Elise kept her expression immobile and inquired sweetly, “Are you afraid that your child will come early, Gwyneth?”
Gwyneth lifted her hands vaguely and smiled again. “Winter frightens me. My first child . . . I so hope that you can understand.”
“Yes, I understand,” Elise murmured. But did she? Was Gwyneth seeking companionship—or something else? Did she wish to insinuate to Elise that her child was Bryan’s—or was Elise imagining such a thing because of her own turmoil over the question.
“You are welcome to be here whenever you choose, Gwyneth,” she told the other woman serenely. “I had thought you would want your heir born on your property.”
“Oh . . . well, our all being so close . . . it doesn’t really seem to matter, does it?”
“No,” Elise replied, smiling, “I don’t suppose it matters at all.”
Gwyneth stayed the night. Elise, determined not to let Gwyneth believe that there was the slightest chink in the armor of her marriage, was charming and considerate of her guest. She even offered Gwyneth the master chamber, with its fabulous bath, for the night. And she insisted when Gwyneth demurred—and saw beneath Gwyneth’s lowered lashes a sparkle of pleasure.
Again, Elise wondered. Was it evident that Gwyneth was imagining herself in the bath . . . in the bed . . . with Elise’s husband? Or was Elise putting malicious thought where it was not due?
Elise did not sleep that night. She alternately raged and agonized over Gwyneth’s blithe statements.
The child cannot be due in March! she assured herself staunchly. Gwyneth was too small.
But if the child was Bryan’s . . .
Then it seemed natural that Gwyneth would want the baby born on Bryan’s property rather than her own. But to what end? Elise wondered. Gwyneth was legally wed, as was Bryan. By Richard’s order. They could never be together. . . unless they determined to wade through the long years it would take them both to procure annulments through the Pope . . .
Or, Elise thought, with another chill, unless she and Percy were both to die. And Gwyneth could become a widow again; men dropped like flies when they rode on crusade . . .
But I am young and healthy, Elise reminded herself. Very young, and very healthy.
She forced herself to turn over and close her eyes. Such thoughts were truly ridiculous. Gwyneth might possibly be a troublemaker, but the fragile brunette beauty was hardly a murderess.
Elise sighed, wishing she hadn’t been foolish enough to give up her own chamber. The guest lodging was comfortable, but Elise was accustomed to her own bed. The bed that she had shared with her husband.
She began to wonder if Bryan would return to her anytime soon. Richard was still in England, the last she had heard, still collecting money and provisioning and organizing the army that would cross the Channel. In Normandy, he was due to meet with Philip of France, as the two monarchs were vowed to ride together. The army was due to travel to the Continent soon, though, she knew. But Bryan had told her that he would try to come back before they had left England for the Continent.
She began to agonize all over again, wishing he would come, wishing he would not. If she possessed the least bit of dignity or pride, she would deny him. Yet if she did so, she would leave way for him to seek out another.
Or would he do that anyway?
Gwyneth left in the morning. Alaric stood beside Elise as Gwyneth, a snow nymph in her furs once more, rode away.
“I don’t much care for her,” Alaric muttered beneath his breath.
“Alaric!” Elise chastised, turning around to stare at her steward with surprise. “You shouldn’t say that in regard to Lady Gwyneth.”
“Lady!” Alaric said with a sniff. He urged Elise back into the warmth of the hall. “Meaning no disrespect, milady,” he told Elise, settling before the fire himself to whittle upon a piece of wood, “she may be nobility, but she is no lady.”
“She is very beautiful,” Elise heard herself begin.
“Beautiful, oh, aye. But not like ye, mistress. She can fool most men, but not a serf who watches her when she does not know it. She is dangerous.”
“Nonsense,” Elise said briskly. And she turned about, determined to give her attention to a tapestry that would need mending.
Alaric almost spoke again, but he held his peace. Broodingly, he stared into the fire.
The Cornish folk were a superstitious lot; he was Cornish, and knew this. He was a good Christian, and therefore tried not to allow his soul to wander into superstition.
But there was something about the dark-haired beauty who had just left that made him want to cross himself. He did so, looking covertly at his mistress. She did not see him; he almost wished that she had, that she had questioned. He had wanted to warn her that it seemed to his superstitious heart that the Lady Gwyneth held evil in her own—and was very dangerous to the Lady Elise.
Elise was just heartfully glad that Gwyneth had departed. She threw herself into her household, visiting those who had taken ill in the village, along with Jeanne. She was grateful to see that her stonemasons were still working despite the winter weather—and that Bryan’s wall was rising high about them.
A week later a guard spotted another party traveling toward Firth Manor; he hurried to Michael, and Michael hurried to Elise.
“The queen is coming!” Michael exclaimed.
“Eleanor?” Elise demanded with surprise.
Michael smiled with nervous excitement. “Since our sovereign Richard has yet taken no bride, I can think of no other woman in this realm to call queen!”
“Michael, call Alaric. Call Maddie. Call Jeanne! Chambers must be prepared; we must present her with our finest!”
Elise changed hastily and hurried downstairs. Alaric was busy adding kindling to make the fire especially warming. Maddie was ordering the girls to prepare handsome serving cauldrons of mulled cinnamon wine. Jeanne hurried about sweeping the floor and dusting the tapestries.
When Eleanor arrived with her retinue, the household was lined up to greet her. Elise stood upon ceremony, falling to her knees when Eleanor entered, but the queen would have none of it.
“Up, child, and give those cold, old bones a warming hug!”
Elise did so, delighted to be with Eleanor again. The queen was traveling with several women, among them Alys, Philip of France’s sister, and Richard’s supposed “fiancée.” Alys was a pleasant and pretty—if slightly fading—young woman, full of melancholy. Alys had long ago resigned herself to the way of kings. Purported to have been seduced by Henry not long after her arrival in England when she was little more than a child, it did not seem she now had much hope of marrying the elusive Richard.
Elise made her as comfortable as possible. The queen and her entire company were made royally welcome, and Elise was proud that her new home had come so far. A banquet amazing for wintertime was spread before Eleanor, and the conversation throughout dinner was so light and pleasant that Elise laughed with real pleasure . . . until she learned that King Richard was not still in England—that he and his company had landed in France two days previous.
Bryan would not come by.
Elise tried to hide her bitterness from her guests, and she believed she did an admirable job of it. She ordered that her chamber be given to the queen since it was the best in the house, but Eleanor, it seemed, was determined to speak with her alone.
“I’ll not take your chamber away from you, Elise, but I shall be glad to share it with you. I miss those nights when you were near to talk to and make me feel young again!”
By the time Elise saw to her other guests and came to her chamber, Eleanor had bathed and crawled into bed, donned in a fresh white nightgown. Her graying hair was loose and it spilled about her shoulders, and she was reading a letter with a frown creasing her forehead.
She smiled, however, when she saw Elise, tapping the letter with a finger. “Richard! He is my pride, and my dismay. I am following him about with Alys, determined to get him married, so
he hurries off and leaves me a letter stating that God’s holy war must first be fought. Dear Lord! Does he not realize that he but leaves his country to John!”
Elise smiled wanly with sympathy. Eleanor was no fool. She knew that her son had carried a love for the wily Philip of France in his heart that could not extend to Philip’s sister. “Ah, I will get him married. If not Alys . . . the King of Navarre has a daughter. She saw Richard once and swore she would have no other.... But Richard’s affairs cannot be settled tonight. And I am very interested in yours.”
“In my affairs! But why?”
The queen was always direct. “Why didn’t you come when your husband summoned you to London?”
“Bryan never summoned me—” Elise began in confusion.
But the queen interrupted impatiently. “Elise! I had hoped that you would be reconciled once Bryan brought you here. To ignore his call as you did was a stunt as willful and childish—”
“I did not!” Elise said sharply, forgetting she was speaking to the queen. “I swear to you, by Christ above us, Eleanor, that I ignored nothing. Bryan sent no one for me.”
Eleanor looked at the girl’s lovely, puzzled—and, yes, anguished—features and frowned once more. “I saw the messenger leave myself,” she murmured, gazing downward, then to Elise once more. “He reached the Lady Gwyneth, who told us all that she had just seen you and that you were fit and well.”
Elise felt her heart sink low within her breast. Gwyneth had been in London; Bryan had been in London. Percy had been in London, too, but... “I am confused,” she murmured bleakly.
Eleanor sighed. “I believe that you are, child. Richard, once his affairs were settled, was suddenly very eager to reach France. The men knew that once they left London they would not stop. But there were a few days’ grace while still assembled in London, and those with wives summoned them. I believe that Bryan was very angry. It is difficult to tell with him, he is so silent. But one could tell by his eyes, by the twist of his jaw . . . He told me only that it was but what he could expect of you.”
Elise laughed hollowly. “I don’t know that I would have bounded at his beck and call had I had the chance, but I do swear to you, Your Grace, by all that is holy, I never had that chance.”
“I believe you,” the queen said. “It is my fervent hope that your husband believes you.”
A swift and terrible desolation suddenly swept through Elise. She was so young, and all she could see were years ahead with her life nothing but a constant battlefield. She flung herself on her knees at the queen’s side, her turmoil bringing bright tears to her eyes.
“Eleanor! Once you swore you would protect me! Why did you do this to me? You gave me to a man who did not want me, who wanted my land. And you gave Montoui to him, too . . .”
Her voice trailed away with a choked sob. Eleanor smoothed back her hair soothingly, as if she were her own daughter, rather than Henry’s bastard. “Elise . . .” She sighed deeply and lifted the girl’s chin with a bony but still elegant finger. “Elise,” she reminded her softly, “you were determined to stop Bryan’s marriage to Gwyneth. You must admit that. You would not have told me the tale that you did if you hadn’t been determined that something be done. There are those who do call me a meddlesome old woman, but . . . Elise, you two are so right for each other. Percy would never have suited you, Elise. He is a good man, but his backbone twists with the wind. And Montoui . . .”
Eleanor paused a minute, taking a deep breath. “Elise, an inheritance is a curse, not a blessing. I was in love once, when I was very young. But it couldn’t be, you see, because I was the Duchess of Aquitaine. They married me off to the King of France—because of my lands. And when Louis and I divorced, I knew I must marry again hurriedly before I was dragged to the altar drugged by some enterprising nobleman intent upon seizing my land. When Henry came to me—I do believe he loved me then—he held Normandy and Anjou. But Poitou and Aquitaine were mine, and the richer lands. He was the heir to the English throne, of course, and when Stephen died, he claimed that throne. I was not English, but I came to love England. I bore Henry eight children. Three of our sons died. And . . . I’m not explaining this very well, am I? Elise, I could have gotten out of my prison once—in seventy-six, when Henry had me summoned to Normandy. If I had agreed to take Aquitaine from Richard, and give it to John after young Henry died and Richard became Henry’s heir. Elise, Richard bestowed this land on you, just as he did Montoui on Bryan. To hold jointly. Not yours, not his. Yours together. Elise, Richard knew how Henry and I fought over his lands and my lands, and the dispersal of them. He didn’t want that for you. Bryan is young, brave, and strong. You are wise in the ways of nobility and ruling. If you just give it a chance . . .”
The queen’s voice had such a wistful, yearning quality to it. Elise knew Eleanor was trying to see that her life did not repeat the travesties of the queen’s. Eleanor had tried to give her happiness. She didn’t fully understand.
Elise kissed Eleanor’s fragile hand. “Sometimes I just wish for the warmth of Montoui,” she said softly. “Sometimes it is just so very . . . cold here.”
“Ah . . . I cannot tell you how I missed Aquitaine when I first came to London!” Eleanor explained. “How I longed for the sunny south. But the English . . . they are unique. I love the people, for on the whole, they are just, and they are fond of the law! And England . . . Elise, it is solid. We are upon an island. Distant from the Continent. Distant from the wars that rage. Philip is a far more wily king than old Louis could ever have been. Louis was not a bad man; he had been raised to be a monk, not a king or husband. But I fear . . . if Richard . . . dies, I fear that John will be a weak king. He will lose the holdings on the Continent to Philip. But Elise, this piece of England that you hold, this land in Cornwall, it will be yours, and it will be your children’s, and their children’s. Hold it dear.”
“I will, Eleanor, I will . . .” Elise swore, touched by the queen’s heartfelt confession. I will try, she added silently to herself.
“Be happy, child,” the queen said softly, kissing Elise’s forehead. “I will tell Bryan that the messenger never reached you,” she added thoughtfully.
She did not add that she doubted Bryan would believe her.
But neither woman slept easily that night, for they were both wondering what had happened to the messenger.
Elise was delighted that the queen and her party stayed to celebrate Christmas with her. She would have been lonely and desolate without them. As it was, the manor sparkled, and Elise found a certain peace in the quiet mass and feast enjoyed by the group of women.
The morning of the queen’s departure, Elise realized she would know a keen loneliness once Eleanor was gone. She thought of begging to go along, then remembered how fervently Eleanor had wished her to care for her part of Cornwall. She would stay; she would see that the manor and the lands continued to grow in elegance and wealth.
Eleanor had only a few last words to say to her in private.
“Remember, Elise—and please don’t think ill of me that I say this—be loyal to Richard, but do not become John’s enemy! I fear for Richard; he can be so reckless . . . and John can be so vicious!”
“Where is Prince John? And . . . Geoffrey?”
Eleanor smiled. “Both have left England. Geoffrey . . . I have seen to it that he has been offered high office in the Church. John . . . They have sworn to Richard that they will not enter England in his absence, so that he not fear that his brothers make an attempt to seize his crown. I daresay, though, that they will both be back in a matter of months—on one pretext or another. I don’t believe that Geoffrey covets the crown. I think John would gladly slit his own brother’s throat for it. So take care.”
“What of England?”
“Ah . . . England! I worry. Richard has given the office of chancellor to a Norman. A man named Longchamp. I don’t trust him, but . . . I must see Richard married!”
In the icy courtyard, Elise hugged Eleanor ar
dently, and wished the hapless Alys the best. She waved long after the queen’s party, with its majesty and color, had disappeared.
Then she returned to the hall she had worked so hard to make beautiful and elegant . . . and felt the terrible cold seep into her.
* * *
Bryan Stede awoke suddenly in the night. The fire in his chamber in Normandy’s Stirgil Castle had gone out and the room was freezing, but a fine sheen of perspiration lay over his bare back.
He had been dreaming.
Elise had been before him, so close that he might have touched her. Her hair had been free; a breeze had lifted it until it spun like fine mists of gold web about her naked, alabaster body. She had been walking, slowly, sinuously, with the elegant grace and sultry ease of a cat. Full breasts high and inviting, curved white hips swaying in a seductive enticement. Her eyes flashed like true gemstones, and she smiled as she reached out her arms . . .
And stepped past him. Into the waiting arms of a mist-enshrouded lover. Another man’s hands had reached out to touch her, caressing the silky hollow of her waist, grabbing hard at the firm, rounded flesh of her buttocks and lifting her up, against him . . .
Elise twisted in her arms to stare at Bryan, and her eyes were hard with gloating triumph. “She bears your bastard for Percy, and I shall bear his for you . . .”
The dream had not faded; he had awakened in a piercing agony. His flesh cried out to hold a woman, yet any woman would not do; he had to hold the taunting wench of his dream and take her in such a fashion that she would never stop quivering from his touch, never doubt that she was his and only his.
Damn Gwyneth!
The thought was so sudden and strong that he thought he had spoken it aloud. He turned quickly, but Will Marshal, sleeping soundly beside him, hadn’t stirred. Will’s dreams were sweet; Isabel was expecting their first child and her letters arrived daily. Will’s marriage had brought him wealth—and far more. It had brought him contentment and happiness.
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