Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  “I’ll see who’s about—and if we can’t get something decently cooked to eat.”

  Elise nodded with all appearance of docility, but even as she did so, a fever of excitement swept through her. She watched him walk up the dirt pathway to the door, waging silent battle within her mind.

  He had been decent. She had deserted him; he had bested her, and reclaimed her, but he had been decent.

  But only since he had slammed her senseless and dragged her out of her home. This could be her last opportunity—ever—to escape him. Her mare was spirited and fast, but could not outrun the destrier at any distance. Now might be the only chance she would ever have to change horses and run...

  There wasn’t time to think or reason further—or even to contemplate the small twinges of guilt that tugged at her conscience. Elise slipped quickly from her mare. She waited until Bryan’s broad back disappeared behind the door of the cottage, and then she leaped onto the destrier, spurring him into a reckless bolt, without a single backward glance.

  Earth and grass flew in her wake; the sky, gold and blue, swirled around her. She sped through the low valley they had just plodded across in a matter of seconds, and then the gold brilliance of the sun was dispersed between the dark, thick greenery of tall forest pines. She ducked, hanging low against the destrier’s neck to avoid the heavy branches that snapped and broke at the onslaught of the stallion’s power.

  How far, she wondered, before she could safely slow the beast? Not yet, not yet. Nor should she simply retrace the route home that they had taken out. He could too easily come upon her. If she followed the sun, she couldn’t get lost. All she had to do was to keep riding south, southeast.

  Elise broke through the forest. Two paths awaited her: the one they had taken earlier, circling the mountains; and a second, one that followed the slope of the mountain.

  She hesitated only a second, then followed the trail that led up the slope.

  While the footing was good, Elise kept the destrier’s pace at a gallop. But soon, the path became overgrown and strewn with hard rocks, and she slowed the massive horse, aware that she had run him cruelly. As well as the path being a dangerous one, the destrier was heaving with exertion; his black coat was slick with sweat.

  She allowed the horse to cool at a trot, then brought him down to a walk, and at last twisted in the saddle to look back. There was nothing behind her except the forest. Exhaling a long breath, Elise looked forward. Again, a twinge of conscience that she didn’t really understand tugged at her. She had at last eluded him. She had the more powerful mount. In another night, she could be home, and this time she could prepare against him. She owed him nothing, she told herself. Elise twisted uneasily in the saddle once again, but there was no sign of Bryan. She hoped he would not realize that she had chosen to take a different path. She had left a trail of broken branches as clear as day through the forest, but the mountain path had been sand and rock, and it was possible that the destrier had left no betraying hoofprints.

  Still . . .

  She urged the animal into a trot once again, and it was not until dusk fell that she stopped looking back.

  When darkness, complete except for a sliver of moon-glow, surrounded her, Elise regretted her decision not to have found a place to camp for the night. She was desperately tired, hungry, and thirsty. Since the packhorse had carried their supplies, Elise had nothing. Guilt at how hard she had driven the destrier plagued her, and she began to worry that if she didn’t find water soon, she would kill the animal.

  “Can you smell out water, boy?” she asked the horse, patting his sleek flank now and watching the twitch of his ears as he heard her speak. Elise realized that with all she had done and intended to do, Bryan would surely despise her the worst for killing his horse. And why not? she wondered morosely. The horse was a beautiful creature that had served his master well; he did not deserve to die because of her quarrel with a man.

  “Whoa, boy!” Elise called aloud softly to the horse. Water had to be her main concern at the moment; she couldn’t allow her mind to drift.

  Especially into such a region of envisioning Bryan with Gwyneth. Bryan, tender laughter in his eyes as he bent low to kiss the hand of his mistress . . .

  I hate him, she reminded herself. But she didn’t really, not anymore. She had stopped hating him the night of Richard’s coronation, the night she had seen him ready to defend a man because his principles—and not popular belief—demanded that he do so.

  “Water,” she murmured aloud again, watching the black, twitching ears of the destrier. “There has to be a stream nearby, boy. I wonder if I give you your own lead if you could manage to find it . . .”

  Her voice trailed away, and the sounds of the night flooded around her. Crickets chirping, the occasional screech of an owl. The foliage about her, which had appeared warm and green with the day’s light, now seemed dark and foreboding, mysterious and dangerous. Elise promised herself that she would find water, and then find some kind of shelter until the dawn came. Bryan had seen to it that she was dressed roughly for hard travel, but there still might be highwaymen about. The horse she rode would be well worth stealing.

  The destrier stopped suddenly, flattening its ears back, snorting, and nervously pawing the ground. Elise was confused, until she narrowed her eyes, straining to see in the darkness. She had reached a plateau; she could hear the soft sound of running water, and more. There was a sound of voices, of children laughing, of a woman humming.

  Cautiously, she edged the destrier forward.

  There were perhaps ten houses built on the plateau; and the dim glow from ten hearth fires surrounded them. She could hear sheep bleating, and then the fervent barking of a dog. Elise hesitated, then noticed something glitter golden in the moonlight. It was a cross, a gold cross nailed to what could only be a chapel.

  This would be a small village of Christian peasants, she told herself firmly. Richard, King of England, was also the duke of these provinces. She could ask for shelter here, in the name of Richard, Coeur de Lion.

  Elise nudged the destrier forward, thinking rapidly. She would not identify herself as Elise, Duchess of Montoui. She would say only that she had been a pilgrim, journeying to pray at the holy shrines in England. Then she could come and go, with as little bother as possible.

  The hound that had been barking was joined by several others. The door to the first house was thrown open suddenly, and a woman began to chastise the dogs, wringing her hands as she did so. She looked up and saw Elise, and ordered the dogs to be still.

  She was a squat, sturdy woman with graying hair, an ample chest, and warm, sparkling brown eyes. “What have we here?” she called out to Elise. “It’s not many travelers we see here upon the plateau!”

  Elise slid from the destrier’s back, wondering belatedly how she would explain such a magnificent beast as the destrier. “My name is Elise, good woman,” she said softly. “I am homeward bound for Montoui after a pilgrimage to England. I need water for my mount, and for myself, and . . . I—”

  “You are surely hungry, I daresay!” the woman finished for her. “Well, come, come, child!” she encouraged Elise. “I can hardly feed you if you insist upon standing in the dark! George! George! Come care for this girl’s horse. I am Marie, wife of Renage. Come in, come in!”

  Elise smiled as the woman slipped a friendly arm about her to escort her into the cottage. An awkward boy of about fifteen came running out of the house, ogling Elise, and then the horse. “Ma!” he called, whistling softly. “Will you look at this beast! I’ve never seen such horseflesh—no never!”

  “He needs water,” Elise said softly.

  Young George stared at her again, sweeping her a long gaze from head to toe that judged her as surely as he had judged the horse. The boy couldn’t have been more than sixteen, Elise decided, but his gaze made her very uncomfortable.

  “See to the horse, George!” Marie said firmly. She began to lead Elise toward her house again.

&nb
sp; “’Tis a lonely place where we live,” Marie said, excusing her son with the words.

  The cottage was small, but clean and very warm with its crackling fire. Marie directed Elise to a bench and hurried to the fire. “My stew is just done simmering,” she told Elise, spooning some of the delicious-smelling preparation into a wooden bowl. “My man and boys come in late; they wait till dusk to bring the sheep down from the mountain slopes.”

  “Thank you,” Elise said as Marie placed the stew down before her, smiled, and drew a cup of water from a cistern.

  “Eat!” Marie encouraged. “Does my heart good to see food enjoyed.”

  Elise drank the water, then bit into the stew. It was as good as its aroma had promised. The food, the fire, and stout Marie all made her feel safe and content. And it was nice to hear her own language again, although the dialect here was the northern style, not the soft, melodic slur of Montoui. Bryan slipped easily from language to language—she assumed that he had been on the Continent with Henry so long that it was second nature to him. But he always spoke English to her, and now . . . now it was nice to hear a tongue closer to her own. She felt very close to home. She consumed the bowl of food without a word beneath Marie’s benign eyes, but refused when Marie would have filled her bowl again.

  “I’ve nothing to pay you with,” she said softly. Bryan had dragged her away so quickly that she had worn no jewelry; she didn’t even have a decent mantle pin to offer the woman. Then her eyes brightened. “My saddle is a fine one. Perhaps—”

  “What I should like more than your saddle,” Marie said cheerfully, sitting before Elise as she sliced huge chunks of fresh bread, “is news! Tell me, did you see His Grace Richard crowned King of England?”

  Elise answered carefully. “Yes . . . I was among thousands, of course, but I did see our Lord Richard crowned King of England.”

  Marie was hungry for gossip; Elise ate bread with fresh sweet butter and cheerfully told Marie about London and Richard’s coronation, avoiding any mention of herself as she described the gowns of the ladies and the elaborate procession.

  Elise was startled in mid-sentence when the door suddenly banged inward. She stared that way to see a heavy-jowled and barrel-chested man breeze in, followed by George and two older boys, all bearing a resemblance to their fleshy-faced peasant father.

  “So this is our pilgrim!” the man muttered, eyeing Elise suspiciously. “Where did you get the horse, girl?”

  “Renage!” Marie chastised swiftly.

  “Out of my way, woman!” Renage demanded, striding toward Elise and the table. He straddled over the bench to stare at her more thoroughly. “That’s a knight’s horse, girl. I’ve seen such—oh, aye, I have. In the stables of Sir Bres-nay, our overlord. Did you steal the horse, girl?”

  Elise finished swallowing a piece of the bread. It stuck in her throat, and she choked and coughed, watching Renage through watery eyes. She didn’t like the look of him. His eyes were dark and too small in the fleshy folds of his face. And as much as she had liked Marie, she didn’t much like the look of the boys, either. They were all staring at her as their father accused her, with that same look George had given her outside. A look that made her feel as if she wanted to squirm uncomfortably away.

  They were good, Christian peasants, she told herself.

  She would lie. Carefully.

  “Aye, Renage,” she said. She quickly added, “I was traveling with a party of sisters when I lost my way. A knight came upon me—an Englishman—and he . . . tried to steal my honor. I was desperate. I had a chance to escape him by stealing his horse, and so . . . aye!” She tilted her head proudly and conjured a mist of tears to her eyes. “I stole the horse.” She held her breath. Most men of the Continent, peasants and beggars included, considered Englishmen to be little better than barbarians. Richard might be the duke of the territory, but the English King had been sired by Henry Plantagenet—an Angevin—and Eleanor of Aquitaine.

  Renage let out a long breath. “Where do you go, girl?”

  “To my home. Montoui. A day’s ride to the south.”

  Renage scratched his head. The boys, still staring at Elise, scuffled with one another as they jostled to be the first to have their stew bowls filled by their mother.

  “It’s not safe these days for a good woman to travel alone,” Renage said suspiciously.

  “I was not alone. I was with a party of holy sisters—”

  “A story I’ve heard before!” Renage said, laughing boisterously and slapping Elise upon the thigh. His laughter faded. “I want your horse.”

  Elise tried to keep smiling as she pushed his hand from her thigh. She decided quickly to give him the destrier—in exchange for another mount.

  “He is yours—if you will but give me an animal in return that I may use to journey onward.”

  “Marie! My food.”

  Marie silently set a bowl of the stew before her husband. Renage kept his small eyes narrowed upon Elise.

  “Have you no husband, girl?”

  She hoped that a flush did not steal to her cheeks. “No,” she lied.

  “I’ve three sons,” he said bluntly.

  “And a handsome lot they are,” she lied once again. “But I was betrothed at birth to marry Roger the Smith by . . . by the Duke of Montoui to wed another. Please, good Renage, see me safe on the road again by morning!”

  Renage grunted and began sloppily spooning up his soup. The boys took seats upon the plank, too close to Elise for her comfort. Marie came to her rescue.

  “Come now, girl. I’ll take you up to the loft to sleep—with me,” she added vehemently, turning around to offer her husband a harsh glare. Renage kept chewing, unmindful of his wife.

  “Perhaps,” Marie said loudly, “you can ride a ways with our priest, Father Thomas. He cares for several small villages in the mountains.”

  Elise bowed her head and smiled. She would be safe. Marie and Father Thomas would see to her well-being.

  “What’s that, now?” Renage said impatiently, lifting his chin and halting Marie before she could lead Elise up a rickety ladder.

  Elise frowned, confused. She hadn’t heard a thing. But then she did hear the noise—the dogs were beginning to howl and bay again.

  “A man can’t have a decent dinner,” Renage complained, rising, and shooting Elise a hostile gaze, as if she were responsible for this new interruption. He threw open the door. “Stop—you curs!” he bellowed at the dogs, leaving the doorway behind as he walked out into the night.

  With her heart rising to her throat, Elise swept past Marie to the door.

  She was responsible for the new interruption. In the glow from the cottage light she could see him. Stede. Leading the mare along, towering over Renage as he walked beside him.

  Elise felt the blood drain from her face; it was over. Always the hope; always the despair. Always . . . he won.

  She felt the color return to her cheeks as she cried out determinedly, “Dear Lord! It’s him! Oh, please! Let me run to the church. Where is this Father Thomas? Help me!”

  She swirled around and dropped to her knees at Marie’s feet.

  “Poor child!” Marie swore softly just as Renage came into the doorway and Bryan ducked beneath the frame to follow him.

  Elise risked a glance at Bryan. His brows were knit with confusion as he stared at her upon the floor, but his eyes darkened quickly to a merciless blue fire as he ascertained her game.

  “Mistress, your ‘poor child’ is my wife.”

  “Your wife!” Elise cried out. “These English lords think we are nothing but their playthings! No female is safe—and they swear to fight for Christendom!”

  Renage looked from Bryan, with his deadly stare, to Elise, with her pleading eyes. He cleared his throat.

  “I’ve no wish to make an enemy of such a worthy knight, milord, but the girl claims you’ve done nothing but try to steal her honor.”

  “Her honor?” Bryan inquired with an insulting snort. He threw a go
ld coin upon the table, and Elise felt dismay clutch at her stomach as she watched Renage’s small eyes widen and brighten.

  She started to rise, then paused, stunned, as Bryan started to speak casually.

  “If she chooses not to come to me, that is her concern. She is, I feel, my responsibility, and so I will pay you for her care. But don’t be deceived, my friend. She is no sweet innocent.”

  Bryan gazed at Elise once more; she could not tell if his indigo eyes glittered with anger, or with amusement. Then he spun about, exiting the chamber and slamming the door behind him.

  Renage burst into laughter. Elise stopped staring after Bryan to turn her eyes to Renage.

  “Ah, wife! What a night. We lost the destrier; the knight claimed the animal to be his. But he left us a fine young mare with fancy trappings in its place and”—Renage turned his eyes upon Elise—“I think we’ve acquired another fine piece of flesh! The girl is in good health and she’s quite a beauty. She may not come untarnished to her marriage bed, but I’ve never been one to think a bit of experience ruined a woman. She’ll do quite well for one of our boys, Marie. Where else would we find such a girl? She’ll breed us fine grandchildren. Now, as to which son . . .”

  “I saw her first—” George began.

  “I’m the oldest.” He was interrupted by the son most resembling his rodent-eyed father.

  The second one laughed. “If she’s been used already, Pa, shouldn’t we all get something?”

  “We’re Christians!” Marie snapped out.

  “Christian duty is to beget sons!” Renage told his wife gleefully. He took a step toward Elise and drew her to her feet, lifting her chin. “Maybe we’ll let the girl pick her own mate, eh, Marie?”

  Elise found herself shoved into the middle of the room. George grabbed her and pulled her to him, smacking her lips with a slobbering and repulsive kiss. She clawed at him, but he laughed along with a howl of pain as he pushed her to another brother. The older, pockmarked boy made a licentious grab for her breast, laughing merrily along with his brother and father.