Jeanne smiled vaguely, but made no reply. Elise frowned at Jeanne’s lack of enthusiasm, then shrugged and turned about to spur her mare forward once again. Jeanne had been behaving more and more peculiarly since they had reached the Continent. Which was strange, because Elise had been the nervous one in England, always looking over her shoulder to assure herself that no one was in pursuit.
She wondered if Jeanne was nervous because they did not know the guards who had come. Elise had been surprised herself that Michael had not sent men she knew well—Michael was always so anxious about her welfare and comfort. But unless Montoui had been burned to the ground and Michael de la Pole along with it, no one would be wearing the specially crafted armor of Montoui without his consent. And the young men sent to escort and guide them had proven themselves efficient and cordial beyond fault. It was absurd for Jeanne to be nervous now. Unless she was fearing the wrath of Bryan Stede.
But now . . . now Montoui was before them. Once they were beyond the sturdy walls of the town, nothing could touch them, except for the King of England himself, and Elise knew full well that Richard would not let such a petty matter take his time when he had the affairs of England to settle and a Crusade to launch. And the day of their homecoming could not have been more beautiful. Soft white clouds lightly powdered a brilliant sky, and the fields and forests were alive in verdant green.
She laughed again and gave her mare free rein. It felt wonderful to race with the breeze across the land. Uplifting, exhilarating . . . and free. So very, very free! It seemed as if it had been forever since she felt this wonderful sense of freedom, as if she was once again the mistress of her own fate.
At last she came to the town gate, and waved once more to the men-at-arms who saw her, and allowed her entry. She swept by the smithy and the market, and over the bridge, past the stones of the castle and into the keep. Only then did she pause her reckless ride and swing from the mare’s saddle, too jubilant to care that she raced like a child into the entryway, then on to the great hall.
“Michael!” she cried, stripping off her riding gloves. “Michael!” She could see that a fire was burning in the hearth, and she strode to it. The day was not cold, but the castle was always damp, and the warmth of the fire seemed to welcome her home. She began to practice mentally what she would say when her steward congratulated her on her marriage, and thought about how she would explain that she intended to fortify her castle against her new husband.
Then she froze slowly, for she realized that she noted something that wasn’t quite right . . .
Elise felt herself turn as if she were in a dream, for what she had seen from the corner of her eye could not be. It had been a trick of the light, and nothing more.
She stood deathly still as she stared down the hall to the head of the banquet table; it seemed that even her heart had ceased to beat.
He was there. Bryan Stede. Sitting in Duke William’s elaborately carved chair. His legs were stretched out upon the table, one booted foot crossed over the other. One set of long fingers strummed idly upon the table; the other held a silver chalice. He took a sip from it as he stared at Elise, one raven’s brow raised slightly, a sardonic smile slashing a grim line against his jaw.
“Home at last!” he murmured, making no effort to move. “The journey took you long enough.”
She could not accept what she was seeing: Stede, here, ensconced in Duke William’s chair, her chair. It was too bitter an irony to accept . . .
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice heavy and too slow. Her mind was spinning, and she felt as if she could not breathe.
“What am I doing here?” he repeated politely. But then she heard the hard edge to his voice, and ruthless tension swept the smile from his lips. “You wrote of a problem in Montoui. It was surely . . . noble . . . of you to take the responsibility upon yourself, but you need not have done so. Indeed, you might have traveled here far more swiftly in my company.” He set the chalice down and swung his feet to the floor, rising. “But do you know, wife, upon arriving I discovered something strange? Your steward assured me that there had been no problem. In fact, Michael was quite offended. He is a competent man, adept at handling the affairs of the duchy in your absence. He was quite surprised to see me; he had assumed that I would be arriving with you. Apparently, when you wrote asking him to send an escort to the crossing, you neglected to tell him that you were rushing home alone.”
Instinctively, Elise backed away from him, although he had as yet to take a step toward her.
“Where is Michael?” she heard herself ask, and then she wondered what difference it made. Aging Michael could not possibly protect her against Bryan Stede.
“Seeing to a feast to welcome you home, Duchess,” Bryan replied evenly. “The north tower guard saw your party arriving some time ago.”
Elise found her lips too dry to form words; she moistened them with the tip of her tongue, then spoke quickly, way too quickly. “This conversation is a farce, and we both know it. You cannot stay here; I will not allow it. You may leave in peace, or I shall call my captain of the guard and see that you are expelled by force. I do not wish to humiliate you so, but if you leave me no choice—”
She stopped speaking suddenly, because he was laughing. But his laughter was dry, and the husky timbre held a threat more chilling than the loudest shout. “Elise, a wife with no wish to humiliate her husband does not desert him hours before the marriage is to be consummated. You are welcome to call the captain of the guard, but I am afraid that you will not know him, nor will he be willing to remove me by force.”
Floodwaters of dismay waved all around her, but she fought them. “Stede, you’re a fool! You may have replaced a few men, but my garrison is five hundred strong, and my people are loyal—”
“Oh, very loyal. But when you wrote to inform Michael that you were coming home, you also neglected to warn him that you had decided to go to war against your husband. And you underestimated our king. Richard sent out his own letters—among them, one to Montoui to inform your steward of your marriage, and of my status. Michael was pleased to welcome a new duke. Your young captain of the guard . . . well, he was most anxious to accept an offer to journey to London to serve King Richard. You’ll find that a number of the men—among them the five who escorted you here—are mine. Old friends who fought with me long and hard at Henry’s side. Those men who are not my own . . . well, not even your most loyal servants would dare defy orders written by Richard himself, claiming me to be the Duke of Montoui.”
“You . . . cannot . . . stay . . . here!” Elise lashed out.
He smiled. “I do not intend to stay here. But neither shall you.”
“What?”
“We leave tonight. Your antics have dearly cost me time. Richard gave me two months, and no more, in which to settle my affairs. I must go to Cornwall.”
“So go to Cornwall!” Elise whispered. “But I am not going. This is my home. Where I belong. I am not going anywhere.”
He stared at her a long moment. She was trembling so that she feared she would stagger and fall at any second; it appeared that he had outplayed her every move, and now she was cornered, with no move left to make.
He strode to the fire and reached his hands out toward it, staring into the flames. “Milady, I’m afraid that you leave me with no choice but to threaten you in return. We leave tonight. As soon as you have had time to dine, bathe, and rest. You may come with me peacefully, or by force. I do not wish to humiliate you, but if you leave me no choice . . .”
His sentence dangled mockingly, then faded away.
For once, she sensed that he was about to move before he actually did. “I am not leaving Montoui!” she snapped out determinedly. And then she tore swiftly for the stairs, racing along their length to the door to her chamber. Once inside, she slammed the door and drew the heavy wooden bolt firmly into place. She slumped against it, shaking.
No force on earth would make her open that bolt.
It had gone as he had expected.
Well, so be it, Bryan thought with angry impatience. He had been worried sick when he hadn’t been able to find her the night of Richard’s banquet. Eleanor had calmed him by suggesting that Will and Isabel had seen her home, since trouble had promised to plague the streets through the night.
But then he had arrived at the town house to find her note, and all the worrying had knotted into a hard fury in his stomach. She had duped him. Cleanly and precisely. No wonder she had waited so obediently for their wedding and walked so calmly through the ceremony; it had given her time to plan. Once she reached Montoui, it would take a war to drag her out . . .
Even now his stomach knotted again with the sick fury that had assailed him with the knowledge that she had taken him completely.
But there had been another note left him; it had taken him a long while to cool his mind enough to see it.
The second note was from Elise’s maid, a woman he had scantly noticed before. It began with a confession, and a plea. She, Jeanne, had been the one to poison his wine—but not enough to kill; by the Virgin Mary, she swore it. Only in retribution for what he had done. But now, since he had righted his wrong before God, Jeanne wanted to right hers before him.
And so he knew that Elise would travel slowly with the holy sisters. And he knew that she had decided not to order her castle armed against him until she could do so in person.
He had gone to Will that very night, enduring his friend’s laughter with a scowl in order to gain his support.
“What will you do?” Will had demanded. “Richard wants you here to help assure him that he leaves England in good hands—and comes up with the money to pay Philip and finance the Crusade.”
“I cannot let her get to Montoui ahead of me! She will fortify the castle, and then, by God, Will, it would take bloodshed to get her out.”
“Bryan—”
“Don’t tell me, Will Marshal, that you would allow your wife to desert you, and bar you from your own lands!”
“Her lands,” Will had reminded him softly. “Elise was born the lady to inherit—”
“She is my wife.”
“All right,” Will promised at last. “I will help you present your case to Richard. But Bryan . . .”
“What?”
“Promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“That you will go gently with her. Let her know you for the man you are. She is a woman. Let her come to you. Remember that she is young, her heart is tender—”
“As tender as stone.”
“Promise me that you’ll be gentle.”
“For the love of God, Will! I’m not a cruel or vicious man! I promise that I shall try.”
Now, Bryan’s gaze traveled up the stairway to the bolted door and he sighed. He already knew that there was going to be no way to remove Elise gently from Montoui.
A movement in the hall arrested his attention and he turned to see a slender, graying woman enter, then stop short, color flooding her cheeks as she saw him.
“Jeanne?” he asked.
She nodded wordlessly, and he knitted his brows, perplexed by her apparent fear of him. Then he realized that she must surely be wondering if he meant vengeance against her for his painful bout with the poison. He offered her a disarming and rueful smile.
“I’m taking the duchess with me tonight. We will travel to Cornwall alone, but I am leaving men to escort you and Michael to the new residence. I’m sure I’ll need your able assistance to set matters right; God knows what condition we’ll find the estate in.”
Jeanne’s face brightened. “Thank you, milord.”
He grimaced, then walked up to her. “The Duchess is not enthused at the prospect of leaving; nevertheless, we shall. She needs a meal, and a long, hot bath. Since I’m afraid she would bar the door to you if she believed me near, I will be out in the keep with my men, in full view of her window.”
“Yes, milord,” Jeanne murmured with a little bob. Bryan smiled again, then walked on past her.
When he was gone, Jeanne felt her old knees tremble with weakness. She thought of the beautiful sparkle in his eyes—they were the deepest blue she had ever seen!—when he smiled. And that smile! Perfect, even teeth, God bless them! Dimples in his bronzed cheeks. He had spoken to her so pleasantly, and she had been in mortal terror of him. Her belief in the sanctity of marriage had compelled her to leave the note, but her love for Elise had compelled her to admit that it had been she who seeked revenge against him. For what she had done, many a man would have had her back flogged to ribbons, at the very least . . .
He was far more of a man than Percy, Jeanne decided, at peace at last with what she had done. He was young, honorable, strong—and handsome enough with his indigo eyes and pitch-black hair to make even her old heart flutter.
If only Elise would realize what she had!
Jeanne sighed as she started up the stairs.
And Bryan, carefully situating himself before Elise’s window as he drew a stable boy into conversation, was unaware that he had just acquired a most devoted and loyal servant.
* * *
Elise still slumped against the door when the soft rapping sounded upon it, startling her so that she stood and bolted halfway across the room before responding.
“What?”
“’Tis Jeanne, milady. I’ve . . . brought a tray of food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Michael saw carefully to the preparation of this meal. All the things you like, Elise. Lamb simmered in wine and seasoned with herbs. Swimming with summer vegetables. Fresh, hot bread, milady, the likes of which you did not see in England, I’ll swear it.”
“Where is the . . .” Elise hesitated a long time about whether to call Bryan by his title. Others might have plainly accepted him as the Duke of Montoui, but in her own mind, as long as she didn’t, he was not. But their marriage had given him all his titles, and he was all those things. Only a fool would say otherwise. “Where is the duke?” she asked Jeanne wearily through the closed door.
“Out in the keep—”
“Don’t lie to me, Jeanne! I swear that I can be far more the tyrant than he if—”
“Milady! I would not lie to you!”
Elise hesitated, closing her eyes. She could smell the lamb; the delicious aroma wafted through the thick door. It was true; no meal in England could begin to compare with one prepared by her cooks. She was terribly hungry, as last night’s meal had been at a tavern where the meat had been too fatty to stomach. Breakfast had been a piece of hard bread . . .
“If he is in the keep, Jeanne, then I shall see him,” Elise announced with menace. She walked firmly to the window so that her footsteps could be heard. She did not at all expect to see Stede; she was certain he had a knife to Jeanne’s back, entreating her at pain of death to betray her mistress.
But Bryan was in the keep. A smile lurked upon his features as he apparently discussed horseflesh with Wat, her stableboy. To Elise’s irritation, she noted that Bryan looked very noble in his flowing red mantle, and that he also looked very much at home. Comfortable, and confident.
She left the window and drew back the bolt. She did not allow Jeanne to enter, but deftly plucked the tray from her servant’s hands.
“Wait! Elise!” Jeanne cried out. Elise paused and Jeanne continued hurriedly. “I’ll have your bath brought while he remains in the keep.”
Elise hesitated only a second; she longed dearly to submerge herself in fragrant oils and steaming water. “Hurry! And, Jeanne, bring me several pitchers of fresh, cold drinking water . . . and whatever bread and cheese you can find.” Her order to Jeanne was unintentionally snapped out, but it was imperative that the bath be delivered quickly—and she be prepared to hold out in
her chamber.
Jeanne nodded. Elise heard her calling for assistance as she rushed down the stairs. She moved back to the window and breathed more easily as she saw that Stede was still talking with Wat, and was now busy examining the teeth of one of the heavy plow horses.
Jeanne had whipped the servants into quick action; when Elise opened the door again, they sped into her chamber with her tub and with a multitude of misting buckets, balanced two at a time by beams across their shoulders. The house servants all greeted her warmly after her absence, and Elise had to remind herself to be gently cordial in return, as she was so anxious to bolt the door again that she barely heard a word issued by the strong young peasant girls.
“Where are the water and food, Jeanne?”
“Elise, I just brought you a tray—”
“And I want the other, too. Now! Quickly!”
Jeanne called to one of the girls; she waited silently alongside Elise until several pitchers of water, two loaves of thick-crusted bread, and a wedge of sweet white cheese had been brought.
“Milady—”
Jeanne tried to remain with her; Elise firmly pressed her out of the door.
“I wish to be alone, Jeanne.” She closed the door firmly, then slid the bolt into place, checking the strength of its bracket. It was secure, she assured herself before turning back into the chamber to decide if she would rather enjoy the comfortable luxury of the meal first, or that of the bath.
In the end, she drew a trunk near the wooden tub and set her tray upon it. Before casting off her traveling clothes, she lit a fire in the chamber’s grate, building it to a cozy warmth with the ample supply of wood stacked before it. She frowned as she did so, curious that the pile of logs should be so high and neatly stacked when she had been absent so long. But then she clenched her teeth together with a rush of anger. The answer was obvious. She didn’t know how long Stede had been at Montoui, but it was apparent that he had been using her chamber as his own.
No more, she told herself impatiently. She was not coming out, and he would have to tire of his vigil and make haste toward his Cornish estates before too much time passed.
Blue Heaven, Black Night Page 28