Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  He sat upon his horse on the morning that marked his eighth in Cornwall, watching the captain put the men through drill. Dummies were staked out upon spits, and the men, who so far had swords, practiced tearing their lifeless opponents apart.

  He called to a man now and then with a suggestion or comment, and saw that his orders were well taken. He was musing over a number of talented lads when Alaric came running to him, across the rear fields, from the back of the manor.

  He was panting when he reached Bryan’s horse, and had to take several seconds to catch his breath.

  “Milady . . . the duchess . . . asks that you come to the house with all speed! Riders are coming; she’s seen them from the west tower!”

  “Riders?” Bryan queried.

  “Seems she knows them,” Alaric replied.

  Bryan raised his brow, then turned his horse toward the manor and galloped full speed toward it. Young Wat, who had come with Michael and Jeanne, was ready to care for his destrier, and he was able to jump from the horse and hurry into the hall.

  Elise had been supervising the curing of meat to carry the household through the winter ahead. She wore simple gray wool for the task, and her hair was plaited in two loose braids. She looked like a fresh, young peasant girl herself when he strode in and found her calling hurried commands to Maddie.

  “What is it?” Bryan asked her.

  Her glare at him assured him that, whatever it was, she considered it to be his fault.

  “Company!” she snapped, and then she hesitated, lowering her lashes. “Lord and Lady Montagu.”

  “Gwyneth and Percy? How do you know? If you saw them from the tower, they must still be a distance away.”

  Elise hesitated again, then said blandly, “I know Percy’s standard when I see it. They come with an armed escort of four. I’ve told Maddie that supper must be exceptional; Michael and she are putting together a meal now. Would you have Alaric bring up whatever wine is in the cellar? I know that it is a poor stock, but please make the best selection you can. I must run up and change my gown.”

  She was distressed, he saw, and it irritated him because he was not quite sure why.

  “I wouldn’t overly exert yourself,” he told her dryly. “They are both aware, I’m sure, that we’ve just arrived. And being as close as they are, both surely knew that this place needed a great deal of work. They will not expect us to offer sumptuous hospitality.”

  “Well they will be offered it!” Elise snapped in return, and then her eyes lowered again. “Please, Bryan. I will not be pitied by either of them.”

  “Pitied, madame?”

  Her eyes raised to his, turquoise, crystaline, and wide. She swept an arm to encompass the hall and the estate. “Please, Bryan?” she asked him softly. “I want no one to know that we . . . struggled.”

  He sighed. “Go change, Duchess. Alaric and I shall drag out our finest, and if some should starve through the winter for it, so be it.”

  “No one will starve!” she retorted, hiking her skirts up and scampering for the stairs, since no one but Bryan was about to see her. He watched her go, wondering if she wished to deck herself out because of pride, or because she needed to assure herself that she could still attract her lost love.

  Grating his teeth, he spun about. Alaric, still panting, had entered the hall behind him.

  “Come, Alaric. You must escort me to whatever wine cellar we have. That which is important must be ceased. The duchess wishes to entertain.”

  Alaric did not understand his duke’s sudden foul temper. He nodded, then proceeded to lead Bryan to the kitchen, and then down to the dampness of the cellar.

  * * *

  In truth he felt he owed Percy Montagu no grudge. He considered his neighbor knight to possess a strange set of priorities and a foolishly quick temper, but he felt sorry for him. Percy had been in love—a fool’s quest, at the very least. It had been his own confused sense of honor that had cost Percy Elise, and he had certainly been rewarded handsomely with Gwyneth. But Bryan had, albeit unknowingly, taken the woman he had loved. Knights felt a keen sense of justice toward one another, and because of that, Bryan still felt that he wronged the man—whether he particularly liked him or not. If he but trusted Elise . . .

  There had been a small, cobwebbed supply of Bordeaux wine in the cellar. Bryan had left Alaric to bring it up, and had then come back out, calling to Wat for his horse. Elise wanted to offer hospitality; he would ride out to greet the callers.

  It was just minutes before he reached them. Gwyneth waved wildly when she saw him coming, and was ready to greet him with her ever-lovely smile. Percy took his hand in a firm grip with more solemnity, and as their horses pranced, he spoke apologetically.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t have come; word is that you have just arrived yourselves. The truth of the matter, Stede, is Gwyneth. I am recalled to London to join Richard, as you are, and I would be happier if Gwyneth and Elise were to keep in close touch with each other.” He hesitated a moment. “Gwyneth is expecting a child, and should we be in a distant land when the time comes, I would like to know that she has a friend nearby.”

  Bryan glanced quickly at Gwyneth, then offered them both his congratulations. “I’m quite pleased, as I’m sure Elise will be, with your good fortune. And you are quite welcome here at any time. It’s true that we’ve just arrived, but we’re glad to have you come.”

  They walked the horses to the manor. Gwyneth spoke about the crops that grew best in their rocky soil; Percy told him that Richard had started on his campaign to raise money. A knight with no desire to go on crusade could honorably “buy” his absence. The King of Scotland had offered several thousand marks rather than his service, and other great barons, dukes, and earls were doing the same. Merchants were being sold concessions; obscure offices and titles were being revived, and for a goodly sum, a man could purchase himself a place in the king’s government.

  “Of course, he’s being careful. And some knights have paid their dues—and then announced they were riding with our king anyway.”

  Bryan laughed. “I sense Queen Eleanor’s fine hand in all this,” he told Percy. “She would have warned Richard that he could not remain a popular monarch while taxing his people further! So no taxes—the king becomes a merchant. Brilliant!”

  They had reached the manor. Bryan was surprised but pleased to see that Wat and two other—suddenly uniformed—boys were standing by to take the horses, and to escort Percy’s guards to the freshly refurbished gatehouse.

  Elise was waiting for them before the mantel. Although he wasn’t sure he didn’t prefer the long-braided waif, Bryan had to admire her elegant transformation. Her gown was a deep green velvet, long, gracefully sleeved. The scooped neckline and hem were edged with gold trim; it was a simple dress, yet entirely fluid and lovely upon her curved figure. Her hair had been captured and sleekly coiffed to curl about the gold-and-pearl crown of her headdress. A light train of wafting beige silk flowed from her crown as well as plaited lengths of her hair.

  She stepped forward to greet them. “Lady Gwyneth, Percy . . . what a pleasure it is to receive you here. Come in, come in. You must be parched from your ride.”

  Bryan watched her as she addressed the two; she was so cordial and demure that he felt the urge to shake her. He couldn’t tell what went on beneath her turquoise eyes when they rested upon Percy, but he wondered if he wouldn’t be tempted to slap her if he did know.

  She smiled her elusive smile and seemed to float across the room as she approached the table. The burgundy had been brought up and set into a silver decanter; four jewel-crested goblets rested beside it. Bryan hadn’t seen the goblets before; he assumed that Michael had brought them from Montoui along with other “niceties.”

  Gwyneth and Percy followed Elise to the table, and Bryan followed. They took chairs before the fire and conversation continued. Percy expounded on King Richard’s affairs; Gwyneth invited Elise to come hunting in their forest acres.

  The time
passed easily, Bryan noted. A lad appeared in the room, and Elise needed only to lift her hand and he stood ready to refill a glass.

  One would never think that she had just left the heat of her own kitchen, sweating along with the others to preserve meat for winter. It appeared that her most difficult task in the world was the selection of the proper gown for the day.

  My cap is off to you, Duchess, he thought dryly.

  They gave Percy and Gwyneth a tour of the manor, and Bryan smiled as he realized how smoothly Elise avoided the rooms they had not yet cleaned and refurbished. The only awkward moment was in their chamber, when Gwyneth exclaimed with delight and envy over their bath.

  “How wonderful!” she cried.

  “Yes, it is,” Elise told her. “The water escapes constantly through a pipe, and is replenished constantly through a mechanism that dips down to the spring beyond the walls. It was an invention from Rome, or so they tell us.”

  “Absolutely wonderful!” Gwyneth repeated with awe. “And right in your bedchamber!”

  “You must come and make use of it sometime,” Elise told her politely. But it was at that moment that an uneasy cold seemed to settle over the group. Bryan glanced at his wife. All of them . . . who was thinking that they would enjoy the bath with whom?

  Percy would be leaving when he did, he reminded himself. He did not like the amount of relief that the thought gave him.

  Gwyneth laughed and broke the uneasy spell. “Perhaps, when we two are left behind when our husbands enter the king’s service, I shall come and stay with you.”

  “That will be pleasant,” Elise murmured. “But, you must be famished by now! We’ll go on down and dine . . .”

  The meal was wonderful, impeccably served. Bryan wondered how even Elise and her loyal servants had managed such a feast in such short time. There was roasted pork, huge legs of lamb, endless pies, sweetbreads and puddings, fresh fruit in abundance.

  We might well be the wealthiest nobility in the land by such a spread . . . he thought. Ah, yes, his wife was efficient.

  It was not until the meal was almost over that Gwyneth thought to explain their appearance that day to Elise.

  “So you see, though I do apologize for coming so hastily upon you two, I was most anxious to see you! I’m not as young as I should be for a first child, and I confess to being very frightened.”

  There was a subtle difference in Elise’s expression and tone of voice.

  “But this is . . . wonderful . . . Percy, Gwyneth . . . I wish you every happiness with your child.” She took a sip of her wine. “When . . . is the child due?”

  “Late spring, I believe,” Gwyneth said enthusiastically. “It sounds so far off, but time can so easily escape us.”

  “Yes . . .” Elise murmured. “It can. Don’t be afraid, Gwyneth. My maid . . . Jeanne . . . was in attendance when I was born. We are both nearby.”

  The words were cordial, but Bryan thought the warmth had gone from his wife’s voice. Why? Because she had longed for Percy’s child herself? He wasn’t to understand her reasoning until Gwyneth and Percy had been lodged in a guest chamber, and he had at last closed the door to their own.

  “What was the matter with you down there?” he demanded. “One would think you wished them ill with their child.”

  “Their child?” She spun about and he saw that fury burned, vibrant and vital, burned deep within the turquoise depths of her eyes.

  “What are you talking about?” he queried, equally tense as he crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed her.

  “Can’t you count, my lord? The child is due in spring. Is it Percy’s child—or yours?”

  Bryan narrowed his eyes at her and said evenly, “They were married in August.”

  “Yes—conveniently close, I would say.”

  Bryan ignored her and moved into the room. He sat upon the bed and pulled his boots off, then wearily drew his fingers through his hair.

  “Well?” Elise demanded in a hiss.

  “Well, what?”

  “Is it your child?”

  Bryan threw off his mantle, not caring that it fell to the floor in a heap. “No,” he told her, but he had hesitated just a minute too long.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying,” he snapped impatiently. “I’m doing my best to shut you up without any English barbarism.”

  “Is it or isn’t it your child?”

  “All right, Elise. If it comes in March, it is my child. If it comes in April, Percy is the father.”

  He stood up, ignoring her, as he pulled his tunic over his shoulders. He completed undressing and climbed into bed. She hadn’t moved. He cast a glance her way. She stood dead-still with her hands knotted into fists at her side as she stared at him with dark fury burning a lethal tempest in her eyes.

  He closed his own, casting a crooked arm over his eyes to shield them from the candlelight.

  “We played your game today, Elise. Our company was suitably impressed with our elegance. I am weary; come to bed.”

  He remained still, opening one eye beneath the shadow of his arm. She swung about suddenly, her footsteps sharp as she headed for the door.

  He sprang out of the bed with an agile leap, catching her arm and swinging her about.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  “Anywhere. Away from you.”

  “Why?”

  “That is clearly apparent.”

  He released her and leaned negligently against the door, staring at her. With her chin obstinately raised, she returned his stare.

  “I have not been with Gwyneth since the night Richard reached the outskirts of London.”

  She blinked, but gave no other sign the words meant anything to her. “I would like to walk by,” she told him coolly.

  He was silent for several seconds. “Because of Gwyneth? Or because you suddenly find it distasteful to sleep with your husband when the gallant Percy rests beneath the same roof?”

  “Does it matter?” she queried. Elise was very close to tears, and more than willing to lash out at him and make him feel the hurt that gnawed at her like a hundred tiny knives.

  He raised a brow. “In the outcome of anything? No. To me, yes.”

  “Maybe I feel, my lord husband, that you should be forced to the same doubts as the rest of us. Maybe I should seek Percy out—and allow you to wonder if the heir you crave is your own or not. And maybe knowing that Percy is in this house does make me ache to feel his arms about me—”

  It was as far as she got. He never meant to do so, but suddenly he was grasping her to him and shaking her. He realized what he was doing and released her—too quickly. She fell to the floor, stunned, but not beaten. Like a whirlwind she was on her feet, flying at him, fists pounding his chest, nails raking his flesh. He closed his eyes briefly, fighting for control, then caught her and held her hard against him. Her head tilted back; her eyes met his, still blazing a liquid turquoise fire.

  “Leave off, Duchess,” he said quietly.

  “Just let me by,” she whispered.

  He shook his head slowly. “You’ll never shut me out because of Percy Montagu—or any other man.”

  “Yet you expect me to jump demurely into bed while I accept your mistress and your bastard into my house?”

  “Ex-mistress—and it was at your insistence that we offered hospitality. And . . . it is most unlikely that the child is mine.”

  “Most unlikely!”

  “Elise! The past is something I cannot change. I doubt that she carries my child; Gwyneth is wise in the ways of the world, and I have always been careful not to leave a string of bastards across the battlefields or home. What would you have me do? Insult Percy further and demand to know if he is certain he is about to be a father?”

  “I would have you leave me alone!”

  “You are not going out that door tonight. I’ll not have you combing the corridors to snare the unwary Percy, should
he wander from his chamber and discover his hostess ready for reckless abandon upon the stone—”

  He broke off, ruefully rubbing his jaw as he discovered that she could break his grip and return a slap to rival his for potency. The sharp sound echoed between them.

  Perhaps it was deserved.

  “You are not leaving, Elise,” he told her quietly.

  “I am—”

  “No, you’re not. And if you push me any further, I’m going to forget that I possibly deserved your blow. If we must have a scene before guests, it might as well be that of the brutal husband flogging his sharp-tongued wife.”

  If she’d had a sword at that moment, he was certain she would have gladly pierced it through him. As it was, she held his eyes with brilliant defiance, then spun about, wrenching from his grasp, and sat in the chair before the fire.

  He watched her for several seconds, then sighed. He knew that set of her chin. She was not about to budge.

  He walked to her side and grazed her cheek with his knuckles. She flinched at his touch.

  “I am sorry, Elise.”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Just what, pray tell, milord, is it that you’re sorry for? That you railed against me? Or that we were forced into this mockery of a marriage to begin with?”

  “You never bend, do you, Elise?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “I am sorry that you are hurt.”

  Her eyes dropped from his to her hands. She played idly with the sapphire ring she wore now on her middle finger.

  “I must admit, I’m flattered.”

  “Flattered?”

  “I had not thought you would care.”

  “Then don’t flatter yourself, Stede,” she told him coolly. “I don’t like to be humiliated, and I consider this a humiliating situation.”

  Bryan stepped away from her. “Get in bed, Elise,” he told her tiredly.