Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  She was far too overwhelmed with wonder and newfound adoration to sleep. She and Gwyneth—and even Satima—marveled over the infant girl, and Elise fumbled awkwardly through her first attempt to nurse her child. But the tiny, fervent tugs against her breast gave her a feeling of delight unlike anything she could imagine, and she was both ecstatic and dead-weary when she at last allowed Gwyneth to take her child from her.

  “She makes me think of young Percy,” Gwyneth said.

  Elise, exquisitely warmed by the wonder of the experience, smiled at her sadly. “Don’t you miss him terribly, Gwyneth? How do you bear being away?”

  “I don’t know,” Gwyneth answered softly, cradling the infant to her. “I love him, I truly do . . . but I had to leave Cornwall when you did. I feel as if I’m searching for something—but I don’t know what.” She smiled at Elise and chuckled ruefully. “Don’t worry about anything, Elise. Rest.”

  The command was easily obeyed. She didn’t think about the future, immediate or distant. She closed her eyes and slept blissfully.

  * * *

  That night she and Gwyneth inspected the baby again, counting her toes, laughing at her length. “She will be tall,” Gwyneth said with assurance. And look at her fingers! How long they will be! Long and elegant!”

  “She isn’t at all scrunched up!” Elise said with maternal pride. “She really is lovely!” she marveled.

  The door suddenly swung open. Both women looked up, startled.

  Jalahar stood in the doorway, his fine features unfathomable, his eyes upon Elise. He gazed from her to Gwyneth with a slight inclination of his head. “Out,” he told her bluntly.

  Gwyneth was not a woman to be daunted by any man. She glanced at Elise, shrugged, and walked to the door. But she stopped to tap Jalahar’s cheek lightly with her palm. “Your wish is my command,” she said with marked sarcasm. Jalahar gripped her wrist and stared at her with eyes that burned with annoyance. “Do not play upon temper, madame—not if you wish to return to this room.”

  Gwyneth jerked her wrist from his grasp and left the room. Jalahar came to the bed and sat by Elise’s thigh. He stretched his arms to her.

  “I wish to see the child.”

  An absurd panic filled her; she was weak, and she had never felt so defenseless, nor had she ever felt such a strong compulsion to protect and defend. She was loath to let the child out of her arms.

  Jalahar grated his teeth with an oath of impatience. “Have I ever hurt you?” he demanded angrily. “Do you think I am a butcher to harm an innocent babe?”

  Elise swallowed miserably and handed him the child with misgiving. She needn’t have feared. He was tender with her precious bundle, supporting the babe’s neck with care. He stared at her a long while, parting the swathing to count fingers and toes, as Elise had done herself. The baby shrilled a protest. Jalahar smiled, and returned her to Elise.

  “She is a truly beautiful child. What will you call her?”

  “I hadn’t decided . . . yet,” Elise said quietly, keeping her eyes downcast. How could she name the child . . . without Bryan?

  “You had best decide. I assumed you would want her baptized in your Christian way. A priest will come tomorrow.”

  Elise nodded, cuddling the babe to her. “Lenore,” she said suddenly. “For the queen,” she added.

  “Ah . . . yes, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Queen of France, and then of England. I was not born when she came here with the old French king, but the legends have not died. It is fitting that she should be named for such a woman.”

  Lenore, named for a queen, was unimpressed. She continued to howl, despite her mother’s tender caresses.

  “She is hungry,” Jalahar told her.

  Elise did not want to nurse the babe with his eyes upon her. But Jalahar’s dark eyes were intense; just as she knew that he would never harm her, she knew he wouldn’t leave her chamber.

  Her eyes repelled his, but she adjusted her gown and brought the infant to her breast. Jalahar watched her silently, seeming to brood. Elise turned her eyes to her daughter’s golden head. Despite Jalahar, she felt the sheer delight of her love once again, and she kissed the little head, caressing it with her cheek.

  “I wonder,” Jalahar said at last, “if you will love our child so tenderly.”

  Elise forgot the babe for an instant of alarm. She gazed at Jalahar and discovered that his dark eyes met hers with a brooding intensity that was determined . . . and frightening.

  “Even now,” she whispered, “Bryan amasses an army to bring against you.”

  “So I have heard. But the walls of Muzhair might well be impossible to scale.”

  “He will not stop—”

  “Perhaps not. As I have said, it is likely that we shall meet. But time begins to run out like the desert sands . . . for you.”

  Elise swallowed painfully. “You said that you would never . . . force me.”

  “Will it be force?” he queried softly, bending near her. His hand brushed hair from her forehead; he opened his palm and cupped her cheek, ever careful of the child, who nursed in oblivion to her mother’s racing heart. “Have you not come to care for me a little?”

  Elise held her breath, near tears at the tenderness of his touch, the wistful longing in his voice.

  “I love Bryan,” she told him quietly, holding Bryan’s daughter near as a steadfast reminder.

  Jalahar smiled sadly. “I have waited a long time,” he told her. He stood. “Your time has not yet run out; Azfhat says I must not touch you until the moon rises full again.”

  Elise shivered. A month. It was a long time . . . and no time at all. She had already been in the palace for seven months, waking daily to wonder if Bryan would ever come . . .

  Jalahar interrupted her thoughts.

  “The English King has sickened, Elise. The Lion-Heart fights his battles from his bed. He holds a number of the coastal towns, but he will never take Jerusalem. It is unlikely that he will take this palace. Yet neither can we best the Lion-Heart. Advisors on both sides, wise military strategists, tell them that they must come to an agreement, and sign a truce. Your husband is a worthy foe: a great and courageous knight. But not even he can take a fortress such as mine on his own. It is time for you to decide if you wish to keep the child, or send her to her father. Since you have produced a daughter and not a son, Stede will perhaps not care so much if you wish to keep her here. Sons inherit.”

  “I was a girl!” Elise snapped. “And I inherited!”

  Jalahar shrugged. “Then perhaps you will wish the babe to be taken to him. You must make a decision soon.”

  He left the room before she could reply. Elise looked down at her tiny daughter, sleeping now, the soft, platinum fuzz of her hair teasing Elise’s cheek. The babe whimpered slightly and one little fist shook. Elise could feel the small motion as the babe breathed; she could feel the warmth of her daughter, and the complete need and trust of the child nestled to her.

  “I cannot send you away!” she whispered. “Never . . . I love you so much. You are all that I have of Bryan . . .”

  She closed her eyes, the bliss she had felt at the birth of her daughter gone, torment eclipsing all else.

  Jalahar never lied to her. Richard was apparently very sick; only desperate illness could keep him from the field. The Christian knights had been fighting a long and fruitless battle; surely they longed for home.

  What would happen? Bryan could not scale the palace walls by himself.

  Time . . . was running out.

  * * *

  “Elise! Come to the window!”

  Elise, after placing Lenore in the lovely little basket Satima had given her, hurried to the window to join Gwyneth. From the height of the tower, they could see beyond the palace walls.

  Just days after Lenore’s birth, knights had begun to arrive and to set up camp, carefully out of arrow range from the palace. This morning the activity was even greater. A great catapult had been dragged across the sand during the night; a mas
sive ram sat on wheeled carts. And it seemed as if the tents now stretched out far into the desert.

  “Bryan is going to try to take the palace!” Gwyneth exclaimed.

  Elise didn’t know whether to feel fear or elation. Each day that had passed since Lenore’s birth had been torture; Jalahar had presented her with an hourglass, and she had often sat staring at it, watching as the sands of time disappeared. Each day she had watched as the Crusaders built up their offense on the outskirts of the palace; but Jalahar had been to see her frequently, and he had told her that his men went out at night on raids to set the Christians back. Gwyneth told her that Jalahar led the raids himself—perhaps searching for Bryan. So far, the two men had not met.

  But how many men had died? It was painful to wonder.

  And now, her last days were draining away . . .

  “When do you think they will attack?” Elise asked Gwyneth anxiously.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured, “but soon.”

  “How soon?”

  Gwyneth studied Elise’s face, noting her friend’s worried frown. “I see . . .” Gwyneth said at last. She sighed. “Elise, you are not about to lose your head, you know. You needn’t be so afraid.”

  Elise flashed her an angry glance. “You act as if you don’t care! You don’t understand; everything will be different—”

  Gwyneth’s laughter cut her off, and Elise stared at the beautiful brunette in fury.

  “What are you afraid of—Jalahar, or yourself? Elise, he will be a gentle lover; many women would crave such a man. You will not die if he decides to claim you, nor will you be any different. There is no way out of here—”

  “Gwyneth!”

  “I am an extremely practical woman, Elise,” Gwyneth said with a sigh. “And Jalahar has exhibited remarkable patience for a man. He could have well ignored the fact that you were with child for many months; he could have raped you any time he wished. He could have ordered your infant slain; he could have taken her from you the moment she was born. The man is absurdly in love with you. But even being in love with you, he is a man. He could easily die for you on any day. I should think he would want to have enjoyed something first, should he die. It appears to me that you can fight him, break his patience at last and wind up hurt yourself, or accept him—and enjoy yourself.”

  Elise turned away from the window. “I cannot accept him! Bryan will . . . never want me again.”

  Gwyneth burst into laughter, then hugged Elise to atone for it. “You little fool! Bryan loves you! Nothing will change that!”

  “Yes! Yes, it will!” Elise cried. “I . . . Percy supposedly loved me once, Gwyneth. And I made the mistake of a confession—”

  “Elise! Percy was young—and hurt. But he never did stop loving you, and still I think that he loved me, too, in his way. Bryan Stede is not Percy! He loves you very deeply; you are his wife. It is senseless to make yourself ill with worry over something you can’t change! Elise! He was probably certain that Jalahar had you every night while he lay in that fever. But there he is . . . out there somewhere, building an army to rescue you!”

  Elise caught the tender flesh of her inner lip between her teeth, longing for reassurance. “Do you . . . really believe that he loves me, Gwyneth?”

  Gwyneth was tempted to laugh; a moment’s bitterness gripped her. But she saw how terribly serious Elise was, and how very vulnerable. “Yes,” she said simply. “I’m quite certain Bryan loves you—very deeply.” She sighed. “It is a pity Jalahar isn’t nursing this terrible fascination for me. I’d be very glad to jump upon his cushions!”

  “Gwyneth!”

  “It’s true,” Gwyneth said dryly. Then she became somber. “Elise . . . you must realize the only way you’ll ever be with Bryan is if Bryan kills Jalahar.”

  Elise stared at her. “What are you saying?”

  “It could also go the other way,” Gwyneth said softly. “If so . . . you had best reconcile yourself to Jalahar.”

  “No . . .” Elise murmured.

  “One way or another, I think it nears the time when you can no longer play the queen, demanding this and that. But if . . . if Bryan does kill Jalahar after . . . after he has . . . lost his patience, we’ll say, you can easily keep the peace.”

  “How?”

  “Lie.”

  “Bryan would never believe me!”

  Gwyneth laughed. “Perhaps not. But as I’ve told you, men are strange beasts. He may not believe you, but he will not dispute you. He would rather live with the lie.”

  “You are telling me that Bryan will love me no matter what!” Elise cried. “But then you tell me to lie!”

  “I believe we all like to cling to a little delusion,” Gwyneth said wryly. She started to speak again, then jumped as a swift rapping sounded from the door. The women glanced at each other, then hurried to it. “Come in,” she said in a low voice.

  The door was unlocked from outside, and it swung open.

  Elise was a little stunned by the sight of the man she saw there; he was of an average size, but he seemed large in his flowing robes. His thick mane of curling gray hair was topped by a red turban; his beard was as iron-gray as his hair, and it curled halfway down his chest. His eyes were extremely sharp; his face was wrinkled and weathered by time and harsh sunlight, but Elise didn’t think she had ever seen features more powerful. Both she and Gwyneth stared at him, awestruck.

  He bowed to the two of them, assessing them as he moved into the room. He stopped before Elise.

  “You are the one . . .” he said, his eyes raking her up and down with no apology. “Elise . . . Christian wife of the knight Bryan Stede, subject of Richard, King of England.”

  Elise nodded, then found her voice. “Yes, I am Elise, wife of Bryan Stede.”

  “And the child in the basket . . . she is his?”

  “Yes—and who are you?”

  The man laughed very pleasantly. “Golden hair and a soaring spirit!” he said then, shaking his head. “If I were but a younger man . . . but I am not, and I have learned that the fancies of the flesh pass quickly. Still, there remains a spark in my blood that recalls such a passion—I am Saladin.”

  “Saladin!” Elise gasped.

  “So you know of me . . .” he answered. “I am glad, since you have become such a fine point of trouble in my life! We fight for an empire—and must take time out for matters such as this!”

  Tears that she blinked madly away stung Elise’s eyes. “You . . . you are going to send me back? Is that why you have come? It will solve the problem that I create—”

  She stopped speaking as she saw that Saladin was shaking his head sadly. “Only Jalahar can send you back. And he is obstinate. I have come to suggest that you send Stede’s child out in the morning.” At the look of anguish that came to her eyes, he softened his voice. “A battle will take place here, you know. If you love the girl, you will see that she is brought to safety. An innocent need not suffer in this affair. Jalahar’s children are being sent out.”

  Elise lowered her head, fighting her tears. She felt her shoulders fall, and she nodded. If Jalahar was sending his own children away, then even he believed that there was danger.

  Saladin lifted her head up by tilting her chin. Strangely, she was not surprised to find his eyes warm, filled with empathy and a little regret. “Ah . . . if I were but younger! Perhaps you are a prize for which I would have fought, too!”

  He bowed low to her, and then to Gwyneth. With a soft whisper of robes, he was gone.

  Elise plucked the baby from her basket. She lay down upon the cushions and cradled Lenore close. Gwyneth could find no words of comfort to offer.

  * * *

  That night Jalahar appeared suddenly in the doorway. He stared pointedly at Gwyneth; Gwyneth sighed and rose, and started to leave the room.

  “Wait!” Jalahar commanded, and Elise and Gwyneth glanced uneasily at each other.

  Jalahar’s eyes were riveted to the sleeping infant, curled to Elise’s side. �
��Take the child,” he said softly.

  “No!” Elise screamed instantly.

  “She will be returned to you for the night,” Jalahar said.

  Gwyneth hurried to stoop to the cushions. “Elise! Let me take her! He seems . . . tense tonight. Elise! He does not lie to you! I will bring her back!”

  Elise released her hold on her daughter and allowed the babe to go with Gwyneth. When the door closed behind Gwyneth, Jalahar still stood, staring at her. Elise jumped uneasily to her feet, tempted to crawl against a wall.

  He walked across the room to the window and spoke almost idly. “The troops amass outside our walls. You can see all the camp torches lit—fire beneath the stars. He has done well, your Stede. When it begins, the battle will be fierce.”

  He turned suddenly to Elise, lifting his arm to the heavens beyond the scalloped window.

  “The moon has risen full again,” he told her.

  She said nothing. Tremors shook her violently; fear and lightning seemed to streak through her limbs. She wanted to back away, but it would be a foolish and futile gesture.

  He walked to her, stopping right before her. He touched her cheek, then played his fingers through her hair, staying a breath away from her. “It will begin very soon,” he said. “Tomorrow . . . the next day. I would know . . .” His voice constricted tightly and he began again: “I would know what I fight for.”

  Elise felt frozen by his touch and time; she was rigid, unable to speak, unable to move. Unable to think.

  He brought his other hand to her face, then used the slim length of his fingers to slip beneath the fabric on her shoulders. She wore only a gown of cool silk, and it slid beneath his touch like rippling sand, leaving her naked, bared to his eyes...

  “No!” she cried suddenly, vehemently, but he had swept her into his arms, and she found herself falling . . . as if eternally. . . into the soft cushions of her bed. He was beside her. She fought him desperately, pounding, flailing, scratching. . . but she was no match for him, and in time, he secured her wrists, staring at her sadly with his deep, dark desert eyes. “No!” she cried again brokenly, and she shook her head with the tears sliding from beneath her lashes.