Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  From Aquitaine, they traveled into King Philip’s domains. Here, too, they found hospitality at the French monarch’s holding, since on the Crusade, Philip and Richard were allies. Rugged mountain roads brought them from France into the provinces and principalities of Italy. Every mile brought her closer to Bryan.

  They set sail upon merchant ships—bartered from Italian seamen—from Brindisi. The Ionian Sea was calm and beautiful as it brought them to the Mediterranean. They spent a night at anchor near Crete, then set sail again. Storms struck the Mediterranean with a tempestuous ferocity within hours of their sailing. The ship rocked with wild fury. For unending hours of fear she and Gwyneth and Jeanne clung to one another belowdecks, offering up prayers to the Virgin, to all the saints, to Christ, and to God. Elise loved the sea, but never had she seen it so vicious. At last, she left Jeanne and Gwyneth together, and stumbled up on deck, holding fast to the masts and rigging. She stared through the pelting rain up at the iron-gray sky and again prayed fervently that though she might be undeserving, she be allowed to live. And she asked God that her determination not bring about the death of others.

  The rain continued, the wind rose. Elise became convinced that God had no care to listen to her.

  But as she remained by the mast, huddled against it in cold and fear, the wind began slowly to die. Even more slowly, the sky turned from gray to blue. Elise sank to her knees, whispering her gratitude to heaven out loud.

  The daylight showed them that none of the ships had been lost. Only one life had been forfeited, that of a warrior gone overboard in the height of the wind.

  A period of peaceful seas brought them to Cyprus.

  It was there that they learned King Richard was holding the port town of Acre.

  One more journey, only one, Elise told herself, and her quest would be rewarded. She barely slept that night, so anxious was she, so afraid, so nervous. Would Bryan welcome her?

  They came at last to Acre.

  Beneath a hot and brilliant sun, they first entered the Arab world. Merchants hawked their wares in the streets; veiled women moved hurriedly about. A smell of incense was in the air; braying camels moved their clumsy way along the streets. It was hot and dusty and completely foreign. Western knights walked the same paths as veiled, mysterious women.

  Elise looked about herself with wide-eyed fascination.

  She was here!

  She was exhilarated, exalted . . .

  And trembling horribly. Soon, very soon, she would see Bryan.

  PART III

  LIONS OF THE DESERT

  XXIII

  August, 1190

  The Muzhair Oasis

  The Road to Jerusalem

  The cry of Islam rose all around him, a chant that began low, then rose high and shrill. It was echoed and reechoed upon the lips of infidels; first the men on foot came running with that cry to clash with the Christians, then came the men on their graceful Arabian mounts, swords gleaming wickedly beneath the sun as hooves thundered across the sands.

  “Archers!” Bryan called out, and a hundred trained men stepped forward with their longbows. Bryan lifted his hand, waiting tensely; with the slash of that hand through the air, the arrows began to fly. Up in the smooth arches that were beautiful to behold; then falling to pierce through flesh and bone, and break the chant of Islam as men screamed in mortal agony and fell.

  But where the ranks were broken, new men filled the gap. So many . . . fighting for their lands; their way of life.

  All his life Bryan had believed in the knight’s great code of Christianity. Richard’s quest had been his quest: Jerusalem. . . for Christ’s followers. He had fought at Henry’s side; he had killed time and again in battle. The carnage about him should have been nothing new, and killing infidels should have been easy.

  But there was nothing easy about this—the Third Crusade. The followers of Islam were being led by a man named Saladin.

  Saladin had brought about the Third Crusade by capturing Jerusalem from the Christians left behind to rule after the First and Second Crusades. The Moslems thought him a saintly hero; Bryan, who had been skirmishing with him since they had at last reached the Holy Land in June, could not help but admire his honesty and courage.

  Saladin was not a young man, but somewhere over five decades. As a much younger man, he had entered the service of the Egyptian caliph and had become vizier, or ruler, of that country. He had extended his rule over Damascus, Aleppo, Mosul, and Edessa. His military ability neared genius, and Bryan had learned that he was a great builder; schools and mosques rose beneath his hand, scholars were welcome at his palaces, and the peoples of his dry desert lands were rewarded with canals and irrigation. In battle he was fierce; off of the field, he was quiet-spoken, if firmly determined.

  He and Bryan had come face to face once; they had battled fiercely with their swords, and been seen somewhat stunned to discover that neither could best the other.

  They had almost smiled at each other as they backed off. But all around them had lain the dead, and their smiles had faded.

  “You are Stede,” Saladin murmured.

  Bryan was surprised once again to know that mighty ruler knew his name. Saladin spoke in accented French, but his words were clear and Bryan had no difficulty understanding him.

  “Yes. And you are the great Saladin.” Saladin nodded. “My people perish, and yours die upon dry, distant sands.”

  “Jerusalem is our most holy city. Followers of Christ cry out to come in pilgrimage.”

  Saladin accepted this, and smiled sadly again. “This land, this desert, belongs to our people; I cannot give up Jerusalem. I would have no objection to pilgrims. Tell this to Richard the Lion-Heart.”

  “I will tell him,” Bryan said. He added with unintentional bitterness, “But he will not listen.”

  “Then we must fight until he does listen. You will take victories, I will take victories. Men will die. And men, such as yourself, will continue to long for home. For your women, and your children.”

  Bryan had smiled grimly then. “Woman—only one, great Sultan.”

  “Only one? She must be very intriguing.”

  Moslem men, Bryan knew, kept several wives. Those with great wealth also enjoyed harems.

  “I am a Christian, Saladin. And, yes . . . my one woman is very intriguing. But I have no children.”

  Saladin had laughed with a lusty humor. “Nor will you have children—while your wife pines in a distant land and you watch men bleed upon this sand! Or does your wife pine? If she is such a woman as you say, perhaps she finds another in your absence. You should be home. I am a reasonable man. Speak to your king.”

  With no fear, Saladin turned his back on Bryan and rode away. Infidel or Christian, an honorable man recognized another one. He knew that Bryan would have no more stabbed him in the back than he would have done so to Bryan.

  Both men had lived to continue fighting.

  Bryan told Richard about the meeting, but as he had expected, Richard gave him scant attention. The word of an “infidel” meant nothing to a Christian king. Richard wanted Jerusalem.

  Today, Bryan did not fight Saladin, but his nephew Jalahar. Jalahar was an emir himself, with ancient rights to the oasis at Muzhair. His main residence was called the palace of Muzhair, and stood a few hours’ ride past the oasis.

  Bryan raised his sword now as the Moslems charged into the Christians. His men were the better trained; they were the more efficient fighters. But the Moslems came in hordes. Bryan shouted out orders; his Christians closed ranks, and fierce, hand-to-hand combat began. Bryan saw Sir Theban, a Montouian knight, draw out the old battle ax for which he was famed. A man fell before him, his head almost severed from his neck. Then Bryan forced his mind to go blank as he drew his sword; a mounted Moslem was screaming out his high chant as he flew, sword swinging, for Bryan.

  The sun beat down upon them, making a sickening stench arise from the blood being shed. A wind rose, making the desert sands swirl, blindi
ng men, filling their mouths with dryness. The battle wore on. Bryan’s arm was nicked by a Damascan sword; he railed, and his sword pierced through the Moslem’s middle.

  A chant rose again; the Moslems were retreating. Bryan wiped the sweat and sand from his eyes and followed their retreat.

  Mounted upon a faraway dune and silhouetted against the yellow-blue day, Bryan saw the Emir Jalahar. He was unmistakable, for his horse was as pure white as Bryan’s was midnight-black.

  Jalahar . . . Saladin’s nephew, and a fierce, brutal fighter. But he was a young man, no more than two decades plus, and he hadn’t yet learned his uncle’s wisdom and strategy.

  This was one battle that Jalahar had lost.

  Bryan believed that he could feel Jalahar’s eyes upon him, returning the scrutiny. Jalahar had lost, but it had been a battle well fought. Both men knew it. Jalahar dipped low in his saddle in acknowledgment of “Stede.” Bryan lifted a hand in return. The Moslems disappeared over the dune, and Bryan turned to the dismal task of sorting the wounded from the dead. “Make haste!” he ordered his men. “Our wounded will die quickly here, of the heat.”

  Sir Theban, a massive warrior, stocky but built almost as a square so laden was he with muscle, walked by Bryan’s side. He paused by a groaning man, and Bryan shouted back for someone to bring aid. They went on; Sir Theban suddenly knelt.

  “The Virgin Mary bless the wretched girl!” he cried.

  Curiously, Bryan lowered himself to the balls of his feet. Sir Theban had turned over a sand-encrusted body. It was that of a woman. A girl, rather. One who had been young and lovely, but now wore a circlet of red death about her throat. “Who is she?” Bryan demanded thickly.

  “One of the Frenchmen’s whores,” Theban answered softly. “She must have followed her knight to the camp last night.”

  Bryan began to swear vehemently. “Damn those men! I’ve told them time and again that I will not have women brought to the battle!”

  He felt sick; so sick that he was afraid he would shortly humiliate himself by spitting the remains of his last meal over the sand. It was one thing to accustom oneself to dead men. But to see a girl—a lovely young girl, whore or no—as food for the desert carrions, he could not bear.

  And this one . . .

  Her hair was long and golden. It lay tousled and dirtied over her pale, sand-seared features. It had no touch of copper to it, no hint of fire, yet seeing the girl made Bryan think of Elise.

  I live in misery because I long to see her so, he thought of his wife, but I bless God that she is not here.

  He was certain that the Moslems had not meant to kill the girl; she had simply been in the way. No, they would not have meant to kill her. Blonds were rare here; had the warriors not been immersed in the battle, they would have tried to take her prisoner. She would have been quite a prize.

  She would be no man’s prize. She was dead. And for some reason, her death gnawed at him—he, Bryan Stede, who had learned to look death in the face long ago.

  He stood. “Order a burial detail, Theban. I’m returning to the coastal palace to report to Richard.”

  Theban nodded. “What about the infidels?”

  “Bury them, too!” Bryan thundered. “For the sake of God, Theban, do not look at me so. We shall not be able to claim this small ground if we do not rid it of the stench of death!”

  Theban nodded. Bryan called to Wat, and ordered the men who had last drawn burial duty. They would travel back with him, carrying along the wounded.

  He was silent as he started the ride back to the coast where the Christians had gained their foothold. Richard would shower him with praise. He had made a strong blow against Jalahar—and, therefore, against Saladin.

  He didn’t want to be showered with praise. He wanted to go home.

  Long hours had become days, days had stretched into months. It was more than a year since he had been home. Letters . . . always there had been letters reaching him. Letters that were a curse rather than a blessing, for when he read of trouble, he was helpless, thousands of miles away. He and Marshal had argued themselves hoarse over the Longchamp problem; it had taken Richard forever to admit that there was a problem. Marshal had been allowed to return, while Bryan . . .

  Bryan had lain awake night after night, praying. Worrying, thinking, agonizing. Over Elise.

  It had been so very long.

  And he had received the letter telling him that she had lost the child along with the one telling that she had conceived, so even that joy had been wrested from him before he had even been able to savor the taste of it. With what bitterness he had received that news! And Percy . . . dead. Gwyneth and her son alive only because of his foresight to arm Cornwall . . .

  And only because of Elise.

  Elise. He had been consumed with fear when Percy had left Richard’s service due to his injury. Fear—and jealousy. Nights of anguish wondering if she would turn to the man she had intended, by choice, to marry.

  And then Percy . . . had died. Bryan was sorry, but guilt also plagued him for the relief he had felt.

  Elise would not be with Percy.

  But the unwarranted attack that had brought on his death!

  It could have been Elise. Elise burned out. Left to the mercy of traitorous cutthroats . . .

  Only Eleanor had kept him from openly defying Richard and leaving for home.

  Eleanor—who had sworn to keep her maternal eye upon Elise.

  Bryan grated his teeth hard together. He no longer believed in this “holy” war. The Moslems cried to Allah just as they cried to God for help. They died—and left widows and orphans—just as the Christians.

  But he would continue to fight, and fight with vigor. Only when Richard was satisfied would he ever be able to go home.

  His brooding silence carried him to the port town where Richard had set up his quarters in a deposed sheikh’s palace. It was a dazzling place of arches and minarets, hung with beautiful tapestries and rugs, laden with ornaments of gold and silver. The massive English King seemed incongruous in the delicate surroundings. Bryan often felt awkward himself, sitting on low silk-covered cushions, drinking from tiny cups—and constantly fearing that he might move too abruptly and destroy one of the fragile ornaments of crystal or glass.

  He dismounted from his horse before the palace, and smiled at Wat, whom he had ignored for the long ride back. Wat had grown accustomed to his moods, though, and smiled tiredly in return as he took the destrier’s reins from his duke.

  Bryan looked up at the graceful lines of the palace and sighed. He was probably a miserable commander to his men, though he tried not to allow his own heartache to influence his temper. Sir Theban had told him once that he was alone too much, that there were many talented women about the town eager for a knight’s hold.

  Bryan had not been created for celibacy, but many months ago, while they awaited the day when Philip and Richard would quit arguing long enough to get the Crusade under way, he had succumbed to the lures of a pretty peasant girl. When she had left him, he had felt more dissatisfied than ever. The girl had not eased his hunger, nor had she begun to still the yearning in his heart that commanded his body. His wife, he decided with dry humor, had bewitched him. He had never really known her; she had never come to trust him. She kept dark secrets from him, and seemed to revel in taunting him.

  But she had bewitched him.

  If she were never to give the heir that he thought he so craved, he would not care, if he could be but near her. If he could begin to fathom what lay beneath her fiery pride . . .

  He sobered suddenly, thinking of the dead girl who had brought Elise so strongly to his mind. His only comfort was knowing that Elise was now within the protective confines of Eleanor’s care.

  “Bryan!”

  He heard his name called and frowned, knowing that he recognized the feminine voice. Then, from the simply fashioned doorway of the sleek palace, he saw a whirl of color. A woman with long, loose-flowing dark hair was racing toward
him. A beauty, with the look of the devil in her dark eyes.

  “Gwyneth?” he uttered hoarsely.

  She was throwing herself against him, hugging him. “Bryan!” she exclaimed. Instinctively, he embraced her in return. He was glad to see her. She was a link with home.

  Home . . .

  He held her away, smiling. “Gwyneth! What are you doing here? How do you come to be here? Where is your son? And . . . Elise? How does she fare?”

  Gwyneth laughed merrily. “I am here with a new force of men!”

  “A force of men?” Bryan demanded, frowning. “God knows, we can use more men. But what men are they?”

  Her eyes were truly dazzling. “Men who follow Elise, Duchess of Montoui and Countess of Saxony, and so forth! You two do have so many titles, Bryan! It was the queen’s suggestion. She told us about the days when she rode on crusade with Louis of France and—Bryan?”

  His bronze skin had taken on a frightening pallor; his eyes had gone from blue to black as they could when he was angry.

  “Elise . . . is here?” he demanded, his voice grating.

  “Installed in your chamber,” Gwyneth answered uneasily, wishing suddenly that she hadn’t waylaid him first. He was silent for a moment, staring up at the sculpted windows of the palace.

  “Elise was . . . truly efficient and wise, Bryan. When the trouble started in England, she increased the guard. With Longchamp a threat no longer, she had more men-at-arms than she needed. They were eager to come on crusade, Bryan . . . Bryan?”

  “What?” He glanced back at her as if he hadn’t heard a word she had said. “Your pardon, Gwyneth. I will speak with you later. I’m sorry about Percy . . .”

  Distractedly, he walked by her, and walked up the few steps leading to the palace. Then he was running, pushing by the servants as he tore along the white and gleaming corridors to the rear stairway. The door to his chamber was ajar; he flung it open.