Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  I am the nobility, she reminded herself. But she was a good ruler: just and merciful as Henry had taught her to be; kind as Marie and William de Bois had been. Montoui was a different province from most. Her people were well fed and well clothed. Yes, they worked for her, but they kept large portions of their crops; their labors were rewarded. Would it always be so? she wondered bitterly. As long as she lived. Once she had dreamed that she and Percy would raise their children with a sense of conscience. A deep pride in Montoui, but also a knowledge of the responsibility of all that pride should entail. But now . . .

  Now, she would be alone. But she vowed then that as long as she lived, she would set the pattern for justice. She would always rule her tiny duchy wisely and well. Just as soon as . . . just as soon as this was over. This—her quest for vengeance.

  For a moment, she felt a shiver inside of her, as if it touched her heart. She had been taught to be proud, but never spiteful or vengeful. She tried to tell herself that it was strictly “justice” she wanted—but it was more. She had never known such anger in her life. Elise knew that the Plantagenets—and she was one of them by blood—often hurt themselves in their furious efforts to right a personal wrong. But she couldn’t help her feelings; Stede deserved to lose everything he so coveted. No matter how she craved it otherwise, she could not change her feelings. Stede had not only cost her Percy; he had stripped her of all illusion. She had not had complete control of her destiny, and she didn’t think she could ever believe in love again. All that remained for her to do was to cling to her rank and her wits, and seek the vengeance—or justice—that Stede deserved.

  “Do you wish to create more trouble?”

  The hiss was grating against her ear. She turned from the fire to stare at Stede, startled. He touched the torn sleeve of her gown, and she twisted farther to see that the men in the public lodging were staring at her with speculative smiles.

  Without a word Elise returned Stede’s gaze. He took her arm again and led her through the main room to an adjacent ground-floor chamber.

  Elise wrinkled her nose with distaste. There was a foul stench of unwashed humanity within the room. There were no mattresses, just rushes and blankets that she feared were vermin-laden.

  “It’s all that he’s got,” Stede told her dryly. “Except, of course, for the public room, and I assure you, the damsels who generally seek a night’s rest here would offend you even further.”

  Elise said nothing. She walked to the latticed window to breathe clean air.

  Stede was silent for a moment. When he did speak, his tone was one he might well use against a dangerously naughty child.

  “I know you to be many things, Elise. Willful, dishonest, cunning. Proud to a fault. Eager to draw blood. Yet I always believed it was my blood you were eager to draw. I have already told you; I have no taste for wanton killing. You might have caused a riot today. Aye, you were always safe, milady—you had an escort of armored and armed men. It was those poor people who would have lain butchered. A cutthroat I will gladly slay on your behalf. But not a peasant, longing for what God has granted you.”

  Elise whirled around. “I sought only to give—”

  “Then you are a fool, for that is not the way to give. Had we not been with you, you would have been robbed of every stitch upon your back. Raped and probably murdered. You have a penchant for putting yourself into such a position.”

  “Have I?” Elise inquired imperiously. “Then it is a penchant just acquired recently. I will remind you of a few things, Sir Stede. You are but a landless knight. I am the Duchess of Montoui. I am your superior, Stede. You take orders from me. And as to my penchant for trouble . . . well, I say again, what possible difference can it make? I should rather be taken by ten filthy peasants than to feel even the brush of your fingers again.”

  “Is that so?” Stede inquired politely.

  “Aye, Sir Stede, it is.”

  He bowed to her—an extravagant, courtly bow.

  “Your superiority, milady, is a theory we must put to the test one day.”

  Elise smiled sweetly. “I’m afraid that there will be no chance to do so, Stede. We will meet Eleanor, Richard will reach England, and we will part ways.”

  Stede smiled in return. It felt as if the chamber had been touched by a harsh winter frost. “Bear in mind, milady, that once Richard arrives, I shall be your superior.”

  “When you are wed to Gwyneth—and take on her titles?”

  “Aye, when I am wed to Gwyneth.”

  Elise kept her sweet smile strained into her features. “The rewards you expect are still ‘theory,’ are they not, Sir Stede? Perhaps another theory that must be put to a test.”

  “Is it?” Stede replied, mildly interested. “Perhaps ’tis true—the future is always that which must be seen.” He turned around, his hand upon the door. “I shall have a meal brought to you. I don’t intend to fight a battle over you during supper. Should you need, anything during the night, I shall be asleep before your door.”

  “I don’t wish to have you before my door—”

  He laughed, looking at her once more. “A change of heart, Duchess? Do you wish to have me inside your chamber?”

  “My heart shall never change, Stede,” Elise said with frigid determination. “And you forget, the Lady Joanna—”

  “The Lady Joanna is traveling on to Southampton with her husband. She has been of little use as a chaperone, it seems. Her heart is too good. Since you prefer I not be inside, I shall sleep before the door. God knows, I find you quite worthless myself, but Richard seems to think you are of some value. Therefore, I shall deliver you safely to Eleanor.”

  He stepped outside the door, a tall and formidable figure in the armor he wore so easily.

  The door closed sharply; Elise could have sworn that wood splintered with the force.

  But the cold remained.

  Who was he, Elise raged silently, to do this to her? No one! No one of title or land. He was just a warrior. A battle-weary knight. A configuration of muscle and brawn who could wield a sword or a lance with deadly expertise . . .

  He had touched her, he had destroyed her . . .

  By God, she would do the same to him. Now, he had even sent the Lady Joanna away, and Elise had become so accustomed to her cheerful company. She would miss her sorely. And he’d had the gall to call her “worthless”!

  Worthless? Lord, how the word rankled . . . and hurt. To him, she had been nothing more than a thief, and a configuration of feminine angles and curves. But he would learn. He would know that rank and wits could be every bit as powerful as steel and armor and brawn.

  Elise wondered bleakly why she still wanted to sink to the floor and burst into tears. Maybe because he had been right. She had walked into danger. Last night. And again today. To Marshal, she could have admitted the error. Admitted she had a lot to learn. Begged pardon not for her wish to give, but for her lack of thoughtful judgment. To Marshal, yes—but not to Stede. Never to Stede.

  She had never known an emotion as intense as that which she bore him. It was frightening.

  But the die had been cast, and she felt she whirled in a maelstrom that was of her own making.

  Like wind and fire, it roared out of control.

  XI

  July 15, 1189

  The Palace at Winchester, England

  “Your Highness! They’re here! Richard’s messengers . . . they come for you!”

  In an uncustomary gesture of emotion, Eleanor’s jailer fell to his old knees before her. She smiled. She had seen the horses approaching the palace; she had seen the banners of Richard le Roi, Coeur de Lion. And at first sight of those banners, her heart had begun to fly.

  She felt incredibly young for a woman of nigh on seventy years. Power, like a heated wine, had begun to warm her system. Joints that had ached moved with remarkable fluidity; her shoulders had squared, her spine . . . well, it had always been straight, but now . . . now it seemed actually to grow.

  And
why not? She was Eleanor of Aquitaine. Famed, notorious—but famed, nevertheless—the greatest heiress, lady, queen of her time. And she felt strong. The world was opening to her again. Her world. She had created the chivalry of the English court; she had been revered by poets from the East and the West . . .

  And now . . . now she would reign as queen again. Not by marriage. But through Richard.

  It was wonderful. She wanted to laugh and sing and cry out her joy to the heavens.

  But she kept her smile small, her manner composed. Because she was Eleanor of Aquitaine.

  “Do rise, dear sir,” she told her jailer with quiet wit. “I’d not have you too crippled to allow my son’s messenger’s entry. And ’tis fairly certain they’ve had a long joumey. Have we wine and food to offer?”

  “Aye, Your Highness.”

  “Who comes?” Eleanor, with a grace that belied both her age and curiosity, turned toward the window once again. “Black armor . . . Stede! Richard has sent Bryan Stede. And I’d wager that Will Marshal is with him . . . Mother of God! How very considerate of Richard. I see that a woman rides with the knights!”

  “If rumor holds true, Your Highness, the lady is Elise de Bois, Duchess of Montoui.”

  Eleanor’s laughter was never loud or raucous; but now she did chuckle softly with pure delight. Her dearest son, Richard, eager for her happiness. He knew that she would long dearly to see the girl.

  Her laughter ended with a soft sigh. There would be so much to do! The people must be rallied to Richard’s cause, and then the nobles must be sorted and put into place for the new regime. Some punished, and some appeased. Some could ride the Lion’s breath to fame and fortune.

  And then there were the bastards. Geoffrey Fitzroy, Henry’s natural son, had been raised in royal palaces along with her own; he had served Henry loyally as chancellor for years. She must not allow him to feel slighted; yet she must take care that he remembered his status as a bastard. And Elise . . .

  Elise . . . a magnificent marriage, of course. In time. It was going to be fun to get reacquainted with the girl. She had been such a delightful child . . .

  I am hungry for gossip, and hungry for life! Eleanor thought wryly. Ah, yes, I am hungry to begin again . . .

  Queen of England. The title allowed her to play God to an extent, and Eleanor was far too much of a realist to consider such a thought as blasphemous. She would play God; she would be coercive and manipulative. She deserved to wield power far more than most people, because, if nothing else, her years had earned her a deep sense of responsibility, and the pain of her past had given her wisdom.

  * * *

  There was something about Eleanor of Aquitaine that kept one from seeing her as she really was, Elise mused curiously at first sight of the queen. In truth, she had aged. She was an old woman, slender to the point of gauntness. Her hair was graying, and her face betrayed her many years of both laughter and tears.

  But when she moved, when she walked, when she smiled, and when she spoke, it was the age that became the illusion.

  Eleanor was magnificent. Her presence filled the room. Her eyes were dark and yet brilliant and filled with vibrancy. She walked as if she floated on clouds, or sailed across a smooth sea. She had been imprisoned for sixteen years, but it appeared as if she had merely stepped from one stately court to another. She was so very regal, so very human, so perfectly lovely in speech and manner . . .

  “Bryan! Will! How wonderfully gallant to see you upon your knees! But do get up. I am way too old to bend to kiss you, and I feel that I must!”

  Elise, several paces behind the men, watched with a touch of rancor in her heart as Eleanor fondly embraced Bryan Stede, and then Will Marshal. It was as the queen gave Will a fervent hug that she glanced over his shoulder to see Elise. And then her beautiful smile, the smile that could strip away years, curled into her lips once more.

  “Elise . . . ! Will, step aside so that I might see the child.”

  Grinning, Will did as he was told. Eleanor approached Elise and took both her hands in a strong grip. “How nice of you to come, Elise, and be with me now. It has been a long time since I have had another woman with whom to converse!” Eleanor released Elise’s hands and turned back to Bryan and Will.

  “Now, tell me—how is Richard?”

  “Hale and hearty,” Will assured her immediately. “And handling his affairs quite admirably, yet it seemed his greatest urgency was to see you freed, Your Grace.”

  Eleanor nodded, pleased. “And Prince John?”

  Bryan shrugged, but the motion was eloquent in itself. “Richard is looking for him now.” He hesitated. “John disappeared after we were forced to flee from Le Mans.”

  Eleanor’s gaze lowered momentarily. “For that I’ve great pity for Henry, God rest his soul. The place of his birth burned over his head; his favorite son turned traitor at the end. Marshal, how did Henry die?”

  Marshal appeared uncomfortable. “In great misery, Your Grace. Illness, and an internal infection, overcame him. He could find no rest, you see. Had he been able to stop and nurse the ulcer, he might well have lived.”

  The queen’s eyes were sad. “Believe me, messires, when I tell you I am sorry for the pain of his death, although his death frees me. Henry was a great man, greater than I believe history will record him. He cared for law and his people when it was not necessary to do so, but he brought about his own downfall. He tried to rob Richard of his lands so that he might bestow them on John. I don’t think he ever realized that his sons had grown up—and were of his blood.” She sighed. “So . . . he is looking for John. I hope he finds him quickly, and deals with him carefully. John has always coveted what was Richard’s. And Richard, like Henry, when he holds power, can be overly generous with it.” She shook her head gravely, but then she was smiling quickly again, and turning to Will. “I’ve heard you’ll not be traveling with me now, Will Marshal. It is amazing, is it not, how words can so quickly fly? But it’s my understanding that Henry promised you the hand of Isabel de Clare, and that Richard has upheld that promise. And you will go to claim her now.”

  Marshal laughed. “It seems that words do travel quickly. And it is true.” His laughter faded, and his expression became slightly wistful. “Have you ever met the Lady Isabel, Your Highness?”

  Eleanor chuckled softly. “She was but a toddling child when I was incarcerated. But—rumor again—she is young and lovely. And excessively rich. You’ll find out soon enough. And if you would flatter me, William, call me by my given name when we are alone like this. Bryan never hesitates to do so!”

  The queen’s eyes fastened quickly upon Bryan Stede. “So you, Sir Stede, are to be my escort as we travel the countryside as Richard’s entourage of goodwill!”

  “A duty that is the greatest pleasure,” Bryan replied graciously. “Richard has commanded that I stay with you until he arrives for his coronation, after which, in due time, he plans to join Philip of France for the Crusade planned by Philip and Henry right before his death.”

  “You are anxious for the Crusade?”

  Bryan hesitated, then smiled. “I, like Richard, have been most eager to see you free.”

  Elise held back, keeping her silence. It was irritating beyond measure to see the queen’s pleasure in him. Don’t be taken by this dark knight! she wanted to cry out. He is hard and ruthless and not at all what he seems . . .

  She did not cry out. Her time would come.

  Servants came into the antechamber, carrying wine and trays filled with fresh breads, hard-boiled eggs, and a variety of cheeses. Whatever Eleanor had suffered in the past was to be rectified; her jailer had become her host. The servants scurried to please.

  “I should so love to enjoy this repast in the garden!” Eleanor exclaimed softly. “Aged wine—and friendships that have become vintage through the years! Elise! Come walk with me. How tall you are, my dear! When last I saw you, I believe that you barely came to my knee.” The queen, with the servants hurrying behind her, le
d the way out to the gardens, and to a wrought-iron table set between a trellis of roses—her delight with life apparent. She continued to chat, as if sixteen years of imprisonment had never taken place. A perfectly gracious hostess, she kindly waved the servants away and poured wine for them all. “Bryan, did you take the time to see Gwyneth?”

  “Nay, Eleanor. We came straight to you.”

  “I’m flattered! But sorry that you shall be kept apart. ’Tis time you two took your vows.”

  Bryan laughed easily, which further annoyed Elise. “You must remember, Eleanor, that Henry promised me the lands and titles.”

  “I cannot believe that Richard would not honor his father’s bequests!”

  “Nay, I believe that he will.” He lifted his hands lightly, palms up. “I don’t know why he hesitates.”

  “Perhaps I do,” Eleanor murmured. “I believe he might well be thinking of a way to make your fortunes even greater. When Richard chooses to give, he does so generously.”

  Bryan laughed. “Your Grace, I will pray that you know your son well.”

  “I do know Richard well. At this moment, he will be worrying about the empty state of his inherited purse! That is one we must begin to think upon, my children!”

  Eleanor’s sharp dark eyes turned suddenly to Elise. “And what of you, Elise? I have not lost any of my faculties—thanks be to God—and therefore my addition remains excellent. Why haven’t you married?”

  Elise froze at the question, but it didn’t matter. Bryan Stede stepped in to answer mockingly for her. “The Lady Elise is deeply in love, Your Majesty! She intends to marry the man of her choice—Sir Percy Montagu.”

  “Sir Percy . . .” Eleanor frowned thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I do not know him—or of him.”

  Elise sipped her wine and forced her lips into a sweet smile. She had no intention of correcting Bryan Stede. “I’m sure that you will know him soon, Your Majesty,” she said smoothly.