needn’t watch over me, friend. This misery will, one way or another, come to an end. I’m an aging, battle-scarred knight. I’d rather you lend your support to the Lady Elise.”

  Bryan stiffened, his features hardening.

  Will lifted a hand feebly in the wind. “She is my responsibility, yes. But if you offer me assistance as my friend, then I ask t
hat you give that assistance to Elise.”

  Bryan shrugged. “As you wish, Will.” Maybe the pitch and sway of the boat would have curbed her temper and softened her tone. He smiled grimly. It was not a kind thought, but he suddenly longed to see her laid low, stripped of pride and strength by the awesome power of the heavens and the sea.

  Bryan stepped over a sprawled knight in search of Elise. He was quite certain that even the ferrymen felt the furor of the weather.

  But not she . . .

  She stood at the bow of the ship, tall and proud and straight, as if she greeted and embraced the tearing wind and the churning sea. Her eyes were brilliant, her cheeks were flushed with pleasure and excitement. She wore a woolen cloak, but she did not hug it about herself. The cowl was tossed back, her gold and copper hair flew and tossed with the wind, a part of it. Her lips were curled into a smile, her features, delicate as they were, tilted to the sky. Bryan thought with a shading of bitterness that she might have been an ancient priestess, a goddess of a cult, touched by dark magic.

  His anger with her grew as he watched her. Had her skin paled, had her slender form been racked with agony, he could have felt empathy. He might have decided that it was a time to sue for peace between them.

  Bryan sighed. There would never be peace between them. He refused to blame himself; she had lied to him with her every word. But he had taught her that her name and rank could mean nothing, and that she could be vulnerable to the whim of greater strength. It was a lesson for which she would never forgive him. For which, it seemed, she would even be willing to kill him.

  And what difference did it make? he asked himself angrily. Yes, they would travel together with Eleanor while they awaited Richard’s appearance, but then their paths would part. A marriage of wealth and power awaited him, and then the call of faraway ports and places. The Crusade awaited him. God’s knights on their way to Christian battle under the banner of the Lion-Heart . . .

  Bryan gritted his teeth. It would end soon. He had only to ignore her, to keep his distance politely.

  But it still rankled him. Deeply. It was an irritation like a razor’s edge to watch her stand tall, as if she absorbed the power of the maelstrom about her.

  And it was a greater irritation to know that he wanted her still. No man with half a mind should want a woman who sought his life, no matter what her allure. Especially when he had a woman of sweet and gentle spirit awaiting him. But he did want Elise. He wanted to unravel the secret that lay behind it all. Maybe it was the secret that beguiled him so, that made her unique. Made his blood stir with raw desire each time he was near her, a desire that defied his own heart and mind. He wanted to hold and comfort her . . .

  No! He longed only to break her body and soul, and keep her as a prized possession, under rein as his horse, polished and cared for as his sword and his armor.

  Break her, and teach her that he was not a man who would tolerate her schemes, her treachery . . . her determination to see him laid low—or dead.

  Perhaps then . . . then he could purge himself of her.

  Leave it! Forget her, he warned himself.

  Bryan turned on his heel to return to Marshal’s side, a sharp oath escaping his tightened lips. England lay ahead. England, and the reign of Richard, Coeur de Lion.

  Gwyneth . . .

  Sweet and supple . . . and wealthy. Gwyneth would purge him of anger and dark desire . . .

  The ship took an especially vicious twist within the sea. Bryan gripped the rail tightly, breathed deeply, and swallowed hard. One more lashing wave, and he would be every bit as sick as Marshal . . .

  “Land, ho!” called out a sailor.

  Land. England. The port of Minster. He would make it. He would make it . . .

  * * *

  Elise had never seen anything as intriguing as the English shore. Not so much the landscape—although she did love the hills with their rolling, grassy slopes, the harsh cliffs, and the forests that seemed to rise like sentinels in the background—but the people. They were everywhere! The port town was busy and bustling. Fishermen sold their yield, peasants hawked their produce, their hogs, their chickens, and every other imaginable ware. Balladeers strode leisurely along, clad in colorful rags, cheerfully grateful for any coin tossed their way.

  For the most part, what Elise saw was poverty. The great manors were inland, and it was in these coastal towns where a new class was arising: the merchant class. Shops lined the streets. Shops where one could buy goods—at very dear prices—that came from all the provinces on the Continent. Sea power and the long centuries of the holy Crusades were bringing distant worlds together. Fine Oriental silks were available, Toledo steel, tableware wrought of silver and gold, brass candle sconces, and Persian rugs . . .

  All for the peasants to see, the nobility to buy.

  It was a strange world.

  Elise found quickly that she was a curiosity herself. The people gaped with open amazement at their party: the armored knights upon their destriers; she in her finery. The town was abuzz with excitement from the moment they landed. And already the word was out; they had come to release the good Queen Eleanor from her years of bondage.

  There were those, of course, who considered Eleanor a troublemaker and a foreigner. But to the majority of the people, she had long ago proved herself their queen. When she was young, her beauty had bewitched them. And now . . . now they remembered her dignity and her pride, her courage and her smile. She had loved England, and the people had known it. She had always been, in every aspect, a queen. The years could not tarnish or dim such a fact. The balladeers were singing of her, and even as the knights departed the ferry with their warhorses snorting from their time at sea, the people were calling out, “God save Richard, Coeur de Lion!” “God bless Eleanor of Aquitaine! God bless our dowager queen!”

  Elise smiled, because it was fun. Perhaps many of these people had sided against Richard when he fought their father, but the Lion-Heart was known throughout the Christian world and beyond for his great courage—and great heart. He was the uncontested heir to the throne. It seemed that they would welcome him heartily, with little encouragement needed.

  The crowds waved to them and cheered as they moved through the town. Elise felt her heart go out to the women she saw. So many of them, not much older than she, were worn and drawn from the cares and labors of life. Children clung to their skirts, and even they looked worn and tired. They tried to touch her; tried to touch the silk and fur of her gown. Overcome with pity, Elise reached into her saddlebags and tossed coins to the throngs. The people did not scatter, but shouted even louder and thronged closer and closer, until the destriers and her own horse could barely move.

  Suddenly she felt a wrenching grip upon her arm, and heard a shredding tear. Alarmed, Elise spun about to find that a bewhiskered old man had torn away the sleeve of her gown. His eyes were wild, and his grip was surprisingly fierce as he tried to drag her from the horse.

  “No!” Elise shrieked out. “Please!”

  “’Tis silk! ’Tis silk!” the old man cried, and Elise realized with horror that he meant to take the clothing from her back.

  The knights drew near, but insanity was breaking out. People no longer seemed to fear the huge hooves of the warhorses. Elise screamed, aware that she was about to slide from her horse. “No, please!” she cried again, catching at last the fevered eyes of the old man. For a minute shame filled his eyes, and Elise began to believe she had brought the situation under control.

  She was never to know. At that moment, Bryan Stede came upon her. “Away!” he commanded the old man. He did not draw his sword, he did not attempt to strike any of the crowd, and yet they shrank away from him. Elise, too, wanted to shrink away. She knew that the indigo of his eyes could turn to the coal pits of hell; she knew him far too well. But at the moment, the fire and steel of his black-armored strength touched and terrified her even as it did the people.

  “Fool!” He raged the one curt word to her, and then he h
ad wrenched the reins from her hands. Her horse reared and bolted, and was next racing along behind his.

  She heard a great thunder as the other knights broke into pounding gallops behind them. Tears stung her eyes as the wind whipped tendrils of her hair into them. But she was no longer frightened of Bryan Stede; she was furious. Was she always to find herself wrenched along by him? No, by God! She would never shrink or quail again, and he would learn that there were more ways to wield power than that of brute force!

  It seemed forever, and yet she knew that it was only moments before they at last slowed their gait, then came to a halt. They had not left town, but they were at the far end of it, away from the pleasant, salt scent of the sea. A large, thatched-roof building stood before them, flanked by similar, wattle-and-daub structures. A weatherworn sign dangled from a wrought-iron pole; the sign proclaimed TAVERN.

  The knights began to dismount as Bryan Stede issued orders. Where was Will Marshal? Elise wondered fleetingly.

  Not where she needed him, she continued to muse bitterly as Stede approached and wrenched her ungraciously from the saddle. “We’ll talk inside,” he grated, his fingers banding around her arm. She was tempted to twist from him and dig long scratches into his cheeks with her fingernails, but she quickly thought better of the idea. He was not in a tolerant mood; she didn’t think that even the witnesses about them could save her from his retaliation if he chose to strike in return.

  Clinging to her pride, she accepted his hold and allowed him to escort her into the tavern. Where was the Lady Joanna? she wondered a little desperately. She would have kept Bryan’s temper at bay.

  It was a rough place. The main room consisted of little but a central fire and rows of hard-planked tables. Bryan left her warming her hands before the fire as he approached the tavern keeper, a hefty man wearing a large, grease-stained apron.

  From the corner of her eye, Elise surveyed the other patrons of the establishment. Seafarers, they all appeared to be. Men with burned and leathered faces. But many of them wore a bright look of content within their eyes, and Elise smiled slightly. Yes, they should appear content. They had broken away from the lords and the lands that bound them to a life of continual labor; the sea, harsh mistress as she could be, was freeing them from lives of drudgery—on behalf of a self-serving overlord.