Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  “Milady!” shrieked out a man, and she turned again just in time to see a swarthy man bearing down upon her. There was a twisted smile about his lips that brought panic to her heart. She screamed, but instinct forced her to swing the mare around, rearing, and where the man had been about to grapple her, he landed upon the snow instead, and Elise felt the sickening crunch of the mare’s hooves as they landed hard upon him.

  She could not worry about his fate; he was down, and cries and the mortal gasps of death were still loud about her. She whirled the mare about again; bright pools of blood splashed brilliant color against the purity of the snow. Three of her guards lay dead, yet only one of the four attackers remained alive to give the others battle. “Mordred!” she screamed, staring in fascinated horror as one of the men raised a battle ax against the youngest guard. Mordred heard her warning and bolted from his horse; the animal screamed in pain, and fell to the snow in place of Mordred. The attacker fought to retrieve his ax from the dying horse; Mordred slew him, catching his throat with the blade of his sword.

  Elise and Mordred stared at each other, and then at the scene around them. Dead men littered the snow. Her last guard and the last attacker had fallen together, both bleeding mortally, both silent now. The horses had run in the night; only the dead beast and Elise’s mare remained.

  “Where did they come from?” Mordred whispered in a daze. He looked up at Elise. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, as he had, her voice seeming to mock her as it was whipped about and echoed by the wind.

  “We must get back to the manor,” Mordred murmured.

  “We can’t; we must find the Lady Gwyneth.”

  “We’ll freeze to death and perish ourselves, milady.”

  Elise wanted nothing more than to go back. The sight of all the dead about her and the eerie wind that rose over the bloodstained white winter night were terrifying to the soul. She thought of her child, and knew it would make sense.

  She also knew it would be condemning the Lady Gwyneth and her companions to death.

  “Just a little farther, Mordred. Then I swear, I’ll race you and the wind to return home.”

  Mordred trudged along beside her. “Horses are traitors!” he suddenly swore. He looked back over his shoulder and shivered visibly.

  “We will send for our dead tomorrow,” Elise said softly, “and give them burial before God.”

  “And the others?”

  “We will try to discover who they are—and why they attacked us.”

  She and Mordred struggled along in moments of anguished silence. Then they heard the fading cries for help.

  “Right ahead!” Elise shouted to Mordred. She extended a hand to him and he leaped to the saddle behind her. Moments later they came upon the Lady Gwyneth of Cornwall.

  She was down in the snow, with only a woolen cloak to guard her from the cold; her furs, it appeared, had been wrenched away. Her flesh had little more color than the snow; her sable hair was a slash of darkness against it. Even her lips were as pale as death. An old woman sat shivering and weeping at her side; it was her cries that had at last summoned Elise and Mordred to her position.

  Elise leaped from her horse and fell to her knees at Gwyneth’s side. She found a pulse at the base of her throat; she placed a hand over Gwyneth’s belly and found it hard and round, shifting slightly beneath her touch.

  “She lives, and the child lives!”

  “Old woman, what happened?” Mordred demanded.

  “Unaware . . . completely unaware . . . they burned the manor. Oh, how it glowed! And I took my Lady Gwyneth . . . but they came upon us . . . stole the horses . . . and left her to die . . . and Sir Percy . . .”

  The old woman was suffering severely from shock and exposure. Her lips kept forming words, but no more sounds came forth. “Dear God, what am I to do?” Elise prayed out loud. She had to get Gwyneth to the manor. Could she get her on the mare? Or would she surely kill Gwyneth and the child?

  She tried to lift Gwyneth’s head to speak to her. Suddenly, the brunette beauty’s dark eyes flew open. “Percy! Percy! You must find Percy . . . you must . . .”

  “Gwyneth! It is Elise. I must get you back to the manor. Percy is with Richard—”

  “No! No!” Gwyneth’s eyes cleared; she stared directly at Elise. “Percy came home . . . he was ill. Infection. He was . . .” Her voice began to fade; she drew upon some inner strength and gripped Elise’s arm with an amazing strength. “Percy! He is behind us . . . he begged me to go on! How I have wronged him! Elise, go for him. Swear to me by the blessed Virgin that you will go for him!”

  “Gwyneth, I must get you to the manor. You and your child will perish—”

  “I deserve death!” Gwyneth cried in anguish. “Swear to me, Elise, you loved him once. Go to Percy . . .”

  Her eyes closed. Elise gazed at the old woman, who burst into tears and rocked back and forth. Elise shook her vehemently. “Is what she says true? Is Percy back in the snow?”

  “Aye!” the woman wailed. “My Lord Percy . . . fell. He could go no farther.”

  Elise stood up. “Mordred, you must take Gwyneth to the manor on my horse, and immediately send others out for us!”

  “Milady, I cannot leave you!”

  “If you don’t, Mordred, we will both be guilty of murdering the Lady Gwyneth and her child. Her woman and I shall find Sir Percy. I order you to take Gwyneth back.”

  Mordred swallowed. “The child could come . . . and die.” “It will die anyway if we do not do something. Mordred, for God’s sake! Go, and get help for us!”

  Mordred climbed from the mare. Together he and Elise lifted Gwyneth to the saddle with all possible care. Elise, wanting to cry, watched them ride away. The old woman was sobbing again; she could not cry herself. She gripped the old woman’s shoulders and dragged her to her feet. “We must move, or freeze. And we must find Sir Percy.” The old woman kept sobbing. Elise bit her lip in consternation, then slapped her firmly across the cheek. “Stop! What is your name?”

  The old woman stared at her, shocked. She shook her own head, but then lifted her chin, her tears having abated. “I am Kate, maid to Lady Gwyneth since her birth.”

  “Well, Kate, you must lead me to Sir Percy, and we must pray that he lives.”

  She didn’t add that they needed to pray for much more: that no more outlaws lurked about; that Percy could send help for the two of them before they succumbed to the bitter cold.

  “I don’t believe he’s far,” Kate mumbled. “ ’Twas so hard to keep my lady moving, and then she fell . . .”

  “Come, Kate, let’s walk.”

  Elise and Kate huddled together, tramping with difficulty through the snow. At last they came upon Percy; he was a huddled bundle, ashen, near death. Elise cried out in dismay and knelt beside him. She called to him; she patted his freezing cheeks. She could not arouse him, and her heart began to thunder with pity and pain. Even now his features were handsome and classic. The poignancy of lost love touched her, and she became determined to make him live.

  But there was so little she could do!

  “Kate! We must warm him. We must drag him to the shelter of those trees, and huddle against him.”

  Kate nodded, but her eyes rolled in a way that showed Elise she thought it impossible for two frozen women to drag an unconscious man. Elise ignored her and bent to the task.

  He was heavy, but the task was not impossible. Grunting and straining, Elise and Kate managed to bring him to a thicket of evergreens. And there at least the biting wind could not touch him. “Huddle to his one side!” Elise commanded. She herself sat to his left, trying to make the warmth of her body flood to his.

  And as they sat there waiting, old Kate came to her full senses and began to talk. “My Lord Percy reached home just two days ago. He was thrown from his horse in Normandy, and his knee festered with infection. Good King Richard sent him home. He arrived in a litter. Lady Gwyneth decided then to stay at her own manor wi
th Lord Percy to birth their child. She meant to send a messenger to you. But then this evening at dusk . . . armed men swept down upon the manor. My Lord Percy was furious because he was so helpless. He and my lady and I fled . . . but they caught us, and took the horses, leaving us to die.”

  “Armed men!” Elise repeated. “But who—”

  “I don’t know!” Kate wailed. “Oh, my Lady Elise! I don’t know! Some spoke in English, some spoke in French!”

  Elise became exceedingly grateful that Bryan had seen fit to further arm their manor at Montoui. No surprise attack there—in the manor, that was. Attack upon a field had happened. . .

  “Rub Sir Percy’s hands, Kate,” Elise said. “His gloves are soaked and useless. Here, put mine upon him, and keep rubbing them.”

  It seemed forever that they huddled in the shelter of the evergreens, forever that the night wind whistled and shrieked around them. Elise kept talking, and ordered Kate to talk back to her. In the numbing cold the temptation to sleep was great, but if they fell asleep, they might never be found . . .

  At last Elise heard the muffled sound of hoofbeats in the snow and the jangle of horse trappings. She started to jump up and cry out in the darkness, then hesitated, pulling back to the evergreen. Percy and Gwyneth had been attacked in force—only God knew why. She didn’t dare call out until she knew for certain that it was her men who rode through the winter’s night.

  “Lady Elise!”

  She smiled, warmth seeming to fill her along with relief. She turned back to the hopeful Kate. “It’s Alaric, Kate! Rescue has come!”

  Alaric fell to his knees in the snow, kissing the sodden skirt to her tunic when he saw her safe. Elise dragged him back to his feet and hugged him briefly but fiercely.

  “Lord Percy desperately needs warmth, Alaric. You must take him tenderly and carefully, and get him back to the manor.”

  Ten men had ridden out this time, Elise was relieved to see. As their grim party returned silently through the snow, she began to reflect upon the night with bitter sadness. Her men had been killed, their lives shattered upon the snow. She had known violence before, and perhaps she should have become hardened, but she could not take those lives lightly. Women had become widows this night; children had lost their fathers. Why?

  At the manor Maddie rushed down the stairs to greet her in the hall. Jeanne was with Lady Gwyneth, Maddie told Elise. A warm chamber had been prepared for Lord Percy; bricks had been heated for his bed. A wine-and-herb concoction that steamed and simmered was ready to be trickled down his throat . . .

  Elise hung against the mantel for a moment, feeling dizzy herself as the roaring flames in the hearth began to thaw the numbing cold of her limbs. She rallied with a weak smile as she saw men carefully carry Percy up the stairs. “Someone take Kate to the kitchen; she needs warmth herself. How is Lady Gwyneth?”

  “Fitful, but she lives. The child will come any time. ’Tis a miracle it was not born in the saddle!”

  “I’m not too cold or too old to go to my lady,” Kate said to Elise with dignity. “Have I your leave to do so, Duchess?”

  “Of course, Kate . . .” Elise murmured. Maddie stuck a warm cup of something into her hands and she began to sip it, watching as Maddie led Kate to the stairs. “Kate! One moment!” she called out suddenly. Kate paused and Elise said, “Think carefully, Kate. Who could have done all this—and why? Did you recognize no one, Kate? Were there no telltale banners, no words spoken to give a hint of reason for such a thing?”

  Kate shook her head sadly, “Nothing, my lady. Nothing.”

  Elise nodded to Kate to go on. She finished the warm drink Maddie had given her, then agreed to change her clothing when Maddie reminded her that it was wet and cold. She entered the chamber where Gwyneth had been brought, but found Gwyneth slipping in and out of consciousness, and Jeanne and Kate efficiently assisting the lady’s labor. Feeling still stunned, confused, and now helpless, Elise went on to see to Percy.

  He was conscious, but that did not relieve Elise of her misery. Percy was going to die. Elise wasn’t sure how she knew; the fact was simply there to be seen in his ghostly pallor, in the shroudlike quality of the sunken shadows beneath his dulling eyes.

  “Elise . . .”

  With great effort he lifted a hand to her. Alaric discreetly retreated to a shadowed corner of the room and Elise came to take his hand. “Forgive me,” he told her, his voice a slender thread that held tenuously to life.

  “Percy, you mustn’t try to talk—”

  He laughed, a bitter, choking sound. “Nay, Elise, I must talk now, for I will never have the chance again. Who would have thought after all the battles I survived that my horse would leave my leg a pus-ridden mangle, and that the snows of an English winter would join with the infection to kill me! The priest has come to grant me God’s mercy, and I crave his gentle hand. But on earth and as this life fades to gray—”

  “Percy, you must cling to life. Your wife is about to give you a child.”

  “I strive to hear the words,” Percy said without bitterness. “And to hear you forgive me for the wrong I did you.”

  “Percy, you did me no wrong—”

  “Aye, I did. I wronged us both, for I loved you, and I allowed pride and jealousy to make me cast you away. For that I ask your forgiveness—”

  “Percy! If you ask it, I forgive you freely, though there is nothing to forgive. Life takes us where it will. Please, Percy, don’t give up without a fight—”

  “Elise, a knight knows when he is beaten.” He beckoned her closer. “I must warn you . . .”

  “Warn me?” Elise leaned closer. His hazel eyes lit like fire for a moment, and for that moment she was transported back. Back to a time when she had been very young, and very much in love, and very certain that she could twist fate in her hands by the force of her will.

  “Longchamp . . .” Percy whispered faintly.

  Longchamp . . . Elise frowned. Longchamp was a Norman, entrusted with the office of Chancellor of England while King Richard marched to the Crusade.

  “Percy, what about Longchamp?”

  “I . . . scorned him in London. The manor . . . the burning. . . he is a vicious man. Gloating with power. Ruthless.”

  “The Chancellor of England! Oh, Percy! Would he dare?”

  “Not openly. But . . .”

  Percy paused, moistening his lips. Elise looked about for water; Alaric came quickly to supply it. She noticed dimly that the priest had indeed been called for, and stood quietly in the back of the room, his eyes closed in prayer.

  “Listen to me, Elise!” Percy pleaded, finding substance for his voice again as he waved the water away. “Bryan bitterly and openly opposed him. He will strike against him somehow. Furtively, as he did tonight.”

  Percy closed his eyes, exhausted from his effort to speak. Elise heard a commotion in the hall and tried to slip her hand from his. His eyes opened again, his grip upon her hand tightened. “Wait, you must also be aware that—”

  “Percy, shh . . . !” Elise murmured. “I’ll come right back.”

  “You must understand—”

  She didn’t hear the rest; she had hurried into the hall. Jeanne stood there, awaiting her, with a bundle wrapped in clean linen swathing. “A son,” Jeanne told her.

  Elise bit down hard into her lip, fighting tears as she took the pink-fleshed newborn carefully into her arms.

  “Gwyneth?” Elise asked.

  “She is weary and weak, unconscious now. But she is also a fighter.”

  Elise nodded. The baby let out a pathetic cry, scrunching his eyes together. “I’m sorry, little one, but you will have a mother. And your father . . .”

  She hurried back into Percy’s chamber. “Percy! See your son! He is beautiful, and perfect!”

  Percy gazed upon the baby. Elise brought the infant to his bedside; Percy touched him. “A son . . .” he gasped. He kept the graze of his knuckles upon the squalling child, but his eyes turned to Elise. “His .
. . mother?”

  “She does well.”

  He nodded, as if with great satisfaction. “Tell her I am grateful. But Elise, you must heed my . . . warning . . .”

  She thought he had merely closed his eyes again. The lovely, laughing hazel eyes that had once brought nothing less than dreams and fascination. “Percy?”

  Alaric stepped forward. “He is gone, milady.”

  Elise choked back a sob; the tears streamed silently down her face. She hugged the protesting infant to her. “Little one, he was a fine and honorable man. I will see that you are taught all about him!” she murmured fervently, her words sincere. For, yes, Percy had met death bravely. In life he had sometimes been weak; in death he had been strong.

  The baby continued howling. Elise turned blindly to leave the chamber; Alaric touched her shoulders and led her to the hall. She heard the drone of the priest’s voice as he said God’s words over Percy’s body.

  In the hallway, Elise slumped against the wall, holding the baby tight. Jeanne was forced to wrest him from her arms.

  “Milady, you must sleep yourself!”

  She had no answer. She could not stop the tears from cascading down her cheeks. How she had fought to keep him alive in that snow! And she had lost him.

  “Milady!” Jeanne said firmly. “You must think of your own child.”

  “My own child . . .” Elise murmured. She knew now that Gwyneth’s child was Percy’s child. She felt no gladness; the pain had robbed her of envy and jealousy. She could not even think of how dearly she loved Bryan, nor could she remember Percy’s words of warning. All she felt was emptiness. Only the distant thought of her own babe broke the numbness of her mind. Maddie arrived at Jeanne’s side; the older woman nodded to the younger one, and Elise went docilely as Maddie led her to her bedchamber.

  Sleep was a tender mercy that came quickly.

  * * *

  She awoke to find Jeanne in her room, stoking the fire that had burned low during the night. She remembered instantly the events of the night.

  “How is Lady Gwyneth?” she asked so abruptly that Jeanne started and bumped her head.

  “Well, but very agitated,” Jeanne replied, rubbing her temple. She hesitated a moment. “She keeps asking for you.”