Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  Elise said nothing. John, acting the benign overlord, turned to introduce the members of his party. Only one man held back; he was cowled in a priest’s frock, which made Elise curious. She recognized his other company. They were lords known for a fondness of drinking and wenching, and Elise remained uneasy as she welcomed them all to the manor. The priest did not belong with the group. Of course, it was true that there were members of the clergy known for ignoring the rules of the cloth, but . . .

  Gwyneth made an appearance in the hall, and Elise was glad, for Gwyneth subtly took over the duties of hostess, calling for food and wine, bringing an unstilted warmth and welcome to the hall.

  Elise was left to welcome the last of the guests, the cowled man who hovered in the background. When the others had moved on to the hearth, he called to her softly, lifting his head. She saw a pair of light, blue-gray, sparkling eyes.

  “Geoffrey!” she cried with true delight. “I worried about you, but I see that you are free and well!”

  “Shh!” he told her. “Yes, I am free, and very well.” He grinned ruefully. “I am even a bit of a hero, but I pretend not to ride with this grouping; I would not want Richard to know that I banded with John.” He sighed. “I am accused enough of coveting my half brother’s crown, and though I continue to say that the throne of England would be crowded with Richard already in it, rumors still spread!”

  “But, Geoffrey, you are an archbishop now! Surely no one—”

  “Nay, there is no ‘surely’ when one is of royal blood—no matter which side of the sheets they may have come from.” He sobered. “Elise, that is why I am here.”

  “Why?”

  “Be careful with John. Be very careful. He is jealous of Bryan—because Richard respects him so, and bestowed such wealth upon him. He is suspicious of you—because of Richard’s interest. And if he had all of England while you lived upon a tiny speck of an island, he would want that tiny speck of an island.”

  “What am I to do?” Elise cried softly. “Longchamp on one side, John on the other!”

  “Do nothing; just take care—and sit tight. If Richard should die by a Saracen sword, John will be king. If he believes that you accept that—that you would be loyal to him—you will be left in peace. Longchamp will doubtlessly be bested; he has played his hand too far. The people went wild when his sister dared to arrest me. Richard will do something now; he must. But Richard respects Longchamp, and it is possible that he could rise to power again. And no matter what, Elise, don’t let your feelings give you away. These are dangerous times for royal bastards.”

  “No one knows, Geoffrey,” Elise said softly. “Not even . . . Bryan.”

  Geoffrey smiled. “Ah . . . so you two still fight your little war! I warned you once not to make an enemy of him, little sister.”

  “We’re not exactly . . . enemies,” Elise murmured, flushing.

  Geoffrey lifted a brow with a slight smile. “I’m glad, Elise, for your husband is sore set upon by the king. Bryan has begged leave to come home; Richard will not part with him.”

  Elise laughed bitterly. “Then it all seems to matter little, doesn’t it? Were we friends or enemies, we would scarce remember by the time he reaches home.”

  Geoffrey squeezed her hand. “Perhaps it will not be so long,” he told her softly.

  She tried to smile, but could not. They both knew that he was lying. She had been pitched into a dangerous game between chancellor and prince, with Geoffrey her only real friend.

  “Have you . . . seen Bryan?” she asked him.

  “Several months ago, before I decided that, despite my promise, I had to return to England.”

  “And?”

  “Bryan is always well. More moody, silent, than I have known him to be. He mentioned that you had lost a child. I’m sorry.”

  Elise quickly lowered her lashes so that Geoffrey would not see the tears that sprang to her eyes. Bryan had mentioned the child, with great disappointment, she was sure. Perhaps he believed that she could never bear his heir, that she was too frail. Perhaps he spent his days berating his marriage, his nights finding consolation for the prison of marriage that bound him to her . . .

  If only she could be with him! It seemed that she would never have a chance to prove that . . .

  She loved him. That she could be a wonderful wife . . . and mother.

  Elise lifted her head. Wherever else she had failed, she had held the manor strong. She had kept his property safe for his return.

  “Thank you for coming to me, Geoffrey,” she told him. “And I promise you, I’ll take great care with John.” Geoffrey nodded, watching her. “Come, have some wine—warmed against the cold!” she told him, and she led him to the table, where they began to speak of casual things. Geoffrey at last took his wine to the hearth. He kept his eyes upon the Lady Elise. She was very cordial; she kept carefully at bay John’s more lecherous companions, those who might fear the “Black Knight” Bryan Stede, but considered themselves safe with him a continent away.

  Elise was a rare beauty: poised, regal, wise. Geoffrey thought for the thousandth time that they, Henry’s illegitimate children, would have made the far better heirs to the throne.

  He sighed ruefully as he drank his wine. He was far too fond of keeping his head upon his neck ever to make a bid for the crown. Richard was a formidable man. So formidable that he would never dream of fighting his brother.

  But if and when John came to the throne, they would all need to shudder.

  He smiled as he heard Elise tap upon the table with her chalice. She lifted it high then, and allowed her eyes to rivet to each man in turn. “Let us drink to our sovereign Lord Richard! King of England, Count of Anjou, Duke of Normandy, and Aquitaine.”

  The knights all raised their glasses.

  Prince John repeated her toast. Geoffrey was certain that he was savoring the words, and mentally substituting his own name for Richard’s.

  Thank the blessed Lord that Richard was strong, and as healthy as an ox!

  * * *

  The prince’s party stayed with them for a week. For Elise it was misery; she tried politely to fend off the unwelcome attention of John’s rowdy followers.

  Then there was John himself. He was, as Geoffrey had warned her, suspicious. He quizzed her about her past, about Bryan, about the manor. She was continuously on edge. John needed her now; she was a bulwark against Longchamp. But he was jealous of Bryan; even when he put on his allotment of the Plantagenet charm, she could read the envy in his tone. Would he ever dare to ride against Bryan? Probably not, she thought. John, were he ever to reach the throne, would need men such as Will Marshal and Bryan Stede.

  Still, she would probably need to keep alert of this brother for the rest of her life.

  The one real benefit of John’s arrival was the change in Gwyneth.

  Gwyneth seemed to have come alive. She formed no alliances with any of the knights, but reveled in their attention.

  “I am so very bored!” she confided to Elise. “None of these are men whom I would wish to marry, though marry I suppose I must now with Percy gone. Richard will command it.”

  “Sir Trevor is a handsome man,” Elise suggested. “He seems more mature than the others. More trustworthy.”

  Gwyneth laughed. “Sir Trevor rides with the prince. He is as lecherous and foolish as the rest. But . . . oh, Elise! It does grow weary waiting here, snowbound and held almost at siege by that despicable Longchamp! I fear that I shall fade away and die of the monotony if something doesn’t happen soon!”

  Elise felt the same, but she said nothing.

  “You have Bryan to wait for,” Gwyneth reminded Elise softly. “If that were my situation, I could bear this solitude . . .”

  “At least you have your son.”

  “Aye . . . and I do love him. But you must know, as I do, the love of a child is not that of a man. Oh, Elise! I would ride to the devil himself to know a real man again!”

  “Gwyneth! That’s blasphemy!”


  “But it is true.”

  “Something will happen, Gwyneth. Truly it will.”

  Things did happen. Longchamp increased his threats against the property of Will Marshal and Bryan Stede. The winter kept him at bay; Elise and Gwyneth remained captives of the snowbound and heavily fortified manor.

  Elise began to grow frantic, but when it seemed that she had reached her darkest hour, fate gave her a strange reprieve by the grace of another party that appeared at the manor.

  She had barely awakened—indeed, Gwyneth and half the household still slept—when she heard the distant sound of trumpets. Elise fumbled into her clothing and raced to the southern tower. Alaric stood with the sentries, staring across the field. Elise joined him. They stared at the party of riders coming toward them, trying hard to read the banners that whipped in the wind.

  “’Tis not Longchamp . . .” Alaric murmured tensely. Then, suddenly, he and Elise were staring at each other with joy, for the banners bore the leopards and lilies of England. The emblem of the Plantagenets.

  “But it can’t be the king!” Elise murmured. “Richard would never leave his crusade. And it isn’t John again; John comes too secretively to wave banners!”

  “Not the king . . . and not the prince!” Alaric exclaimed. “It’s the queen!”

  “Eleanor!” Elise cried.

  Soon the manor was a hub of activity. And very soon Elise found that she was hugging the queen, and feeling the distance time had brought between them fall away like autumn leaves.

  In the hall, Elise begged for news. “Oh, Eleanor! I am ever so happy to see you, but what are you doing here? I thought you meant to follow Richard and see him married—”

  “I did see him married, so I am very officially a ‘dowager queen.’”

  “Alys?”

  “No, and I feel much sorrow, for we wronged that girl pathetically. Richard married the princess from Navarre—Berengaria. But I’m afraid I did poor Berengaria no kindness, for the afternoon of the wedding, the bridegroom was off again.” Eleanor stared bluntly at Elise. “I have come as Regent of England. If Richard refuses to save it for himself, then I must do it for him. Now, tell me all that you know of this Longchamp mess!—”

  Elise did, solemnly telling all that had happened last spring, including Percy’s death. “We could never prove that it was Longchamp’s men—”

  “But it was,” Eleanor said with dry certainty. “Well, we shall miss Sir Percy in our kingdom. But rest assured, Longchamp will take a precarious fall. I come with Richard’s seal, and with a goodly number of armed men. Longchamp’s rule is over. If I am not enough, Richard has sent others. William Marshal is on his way to Pembroke Castle at this minute. We will return to the ways of the law.”

  “Will!” Elise exclaimed excitedly. “Richard sent Will? What of Bryan . . .”

  Her voice trailed away as she saw the queen’s sad expression. “I’m sorry, child, Bryan is not returning. Richard had already given Will leave to come home; he would not release them both.”

  “Oh,” Elise murmured, trying to hide her disappointment. She barely noticed when Gwyneth came into the room; she hardly heard the queen’s sympathetic words to the widow. But then Eleanor was addressing her again, and she forced herself to pay attention.

  “I heard that you lost a babe, Elise. I am sorry, but you must not take it too much to heart. You will bear others.”

  “A difficult feat for a woman alone, Your Grace!” Gwyneth supplied for Elise.

  “Aye,” Eleanor murmured regretfully. “And not even I could convince Richard to release him . . .” Suddenly Eleanor laughed, her still-young eyes sizzling with the excitement of a girl. “Bryan cannot come to you, my dear, but perhaps you could go to him.”

  Elise caught her breath. “On crusade?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Why not? I led the troops of Aquitaine alongside Louis when I was Queen of France. Several of us ladies, heiresses in our own right, rode to the call. They dubbed us the ‘Amazons, ’ and I must say, we did ourselves quite proud. I designed outfits so that we might ride as the men. We traveled with no more baggage than the men. Louis and I had that dreadful dispute that led to our divorce while we were on crusade, but my destiny was not with Louis—it was with Henry. And still! What a wonder to see the Eastern palaces. How we were entertained. My uncle was the Duke of Antioch then . . . Oh, if I were but young now . . . but I am not. And England needs me. But . . .” Eleanor’s eyes continued to sparkle brilliantly, “If England has me, then Cornwall will be safe from the likes of Longchamp! And you, Duchess, will then have a very strong—but worthless—army. Take those men! Lead them on crusade!”

  “Will they follow me . . . ?” she murmured.

  Gwyneth settled that question with a laugh. “They have followed your orders for a year now! Surely, with a chance of knighthood awaiting them on the field, they will follow you anywhere! And I will come, too, Elise! I couldn’t bear to be totally alone. We’ve learned to face things together—really, I’d feel so much safer moving with you than staying behind, so isolated. Oh, to end these days of eternal boredom!”

  Elise raised a skeptical brow to Gwyneth. Then she shrugged and laughed. Suddenly, she felt alive again. Alive as she had not felt since she had watched Percy die, and lost her child before it had even known life. Excitement made her feel as if her blood rushed through her in great torrents, as if she were strong, and invincible.

  Bryan . . .

  She could ride to Bryan. She had worked with her guards, time and again. They were prepared to fight. She could lead them, because she had led them this far. She had made of Firth Manor a bulwark so strong that none had dared attack her.

  And the Crusade! She could ride on God’s holy war; she could see distant places, lands of mystery and beauty.

  And Bryan . . . she would no longer have to wonder where he slept. She would be beside him, fighting with him, and for him. No more waiting, no more torture, no more boredom. No more wondering if he would ever return.

  They had been parted so long. Did he still think about her? Would he want her? Could she ever hope that he might love her, too?

  It didn’t matter. She could hear the call to battle, and she was going to go. Her eyes met with Gwyneth’s. They mirrored her excitement.

  For a moment she felt a tremor of uneasiness. Gwyneth would come with her. Gwyneth . . . the friend with whom she had endured so many things.

  But were they truly friends? Was Gwyneth anxious to end the horrible boredom of their days? Or was she, like Elise, heedless of all else except for the chance to see Bryan again?

  It didn’t really matter. Nothing mattered. If it came to that, she was as ready to fight Gwyneth as she was the whole Islam army for a chance to see her husband again.

  To see if life could rival the splendor of memory . . .

  She leaped from her chair and strenuously hugged the queen. “Your Grace, I intend to do it!”

  Eleanor nodded slowly. “Aye, Elise, I think you shall. Prepare yourself, and then wait for word. I’m quite certain that Longchamp will flee England; if not, he will know a taste of prison. I go to London tomorrow; as soon as I may, I will send word to you that it is safe to set out.”

  * * *

  Things were not to be half so simple as they sounded. Richard had sent the elderly Walter Coutance with Eleanor, but though Walter presented Longchamp with Richard’s orders, Longchamp proclaimed them to be forgeries. Prince John was in the southwest, and, hating Longchamp, the people rallied to John. Longchamp called John and Geoffrey traitors; the threat of civil war became stronger. But at last enough strength rallied together; Richard sent new orders. Longchamp was not only to be deposed, but he would face trial, and his estates would be confiscated.

  Longchamp fled at last. He was caught—disguised as a woman—in Dover. He was almost hanged as a witch, but he was recognized and imprisoned instead; he was still one of Richard’s favorites, and only Richard could pass final judgment.

&
nbsp; Longchamp bribed a jailer, and managed to escape to the Continent. It didn’t really seem to matter, though—his threat to England—and to Elise—was at last over. Eventually, Richard would find him, and then he would have to answer for everything.

  It remained to be seen what John would do.

  * * *

  It seemed to Elise that her freedom to leave had taken forever. It was spring again—over a year since she had seen Bryan last—before she was able to take her army and Gwyneth, Jeanne, and old Kate, and start out for the Holy Land.

  Elise spent her last evening at the manor staring into the fire in her chamber. She argued with herself that she was mad to be attempting such an undertaking. The route would be long, and dangerous. Of course, she was traveling with an army—an army that she would put into the service of Richard the Lion-Hearted.

  But she knew that she was not riding to give assistance to the king. She was doing so because she had to; a fever inside of her seemed to drive her. She was desperate to see Bryan again, to discover if there could be love between them. How she ached for him, needed him, longed for him! And she was so afraid, so very afraid that if she did not see him soon, she would lose him forever.

  She paced the room, wondering if she weren’t indeed the spawn of the devil breed, for she knew now that neither heaven nor earth could keep her from her quest.

  In the morning, they took their leave. Young Percy was left with Maddie. Elise wondered how Gwyneth was able to leave the little boy; seeing his hazel eyes fill with tears on the morning that they left, Elise knew that she would never be able to leave her own offspring—should she and Bryan both live to create any.

  * * *

  It was to be a long journey. From the English coastline they crossed the Channel to Balfleur. Through Normandy, Maine, Poitou, and Aquitaine, they were able to find hospitality at Richard’s various castles and holdings. She and Gwyneth and Jeanne shared quarters of varying comfort; the army most frequently camped out in the fields. But it was spring, and the weather, for the most part, remained fair. All throughout the countryside, the planting season was on; farmers tilled their fields; the foliage became more green daily—flowers sprang up everywhere.