Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  But she would be saddled with a dark beast of Satan for life. A knight who—she admitted in the deepest recesses of her heart—terrified her still.

  No, she would not be saddled with him, she thought with sudden excitement. She could speak—and force Bryan Stede into a betrothal. And then she could stall. Keep putting the marriage off. She could claim that she had made a vow to make pilgrimages to various shrines. Time would pass, and more time would pass—and then Bryan would be forced to ride with Richard on the Crusade. It could be done—Richard had done it himself! He had been betrothed to Philip’s half sister for over a decade—but no marriage had ever taken place!

  What if Richard insisted on a wedding? she asked herself. But she refused to consider seriously such a possibility. And if he did—well, she could still escape Bryan before the marriage could be consummated, return to Montoui and fortify the castle—and set about the task of finding grounds to present to the Pope for an annulment. She would probably have years in which to manage the feat—the Holy Land was far away . . .

  And by the time it had all come about, Gwyneth would certainly have been given to some other deserving knight.

  Dear God, yes, it could be done.

  He would kill her, she thought, shivering suddenly. But only if he managed to get his hands on her out of Eleanor’s sight. And she would never allow that to happen.

  “Elise?”

  Eleanor’s soft query, coming from the darkness when Elise had been certain that the queen slept, was so startling that Elise jumped.

  “Yes?” she said nervously in return.

  “Are you this ‘lady’?”

  Elise knotted her fingers into the sheet. If she said yes . . .

  She might well be risking her life, or, at least, the safety of her flesh and limbs. But the sweet and beautiful waters of revenge would begin to flow.

  She squeezed her eyes tightly together. She had to be crazy!

  “Elise?”

  She opened her mouth, still not sure of her answer. But she never uttered a word, for a thunderous knocking pounded upon the door and a servant began to scream anxiously for the queen.

  “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Word has just come! He’s landed! Richard has landed! The Lion-Heart is in England!”

  Eleanor was out of bed with the speed of a winter wind; she sprinted across the room with the agility of a young girl and threw open the door. “Is this true?”

  The young serving wench fell to her knees, clasping her hands with excitement.

  “Oh, aye, Your Majesty! He came ashore with hundreds of men-at-arms, so they say. The King—our Lion of England!”

  “And the people?”

  “The people cheered him, and threw flowers of welcome!”

  “Blessed be to God!” Eleanor exclaimed, looking upward, as if she could see heaven, and was thanking the Creator with her smile. Then she was glancing back to the girl, and her tone was tense. “And John? Prince John. Has he been seen?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty! Aye! He came on the arm of his brother!”

  Eleanor glanced upward again, her appeal to heaven mute this time. “Thank you, girl! Thank you!”

  “Oh, my greatest pleasure, Your Majesty!”

  The wench bowed herself away, and Eleanor spun back into the room, lithe and beautiful in her happiness. Her eyes fell upon Elise, and Elise realized that the queen had forgotten all about her in the joy of knowing that Richard had arrived, and been received well.

  It was for the best. All for the best. Surely she had been struck with madness even to contemplate forcing Stede into a marriage with her . . .

  It was her only hope . . .

  It was insanity . . .

  “Ah, Elise!” She laughed happily. “So very much to do! I’m so glad that Richard has John under his wing, but . . . Henry spoiled John so! Richard is going to have to be so wary of his brother.... Come, Elise! Up! We must dress! We must be ready!”

  Eleanor lit the bedside candle; in her excitement she hugged Elise. “How I have waited and prayed for this moment! Richard—the King of England. The season for lions has come!”

  Lions . . .

  Yes, Elise thought, it is a season for lions. And the head of the pride was her brother.

  It was the lioness who was known to be deadly. The lioness. . . who went for the kill.

  Richard would soon be crowned King.

  He would not allow his half sister to be humiliated, not even for the finest sword arm in his kingdom.

  What was she thinking? she asked herself with dismay. But her mind was playing a terrible tug-of-war.

  She could allow it all to drop; she could salvage the strands of her own life. But part of her still cried out for revenge, and that reckless portion of her nature tried to ignore the horror of what she could bring down upon herself.

  Marriage to Stede; it was unthinkable.

  And yet . . .

  It was all like a game of chess, Henry had told her.

  And now, it was her move.

  XII

  Elise had little to do the first few days following Richard’s arrival. Eleanor and Richard spent their time closeted together, and it was not until the third morning that even his closest advisors were invited to be part of any discussions or plans.

  On that third night, Sir Matthew Surrey, who continued to host the royal family and their immediate entourage, threw open his doors for a small, welcoming banquet. Elise was flattered that Eleanor demanded she sit at the high table, and she was touched by Richard’s boisterous greeting. But that, she thought dryly, was part of the Lion-Heart’s charisma. Richard was a fine, dramatic performer. When she was about, he would hug and kiss her and offer fine, flowery phrases. When he turned his back, he would have forgotten everything that he had said, and would give full rein to his one, all-consuming dream: the Crusade.

  Prince John was with Richard. A brother totally different from the Lion-Heart. John was short, dark, and surly, yet his eyes held a bright cunning that Richard’s lacked. The prince was pleasant to Elise, and she found herself wondering uneasily about this other half brother of hers. Richard had been betrothed to Alys, Philip of France’s sister, for so many years that most people had lost count. It was widely believed that Henry had seduced Alys years and years before, and so had procrastinated until marriage between Richard and Alys had become the joke of the English isle and the European continent. But Eleanor had often spoken to Elise of the truth; Richard had no taste for women.

  Prince John was therefore Richard’s heir, until such time when the Lion-Heart might bear an heir, if that event ever occurred.

  The idea of John upon the throne of England was frightening. Very frightening, because of his irresponsibility and his cruel nature. One could only hope that Richard would live a long and hale life.

  And Geoffrey and I are both Henry’s brood, Elise mused, but neither of us could ever touch the Crown. Eleanor as much as she loves us, would see to that.

  Not that she or Geoffrey would ever scramble for the Crown. They were both too intelligent to do so.

  Geoffrey Fitzroy was there that night, too. He stopped to speak warmly with Elise before taking his position on the other side of the table, next to Prince John.

  Glancing down the high table, Elise saw that it was an interesting assembly. Hadwisa of Gloucester, John’s intended bride, was at the far end, seated beside Geoffrey, who was next to John. John, the second most important individual in the kingdom, was seated next to Richard. Beside Richard, of course, sat Eleanor. And then there was Elise herself. Beside her, at the moment, was an empty place, and beyond it, three more seats. Who were they for? she wondered.

  The wonder was not to last long. At first Elise thought that Richard had risen and stood behind her; the shadow on the wall created by a flickering candle could only belong to a very tall man. Then she heard his voice, light and sardonic.

  “It seems we shall share a goblet this evening. How pleasant. I shall do the gallant thing, of course, and allow
you, good Duchess, to drink first. I shall then drink free of the worry of poison.”

  Blood rushed heatedly to her breast, her neck, and into her cheeks. As was the custom of the day, one goblet had been placed between every other place setting; she was to share hers with Bryan Stede.

  She gazed up at him, her eyes narrowing, but her lips curving into a too-sweet smile. “Dear Sir Stede! I wouldn’t drink too recklessly, were I you! If I am truly a ‘bitch of Satan’—which you have been wont to call me—I can surely drink deeply of poison myself with little harm befalling me.”

  His brow raised as he scraped back his chair and took his seat, his thigh brushing hers. “Nay, Duchess, I labeled you incorrectly. You are nothing but flesh and blood, equipped with long nails and a scathing tongue. Ah . . . ah!” he warned suddenly when she would have retorted. “Speak gently, Duchess. Break no illusions. Here comes your intended.”

  Dismay, like a pool of black liquid, quickly filled Elise’s heart as her eyes followed Bryan Stede’s line of vision.

  Percy was indeed coming toward them.

  Tears stung her eyes as she saw him; he looked wonderful: so slim and stately, his features so timely hewn, his changeable hazel eyes soulful and intense as they met hers.

  She could not forget the things he had said and done . . .

  But neither could she forget that she had loved him . . . perhaps loved him still, since her heart could not always obey her pride.

  He did not come to her first; he greeted the royal family. Richard introduced him warmly to Eleanor. But then he was before Elise, and he was bowing low over her hand. She felt the touch of his lips on her flesh, heard his soft whispered query as to her welfare.

  And she knew that Stede was watching her, staring at her. Smiling that sardonic, mocking grin of his as he watched the interplay of courtesies between them . . .

  Then it was over. Percy was straightening. But he was turning to Bryan . . .

  “Stede.” Percy acknowledged Bryan with a curt nod.

  “Montagu,” Bryan returned, nodding in kind.

  There was a friction between the two men, some indefinable thing that lurked and hovered in the air.

  Then that, too, was gone. Percy moved on. Elise realized that Will Marshal had come to the head table, escorting a lovely young woman, and that he was introducing her to Percy as his new bride.

  She felt Bryan Stede’s eyes upon her again and she reached convulsively for the wine goblet, only to find his long-fingered grip there before hers. She raised her eyes to his.

  “I’m surprised that you did not ask for your betrothed to be seated near you, Duchess.”

  Elise ignored the comment and said, “Sir Stede, if you wish to assure yourself that your wine is not poisoned, may I suggest that you let go of the goblet and allow me a drink?”

  He did so, but he continued to stare at her. She took a long sip of wine, not relinquishing the goblet to him.

  “Where is your betrothed this evening, Sir Stede?”

  “Alas, still in London. And alas, she is not my betrothed as of yet. Richard intends to allow me no time until after he is crowned.”

  “Ah, what a pity!” Elise commiserated sarcastically. “Our soon-to-be-crowned king keeps you on pins and needles! And so I still outrank you, sir! How that must frustrate you! Land and wealth . . . so close . . . within your grasp!”

  “Land—and sweet beauty!” he reminded her with his grin unaltered.

  “It would indeed be a pity if it all slipped through your fingers,” Elise murmured sweetly.

  He leaned closer to her. “But it will not. And with each day that passes, I come nearer my goals. Take heart!”

  “Me? Whatever for?”

  “Because each day we come closer to that day when we can part our ways. To a day when I shall not be tempted to strangle you because I will not be close enough to do so . . .”

  Elise smiled sweetly and drained the wine goblet. “Oh, yes, Sir Stede, I do take heart. I do.”

  There was to be no more conversation between them then. Marshal—a changed and radiantly smiling Marshal—greeted them both. His young bride, Isabel de Clare, was a soft-spoken and gentle beauty. She appeared to be happy with her warrior husband, and Elise felt a touch of wistful envy sweep through her.

  Isabel was young and very attractive. But though her marriage had been arranged, she had been granted one of the kindest and most considerate men ever to draw brave steel for his king. While she . . .

  She could only pray that Percy kept his own counsel—at least until her own plans were complete.

  * * *

  The trouble did not begin until the meal was long over, until the musicians had played, until the assembled guests had applauded and cheered.

  Elise had paused to talk longer with Isabel and Will Marshal. They had been married a little more than a week ago, and both were pleased to speak of their London wedding. Elise instinctively liked Isabel. She was an intelligent and quiet woman, perfect for Elise’s dear Will. And when Elise listened to the happy chatter about the wedding, she could truly forget her own situation and be warmed by the pleasure she felt for the newly wed pair.

  It was when she exited the hall into the courtyard, poised and relaxed, that she was startled into instant alarm by the sound of a surly voice, arguing too loudly from the shade of a far arbor.

  “’Twas you, Stede! And you’d no right to take what was mine. You owe me a debt—”

  “What I took belonged to no one but the lady involved. And that was little enough, Percy, for her heart remained steadfast to you.”

  Elise cringed inwardly, looking anxiously about herself. Percy’s voice was rising with each word. But even as dread filled her like something horribly alive, she realized that only she, Will, and Isabel stood within the courtyard to hear the exchange between the two formally dressed knights.

  “You raped her—”

  Hoarse laughter interrupted Percy. “Is that what she said? Perhaps she forgot to explain the circumstances. I tell you this; I acted as I did with no knowledge of your concern with the lady. The situation was . . . unique.”

  “You will apologize! You will beg my pardon, and you will pay me a compensation for what—”

  “I will beg your pardon for nothing, Percy Montagu!” Bryan suddenly raged with impatience.

  Percy has drunk far too much, Elise thought with alarm as she watched him swing wildly at Stede. Bryan Stede stepped back, and Percy fell to the ground. But he was up quickly, wielding a dagger this time.

  They were in full view now, free from the shadow of the arbor. Stede knocked Percy’s arm away when the dagger would have torn into his arm. Then he stepped forward with his fingers wound into a fist and took steady aim at Percy’s chin. Percy crumpled to the floor.

  Elise forgot all about Will and Isabel; she even forgot about Stede. As Percy fell to the hard stone of the courtyard, she raced to him, dropping to her knees. Cradling his head in her lap, she stared furiously up to Stede.

  “Beast!”

  It was one of those times that his eyes appeared black: deep, dark, and fathomless. He started to speak, then shrugged his shoulders.

  “You do owe him!” Elise charged. “You had no right to . . . to . . .”

  “I did not begin the quarrel.”

  “You could have had the decency—”

  “To allow him to stab me? My apologies, Duchess. Perhaps I am a beast. My instinct to survive is too strong for me to act the gallant in such a situation.”

  Elise glanced back to Percy as he groaned. She smoothed his hair from his forehead, biting her lip as she anxiously ran her fingers over his flesh, searching out serious injury. “You did defend me,” she murmured tenderly, barely aware that she had spoken aloud.

  Stede laughed, a sound that was harsh and bitter.

  “Defended you? Duchess, the ‘apology’ he wanted was a monetary one.”

  Elise glanced up quickly. “You’re lying!” she charged, but her voice was a weak whis
per; she had already learned ideals and truths often did not mesh.

  Stede never answered. Percy’s eyes opened and stared at her, numbed with wine and pain.

  “Stede . . . has the rewards. The prize is always his . . .”

  “I’m not his, Percy,” Elise said softly. “And I’m not a prize.”

  “But you were . . .” His voice faded away as his eyes met Stede’s, far above him. “He is always first. And he never seeks to rectify.”

  “What would you have me rectify, Percy?” Bryan demanded in exasperation, throwing his hands up.

  “Elise . . .”

  “Elise?” Bryan’s arms crossed over his chest and he stared at her, his dark eyes narrowed, but his stance patient, his tone polite. Elise found herself unable to speak under his scrutiny, and Bryan returned his gaze to Percy. “Perhaps she should explain what happened to you in greater detail. I did not ride to Montoui and snatch her away. Indeed, the duchess presented herself to me with a most intriguing lie upon her lips.” His piercing gaze was riveted on Elise once again. “Do you deny this, my lady? If so, please speak. I am open to debate on any point.”

  “Elise?” Percy queried painfully.

  She did not answer Percy; she spoke to Stede. “Before God, how I loathe you!”

  He shrugged. “Duchess, you have not exactly endeared yourself to my heart. I make no accusations; you and I both know to what I refer.” His eyes turned back to Percy, and Elise hated the pity she saw within them. “But on that, I can say nothing more. It is her affair if she wishes to speak of it. Quite frankly, I am still in the dark myself. But every move I made that night was rational; I will offer no apologies. But take heart, Sir Percy. She despises me. And she is apparently deeply in love with you.”

  “In love!” Percy choked, and the bitterness spilled from him like wine from an overfull cup. “Stede—”