Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  “Ah, love . . . I remember it well!” Eleanor chuckled softly. “And I am ever more flattered that you have all come to me!” She stood, setting her goblet firmly upon the table. “Bryan, Will, I leave you to plan the days ahead. Elise will come with me to pack so that, come tomorrow, we may be on the road bright and early.”

  The men, awkward in their armor, nevertheless jumped to their feet. Eleanor rewarded them with a benign smile, and reached out a hand to Elise. “You must refresh my mind on fashion, child. The blue jays have not much cared how I appeared before them.”

  Elise was touched when she saw the queen’s small chamber within the palace. It was sparse and bare. A single window allowed light into the room.

  Eleanor noticed that Elise’s gaze quickly took in the circumstances. “Sunlight is beautiful, is it not? One can learn to cling to the sunlight, and to the blue of a spring sky.” She paused suddenly, reflecting on the past. “There were many times when I was confined to this chamber alone.” She shrugged. “And then there were times when I was allowed in the gardens—depending on the nature of the bailiff here, and Henry’s whim.” She smiled. “Once, I was even brought to Normandy for Michaelmas—to use my influence on Richard, of course. But I longed for freedom so fervently, I would have promised anything. And at that time . . . I dared believe there was hope that the family could come to peace. Ah, well, that was long ago.”

  “Yes, all that is the past,” Elise agreed quickly. Suddenly she longed to take Eleanor away from the palace that had been a prison. “Where shall we start, Queen Eleanor? I see that you have all your trunks here—”

  “I packed several days ago,” Eleanor announced with a wry smile and a wave of her long, elegant hand. “I brought you here to look at you at my leisure. Spin about for me, child!”

  Elise was not insulted, nor did she feel self-conscious. Eleanor’s delight in life was contagious. Obediently, Elise spun about before the queen, who perched regally upon the foot of her small bed.

  The queen was smiling when Elise came to a halt before her.

  “You know, Elise de Bois, that I bear you no rancor.”

  “You are generous, ma’am.”

  “Nay—not generous. Just old. And very realistic! You have a great deal of your father in you, but . . . you are lovely anyway! Ah, don’t lower your eyes, child. There was a time when I adored Henry Plantagenet! He was the sun to my eyes. He was almost twelve years younger than I, but when we married we were a perfect match. We were ambitious, ready to found an empire and a dynasty. Henry was a wonderful knight, a gallant king. Ah, but he drove his nobles crazy! He seldom even sat to eat, and therefore, they were obliged to stand through their meals! None could quite touch him for vitality or passion, or statesmanship. But let’s be honest with each other, Elise. He was proud, he couldn’t bear to part with his power, and, at times, he was stupid. He never knew how to deal with his sons, and therefore he placed their loyalty in my hands. We shall not speak ill of the dead. It is true that I had my reasons to hate him. But never forget that I loved him, too. Just as I never forget that it was often my own nature that came between us. Pride does not mingle well with love.” Eleanor was silent for a moment, a moment in which the light that seemed to radiate about her dimmed. Elise felt her heart go out to the exquisite queen, who had for decades been an enigma and a legend; a woman to defy the world. And in that moment, she saw the queen’s age, and her wisdom. Eleanor had learned that life was a combination of joy—and pain.

  “So much to be done . . .” Eleanor murmured. She gazed at Elise again, and once more the light seemed to radiate from her. “It is all a game of power and intrigue—one that we must play very carefully! Always remember, Elise, that the clever players, the fighters, are the ones who win in the end! Sometimes it is impossible to slay a dragon by the sword; at those times, the dragon must be slain by wits!”

  Elise smiled, and if she felt bitterness in her heart, she kept it from betraying her through her eyes. Eleanor was a fighter—and a survivor.

  So would she be.

  Elise felt strangely as if her plans for the future had been sanctified. If it was impossible to slay a dragon by the sword, then she would surely do so by wits. It was working out so well. Eleanor was obviously very fond of Bryan Stede, but she felt her sense of responsibility to Elise keenly.

  Elise had found a friend in the queen. If she bided her time, she could surely manage the eloquent words to bring down her dragon.

  * * *

  Opportunity came along far before she had expected it.

  Will Marshal left them the next morning, bound to meet and marry his heiress, Isabel de Clare.

  Bryan, Eleanor, and Elise set out for the towns that were scattered about the English countryside.

  It was not so difficult as Elise had imagined. Since the night of their arrival at Dover, when she and Bryan had argued over her behavior, she had barely had to speak to him. Will Marshal had become the buffer then, and now, with Will gone, Eleanor had been the force to come between them.

  It was, Elise mused, as if Bryan Stede had indeed washed his hands of her.

  I would be better off to do the same, she often warned herself.

  As accustomed as she had come to knowing that he was near in her days of travel, there were still times when she would see him that he touched a deep, inner core of her, and frightened her. She had never been wrong in her assessment of him; he was a hard man, and if crossed, he would be a ruthless man. In his black armor, riding the midnight destrier, he was the very image of power and might. The people made way for him, and bowed down to him, even before they saw the queen. And not once, with Bryan Stede leading the party, was the queen ever accosted in any way.

  Bryan and Elise had both expected Eleanor to travel in a litter—she was, no matter what her strength, an old woman. But when she had been the Queen of France, she had once been forcefully abducted by her husband in a litter, and even now she would not enter one again. She and Elise rode side by side.

  Elise loved seeing the country in summer. The weather now remained bright and beautiful for them, and she could clearly see the occasional windmills in the fields, the oxen and horses hitched to plows, the profusion of summer wildflowers. The towns fascinated her with their very narrow streets, and the upper floors that often seemed about to collide with one another over the pathways. Even the smallest village offered some entertainment: jugglers, harpists, flutists, minstrels, and balladeers. Often, once Eleanor was seen, the minstrels would come to her, regaling her, and offering up the love ballads that had been composed in her honor through the years.

  In a small valley called Smithwick, they came upon a freeman who commandeered a pair of trained bears. Elise was fascinated by their act, and Eleanor watched her tolerantly.

  “Henry loved bears, too,” she told Elise. “He traveled with them frequently. Did you know that?”

  “No, no I didn’t,” Elise admitted, and Eleanor smiled. Elise knew then that she would never be able to believe anything wicked about the queen; she was coming to know Eleanor too well herself. She would say nothing malicious about Henry to Elise, although she didn’t pretend to deny his shortcomings. She knew that Elise had loved him.

  Elise could have been extremely happy—if it weren’t for Bryan’s constant presence, always making her feel as if she burned hot, then fell into chills, only to burn again.

  Of course, she still spent long hours trying to ponder just what she would say to bring him down, and see that he lost Gwyneth as she had lost Percy.

  A week after their departure from Winchester, they were on the outskirts of London. Eleanor had spent the day speaking to the people, cheering on the reign of Richard the Lion-Heart.

  As usual, they dined early, then retired for the night.

  There had been no more dirty taverns; Eleanor could avail herself of the hospitality of any manor. Tonight they were in the home of Sir Matthew Surrey, and the old gentleman was thrilled to greet the dowager queen. Elise and Elea
nor had been given a lovely chamber that overlooked a field of summer daisies, and a host of servants had run about to cater cheerfully to any whim. Elise had enjoyed a long, delightfully scented bath, and sipped a goblet of mulled wine as she and Eleanor stretched out upon clean sheets, chatting idly to wind down from the excitement of the day. She and Eleanor shared one vast and fatly mattressed bed, which was of no discomfort to either of them; to travel, women learned quickly that accommodations must frequently be shared.

  Serving Eleanor, Elise had learned, was no task at all. The queen was independent. She allowed Elise to comb her hair, and to lay out her clothing, but other than those tasks, Eleanor cared for herself. But Elise never felt useless, for the queen enjoyed her companionship. Sometimes Elise was certain that the queen merely thought aloud, but she was nevertheless glad to listen, and never afraid to offer comments.

  This night, Eleanor was once again on the subject of England’s empty coffers.

  “Richard,” Eleanor told Elise as she climbed into the high, goose down–filled bed, “needs money badly.” She sighed. “It is a pity that Richard formed an alliance with Philip Augustus against Henry. Now Richard must pay Philip the twenty-thousand ducats that Henry swore to pay just before his death. That will detract heavily from the sums he might have used for the Crusade. And to go on crusade! Ah, fighting a holy war is a dear proposition indeed! But one quickly learns to miss the comfort of clean sheets and two soft pillows . . .” Eleanor’s voice drifted as she closed her eyes and luxuriated in the softness of their bed. She opened one eye. “Elise, would you mind closing the shutter, please? The night is taking on a chill.”

  Elise sprang from the bed and hurried to the shutter. But before she could close it, she noticed movement in the courtyard below and paused.

  A man was mounting a horse. It was dark below, as the moon was at an ebb, but Elise stiffened. She recognized Stede. There were few men of his lean and powerful height, or who possessed his breadth of shoulder. He was not dressed in armor, but in his mantle alone, and his dark head was bare. Even in the meager light, the ebony black of his hair glistened as if caught by the few stars speckling the heavens.

  “What is it?” Eleanor asked.

  Elise hesitated, sensing that her moment had come to begin her careful attack upon Bryan Stede.

  “Nothing, Eleanor,” she said quickly—too quickly, and with full intent to do so.

  “Nonsense, Elise. What have you seen?”

  “Just a man—riding from the manor.”

  “Oh,” Eleanor said complacently. “Then it is just Stede.”

  Surprised by the reply, Elise closed the shutter and spun about. The chamber was lit only by the one candle on the trunk on her side of the bed. Eleanor’s expression was lost in shadow.

  Elise exhaled carefully. “Yes, Your Majesty, it was Stede. I did not wish to tell you so because . . . because he should not leave you! It is his responsibility to guard you!”

  Eleanor’s dark eyes opened and touched upon Elise with fondness. “You remind me of Richard—a little lioness in behalf of your beliefs! But you needn’t be so protective of me, child. Nor do you need to lie about Stede, or be angry with him. I suggested that he leave this evening.”

  “Oh?”

  “Gwyneth is in London. A short ride will bring Stede to her. He has been a gallant knight, caring so carefully for his aging queen. He deserves an evening of leisure—and pleasure. I’m really rather annoyed that Richard didn’t arrange for Stede’s marriage now, as he did for Will Marshal.”

  Elise bit into her lip in the darkness. He deserves to have his bloody head whacked off! she thought furiously. So Stede was riding to the woman he intended to marry. His prize! Wonderful, brave Stede, being awarded for the fruits of his brawn!

  Elise remained silent and still in the darkness, trying to think how to phrase her words properly. As it happened, her silence became her best move.

  “You don’t care for Bryan, do you, Elise?” Eleanor asked curiously.

  “I—”

  Eleanor chuckled softly. “Don’t deny it, Elise. There are benefits to my age. I have watched the two of you often in the past days. You avoid each other. You do not speak, you do not touch. But each time your eyes meet, one can feel it, as if God had suddenly filled the sky with storm clouds and fire.”

  “You are right, Your Majesty,” Elise agreed quietly. “I do not care for Bryan Stede.”

  “Why?” Elise could see the queen’s amused smile as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. “If I were young,” Eleanor continued with dry, good humor, “I think I could easily be in love. But since I am far past the days of such painful foolishness, I can sit back and admire such men as Bryan Stede. So tell me, Elise, what could this man have done to you to cause you to hate him so?”

  This was her moment at last, she thought, and Elise felt a tempest of emotions shiver through her body. She would be taking a step of no return, and she had to weigh her every word with the greatest of care.

  “Eleanor, it is something of which I would rather not speak.”

  “Nonsense!” Eleanor exclaimed with determination.

  “But I—”

  “Elise, I am ordering you as the Queen Regent of England!”

  Elise lowered her head quickly, determined that the crafty old queen not see her smile, for the queen was playing perfectly into her hands.

  “Your Majesty, since you order me to speak, I shall. But I also beg that you keep every word I say entirely confidential.”

  “You needn’t beg. Whatever you say shall be kept strictly between the two of us.”

  Elise let out a long sigh, and carefully kept her lashes low over her eyes, shielding them. The riot of tingling hot and cold that had seized her kept her shivering, for here she was going to lie, or at least twist the truth, and on all accounts it was a frightening and reckless thing to do.

  “Stede did nothing to me, Eleanor. It is what he has done to others that makes me abhor him so.”

  “Pray, continue,” Eleanor said firmly. She patted the bed. “Lie down, child; don’t stand so nervously at a distance. I am not a crazed murderess, although they did call me so when that wretched Rosamund Clifford died! I am not an old bat to be feared!”

  Elise slid beneath the cover on her side of the bed and prayed that her features would be hidden by darkness as she snuffed out the last candle.

  “I want to hear this story,” Eleanor reminded her with a warning note in her tone.

  Elise sighed carefully again. “I’m afraid, Your Majesty, that your gallant Stede is not always so chivalrous. He came upon a friend of mine, a lady of some note, when she was in an awkward circumstance and very frightened. He threw her about as if she were refuse, and forced her into . . .”

  “Bed?” Eleanor supplied incredulously.

  “Yes,” Elise agreed sadly.

  To her astonishment, Eleanor began to laugh. “Stede forced himself on a young lady!”

  “Your Majesty!” Elise cried out indignantly. “I assure you, it was no laughing matter for the young lady involved.”

  “I do apologize, Elise,” Eleanor said quickly. “It’s just so . . . absurd. Bryan Stede is a man who tends to have women—those who are titled, and those who are not—flocking around him. They are drawn to him, as flowers to the sun.”

  “The story is true,” Elise said quietly.

  Eleanor was silent, and thoughtful, for several moments. “If your story is true, Elise, then you must give me the lady’s name. And if she has been wronged, then Bryan must forget Gwyneth, and right that wrong.”

  “He cannot right—”

  “He can marry the lady.”

  “No!” Elise protested quickly. “She has no wish to marry him, Your Majesty. She intends to marry elsewhere, and is happy with her choice. It is just . . . it is hard to watch such a man rewarded by marriage to one of the richest heiresses in England!”

  Eleanor sighed softly. “If the woman does not wish to marry him, then the
re is nothing that can be done. And to a woman, yes, perhaps such a thing is distressing. But I tell you as a queen, with politics in mind, as it would be to a man—I am afraid it would all be of little or no consequence. Bryan Stede served Henry well. His loyalty to the Crown is unquestionable. He will be as invaluable to Richard as he was to Henry, and any king with sense would reward such character. And not only character,” Eleanor added wryly. “Bryan Stede offers England one of the best sword arms in existence. The only way Stede could be brought to charge for his actions would be to arrange his marriage to the injured woman—as long as she was of the right class. But since she doesn’t wish marriage, there is no reason to stop a marriage that is entirely suitable. Gwyneth has tremendous lands and wealth; Bryan has the power to rule them and keep them.”

  Brawn, Elise thought bitterly as she lay in the darkness, did seem to be the mightiest weapon. She had struck her blow of words, and it appeared that she had done no damage. Truly, she had lived in a sheltered world. Yes, she was the titled one. And she was the daughter of a king, if only a king’s bastard. Still, Stede was the one with the power.

  He was the one with the sword arm.

  “Perhaps . . .” Eleanor murmured.

  “Your pardon, Your Majesty?”

  Eleanor yawned. “Nothing, Elise, nothing at all. I was just wondering . . . what shall you do after Richard is crowned?”

  “Go back to Montoui,” Elise said softly. “It is my duchy.” She smiled. “There, I am in command.”

  “Of course,” Eleanor murmured. “Of course . . .”

  Moments of silence followed. Elise became convinced that Eleanor slept, and the words the queen had said turned around and around in her mind.

  He can marry the lady . . . he can marry the lady . . . he can marry the lady . . .

  She did have power—if she chose to use it.

  She simply couldn’t use it, because . . .

  The only way to stop Bryan Stede from receiving everything his heart desired was to place herself in his path. She could hurt him. Oh, yes, she could hurt him. She wasn’t Gwyneth, whom he so obviously enjoyed, nor did she have a quarter of Gwyneth’s vast lands and great wealth. Her duchy was small; it wasn’t even in England, and Bryan Stede was an Englishman.