* * *
The streets were filled like an overfull cup; the crowd hustled and shoved, and the Lion-Heart’s men were hard put to hold back the cheering throng. But the pageantry was magnificent. Cloth covered the ground from the palace to the abbey, and first the highest clergymen, and then the most powerful nobles, would precede Richard along the path to his coronation.
Summer flowers were thrown; the monks raised their trained voices high in chant. And then, Richard was before them, acknowledging his people with nods, absorbing their idolization. He was wonderful to the people: a beautiful, muscled soldier of God; a king who would make them proud and England great.
Elise was not a part of the procession, but she had a special place reserved for her along with Queen Eleanor, Isabel de Clare, and John’s new bride. She watched the proceedings, feeling every bit as awed as any spectator. The clergy and the nobles were all decked out in their finest dress; gold, silks, furs and jewels abounded, and she felt the sense of excitement as a child would . . .
Until Bryan Stede passed.
He walked with Will Marshal and Prince John, and the crowds went wild when the three passed. Bryan and Will had long been famed as “England’s” champions, and John, well, John was Richard’s brother; his boyish sins could be forgotten for today.
Elise barely noticed John; her eyes were upon the man who stood a head taller than he. Bryan was dressed in crimson today, and with his dark eyes serving as a sharp contrast of color, he was arrestingly handsome. He nodded to the crowds, as did Will, accepting their homage gracefully. Like Richard, he was a man to give them pride. A proven soldier, stately, masculine, and heartachingly handsome to boot.
If only they knew him! Elise thought bitterly. Then she paled suddenly, for he was before her, and his eyes were upon her. He bowed low to her; Eleanor laughed delightedly and cheered, and the crowd took up the cheer. Such a knight should have a young and lovely lady, and just as the crowd loved pageantry, it loved a good romance. Elise saw that Bryan’s eyes were filled with sardonic mockery; the crowd did not. There was little she could do but smile graciously, and wish that the day would end so that she could make good her escape.
The procession went on into the abbey; here Elise had a place. She watched Richard humble himself before his people, swear to protect and defend them, and then be crowned King of England. The crowd went wild, welcoming him to their hearts. If there were any dissenters, Richard’s guards had seen that they had no voice.
The parade and the religious ceremony took most of the day; it was dusk when Richard made his last appearance before the crowd, then ducked into the banqueting hall. There was still a crowd about him, for hundreds of guests had been invited. But these guests were the nobility. Silks and furs and jewels filled the hall.
Even entering with Eleanor, Elise found herself jostled about and brushed and bruised as she followed the queen to the head table. Drink was already flowing freely—mead, ale, and wine—and it quickly appeared to Elise that England’s nobility was pleased for any occasion to behave as drunks, the ladies no less than the lords.
She tensed as she felt a hand upon her shoulder, and spun about to see that Bryan had at last caught up with her. “Good evening, wife,” he said softly.
He was not among those who had been imbibing freely, she noted instantly. He was dead sober, which made his grim smile all the more difficult to tolerate. Elise did not resist his grip, but neither did she reply to his greeting.
“We are, I believe, at the head table, seated to the left of Eleanor. I understand that we will be by Percy and Gwyneth. It should lead to an interesting evening.”
Bryan saw the blood drain from her features, leaving her face pale and strained. So she still craves Percy! he thought, and he fought desperately to control the fury that rose within him with reason, reminding himself that she had been deeply in love with the man—happenstance had worked against her. Bryan grated his jaws hard together and swallowed to keep his voice even. Tonight was his; he might have to watch his wife adore Percy with her eyes, but he would be the one to take her home, and if he left a dozen candles burning throughout the night, she would know that it was not Percy Montagu who held her.
“Come,” he said more kindly, “let’s take our seats.” She still did not speak to him, and as he led her through the crowd, he wondered at his fury, and his emotion. Marriage . . . it was a legal matter, meant for the procreation of legal heirs. It was a contract. He had always considered it so. He had cared for Gwyneth, enjoyed her sweet spirit and willing embrace. Yet he had accepted her marriage to Percy easily. Regret, yes, he had felt a tug of regret. But nothing like this . . . fury . . . that consumed him senselessly over a woman he had touched but once, and would need to watch like a hawk just to assure himself that she wasn’t ready to take a blade to his back.
Possession, he told himself dryly. A man was always ready to fight for his possessions. He would fight readily for the land so recently given to him; with equal fervor he would protect his horse, his castles, his crops—and his wife.
“Bryan!” His name was called with cheerful delight as they reached the head table. He saw Gwyneth, and smiled in return, then extended his greeting to the scowling Percy, who rose beside her.
“Sir Percy,” he said with a nod, trying to ignore the fact that Percy’s eyes were upon Elise, and that Elise was returning his stare. “Gwyneth, I don’t believe that you and Elise have met as yet.”
“No, and ’tis a great pity, for we are to be neighbors!” Gwyneth exclaimed enthusiastically.
Elise tried to return the smile offered to her by the dazzling Gwyneth, but the awkward situation was not so easy for her to handle. How can you smile at me so when it is I who am wed to this man who you . . . loved? And bedded. She wanted to shriek.
Gwyneth’s smile seemed to be sincere. She was a beautiful woman with snapping dark eyes, beautifully translucent, fair skin, and thick, midnight hair that enhanced the beauty of her pale features. Elise could not resist a glance at Bryan. Was he looking at Gwyneth and seeing her as she was? Or did he, in his mind, strip her of her finery and imagine the times that they had shared together in sweet and eager passion?
Suddenly, she hated Bryan all the more fiercely. He had slept with Gwyneth, and with her. And Gwyneth had slept with Bryan, and now, with her husband, Percy. Elise felt a sudden fury that the situation was not twofold. She wished fervently that she had fallen into bed with Percy that long-ago night at Montoui just so that now she might force Bryan to wonder whether she was remembering another man’s touch, just as she wondered about him.
“Neighbors?” she heard herself query.
“Oh, yes!” Gwyneth said, her smile broadening with pleasure. “Our main manors are but an hour’s ride apart. I so look forward to becoming friends, Elise.”
Elise managed to mutter something polite in return. Whether Gwyneth was glad that she was to be her neighbor—or merely pleased that Bryan, her old lover, would be near—Elise wasn’t sure. But she convinced herself that her own feelings were immaterial; she would never be Gwyneth’s neighbor because she was leaving—this night. Gwyneth and Bryan were welcome to each other. And Percy! Percy deserved whatever fell his way. He had turned from her because of Bryan, but had pliantly taken Gwyneth when so offered. . .
And tonight! How could he stare at her with such longing and reproach! It was his doing. His! Yet she could not hate him, for the hurt lurked so strongly in his eyes. He looked wonderful. Lean and slender, handsome with his fine-boned features and dark-fringed, light eyes. She wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, soothe the pain that tightened his brow . . .
“You’ll enjoy Cornwall, I’m sure of it!” Gwyneth said, turning to Percy. The hurt instantly left his eyes, and Elise realized that he was not at all dismayed with his marriage. “Don’t you think that Elise will enjoy the countryside? It is so beautiful.”
“Yes . . . I’ve seen it so briefly, but it is beautiful,” Percy responded to her.
Elise became aware of Bryan’s hand, encircling her waist. She didn’t want him touching her, and she didn’t want to endure any more of their polite farce. “Excuse me. I see the queen, and I promised to help her oversee the seating arrangements . . .” She managed to elude Bryan’s grip easily and to move with graceful dignity toward the queen.
Bryan watched her go speculatively, then took his seat beside Gwyneth. Percy’s behavior was circumspect, and the three enjoyed a surprisingly civil conversation about animal husbandry and the benefits of having a trustworthy steward to govern a fief in the owner’s absence.
A stalwart knight who had apparently imbibed freely of ale hailed Percy. Percy, too, excused himself, and Bryan found that he and Gwyneth were alone. He smiled at her with the comfort of a long friendship. “How does married life go with you, Gwyneth?”
She chuckled huskily. “Well enough, Bryan. He is young, gentle, and can be very charming. But I miss you,” she added with a soft insinuation. “But . . . we will be neighbors.”
Bryan took her hand with a tender smile. “Gwyneth, I have wronged your husband once. I cannot, in good conscience, do so again.”
Gwyneth’s eyes traveled down the hall. Bryan saw that she watched Elise, who was helping Eleanor to placate a knight who had been given a position at the far rear of the hall.
“She is lovely,” Gwyneth said with no rancor.
“Yes.”
“But not at all pleased with the situation.”
“Not at all.”
“Well, remember, if life becomes too bitter, I can still be your friend.”
Bryan took her hand in his and squeezed it gently, then placed a tender kiss upon it. “A good friend,” he told her. “And I’ll always remember.”
Elise could not hear the words exchanged; she did see the chivalrous gesture, and she felt a burning of fury deep within her. She shouldn’t care that he was still entranced by his old mistress; she was leaving him. But she did care. She cared because . . . because he intended to have her . . . imprison her and keep his alliance with Gwyneth all the same. Well, he could have Gwyneth this very night if he wished; she would be gone.
Elise frowned suddenly, forgetting the disturbing picture of Bryan Stede tenderly touching Gwyneth. An armored guard had just jostled his way through the drunken revelers to Stede’s side. She watched Bryan’s features tense and harden. He nodded to the guard, then rose and followed him out.
Elise nervously moistened her lips. If Bryan were outside, he could waylay her plans to escape.
She hesitated only a minute, then rushed through the crowd to follow Bryan at a discreet distance. But when she at last cleared the hall and reached the street, she stopped in horror.
Bodies littered the steps; men were screaming with pain, and she saw the harried sheriff of London thundering above the chaos to bring order.
“Go no further, lady!” a guard cried, stopping her.
“What has happened?” Elise cried out.
“The Jews!” the young guard exclaimed breathlessly. “They sought to honor Richard with the gifts, but the rabble went crazy. They called them the enemies of Christ, and a riot broke out. Get back inside; no one is safe here . . .”
“Oh, dear God!” Elise caught her breath as the body nearest her moved, reaching out a bony hand. The man’s yellow cloak was stained with a brilliant spot of red. Blood. “He needs help!”
“His own will help him,” the guard told her. “Feeling runs high against the Jews tonight; a man risks his life and reputation to give them succor. The best we can do is stop the slaughter. God Almighty! The priests are urging the people on to murder!”
“Go home! Disperse! God does not ask us to be murderers of innocent, unarmed men and women!”
The stern, deeply thundering shout at last stilled the noise of the crowd. Elise saw that it was not the sheriff who spoke, but Bryan. He was moving through the crowd, not brandishing his sword, but walking with such a vengeful fury that all gave way. “Go, I say! And seek no blood. God has given you a king this day; do not sully the gift with the spilling of blood.”
The people murmured beneath their breath, but they began to move away. Tears and cries of anguish rose then, as women and children ran about to find their dead and wounded.
As Elise continued to stare with horror, she saw Bryan stop and kneel down before one of the yellow-clad bodies. He ripped a length of fabric from his mantle to bind the wound of an old man. Then, from the corner of her eye, she noted a furtive movement near Bryan. A man, who by his size and bulk and tattered, sooted clothing might well have been a smith, was moving upon Bryan with a wooden beam held high in his hand to strike—not at all ready to forget his vendetta against the Jews at the say-so of a well-clad knight.
“Bryan!” Elise heard herself shriek out. He spun about in the nick of time, wrenched the club from his would-be attacker, and broke it over his knee. “Go home, man!” he charged furiously.
The large man backed off in fear, then lowered his head in shame. He met Bryan’s eyes, nodded, and departed.
Elise started, swallowing as her husband’s eyes came to rest upon her once again. His look was different . . . curious. She didn’t mean to walk toward him, but her feet carried her to his side nevertheless. Once there, she knelt down by the injured man.
“Go back into the hall, Elise,” Bryan told her.
“This man . . . is . . . hurt,” she said miserably. Her teeth were chattering.
“I’ll tend to him until his family comes. Get back inside.”
She met his eyes. In the darkness of the night she could read nothing in them, nor could she find anything in his voice except for a weary acceptance that the night had brought him more to handle.
“Elise, go in. I’ll join you soon.”
“I . . . I . . . was told that the nobility should not involve itself. . . that a man could risk his reputation . . . or his life, by helping these people. The crowd is surly and dangerous . . .”
“You did your part to save me from the crowd,” Bryan said quietly. “And I will leave no unarmed, innocent man to die merely because he tried to honor his king. I care not for the temperament of the people; my reputation must stand alone. Now, please, Elise, go back inside. There are many dead out here, and many wounded. And there are still those about who are frenzied with the scent of blood. Go inside; I do not wish to have to worry about your safety.”
She rose, her movements lacking their usual grace. I am not going inside, Bryan, she thought, I am running away.
But she did begin to walk. Toward the entrance to the hall. She moved like a puppet, following her plans. Jeanne would be around the corner, waiting for her—if nothing had happened to her during the riot.
Tears that she could not begin to understand stung Elise’s eyes. She skirted by the entrance to the hall, and saw that Jeanne was, indeed, waiting for her. Jeanne was safe; this eastern street had not succumbed to the violence at the entrance to the hall . . .
Elise paused before hurrying toward the cart. She glanced back to try and catch a glimpse of Bryan, but Richard’s guards had already thronged around him to take charge.
A tear slid down her cheek and she impatiently brushed it away. She was doing what was right, what she had to do. It was her only chance to escape Bryan Stede, to escape the plight of finding herself his wife in truth.... It was just a pity that tonight, of all nights, had to be the occasion when she had seen in him something that she had to . . . respect, and admire.
XV
September 15, 1189
Montoui
Elise had never been so glad to see the stalwart ramparts of her castle rise against the blue morning sky.
Traveling with the sisters had indeed been safe, but it had also been painstakingly slow. A journey that should have taken her no more than seven or eight days had taken two full weeks. Sister Agnes Maria had suffered from severe corns, and Sister Anna Theresa had become the victim of painful blisters—upon her posterior, no less—and so the party
had stopped many times, unable either to walk or ride.
The nights had been misery, spent in crowded hostels that were more often than not stale, dank, and dirty. But it had been more than the poor conditions that had kept Elise awake; as the others found the peace of sleep, her mind haunted her with battle. She could not forget the last moments she had spent with Bryan. But even as the picture rose of his stalwart concern for the injured, a new one replaced it. Bryan . . . and his fury on the night they had met. Bryan . . . with the taunt of triumph in his eyes when they had stood in the chapel.
Bending low over Gwyneth’s hand, a tenderness that he had never directed at her softening the severity of his features.
Sometimes, when she had lain between the snoring nuns, she had found herself digging her nails into the bedding, touched by a strange bolt of heat that was followed by shivers that threatened to rattle her teeth. Heat caused by memory of his kiss that day in the chapel, a memory that combined with another hazy image, that of the night in the hunting lodge, and she would feel again as if she were swept by the maelstrom of the storm, and seared by the warmth of the fire.
When morning would come and she would awaken from broken and restless sleep, she would be more tired than when she had lain down the night before. Irritability would become the smoldering anger that was ever ready to rise, and she would be more than ever determined that she would best Bryan Stede.
The night before last had finally brought them across the Channel and to the Continent. Fine armored men, decked in the colors and emblems of Montoui, had been there to meet them. She and Jeanne had parted company with the sisters, after seeing that their cloister would be well endowed.
And now . . .
Now she could see the parapets, towers, and ramparts of home, so proud and beautiful against the rolling green landscape. Elise began to laugh with the sheer pleasure of at long last returning to the land that was hers, and she spun her mare about to accost her maid cheerfully.
“Jeanne! We’re almost there! Ah, for a long bath and a night’s sleep without the sound of snoring and being elbowed off the bed by Sister Anna Theresa!”
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