Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  * * *

  In the days to come, he learned an unwilling patience. The anguish did not leave his heart or mind, but Gwyneth said one thing that kept him pinned to his bed.

  “Bryan, you will never see her again, nor will you be able to help her, if you die yourself.”

  So he ate broth and drank the physician’s disgusting concoctions of ox blood and goat’s milk. As the days passed, he could lift his head, and then he could sit up.

  Gwyneth remained at his side, and as he strengthened, he started to watch her, grateful for her care.

  “It was always you, wasn’t it?” he asked her softly one day. “I cried for Elise, and you answered.”

  “We thought it best. You seemed to believe that I was Elise, and so . . . I held you.”

  He raised a brow to her. “Held me only, Gwyneth?”

  She laughed a little uneasily, then stood and moved around the room, straightening things rather than meeting his eyes.

  “You were very sick, Bryan. But once you tried . . .” She stopped her nervous wandering and stared at him, as if she were a little amazed herself. “When you could barely open your fevered eyes, Bryan, you were still lecherous!” She laughed ruefully. “And once I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. When I came out here with Elise, I didn’t know. I didn’t know then what I would do if the opportunity ever came about. Even the night when we were attacked . . . Elise came to me. She asked me to look out for you. And she knew, she knew then that she would be taken, and that I would be left with you. I can only imagine what that cost her. But still . . . still there were times when I was glad in my heart, because I had wanted you so badly!” She smiled, pausing ruefully. “Percy and I . . . we didn’t have a bad marriage. But he always knew how I felt about you. I’m certain the night he died he tried to warn Elise about me. I lived that night because of Elise. My son . . . Percy’s son . . . is alive because she came out to us. I owed her so very much, but I still wanted you. I didn’t know until now . . . when I could have had you, that something resembling honor lurked in my breast, after all. I have held you, I have lain beside you. I could have soothed you . . . but no more.”

  Bryan smiled at her and stretched out his hand. She came to him, taking it, and sat beside him once again. His smile faded and his grip tightened. “I have to get her back, Gwyneth. She is the strongest part of me.”

  “You have to get well,” Gwyneth told him.

  “I will.”

  * * *

  The Egyptian physician, Azfhat Muhzid, came to see him daily. He was often a cynical man, but polite in the strange way of the Easterner; he was quite pleased with Bryan’s progress, even if he preferred not to be questioned.

  But Bryan at last became insistent, and Muhzid answered him with a sigh. “I was sent here by Saladin—at the request of his nephew, Jalahar.”

  “Jalahar?” Bryan demanded quickly. “Why would Jalahar do such a thing?”

  The Egyptian hesitated, then shrugged. “I would think because his hostage pines for you; he wished to please her. The best gift he could present to her was the news that you lived.”

  Bryan clenched his teeth hard together and swallowed. Again! She bargained for his life . . . and he lay here . . . helpless . . .

  He said nothing more to Azfhat; to Gwyneth he raged against Jalahar, despairing over the fate that Elise suffered because of him. Gwyneth, who had seen Jalahar, and knew as only a woman could that Jalahar would be a man to stir the blood and inspire devotion, wisely refrained from telling Bryan that she doubted Elise would suffer much at his hands.

  Bryan slugged a fist so hard against the wall that she feared he had cracked his bones. He turned to her, pain and confusion lacing his indigo stare. “Why?” he demanded. “Why has he taken her when he has endless women, when he can but snap his fingers and have anything that he wants?”

  This Gwyneth felt safe in answering. “Her coloring is very unique to an Easterner, Bryan. You should have seen him the first time he looked at her. He was—” Gwyneth cut herself off uneasily.

  “He was what?” Bryan demanded tensely.

  “Fascinated,” Gwyneth finished weakly. Bryan seemed to accept her word; he began to rant in fury again. But “fascinated” was too tame a description of what she had really meant. There had been something deeper about the Moslem lord that night, something that made the situation far worse. Elise was not just a pretty toy to him; it seemed that in seconds she had captured his heart.

  It was a pity that she wasn’t blond herself, Gwyneth thought wryly. She wasn’t terribly sure she would have minded if Jalahar had swept her up on a horse and raced her across desert sands to be ravaged in an exotic palace.

  Yes, it should have been her.

  Because Bryan was in love with his wife; nothing would ever change that. And there was no doubting Elise’s love for Bryan. Poor Bryan! She had never seen such a powerful man so ravaged by loss.

  She tried to speak to him soothingly; she tried to tell him that Jalahar was so fascinated by Elise that he would do nothing to make himself more the enemy in her eyes. She was probably well cared for and left alone.

  Gwyneth didn’t think that either of them believed it, but they were words that Bryan pounced upon as a dying man grasped at life. She would never fall completely out of love with him, so she was glad that she could soothe him.

  * * *

  Azfhat left the next week. He told Bryan that only his own will could take him forward from there. They parted friends.

  * * *

  In another week Brian could stand. He began to work painstakingly, exercising slowly but tediously. He worked his hand muscles and his toe muscles from the bed; he stretched and flexed his legs. When he could stand and walk again without faltering, he thundered into Richard, striking his fist down on the battle maps that lay before his astounded sovereign.

  “You sit here idly, Your Grace, while the enemy holds my wife! I demand that something be done!”

  Richard stared at him in astonishment, his Plantagenet temper soaring. “Stede, I am joyed to see you well, and the fact that you have lain at death’s door all these weeks keeps me from ordering you into the nearest tower! You forget to whom you are speaking!”

  Richard’s threats were frequently bluster. Bryan determined to keep that in mind. “I do not forget; you are my king, and I serve you well and with loyalty. But I wish to know what is being done.”

  Richard looked at Bryan, then waved a hand, dismissing the scribe who sat in the room taking notes. When the little fat man had waddled away, Richard sat back in his chair, studying Bryan as he idly drummed his fingers on the table.

  “I have done everything humanly possible,” he told Bryan with a sigh. “We continue to thunder at the gate of Muzhair; I send messages weekly to Saladin. There is nothing else that I, or anyone, can do.”

  “There must be! Pull in more men—”

  “Dammit, Stede! There are no more men! That snake of a monarch Philip has pulled out! The Austrian knights are worthless under Leopold! I’m doing my best to hold what I have—”

  “There must be a way, Richard! You are not doing everything possible . . .”

  “Stede!” Richard thundered, standing. Bryan was gaunt from his illness, but he still rose an inch over the king, and Richard detested that inch. “Sit down!” he grumbled to his knight. “I despise looking up at you, and you know it. And I made you, Bryan Stede. I gave you your castles and your lands—and your wife. I can break you if I choose. Now sit down, and listen to reason.”

  Bryan sat, but he leaned across Richard’s table. “Grant me this, Your Grace. Allow me to lead the men against the palace again. Allow me to take the knights from Montoui, and the knights from Cornwall. And let me hand-pick the others. We will manage to storm the palace. We will—”

  “Bryan!” the king said sadly, shaking his head. “I will be heartily glad to put men beneath your command again. I attended special masses to pray for your recovery—because I need men like you. But I
will not put an army into your command until you regain your strength. Until I see the knight who out-jousted all others—who was able to unhorse me! When that day comes, Bryan, I will give you all that you need. You have my solemn vow. Christ’s blood, man! Don’t you think that I would move both heaven and earth to get her back if I could!”

  Bryan started, surprised by the tension and sincerity in the king’s voice. He had been expecting Richard to tell him that he could not interrupt the great Crusade for the sake of one woman. Richard’s knights had a habit of remaining tactfully silent, but anyone close to the king knew that any licentious comments regarding women were for show; he approved of only one female, and that one was his mother.

  “You mean that, don’t you?” Bryan queried.

  “Of course!”

  “Why?” Bryan asked, before thinking.

  Richard glanced at him, as startled as he. “You don’t know?”

  Bryan shook his head. Richard smiled, a little ruefully. “She is my sister. Half sister, but Henry’s blood as sure as I.”

  Bryan felt his jaw fall, his mouth gape. He was certain he looked like an idiot sitting there, but he had never been more astounded.

  And then it all made sense. The tears she had shed for Henry; the night in the storm. The ring . . . the sapphire ring that had once convinced him that she was a liar and thief.

  And her face! The gold and copper hair. My God, but he had been blind. Her hair was like a Plantagenet banner! He should have known, he should have realized. Even the dream tried to tell him so, the dream when he had seen Henry, Richard . . . and Elise.

  Even the legend, he thought, a wistful grimace tugging painfully at his mouth. Even the Plantagenet legend, that of Melusine’s blood, giving fire and beauty and magic to the race. Magic, oh yes, haunting magic. Not evil. Just a beauty so great that it induced a love to bind a man for all his life. He had touched her once, just as that long ago Viking descendant had touched Melusine. Once . . . and had come to know that it would never be enough. That he would want her, need her, love her all his life . . .

  He closed his eyes, filled with belated remorse. He had grappled her from her horse, trussed her about . . . and if he hadn’t raped her, he had forcefully seduced her....

  And all because she was Henry’s daughter, determined that he know anything but the truth....

  He should have known! When she lost her temper, she was wild. Just like Henry. Like Richard . . . she would fly into danger, risk her own fool neck when she was furious and determined. So many times he had thought that she reminded him of someone! He had ridden at Henry’s side for years, and now he had been at Richard’s side. He had been blind.

  And that night . . . that dark night of sudden violence and heated passion that had changed his life . . . her life.... It might never have been, had she but trusted him . . .

  “Why?” he whispered out loud, unaware that he spoke.

  “She never told you, eh?” Richard said, then sighed. “Perhaps she felt the secret should die with the few who knew. My father told me about her when we were already at odds with each other. He had made some type of a deathbed vow to her mother that she be raised as legitimate nobility. But Henry never could deny what was his. He told her somewhere along the line. My mother guessed, but God bless my mother! She never felt rancor toward any of Father’s bastards. She dotes on Geoffrey . . . but back to the point. Father might have been trying to turn my inheritance over to John, but I think that even he knew that John was a young boy, not to be trusted. I am all that stands between John and the crown. If I die . . . and if John knew . . . Elise could pay. John bears bitter grudges. And even Elise was given more than John as she grew up. She had Montoui. It is a secret that should be kept, Stede. If . . .”—Richard paused unhappily, then became brusque—“. . . if we are able to get her back. If you were to have children, they might even suffer at John’s hands, if you and I were no longer able to protect them.”

  Bryan stood, wavering slightly. “I will regain my strength, Your Grace. And I will hold you to your vow to see that I lead the men I choose.”

  Richard watched him leave the room. Bryan teetered back to his bed. He slept for an hour. He ate every bite of the food that Gwyneth brought him, and started exercising again. His toes . . . how absurd it would have once seemed to exercise his toes. But his toes led to his feet, his feet to his legs . . .

  And he would stand again without wavering, he would walk, and he would wield a sword, and he would fight.

  If he could just control the pictures in his mind! But when darkness settled at night, his imagination betrayed him. Jalahar! The Arab was muscled and trim, an exotic, intelligent man. What if Elise had gone with him because she was fascinated by his bronzed and swarthy looks, fascinated by a desert prince . . . ?

  He clenched his teeth together. It made him writhe with fury and agony to think of her in the arms of another. He could picture her so clearly. He could reach out and almost touch her image, almost feel the softness of her flesh, the silk of her hair as it spilled about her in glorious disarray . . .

  He tried to close his mind to the agony while he allowed the anger to grow. Fury could build strength. And he wanted her back. He was willing to fight for her; he would die rather than lose her.

  * * *

  Every day he worked. Stretched upon the floor, he pushed himself unmercifully, regaining the hardness in his belly. He pressed upon his arms . . . slowly at first, tiring after a matter of minutes. But as time passed, determination won out, and he could push his weight tirelessly from the floor for minutes without end.

  He moved out to the courtyard, and started with his sword again. Swinging, plunging, hacking. His destrier was half wild from the idle months; Bryan had to learn to ride him all over again.

  There were days when he would grow dizzy, and have to retire, but those days came less and less frequently.

  And while Bryan worked, Richard carried on his holy war. He would push along the coastline, always nearing Jerusalem, always being pushed back. Coastal towns fell to the Crusaders; Jerusalem eluded them.

  In March Richard came to the courtyard, fresh from battle. He watched Bryan work, and he was glad to see that his knight’s broad shoulders were filling out with hard muscle again; his waist was trim and tight, his arms bulging. A new scar stretched around his waist, but already it paled. The wound had not been nearly as serious as the fever it had caused.

  “You will try me!” Richard commanded.

  Bryan was puzzled, but then he shrugged, and he and Richard entered into swordplay.

  On and on around the courtyard they parried, thrusting, swiping . . . gaining, retreating, meeting each other blow by blow. But then the king caught Bryan’s sword; it spun in the sky and fell to the dirt.

  Richard smiled at Bryan. “You’re almost ready,” he told him. He stepped closer so that his words could be heard by his knight alone. “We both know that the Lord Stede, at his best, can take a sword even from his king. The day that you take my sword from me, I will know that you are ready.”

  Richard, pleased with his victory, continued on to the palace. Bryan picked up his sword once more, and went back to work.

  * * *

  It was the first of April when Richard summoned Bryan to his council chamber. Bryan entered, surprised to see a slight Arab standing before the king. Richard had not risen. From his chair he indicated the man contemptuously and spoke to Bryan.

  “He comes from Saladin in response to my last message. I wanted you to hear his words.”

  The small Arab looked from Richard to Bryan, then back again. The towering, muscle-bound warriors made him very nervous, especially since he knew that they would not like his reply.

  “Speak up, man!” Richard ordered.

  The little Arab shuffled his feet and bowed. “The great Saladin regrets to tell you that he has no authority to order a lesser prince to release a hostage of war.”

  “Hostage of war?” Bryan snapped derisively.

/>   The little Arab looked his way, deciding that the dark-haired knight was the more dangerous of the men, albeit one was the English King. “Yes, English Lord. The hostage Elise is kept well, in noble surroundings. She is served food prepared by the emir’s own chefs, and nothing is denied her.” The knight continued to stare at the messenger in a way that made him wet his lips once more. “The physician who attended you, Azfhat Muhzid, is at her side daily—”

  He broke off as he saw Bryan’s frown, then heard the knight’s fury. “Physician! Why? Is she ill? Hurt? What has been done to her?”

  He had been wise to have feared the dark knight, for now the man crossed the room in what seemed to be a single step; he picked the little Arab up by the neck of his robe, his fingers closing in around his throat.

  “Tell me! What ails her? Is she hurt? What did he do to her?”

  “Nothing, nothing! You are strangling me! I beg of you, set me down. I am nothing but the emissary!”

  Richard clamped his hand on Bryan’s shoulder. “Put him down,” the king said quietly, responding to the dazed fire in Bryan’s eyes. It was apparent Bryan was totally unaware that he was about to kill the man.

  Bryan shuddered, the wild light faded from his eyes, and he set the man down. The Arab choked and coughed, and rubbed his neck—but then he began to speak very quickly.

  “She is well! Very well! Azfhat attends her only because she is with child.”

  Bryan stood dead-still, staring at the messenger, longing to reach out and strangle him—merely for the news he had been forced to bring. He could not kill Saladin’s messenger; he would risk the life of every Christian held prisoner by the Moslems.

  He turned on his heel, feeling as if he had been turned to molten stone. Leaden footsteps carried him back to his chamber—ironically, the same chamber he had shared with her that first night when she had come to him in the Holy Land . . .

  He sank down to his knees, pressing his temples with his palms to try to still the pain. He could no longer deceive himself that Jalahar had let her be. Jalahar had probably taken her night after night, imagining a son born with her golden coloring....