Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  He muttered an impatient oath, but something in her eyes held him from further speech. They were wide and unfaltering upon his, and as beautifully crystal clear as the aquamarine water of the rushing stream that sparkled all about them. He felt her shaking, and he saw the pain that strained her fragile features. What was she? he wondered suddenly. The sweet and sheltered beauty Marshal seemed to think her? Torn and twisted by loss and the events about her? Or was she truly a witch by nature, clever enough to use her face and form to her advantage when the need arose. She continued to deny that she had poisoned him. . . . But, by God! He had been poisoned . . . in her home.

  He sighed, suddenly very weary himself. So often one little wrong led to another that a tree became a forest filled with the webs of deceit and misunderstanding. She had loved—and apparently still did love—Percy Montagu. And the bastard had hurt her royally with his admission of his priorities. Which was truly ironic now, since Percy would still be wedding a woman who had already been Bryan’s. But when Percy had refused to wed Elise, she had been nowhere near as wealthy as she was now that Richard had taken a hand in things. Being a natural cynic, Bryan was certain that Percy would have little difficulty accepting Gwyneth. Next to Isabel de Clare, and now Elise, Gwyneth was the richest heiress in the land.

  Briefly, Bryan closed his eyes. It was true. Just two nights ago he had been with Gwyneth. Felt her enveloping warmth, enjoyed her laughter and her love of life. And of him . . .

  Pain . . . regret . . . remorse—all tugged upon his conscience and his heart. He had imagined a pleasurable life. As a knight he would ride to battle; but there would have been a home to return to. A welcoming hearth, and the sweeter heat of a loving wife. Eager and pleased to greet him each time he returned to his home . . .

  But instead of Gwyneth, he was to have this virago. He would never know what she was up to behind his back; he would never be able to eat or drink in his own home without wondering . . .

  She is bringing me not only Montoui, but half of Cornwall, he reminded himself. And despite himself, he could not forget the night that had brought about all the events since. The night during which she had bewitched him. Like a haunting perfume, that memory had lingered with him, beckoned to him, made him long for more, as a boy who had tasted a sweet nectar, and he craved that taste again . . .

  It was a pity that nine out often, he’d also be longing to gag her before taking her to bed.

  Bryan opened his eyes and sighed again as he saw that she was still staring at him with hostility and rebellion in her gaze.

  “Elise, Richard has issued his decrees. It is for us to decide if life is to be a heaven or hell.”

  His voice had been so soft. Gentle. There was even a gentleness in the touch of his indigo eyes as they met hers. A cloud passed over the sun and a sudden dizziness swept through Elise. She found herself wondering what this man would be like when he chose to be tender. What he was like when he touched Gwyneth. Did he stroke her with tenderness? Smile with no mockery when she whispered to him?

  The dizziness became a heat that swept along her spine, taking the chill from the water that rushed around her. Was he always stern and forbidding? Or did he laugh with pleasure and whisper sweet words of whimsy when he . . . touched Gwyneth? Was he always as hard as steel and as sharp as his blade, or was he sometimes vulnerable, trusting, tender . . . ?

  Elise swallowed, dispelling her thoughts. She could never expect gentleness, tenderness—or even kind and respectable treatment—from this man. He would remain a distant enigma to her, as she was to him. But perhaps . . . perhaps having heard these words that carried no hostility, she could seek to right some of the disaster she had been instrumental in causing.

  “Bryan . . . please. If we both went to Richard—”

  “I will not go to him, Elise.”

  “But why?” she began, and then bitterness rose like bile to her throat. “The land. The land and the titles. That is all you care for!” she spat out.

  His jaw seemed to tighten, but he replied with no hostility. “Don’t be so quick to belittle a longing for land, and a place in the world. I have spent my life fighting for the land—always for another man. You were born with wealth, Duchess. Don’t begrudge the fact that I have labored long and hard for mine.”

  “I do begrudge it! Montoui is mine.”

  He chuckled softly. “And now, Duchess, so is half of Cornwall. Because of me. Aren’t you a little grateful?”

  “Grateful! No! I have no desire for ‘half of Cornwall’!” She gazed searchingly into his eyes for a moment, wishing that she were not imprisoned in his grasp in the water that was becoming cool again in every spot where he did not touch her. Those spots felt as if they were afire.

  “Bryan . . .” she began softly again, thinking that perhaps something might be salvaged. And her words would be reasonable. “Bryan, the titles and land in Cornwall—they are worth far more than Montoui. And you are welcome to them! We can obey Richard. We can marry, but then amicably part ways. I will return to Montoui, and you may go and inspect the estates in Cornwall! We are both well aware that we can never be anything but the most bitter of enemies, and there is no reason to spend our lives in eternal misery—”

  “Forget it!”

  Her excited words froze in her throat. There was no gentleness, no trace of tenderness remaining in his eyes. The blue had gone terribly dark; indigo to black. His bronze flesh was clenched tightly over his strong features, and his jaw had hardened to a determined square. The heat of his tense touch contrasted sharply with the coolness of the stream.

  “Why?” Elise whispered.

  “Duchess, just as I crave land, I crave legal heirs to whom I may leave all that I forge. A man may only beget legal heirs with his legal wife.”

  Elise closed her eyes, unable to contain the shudder that shook her form beneath his.

  “That you find me so repulsive, I am sorry,” he told her coldly. “I have no wish myself to spend my nights upon a battleground. But if that is what you choose to make it, Elise, that is what it shall be.”

  She kept her eyes tightly clenched together. No, it will not be, she decided. This time, her thoughts were not of malice or of vengeance, just of determination, and of a deep-rooted fear. She could not lead the life he intended. She could not be his property, kept locked away in the manor as a possession, there to greet him when he chose, silent and reconciled when he shouted out his orders and departed, for battle—or for a more willing woman.

  She could not do it for any man . . .

  And especially not Stede. She hated him for not believing a word that she said; she hated him for what he had done to her; and she hated him for what he thought of her.

  He was willing to forgive. And she wanted peace, but not at his price.

  “Aren’t you afraid to marry me?” she queried coolly.

  “Afraid?”

  “You say that I poisoned you once—”

  “Aye,” he replied, equally polite and cool. “But I said that I would forgive you your youth, and your past mistakes. I believe I can make you understand that a similar attempt would truly cast you into misery.”

  The tone was polite; the threat was unmistakable.

  Elise maintained what poise she could within the ignominy of her position beneath him in the stream. She made no effort to fight his hold, but kept her voice even.

  “Doesn’t it bother you to know that you will be marrying a woman deeply in love with another man? That I will be longing for him, for his arms about—”

  “What you long for, Duchess, does not concern me. What you do, of course, will. So ‘long’ to your heart’s content, Elise, but as of this moment, consider me your keeper. And remember that you do not at all doubt my capabilities for violence.”

  “And what of you, Sir Stede?” Elise spat out, losing control of her temper. “What of you—and Gwyneth?”

  A sardonic smile curved one corner of his lip, but an opaque cloud seemed suddenly to shield his eyes.<
br />
  “Gwyneth has just been given to Percy.”

  “He’ll refuse to marry her!” Elise exclaimed impetuously.

  “Another theory for us to test. So far, you are the loser.”

  “You are not my superior yet, if that ‘theory’ is what you refer to.”

  “Husbands are always their wives’ superiors,” Bryan said lightly.

  “The bloody hell—”

  “By law, Elise, that is true.”

  Why was she fighting him now, from this absurd position that proved she was under his dominance?

  “Do you understand all that I say to you, Elise?”

  “Please,” she said flatly, giving no answer to his words. “The stream is cold, and you are hurting me.”

  He must have decided that she had capitulated to his will, for a touch of pity crossed his eyes, and he rolled quickly away to release her. Elise rose with natural grace and met his eyes once more. “You’ll understand if I choose to avoid you until the wedding?” she asked distantly.

  “As you wish.” She felt strangely detached as she watched him rise before her. He was taller than Richard, she thought very distantly. And from her great distance, she could admit that he was the perfect knight. Hard-muscled, but honed to a trim agility. Ruthless, determined, powerful, and rugged.

  Yes, he made the perfect knight. He would fit the part of landed noble as well as Richard fit the role of king.

  But all that he was made her hate him more, because it made her fear him more. She knew that he intended to crush her fully to his will. Therefore, he would set her out of his way. His life would hardly be affected; he would go on as before, only he would be richer.

  Elise managed to smile vaguely at him as she turned about and called to her mare. Because her mind was so very distant, and it was so distant because her plans were spinning within it.

  She would marry him. She would be just as docile as he or Richard could wish.

  And she would attend the coronation. She would duly see Richard crowned King of England. She would go to the great banquet upon Bryan Stede’s arm . . .

  But once the festivities began, she would be gone. She would start making discreet arrangements now, and as soon as possible she would slip away.

  Montoui was hers. If she could reach it alone, it would take an army for anyone to dispute that fact.

  And Richard would have no armies to spare. He would need all his forces to hold England, and to go forth with his own passion—the Crusade for the Holy Land. Bryan Stede would accompany Richard and they would be gone for two—perhaps three?—years.

  And in three years, she could build an unbreachable fortress—and find the way out of marriage.

  XIV

  September, 1189

  London

  Elise stared out from her window to the street below. The people were so plentiful that if she half closed her eyes, they seemed to combine in a great and colorful wave.

  Priests, monks, peasants, merchants, and nobles all scurried about. Richard Plantagenet would be crowned king tomorrow and the spectacle could easily be a once-in-a-lifetime affair.

  The last month had been spent in preparation for the event. Holy fathers had rehearsed their chants for hours; seamstresses and tailors had sewn garments until their fingers were raw but their purses were full; and the nobility had flocked in from all over England, as well as neighboring Scotland and the Continent. Richard had inherited vast provinces on the Continent, but even those who owed their allegiance elsewhere had come for the pageantry—and for the sake of curiosity. The Lion-Heart was about to be duly crowned King of England.

  Donkey carts mingled along with the fine, polished coaches of the landed and titled aristocracy. Occasionally a cry of fury erupted as a chamberpot was emptied from a town house window, but for the most part, priest, peasant, soldier, merchant, and lady moved through the street with little difficulty. The sheriff of London had things well in hand; armed knights were stationed throughout the town, and there were few willing to create a disturbance on this, Richard’s most holy day. Richard, with his flare for the dramatic, wanted the streets to overflow with people hoping for just a sight of him. There were but two guiding lights in the eyes of the average man, and those lights were God and King. The only people unwelcome at the event would be those who did not love and embrace Christ, and that meant London’s Jews.

  Elise knew that Richard meant to protect his Jewish community, for its people were, on the whole, educated and industrious. They kept together, and they were necessary, for they were moneylenders. And when a man defaulted to a moneylender, or should that moneylender die, the debt was owed threefold to the king.

  In Henry’s day, the king and the Jewish community had maintained a relationship that was distant, but peaceful. Richard intended to carry on that tradition.

  But as Elise stared down at the colors of the street, she noted that she saw no yellow, the color worn by the Jews. The Christian population was too easily whipped to a frenzy these days against anyone who was not Christ’s disciple. God’s knights had been fighting the disbelievers in the Holy Land for many years now, warring against the Saracens, Arabs, and Turks, and now, if one was not a Christian, one was an enemy.

  “Milady?”

  Elise turned from the window as she heard Jeanne’s voice querying her softly. Jeanne had been with her for three weeks now, and she still seemed nervous—about London, about the events that were taking place. She knew Elise, and although Elise had confided her well-laid plans to no one, she felt that Jeanne sensed she was up to something.

  “Is it time?” Elise asked blandly.

  “Aye, Elise, it is time. Will Marshal waits to escort you to the chapel. He asks that you make haste since His Grace, Richard Plantagenet, takes time from this busiest of days to stand as sponsor for you before your bridegroom.”

  “I am ready,” Elise said smoothly. She was ready. She had been dressed for hours. Since she had not dared insult either Richard or Bryan with a flagrant lack of concern for her own wedding, she had donned the stunning gown of ice blue made especially for the occasion. Her mirror of hammered metal had assured her that she appeared the perfect bride—or offering. The shift she wore beneath the gown was of the softest white silk; the tunic had flowing, angled sleeves that were trimmed with elegant white fox. Her headdress was delicate, combining gauze silks of both blue and white, and crowned with a row of gleaming sapphires and gold fleur-de-lis.

  It mattered not, Elise decided, that the bride herself was as pale as snow, or that her eyes were huge sheets of turquoise, and seemed far too large for her face. She had pretended to no one that she entered into marriage happily; the artificial trappings, those that designated her obedience to her king despite her own wishes, were all that was important.

  “Your cloak, Elise,” Jeanne said.

  The protecting garment was swept around her, and then she was moving down the stairs to meet Will and Isabel, who spoke with her current hostess, Mistress Wells, a plump, childless widow who had been only too happy to welcome a ward of the Lion-Heart into her home.

  “Ah, Lady Elise! You are lovely!” Mistress Wells cried, her radiant smile sincere. “Pippa!” she called to her maid. “We must have a toast to the Lady Elise.”

  Wine, served in elegant red glass chalices that were reserved for only the most special occasions, appeared. Elise drained hers quickly. She knew that both Will and Isabel were watching her closely, their expressions a mixture of pity and fear.

  Fear—that she would act rashly and cast them all into a state of turmoil the day before Richard’s greatest moment.

  Elise thanked Mistress Wells for the wine, then turned to Will. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?” she queried.

  The chapel where she was to be married was but a street away; with the crowds, however, Will had decided that they should ride. He was very awkward and uncomfortable himself, and, therefore, he rode in front of the ladies, his ear attuned to whatever advice his own bride might have
for the reluctant duchess.

  Isabel was doing her best to ignore cheerfully the fact that Elise despised her husband-to-be. “’Tis strange, isn’t it?” she inquired of Elise. “I’d heard so much of Will, yet never met him! All I knew was that a knight reputed to be fierce was coming to be my groom. I cannot tell you all the horrible things I imagined, knowing that he was twice my age. But then he was before me, and he was not fierce at all, but gentle and well mannered. I hated the thought of marriage, yet it has brought me nothing but happiness.”

  That is because you married Will Marshal, and not Bryan Stede, Elise thought. But she replied to Isabel with a vague smile. Will and Isabel had offered her nothing but kindness; she could not make them any more miserable about their task as escorts than they already were. And she remembered poignantly that it had been Isabel who had come to spend the day with her—conversing nonstop about flowers, laces, meat, anything to keep her mind occupied—on that morning several weeks past when she had heard that Sir Percy Montagu had willingly—no, eagerly—married the heiress Gwyneth of Cornwall.

  Elise knew that they had reached the chapel; Richard had come in secret, but men-at-arms lined the street and guarded the doorway. Will helped her dismount from her horse, and the guards gave way.

  The chapel was dim, lit by no more than twenty candles. Elise saw the friar standing at the altar; she saw Richard, royal and formidable in a rich violet cape. She felt Isabel, squeezing her arm reassuringly. “What a splendid groom!” she whispered. “Surely all the women in the land would envy you such a magnificent man!” she added with a soft sigh of envy.

  Elise allowed her eyes to fall on Bryan. He stood beyond the Lion-Heart, and was every bit as formidable. His shirt, like hers, was white, and trimmed with Spanish lace. His tunic was red velvet; his legs, sheathed in white hose, gave evidence of the sinewed strength of his hard, lean muscled frame. His mantle, pinned at one shoulder by a silver broach, was the black for which he had become known, and its angle enhanced the knightly breadth of his shoulders.