Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  Bryan laughed, and Elise thought angrily that they might have been enjoying idle banter about the “fair” sex while they awaited a call to the battlefield.

  “Your Grace, the thought did enter my mind. But by her own word, the duchess was determined to marry where she would. I felt I had no right to stop her.”

  “Had you not thought of issue from the alliance?”

  “Yes; she assured me there would be none.”

  They were talking about her as if she were a horse one might think of buying. Elise had to keep reminding herself that Richard was the supreme power in the land, and that if he so chose, he could take everything from her. One did not throw things at the Lion-Heart or fly with flashing nails at his face to attempt to gouge out his eyes. Not if one wanted to continue living with one’s limbs, health, and property.

  Richard’s eyes fell upon her, and Elise faced him squarely. She tried to remind him with her aquamarine gaze that she was his sister, that she was his blood, that he had no right to treat her as property as he did now.

  But Richard’s eyes remained impassive. “Stede, you leave me in a quandary, for you have bedded both women. But I do not believe that, as of this date, the Lady Elise can guarantee either of us that no issue could result from your time together. Gwyneth . . . is a more worldly woman. And with her wealth, she will be eagerly accepted by any man. I am afraid that I can no longer give her to you, Bryan.”

  Richard gazed back to his parchments. Elise felt one wild, triumphant moment; she had taken something from Stede—something inestimably dear.

  But at what price?

  Richard looked up once again, at Elise and at Bryan. “Sir Bryan Stede, it is my decision that you and the Lady Elise will be married. I shall set the date as . . . the night before the coronation. I shall need you that night, and, of course, for the coronation, but then I shall give you time, as I did with Marshal, to acquaint yourselves with marriage.”

  Water, like the great rush of a flooding stream, seemed to gush coldly about Elise. The rushing pounded in her ears. Hadn’t she thought of this? Almost planned it herself? It had never seemed so horrible until this moment. Until Stede stood behind her, and she felt his anger, boiling into that cascading stream of water that threatened to send her to her knees...

  “Here, Stede, come about!” Richard demanded, tapping on the parchment upon his table. “I shall not allow you to lose by this marriage. Elise already had Montoui, but see here. These lands . . . they stretch out beside those that belong to Gwyneth. The territory is even larger, if I have been advised correctly. Once they belonged to old Sir Harold, but Harold died that last week of battle in Normandy. I had scholars check the records carefully so that none be offended, and the records proved that Harold and Sir William—Elise’s father—were distant cousins, from the time of William the Conqueror. Possession of these lands, Bryan, will make you not only the Duke of Montoui, but the Earl of Saxonby, and Lord of the lower coastal counties.” Richard glanced up at Stede, pride and boyish pleasure etched clearly into his features. “I believe, Sir Stede, that you shall be more greatly rewarded than it might have otherwise been.”

  Elise could barely remain standing. Tremors that could rattle the earth seemed to grow within her; it was all too ironic, too unjust! Stede was still to be rewarded—through her!

  Bryan was bent over the parchment, but he raised his head then, and his eyes met Elise’s.

  There were so many things in that indigo gaze. Triumph. Anger. Mockery. Laughter . . .

  Elise stepped forward, bowing before Richard. “Your Grace, this is not necessary. Sir Stede and I are hardly compatible, and since his relationship with the Lady Gwyneth has been one long established—”

  Richard stood, towering to his full height. He glanced at Eleanor, smiled, then turned to Elise. “I find my resolution to this matter completely satisfactory.”

  “Montoui is mine!” Elise snapped out recklessly. “And I despise Sir Bryan Stede!”

  Perhaps she had, at last, reminded Richard that she was his father’s daughter. His features, though impatient, gentled. “I do not take Montoui from you, Elise. I merely give a husband with whom to share the responsibility. And women are blessed with fickle natures. Surely you will reconcile yourself quickly. This marriage, Duchess, is of your own making.”

  “No!” Elise protested, “Richard, I shall never reconcile myself!” she continued, not caring that she spoke to Richard, or that Bryan stood before her, hearing her every word. “What of Gwyneth?” she demanded. “She has a far greater claim upon this man than I!” An hour ago, she would have been pleased to see “poor Gwyneth” go hang—as long as it was without Stede.

  “Gwyneth shall have Percy Montagu. He is young, deserving, and in need of land. I think they shall be quite compatible. The matter is settled. Now may I return to my damnable and eternal quest for coinage!”

  Elise, not bothering to ask Richard’s leave, spun about sharply on her heels and strode toward the door.

  “Elise!” Richard thundered after her.

  She turned slowly and dropped a grudging curtsy to him. “Your Grace?”

  “You will remember that I am the king!”

  “I have not forgotten.”

  Elise’s gaze fell to Eleanor, who remained silently watching the scene, her sharp, dark eyes fathomless. What have you done to me! she wanted to shout.

  But Eleanor’s gaze was upon Richard, and Elise realized that she had pushed the fledgling king far enough. The Lion-Heart could not allow himself to be humiliated by a woman. If she didn’t control her temper until she was no longer in his audience, he could strip her completely of lands. The slender thread of her relationship to him was good only so long as she obeyed him; kings had been known to kill when bloodlines interfered with their absolute dominion.

  I did this myself, she reminded herself. Yes! So that Stede might lose . . .

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Elise said with a bow. And with a dignity she clung to tenaciously, she exited the chamber.

  * * *

  The country surrounding Sir Matthew’s manor was beautiful. Summer blanketed the land with rich greenery and a profusion of colors as wildflowers bloomed over the sloping hills and within the thickets and forests.

  Elise saddled her own horse despite the offers of assistance from Sir Matthew’s anxious grooms. She knew there was consternation among them because she chose to ride out alone, but she could not be stopped. In part, because she did not care what happened to her. And in part because she simply could not bear to remain at the manor when she was so furious, her spirit torn, her last illusion at an end.

  The morning sun touched down upon her and the wind ripped through her hair. Far beyond the pastureland where sheep bleated and grazed, a stream quivered beneath the golden rays of morning, and it was to this compelling ribbon of silver that Elise found herself riding.

  Her mare was interested in nothing but the long, damp grasses that grew in thick swatches by the water’s edge. Elise allowed her to wander where she would.

  Careless of her fine linen tunic, Elise cast off her shoes and inched out into the water. A boulder made flat by centuries of the running water beckoned her, and she waded out to it, stretching herself out upon its length and allowing the sun to ripple over her, and warm her.

  What a fool she had been. Her title . . . her relationship to Richard—all meant nothing. Castles were prizes; lands were prizes—women were prizes. She was no different from any other woman.

  I did speak to Eleanor, I did play with this idea as a means of cutting Stede to the quick . . .

  Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, she reminded herself bitterly. How ironic, how very true. She had committed herself to a living hell because she had been fool enough to believe in herself.

  Now it was done. Stede would not have Gwyneth. But he would have half of Cornwall because of some distant relative of her own adoptive father . . .

  It was a travesty, a travesty of all that Henry h
ad taught her.

  Elise closed her eyes tightly against the sun. What did she do now? Appeal to the Pope—and risk Richard’s wrath. Richard would soon be gone on his Crusade, and, surely, nothing else would matter to him. Richard didn’t really care for anything but his Crusade. Once he was gone . . .

  When he was gone, Stede would be gone. Perhaps to meet a Saracen blade and die. Did she really wish his death?

  No. Chinon had taught her about death. About blood and broken bodies. For all the hate that she had harbored within her, she suddenly wanted peace. She had lost Percy. More than Percy, she had lost the dream of love. But it was done; nothing could be changed. By seeking to fight the world, she had done herself nothing but harm.

  “I want to go home . . .” she heard herself whisper aloud. She had entered an arena believing she knew how to play the game; she now realized sadly that she had known nothing. Youth and pain had caused her to fight, and she had lost. Now she could only pray that the passing years brought her more wisdom, and a greater temperance.

  Was there no way out of this? She could refuse to take her vows. To what end? Eleanor had defied Henry—and spent sixteen years of life imprisoned. Could Richard be so callous?

  Elise became so lost in dismal thoughts that she didn’t hear the destrier draw near, nor did she hear anything at all until some slight movement warned her of a presence. She opened her eyes and discovered Bryan Stede staring down at her.

  The water of the stream came to his calf-high boots; as was so often his custom, he stood with his hands on his hips, as if he were ever ready to draw his sword.

  But he appeared speculative rather than angry now, and she was far too wretched to fear him.

  Elise gazed into his eyes, then closed her own wearily once again. “Why are you here?” she asked him tonelessly.

  “Why?”

  She could not see him, but she knew by instinct that one dark brow had arched. “Duchess, that should be obvious. It seems to me that we have a great deal to discuss.”

  “There is little I can think of to say to you,” Elise murmured flatly. She started as the calloused tip of his thumb grazed over her cheek, and her eyes flew open once again.

  “Elise, this is your doing.”

  “No—”

  “Duchess, I am not hard of hearing. You went to Eleanor—and God alone knows what you told her.”

  “I did not intend this,” Elise said uneasily. The temptation was strong to flinch from his touch; it was not a sense of bravado, but rather one of exhaustion, that kept her from doing so.

  He smiled, but the curve of his lip was bitter. “For once, I believe you. You intended merely to darken my image before Eleanor—and deprive me of a future.”

  “You do not deserve a rich future.”

  “But, alas! It seems I am to have one.”

  Moments ago, she had wanted peace. But Sir Bryan Stede had a remarkable talent for irritating her.

  “It is still in the future,” she said coolly, smoothly sliding her legs beneath her so that she cast off his touch and sat an arm’s distance from him. “So much in this world is uncertain! Lightning can strike at any time. We speak of a date three weeks away! I could well drop dead in that time, and I’m quite sure I’ve more distant cousins in Normandy willing to make a claim to my estates—”

  She broke off with a startled gasp as he gripped her shoulders, not painfully, but forcefully firm. His eyes held hers with an indigo intensity that startled and frightened.

  “You’re not thinking of anything foolish?” he demanded harshly.

  “Foolish?” Elise repeated, confused and unnerved. Then she laughed dryly. “Do you mean as in taking my own life, Sir Stede? You flatter yourself. You are not worth dying for—or because of!”

  “Then,” he said softly, “do as Richard told you—reconcile yourself to the future.”

  “Are you reconciled, Stede?” she demanded.

  He smiled at her, but once more the look upon his face was chilling. “Reconciled, Duchess? How could I not be? You bring to me a greater wealth than I had ever imagined.”

  “Wealth!” Elise exclaimed angrily, wrenching her shoulders from his grasp. “Do you care for nothing else? What of Gwyneth? Just two nights ago you went to her! To be with her. You had planned your life with her, yet today Richard says jump, and you discard her! What of life, Stede? What of the years, the days and the nights, that go on and on as those years unfold? Tell me, Stede. What of Gwyneth?”

  A tic had begun in the faint blue line of a vein within the strong column of his neck. She was sorely testing a temper that was as explosive as fire, but she didn’t care.

  “Gwyneth,” he said, with his voice remarkably controlled, “is going to marry Sir Percy. And you tell me, Duchess—what happened to this great love affair between the two of you? Where did he fit in with your plans for revenge?”

  Elise lowered her eyes, but she did not hide her eyes quickly enough, for he began to laugh. “This is wonderful! You decided to take me because the great and noble Percy turned his back on you! And you talk to me of love! What an affair yours must have been!”

  “Once—before you—it was a wonderful affair. Full of dreams and belief in the years to follow! I never decided I wanted you, Stede! I don’t want you. I don’t want anything to do with you—”

  “You have a remarkable way of showing such things. But despite all of the things you’ve done to me—”

  “The things I’ve done to you!”

  “Poison, to name one,” he reminded her drolly.

  “I did not—oh, never mind! This is a useless conversation.”

  “I do mind. I mind very much. This is not going to be a useless conversation because you’re going to get a few things straight.”

  “I am?” Elise queried coldly.

  “You do try my tolerance, Elise,” he warned her softly, and despite the heat of the sun, she felt suddenly cold from the touch of the stream that washed about her toes. She gazed longingly at the shoreline, and thought of standing to wade quickly there—away from him. Would he dare accost her here, with the manor so close that it could be seen?

  “Had you but come to me,” she heard him tell her, “I would have wed you without a royal command—and this travesty of an appearance before Richard and Eleanor. I think that’s what angers me the most. You railed to me about how you despised me, and I tried to let you be. Then, behind my back, you cozen the queen and cry out to her as if you had been nothing but a sweet, totally innocent victim.”

  “I was an innocent victim!”

  He raised his brows politely. “Henry’s mistress? Hardly innocent, my dear duchess. You neglected to tell Eleanor that you were running from Chinon, and that you had Henry’s ring in your possession. I’m quite sure you refrained from telling her that you had aimed a dagger at my throat and, in your own castle, poisoned the wine given a guest.”

  “I’m telling you for the last time, Stede, that I did not poison your wine! But since you feel that you must constantly fear for your life in my presence, wouldn’t it be wise to go to Richard? If we both refuse to marry—”

  He started to laugh again, casting a foot upon the boulder beside her and leaning an elbow upon his knee. “Duchess, I was angry. Very angry. I don’t like to be forced to do anything. But this is your marital bed, and you will lie in it!”

  The shore beckoned her with an ever greater charisma. Elise gazed at Stede with a black rage filling her heart. They were discussing their lives, and he found it all amusing. His stance was relaxed and casual and the idea of marriage didn’t bother him at all; he might despise her, but as long as she came with a title, wealth, and land, his opinion of her was of no importance.

  Elise smiled suddenly, seeing that his position was a little too relaxed. “My marital bed, Sir Stede? I assure you, I shall never lie in it.” With those positive words, she stood and planted her palms sweetly against the breadth of his chest. Before his eyes had fully narrowed with suspicion, she pushed him with
all her strength, and received the satisfaction of seeing him flounder, almost catch his balance, but then topple backward into the stream.

  And she was ready. She made a wild spurt for the shoreline, careless of her bare feet over the pebble-strewn bed of the stream. She knew that she could move like mercury when she chose.

  But she had underestimated Stede—a mistake she had made once too often, she reminded herself woefully as she felt the strength of his fingers wind around her ankle. She had almost touched upon the mossy bank when a gasp tore itself from her throat and she found herself falling, wrenched cleanly into the air, and then crashing down hard into the shallow stream. She sputtered as the water filled her mouth and trickled into her lungs, and at first she could think only of the need to breathe.

  His fingers tangled into the wings of her hair, bringing her face above the surface, but even as she coughed and wheezed for breath, he straddled over her in the water.

  “Let’s get back to the conversation, Duchess. I had other plans for my life; you changed them. We will be married the day before the coronation. You are young, and I can forgive what has happened in the past. I am willing to make an effort at this thing, even though it angers me how you have gone about it. I swear to you that I’ll hold no malice for what has been, but I’ll also warn you that if you use violence or trickery against me in any form again, I’ll retaliate in kind. You will be my wife, and it is quite within the law for a husband to flay his wife within an inch of her life. Heed my warning, and we shall get along fine. Doubt it, and—”

  “I have never doubted your capability for violence,” Elise said, shivering miserably within his grasp.