Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  A throat was suddenly cleared, intentionally loud. Elise gazed quickly back toward Will Marshal, and realized that the sound had indeed been a warning.

  Richard Plantagenet was striding into the courtyard, his bearing, his swagger, that of the truly irritated ruler.

  “God’s teeth! I would know what goes on here!”

  No one spoke. Richard’s sharp gaze lit upon Percy, down upon the ground, upon Elise, and upon Bryan. Bryan compressed his lips in a tight line. Will Marshal, seeing that the debacle was reaching a dangerously explosive level, stepped forward.

  “Your Grace, it is nothing. A personal quarrel that sirs Stede and Montagu must settle between themselves.”

  “Damn you both!” Richard roared. He had a voice to fill the courtyard, and he enjoyed the pageantry of using it. “We seek to bring a peaceful transition to England—and two of my most valued knights tear at each other’s throats. Whose quarrel is this?”

  Stede remained silent. Percy spoke up sullenly. “’Tis my quarrel, Your Grace.”

  “Do you wish to challenge Sir Stede to a joust, or perhaps to swordplay?”

  Elise, so close to Percy, both heard and felt the grind of his teeth. He stood, helping her rise to her feet. For a moment, he gazed bitterly at Stede. Then he turned to Richard.

  “No, Your Grace. You will need us both in the days to come.”

  Richard graced them all with his angry lion’s stare. “Then we will hear no more of this. Sir Percy, I commend your good sense. If I hear of further trouble, you will both enjoy a taste of a cold London dungeon until you can learn to cool your tempers. Am I well understood?”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Percy mumbled.

  “Stede!” Richard barked.

  “’Twas never my quarrel, Your Grace.” He stared at Elise for a moment, then returned his attention to Richard. “I bear Sir Percy no grudge.”

  Richard had nothing else to say. With a final, heated stare at the group of them, he swung about, his mantle flying majestically, to return to the manor.

  Will, fearing more trouble despite Richard’s stern warnings, came hurriedly to Bryan Stede’s side. “Bryan—”

  “I’m coming, Will.” He inclined his head to Elise, and then to Percy. “Duchess . . . Sir Montagu . . .”

  Will began to breathe a sigh of relief. But before he and Bryan had taken two steps, Percy was railing against Bryan again.

  “I’ll kill you yet, Stede.”

  Will felt his friend’s muscle-hewn form stiffen; Bryan stopped in his tracks and turned back, but mercifully did not lose his temper.

  “You and the duchess have much in common, Percy—a penchant for threats, and a fondness for murder. I wish you every happiness, and yet I pity you if you plan to spend your lives in pursuit of my downfall. Life should offer more than such a paltry quest.”

  Bryan Stede swept them a deep bow, turned about, and started to follow in Richard’s footsteps with Will Marshal now at his heels. Isabel glanced uncertainly at her new husband’s back, hesitated, then came to Elise.

  “Please . . . don’t worry. Will and I shall take none of this further than the courtyard in which we stand.” She smiled, then swirled gracefully to follow Will.

  Then Elise was alone with Percy. He rubbed his jaw, and his eyes met hers ruefully. “I’m sorry, Elise,” he murmured, and she wondered what he meant. Was he sorry for the scene that humiliated them all before the king? Was he, perhaps, sorry that he hadn’t the nerve to challenge Stede to a joust? Or was he sorry because he had wanted to love her, and had simply discovered he could not?

  He grasped her hand and drew it to his lips. “I’m so very, very sorry.”

  But she was never to understand him, because he turned then, not for the manor, but for the emptiness of the black night.

  She wanted to call him back, to say something, to do something; to reach out in some way and try to understand all that she had lost—and why. But, like the night, her heart seemed empty and dark, and she could neither move nor speak.

  She could only watch him walk away.

  * * *

  “Lord, how I would love to confront that whey-faced Norman in a joust!” Bryan swore loudly, his boots pounding in staccato progression as he paced the floor in the London town house lent to Will and Isabel by friends. “The man looks and acts like a peacock! He accosts me—but refuses to challenge me!”

  Will glanced at Isabel, who grimaced sedately and poured another cup of wine for their guest. Will sighed and, as Bryan’s longtime companion, ventured his truthful opinion.

  “Bryan, you can hardly blame Percy for his animosity!”

  Bryan stopped his pacing and stared at Will, his hands on his hips. “Maybe I don’t blame Percy. At least I don’t blame him for anything other than cowardice! I blame the bitch he calls his betrothed! Were she capable of a single word of truth! Or were she capable of a discussion! But no—she poisons my wine! I swear to you, Will, the night we met, she tried with all her might to slit my throat. Then she comes to me, on her knees, no less . . . God in heaven! What did I ever do to get involved with that woman!”

  Will had the audacity to laugh. “Well, my friend, I would say that at one point it must have surely been your desire to . . . get involved with that woman!”

  Bryan glared balefully at Will. “I begin to hunger for the Crusade—and a thousand screaming Moslems with their swords waving at me.”

  “Perhaps,” Isabel spoke up, her tone soft and soothing, but her words a knife that twisted and goaded his anger, “you should have asked to marry the Duchess of Montoui.”

  “Marry her!” Bryan exploded. “Dear God, that the devil should suffer such a fate!” But then he sighed. “Isabel, I am no more a monster than Will, here. When I knew what I had done, the thought did cross my mind. But ’tis true she vehemently wishes me dead, and ’tis equally true—as you saw this evening—that she is in love with Sir Percy. I kept silent about that night, as did she—or so I had believed. I meant her no further harm. She is betrothed to Percy, and I . . . I hope that Gwyneth and I will soon say our vows. If I truly owe a woman, it is Gwyneth I owe, for we have known each other for many years now.”

  Isabel listened to Bryan, offered him the cup of wine, then spoke serenely again. “I don’t know, Bryan. Your anger is curious to me, as was your expression when you watched the Lady Elise give tender concern to Sir Percy.” She gazed at Will, her features set in a soft smile that enhanced her young beauty. “I have come to know that expression well, Will. Do you know of what I speak?”

  Will grinned broadly at his wife, then glanced slyly at Bryan. “Aye, Isabel, I know of what you speak.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned if I understand either of you!” Bryan exclaimed.

  Isabel laughed delightedly, and Bryan discovered that he envied his friend his newfound happiness. Marriage, yes, this was what marriage was meant to be. This pleasant understanding, this wonder of knowing each other. This marriage had been arranged, yet it might not have been, for the stalwart warrior and the young heiress were truly well matched.

  “Bryan, if I am any judge of men and women, you do not so much despise Percy Montagu as covet what is his—or will be his.”

  “What?”

  “’Tis my belief you yet desire the duchess.”

  “Lady Isabel,” Bryan said with a long sigh, “I fear that marriage has caused you to take leave of your senses.” He shook his head, then chuckled. “Perhaps not. She is a creature of beauty and allure. But she touches the senses, and not the heart, for she is hard and proud. Yes, maybe I desire her—as man was meant to desire woman. But I assure you, I do mean her no harm. I pray that she and Percy marry and live happily as long as they both shall live.”

  Isabel shrugged. “Think on this, Sir Stede. What you wish for them may not be possible. I believe that Sir Percy is very jealous of you. You both fought, but you and Will were Henry’s favorites. Already Richard draws you to him, and relies upon you. Now you have taken something else from Per
cy.”

  “What? A single night with a woman? Then Percy is an idiot, for life is composed of many nights.”

  “You heard him,” Isabel said softly. “You were first. To Percy, this means something. And you know well, Bryan Stede, that most men would feel the same. Men may wander where they will, but they expect their brides to come to their marital bed as virgins.”

  Bryan listened to Isabel’s words and smiled thoughtfully at her. He stepped forward, took her hands in his, and kissed each palm lightly. “Truly,” he told her, “had Will scoured the earth, he could have found no woman more lovely, or more wise. Will, my heartiest congratulations to you both.”

  He embraced Will, then turned to leave them.

  “Bryan!” Will called after him. “’Tis late! Stay the night here!”

  “Nay, I cannot stay.” Bryan grinned. “Your happiness would haunt me to insanity. And I must return to the manor. Richard has demanded that I meet with him in Sir Matthew’s study at the crack of dawn.”

  “Godspeed!” Isabel called after him.

  Bryan waved, then departed. Will and Isabel soon heard the pounding hooves of his destrier as he rode away, his horse’s gallop as wild as the anger in his heart.

  Will sighed. “It is painful . . .” he murmured.

  “Because they are both your dear friends,” Isabel said.

  “Yes.”

  “My lord, they are both proud, and both are possessed of tempestuous natures. They are fighters, and therefore they must wage their own battles.”

  “You are right, wife,” Will murmured, taking her into his arms. The feel of her soft, curved body against his made his thoughts of worry and concern begin to fade. He had been blessed with this woman, beautiful, caring, wise . . .

  And passionate.

  And he was so new to marriage . . .

  His lips touched hers with wonder, and when he looked into her eyes again, his own were dazed.

  “We cannot interfere,” he murmured. But already he had forgotten what it was he spoke of. He lifted her into his arms and began to blow out the candles.

  * * *

  But there was someone who did intend to interfere—fully.

  Eleanor was up and gone when Elise awoke. She rose, still weary despite her night’s sleep, and poured water from a pitcher into a bowl. She had barely washed her face before a knock sounded on the door, and a serving girl entered, bobbing a curtsy.

  “Good morning, Lady Elise. His Grace, Richard Plantagenet. . .” The girl hesitated, and Elise frowned curiously, then realized that the girl was having trouble repeating Richard’s words. The girl sighed, then continued. “His Majesty commands you to come to Sir Matthew’s study, beyond the banqueting hall.”

  Elise stiffened, wondering what was afoot. Commands . . . commands! This was not an invitation, but a royal summons.

  “I shall be down immediately,” Elise promised the girl with a composure that belied her quaking heart. The serving girl bobbed her way out, apparently relieved that her message had been well taken.

  What have I done? Elise wondered, worry furrowing into her brow as soon as the girl was gone. Nothing, she had done nothing. And Richard was her half brother! He was fond of her . . .

  He was Richard—“Coeur de Lion.” He was stretching his arms, flexing the muscles of power. He had battled his own father for years and years . . .

  And he was about to be crowned King.

  He was power, the supreme power . . .

  With dread filling her heart, Elise dressed quickly, then hurried downstairs. The banqueting hall was empty; despite the early hour, the servants had long ago cleaned away the mess of the previous evening.

  Double, heavy wood doors framed the study off the side of the hall. Elise hesitated before them, trying to still her pounding heart. She was the Duchess of Montoui. She had done nothing wrong. She was Richard’s own blood . . .

  She forced herself to knock soundly.

  “Enter!”

  It was the Lion-Heart’s voice. He was in a rare mood for roaring. Elise held her head high, then entered the room.

  Richard was seated behind Sir Surrey’s worktable, a score of ledgers and parchments before him. He glanced at her, and his gaze was impersonal, sending new shivers to plague her spine. Elise noted that Eleanor was ensconced in an elaborately carved, high-backed chair near the table. Eleanor smiled vaguely at her. Elise approached the desk as Richard shuffled and arranged the parchments upon his desk.

  What was this? Elise wondered fleetingly. Whatever, at least it would involve only herself, Richard, and Eleanor.

  Or so she was lulled into believing at first. But then she heard a faint sound behind her, the soft shuffle of a boot. She spun about to see that they were not, after all, alone.

  Bryan Stede stood by the mantel, an elbow casually leaning against it, his stance that of the knight who could relax, and yet always be alert. He was dressed formally; his fine linen tunic was a deep blue; his mantle was a shade darker, and flowed over a single shoulder. The rigidity drawn into his handsome features was severe; his expression was anything but casual. And his eyes seemed neither blue nor black; they appeared to burn with all the fires of hell.

  XIII

  “I am a busy man,” Richard began without rising, or without seeming to pay attention to anyone in the room. His eyes were focused on the parchments before him. Elise realized curiously that the parchments he studied were land deeds.

  At last Richard looked up; his eyes slid over Elise, then focused beyond her on Bryan Stede. “I have come to England to claim my crown, but I have never been unaware that there are those who believe that I hounded my father to the grave. I have matters of great importance stretching before me. When the crown sits indisputably upon my head, I will have to turn my concentration to finances. When I solve my financial difficulties, I will have to plan for God’s glorious battle and forge forward to recapture the Holy Land.”

  Richard went on to emphasize the trials and tribulations of a young monarch. Elise chanced a glance at Eleanor, but the queen merely nodded and continued to watch Richard.

  “ . . . therefore,” Richard was continuing, “I find it expedient to settle the petty matters of quarrels, titles, lands, and marriages—now. Stede!”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Elise could not see Bryan Stede, but she knew that he did not flinch at Richard’s tone.

  “Rumors concerning you and the Lady Elise have reached my attention. What have you to say?”

  Only seconds elapsed before Bryan answered, but those seconds seemed a lifetime to Elise. She could feel Bryan’s eyes upon her back as if they emanated true heat and burned her with the force of his anger. She wanted to shrink before Richard because it was all so humiliating. She didn’t want other people to know, especially Richard. Then there was the knowledge that she had brought this all about, that her carefully planned words to Eleanor had been absurd and foolish . . .

  “Tell me the rumor, Your Grace, and I will tell you if it is true or false.”

  “Did you rape her?”

  Elise held perfectly still, wishing that she could melt away and die rather than endure the heavy echo of Richard’s words, which seemed to ricochet about the room. Again, Stede hesitated, a slight pause, but one that seemed to compel her. She did not want to turn around and face him, but she did turn, and his eyes were upon her.

  “That, Your Grace, is something I believe the lady in question must answer.” He gazed at her, coldly, politely. Expectantly. “Duchess?”

  She wanted to leave—to leave the chamber, to leave the manor, to leave England. She wanted to go back in time, to pretend that she had never seen Bryan Stede’s handsome features, had never known his name.

  “Elise!” Richard thundered out.

  She wanted to lower her head; she wanted to strike the Lion-Heart for humiliating her so. She could not allow her head to fall; she had to hold fast to her pride.

  “Truly, Your Grace . . .” she began, stalling as
she prayed for an answer to come to mind. She could say yes, and to her heart it would be the truth. But yes would demand explanations, and Richard, being a man, might well feel Stede’s actions justified. “This matter is not one that should consume your precious time—”

  “Then let’s not allow it to consume more time than it needs!” Richard snapped.

  “It can be of little importance—”

  “Elise, it is surely of importance to you, else my mother would never have been involved. Now, I would like an answer.”

  So Eleanor had been the one. Dear God, she thought, Richard had just condemned her in Bryan’s eyes, and she had never made the final decision to hang him. But she had set the wheels turning, and now the decision had been taken from her. Or had it? Was this a court of inquiry? Were she and Bryan both on trial? Or had the sentences already been passed down.

  Elise felt Bryan step forward. Heat seemed to fill the air about him, and she was tempted to move away, as if her flesh feared the scorching of a fire.

  For a terrible moment she wanted to scream. She wanted to cast herself down to Eleanor’s knees and beg that she only be allowed to go home. She had wanted revenge. And, ruled by that savage obsession, what had she done?

  “The Duchess of Montoui seems to have difficulty speaking this morning, which is most rare for her, Your Grace,” Bryan said easily. “But, therefore, I shall do my best to answer the question. Did I rape her? It was never my intent. She said things that led me to believe she was other than innocent. Did I compromise her value as a titled and landed duchess? Yes, Your Grace. But not with evil intent. The night upon which we met was heavy with heartache and confusion, and the duchess, I believe, felt herself prevailed upon to play a role that led me to think her . . . not adverse to a liaison.”

  It was true. She had gone to him on her knees; she had told him that she had been Henry’s mistress. Not a word that he had said had been a lie . . .

  “God’s blood, Bryan!” Richard said irritably, but Elise could tell that he was not angry with Bryan Stede, merely perplexed by the situation created. “The countryside is laden with eager peasant women, and you . . . never mind. Bryan, you deserved to have been rewarded royally for your never-failing loyalty to the Crown. You held fast to my father; you have proven yourself to me.” Richard paused in his tirade for a moment and scratched his golden beard. “’Tis known that you and Gwyneth have long been lovers, but Gwyneth was no innocent lass when you met. Tell me, when you knew of this situation”—Richard indicated Elise in a way that made her long to crack the bull heads of the two men together—“did it not occur to you that you should have offered marriage to the duchess?”