XI

XI

July 15, 1189

The Palace at Winchester, England

"Your Highness! They're here! Richard's messengers . . . they come for you!"

In an uncustomary gesture of emotion, Eleanor's jailer fell to his old knees before her. She smiled. She had seen the horses approaching the palace; she had seen the banners of Richard le Roi, Coeur de Lion. And at first sight of those banners, her heart had begun to fly.

She felt incredibly young for a woman of nigh on seventy years. Power, like a heated wine, had begun to warm her system. Joints that had ached moved with remarkable fluidity; her shoulders had squared, her spine . . . well, it had always been straight, but now . . . now it seemed actually to grow.

And why not? She was Eleanor of Aquitaine. Famed, notorious—but famed, nevertheless—the greatest heiress, lady, queen of her time. And she felt strong. The world was opening to her again. Her world. She had created the chivalry of the English court; she had been revered by poets from the East and the West . . .

And now . . . now she would reign as queen again. Not by marriage. But through Richard.

It was wonderful. She wanted to laugh and sing and cry out her joy to the heavens.

But she kept her smile small, her manner composed. Because she was Eleanor of Aquitaine.

"Do rise, dear sir," she told her jailer with quiet wit. "I'd not have you too crippled to allow my son's messenger's entry. And 'tis fairly certain they've had a long joumey. Have we wine and food to offer?"

"Aye, Your Highness."

"Who comes?" Eleanor, with a grace that belied both her age and curiosity, turned toward the window once again. "Black armor . . . Stede! Richard has sent Bryan Stede. And I'd wager that Will Marshal is with him . . . Mother of God! How very considerate of Richard. I see that a woman rides with the knights!"

"If rumor holds true, Your Highness, the lady is Elise de Bois, Duchess of Montoui."

Eleanor's laughter was never loud or raucous; but now she did chuckle softly with pure delight. Her dearest son, Richard, eager for her happiness. He knew that she would long dearly to see the girl.

Her laughter ended with a soft sigh. There would be so much to do! The people must be rallied to Richard's cause, and then the nobles must be sorted and put into place for the new regime. Some punished, and some appeased. Some could ride the Lion's breath to fame and fortune.

And then there were the bastards. Geoffrey Fitzroy, Henry's natural son, had been raised in royal palaces along with her own; he had served Henry loyally as chancellor for years. She must not allow him to feel slighted; yet she must take care that he remembered his status as a bastard. And Elise . . .

Elise . . . a magnificent marriage, of course. In time. It was going to be fun to get reacquainted with the girl. She had been such a delightful child . . .

I am hungry for gossip, and hungry for life! Eleanor thought wryly. Ah, yes, I am hungry to begin again . . .

Queen of England. The title allowed her to play God to an extent, and Eleanor was far too much of a realist to consider such a thought as blasphemous. She would play God; she would be coercive and manipulative. She deserved to wield power far more than most people, because, if nothing else, her years had earned her a deep sense of responsibility, and the pain of her past had given her wisdom.

* * *

There was something about Eleanor of Aquitaine that kept one from seeing her as she really was, Elise mused curiously at first sight of the queen. In truth, she had aged. She was an old woman, slender to the point of gauntness. Her hair was graying, and her face betrayed her many years of both laughter and tears.

But when she moved, when she walked, when she smiled, and when she spoke, it was the age that became the illusion.

Eleanor was magnificent. Her presence filled the room. Her eyes were dark and yet brilliant and filled with vibrancy. She walked as if she floated on clouds, or sailed across a smooth sea. She had been imprisoned for sixteen years, but it appeared as if she had merely stepped from one stately court to another. She was so very regal, so very human, so perfectly lovely in speech and manner . . .

"Bryan! Will! How wonderfully gallant to see you upon your knees! But do get up. I am way too old to bend to kiss you, and I feel that I must!"

Elise, several paces behind the men, watched with a touch of rancor in her heart as Eleanor fondly embraced Bryan Stede, and then Will Marshal. It was as the queen gave Will a fervent hug that she glanced over his shoulder to see Elise. And then her beautiful smile, the smile that could strip away years, curled into her lips once more.

"Elise . . . ! Will, step aside so that I might see the child."

Grinning, Will did as he was told. Eleanor approached Elise and took both her hands in a strong grip. "How nice of you to come, Elise, and be with me now. It has been a long time since I have had another woman with whom to converse!" Eleanor released Elise's hands and turned back to Bryan and Will.

"Now, tell me—how is Richard?"

"Hale and hearty," Will assured her immediately. "And handling his affairs quite admirably, yet it seemed his greatest urgency was to see you freed, Your Grace."

Eleanor nodded, pleased. "And Prince John?"

Bryan shrugged, but the motion was eloquent in itself. "Richard is looking for him now." He hesitated. "John disappeared after we were forced to flee from Le Mans."

Eleanor's gaze lowered momentarily. "For that I've great pity for Henry, God rest his soul. The place of his birth burned over his head; his favorite son turned traitor at the end. Marshal, how did Henry die?"

Marshal appeared uncomfortable. "In great misery, Your Grace. Illness, and an internal infection, overcame him. He could find no rest, you see. Had he been able to stop and nurse the ulcer, he might well have lived."

The queen's eyes were sad. "Believe me, messires, when I tell you I am sorry for the pain of his death, although his death frees me. Henry was a great man, greater than I believe history will record him. He cared for law and his people when it was not necessary to do so, but he brought about his own downfall. He tried to rob Richard of his lands so that he might bestow them on John. I don't think he ever realized that his sons had grown up—and were of his blood." She sighed. "So . . . he is looking for John. I hope he finds him quickly, and deals with him carefully. John has always coveted what was Richard's. And Richard, like Henry, when he holds power, can be overly generous with it." She shook her head gravely, but then she was smiling quickly again, and turning to Will. "I've heard you'll not be traveling with me now, Will Marshal. It is amazing, is it not, how words can so quickly fly? But it's my understanding that Henry promised you the hand of Isabel de Clare, and that Richard has upheld that promise. And you will go to claim her now."

Marshal laughed. "It seems that words do travel quickly. And it is true." His laughter faded, and his expression became slightly wistful. "Have you ever met the Lady Isabel, Your Highness?"

Eleanor chuckled softly. "She was but a toddling child when I was incarcerated. But—rumor again—she is young and lovely. And excessively rich. You'll find out soon enough. And if you would flatter me, William, call me by my given name when we are alone like this. Bryan never hesitates to do so!"

The queen's eyes fastened quickly upon Bryan Stede. "So you, Sir Stede, are to be my escort as we travel the countryside as Richard's entourage of goodwill!"

"A duty that is the greatest pleasure," Bryan replied graciously. "Richard has commanded that I stay with you until he arrives for his coronation, after which, in due time, he plans to join Philip of France for the Crusade planned by Philip and Henry right before his death."

"You are anxious for the Crusade?"

Bryan hesitated, then smiled. "I, like Richard, have been most eager to see you free."

Elise held back, keeping her silence. It was irritating beyond measure to see the queen's pleasure in him. Don't be taken by this dark knight! she wanted to cry out. He is hard and ruthless and not at all what he seems . . .

She did not cry out. Her time would come.

Servants came into the antechamber, carrying wine and trays filled with fresh breads, hard-boiled eggs, and a variety of cheeses. Whatever Eleanor had suffered in the past was to be rectified; her jailer had become her host. The servants scurried to please.

"I should so love to enjoy this repast in the garden!" Eleanor exclaimed softly. "Aged wine—and friendships that have become vintage through the years! Elise! Come walk with me. How tall you are, my dear! When last I saw you, I believe that you barely came to my knee." The queen, with the servants hurrying behind her, led the way out to the gardens, and to a wrought-iron table set between a trellis of roses—her delight with life apparent. She continued to chat, as if sixteen years of imprisonment had never taken place. A perfectly gracious hostess, she kindly waved the servants away and poured wine for them all. "Bryan, did you take the time to see Gwyneth?"

"Nay, Eleanor. We came straight to you."

"I'm flattered! But sorry that you shall be kept apart. 'Tis time you two took your vows."

Bryan laughed easily, which further annoyed Elise. "You must remember, Eleanor, that Henry promised me the lands and titles."

"I cannot believe that Richard would not honor his father's bequests!"

"Nay, I believe that he will." He lifted his hands lightly, palms up. "I don't know why he hesitates."

"Perhaps I do," Eleanor murmured. "I believe he might well be thinking of a way to make your fortunes even greater. When Richard chooses to give, he does so generously."

Bryan laughed. "Your Grace, I will pray that you know your son well."

"I do know Richard well. At this moment, he will be worrying about the empty state of his inherited purse! That is one we must begin to think upon, my children!"

Eleanor's sharp dark eyes turned suddenly to Elise. "And what of you, Elise? I have not lost any of my faculties—thanks be to God—and therefore my addition remains excellent. Why haven't you married?"

Elise froze at the question, but it didn't matter. Bryan Stede stepped in to answer mockingly for her. "The Lady Elise is deeply in love, Your Majesty! She intends to marry the man of her choice—Sir Percy Montagu."

"Sir Percy . . ." Eleanor frowned thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I do not know him—or of him."

Elise sipped her wine and forced her lips into a sweet smile. She had no intention of correcting Bryan Stede. "I'm sure that you will know him soon, Your Majesty," she said smoothly.

"Ah, love . . . I remember it well!" Eleanor chuckled softly. "And I am ever more flattered that you have all come to me!" She stood, setting her goblet firmly upon the table. "Bryan, Will, I leave you to plan the days ahead. Elise will come with me to pack so that, come tomorrow, we may be on the road bright and early."

The men, awkward in their armor, nevertheless jumped to their feet. Eleanor rewarded them with a benign smile, and reached out a hand to Elise. "You must refresh my mind on fashion, child. The blue jays have not much cared how I appeared before them."

Elise was touched when she saw the queen's small chamber within the palace. It was sparse and bare. A single window allowed light into the room.

Eleanor noticed that Elise's gaze quickly took in the circumstances. "Sunlight is beautiful, is it not? One can learn to cling to the sunlight, and to the blue of a spring sky." She paused suddenly, reflecting on the past. "There were many times when I was confined to this chamber alone." She shrugged. "And then there were times when I was allowed in the gardens—depending on the nature of the bailiff here, and Henry's whim." She smiled. "Once, I was even brought to Normandy for Michaelmas—to use my influence on Richard, of course. But I longed for freedom so fervently, I would have promised anything. And at that time . . . I dared believe there was hope that the family could come to peace. Ah, well, that was long ago."

"Yes, all that is the past," Elise agreed quickly. Suddenly she longed to take Eleanor away from the palace that had been a prison. "Where shall we start, Queen Eleanor? I see that you have all your trunks here—"

"I packed several days ago," Eleanor announced with a wry smile and a wave of her long, elegant hand. "I brought you here to look at you at my leisure. Spin about for me, child!"

Elise was not insulted, nor did she feel self-conscious. Eleanor's delight in life was contagious. Obediently, Elise spun about before the queen, who perched regally upon the foot of her small bed.

The queen was smiling when Elise came to a halt before her.

"You know, Elise de Bois, that I bear you no rancor."

"You are generous, ma'am."

"Nay—not generous. Just old. And very realistic! You have a great deal of your father in you, but . . . you are lovely anyway! Ah, don't lower your eyes, child. There was a time when I adored Henry Plantagenet! He was the sun to my eyes. He was almost twelve years younger than I, but when we married we were a perfect match. We were ambitious, ready to found an empire and a dynasty. Henry was a wonderful knight, a gallant king. Ah, but he drove his nobles crazy! He seldom even sat to eat, and therefore, they were obliged to stand through their meals! None could quite touch him for vitality or passion, or statesmanship. But let's be honest with each other, Elise. He was proud, he couldn't bear to part with his power, and, at times, he was stupid. He never knew how to deal with his sons, and therefore he placed their loyalty in my hands. We shall not speak ill of the dead. It is true that I had my reasons to hate him. But never forget that I loved him, too. Just as I never forget that it was often my own nature that came between us. Pride does not mingle well with love." Eleanor was silent for a moment, a moment in which the light that seemed to radiate about her dimmed. Elise felt her heart go out to the exquisite queen, who had for decades been an enigma and a legend; a woman to defy the world. And in that moment, she saw the queen's age, and her wisdom. Eleanor had learned that life was a combination of joy—and pain.

"So much to be done . . ." Eleanor murmured. She gazed at Elise again, and once more the light seemed to radiate from her. "It is all a game of power and intrigue—one that we must play very carefully! Always remember, Elise, that the clever players, the fighters, are the ones who win in the end! Sometimes it is impossible to slay a dragon by the sword; at those times, the dragon must be slain by wits!"

Elise smiled, and if she felt bitterness in her heart, she kept it from betraying her through her eyes. Eleanor was a fighter—and a survivor.

So would she be.

Elise felt strangely as if her plans for the future had been sanctified. If it was impossible to slay a dragon by the sword, then she would surely do so by wits. It was working out so well. Eleanor was obviously very fond of Bryan Stede, but she felt her sense of responsibility to Elise keenly.

Elise had found a friend in the queen. If she bided her time, she could surely manage the eloquent words to bring down her dragon.

* * *

Opportunity came along far before she had expected it.

Will Marshal left them the next morning, bound to meet and marry his heiress, Isabel de Clare.

Bryan, Eleanor, and Elise set out for the towns that were scattered about the English countryside.

It was not so difficult as Elise had imagined. Since the night of their arrival at Dover, when she and Bryan had argued over her behavior, she had barely had to speak to him. Will Marshal had become the buffer then, and now, with Will gone, Eleanor had been the force to come between them.

It was, Elise mused, as if Bryan Stede had indeed washed his hands of her.

I would be better off to do the same, she often warned herself.

As accustomed as she had come to knowing that he was near in her days of travel, there were still times when she would see him that he touched a deep, inner core of her, and frightened her. She had never been wrong in her assessment of him; he was a hard man, and if crossed, he would be a ruthless man. In his black armor, riding the midnight destrier, he was the very image of power and might. The people made way for him, and bowed down to him, even before they saw the queen. And not once, with Bryan Stede leading the party, was the queen ever accosted in any way.

Bryan and Elise had both expected Eleanor to travel in a litter—she was, no matter what her strength, an old woman. But when she had been the Queen of France, she had once been forcefully abducted by her husband in a litter, and even now she would not enter one again. She and Elise rode side by side.

Elise loved seeing the country in summer. The weather now remained bright and beautiful for them, and she could clearly see the occasional windmills in the fields, the oxen and horses hitched to plows, the profusion of summer wildflowers. The towns fascinated her with their very narrow streets, and the upper floors that often seemed about to collide with one another over the pathways. Even the smallest village offered some entertainment: jugglers, harpists, flutists, minstrels, and balladeers. Often, once Eleanor was seen, the minstrels would come to her, regaling her, and offering up the love ballads that had been composed in her honor through the years.

In a small valley called Smithwick, they came upon a freeman who commandeered a pair of trained bears. Elise was fascinated by their act, and Eleanor watched her tolerantly.

"Henry loved bears, too," she told Elise. "He traveled with them frequently. Did you know that?"

"No, no I didn't," Elise admitted, and Eleanor smiled. Elise knew then that she would never be able to believe anything wicked about the queen; she was coming to know Eleanor too well herself. She would say nothing malicious about Henry to Elise, although she didn't pretend to deny his shortcomings. She knew that Elise had loved him.

Elise could have been extremely happy—if it weren't for Bryan's constant presence, always making her feel as if she burned hot, then fell into chills, only to burn again.

Of course, she still spent long hours trying to ponder just what she would say to bring him down, and see that he lost Gwyneth as she had lost Percy.

A week after their departure from Winchester, they were on the outskirts of London. Eleanor had spent the day speaking to the people, cheering on the reign of Richard the Lion-Heart.

As usual, they dined early, then retired for the night.

There had been no more dirty taverns; Eleanor could avail herself of the hospitality of any manor. Tonight they were in the home of Sir Matthew Surrey, and the old gentleman was thrilled to greet the dowager queen. Elise and Eleanor had been given a lovely chamber that overlooked a field of summer daisies, and a host of servants had run about to cater cheerfully to any whim. Elise had enjoyed a long, delightfully scented bath, and sipped a goblet of mulled wine as she and Eleanor stretched out upon clean sheets, chatting idly to wind down from the excitement of the day. She and Eleanor shared one vast and fatly mattressed bed, which was of no discomfort to either of them; to travel, women learned quickly that accommodations must frequently be shared.

Serving Eleanor, Elise had learned, was no task at all. The queen was independent. She allowed Elise to comb her hair, and to lay out her clothing, but other than those tasks, Eleanor cared for herself. But Elise never felt useless, for the queen enjoyed her companionship. Sometimes Elise was certain that the queen merely thought aloud, but she was nevertheless glad to listen, and never afraid to offer comments.

This night, Eleanor was once again on the subject of England's empty coffers.

"Richard," Eleanor told Elise as she climbed into the high, goose down–filled bed, "needs money badly." She sighed. "It is a pity that Richard formed an alliance with Philip Augustus against Henry. Now Richard must pay Philip the twenty-thousand ducats that Henry swore to pay just before his death. That will detract heavily from the sums he might have used for the Crusade. And to go on crusade! Ah, fighting a holy war is a dear proposition indeed! But one quickly learns to miss the comfort of clean sheets and two soft pillows . . ." Eleanor's voice drifted as she closed her eyes and luxuriated in the softness of their bed. She opened one eye. "Elise, would you mind closing the shutter, please? The night is taking on a chill."

Elise sprang from the bed and hurried to the shutter. But before she could close it, she noticed movement in the courtyard below and paused.

A man was mounting a horse. It was dark below, as the moon was at an ebb, but Elise stiffened. She recognized Stede. There were few men of his lean and powerful height, or who possessed his breadth of shoulder. He was not dressed in armor, but in his mantle alone, and his dark head was bare. Even in the meager light, the ebony black of his hair glistened as if caught by the few stars speckling the heavens.

"What is it?" Eleanor asked.

Elise hesitated, sensing that her moment had come to begin her careful attack upon Bryan Stede.

"Nothing, Eleanor," she said quickly—too quickly, and with full intent to do so.

"Nonsense, Elise. What have you seen?"

"Just a man—riding from the manor."

"Oh," Eleanor said complacently. "Then it is just Stede."

Surprised by the reply, Elise closed the shutter and spun about. The chamber was lit only by the one candle on the trunk on her side of the bed. Eleanor's expression was lost in shadow.

Elise exhaled carefully. "Yes, Your Majesty, it was Stede. I did not wish to tell you so because . . . because he should not leave you! It is his responsibility to guard you!"

Eleanor's dark eyes opened and touched upon Elise with fondness. "You remind me of Richard—a little lioness in behalf of your beliefs! But you needn't be so protective of me, child. Nor do you need to lie about Stede, or be angry with him. I suggested that he leave this evening."

"Oh?"

"Gwyneth is in London. A short ride will bring Stede to her. He has been a gallant knight, caring so carefully for his aging queen. He deserves an evening of leisure—and pleasure. I'm really rather annoyed that Richard didn't arrange for Stede's marriage now, as he did for Will Marshal."

Elise bit into her lip in the darkness. He deserves to have his bloody head whacked off! she thought furiously. So Stede was riding to the woman he intended to marry. His prize! Wonderful, brave Stede, being awarded for the fruits of his brawn!

Elise remained silent and still in the darkness, trying to think how to phrase her words properly. As it happened, her silence became her best move.

"You don't care for Bryan, do you, Elise?" Eleanor asked curiously.

"I—"

Eleanor chuckled softly. "Don't deny it, Elise. There are benefits to my age. I have watched the two of you often in the past days. You avoid each other. You do not speak, you do not touch. But each time your eyes meet, one can feel it, as if God had suddenly filled the sky with storm clouds and fire."

"You are right, Your Majesty," Elise agreed quietly. "I do not care for Bryan Stede."

"Why?" Elise could see the queen's amused smile as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. "If I were young," Eleanor continued with dry, good humor, "I think I could easily be in love. But since I am far past the days of such painful foolishness, I can sit back and admire such men as Bryan Stede. So tell me, Elise, what could this man have done to you to cause you to hate him so?"

This was her moment at last, she thought, and Elise felt a tempest of emotions shiver through her body. She would be taking a step of no return, and she had to weigh her every word with the greatest of care.

"Eleanor, it is something of which I would rather not speak."

"Nonsense!" Eleanor exclaimed with determination.

"But I—"

"Elise, I am ordering you as the Queen Regent of England!"

Elise lowered her head quickly, determined that the crafty old queen not see her smile, for the queen was playing perfectly into her hands.

"Your Majesty, since you order me to speak, I shall. But I also beg that you keep every word I say entirely confidential."

"You needn't beg. Whatever you say shall be kept strictly between the two of us."

Elise let out a long sigh, and carefully kept her lashes low over her eyes, shielding them. The riot of tingling hot and cold that had seized her kept her shivering, for here she was going to lie, or at least twist the truth, and on all accounts it was a frightening and reckless thing to do.

"Stede did nothing to me, Eleanor. It is what he has done to others that makes me abhor him so."

"Pray, continue," Eleanor said firmly. She patted the bed. "Lie down, child; don't stand so nervously at a distance. I am not a crazed murderess, although they did call me so when that wretched Rosamund Clifford died! I am not an old bat to be feared!"

Elise slid beneath the cover on her side of the bed and prayed that her features would be hidden by darkness as she snuffed out the last candle.

"I want to hear this story," Eleanor reminded her with a warning note in her tone.

Elise sighed carefully again. "I'm afraid, Your Majesty, that your gallant Stede is not always so chivalrous. He came upon a friend of mine, a lady of some note, when she was in an awkward circumstance and very frightened. He threw her about as if she were refuse, and forced her into . . ."

"Bed?" Eleanor supplied incredulously.

"Yes," Elise agreed sadly.

To her astonishment, Eleanor began to laugh. "Stede forced himself on a young lady!"

"Your Majesty!" Elise cried out indignantly. "I assure you, it was no laughing matter for the young lady involved."

"I do apologize, Elise," Eleanor said quickly. "It's just so . . . absurd. Bryan Stede is a man who tends to have women—those who are titled, and those who are not—flocking around him. They are drawn to him, as flowers to the sun."

"The story is true," Elise said quietly.

Eleanor was silent, and thoughtful, for several moments. "If your story is true, Elise, then you must give me the lady's name. And if she has been wronged, then Bryan must forget Gwyneth, and right that wrong."

"He cannot right—"

"He can marry the lady."

"No!" Elise protested quickly. "She has no wish to marry him, Your Majesty. She intends to marry elsewhere, and is happy with her choice. It is just . . . it is hard to watch such a man rewarded by marriage to one of the richest heiresses in England!"

Eleanor sighed softly. "If the woman does not wish to marry him, then there is nothing that can be done. And to a woman, yes, perhaps such a thing is distressing. But I tell you as a queen, with politics in mind, as it would be to a man—I am afraid it would all be of little or no consequence. Bryan Stede served Henry well. His loyalty to the Crown is unquestionable. He will be as invaluable to Richard as he was to Henry, and any king with sense would reward such character. And not only character," Eleanor added wryly. "Bryan Stede offers England one of the best sword arms in existence. The only way Stede could be brought to charge for his actions would be to arrange his marriage to the injured woman—as long as she was of the right class. But since she doesn't wish marriage, there is no reason to stop a marriage that is entirely suitable. Gwyneth has tremendous lands and wealth; Bryan has the power to rule them and keep them."

Brawn, Elise thought bitterly as she lay in the darkness, did seem to be the mightiest weapon. She had struck her blow of words, and it appeared that she had done no damage. Truly, she had lived in a sheltered world. Yes, she was the titled one. And she was the daughter of a king, if only a king's bastard. Still, Stede was the one with the power.

He was the one with the sword arm.

"Perhaps . . ." Eleanor murmured.

"Your pardon, Your Majesty?"

Eleanor yawned. "Nothing, Elise, nothing at all. I was just wondering . . . what shall you do after Richard is crowned?"

"Go back to Montoui," Elise said softly. "It is my duchy." She smiled. "There, I am in command."

"Of course," Eleanor murmured. "Of course . . ."

Moments of silence followed. Elise became convinced that Eleanor slept, and the words the queen had said turned around and around in her mind.

He can marry the lady . . . he can marry the lady . . . he can marry the lady . . .

She did have power—if she chose to use it.

She simply couldn't use it, because . . .

The only way to stop Bryan Stede from receiving everything his heart desired was to place herself in his path. She could hurt him. Oh, yes, she could hurt him. She wasn't Gwyneth, whom he so obviously enjoyed, nor did she have a quarter of Gwyneth's vast lands and great wealth. Her duchy was small; it wasn't even in England, and Bryan Stede was an Englishman.

But she would be saddled with a dark beast of Satan for life. A knight who—she admitted in the deepest recesses of her heart—terrified her still.

No, she would not be saddled with him, she thought with sudden excitement. She could speak—and force Bryan Stede into a betrothal. And then she could stall. Keep putting the marriage off. She could claim that she had made a vow to make pilgrimages to various shrines. Time would pass, and more time would pass—and then Bryan would be forced to ride with Richard on the Crusade. It could be done—Richard had done it himself! He had been betrothed to Philip's half sister for over a decade—but no marriage had ever taken place!

What if Richard insisted on a wedding? she asked herself. But she refused to consider seriously such a possibility. And if he did—well, she could still escape Bryan before the marriage could be consummated, return to Montoui and fortify the castle—and set about the task of finding grounds to present to the Pope for an annulment. She would probably have years in which to manage the feat—the Holy Land was far away . . .

And by the time it had all come about, Gwyneth would certainly have been given to some other deserving knight.

Dear God, yes, it could be done.

He would kill her, she thought, shivering suddenly. But only if he managed to get his hands on her out of Eleanor's sight. And she would never allow that to happen.

"Elise?"

Eleanor's soft query, coming from the darkness when Elise had been certain that the queen slept, was so startling that Elise jumped.

"Yes?" she said nervously in return.

"Are you this ‘lady'?"

Elise knotted her fingers into the sheet. If she said yes . . .

She might well be risking her life, or, at least, the safety of her flesh and limbs. But the sweet and beautiful waters of revenge would begin to flow.

She squeezed her eyes tightly together. She had to be crazy!

"Elise?"

She opened her mouth, still not sure of her answer. But she never uttered a word, for a thunderous knocking pounded upon the door and a servant began to scream anxiously for the queen.

"Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Word has just come! He's landed! Richard has landed! The Lion-Heart is in England!"

Eleanor was out of bed with the speed of a winter wind; she sprinted across the room with the agility of a young girl and threw open the door. "Is this true?"

The young serving wench fell to her knees, clasping her hands with excitement.

"Oh, aye, Your Majesty! He came ashore with hundreds of men-at-arms, so they say. The King—our Lion of England!"

"And the people?"

"The people cheered him, and threw flowers of welcome!"

"Blessed be to God!" Eleanor exclaimed, looking upward, as if she could see heaven, and was thanking the Creator with her smile. Then she was glancing back to the girl, and her tone was tense. "And John? Prince John. Has he been seen?"

"Aye, Your Majesty! Aye! He came on the arm of his brother!"

Eleanor glanced upward again, her appeal to heaven mute this time. "Thank you, girl! Thank you!"

"Oh, my greatest pleasure, Your Majesty!"

The wench bowed herself away, and Eleanor spun back into the room, lithe and beautiful in her happiness. Her eyes fell upon Elise, and Elise realized that the queen had forgotten all about her in the joy of knowing that Richard had arrived, and been received well.

It was for the best. All for the best. Surely she had been struck with madness even to contemplate forcing Stede into a marriage with her . . .

It was her only hope . . .

It was insanity . . .

"Ah, Elise!" She laughed happily. "So very much to do! I'm so glad that Richard has John under his wing, but . . . Henry spoiled John so! Richard is going to have to be so wary of his brother.... Come, Elise! Up! We must dress! We must be ready!"

Eleanor lit the bedside candle; in her excitement she hugged Elise. "How I have waited and prayed for this moment! Richard—the King of England. The season for lions has come!"

Lions . . .

Yes, Elise thought, it is a season for lions. And the head of the pride was her brother.

It was the lioness who was known to be deadly. The lioness. . . who went for the kill.

Richard would soon be crowned King.

He would not allow his half sister to be humiliated, not even for the finest sword arm in his kingdom.

What was she thinking? she asked herself with dismay. But her mind was playing a terrible tug-of-war.

She could allow it all to drop; she could salvage the strands of her own life. But part of her still cried out for revenge, and that reckless portion of her nature tried to ignore the horror of what she could bring down upon herself.

Marriage to Stede; it was unthinkable.

And yet . . .

It was all like a game of chess, Henry had told her.

And now, it was her move.