Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  “Does she know about . . . her husband?”

  “She knew before we told her,” Jeanne said softly. “She . . . is crying so that I fear she will sour the babe’s milk.”

  Elise hurried out of bed. Jeanne sprinted to her side to help her dress. “Milady, you must learn to be easy with yourself. You might well have caught your own death last night—”

  “Jeanne, don’t hound me. My health is fine.”

  Jeanne sighed, but insisted Elise drink a cup of warm goat’s milk before leaving the room. Elise did as she was bidden, then hurried to Gwyneth’s chamber.

  Old Kate sat crooning to the baby. Gwyneth was silent when Elise walked in, but when she walked to the bed, she saw that Gwyneth’s beautiful features were strained from the force of the tears she had shed.

  “Gwyneth,” Elise murmured softly, sitting beside her on the bed, just as she had with Percy the night before. “Please, Gwyneth, I know you have lost your husband, but your son is beautiful; you must calm yourself for him—”

  “Ah, Elise!” Gwyneth whispered miserably, her dark eyes haunted and shimmering. “’Tis not just that Percy is dead; I wronged him so!”

  Elise felt her heart begin to hammer, for she knew she was about to receive a confession. She did not want to hear that Gwyneth had been unfaithful to Percy with Bryan . . .

  “Gwyneth, Percy said to tell you how grateful he was for his son—”

  “It is his son, you know, Elise. That is why I wronged him so. I . . . I don’t know if you can understand this or not, Elise. I was raised knowing that I would be told where and when to marry. When I was fifteen, they married me to an eighty-year-old duke. God forgive me, but I could not weep when he died! I met Bryan, you see . . .” She paused, her dark lashes sweeping her cheeks.

  “Gwyneth, please—”

  Her eyes flew back open. “No, Elise! I want you to understand! I thought that Bryan and I would be married. Henry promised it. Then suddenly Richard was King, and Bryan was marrying you. I was resigned; I had always been taught that marriage was political. But, you see, I loved Bryan. You were the interloper; I could not help but grow to hate you. I knew, too, that Percy still loved you. But he was good, Elise . . . so good to me. There were so many times when we laughed and loved together! I don’t know why it couldn’t be enough. But I . . . I wanted Bryan, too. I waylaid the messenger from London when he would have come to you before the king left England. And in London . . . I tried to seduce Bryan. I wanted you both to believe that Percy’s child was his. I wanted to drive you as far apart as possible.”

  Relief swept through Elise; Gwyneth had tried to seduce Bryan; she hadn’t succeeded. Guilt filled her as quickly as relief. What right did she have to feel such joy when Percy lay dead?

  “Gwyneth, thank you for telling me this. And, please, I know you must mourn Percy, he was your husband, and I believe that you did love each other. But his son lives, Gwyneth! You must get well quickly, and give his child your love.”

  Gwyneth seemed suddenly tired, having said what she felt she must. She lifted herself with a wistful smile and reached out to Kate, across the room. Kate stood and brought the babe, her wrinkled old face alive with a tender smile.

  Elise watched Gwyneth cradle the babe to her breast. Then she felt a piercing envy; the child was beautiful and perfect. Soon, she thought, soon she would have her own child, Bryan’s child, to love so sweetly and tenderly . . .

  But first, this babe’s father needed proper burial. Her men, who had died to protect her, still lay out in the snow. If Percy had been right, Chancellor Longchamp was out for more blood—by whatever devious method he could arrange.

  There was so much that needed to be done. She must meet with Michael and Alaric and the Captain of the Guard. Sentries had to be posted; the manor had to become the defensive castle it resembled, and she must prepare for a siege.

  * * *

  Gwyneth’s infant was christened on the same morning that his father was buried in the chapel vault. He appeared to be a lusty, healthy boy, but Elise knew that in these times when death came so easily to the very young and very old and even to the strong, priests preferred to baptize infants and bring them to God’s grace as quickly as possible.

  Gwyneth was too weak to witness either ceremony. But she did seem better since that restless morning when she had made her confession to Elise.

  Elise sent a letter to Bryan, telling him of Percy’s warning, but she had no idea when—or where—he would receive it. She didn’t even know if he had received the letter she had written telling him that she was with child.

  Twenty men were sent out to inspect Gwyneth’s property. Her serfs, they reported, were returning from the forest to which they had scattered when the attack had started. Gwyneth’s manor had also been constructed of stone; Mordred told Elise cheerfully that it could, with sound effort, be restored to its former grandeur.

  Elise was up early each morning, nervously watching the guards drill. Thank God the wall had risen high! She prayed that her own manor was as unbreachable as Montoui.

  Winter, having done its damage, abated that week. No more snow was to fall; a spring heat arrived with a gentle breeze, and the snows began to melt.

  And with the coming of spring came a peddler. A little man with bags full of needles and salt cubes, laces and trinkets. His name was Limon, and he also brought news.

  Elise bought several needles, and offered the small, hunched man a warm meal. She had it served to him in the main hall before the hearth, and when he had eaten, he began to speak.

  Chancellor Longchamp had replaced Richard’s officials with members of his own family. They were all Normans, and they were igniting anew the old rivalry between Saxons and Normans.

  Longchamp traveled the countryside with his own army of eight hundred men. He demanded hospitality—the type to starve a province for months!—in the king’s name. Will Marshal’s wife, young Isabel de Clare, had refused him admittance to one of her manors; and Longchamp had declared to avenge himself against Will just as he had done with Percy Montagu.

  The peddler’s old eyes turned to Elise. “Best take care, kind Duchess. The people are applauding Prince John and Geoffrey Fitzroy now, they hate Longchamp so. He is a devious man, powerful and power-hungry. He has declared that Will Marshal shall return from Richard’s side to find nothing; he has sworn that Bryan Stede shall be brought so low he would have to crawl miles to reach his own grave.”

  “Bryan isn’t even here—”

  “Lord Stede, so the rumors go, is not afraid of Richard’s wrath. He openly tells the king that Longchamp is destroying his kingdom.”

  “Why does Richard do nothing?”

  “King Richard does not like criticism, even when he accepts it. He trusts Longchamp from long years in Normandy. He will not believe what is until he is absolutely forced to. Don’t worry unduly, milady. This place has become a fine fortress. I tell you what I do just so that you keep your men alert.”

  Elise did not need such a warning; since the terror in the snow the night of Percy’s death, she had doubled drills, watches, and manpower.

  She thanked the peddler; he promised to return. Thoughtfully, she started to walk the stairs to her chamber. So Percy had been right. Longchamp—who would deny it to King Richard, of course—had ordered the assault upon Percy Montagu’s property. And Percy Montagu had died . . .

  Dear Percy. Tears stung her eyes again, as they did so easily when she thought of him. He had wanted to warn her with his last breaths . . .

  She paused suddenly, remembering. He had been trying to warn her about something else. But he had died before he could do so.

  What? she wondered desperately.

  Gwyneth . . .

  Had he said his wife’s name? Certainly . . . he was dying, and his wife had given him an heir in those final moments. Gwyneth had needed to confess to her, too. She felt no rancor toward Gwyneth now; she kept the woman in her household, protected her, even enjoyed her company and t
hat of the baby.

  Then what?

  What had Percy tried so hard to say?

  Elise sighed, quickening her steps. She wanted to reach her own chamber; she had been so tired lately. Today, she had been dizzy several times; black spots had appeared before her eyes.

  Rest . . . she needed more rest. It was difficult to rest when the country might be veering toward civil war; when Bryan was miles and miles away and she alone . . .

  Suddenly she stood dead-still, swallowing a gasped scream as a pain pierced through her back. She took a deep breath, stunned. It came again, and then the dizziness started to sweep through her, this time out of control.

  She saw the stairs as she started to fall upon them. A long, low sob of anguish escaped her, and then she was catapulting toward the hall. The stairs disappeared. Everything disappeared. The world became a wall of gray.

  * * *

  She heard whispering long before she fully awoke. Jeanne and Maddie, keeping her chamber warm, watching over her. They didn’t know she could hear; but she did, and she understood.

  When she at last opened her eyes, they were filled with her tears.

  She had lost the child she carried. The tiny life that had been so very, very precious. Bryan’s babe; the fragile creation of a dream night, the life that had meant everything to her . . .

  Everything.

  The babe had been their future.

  Their chance for peace; their chance for love.

  She wept bitterly, and no one could console her.

  XXII

  By August, even those who feared King Richard’s wrath and were well aware that he did not take kindly to criticism were writing letters to their sovereign.

  Chancellor Longchamp dismissed Richard’s people right and left; he was in control of the White Tower in London, and therefore in control of the city. Isabel de Clare, on Will Marshal’s orders, had fortified their Irish holdings and moved into her castle in Wales. Even those who did not directly fear Longchamp distrusted him. In Richard’s absence, he had taken over the house.

  Elise grew more and more anxious about the situation in Cornwall. The peddler became her friend, and he continued to come to Firth Manor, but he seldom brought cheerful news. Prince John had returned to England—under the pretense of saving the kingdom for his brother; Geoffrey had come, too. Now an archbishop, Geoffrey had taken refuge in a monastery; a member of Longchamp’s family had ordered that he be dragged from his refuge—surely a sin against God!

  Geoffrey was imprisoned by Longchamp’s people, and although he was Henry II’s bastard, they began to compare him to Saint Thomas à Becket, slain because of a few choice words muttered by Henry. The people began to hail Geoffrey and John; they hated Longchamp’s rule, and were ready to accept John as regent in his stead. If something wasn’t done quickly, a full-scale civil war would ensue. Longchamp deserved to be beaten, but many feared that if John went to battle against him, he would also attempt to seize Richard’s crown.

  And it seemed that Richard was determined to believe that nothing was wrong. He left France with Philip in August; by September, he was further arming troops in Messina.

  Elise wrote letters constantly. Not to Richard, but to Bryan.

  She did not know what to say to him. In stilted words, she had told him that she had lost their child. But she could not confess her love on paper, and she feared that he would be bitterly disappointed with her. He had wanted a child so dearly.

  And that child, conceived in a winter’s tempest, had been the tenuous link of her love. Bryan had always wanted land, and Bryan had wanted heirs to inherit that land. Their marriage had been arranged by the king. The longer he was away, the easier it became for Elise to slip into desolation. She had learned to love him, just to lose him. For she did feel as if she had lost him; it was September, and Richard’s great Crusade truly had yet to get under way. God alone knew when she would see Bryan again. Sometimes his image misted in her dreams, and she would wonder if he remembered her at all. Once, he had wanted her. Perhaps he had never loved her, but he had wanted her. Now he had been gone so long . . .

  And she had lost the child. She could have waited, she could have endured, she could have stayed halfway sane—if only she could have had the babe to love in his absence . . .

  Gwyneth’s son, young Percy, flourished like a spring flower. He was solid and happy, a chubby little child, cooing whenever she picked him up. Gwyneth’s manor had been rebuilt by September, but Gwyneth remained at Firth Manor. She was afraid to go home, and with Longchamp still such a threat to the unfortified manors, Elise could not bid her to leave. And she was happy to have young Percy; she felt a responsibility to him. She loved to hold the babe, although doing so also brought her pain. She had wanted her own child so badly. A beautiful, healthy boy to hand proudly to Bryan. His son, her son, something of true worth from the maelstrom of their marriage.

  Elise and Gwyneth had formed an uneasy friendship. Elise had to admit that Gwyneth had little temper, and could be consistently charming. On many a lonely night, Elise was glad that she and Gwyneth had been able to consume some of the long hours with idle chatter. If she could only trust Gwyneth completely, she knew that she could have shared her own worries and fears, and perhaps found them alleviated. But she didn’t trust Gwyneth, not completely, and she could never admit to Gwyneth that she had found herself suddenly head over heels in love with Bryan, and that she lay in anguish every night, wondering where—and with whom—he might be sleeping.

  She knew that Gwyneth wrote to Bryan—as she did—but she could not bring herself to ask what Gwyneth’s letters contained. She assumed that they were like hers: letters that stated the deplorable state of affairs in England, and begged that someone do something that would force Richard to act. Elise knew that her letters were always stiff and formal, just like the letters Bryan returned to her. He had offered her no condemnation for losing their child; his words were polite. Too polite. She sensed bitter disappointment in them. Maddie and Jeanne insisted upon telling her that she was young, that she had years ahead of her in which to have children. Such assurances gave Elise little comfort, for as it stood, it seemed that it would be years before she saw her husband again, and already she felt the distance between them. By the time they met again, they would be strangers. The ties of tenderness so recently begun would have withered with the passage of time.

  There was little for her to do except cling to the belief that she held their property safe from the devious and grasping hands of Chancellor Longchamp.

  By winter, Longchamp had threatened invasion of all properties belonging to William Marshal and Bryan Stede. Elise had tripled the guard; when winter’s snows fell again, she had over three hundred trained and armed men ready to defend Firth Manor and the Cornish properties surrounding it.

  But Longchamp’s army was double the size of hers. Only the harshness of winter—and the fact that he was still busy stealing offices from Richard’s men in London—kept Longchamp from attacking.

  In the deep midst of winter, they were visited by travelers again. No banners were raised as the party of ten or so approached the manor, and Elise, brought to the ramparts by her alarmed steward, strained her eyes against the elements to ascertain just who would be coming so. Not Longchamp; if he were to make an assault upon the manor, he would come with his army in force. And Longchamp was in London, the last that she had heard.

  “Shall we call the alarm?” Alaric asked her.

  Elise shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. They are knights who approach us, but no more than ten. From wherever it comes, it is a party come at peace.”

  It was not until the party had almost reached the manor that Elise realized it was Prince John descending upon her. She was glad that she had risen no barriers against him, but she was uneasy. Eleanor did not trust John, and if a man’s mother could not trust him, then others had best beware.

  John had sworn not to come to England while Richard was away; the king
, it seemed, was ready to forgive his little brother almost anything, but Richard was not a fool, and he knew his younger brother coveted the crown. Prince John was, however, far more preferable to the people than the obnoxious Norman Longchamp. So he had been welcomed to Cornwall.

  And as Eleanor had once warned her, Elise knew well enough that John might be the king one day. Richard was one of the most powerful knights in the world, one of the most courageous.

  Highly likely to get his fool self killed.

  And so it was important to tread a careful path with the prince, especially since he was her half brother, just as Richard. The two were as different as their coloring: Richard, the golden king; John, the dark and often sullen prince. No, he must be humored, but never trusted, and so welcoming him was a nerve-wracking task. Elise always had to hope that John had no conception whatever of her identity.

  “Lady Elise!”

  He greeted her with affectionate propriety, and she noted that he had changed of late. He still wore high heels affixed to his boots—John despised the fact that he had never grown tall—but his dress was more sober than in previous times, and his behavior was much subdued.

  Only his eyes were the same. They were as ever dark and alert, and she thought that he was a fine actor. John was shrewd and greedy. He could make use of expediency and opportunity quite well.

  A little chill shook her. What would happen if he did become their king?

  “Your Grace, what a pleasure to greet you here!” she returned to him.

  “Ah, pleasure is not my quest, Lady Elise. I have come to see how you fare the winter with Longchamp on your heels!”

  “Quite well, thank you,” Elise replied, restraining her tongue. She knew he hadn’t come to see to her welfare; he simply wanted to know how strongly aligned she was with him against Longchamp!

  “I don’t know why my brother the king is so blind to that man!” John exclaimed vehemently. “A man who threatens to demolish your husband’s property, while Bryan Stede rides at his side! Still, I have every faith that Richard will see justice done, and so I have returned to these shores to know the heart of the people in this matter. They have cried out to me, you know.”