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Fontevrault Abbey

Anjou

Henry's corpse was carried in state from the castle of Chinon, and through the narrow streets of the town. Across the bridge of the Vienne, sparkling peacefully beneath the sun. Through the forest, green and quiet, and at last to the abbey of Fontevrault. Bishop Bartholomew of Tours read the holy rites of burial beneath the high-domed roof of the granite abbey. The air was cool and fresh; Henry was at peace at last.

Richard was in attendance, as was Geoffrey Fitzroy. There was still no sign of Prince John Lackland.

Hiding from Richard's wrath, having heard that his brother was rewarding none of the traitors who had joined his ranks from his father's side, Bryan thought dryly as he watched the ceremony from his place beside Marshal. Pity that his cunning doesn't extend to the knowledge that Richard will protect him as he might an errant schoolboy.

But John Lackland was not his major concern at the moment—nor, to be honest, was Henry or the burial.

His eyes continued to fall upon Elise de Bois. Upon her knees on the abbey floor, she gave the appearance of the sweetest of saints. She wore white: a gown of shimmering silk, trimmed with white ermine. Beneath a gossamer headdress, her great wealth of hair spilled down her back like the rich and radiant burst of a sunrise. It was impossible not to be mesmerized by that hair, not to feel one's fingers itching to reach out and touch it, as a child would long to reach out for a sweetmeat.

Especially when one had a memory of it that had little to do with the mind, and everything to do with the senses. He had seen her clothed in nothing but that hair; he had felt its silky softness caress the rough contours of his own body.

She raised her head, and a stabbing sensation rippled through his body. Silent tears dampened her cheeks; her delicate features were drawn with pain. There was no denying that she had sincerely cared very deeply for Henry.

With her chin lifted, her hands clasped before her in prayer, she was indeed a glorious silhouette: slender, swan-like throat, lovely, delicate profile, high breasts, and a trim, graceful figure. The silk of her gown seemed to float about her. She might well have been an angel—had he not known she was far more a creature of hell than of heaven.

He tensed suddenly, grinding his teeth together as a cramp twisted its way through his abdomen. The day had been pure torture, with the aftereffects of the poison still in his system. With the renewed pain came renewed anger. It had shocked him that she could hate him so deeply as to poison him. And he knew he had been poisoned. Through the wine.

He had spoken of his knowledge to only one other; Marshal and the others believed that rotten meat had made him ill. But in his years of service he had, more often than he liked to remember, been the victim of bad food. This had been different. This had been a poison carefully administered. . . by Elise de Bois.

It made his fascination with her all the more galling. She was poison herself. Secretive, furtive—living out a major deception. He had wanted to see her again; now he wanted nothing more than to forget her. When he was near her, a part of him wanted to strangle her. Another part of him wanted to strip away her silk and fur and all vestiges of the world of nobility and chivalry and drag her into a bed of raw earth.

It was not the pain in his gut that caused him to clench his teeth a second time. It was the gnawing desire to know her again, and then sweep away her memory.

She despised him enough to kill him. He owed her nothing. Within two weeks, even barring bad weather, they would reach Eleanor; Elise would no longer be his concern. Shortly after that, Richard would have attended to all his affairs in his European holdings and he would arrive in London for his coronation.

As his duly crowned monarch, Richard would then settle with Bryan for all past services as promised.

There would be Gwyneth for a bride, and all her vast wealth and titles. Hard won, but prizes well worth winning for a man who craved land—and a home.

The monks finished a chant; Richard, Coeur de Lion spun about and exited the abbey. Bryan and Will Marshal exchanged dry glances and followed Richard from the abbey.

The sun was gleaming down upon his head, brilliantly enhancing the Plantagenet gold and copper of his thick crop of hair. He halted suddenly, causing his mantle to swing about him majestically as he spun about to encounter Bryan and Will.

"I trust you're ready to journey onward?"

"Aye, Your Grace," Will replied blandly.

"Hurry to my mother! She will act as my regent, and in my name she will have the power to release other prisoners—men held not for malicious crimes, but by the whim of Henry, or his administrators. That will set my reign off with a benign touch, don't you agree?"

"Aye," Bryan agreed. "A powerful man may well grant mercy."

Richard nodded, pleased with himself, pleased with Bryan's reply. "And while you travel with Eleanor, I give you something grave to think upon."

"What is that, Your Grace?" Bryan inquired curiously.

Richard slammed a fist into his palm. "Money! My good fellows! My father's and my battles have emptied England's coffers. I owe Philip of France the twenty thousand marks my father owed him—and I will need much, much more to raise an army and take it to the Holy Land." Richard paused, looking up and squinting at the noonday sun. From somewhere, a sparrow was chirping out a song. "I was but a lad when I heard that Saladin had taken Jerusalem with his army of infidels. I have dreamed since of a holy quest. And now, to fulfill my father's vows, I will set forth on that quest. But I will need money to do so!"

"We'll think about coinage, Richard," Bryan promised dryly.

"Think on it well, and remember—I would gladly sell London if I had but a buyer! I will raise the funds for my Holy Crusade!"

Marshal and Bryan glanced at each other, then nodded.

"And take care of the Lady Elise. I entrust her safety entirely to you. Remember that."

Startled, Bryan glanced into Richard's eyes. He had assumed at first that Richard was sending Elise de Bois to Eleanor on little more than whim; now he saw that even the Lion-Heart seemed to have a soft spot for the girl.

It was vastly irritating.

"We will protect her to the best of our abilities," Bryan replied blandly. "Yet, perhaps she should not accompany us. Marshal and I travel with but five other knights; there may be dangers along the way—"

"What dangers?" Richard interrupted impatiently. "We begin an era of peace. And I send her with the two most experienced knights in Christendom. She will be safe. Now, leave me. By God's grace, we shall meet shortly for my coronation!"

They were ready to leave Fontevrault. Their destriers were saddled; the horses were laden with supplies. A day's ride would take them to the Channel. With any luck, a few days' travel would bring them to England's shore, and a few more days would bring them to Eleanor.

Bryan and Marshal started for the horses, where the accompanying knights awaited them. Bryan halted with a sudden frown.

"How does the duchess travel? I see no form of conveyance—"

Will laughed. "She rides as we do."

"It is a distance we travel—"

"Don't worry, my friend. She rides as well as any man."

Bryan shrugged and mounted his own horse, so recently retrieved from the stalls at Montoui. "Where is she?"

"Taking her leave of Richard."

Bryan frowned as he glanced around to see that Richard was offering Elise his own mantle to cover her gown. It engulfed her, and something about the pretty scene was annoying. He glanced down at Will. "She rides with no lady's maid?"

"She is not alone. Joanna, wife of Sir Theo Baldwin, accompanies us, too." Will shrugged. "She is accustomed to following her husband about in battle, and neither woman should hinder our speed."

Women were always a hindrance in travel, Bryan thought, but he said nothing. He knew the Lady Joanna; she was a spirited, gray-haired matron, blunt and honest, and he liked her well. Better she than a simpering young maid, unaccustomed to the rigors of a hard ride.

"I leave the ladies to you, then, my friend," Bryan told Marshal, and Marshal laughed.

Bryan nudged his horse to the fore of the party, and raised an arm to Richard. Richard raised his hand high in return. Bryan noticed vaguely that Will helped Elise up onto her Arabian mare. He started out, setting the pace, a rugged one.

It was a beautiful day to travel, Bryan thought vaguely as he rode. It was full summer; the Angevin hills were lush with greenery, birds sang all around them, and wildflowers grew in profusion. The sun was hot, but the breeze was cool. They stayed upon the main roads, for Bryan had the journey planned. It was possible to reach the crossing near Eu in three days; with the women, it might well have taken seven. Bryan had determined that they would spend no more than four days on the Continent. They would bypass Richard's castles along the way—that at Le Mans, where Henry had been born, and certainly that at Rouen. They were not on a journey to be entertained and pampered as Richard's messengers; they were on a mission of urgency. Tonight they would seek simple shelter with the monks at the Abbey of St. John the Martyr, south of La Ferté-Bernard.

Elise was silent as she rode; their speed was not conducive to conversation, but had it been, she would still have chosen quiet. She could not help notice the beauty of the summer day: the deep grasses that grew over the sloping hills, the fervent hunter's green of the forests. This was the heart of Henry's lands; his Angevin domains. This was a beauty Henry had long cherished. Henry was dead; his eyes were forever closed to the beauty.

As the long hours passed, Elise sighed slightly and shuddered, and a growing thirst drew her mind from grief. Mile after mile they rode; Stede did not stop. Her throat was parched and she ached from the hours in the atrociously uncomfortable sidesaddle. Misery made her think of Bryan, and thinking of him made her ever more miserable. To stave her mind from both grief and discomfort, she allowed herself to give free rein to revenge, and she mulled over many a conversation in her mind in which she found the right words to convince Eleanor of Aquitaine that she must not allow Richard to reward Bryan Stede.

When the sun began to fall and her mare's steps started to falter, Elise grew more and more annoyed with Bryan. Will, perhaps sensing her thoughts, came up beside her.

"It will not be long," he promised. She tried to smile.

By dusk, they were still many miles away from their destination. Marshal rode forward to join Bryan. "Perhaps we should stop and make other plans for the night," he suggested.

Bryan shook his head. "It isn't that much farther, Will."

Will shrugged. "Nay, but the terrain is rough for riding in darkness."

Bryan glanced at Will. "Have we complaints?"

"No . . ."

"Then we will ride."

Elise was ready to fall out of her saddle by the time they reached the Abbey of St. John the Martyr. Dear God! How could a man ride so hard without thought or care for thirst or comfort? But as they clattered into the abbey yard, Elise found Bryan Stede's implacable gaze upon her, and she determined that she would show no signs of exhaustion—or weakness. She met his eyes coolly, then laughed radiantly at something Will Marshal said—she didn't know what—as he came to help her from her horse.

Henry, Elise quickly discovered, had been a patron to these monks. Bryan knew the abbot well—it seemed, in fact, that they were good friends. They were greeted warmly, applauded when it was learned that they were to free the queen, and welcomed for the night's rest. The abbey was small, but the summer harvest had been rich, and they were well fed with grapes and greens, trout and river eel.

Throughout the meal, Elise occasionally felt Bryan's eyes upon her. She ignored him and ate as one famished, which she was.

The Lady Joanna was a pleasant enough companion; she reminded Elise of Jeanne. She was decades older than Elise, and seemed not at all discouraged by the speed and conditions of their journey, and so Elise decided that she could not be so very tired.

But despite the hardness of her bed in the small, stark room that she and Joanna were given to share, Elise slept almost instantly.

Dawn came with a shrill of birds, and a harsh rap upon the door to the tiny cell-like room. Elise rubbed her eyes furiously, and realized that the Lady Joanna was no longer sleeping in the room.

The door was flung open without her having given a reply. She instinctively drew the covers over her linen shift; Stede stood there. He barely glanced at her. "Up, Elise, we ride soon," he said simply. Then the door was shut again with a sharp thud.

"Ride where you like!" she muttered beneath her breath, longing to throw something after him.

But just then the Lady Joanna reappeared, bustling with energy, her cheery smile in place upon her plump cheeks. "There's boiled eggs and kidneys on the table, dear, and just beyond our window is the most delightful trickle of a stream! Hurry now, dear, for we must be off."

Elise smiled wanly and forced herself to crawl from the bed with a pretense of vigor. She rushed to the window. "A stream?" she queried.

"Right there. See?"

She did see. It was a narrow, babbling brook, leading to a lake beyond the abbey. Elise hesitated only a second, then leaped to the stonework window frame and smiled back at the Lady Joanna. "I'll be just a moment!"

Lady Joanna did not chastise her for crawling through the window in nothing but her shift. She laughed. "Aye, that I were young again! But, hurry, dear, lest a monk should come along! They're not all saints, you know."

Elise nodded, then hurried out.

It was barely dawn, but the sun was promising a sweet and wonderful warmth. Elise ran to the brook and hurtled her length against the rich grass on its bank, dipping her hands into the clear water, and joyously splashing it over her face. It was cold, but it felt wonderful. She dipped into it again and again, drinking deeply, splashing her face again and again. She was halfway drenched, she realized ruefully. The bracing water made her feel very alive—refreshed, young, eager—and strong. Whatever Stede could dole out, she could take. And she would think of some way to convince Eleanor in a charming way that Stede deserved nothing. Nothing!

With the cheerful thought in mind that she would prevail, she at last rose regretfully to her knees, then to her feet. She turned to run and sneak back in through her window, but when she would have moved, she froze instead.

He was there, between her and the window—watching her, and apparently not at all pleased to be doing so. His eyes met hers, traveled slowly to her feet, then rose upward again with no sign of emotion. "We are ready to leave," he told her. "You hold back the entire party—and you cast yourself into ridiculous danger."

"Danger—" she echoed.

He strode to her with air of annoyance, causing her to gasp as he clutched the fabric of her shift at the valley of her breasts. "You might as well be walking around naked!" he accused her. "And since your virtue is next to godliness . . ."

She could feel his fingers against her flesh; they brought a flush to her cheeks and an oath of fury to her lips.

"Let me go!" she told him, wrenching past him. Over her shoulder she added, "I did not expect to find a leering knight at my heels!"

He caught up to her, spinning her back around to face him. "You must learn that things are not always what you expect—Duchess. You will not wander around so again."

She said nothing, but lifted her chin to him. He released her with a little shove. "Get dressed—and get to the courtyard. Quickly."

On this, she did not disobey him, for she did not want to cause a delay in their journey. But she missed her meal in her haste, and as the morning passed, she was certain that her stomach growled audibly. She rode in misery once again, and more. Where he had touched her, her flesh continued to feel a heat. And her body, off and on, felt chills, and then a shuddering heat. All the more she determined that he would not lead life as he planned, with his arrogance rewarded. She would see that he was brought low.

Bryan rode with his sense of brooding tension increasing with the storm clouds that more and more covered the sky. He could not forget the sight of her, or the sound of her laughter when she had thought herself unobserved. He had been angry that she played with their time; more so because she had not realized that most men—even those promised to God—could be dangerous if provoked.

And, by God, she had been provocative! Hair spilling and spilling about her like a red-gold extension of the sun, her shift so damp against her body that the firm roundness of her breasts had been clearly defined down to the deep and dusky rose of their peaks . . .

She is a curse upon me, he groaned in silence. She despises me; my future lies elsewhere, yet she plagues my mind and body hour after hour. She haunted him, possessed him . . .

The sky suddenly broke loose. Rain poured down upon them. They had reached the mountains, the roads were treacherous, and it seemed to Bryan that they crept along in sheer, chilling misery. But they could not halt, not for a summer rain. They had to keep their travel swift.

That night their accommodations were poor. They slept in a hunting lodge, all before one fire. Their meal had been tough fowl.

Another day of rain met them, another night at an abbey where they were able to bathe, and enjoy a fair meal once more. But the next morning held true to the sun, and by that night they neared Eu.

They came to a small village just south of Eu and near the port where several ferries crossed the Channel. Bryan decided they might as well stay the night. From the briskness of the air, it seemed that the rain would come soon. Tomorrow they would be ready to take to the sea.

Marshal rode to meet him at the front of the line. "There is a lodge here where I've stayed many a time. They've a room suitable for Elise and Joanna. We can sleep in the main room."

Bryan nodded his assent. "I know the place; I had it in mind myself." He called out the order to the other men. He swore softly as he saw the five armored warriors—as well as Will—stumble over one another to assist Elise de Bois.

Well, he would have no more of her. Let her poison another man's wine.

Dismounting from his horse, he threw the reins to a street urchin, telling the boy that all the horses were to be stabled. Then, ignoring the hospitality of the tavern, he tossed his mantle over his shoulder and walked toward the sea.

He did not know how long he stared across the Channel, allowing himself to dream that he would, indeed, come to have a place to call home, when a scrape upon the earth alerted him to the fact that someone approached. Spinning about, he saw Marshal—equipped with a large skin of ale.

Bryan smiled broadly as he accepted the skin and drank thirstily. "Thanks, Will. The thought—and the ale—is well appreciated."

"Thought they might be. What have you been doing out here?"

Bryan laughed dryly. "Dreaming."

"Hmm. I've been wondering about my own fortune through the day."

"Nothing to wonder about, Will. You will shortly be Earl of Pembroke. Lord of Leinster—and God knows what else!"

"I know so little of women. I have heard that Isabel de Clare is very young, and very beautiful. I wonder how she will accept a battle-scarred and war-weary knight."

"She will shortly know you for the man you are, and that is all that you will need," Bryan advised. "Treat her as you do our fair duchess, and she will surely consider you gallant."

In the darkness of the night, Bryan felt Will's eyes suddenly sharp upon him. Had he spoken with unintended bitterness?

"Why the words of sarcasm, Bryan?"

"Was I sarcastic? I didn't mean to be so."

"You are hard on her, Bryan. You should solve your differences, for you are both favorites with Richard."

He shrugged. "What difference does it make? We will part ways after the coronation."

Will hesitated. Bryan could not see his features clearly in the darkness. "When I am with you both, it is strange. It seems as if thunder fills the room with all its portents of a storm."

"That's not so strange. I think a horsewhip would do her a world of good."

Will chuckled. "Well, you needn't worry. Gwyneth will need no horsewhips; she is sweet and compliant!" Will yawned and stretched. "I'm turning in for the night. Are you coming?"

"Soon. I like to watch the sea. It appears as if we'll have rain again tomorrow."

"A rough crossing."

"But we must make haste."

"Good night."

"Good night."

Will began the trudge from the shore toward the village, and Bryan wondered why he was still staring out at the misted sea. Something was rankling him. When Will had spoken of Gwyneth, he had experienced a strange foreboding. He had tried, when Henry lay dying and his future had loomed so dubiously before him, not to dream. Not to believe that he and Gwyneth might sanctify their relationship with marriage.

That he would not own vast lands within Cornwall, along the Dover coast. That he would not become the Earl of Wiltshire, and the Lord of Glyph County.

Now . . . it was all within his reach.

Yet, there was that foreboding.

Foolish, man! he told himself. Yet dreamers were fools, and having had none of his own, he could not stop himself from dreaming now of lands. Great wealth, gotten not through some ugly old hag, but through Gwyneth . . .

It was annoying not to be able to picture her clearly. Light, turquoise eyes kept replacing her. Hair like the sun, rather than like the night—

"Help! Oh! Helppppppp . . ."

The sudden scream that pierced the darkness startled him and froze him to immobility, then sent him spinning and tearing toward the village. Halfway there, he paused, listening. Then he heard the scream again, coming from a dense thicket of seaside foliage.

He knew the sound of the voice. He had heard it railing against him often enough.

Crashing through the brush, he came upon her. She was furiously battling two assailants: one a youth, the other an older man. Both wore the tattered look of the poor. The older man was toothless; the boy carried a scar across his sullen, sharp-eyed face.

As Bryan came into the clearing, Elise kicked her way free from the boy, but the man awaited her, brandishing a rusted knife.

"Don't fight it, milady. We'll just ha' a bit o' sport and take our leave with a bit o' yer finery! Be nice like, now, ye hear, and ye'll not get hurt. I'd hate to slash up such fine flesh—"

Bryan stepped forward. "Touch her, and you'll die. She's a ward of Richard, Duke of Normandy, Aquitaine—and soon to be crowned King of England."

The boy started and stared at Bryan, focusing first upon his chest, then raising his eyes slowly. He had to realize that he was facing a knight in full health, full strength, and full armor. Yet he didn't seem to have any sense. "One o' him!" the boy cried out. "And two o' us, Tad!"

The older man laughed and made some sign to the boy. Bryan's eyes followed to the boy. Then the older man rushed him, brandishing the rusted knife upward toward his throat.

Bryan had little choice but to draw his sword hastily and slay the man before the rusted knife could slice his own flesh.

"Holy Mother! The devil himself!" the boy gasped out, backing up. "I'll not touch her. I'll run, I'll run . . ."

He was already running as Bryan dismissed him and furiously approached Elise.

She was gripping the torn mantle about her, yet as Bryan came near, she gazed at him with horror.

"You killed him!" she cried out, and yet it was, in her heart, as much with guilt as with accusation. If she hadn't felt so desperately that she needed fresh air, none of this would have happened. The man had been a thief; perhaps he had intended to kill her; still it pained her to know that his death lay at her feet.

"I'm sorry," Bryan rasped. "Should I have allowed him to slay me?"

"You didn't have to kill him! He is just old and poor!" she exclaimed, determined that he would not know the true depth of her feelings—or that she had known herself she was at fault.

He paused for several seconds, staring at her. His eyes glittered in the darkness.

"One should poison only knights who are young and in good health. Is that it?"

"Believe what you like!" she snapped. Again, he was accusing her! Never would he believe that she had done him no physical harm. She stared down at the dead man, feeling ill. "This was not necessary."

"No, it was not. I'm not fond of killing, Duchess. I have done so—in battle. But murder is your game, not mine. What are you doing out here? Your senseless behavior has caused me to shed this blood!"

"Senseless behavior! I sought only fresh air—"

"Fresh air! You idiot! This man whose blood you cry over intended to rape you."

Her face was bruised and smudged with dirt; her clothing, the beautiful silk and the royal mantle, were ripped and muddied. Still she managed to draw herself to a regal stature and her eyes caught a star fire and glittered their unique turquoise as she faced him and spoke with dry sarcasm.

"It wouldn't be something that hadn't happened before."

"Wouldn't it? I think, Duchess, that you have still to see just how ugly the world can be. Were it not for Richard, I would be tempted to allow you your freedom to learn the true meaning of the word." Bryan was surprised by the smooth tenor of his voice. His anger was something that gnawed at him, that heated and clawed his body, demanding that he act. Somehow he controlled his temper. Somehow, he kept himself from beating and strangling her—but just barely. He stepped away from her just to make sure he wasn't tempted further to do her bodily harm.

"Get back to the tavern. I will follow behind you. Richard has asked us to assure your safety; therefore, I will. If you ever need fresh air again, ask for an escort. If I ever find you alone again, I will tie you hand and foot, and deposit you so before the queen. And don't, please don't, make the mistake of thinking that I threaten idly."

"I won't, Stede," she replied with no humility. "I will heed your warnings. I'd rather not be followed to Winchester by a trail of bloody corpses!"

She straightened her shoulders, drew the remains of the mantle about her, and strode regally past him.

His fingers itched to drag her back. His hands stretched toward her and knotted into fists.

He dropped them. When she turned back, his lips were curled into a grim and wicked smile.

* * *

The crossing was horrible. As many times as Bryan had sailed from the Normandy coast to the English shore, he couldn't remember a time when the sea had been more vicious.

The sky was a dead gray color, filled with dark clouds that churned and roiled and sporadically hurled cold sheets of rain upon them. Marshal had long since given way to nausea—as had the Lady Joanna and her husband—and spent the latter hours of the journey with his head bowed low over the rail. Bryan was sure that he would join his friend in his misery at any moment. Knights who could sever a head with no thought of distress were as sick as worm-ridden dogs.

Bryan hovered near Will Marshal, knowing he could do nothing to help, but hoping that his presence could lend sympathy, if nothing else. Will's knuckles were white against the railing, but he turned to Bryan with a grimace.

"You needn't watch over me, friend. This misery will, one way or another, come to an end. I'm an aging, battle-scarred knight. I'd rather you lend your support to the Lady Elise."

Bryan stiffened, his features hardening.

Will lifted a hand feebly in the wind. "She is my responsibility, yes. But if you offer me assistance as my friend, then I ask that you give that assistance to Elise."

Bryan shrugged. "As you wish, Will." Maybe the pitch and sway of the boat would have curbed her temper and softened her tone. He smiled grimly. It was not a kind thought, but he suddenly longed to see her laid low, stripped of pride and strength by the awesome power of the heavens and the sea.

Bryan stepped over a sprawled knight in search of Elise. He was quite certain that even the ferrymen felt the furor of the weather.

But not she . . .

She stood at the bow of the ship, tall and proud and straight, as if she greeted and embraced the tearing wind and the churning sea. Her eyes were brilliant, her cheeks were flushed with pleasure and excitement. She wore a woolen cloak, but she did not hug it about herself. The cowl was tossed back, her gold and copper hair flew and tossed with the wind, a part of it. Her lips were curled into a smile, her features, delicate as they were, tilted to the sky. Bryan thought with a shading of bitterness that she might have been an ancient priestess, a goddess of a cult, touched by dark magic.

His anger with her grew as he watched her. Had her skin paled, had her slender form been racked with agony, he could have felt empathy. He might have decided that it was a time to sue for peace between them.

Bryan sighed. There would never be peace between them. He refused to blame himself; she had lied to him with her every word. But he had taught her that her name and rank could mean nothing, and that she could be vulnerable to the whim of greater strength. It was a lesson for which she would never forgive him. For which, it seemed, she would even be willing to kill him.

And what difference did it make? he asked himself angrily. Yes, they would travel together with Eleanor while they awaited Richard's appearance, but then their paths would part. A marriage of wealth and power awaited him, and then the call of faraway ports and places. The Crusade awaited him. God's knights on their way to Christian battle under the banner of the Lion-Heart . . .

Bryan gritted his teeth. It would end soon. He had only to ignore her, to keep his distance politely.

But it still rankled him. Deeply. It was an irritation like a razor's edge to watch her stand tall, as if she absorbed the power of the maelstrom about her.

And it was a greater irritation to know that he wanted her still. No man with half a mind should want a woman who sought his life, no matter what her allure. Especially when he had a woman of sweet and gentle spirit awaiting him. But he did want Elise. He wanted to unravel the secret that lay behind it all. Maybe it was the secret that beguiled him so, that made her unique. Made his blood stir with raw desire each time he was near her, a desire that defied his own heart and mind. He wanted to hold and comfort her . . .

No! He longed only to break her body and soul, and keep her as a prized possession, under rein as his horse, polished and cared for as his sword and his armor.

Break her, and teach her that he was not a man who would tolerate her schemes, her treachery . . . her determination to see him laid low—or dead.

Perhaps then . . . then he could purge himself of her.

Leave it! Forget her, he warned himself.

Bryan turned on his heel to return to Marshal's side, a sharp oath escaping his tightened lips. England lay ahead. England, and the reign of Richard, Coeur de Lion.

Gwyneth . . .

Sweet and supple . . . and wealthy. Gwyneth would purge him of anger and dark desire . . .

The ship took an especially vicious twist within the sea. Bryan gripped the rail tightly, breathed deeply, and swallowed hard. One more lashing wave, and he would be every bit as sick as Marshal . . .

"Land, ho!" called out a sailor.

Land. England. The port of Minster. He would make it. He would make it . . .

* * *

Elise had never seen anything as intriguing as the English shore. Not so much the landscape—although she did love the hills with their rolling, grassy slopes, the harsh cliffs, and the forests that seemed to rise like sentinels in the background—but the people. They were everywhere! The port town was busy and bustling. Fishermen sold their yield, peasants hawked their produce, their hogs, their chickens, and every other imaginable ware. Balladeers strode leisurely along, clad in colorful rags, cheerfully grateful for any coin tossed their way.

For the most part, what Elise saw was poverty. The great manors were inland, and it was in these coastal towns where a new class was arising: the merchant class. Shops lined the streets. Shops where one could buy goods—at very dear prices—that came from all the provinces on the Continent. Sea power and the long centuries of the holy Crusades were bringing distant worlds together. Fine Oriental silks were available, Toledo steel, tableware wrought of silver and gold, brass candle sconces, and Persian rugs . . .

All for the peasants to see, the nobility to buy.

It was a strange world.

Elise found quickly that she was a curiosity herself. The people gaped with open amazement at their party: the armored knights upon their destriers; she in her finery. The town was abuzz with excitement from the moment they landed. And already the word was out; they had come to release the good Queen Eleanor from her years of bondage.

There were those, of course, who considered Eleanor a troublemaker and a foreigner. But to the majority of the people, she had long ago proved herself their queen. When she was young, her beauty had bewitched them. And now . . . now they remembered her dignity and her pride, her courage and her smile. She had loved England, and the people had known it. She had always been, in every aspect, a queen. The years could not tarnish or dim such a fact. The balladeers were singing of her, and even as the knights departed the ferry with their warhorses snorting from their time at sea, the people were calling out, "God save Richard, Coeur de Lion!" "God bless Eleanor of Aquitaine! God bless our dowager queen!"

Elise smiled, because it was fun. Perhaps many of these people had sided against Richard when he fought their father, but the Lion-Heart was known throughout the Christian world and beyond for his great courage—and great heart. He was the uncontested heir to the throne. It seemed that they would welcome him heartily, with little encouragement needed.

The crowds waved to them and cheered as they moved through the town. Elise felt her heart go out to the women she saw. So many of them, not much older than she, were worn and drawn from the cares and labors of life. Children clung to their skirts, and even they looked worn and tired. They tried to touch her; tried to touch the silk and fur of her gown. Overcome with pity, Elise reached into her saddlebags and tossed coins to the throngs. The people did not scatter, but shouted even louder and thronged closer and closer, until the destriers and her own horse could barely move.

Suddenly she felt a wrenching grip upon her arm, and heard a shredding tear. Alarmed, Elise spun about to find that a bewhiskered old man had torn away the sleeve of her gown. His eyes were wild, and his grip was surprisingly fierce as he tried to drag her from the horse.

"No!" Elise shrieked out. "Please!"

"'Tis silk! 'Tis silk!" the old man cried, and Elise realized with horror that he meant to take the clothing from her back.

The knights drew near, but insanity was breaking out. People no longer seemed to fear the huge hooves of the warhorses. Elise screamed, aware that she was about to slide from her horse. "No, please!" she cried again, catching at last the fevered eyes of the old man. For a minute shame filled his eyes, and Elise began to believe she had brought the situation under control.

She was never to know. At that moment, Bryan Stede came upon her. "Away!" he commanded the old man. He did not draw his sword, he did not attempt to strike any of the crowd, and yet they shrank away from him. Elise, too, wanted to shrink away. She knew that the indigo of his eyes could turn to the coal pits of hell; she knew him far too well. But at the moment, the fire and steel of his black-armored strength touched and terrified her even as it did the people.

"Fool!" He raged the one curt word to her, and then he had wrenched the reins from her hands. Her horse reared and bolted, and was next racing along behind his.

She heard a great thunder as the other knights broke into pounding gallops behind them. Tears stung her eyes as the wind whipped tendrils of her hair into them. But she was no longer frightened of Bryan Stede; she was furious. Was she always to find herself wrenched along by him? No, by God! She would never shrink or quail again, and he would learn that there were more ways to wield power than that of brute force!

It seemed forever, and yet she knew that it was only moments before they at last slowed their gait, then came to a halt. They had not left town, but they were at the far end of it, away from the pleasant, salt scent of the sea. A large, thatched-roof building stood before them, flanked by similar, wattle-and-daub structures. A weatherworn sign dangled from a wrought-iron pole; the sign proclaimed TAVERN.

The knights began to dismount as Bryan Stede issued orders. Where was Will Marshal? Elise wondered fleetingly.

Not where she needed him, she continued to muse bitterly as Stede approached and wrenched her ungraciously from the saddle. "We'll talk inside," he grated, his fingers banding around her arm. She was tempted to twist from him and dig long scratches into his cheeks with her fingernails, but she quickly thought better of the idea. He was not in a tolerant mood; she didn't think that even the witnesses about them could save her from his retaliation if he chose to strike in return.

Clinging to her pride, she accepted his hold and allowed him to escort her into the tavern. Where was the Lady Joanna? she wondered a little desperately. She would have kept Bryan's temper at bay.

It was a rough place. The main room consisted of little but a central fire and rows of hard-planked tables. Bryan left her warming her hands before the fire as he approached the tavern keeper, a hefty man wearing a large, grease-stained apron.

From the corner of her eye, Elise surveyed the other patrons of the establishment. Seafarers, they all appeared to be. Men with burned and leathered faces. But many of them wore a bright look of content within their eyes, and Elise smiled slightly. Yes, they should appear content. They had broken away from the lords and the lands that bound them to a life of continual labor; the sea, harsh mistress as she could be, was freeing them from lives of drudgery—on behalf of a self-serving overlord.

I am the nobility, she reminded herself. But she was a good ruler: just and merciful as Henry had taught her to be; kind as Marie and William de Bois had been. Montoui was a different province from most. Her people were well fed and well clothed. Yes, they worked for her, but they kept large portions of their crops; their labors were rewarded. Would it always be so? she wondered bitterly. As long as she lived. Once she had dreamed that she and Percy would raise their children with a sense of conscience. A deep pride in Montoui, but also a knowledge of the responsibility of all that pride should entail. But now . . .

Now, she would be alone. But she vowed then that as long as she lived, she would set the pattern for justice. She would always rule her tiny duchy wisely and well. Just as soon as . . . just as soon as this was over. This—her quest for vengeance.

For a moment, she felt a shiver inside of her, as if it touched her heart. She had been taught to be proud, but never spiteful or vengeful. She tried to tell herself that it was strictly "justice" she wanted—but it was more. She had never known such anger in her life. Elise knew that the Plantagenets—and she was one of them by blood—often hurt themselves in their furious efforts to right a personal wrong. But she couldn't help her feelings; Stede deserved to lose everything he so coveted. No matter how she craved it otherwise, she could not change her feelings. Stede had not only cost her Percy; he had stripped her of all illusion. She had not had complete control of her destiny, and she didn't think she could ever believe in love again. All that remained for her to do was to cling to her rank and her wits, and seek the vengeance—or justice—that Stede deserved.

"Do you wish to create more trouble?"

The hiss was grating against her ear. She turned from the fire to stare at Stede, startled. He touched the torn sleeve of her gown, and she twisted farther to see that the men in the public lodging were staring at her with speculative smiles.

Without a word Elise returned Stede's gaze. He took her arm again and led her through the main room to an adjacent ground-floor chamber.

Elise wrinkled her nose with distaste. There was a foul stench of unwashed humanity within the room. There were no mattresses, just rushes and blankets that she feared were vermin-laden.

"It's all that he's got," Stede told her dryly. "Except, of course, for the public room, and I assure you, the damsels who generally seek a night's rest here would offend you even further."

Elise said nothing. She walked to the latticed window to breathe clean air.

Stede was silent for a moment. When he did speak, his tone was one he might well use against a dangerously naughty child.

"I know you to be many things, Elise. Willful, dishonest, cunning. Proud to a fault. Eager to draw blood. Yet I always believed it was my blood you were eager to draw. I have already told you; I have no taste for wanton killing. You might have caused a riot today. Aye, you were always safe, milady—you had an escort of armored and armed men. It was those poor people who would have lain butchered. A cutthroat I will gladly slay on your behalf. But not a peasant, longing for what God has granted you."

Elise whirled around. "I sought only to give—"

"Then you are a fool, for that is not the way to give. Had we not been with you, you would have been robbed of every stitch upon your back. Raped and probably murdered. You have a penchant for putting yourself into such a position."

"Have I?" Elise inquired imperiously. "Then it is a penchant just acquired recently. I will remind you of a few things, Sir Stede. You are but a landless knight. I am the Duchess of Montoui. I am your superior, Stede. You take orders from me. And as to my penchant for trouble . . . well, I say again, what possible difference can it make? I should rather be taken by ten filthy peasants than to feel even the brush of your fingers again."

"Is that so?" Stede inquired politely.

"Aye, Sir Stede, it is."

He bowed to her—an extravagant, courtly bow.

"Your superiority, milady, is a theory we must put to the test one day."

Elise smiled sweetly. "I'm afraid that there will be no chance to do so, Stede. We will meet Eleanor, Richard will reach England, and we will part ways."

Stede smiled in return. It felt as if the chamber had been touched by a harsh winter frost. "Bear in mind, milady, that once Richard arrives, I shall be your superior."

"When you are wed to Gwyneth—and take on her titles?"

"Aye, when I am wed to Gwyneth."

Elise kept her sweet smile strained into her features. "The rewards you expect are still ‘theory,' are they not, Sir Stede? Perhaps another theory that must be put to a test."

"Is it?" Stede replied, mildly interested. "Perhaps 'tis true—the future is always that which must be seen." He turned around, his hand upon the door. "I shall have a meal brought to you. I don't intend to fight a battle over you during supper. Should you need, anything during the night, I shall be asleep before your door."

"I don't wish to have you before my door—"

He laughed, looking at her once more. "A change of heart, Duchess? Do you wish to have me inside your chamber?"

"My heart shall never change, Stede," Elise said with frigid determination. "And you forget, the Lady Joanna—"

"The Lady Joanna is traveling on to Southampton with her husband. She has been of little use as a chaperone, it seems. Her heart is too good. Since you prefer I not be inside, I shall sleep before the door. God knows, I find you quite worthless myself, but Richard seems to think you are of some value. Therefore, I shall deliver you safely to Eleanor."

He stepped outside the door, a tall and formidable figure in the armor he wore so easily.

The door closed sharply; Elise could have sworn that wood splintered with the force.

But the cold remained.

Who was he, Elise raged silently, to do this to her? No one! No one of title or land. He was just a warrior. A battle-weary knight. A configuration of muscle and brawn who could wield a sword or a lance with deadly expertise . . .

He had touched her, he had destroyed her . . .

By God, she would do the same to him. Now, he had even sent the Lady Joanna away, and Elise had become so accustomed to her cheerful company. She would miss her sorely. And he'd had the gall to call her "worthless"!

Worthless? Lord, how the word rankled . . . and hurt. To him, she had been nothing more than a thief, and a configuration of feminine angles and curves. But he would learn. He would know that rank and wits could be every bit as powerful as steel and armor and brawn.

Elise wondered bleakly why she still wanted to sink to the floor and burst into tears. Maybe because he had been right. She had walked into danger. Last night. And again today. To Marshal, she could have admitted the error. Admitted she had a lot to learn. Begged pardon not for her wish to give, but for her lack of thoughtful judgment. To Marshal, yes—but not to Stede. Never to Stede.

She had never known an emotion as intense as that which she bore him. It was frightening.

But the die had been cast, and she felt she whirled in a maelstrom that was of her own making.

Like wind and fire, it roared out of control.