IX

IX

"Riders, milady! Coming from the east!"

Elise struggled to waken as Jeanne burst into her chamber and threw open the draperies that closeted her bed. She had been awake most of the night, unable to sleep until dawn, and now she felt as if she were trying to emerge from a great fog.

"Oh, milady, do awaken! Come to the window!"

Elise urged her weary limbs from the bed. When her bare feet touched upon the cold stone of the floor, she was startled to full awareness, and hurried to the turret to stare out eastwardly.

They were still about three miles distant—a contingent of ten men in full armor. A pair of matching dappled grays, adorned with silks and feathers, drew a handsomely appointed litter.

Elise strained her eyes to study the men. The banners they carried were gold and red, and as they moved steadily closer, she began to make out the emblem.

It was that of a lion.

"They come from Richard," she said excitedly.

"Oh!" Jeanne exclaimed, clapping her hands together as she hovered behind Elise. "They return Isabel to us!"

"And more," Elise murmured uneasily. "You do not send ten men in full armor with emblems blazing beneath the sun just to return a servant . . ."

"What do you think they want?"

Elise frowned. "Not war—that is for certain. All know that our garrison is five hundred strong. They come as an official emissary . . . I still don't understand—"

"Milady!" Jeanne chastised softly. "Even I understand! Richard sends his men so that you may swear homage to him."

"Perhaps," Elise murmured. As a "duchess," she should owe fealty to the French King for her lands, but since Montoui was so small it had always paid homage to the directly bordering Angevin lands. Therefore, she owed fealty to Richard now; Richard, in turn, owed fealty to Philip of France for his Continental holdings.

Elise should have been rushing to dress, she realized, but something was holding her to the window. The party kept moving forward, and the closer they came, the more compelled she felt to watch. There was something familiar about the leader.

How could there be? she wondered. He was in full armor; he wore a helmet and a visor, and a mantle of encompassing black over his chain mail. There was no way to recognize his features, or even the color of his hair . . .

Her heart seemed to stop and then thunder with a suffocating intensity.

It was him. She did not need to see his features to recognize the way he sat his horse, taller than those who rode with him. There was only one other man who sat a saddle so powerfully, and that man was Richard himself.

And it was not the Lion-Heart who rode. It had to be Stede.

"It is him!" she whispered aloud, the sound of her voice rigid with the fury that enveloped her. How dare he ride to her castle so brazenly! It was like a sacrilege. He had destroyed her life, and now he sought her hospitality as if it were he about to be crowned king, and no matter what the past, she owed him homage . . .

"‘Him'? Milady?"

She barely heard Jeanne's puzzled question. A flush of heat wrapped all around her; she felt as if she could gouge at the stone wall and tear it to pieces.

" ‘Him'?" Jeanne persisted.

Still Elise ignored her, at last spinning from the archer's slit to confront her with blazing eyes. "I shall wear the blue with the fox trim, Jeanne. The headdress is quite high. And the golden earbobs and matching necklace Father brought back from Jerusalem. Hurry! They come closer and closer. The guards will halt them at the gate, but as they come from Richard, they will be allowed entrance. And it would not do to keep such an emissary waiting."

Jeanne lowered her eyes. "Aye, Lady Elise. We will hurry."

She left Elise at the window as she returned to the chamber to lay out the specified clothing. Him! So it was the man who had brought such grief to her lady, riding toward the castle as if he owned it! Jeanne decided there and then that the man should pay for his arrogance. But if she were going to seek revenge on her mistress's behalf, she would have to hurry.

"Milady?"

"Coming, Jeanne!"

Elise was ready at the main entrance to the great hall before the men entered. Only three came into the hall; Elise assumed that the others were soldiers who as yet had not earned titles or knighthood. They would, no doubt, be gaming now with her own off-duty guards.

Her heart beat hard as she watched the three men come toward her, removing their helmets and faceplates.

Bryan Stede wore a mocking smile, which increased her irritation to a state where she found it difficult to remain still and exude the pure air of icy nobility she intended. She stared at him coolly, with her head high, her dress portraying her wealth and importance. You will not make me shiver or shake, Sir Stede, she thought furiously, nor goad me into childish temper. There will come a day when I strike vengeance, and you will be totally disarmed by then . . .

But it was not Bryan who spoke to her first, and for a moment her anger melted away as Will Marshal stepped toward her, his dark countenance brilliant with the warmth of his smile.

"Milady Elise!"

He bent over her hand with a winning gallantry, all the more so, for Will Marshal was known for being the harshest of warriors, and not a gallant at all.

"Will!"

Elise hugged the man who had been Henry's most loyal warrior, his right-hand man for years, even when vehemently disagreeing with his monarch. She stood back to see that the third man in the party was Geoffrey Fitzroy.

She had met her half brother a number of times—and she liked him; he was proud, tall, and well built—and was resigned to his fate as a bastard.

She wondered if, had her own birth been known, she would have handled life as well as Geoffrey. He was twenty years her senior, and as he smiled at her now, she wondered uneasily if he knew of her relation. Worse still, she wondered if this gathering now meant that Richard knew.

"Duchess," Geoffrey murmured, stepping forward and courteously taking her hand, as Marshal had, to plant a brief kiss decorously upon it.

Elise exhaled a long-held sigh. They had come to return Isabel and remind her that Richard would now be king—nothing more. She glanced quickly to Bryan Stede. He stood several steps behind the other two men, watching her with amusement laced with something else.

A smoldering anger, such as her own?

She did not wait for him to approach her; if he touched her, she would scream. Gracefully, she indicated the fire beyond her and the trestles of the banqueting table.

"Welcome to Montoui, messires. May I offer you wine while you state your business?"

Will Marshal, who had known her since she was a child, was not about to stand upon ceremony. He slipped an arm about her shoulders as they approached the table. "Ah, Elise! How good it is to see you. You grow more beautiful daily! And it is quite a relief to see you so, for I was heartily worried when I learned that you had been present for a meeting with our thieves."

Chills swept along her spine. She longed to turn about and stare at Bryan Stede and demand to know what he had told these men. But she dared not, for fear of giving herself away. She held her back erect, wishing that Geoffrey and Bryan were ahead of them, and not behind them.

"Were the thieves apprehended?" she asked quietly.

"Alas, no!" Marshal said irritably. "Apparently they disappeared through subterranean tunnels within Chinon!" Will shook his head as if to whisk away the anger and un-pleasantry, and then he chuckled. "And to think our friend—Stede, here—mistook you for a thief!"

She forced herself to laugh along with him, and as they had reached the table, she did turn to face Stede, murder in her eyes. "Vastly amusing, isn't it, Sir Stede."

"I found the night . . . intriguing," he said smoothly, setting his helmet upon the table.

"I almost split a gut when I saw this giant limping toward the castle! And Richard accosted him before we could get another pair of boots on his feet!"

Elise forced her lips to curl into a smile as she stared at Stede. "Ah, but meeting our new monarch bootless seems to have caused little harm. I hear that those who served Henry best are to receive the richest rewards."

"'Tis true," Geoffrey said. "Seems my brother possesses some sense. Loyalty cannot be bought, but can be rewarded."

Stede was staring steadily upon her. Elise thought that at that moment she would have gladly sold her soul to the devil for a moment's strength to tear him to shreds. He had the audacity to stand there as if they had shared nothing more than a brief tussle and that all that had happened was that she had stolen his boots . . .

A feeling of heat crept over her again, and it had nothing to do with the fire burning in the grate. Thank God he had made no confessions regarding the night; they would all know . . .

And now, though Percy was gone, she could still cling to a certain amount of dignity. But it was galling. Each time she looked at him, she remembered his touch, and the heat seemed to set her ablaze, with fury, with weakness, with the desire to run away and pray that a cooling wind could rid her of memory . . .

No, she could not rid herself of the memory. Not until she had found a way to strip him as he had stripped her; rob him, violate him of something dear.

She would find her chance. If she played each scene with dignity. She could be a consummate actress when she chose, and she was determined to find a way to Eleanor, before Stede could receive his promised goods, to strip him of the lands and rank he desired.

"Ah!" she said politely, glad to see that Jeanne hurried in from the kitchen hallway with a silver tray bearing four goblets. "Here is wine, messires, so that you may wet travel-weary throats."

Jeanne bobbed before Will Marshal, who took the front cup; Geoffrey accepted the second with a murmur of thanks. Stede reached for the third cup, and Elise was both puzzled and annoyed when Jeanne staggered suddenly with the tray, almost dropping the goblets.

"Oh!" she cried out in distress, catching the veering goblet with her free hand. She handed it to Stede; it was not the one he had reached for.

"Sir Stede, forgive me," Jeanne pleaded.

"'Tis nothing," he said lightly, smiling gently at the flustered Jeanne. Elise did not like to see his smile; it made him appear younger; it softened the severity of his features and made him look quite handsome. He had wasted no charm upon her, yet he was readily willing to forgive a servant when many a knight would have cuffed the offender.

Jeanne brought her the last goblet and Elise frowned curiously at her maid. Jeanne merely bobbed another little curtsy, then hurried out of the room.

"Ah . . . this certainly soothes the palate!" Marshal approved. He drained his goblet and set it upon the table. "And now, milady, we will speak of the nature of our visit.

"We left your servant Isabel with the valet who greeted us when we entered."

Elise nodded. "Yes, Michael will see to her comfort and care. I was quite gratified to hear that she lived. But there is more, is there not? I assume you have come to ask that I swear homage as the Duchess of Montoui to Richard the Lion-Heart. Assuredly, Marshal, I shall do so. By God's decree, Henry is dead. Richard is then the legal heir, and I support the legal heir."

She noted that Bryan Stede was doing little of the speaking. Why was he along? she wondered. Merely to taunt her with his presence? Whether he spoke or not, she knew that he was there. Towering over both Geoffrey and Marshal, silent, dark and powerfully trim in his armor. She felt the threatening sting of his indigo eyes even when she did not meet them, and she felt tremors rack her limbs even as she stood straight. If only she could pummel him! But she could not, and so she had to live with the rage that consumed her until she could do him a different kind of harm . . .

Cunning can be more powerful than brawn, Sir Stede! she thought as she ignored him to continue to smile at Marshal.

"Then," said Marshal, unaware of the tumult that raced through her mind, "you will kneel to Richard's surrogate and swear allegiance?"

"Gladly," she agreed pleasantly, taking a step forward to seize Marshal's hand.

He chuckled. "Not I, Lady Elise! Bryan Stede wears the Lion-Heart's ring. It is to him you must bow."

Never! Elise thought, and yet she could ill afford to offend Richard.

"I fancy," Geoffrey offered a bit dryly, "that my brother considers Bryan his most effective counterpart. He is the only man Richard must face eye to eye."

Elise smiled and approached Bryan Stede, searching coldly for an expression in his deep blue eyes. They were enigmatic, yet she felt the sense of a storm within him, and knew then that he had come in anger. She had managed to humiliate him before Richard by stealing the horse and boots of such a great knight.

She stretched her hand out toward him; he offered his own. Even as she saw the lion engraved in gold upon the ring, she remembered the touch of his hand. Sweeping over her. Intimately. The firm caress of the long fingers. The inescapable heat . . .

Before he could act, she drew the ring from his finger and spun gracefully from him, accosting Marshal with an innocent laugh. "Do let me bow to you, dear Will! I remember your friendship with our sovereign Henry so clearly; my allegiance will be all the more heartfelt!"

Again, allowing no room for a reply, she grasped Will's fingers, slipped the ring on him, and sank lithely to the floor. "I, Elise de Bois, Duchess of Montoui, do hereby pledge my loyalty and allegiance to Richard Plantagenet."

She stood as quickly and gracefully as she had slid to the floor. "Now, messires, I assume all is settled."

"Not quite," Marshal replied.

"Oh?"

"Richard has asked that you attend Henry's funeral."

A lump formed in her throat and for a moment she allowed her eyes to fall to the ground. "Yes, of course I shall attend."

"We shall be your escort, of course." He paused. "There is still more."

Elise raised her eyes curiously to Will. He smiled.

"King Richard also requests that you accompany us as we journey to free the queen."

"Eleanor!" Elise exclaimed, startled.

"Aye—Eleanor. His first act will be to free his mother. He will be held up here with business for several days." Will paused, frowning distastefully. Then he said, "None of us has seen Prince John since he deserted his father, and Richard is determined to find him. But he also wants his mother freed immediately. Then, he hopes that she will travel the land on his behalf, so that the people will welcome him when he arrives upon English soil for his coronation."

Elise smiled slowly with true enthusiasm. Opportunity was reaching out to her! Richard had asked that she serve the very woman she was longing to see. It would be a long journey, though, she reminded herself. Henry, she knew, would be interred at Fontevrault Abbey, as he had requested during his lifetime. For all time, then, he could lie in his Angevin hills, not far from the castle where he died. After services, they would have to travel through Anjou and Normandy, and cross the English Channel before riding once again toward Winchester, where Eleanor was incarcerated.

Yes, it would be a long journey, with Stede at her side, so it seemed. But they would not be alone, and she would reach Eleanor.

"I shall be greatly pleased to accompany you to the queen! When do we leave?"

"With the dawn, milady. You will accompany us to Fontevrault, where we will put Henry to his final rest. And then we will be off for England."

"I shall be ready at dawn," Elise promised.

"Very good," Marshal approved. "If you'll excuse me, I'll see that the men are housed for the night."

"Michael will arrange accommodations," Elise murmured.

Marshal nodded and strode toward the door. Geoffrey followed him, and Elise waited for Stede to turn about and do so, too. He did not. Elise allowed her smile to slip from her features as she stared at him with undisguised hatred.

"Get out of here!" she hissed at him.

He shrugged and pulled out a chair, sitting easily despite his armor. "It does not take three men to arrange sleeping quarters for the night."

"I don't care what it takes. I want you away from me. Your arrogance is disgusting; you have no right to be here."

"I was ordered to be here."

"Ah, yes! By Richard."

Stede shrugged once again, yet she saw that there was nothing complacent about the fire in the indigo depths of his eyes.

"Richard intends to make me one of the most powerful men in England. That is not a bad reason to serve a legal king."

"That's right!" Elise exclaimed sarcastically. "Gwyneth of Cornwall and all her lands. You will be rich and powerful indeed, Sir Stede. Does it all mean that much to you?"

"Only a fool would turn down such wealth—and power—as you say."

"Only a fool," Elise replied dryly.

He lifted a dark brow cryptically. "You sound bitter, milady."

"Bitter, no. Furious, yes. You have no right to sit in my hall. No right to come into this room. You know how thoroughly I despise you!"

He laughed, and the sound was one of true amusement. "Would you have rather I announced to Richard that I dared not go near the Lady Elise, and she told me that she was experienced, yet I found myself deflowering her? That would have led to my explaining the situation, and telling him that you had robbed his father's corpse of a ring. Should I have done so?"

Elise did not answer the question. "You are a fool to taunt me, Sir Stede. You will find that although I have not the wealth or power of Gwyneth of Cornwall, I can extract a certain vengeance."

He rose, and started walking toward her. Elise discovered herself edging backward. She was in her own castle, yet his sheer strength was a menace that defied propriety, the staunch stone of her walls, and all five hundred of her men-at-arms.

"Take one more step," she hissed, "and I will scream for my guards."

"You may scream all you like, Duchess," he told her. "I will not be threatened by a lying, thieving woman."

There was a poker by the fire. Elise spun about and grabbed it menacingly. "And I will not be touched again by a barbaric rapist!"

"'Twas hardly rape, Elise."

"'Twas hardly anything else!"

He paused, yet she saw that it was only to laugh at her. "Do you hate me so because I did not fall to my knees to beg your pardon? Perhaps I should have come to you with a tear-stained face, begging your forgiveness and your hand in marriage? You would have loved that! Savored the opportunity to tell me that you despised me and would rather marry a crippled, aging peasant! But, of course, such words would have meant nothing, since you are so enamored of Sir Percy Montagu. I believe your judgment is a bit at fault, but I bear you no rancor." He swept her a mocking bow and murmured quite skeptically, "I wish you and young Percy long life and happiness."

She didn't move for a moment. Hate seemed to fill her so completely that she couldn't even breathe. She couldn't allow it to control her . . .

"Sir Percy is twice the man you can ever hope to be, Stede," she said coolly.

"What a pity. Tell me, have you told him of our . . . meeting?"

"It's none of your affair."

"What? Surely it is!" He mocked her, and she knew it. "I must prepare myself for the time when your future husband comes at me to avenge your honor!"

"I have prayed from the time we met, Stede, for God to strike you down dead!"

"Why bother with God? Send the manly Percy!"

He took another step toward her and she could see the laughter clearly in his features. For some absurd reason she imagined him with the vague Gwyneth of Cornwall: a woman eager to greet him, to feel his arms about her. She imagined him with his smile, harsh features made strong and handsome by tenderness. He was an experienced lover; Gwyneth would probably find great joy.

"One more step, Stede, and I swear I shall call the guards—and use this poker on your insolent face."

"Will you really?"

"Do you doubt my rightful hatred?"

"What I don't doubt," he said icily, a stern tension tightening his features and erasing his smile, "is that you are a temperamental vixen who has brought about her own downfall. You are the Duchess of Montoui; that is apparent to me now. And Will swears that the Duchess of Montoui is a lady of wealth, so I have come to believe that you were not an accomplice to the cutthroat thieves who so dishonored Henry. But you did steal the ring. We both know that. Why? It is a mystery, Duchess, an enigma I find that I cannot allow to elude me." Bryan paused, watching her, awaiting her reaction. Was there an honest reason she had stolen the ring? And if not, then what? It might mean something. Once, when the Viscount of Lien had died, his youngest son had carried his father's crest to a neighboring viscount—a signal that the father wished the younger son to inherit, and the viscount to engage in battle against the rightful heir.

Would Elise de Bois be involved in some such similar scheme?

She smiled at him, and her smile was both beautiful and bitter, sweetness and poison.

"If I am a mystery, Stede, it is a mystery that you will never unravel. If I am a temperamental vixen, keep clear of me. For I do despise you—and I despise all snakes and rats!" Her tone was rising at an alarming rate. His voice alone made her furious, and his words also touched off a new shaft of fear; he still wanted to know why she had taken the ring. Why she had lied . . .

Percy, she thought bitterly, was already lost. But she still had Montoui. And she would never chance losing it, just as she would never give Stede, of all men, the satisfaction of knowing the truth. She had lost far too much in her quest to give away her secret.

Would he never leave her be? How dare he stand before her, still issuing demands! Her hatred rose to a dizzying level; it drove her determination to be regal and calm completely from her mind, and she raised the poker against him, snarling, "Damn you, Stede!"

A sudden step brought him before her; she thought he intended to break her arm as he wrenched the poker from her. She was too startled by his swift movement to cry out, and then too unnerved by his touch. His eyes bore into hers as the poker fell and he jerked her close to him.

"Nay, damn you, Duchess!"

She felt the towering length of him against her like hot steel, and the instinct to fight was stronger than that to cry out for help.

"Stede, I promise you that you will bring about your own downfall! I will see you—"

"Tell me the truth of the matter!" he thundered in abrupt interruption. "Cease the tricks and lies and we can come to peace over the episode!"

"I will never tell you anything, Bryan Stede! You will let me go! This is my duchy . . . my castle! I am not at your mercy, and never will be again! Let go of me! I loathe you—"

She broke off sharply as his hold on her suddenly loosened. His bronzed features took on a ghastly gray color and he doubled over, clutching his stomach. To her amazement, he fell to the floor with a thunderous clash of chain mail and stone.

"Stede?" she inquired curiously, keeping her distance, but kneeling down beside him.

His head tilted toward her and she saw that his eyes were laced with agony; his features remained gray and twisted into a mask of intense pain. He whispered and she came near him to hear his words.

"If I live—"

"What is it?" she cried out, stunned. He couldn't be acting. No one could feign such a crippling torture.

She was unprepared as his trembling hand shot out, ripping away her headdress and lacing into her hair. She cried out as his vise grip brought her sprawling to the floor beside him.

"Murderous bitch!"

"What? I did nothing—"

"Twice . . . now. You tried . . . to stab me. Now . . . poison. God help me if I live . . . you will pay . . ."

His eyes closed, glazing over. The grip upon her hair slowly relaxed. Stunned, Elise pulled away from him in desperate confusion. Was he really dead? It was what she had wanted, wasn't it? No! Not like this! She was not a murderess; she would never resort to poison . . .

It was strange to see him sprawled upon the cold stone of the castle floor, his great length and muscled breadth of shoulders rendered powerless. His body shook with a sudden convulsion and she stood, ready to tear for the door and call for Marshal.

She had not gone a step when she was jerked back by the hem of her gown. Again she found herself sprawling over his body. His eyes were open again, yet they were covered with a deathly glaze. "I will live . . . live to see . . . unholy bitch! I thought you would fight face . . . to face . . . I will . . . flay you within an inch of... life . . ."

"I did nothing to you!" Elise railed.

His eyes closed, but his hand was still clutched into a fist, tearing at the beautiful blue silk of her tunic. He appeared to be dying, and yet he used his strength to hold her. She felt the fire of him exuding into her, the muscles that crushed against her beneath the cruel bite of his mail. His lashes raised slowly and for a moment his eyes focused clearly upon her.

"Bitch . . . I will . . ."

His hold fell. She was free.

Elise scrambled to her feet, screaming. A moment later Marshal, Geoffrey, and two of her own guards were rushing into the room. Marshal was on his knees beside Bryan Stede, and Geoffrey was giving orders that a physician was to be found and brought immediately.

Elise felt as if she were in a dream as the physician arrived, gravely examined Bryan Stede, and asked if there were a chamber where he might be taken. She heard herself speak, saying that he might be brought up to the chamber adjoining hers, the room where she had slept as a child. It was not a vast chamber, but the bed in it was large and well aired; the windows also faced the east and brought in cool breezes. Family and special guests were usually offered the room, so she knew that the linens would be clean and fresh, and that the trunks within the chamber would offer extra towels and bedding should they be needed. The wardrobe might even carry some of her father's old nightgowns and short Norman tunics.

Will and Geoffrey carried him together with great but tender effort, and Elise could not pretend she did not witness the pain and anxiety in their features. I did not poison him! she wanted to cry out—but as yet, she had not been accused by them.

The physician ordered that a brew of curdling milk, moss, and a number of herbs be prepared. Elise was numb as she oversaw the execution of the foul-smelling concoction.

Hadn't she wanted this? she asked herself over and over. Hadn't she just told him how she longed to see him dead?

But not like this! She was not a coward, nor was she a murderess. And now . . . This would hang over her head like a cloud of the most degrading suspicion . . .

Elise carried the vile brew up the stairs herself; she was greeted at the chamber door by a worried Marshal. "Stay out, Elise, this is not pleasant. And the physician tells me that this"—he tapped the chalice with the curdled-milk mixture—"is to see that his insides are cleaned."

"Will—"

"We stopped at a farmhouse on the way here," Will said absently, more to himself than to Elise. "The physician says it is highly possible that rotten meat might have caused this."

Rotten meat! So at least Will did not suspect her of murder—yet. Dear God! She didn't even know what she felt anymore. She hated Stede—surely she hated him! But she couldn't wish such a death on him . . .

Yet if he lived . . . would he accuse her openly? He had held to his strength long enough to threaten her direly . . .

Tense and bewildered, Elise wandered back down the stairs. She sat, oblivious to time, as the men remained in the chamber above. At long last, Geoffrey Fitzroy came down the stairway and sank into a chair near hers.

"Geoffrey?"

He smiled at her gently. "He will live."

Elise did not know whether to feel relief or panic. "Thank God," she said softly, sure that Geoffrey would expect such a comment.

His eyes were on her with a tender bemusement and she flushed uneasily. "Shall I order something for you, Geoffrey? Are you hungry? I haven't paid any attention to the time—"

"Nay, Elise, I am not hungry." Geoffrey grimaced. "The physician gave Bryan that obnoxious brew in order to force him to be sick, and take the poison from his system. I shan't be hungry for a while."

"Oh," Elise murmured.

"You must see to your packing, Elise. Remember, our loyalty is to our new king now. Eleanor languishes in prison, and it will be a long journey of rough riding to free her quickly! A week through the Continent, perhaps, and days through the English countryside. At least."

"How can we leave now?"

Geoffrey chuckled. "Stede is a man of steel, dear Elise. A night's rest, and he shall be ready to go. Already he is swearing at the poor physician for the wretched sickness which has cured him!"

Elise managed a weak smile, but she could find little amusement at the thought. She could well imagine Bryan Stede swearing his head off, and the picture was not a pleasant one.

Geoffrey laughed, then hesitated a moment and Elise watched him, thinking that she liked him very much. His hair was graying, his features were weathered, and he was not yet forty; still there was a lot of Henry in this son. And more. Geoffrey possessed a gentle wisdom born of a precarious position in life; he was steadfast, honest, and loyal.

"Will you be pleased to be a companion to Eleanor in the days ahead?"

"Nothing could please me more," Elise replied softly.

Geoffrey drummed his fingers on the table, apparently idly. Then he spoke quietly once more. "Elise, I feel I should warn you of two things. I know that you are my sister, as does Richard."

She could not control the gasp that escaped her. She barely knew the Lion-Heart; she had seen him but once or twice. Geoffrey she had met several times in her father's company; they shared the taint of illegitimacy. She felt she could trust him, and she even felt that she could trust Richard. But if Richard and Geoffrey both knew, who else might? Not John—please, not John. Henry, who had loved him, hadn't trusted him. John Lackland, youngest of the legitimate Plantagenet brood . . . God had not created a man more conniving or selfish. If Prince John was in possession of this information, he could make her life a mockery . . .

Geoffrey reached across the table and drew his knuckles gently over her cheek. "Don't go so pale on me, sister. Richard is not such a monster, although I admit, he has shown me little courtesy. For all that I believe he did hound our father to his grave, he is not a man without honor. Look how he has seen to Henry's commitments with men like Stede and Marshal. Both men bested him, yet he shows them no rancor." Geoffrey paused. "Elise, I believe we were really sent here because Richard fully intends to keep your secret, and give you all his royal protection."

Elise lifted her hands, then dropped them. "If he keeps my secret, I will need no protection. Unless," she added softly, "John knows."

Geoffrey shook his head. "John, I'm certain, knows nothing. And I'm certain that he will not find out anything—from Richard, at least. Or me." He smiled.

Elise smiled slowly in return. "You know, Geoffrey, I think I like you a lot," she said. And she really did like this half brother of hers very much. She could remember how frequently he had traveled with Henry; the son who would receive so little in the way of rewards had always given Henry the greatest loyalty. She really didn't know him all that well; his visits with Henry had been sporadic. But she had seen him now and again all through her life, and so in a way, perhaps she did know him well. He could often be very quiet; he moved in the background, in the shadow of kings, and yet he watched and learned, and came to his own observations with intelligence and wit.

"I've a thing about blood," he said lightly. "Which brings me to my second warning."

"Oh?"

"Don't make an enemy of Bryan Stede."

"Why?" She hadn't meant to whisper; she had wanted to demand. "Surely," she added, giving strength to her voice, "the man has some scruples. He cannot call me out, and if he chose to wage a war—"

"Elise! Elise! Bryan Stede has many scruples! Too many. He was always willing to speak his mind to Henry; when he served Henry, he boldly defied Richard. You play games with a man you cannot best."

"What are you saying, Geoffrey? I did nothing to Stede." Did Geoffrey, too, believe that she would stoop to poisoning an enemy?

"I do not know what passed between you," Geoffrey said, "and I am accusing you of nothing. I am just warning you that he will seek until he finds that for which he searches. He suspects something about you, and not knowing what it is, he may well wonder that it isn't far worse than the truth. Perhaps you should tell him."

"Never! And why should I? He will marry Gwyneth and live far, far away from Montoui! He will be nowhere near me."

"Elise, you've a lot of Henry in you—too much, perhaps. I have seen your mind working like the gears that grind for a drawbridge. You've some kind of a grievance with the man, and you intend to harm him."

"I? What could I do?"

"The innocence is lovely, Elise, but I don't believe it."

"I despise the man, yet I swear to you, Geoffrey, I am glad that he did not die here today."

"Perhaps you should not be so glad," Geoffrey said, suddenly somber. "And believe me, I spent years learning from our father. It is possible to cripple a man—and never touch him—by the use of cunning and guile. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You always knew how to manipulate Henry—to your way of thinking. Bryan isn't Henry. I like him well, he is a friend of mine, a great friend. But he is tenacious, determined, and very strong, Elise, in mind and body. So whatever it is that has so inflamed your wrath, leave it be, Elise. Don't become his enemy."

"Why this warning, Geoffrey? Has Bryan Stede threatened something against me?"

"No."

"Then—?"

"I know you both; I felt the tension in the very air when you spoke earlier. From both of you, I could almost feel the sparks, like lightning. You are accustomed to command and having your way—so is he. I'm just warning you that he can be a very, very powerful adversary. I repeat, don't be his enemy."

Elise smiled sweetly and stood. "I'm not his enemy, Geoffrey," she lied blandly. "In fact, I shall go like a good duchess to see to his welfare."

"I wish I believed that."

She walked to the stairway, then turned back, pausing awkwardly for a moment.

"Geoffrey, I grew up virtually alone. I do not know how to say this, but I am glad to have you."

He smiled. "I could be your father, you know."

"But you're not. You're my brother, and I'm glad."

She hurried on up the stairs, blushing a bit at the sudden bond that had been drawn between them. Two royal bastards. Why not?

She rapped tentatively at the chamber door. It creaked open and Will Marshal greeted her. "He is much better, Elise."

Will's relief and pleasure were evident; Elise wished she could share the feeling. But at least she could be relieved that Stede had not accused her in front of others of attempted murder.

"May I see him?" she asked Will.

"Aye, and as you will be with him, I will join Geoffrey in a staunch cup of ale, if I might!"

"Of course, Will. As always, make my home your own. Call Michael; he will be glad to serve you."

"My thanks, Elise. Should he worsen again, the physician has gone to the kitchens."

Elise nodded. Marshal stepped past her and she nervously closed the door before approaching the bed.

They had stripped him of his armor and tunic. He lay upon his back, and though the covers had been drawn to his chest, the vast bronze strength of his shoulders was bare. His hair appeared as pitch against the white of the pillow; the clear-cut severity of his features was enhanced by the softness of the bed.

She was almost afraid to approach him, but she did. His eyes had been closed; they flew open at her approach and his mouth formed into a hard line.

"Stede, I swear to you that I did not—"

"Cease with the lies! You will not hang, nor will your head lie upon the axman's block. I do not involve others in a petty battle with a woman."

"The devil take you, Stede!" Elise flared instantly. "I will never hang—Richard will not allow it. I tell you this only because it is true—"

"I don't believe you know how to speak the truth, Duchess. You so imbue facts with lies that you have no credibility. And Richard has no fondness for women; you needn't believe that he lives by chivalry alone."

"I am not—"

"Spare me!" He winced as he struggled to sit within the bed.

She would have been tempted to help him, except that even now, she didn't trust him if he could reach her. He looked angry enough to strangle her if he could just wind his fingers around her neck.

"I do not share Richard's complete contempt for your ‘tender' sex," he continued, "but you are one woman I would gladly beat black and blue."

"You wouldn't dare touch me now—"

"Wouldn't I? Don't ever count on such a thing, milady Duchess!"

He was tired; weary and drawn with illness. His eyes were heavy-lidded as they fell upon her, yet she did not doubt the validity of his words for a moment. If anything, he seemed to offer his greatest danger when he was the quietest.

She threw up her arms and spun about in disgust. "You are not only a despicable bastard, Stede—you are a stupid, despicable bastard! I did not poison you!"

"Lady, you are a murderess at heart!"

"You, Stede, are a fool."

"Whatever . . . I am willing to let this drop. But keep clear of me, Duchess. For should you come too close, I may remember that you attempted to kill me twice."

"Pity I didn't succeed."

"Yes, isn't it?"

"May I remind you, Stede, that this is my castle?"

"Remind me of whatever you like. But no more tricks."

Elise would wonder later why she always lost control with him; now, she gave herself no time for thought. She flew back across the room like a wildcat and threw a searing cuff against his cheek. "You son-of-a-bitch! You assaulted and raped me and now tell me to stay away from you! I wish I had poisoned you! I would have done a thorough job of it and—"

He didn't get sick like normal men. Although his complexion was gray and strained, his grip was as sure as iron as he caught her arm and staggered from the bed to drag her close. He was naked, she thought dismally as she found herself grating her teeth as he crushed her irrevocably to his person. And she was trembling despite herself, hauntingly aware of his warmth and sinewed masculinity . . .

"You arrogant little bitch! Maybe it is time that you learned a lesson about playing games with men—"

"As God is my witness, Stede, I will scream!" Elise hissed.

She would have to, she thought, watching his face. The anger that flashed dark fire from his eyes was such that she thought he could readily snap her like a twig.

"You think to attack like a man, then scream like a woman."

"I have learned all the lessons I care to from you, Stede. And I will gladly use in combat whatever weapons are at my disposal."

He laughed suddenly, dryly, bitterly, and threw her none too gently from him before wincing, then hobbling back to the bed, with no thought of modesty.

"So we are engaged in combat, Duchess? I will remember that. And I will use whatever weapons are at my disposal, too, milady."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

He turned his face wearily into his pillow and spoke harshly. "It means, Elise, that you have chosen battle. And you have set the rules; there are none. No code of honor or of chivalry. All is fair. And it means . . . that if you are not out of this chamber by the time I finish speaking, I will forget that this is your castle, and that you are a duchess, and remember only that you have tried to murder me—twice. Now, perhaps I am not prepared to do murder myself—yet—but I will gladly see that your tender flesh receives a good deal of pain by my hand and I will not care if you flood the duchy with your screams while I assure myself that you shall share my discomfort and pain."

"Bastard!" Elise hissed, deciding that an exit at this time might be the wisest move.

"Take care that you do not say the words so many times that you find yourself bearing one. Or would the noble Percy care, or even know, since you seem to be a mistress of deceit?"

Despite her respect for his strength, she found her feet carrying her toward him once again.

He spun about on the bed, eyes narrowed warningly.

"Elise! Have you never learned the art of retreat? I will give you no more warnings!"

She clenched her fists at her sides and forced herself to remain still.

"Enjoy the hospitality of the castle, Stede," she said coolly. And she spun gracefully about, exiting with all the dignity she could muster.

Once outside, she leaned heavily against the door.

She was quaking miserably, inside and out.

Composure! Why couldn't she maintain any around him? It was her only chance against him, and somehow, she had to win. Had to see that he was stripped of all that he desired.

He had taken it all from her. The dream, the illusion of love, and a life of beauty—all were as shattered as her innocence.

And now . . .

Now he was even convinced that she was a murderess.

Not a murderess, Stede, but a thief, yes. For I will keep my distance from you, but I will rob you as you have robbed me.

With that forceful thought in mind, she squared her shoulders and hurried to her own chamber, calling for Jeanne to help her pack.