Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  “You promised me that he would not!” Elise cried.

  “No man can give that promise. But it is not his injury and fever of which I speak.” He looked at her. “He will come after me, you know. It will take time; he will need to regain his strength—unless he comes in a wild temper, in which case he will definitely die. We will meet on the field. One of us must kill the other.”

  “Why?” Her eyes were as brilliant and liquid as the sea as she stared at him. “If you care for me, Jalahar, let me go.”

  “I cannot,” he told her simply.

  He rose, straightening his robes, then bowing to her with a sad and rueful smile twisting his lips.

  “I must leave, or else chance breaking my vow. I will see you soon.”

  * * *

  He came each Thursday; there were no more outbursts of violence between them; most frequently they played chess. Sometimes he asked that she read to him, and sometimes he would stumble through her attempts to teach him English. Elise began to pick up a few words of Arabic, and when he asked to brush her hair, she no longer attempted to refuse him. It seemed such a small thing, and she would always see his dark and brooding eyes upon her and know that he practiced a great restraint. Sometimes she would feel herself shiver at his touch, and she wondered what would happen if the day came when he lost patience.

  The week when she knew that the Christian world would be celebrating Christmas was exceptionally hard for her. She had grown accustomed to the endless days passing so tediously that she looked forward to Jalahar’s visits with delight. She had shaken herself from despondency, determined to maintain her health and give birth to a strong, lively child. Jalahar talked to her too little of Bryan, but he had told her that the fever had at last broken, and that Bryan lived. He did not talk to her about the Christian-Moslem war; and, most often, she was afraid to ask. She prayed that Bryan would not ride when he was weak . . . easy prey for death.

  And she wondered frequently what he was doing. Was Gwyneth at his side? Did she comfort him? Knowing how Jalahar’s touch stirred her, she could not hate Bryan if he accepted whatever comfort Gwyneth could offer. Gwyneth should have been his wife. He had known her long before he had known Elise. No, she could not hate him if he reached for comfort. She could only endure the pain of wondering.

  Jalahar himself seemed quiet and somber when he came to her two days before Christmas. He had ordered wine for her—which the Moslems did not drink—as a concession to her Christianity. The chess board was set up, but neither of them gave much attention to the pieces.

  Jalahar idly moved a castle, keeping his eyes upon the board. “The Egyptian has returned to service at Saladin’s side,” he told her. He raised his eyes. “And Stede was seen in the courtyard of the palace at Acre, working with his sword.”

  Her fingers were shaking so badly that she could not pick up her chess piece. She clenched her hands into fists in her lap and stared at them. “He has completely recovered, then?”

  “So it appears. My informant tells me that he is pale and gaunt, but that he walks straight and tall.”

  Jalahar stood and began idly pacing the floor, picking up a curio here and there. Elise felt him behind her. His fingers touched lightly upon the top of her head.

  “There is much controversy over you, golden girl. The English King sends messages constantly to my uncle, Saladin. He demands that Saladin return you to him.”

  “And what . . .”—Elise moistened her lips—“ . . . what does Saladin say to our king?”

  She felt his shrug. “Saladin has asked that I give you back. He tells me that you are just a woman, that we fight a war for greater purpose.”

  “And . . . what do you say to Saladin?”

  “That which I say to you . . . that I cannot.”

  “What does Saladin say then?”

  His knuckles brushed over her cheek, and he lifted her chin so that he stared down into her eyes.

  “This is my domain. My palace. We fight toward the greater good, but in such a matter, my uncle cannot tell me what I must do.”

  He did not smile, but studied her features. He released her and walked toward the door. “Tonight,” he said quietly, “I tire of the game. It makes me impatient. And I am weary.”

  He paused, brooding as he stared at her once more. “Your child comes in April?” he asked.

  Elise felt color flood to her cheeks. “Yes.”

  “That is not such a long time,” he said. “You must start to think about what you will do.”

  “Do?” Elise repeated vaguely.

  “He will be welcome here,” Jalahar said bluntly, “but will he not be Stede’s heir? You must decide if you wish to keep your child, or give him to his father.”

  Elise moistened her lips, wrenched by a new pain . . . and a tearing sense of fatalism.

  In all the time . . . the long weeks that had become months . . . she had never accepted that it could be forever. She could not be expected to give up her child! Not the babe who had finally begun to move, to exist so strongly in her heart. But could she keep him from his father? She had wanted a child so badly in part for herself... and in part for Bryan. A son was perhaps the one truly worthy thing she could give him.

  “Stede is still here . . . in the Holy Land,” she whispered.

  “Do you think this war will continue forever? Or that the Christians will ever subdue us completely? Already King Philip of France has left—to return to his own lands. Not even the determination of the Lion-Heart can hold out forever. Stede will ride against me, yes. He will demand his wife and child, and if it is your wish, the child will be given to him. But, then, perhaps he will not demand the child. Perhaps he will believe that it is mine. Tell me, Elise, did he know that you were carrying his child?”

  Her face had gone a frightening shade of white. “No,” she whispered.

  Jalahar shrugged. “Then perhaps you will wish to keep the child. He will be loved here, for it will be my wish.”

  Jalahar at last pushed on the door. Elise leaped to her feet, calling him back.

  “You said that you must meet Bryan in battle!”

  He paused, smiling. “And you will hope that your knight kills me? He will need more than love and desire to battle my forces. For months they have tried to tear down my walls. They have not succeeded. And . . . if he comes for me now, as I told you, he will die. He is still too weak to fight a fair battle. I would not want to kill him at such a time, but in defense, I should be forced to. If you wish him to live, you must pray that he does not desire you unto death.”

  Jalahar closed the door behind him.

  Elise stared after him, fearing the future as she had never feared it before. She felt too numb to cry, but when she brushed her cheeks with her fingers, she found they were wet with the silent tears of defeat.

  XXVI

  He lived in a world of shadow, where darkness and nightmares reigned. Sometimes he would be riding, his destrier tearing up great clumps of earth as they thundered along. He did not know why he rode or what place he tried to reach. The trail was laden with forest branches, and it seemed that it yawned before him, offering nothing more than a black chasm, a dark void to fill his life.

  Sometimes light would penetrate his dream world. It would be early fall, and he would stand in a lush meadow. Birds would sing a gentle chorus, the breeze would whisk by, delicious and cool.

  He would see her. Atop a dune, dressed in white. The sun would envelop her, and her hair would be a golden halo that spun in the breeze as she ran to him, smiling, arms outstretched, eyes as brilliant and beautiful as an azure sea. He would lift his arms to her, and he would start to run. But he was wearing his armor, and it was heavy. Every step became harder until he was groaning and screaming for strength, cursing God for making him useless when he needed to reach her to live.

  At other times he would be able to move. He would climb the hill. But where Elise had been, he would find a horse, ready for battle. And when he looked, he would be blinded by
a halo of gold, and he would shield his eyes. And his heart would stagger, for it would not be Elise mounted upon the horse whom he so craved, but King Henry, come back from the grave. Henry, before illness had ravaged and killed him. The king when he had still ridden tall and strong, when his features had displayed both his wisdom and his temper; when his eyes had been brilliant with justice and strategy.

  Henry would lift a finger and point it at Bryan. His voice would not be that of a living man; it would be a cold and stuttering echo from the grave.

  “You have failed me . . . failed me . . .”

  He tried to open his eyes. It was no longer Henry he saw, but Henry’s son, Richard the Lion-Heart. Richard would not talk to him; he would talk around him, as if he weren’t even there.

  “He is looking straight at me,” Richard said.

  “I doubt that he knows, Lion-Heart.”

  A strange man, very thin, in immaculate robes and turban, was staring down at him. The dark eyes decreed him old; his face, brown as a tree bark, was unmarred by the wrinkles of time.

  “Stede! You cannot die! You must not fail me!”

  Was it Henry who spoke, or was it Richard?

  The shadows swirled around him. Elise was sitting on the horse, calling to him with tears streaming down her cheeks. The shadows threatened to swamp her, to take her away forever. She begged him, implored him, pleaded that he come to her.

  And he could not; his legs were too heavily laden.

  “Be gentle with her; be patient.”

  Will Marshal was standing at his side. “I cannot reach her!” he screamed. “Help me, Will! Help me!”

  But Will faded into the shadow, and he was alone again. Henry’s face, Richard’s face . . . Elise’s face . . . they passed through his mind until they became one, then faded. He was back in the forest, on his horse, racing toward the dark abyss. But now there was a pinpoint of light within it, a golden streak that drew him. It was a crown, a crown heavily laden with jewels. Then the crown blurred, and it was not a crown at all. It was Elise’s hair, caught in sunlight and wind, shimmering copper and gold. And she was calling to him again, stretching out her arms, her fingers so long and delicate. She wore the sapphire ring, and that, too, caught the sunlight, forcing it to explode into a field of blue . . . and then shadow again. Shadows became the swirling sands of the desert, and the merciless sun with its burning heat. Elise was there again, but the sands made a wall around her, and when they cleared, she was gone.

  “Elise!” He screamed her name. “Elise!”

  “I am here!” she whispered to him. “I am here.” And something cool touched his forehead. A hand gripped his, delicate, but firm.

  “Elise!” he called breathlessly. “Don’t leave me!”

  “I will never leave you,” she promised.

  She was real; she held him.

  He would dream again, and when the cold of the forest froze him, she would warm him with blankets and lie down beside him. When the desert sun burned him, she would cool him with cloths. Always he would call her name; always she would whisper that she was there, and she would hold him.

  But then came the morning, when he opened his eyes and found that he was neither in the desert, nor in the forest. He blinked. His temple was thudding, and his throat was parched. He hadn’t even the strength to lift his head. But he blinked again and looked around himself. White wall, sheer, billowing curtains. Cushions beneath him . . .

  The palace at Acre, he told himself. Richard’s stronghold. . .

  He felt horribly confused, as if his head were filled with cobwebs. He closed his eyes and tried to think.

  Then he remembered. Riding alongside his wife, wondering—his heart pounding like a boy’s—what secrets she would whisper to him, barely able to endure the rest of the ride with the wanting of her. Would she lay her heart and soul at his feet, hold him and tell him that she loved him above all men, wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of their days together . . . ?

  He hadn’t heard the Arabs until they were upon them. The battle had been so evenly met. He had fought, and fought well, until . . .

  Until he had seen her. Under attack. Battling, striving, desperate . . . And he had been galloping toward her when the terrible pain had rent his side and he had fallen into blackness . . . and then into the dream world.

  Elise!

  But she had answered his call; just as he knew now that the dreams had been illusory, he knew that a woman’s touch had been real.

  Someone moved beside him and his heart filled with gladness. It took all his strength, but he managed to turn.

  His heart plummeted, and confusion tore at his mind again.

  Gwyneth, fully clothed, was leaning upon an elbow, looking at him with wonder.

  “You’re awakened, Bryan!” she cried. “Truly awakened.”

  He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. She leaped from the bed of soft down cushions and hurried to the water pitcher, quickly pouring a small portion into a goblet, and bringing it to his side. He was horrified to discover that he still couldn’t lift his head. She had to hold his neck so that he could drink.

  “What has happened?” he managed to croak to her.

  She twisted her lip nervously without answering. “I must bring the physician, Bryan.”

  She hurried from the room. A moment later the sun-browned, old-young Arabic face from his dream was staring down at him pensively.

  “You have beaten the infection, Lord Stede,” the man told him in a pained, slow English. “But you must still fight for your health. You need sleep—the kind that is peaceful, and restful, and allows the body to heal.”

  “I want to know what has happened!” Bryan exclaimed. His voice was shaking; he sounded like a peevish and sickly child. The man ignored him, and made him drink more water. “Sleep; when you awaken again, you may talk some.”

  That was absurd! He would never rest. But his eyelids were so heavy; he was as weak as an old woman. He closed his eyes. And slept.

  The Arab was there when he opened his eyes again. “Can you lift your head?”

  Bryan nodded. It was difficult; it seemed to take all his strength, but he lifted his head.

  “Surely your God smiles upon you,” the Arab told him bluntly. “You should be dead.”

  “Who are you?” Bryan asked him.

  “Azfhat Muhzid. Egyptian physician to the great Saladin.”

  “Saladin!” Stede exclaimed.

  Bryan allowed his head to fall back to his pillow. The Egyptian smiled slightly, and spoke neither humbly nor boastfully. “It is to my expertise as well as to your God that you owe your life. Your English physicians—they are little better than butchers! They insisted upon bleeding you, when the blood had already drained from you like water into sand!”

  “Then I thank you,” Bryan said.

  “You owe me no thanks. I was sent.”

  “By Saladin? Then our war—”

  “It continues.”

  “Then how—”

  “You will talk no more now, Stede. Your strength must grow again; you are like a child. With time, you will grow healthy. Tended, you will gain each day.”

  The Egyptian was leaving him.

  “Where is my wife!” Bryan called after him.

  Azfhat paused, then turned his head only slightly. “I will send the woman to sit with you.”

  Bryan allowed himself to close his eyes; his lids still felt preposterously heavy. But he did not allow himself to sleep. A great sense of unease had come over him. When he heard the door open, he forced his eyes to open again.

  It was Gwyneth. She stared at him anxiously, then came to his side, sitting by his hip on the cushion.

  “Where is Elise?” he asked her.

  She moved her lips as if to speak, then hesitated, looking downward so that her dark lashes swept over her cheeks. “Bryan, the Egyptian said that you mustn’t—”

  “Where is Elise? What has happened to her? I must know! I called her . . . I h
ad thought . . . Gwyneth! Tell me! She did not die! I know that she did not die. Before God, Gwyneth! Tell me what has happened!”

  “Bryan . . .” Gwyneth sighed, swallowed nervously, then met his eyes. “Elise is at the Muzhair Palace.”

  His eyes closed in dismay. He knew his wife. She would have fought to the end, and God alone knew what the Arabs would have done . . .

  “Blessed Virgin!” he muttered aloud. “She will try to stab someone, and they will—”

  “Bryan, no! You mustn’t worry. She went willingly—”

  “Willingly!”

  His eyes opened with such horror and pain that Gwyneth started speaking again, tripping over her words.

  “Not in that way, Bryan. Their leader . . . Jalahar . . . held his sword to your throat. Your life . . . if she would come with him. She . . . went to save you.”

  Pain, far greater than any wound, more debilitating than any fever, swept through him.

  “I would rather have died,” he whispered.

  “We would have all died,” Gwyneth murmured.

  He tried to lift himself from the bed. “We must mount up. We must take the palace. Perhaps . . . perhaps we can still get there in time—”

  “No! Bryan, no!” Gwyneth protested, her lovely eyes laden with sadness as she pressed him back to the pillow. God’s blood! He couldn’t even fight Gwyneth’s strength.

  “Bryan!” she cried. “It will do no good. Richard’s forces have been pounding at the palace day after day. It has withstood all this time—”

  “All this time!” He gasped. “How long have I lain here?”

  “Almost two months, Bryan.”

  “Two months!”

  He closed his eyes. Two months. Elise! No nightmare could rival this agony. His mind clouded with images of his wife . . . her pale ivory skin, sleek and soft as silk, beneath the bronzed hands of the desert infidel . . .

  His eyes flew open. Gwyneth emitted a small sound of fear at the wildness in them. “Bryan—”

  “I . . . must get . . . to her . . .” he said softly.

  He managed to stand. But then he fell, crashing hard on the ground. Gwyneth screamed, and suddenly there were many hands to pick him up and set him back upon his invalid’s bed.