Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  Bryan vigorously scrubbed his skin and hair and stepped before the fire. He felt Alaric’s eyes on him and turned with a brow lifted in query.

  “Your back, milord. You’ve a wound turning nasty. I’ve a salve for it.”

  Bryan wrapped the towel around his waist and shrugged. “Do your damage, Alaric.”

  The steward reached into the casket and produced a small container. He rubbed the ointment into the wound, then came up with a clean binding. He didn’t speak again until he delved into the packs and drew out fresh clothing, holding out a white linen shirt so that Bryan might slip his arms into it. “Pardon my boldness, milord, but might I ask you a question?”

  Bryan shrugged, hooking the shirt, and plucking his stockings from the man’s hands. “Ask what you will. I guarantee no answers.”

  “How is it that you—a Saxon—rose so high in the king’s esteem?”

  “I had a good sword arm,” Bryan returned dryly, then laughed. “All right, Alaric, I’ll tell you. My father was a fine fighter; he earned his knighthood when Henry first came to England. King Henry was an Angevin, remember? William the First’s great-grandson through his mother. But Angevin or Norman, he was the rightful heir. My father had a wise philosophy. The Normans, he always said, were here to stay. Better to absorb them into us than to try to pretend we could beat them decades after the fact. I grew up in a very small town house in London. My mother died when I was very young; my father died in service to Henry. I lost the home to taxes, but I had my father’s training. I went on to tournaments, then to fight for Henry when his sons joined with Philip of France to fight him. Aye”—he laughed, looking at Alaric’s face—“I fought Richard. But our new king is a man who knows loyalty cannot be truly bought or bartered; those of us who defended the Crown to the end found that we were rewarded. And so here I am, Alaric. An Englishman, a Saxon, a great landowner again—that is, if you haven’t run my land entirely into the ground!”

  Alaric regarded him gravely, then slowly smiled. “Nay, milord! I have not run your land into the ground. You will see!”

  “I’d best see soon,” Bryan said dryly. “I’ve got to return to the king soon. With ten men prepared for battle. Do your choosing by this evening; I’ll want to see them in the morning. I’ve not the swords I need for them yet—I pray God that our smith is competent!—but with time my major factor, I must begin to train them now. And, Alaric, you’d best pray to God that I can trust you in the future. I’ll be away, but I’d best know that my affairs are well cared for!”

  “Where is your concern, milord? Truly, you are a man blessed by God!”

  “What are you talking about?” Bryan demanded with confusion.

  “Your duchess!” Alaric exclaimed, and a glow settled over his face. “Truly she must be one of the wisest—and most beautiful—women in Christendom! By the cock’s crow she had us moving! I believe that by nightfall, she will even know the exact number of chickens in the village!”

  “Yes, the duchess is quite efficient. That will be all for now, Alaric. I’ll see you in the hall in a few minutes; I want to go over the ledgers.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Alaric left him. Bryan stepped behind the bath to the paned window and looked out.

  He could see the village houses, pretty, thatched-roof houses that glimmered white beneath the sun. They settled in a valley that dipped downward from the manor. Hundreds of them, stretching almost to the sea. And the land. Sloping meadows, rich green hills. Grasslands, filled with cattle and sheep. He was overlord of all this.

  And it would be brought to order. Not with the lash, but with firm justice. It would be made as strong and proud as Montoui . . .

  Montoui again! Montoui . . . and Elise.

  Soon Michael would be here, and Jeanne. Then things would run with pristine order.

  Whether he was here or not.

  Was that what bothered him? he wondered. The knowing that he was to leave? On Richard’s great Crusade. Once, the thought had been inviting. But now . . .

  This little piece of England was his. Despite last night, he felt that it could be strong, impregnable, and rich. It would be very ironic if he were to catch a Saracen blade with his throat at a time when so much had fallen his way.

  And when he had no heir to whom he could leave it all.

  Impatiently, he turned from the window and quit the chamber. His boots clattered on the stairs as he hurried down them. Alaric was awaiting at the table, his books and parchments spread before him. “Let’s get busy, shall we?”

  Alaric nodded, and the two went to work. Maddie brought food and ale. As the afternoon passed Bryan learned that there were several other, smaller manors to the estates. His serfs numbered in the many thousands. All the trades were represented; their wool was considered to be some of the finest in the land.

  He was also pleasantly surprised to hear that he did have coffers full of coins. The tenants had paid their rents for a long time before the sloth and lethargy had set in, and Alaric, although he had control, had been an honest man.

  When they finished, Bryan was pensive for several minutes. Then he told Alaric, “We must form an army for protection.”

  “But why, milord? Richard has been crowned and accepted; we are at peace—”

  “Who knows how long any peace can last? Richard’s reign should be peaceful at home. But . . . I want to train an army. I want defensive walls built to surround the manor. Tell the smith he will need many apprentices; we’ve blades and armor to forge.”

  “Aye, milord! The people will be very busy again—but, proud, too, I think!”

  Maddie interrupted them to tell them that the smith had returned, and was around back. Bryan and Alaric both went. The smith was a stocky man with gray tingeing his temples. His shoulders and arms were massive, a sign of long years at his trade. Bryan found that the man was bright and eager, and quickly understood all that he wanted. By the time Bryan left the smithy, the fires of creation were already burning, even though night was falling.

  Elise was in the hall when he returned, directing Maddie as to how she wanted the table set. Bryan strode to the mantel and leaned idly against it, saying nothing until Maddie had returned to the kitchen again. Her eyes met his across the room; he was not sure if they carried defiance or a plea for recognition.

  No, there was never a plea about her. Her hair was neatly combed, her dress was immaculate. She was as always tall and proud . . . and perfect. He could touch her with a blaze of fire, yet when he looked again, she had regained the cool poise of winter’s deepest frost.

  By God, he didn’t know if he loved her—or hated her. She haunted him, day and night. Perhaps it was best that he was leaving. Long months of riding into battle would make him forget the way she seemed to have taken hold of his insides.

  He bowed to her.

  “You’ve done quite well, madame.”

  She shrugged. “I did not care to live in squalor. Now, if you’ll excuse me, milord, Maddie will shortly have supper served, and I would like to bathe . . .”

  He smiled. “No. We will dine first.”

  Her eyes contested his, but then she sighed with a show of patience and tolerance. “As you wish.” She swept from the hall to an arch at the far right of the room. Moments later she returned. He was already seated at the head of the table. She took her place beside him. Maddie appeared with a young boy in tow, and between them they served an aromatic meal of meat and vegetable pies, September apples, thick cheese, and ale.

  The food was good, the ale even better, but Bryan, remembering his overindulgence of the night before, drank sparingly. He was pleased to see that Elise seemed to be drinking much more. He still made her nervous. She was probably yearning for the day when he would leave, and she would be left to reign over these lands alone.

  Maddie and the lad hovered in the background, ready to refill their cups or plates, to serve at the lift of a hand. Bryan noted that Elise did not ignore them as the nobility were wont to do; she t
hanked them with a soft word each time they appeared.

  He kept his conversation light, knowing that even the best of servants hung on every word spoken, and that gossip ran riot when they sat in the kitchens alone at night. He commended the smith, and spoke of how a sword must be made with the blade honed just so. Elise did not speak much, but she replied politely to his comments, and seemed to understand his desire to strengthen the lands.

  “Montoui,” she murmured to him, “was most often at peace. But that is, I believe, because our walls were insurmountable, and our garrison was always strong.”

  At last there was nothing more to eat. The last juicy apple had been enjoyed, and they hovered over a final cup of ale. Then Elise rose; the lad took away the last of the dishes.

  “I’m very tired,” Elise murmured, and Maddie was right there again.

  “I’ll come up and assist you, milady.”

  Bryan rose. “The duchess needs no assistance, Maddie. I am very weary, too. The meal was fine. I applaud your talents.”

  Elise made no protest; he knew she would not do so before the servants. He took her arm and was pleased to hear the thunder of her heart. She stepped into the center of the chamber as he closed and bolted the doors and stood still before her.

  Bryan noticed that the mattress had been returned to the bed; it was dressed with fresh linen and a heavy fur coverlet. The fire was still burning brightly, and a new one had been built in the iron grate beneath the bath.

  “The place holds promise,” Bryan said, sitting upon the chair to pull off his boots.

  “Yes, it does,” Elise agreed stiffly. “Among the villagers are many fine carvers; they are eager to provide our home with their best pieces. Though the fields have been neglected, there is still ample time to pull in the late summer harvest. It is not yet September. We’re quite fortunate in the abundance of our sheep. They pay dearly for English wool in Flanders; our revenues can be high once the place is in order again.”

  She was still standing in the center of the room. Bryan came behind her and started to pull the pins from her hair. He felt her shiver and he breathed in the perfumed fragrance of her hair with the familiar longing building in his groin. He lifted her hair and pressed his lips against her neck. “You have quite a talent for charming men, haven’t you, milady?”

  “Milord?”

  “Our villagers.”

  “Nay . . . I merely reminded them that their new lord was the king’s champion; a formidable knight who was just, but capable of a terrible temper.”

  “Hmm.” He ran his hands along her arm and found the shoulders of her wide-sleeved tunic. It took little effort to tug the material down, and the rich green garment fell to the floor.

  He continued to caress her flesh, hampered only by the gossamer material of her thin shift. “And do you consider what you said to be true?”

  She answered him flatly, but he heard first the quick intake of her breath.

  “You are now Richard’s champion, and your temper is certainly . . . hot.”

  “And yours, milady?” He slipped his fingers beneath the straps of the shift and allowed them to roam suggestively.

  “It is hot only when . . . provoked.”

  The shift fell to the floor. From behind her he swept his arms around her, cupping and cradling her breasts in his hands. She turned and buried her head against him with a soft moan. Bryan slid to his knees before her and removed her shoes and stockings. She silently allowed him.

  He stood and cast aside his mantle, and then his tunic and shirt. “Have you tried the bath yet, Duchess?” he inquired politely.

  “This morning . . .” she murmured.

  “’Tis large enough for a small army . . . and quite perfect for two.”

  He laughed, swept her off her feet, and deposited her in the warm water. Discarding his hose, he joined her, sitting opposite her and grasping a cloth from the side. He leaned toward her and kissed her, and while he did, he took the cloth, with its perfumed soap, and used it to massage her throat, and her breasts. Downward he moved, until her laughter made him break the kiss with a scowl.

  “You find me amusing?”

  “Nay . . . you are tickling me.”

  He joined her in her laughter, then dropped the cloth to allow his hands freedom to roam her length as he angled above her. “Tickling you, am I?” he demanded, delving into her center with his touch. She gasped, and her lips seared into his shoulders. She reached out to touch him, too. The strong extent of his arousal made her feel giddy, as if the warm water swept through her. She arched against his touch and found a boldness taking hold of her. Her hands roamed beneath the water; her lips explored the expanse of his chest.

  His tongue played about her ear, and she started laughing again, holding tight to him. It was then that he stood, dripping and glistening. He reached for her and lifted her and carried her, mindless of the water, to their awaiting bed. The boldness was still with her; she found the play between them exciting and exhilarating. When he lay beside her she began to kiss the water droplets from his bronze flesh. His groans gave her a delicious sense of power, and she continued to tease him like a wraith rubbing her body against his, enjoying the graze of her breasts against his flesh, kissing him until she captured his sex completely, sweetly triumphant with the wild and passionate response she drew.

  He caught her shoulders and dragged her lips to his. And when he had slated his desire for that kiss, he stared into her brilliant eyes. He pulled her atop him, and the laughter left her eyes for something darker as he came into her. The fire that gripped them both blazed quickly and completely, and when it had passed, he held her against him, tangling his fingers in her hair. He lifted her so that she still lay over him, her hands pressed against his chest, and when her eyes met his, there was no shame in them, just the soft sparkle of the aftermath of pleasure.

  “You are in truth a little vixen,” he told her softly. His gaze searched out her eyes. “Yet why do I feel that I . . . never have all of you.”

  “Because you don’t,” she told him.

  He rolled her to her back and came over her, suddenly grave. “I want all of you,” he told her tensely.

  Her lashes shielded her eyes against his sudden anger, and the impertinence left her voice. “What is not yours?” she asked him. “I am your wife; I have done well with your home. I come into your arms whenever you choose. What else is it you want?”

  “I want to know what is in your mind, what rules your heart, what you are thinking when you answer me politely, but sweep your lashes over your eyes.”

  She laughed softly, but the sound of it was bitter and she answered him sardonically. “You would have my soul, too, my lord Stede? Never would I be such a fool to lay that at your feet! They are ruthless feet, Stede.”

  “Is that really it? Or does your soul, perhaps, still belong to another?”

  “The soul may be, my lord, the only thing one has that is truly free. It cannot be possessed, as can the body.”

  His eyes darkened so that she was suddenly frightened. “All that should be rightly yours is yours!” she cried out.

  He played deceptively lightly with a lock of her hair. “It had best stay that way,” he told her with a voice so low it sent shivers of dread tearing along her spine.

  “You question your authority?” she asked him.

  “I speak so that there is no misunderstanding between us.” He rolled from her and lay on his back.

  “You are not with child?” he asked her suddenly.

  “We have not been together long—”

  “’Twas plenty long enough ago, the night we first met.”

  “No,” she murmured uncomfortably.

  He laughed. “You said then that you would not have my child. And it seems you willed it to be so. Tell me, Duchess, is it still your will not to have my child?”

  “Will has little to do with it—”

  “Is that true?”

  “Of course!” she snapped irritably. “Wha
t did you—”

  “There are ways. Yet if I were to discover that you used them, Elise, you would find that you have yet to experience how fierce my temper can be.”

  She turned her back on him. “It is not me, my lord,” she said mockingly. “I do not deny you an heir. Perhaps God has decided you are undeserving.”

  “They say, Elise, that God assists the man who strives for himself.”

  His arms came around her, pulling her to him again. “I have not much time left to be here, Duchess. So I must strive mightily in that time I do have left.”

  Her eyes seemed to glitter when they met his, and he fancied that it might be the mist of tears. But as he entangled himself again in the sweet-smelling web of her hair and flesh, she did not protest him.

  Here, in his bed, he had her. She had told him as much. Perhaps if he captured her and recaptured her, he would at last find and claim that something which eluded him.

  What was her claim upon him? Her beauty . . . but that was his. He stopped thinking. The night was dark, and the fires of his body were finding the sweetest fuel . . .

  At such times, it seemed ridiculous to ponder over what, in passion, came to naught.

  XIX

  In the span of a few weeks, a remarkable change had come to the manor.

  When Jeanne and Michael arrived from the Continent, the place began to take on the ambiance that so graced Montoui. Elise’s trained guards arrived, including her experienced captain. Bryan found his ten men for Richard’s army, and a hundred more to train as guards and soldiers to protect his Cornish borders. A wall could not be built to encompass the village and the far-spread farms, but Bryan set boundaries around the manor, and in his first few days of labor he was able to see the foundations set. There was no lack of stone, since his property contained the quarry from which the walls of the manor had been dug a hundred years before.

  At sunrise each morning, his rough army went through drills. They were ignorant of the way of arms, but eager to learn, and grateful for their new station. As Bryan well knew, a man born with little could expect to gain little in this life—unless he had exceptional wit or strength. It would take months for the army to shape together, just as it would take months for his stone wall to rise, but he could leave knowing that the foundations were well laid for each.