Her voice trailed away as she was turned back to the fighting. The crowd roared.
The men were minus their helmets and faceplates now; they were covered in sand and grime. Blood trickled from Bryan’s mouth, and from Jalahar’s temple and eye. Jalahar made a sudden dive across the sand for his sword; Bryan did the same.
But when they were standing again, facing each other, they were both panting heavily. Their footsteps wavered; the clashes of sword against sword became weaker. The heat, the armor, the weight of their swords was tearing them down.
Jalahar took a swipe at Bryan’s middle. Bryan doubled over, backing away. But then he charged forward, returning the blow. Jalahar staggered then, falling back. Bryan raised his sword in the air; on an elbow, Jalahar lifted his own to meet it.
It was then that Elise screamed again—so loud and shrill and with such horror that the sound rose above the chants, jeers, and cheers. Her feet took flight with no conscious thought; she was running. She was flying, determined that neither God nor Allah would take a toll from her that day. It was a foolish flight, for the battling men had thought of nothing other than themselves at the moment; indeed, as she charged between them, Bryan raised his sword. Jalahar prepared to thrust with his own. She would have been impaled upon it herself had not the Arab’s strength given out at that moment, causing him to falter, falling helpless to the sand.
Elise flung herself against Bryan, tears streaming down her cheeks. She had not touched him . . . seen him . . . in so long, and now she sought indigo eyes that were glazed with fatigue, eyes that barely recognized her and saw her as nothing more than an irritating interference to the business at hand. Blood, she saw, streamed from more than his mouth; gashes pierced his arms and his thighs; he was barely standing. . .
“Bryan!” she screamed to him as he started to thrust her away. “Bryan!” Her hands gripped the sun-hot steel of his armor, and she wished desperately that she could touch his flesh, for the man seemed as hard and relentless as the steel. But even beneath the barrier of that armor, she felt his sinewed form shake. He was about to drop. His size had given him the last advantage of power and stamina, but like Jalahar, he was to drop, felled by a dozen wounds.
“Bryan! It’s done. Oh, please, Bryan, listen to me. You will kill each other . . . you will both die . . .”
But it was Jalahar who was down then. And the crowd, like ancient Romans at the arena, was screaming for blood. “’Tis honorably done!” Elise pleaded.
He thrust her aside and she fell, blinded by her tears and the tangle of her hair. She lay beside Jalahar, and his deep eyes, dulled by pain, were upon her. He whispered to her, his voice so tired it carried no substance.
“He must . . . wield the blade. He is the victor. I die with honor; ’tis better than life . . . with defeat.”
“No!” Elise cried, and she rolled in the sand, placing herself between Bryan’s staggering form and Jalahar’s body. She was vaguely aware that Saladin was roaring that she be dragged from the fight. If they were to take her from it, she would have to be dragged.
Men started to come for her.
“Bryan!” she screamed in beseechment, throwing herself against his knees.
And at last he gazed down at her, at her tear-stained and mud-streaked face. A crooked smile twisted his lips.
“Elise . . .” he muttered.
“Please, Bryan . . . no more death. Please . . .”
He stared down at her. He heard the roar of the crowd, screaming for blood.
But suddenly, he didn’t need to kill any longer. He loosened his grip on his sword. It fell to the sand.
Just as they had screamed for death, the throng of warriors, Moslem and Christian, turned their fickle cheers to a cry of mercy.
Bryan wavered, then buckled to his knees. His eyes suddenly closed, and he collapsed against Elise, pitching her back into the sand again, and leaving her entangled between himself and the already prone body of Jalahar.
Victor and vanquished; both lay unconscious with the woman they had fought for battered and bruised, and caught between them.
Elise struggled against Bryan’s heavy shoulder, certain that her own slender limbs would quickly snap. Someone was suddenly helping her; she looked up into Saladin’s sparkling eyes.
“Allah works in mysterious ways,” he told her. He rolled Bryan from her and lifted her to her feet; an old and graying warrior, but one who held her with a strength that the years could not take away. He lifted a hand, and men rushed forward to care for their wounded knights; two Arabs lifted Jalahar; Wat and Mordred rushed forward to collect Bryan.
Saladin kept staring at Elise. “Men . . .” he said, “ . . . are often as boys. Fighting and squabbling over a favorite toy.”
“I am not a toy,” Elise told him softly. “I am the Duchess of Montoui, and the Countess of Saxonby.”
He smiled. “Perhaps you are not a toy. And perhaps you have taught us . . . and these boys . . . that you are not. Go in peace, Duchess . . . golden girl.”
“In peace?” she whispered.
He placed an arm about her and walked her toward the Christian troops who prepared to depart.
“Your King Richard ails from fever and heat; he has won, I have won. Soon, we will sign a truce. I will keep Jerusalem, but I will open it to your Christian pilgrims.”
“The Crusade . . . will really be over?”
“This time . . . yes. Peace will not be everlasting. Our differences are vast. War will come again. But for you, Elise, and for your warrior, it will be over. Go now, tend to your husband.”
She smiled at him uncertainly, then continued across the sand where Mordred awaited her with a mount.
“Elise!”
Saladin called her back and she turned to him.
“Thank you,” he told her softly.
She lifted a brow in query and he added, “For my nephew. For Jalahar’s life.”
Tears stung her eyes and she nodded, then continued across the sand to Mordred. She had mounted her horse, anxious for Mordred to lead her to the litter that would carry Bryan, when her eyes suddenly widened and she cried to Mordred, “Wait!”
“Milady—” Mordred began to protest, but she turned to him swiftly and interrupted him. “The Lady Gwyneth is still somewhere by the gates! I must find her!”
Mordred called another protest after her; she heard his footsteps racing after her own, thudding against the sand. But she eluded him swiftly, horrified that she had forgotten Gwyneth. And she knew no one would waylay her; she had Saladin’s protection.
But Gwyneth was nowhere to be seen by the rubble of the gate; Elise stood upon it, searching, but saw no sign of her friend. She climbed down and ran toward the palace, hurrying through the doors, only to stop dead-still at the fountain.
Jalahar had been brought here. He lay before the bubbling stream of water, stripped down to his robes.
And it was Gwyneth who tended his wounds, cleansing the gash atop his forehead. Elise took a faltering step forward. Jalahar’s eyes opened and met hers. He smiled painfully at her, and lifted a hand to her. Gwyneth stepped back, nodding that she could come forward.
She took his hand in hers. “Would it have been so hard to love me?” he whispered. “Or did you, perhaps, just a little bit?”
Elise brought his hand to her lips and kissed the palm. “It would have been very easy to love you,” she told him. “It was just that . . . I already loved another man.”
He squeezed her hand, still smiling. Then his eyes closed tiredly once more, and he released her.
Elise stared at him a long while, then at last tore her eyes from him and turned to Gwyneth. “You must come now; we’re leaving.”
Gwyneth shook her head with a rueful grin.
“I’m not coming.”
“You’re not coming!”
“I’m an excellent nurse. And with you gone . . .” Gwyneth allowed her voice to trail away, and Elise understood. But she was anxious and worried.
“Gwyneth . . . he has two wives, you know. I don’t think that you could ever be happy—”
Gwyneth laughed. “Those two stout crones! Elise, don’t underestimate me so. I can be a very persuasive woman. And,” she added, softly, seriously, “I think that perhaps we both might find what we have searched for. Bryan is yours, Elise. I think home would be only . . . painful for me.”
“But . . . your son, Gwyneth. Percy . . .”
“Love him for me, will you, Elise? I know that you and Bryan can give him far more than I. Go on, Elise. You have waited so long; go to Bryan. And to your own babe. I will be happy here, I promise you.”
Elise would have argued longer, but Mordred was now at her elbow, and he steered her firmly away.
It seemed amazing that the sun was still shining, and that the desert sands were still shimmering.
It seemed as if a lifetime had passed.
But it hadn’t passed.
It had only begun.
* * *
There were no dreams this time, just a struggle from darkness, and then awareness.
Something cool soothed his forehead and his cheeks; a light and tender touch was upon him. He smiled before he opened his eyes, because this time he knew.
It was his duchess.
He knew her sweet and fragrant scent, and he knew that distinct touch of her fingertips, so gentle now. He opened his eyes, and they met and locked with hers. Turquoise . . . aqua . . . a tempest; an endless, peaceful sea where a man could drift in bliss eternally. He reached out an arm and captured her head with his hand, drawing it to him. His lips touched hers, trembling, and he savored the kiss as he might a vintage wine, wondering, awed by the taste that was unique nectar, soft and subtle, forever in his heart.
A sudden wail interrupted him, and he released her with a start. He saw that he was once again in their chamber at Richard’s stronghold palace, and that the disturbing wail had come from the quickly crafted cradle that gently rocked on the other side of his bed of gauze net and cushions.
“I think our daughter is calling you,” he said lightly. Elise glanced at him apologetically and hurried to the cradle. Bryan smiled as he watched the love his wife gave their child add an even greater beauty to her features.
She picked up the babe and came back to his side, gazing anxiously at him. “Do you . . . like her, Bryan? I know that men prefer to have a son, but—”
He laughed. “Do I like her? What a question to ask a man of his firstborn! She is beautiful, and though we’ve known each other but a day or two, I love her dearly.”
He was surprised to see Elise lower her lashes quickly, and more surprised to see a tear slide down her cheek. He reached for her quickly, holding back a groan as the movement caused his sore muscles and torn flesh a new pain to remind him of the battle so recently fought. He didn’t want her to see him flinch now; he didn’t want her worrying about him when . . . it had been so long since he had seen her face, had her beside him. Alone except for their daughter. Together when life had threatened to rip them apart forever.
“What is it, Elise?” he asked her huskily, careful of the babe as he brushed her cheek gently with his open palm. “Elise, dear God, all is well now! I had feared that I would never hold you again, yet we are here. You are well, and but for a headache and a mass of cuts and bruises, I am well—”
“Oh, Bryan!” she whispered fervently. “I was so afraid . . . afraid that you would never accept the child! That you wouldn’t want me back! There was so much distance between us! Oh, Bryan, I know how hard this will be for you to believe, but . . . Jalahar never touched me. He promised to wait for the child to be born . . . and then I promised him that I would abide by the outcome of the battle . . . and . . . oh, Bryan! I love you! I loved you for months and months when I was terrified to say so. I kept loving you when we were apart; it was all that kept me sane—”
Despite his wounds, Bryan clenched his teeth together and sat in his bed, tenderly drawing Elise and his daughter to his chest, threading his fingers through the gold and copper hair that had long ago entangled his heart.
“Elise!” he whispered ardently, kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. “Elise! I believe whatever you say to me, my love, but you know, it wouldn’t matter. I love you. Nothing could change that. I was fascinated, bewitched, from that night in the forest when I thought I had caught a thief. From that point on, you nestled your way so thoroughly into my heart that I often thought the loving would make me go mad. Even when I held you, I thought that you had somehow eluded me. You were such a feisty thing, never willing to accept defeat. But didn’t you see, my love? I could never let you go. That was why I abducted you from Montoui and dragged you through the countryside.” He smiled at her ruefully. “I was so jealous of poor Percy that I wound myself into knots. I think I even hated Gwyneth at one time because you were so angry and so deceived about her child.”
Lenore, secure in her mother’s arms and warmed by her father’s chest, had had enough of confessions. Her tiny fists waved in the air and she began to howl again. Elise glanced from their daughter to Bryan, and she broke into a spurt of merry laughter despite the tears that still dampened her face.
“Bryan!” She laughed over the wail. “I was so jealous that I was furious! I couldn’t stand the thought of Gwyneth having your child . . . especially when it seemed then that I couldn’t.”
“I’ll give you lots of children,” he promised her wickedly. “But don’t you think you should do something about the squalling one that we already have?”
“She’s hungry,” Elise said.
“If you wish, you can call the nurse—”
Elise objected—adamantly. “She was taken away from me once; I will not let her go again. The time was not so great that I cannot care for her myself.”
Bryan patted the silk-and-down cushion at his side. “Lie down with her beside me.”
“I shouldn’t even sit here so; you’re wounded.”
“Lie down beside me,” Bryan persisted. “I cannot let you away from me again.”
She smiled and did as he requested. The baby lay between them as Elise adjusted her clothing to feed her. Now Bryan marveled at their child as Elise had so often done, leaning upon an elbow, touching her cheek, touching the babe. A warm silence surrounded them and dusk’s shadows darkened the room as Lenore continued to suck at her mother’s breast.
Elise gazed at Bryan in apologetic surprise.
“She’s very demanding.”
He laughed. “King Henry’s granddaughter would be.”
Elise’s eyes widened to huge orbs, and Bryan laughed again.
“How long have you . . . known?” Elise asked with startled reproach. “How . . . who . . .”
Bryan smiled wryly. “Richard saw fit to tell me when I accused him of not doing enough to get you back. I was glad—since my wife never thought to mention it.”
Elise flushed. “I was going to tell you. The night that we were ambushed . . . I was going to tell you about the babe . . . and about my father.”
Bryan touched a radiant lock of her hair, and his rueful grin took on broader proportions. “I’m glad that you were going to tell me. I think that I somehow linked the mystery about you with trust; if you had told me, I would have felt that you trusted me . . . and had begun to love me at last. I felt like such a fool . . . because I should have guessed. My God, I think I knew Henry better than any man! You definitely have his temper! And that hair of yours is a Plantagenet banner!” His smile faded and his night-blue eyes fell upon her intensely. “Elise . . . why didn’t you tell me that night in the forest? You could have saved yourself... from me if you had. I would never have betrayed you.”
“I know that now,” she told him softly. “But I was afraid. I had been warned . . . by Henry. Montoui was small, but I couldn’t afford to be vulnerable. And . . . if John were ever to know . . . Bryan, he could still make trouble for both of us. Or . . . or for Lenore, if anything were ever to happen to us.”
“It is a secret that I will keep—and cherish. And 1 have to say now that I’m glad you were determined to keep that secret from me once—at any cost.”
Elise lowered her eyes for a minute. “I was afraid because of... of Percy, too. He was so set on propriety. He would never have married a bastard—especially the king’s. He considered Henry to be a licentious old man.”
“I can only say again,” Bryan told her very softly, “that I’m very, very glad.” He fell silent for a minute. Lenore, sated at last, had fallen asleep between her parents. He didn’t feel his cuts or bruises when he picked her up, his powerful bronzed hands extremely tender as they held his child. “My daughter,” he mused reflectively to Elise, “is descended from William the Conqueror. I’m rather proud.”
Elise started to smile. Then a frown creased her brow. “I’m not sure I’m pleased with my blood relations. John is a half brother as much as Richard, and . . . Henry was a lecher!”
Bryan heard the babe give off a little burp. He was afraid that he would falter if he stood, so he whispered to Elise, “Take her, she still sleeps.”
Elise quickly put Lenore into her cradle. Bryan’s arms were stretched out to her, and her heart seemed to pound with a splendid thunder as she came back to him, lying at his side once more. “Elise, I know how much you loved Henry. Don’t ever mar that love by thinking that you needn’t be proud of him. He was human: temperamental, harsh, and often unjust to his sons—and to Eleanor. But he was a good king, Elise. He gave England law. Good law, and law so strong that it might well last through Richard’s absences and—God help us—John’s time on the throne.”
Elise smiled and reached with wonder to touch his cheek. “Thank you for that, Bryan.”
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“For what?”
“For Henry’s granddaughter. And . . . for his daughter.”
Elise lay happily against his chest, then remembered that he was a mass of nicks and bruises. She started to pull away, but he dragged her back. “I missed you . . . incredibly.” His voice became tinged with harshness. “I was half insane . . . thinking about Jalahar.”
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