XII

XII

Elise had little to do the first few days following Richard's arrival. Eleanor and Richard spent their time closeted together, and it was not until the third morning that even his closest advisors were invited to be part of any discussions or plans.

On that third night, Sir Matthew Surrey, who continued to host the royal family and their immediate entourage, threw open his doors for a small, welcoming banquet. Elise was flattered that Eleanor demanded she sit at the high table, and she was touched by Richard's boisterous greeting. But that, she thought dryly, was part of the Lion-Heart's charisma. Richard was a fine, dramatic performer. When she was about, he would hug and kiss her and offer fine, flowery phrases. When he turned his back, he would have forgotten everything that he had said, and would give full rein to his one, all-consuming dream: the Crusade.

Prince John was with Richard. A brother totally different from the Lion-Heart. John was short, dark, and surly, yet his eyes held a bright cunning that Richard's lacked. The prince was pleasant to Elise, and she found herself wondering uneasily about this other half brother of hers. Richard had been betrothed to Alys, Philip of France's sister, for so many years that most people had lost count. It was widely believed that Henry had seduced Alys years and years before, and so had procrastinated until marriage between Richard and Alys had become the joke of the English isle and the European continent. But Eleanor had often spoken to Elise of the truth; Richard had no taste for women.

Prince John was therefore Richard's heir, until such time when the Lion-Heart might bear an heir, if that event ever occurred.

The idea of John upon the throne of England was frightening. Very frightening, because of his irresponsibility and his cruel nature. One could only hope that Richard would live a long and hale life.

And Geoffrey and I are both Henry's brood, Elise mused, but neither of us could ever touch the Crown. Eleanor as much as she loves us, would see to that.

Not that she or Geoffrey would ever scramble for the Crown. They were both too intelligent to do so.

Geoffrey Fitzroy was there that night, too. He stopped to speak warmly with Elise before taking his position on the other side of the table, next to Prince John.

Glancing down the high table, Elise saw that it was an interesting assembly. Hadwisa of Gloucester, John's intended bride, was at the far end, seated beside Geoffrey, who was next to John. John, the second most important individual in the kingdom, was seated next to Richard. Beside Richard, of course, sat Eleanor. And then there was Elise herself. Beside her, at the moment, was an empty place, and beyond it, three more seats. Who were they for? she wondered.

The wonder was not to last long. At first Elise thought that Richard had risen and stood behind her; the shadow on the wall created by a flickering candle could only belong to a very tall man. Then she heard his voice, light and sardonic.

"It seems we shall share a goblet this evening. How pleasant. I shall do the gallant thing, of course, and allow you, good Duchess, to drink first. I shall then drink free of the worry of poison."

Blood rushed heatedly to her breast, her neck, and into her cheeks. As was the custom of the day, one goblet had been placed between every other place setting; she was to share hers with Bryan Stede.

She gazed up at him, her eyes narrowing, but her lips curving into a too-sweet smile. "Dear Sir Stede! I wouldn't drink too recklessly, were I you! If I am truly a ‘bitch of Satan'—which you have been wont to call me—I can surely drink deeply of poison myself with little harm befalling me."

His brow raised as he scraped back his chair and took his seat, his thigh brushing hers. "Nay, Duchess, I labeled you incorrectly. You are nothing but flesh and blood, equipped with long nails and a scathing tongue. Ah . . . ah!" he warned suddenly when she would have retorted. "Speak gently, Duchess. Break no illusions. Here comes your intended."

Dismay, like a pool of black liquid, quickly filled Elise's heart as her eyes followed Bryan Stede's line of vision.

Percy was indeed coming toward them.

Tears stung her eyes as she saw him; he looked wonderful: so slim and stately, his features so timely hewn, his changeable hazel eyes soulful and intense as they met hers.

She could not forget the things he had said and done . . .

But neither could she forget that she had loved him . . . perhaps loved him still, since her heart could not always obey her pride.

He did not come to her first; he greeted the royal family. Richard introduced him warmly to Eleanor. But then he was before Elise, and he was bowing low over her hand. She felt the touch of his lips on her flesh, heard his soft whispered query as to her welfare.

And she knew that Stede was watching her, staring at her. Smiling that sardonic, mocking grin of his as he watched the interplay of courtesies between them . . .

Then it was over. Percy was straightening. But he was turning to Bryan . . .

"Stede." Percy acknowledged Bryan with a curt nod.

"Montagu," Bryan returned, nodding in kind.

There was a friction between the two men, some indefinable thing that lurked and hovered in the air.

Then that, too, was gone. Percy moved on. Elise realized that Will Marshal had come to the head table, escorting a lovely young woman, and that he was introducing her to Percy as his new bride.

She felt Bryan Stede's eyes upon her again and she reached convulsively for the wine goblet, only to find his long-fingered grip there before hers. She raised her eyes to his.

"I'm surprised that you did not ask for your betrothed to be seated near you, Duchess."

Elise ignored the comment and said, "Sir Stede, if you wish to assure yourself that your wine is not poisoned, may I suggest that you let go of the goblet and allow me a drink?"

He did so, but he continued to stare at her. She took a long sip of wine, not relinquishing the goblet to him.

"Where is your betrothed this evening, Sir Stede?"

"Alas, still in London. And alas, she is not my betrothed as of yet. Richard intends to allow me no time until after he is crowned."

"Ah, what a pity!" Elise commiserated sarcastically. "Our soon-to-be-crowned king keeps you on pins and needles! And so I still outrank you, sir! How that must frustrate you! Land and wealth . . . so close . . . within your grasp!"

"Land—and sweet beauty!" he reminded her with his grin unaltered.

"It would indeed be a pity if it all slipped through your fingers," Elise murmured sweetly.

He leaned closer to her. "But it will not. And with each day that passes, I come nearer my goals. Take heart!"

"Me? Whatever for?"

"Because each day we come closer to that day when we can part our ways. To a day when I shall not be tempted to strangle you because I will not be close enough to do so . . ."

Elise smiled sweetly and drained the wine goblet. "Oh, yes, Sir Stede, I do take heart. I do."

There was to be no more conversation between them then. Marshal—a changed and radiantly smiling Marshal—greeted them both. His young bride, Isabel de Clare, was a soft-spoken and gentle beauty. She appeared to be happy with her warrior husband, and Elise felt a touch of wistful envy sweep through her.

Isabel was young and very attractive. But though her marriage had been arranged, she had been granted one of the kindest and most considerate men ever to draw brave steel for his king. While she . . .

She could only pray that Percy kept his own counsel—at least until her own plans were complete.

* * *

The trouble did not begin until the meal was long over, until the musicians had played, until the assembled guests had applauded and cheered.

Elise had paused to talk longer with Isabel and Will Marshal. They had been married a little more than a week ago, and both were pleased to speak of their London wedding. Elise instinctively liked Isabel. She was an intelligent and quiet woman, perfect for Elise's dear Will. And when Elise listened to the happy chatter about the wedding, she could truly forget her own situation and be warmed by the pleasure she felt for the newly wed pair.

It was when she exited the hall into the courtyard, poised and relaxed, that she was startled into instant alarm by the sound of a surly voice, arguing too loudly from the shade of a far arbor.

"'Twas you, Stede! And you'd no right to take what was mine. You owe me a debt—"

"What I took belonged to no one but the lady involved. And that was little enough, Percy, for her heart remained steadfast to you."

Elise cringed inwardly, looking anxiously about herself. Percy's voice was rising with each word. But even as dread filled her like something horribly alive, she realized that only she, Will, and Isabel stood within the courtyard to hear the exchange between the two formally dressed knights.

"You raped her—"

Hoarse laughter interrupted Percy. "Is that what she said? Perhaps she forgot to explain the circumstances. I tell you this; I acted as I did with no knowledge of your concern with the lady. The situation was . . . unique."

"You will apologize! You will beg my pardon, and you will pay me a compensation for what—"

"I will beg your pardon for nothing, Percy Montagu!" Bryan suddenly raged with impatience.

Percy has drunk far too much, Elise thought with alarm as she watched him swing wildly at Stede. Bryan Stede stepped back, and Percy fell to the ground. But he was up quickly, wielding a dagger this time.

They were in full view now, free from the shadow of the arbor. Stede knocked Percy's arm away when the dagger would have torn into his arm. Then he stepped forward with his fingers wound into a fist and took steady aim at Percy's chin. Percy crumpled to the floor.

Elise forgot all about Will and Isabel; she even forgot about Stede. As Percy fell to the hard stone of the courtyard, she raced to him, dropping to her knees. Cradling his head in her lap, she stared furiously up to Stede.

"Beast!"

It was one of those times that his eyes appeared black: deep, dark, and fathomless. He started to speak, then shrugged his shoulders.

"You do owe him!" Elise charged. "You had no right to . . . to . . ."

"I did not begin the quarrel."

"You could have had the decency—"

"To allow him to stab me? My apologies, Duchess. Perhaps I am a beast. My instinct to survive is too strong for me to act the gallant in such a situation."

Elise glanced back to Percy as he groaned. She smoothed his hair from his forehead, biting her lip as she anxiously ran her fingers over his flesh, searching out serious injury. "You did defend me," she murmured tenderly, barely aware that she had spoken aloud.

Stede laughed, a sound that was harsh and bitter.

"Defended you? Duchess, the ‘apology' he wanted was a monetary one."

Elise glanced up quickly. "You're lying!" she charged, but her voice was a weak whisper; she had already learned ideals and truths often did not mesh.

Stede never answered. Percy's eyes opened and stared at her, numbed with wine and pain.

"Stede . . . has the rewards. The prize is always his . . ."

"I'm not his, Percy," Elise said softly. "And I'm not a prize."

"But you were . . ." His voice faded away as his eyes met Stede's, far above him. "He is always first. And he never seeks to rectify."

"What would you have me rectify, Percy?" Bryan demanded in exasperation, throwing his hands up.

"Elise . . ."

"Elise?" Bryan's arms crossed over his chest and he stared at her, his dark eyes narrowed, but his stance patient, his tone polite. Elise found herself unable to speak under his scrutiny, and Bryan returned his gaze to Percy. "Perhaps she should explain what happened to you in greater detail. I did not ride to Montoui and snatch her away. Indeed, the duchess presented herself to me with a most intriguing lie upon her lips." His piercing gaze was riveted on Elise once again. "Do you deny this, my lady? If so, please speak. I am open to debate on any point."

"Elise?" Percy queried painfully.

She did not answer Percy; she spoke to Stede. "Before God, how I loathe you!"

He shrugged. "Duchess, you have not exactly endeared yourself to my heart. I make no accusations; you and I both know to what I refer." His eyes turned back to Percy, and Elise hated the pity she saw within them. "But on that, I can say nothing more. It is her affair if she wishes to speak of it. Quite frankly, I am still in the dark myself. But every move I made that night was rational; I will offer no apologies. But take heart, Sir Percy. She despises me. And she is apparently deeply in love with you."

"In love!" Percy choked, and the bitterness spilled from him like wine from an overfull cup. "Stede—"

A throat was suddenly cleared, intentionally loud. Elise gazed quickly back toward Will Marshal, and realized that the sound had indeed been a warning.

Richard Plantagenet was striding into the courtyard, his bearing, his swagger, that of the truly irritated ruler.

"God's teeth! I would know what goes on here!"

No one spoke. Richard's sharp gaze lit upon Percy, down upon the ground, upon Elise, and upon Bryan. Bryan compressed his lips in a tight line. Will Marshal, seeing that the debacle was reaching a dangerously explosive level, stepped forward.

"Your Grace, it is nothing. A personal quarrel that sirs Stede and Montagu must settle between themselves."

"Damn you both!" Richard roared. He had a voice to fill the courtyard, and he enjoyed the pageantry of using it. "We seek to bring a peaceful transition to England—and two of my most valued knights tear at each other's throats. Whose quarrel is this?"

Stede remained silent. Percy spoke up sullenly. "'Tis my quarrel, Your Grace."

"Do you wish to challenge Sir Stede to a joust, or perhaps to swordplay?"

Elise, so close to Percy, both heard and felt the grind of his teeth. He stood, helping her rise to her feet. For a moment, he gazed bitterly at Stede. Then he turned to Richard.

"No, Your Grace. You will need us both in the days to come."

Richard graced them all with his angry lion's stare. "Then we will hear no more of this. Sir Percy, I commend your good sense. If I hear of further trouble, you will both enjoy a taste of a cold London dungeon until you can learn to cool your tempers. Am I well understood?"

"Aye, Your Grace," Percy mumbled.

"Stede!" Richard barked.

"'Twas never my quarrel, Your Grace." He stared at Elise for a moment, then returned his attention to Richard. "I bear Sir Percy no grudge."

Richard had nothing else to say. With a final, heated stare at the group of them, he swung about, his mantle flying majestically, to return to the manor.

Will, fearing more trouble despite Richard's stern warnings, came hurriedly to Bryan Stede's side. "Bryan—"

"I'm coming, Will." He inclined his head to Elise, and then to Percy. "Duchess . . . Sir Montagu . . ."

Will began to breathe a sigh of relief. But before he and Bryan had taken two steps, Percy was railing against Bryan again.

"I'll kill you yet, Stede."

Will felt his friend's muscle-hewn form stiffen; Bryan stopped in his tracks and turned back, but mercifully did not lose his temper.

"You and the duchess have much in common, Percy—a penchant for threats, and a fondness for murder. I wish you every happiness, and yet I pity you if you plan to spend your lives in pursuit of my downfall. Life should offer more than such a paltry quest."

Bryan Stede swept them a deep bow, turned about, and started to follow in Richard's footsteps with Will Marshal now at his heels. Isabel glanced uncertainly at her new husband's back, hesitated, then came to Elise.

"Please . . . don't worry. Will and I shall take none of this further than the courtyard in which we stand." She smiled, then swirled gracefully to follow Will.

Then Elise was alone with Percy. He rubbed his jaw, and his eyes met hers ruefully. "I'm sorry, Elise," he murmured, and she wondered what he meant. Was he sorry for the scene that humiliated them all before the king? Was he, perhaps, sorry that he hadn't the nerve to challenge Stede to a joust? Or was he sorry because he had wanted to love her, and had simply discovered he could not?

He grasped her hand and drew it to his lips. "I'm so very, very sorry."

But she was never to understand him, because he turned then, not for the manor, but for the emptiness of the black night.

She wanted to call him back, to say something, to do something; to reach out in some way and try to understand all that she had lost—and why. But, like the night, her heart seemed empty and dark, and she could neither move nor speak.

She could only watch him walk away.

* * *

"Lord, how I would love to confront that whey-faced Norman in a joust!" Bryan swore loudly, his boots pounding in staccato progression as he paced the floor in the London town house lent to Will and Isabel by friends. "The man looks and acts like a peacock! He accosts me—but refuses to challenge me!"

Will glanced at Isabel, who grimaced sedately and poured another cup of wine for their guest. Will sighed and, as Bryan's longtime companion, ventured his truthful opinion.

"Bryan, you can hardly blame Percy for his animosity!"

Bryan stopped his pacing and stared at Will, his hands on his hips. "Maybe I don't blame Percy. At least I don't blame him for anything other than cowardice! I blame the bitch he calls his betrothed! Were she capable of a single word of truth! Or were she capable of a discussion! But no—she poisons my wine! I swear to you, Will, the night we met, she tried with all her might to slit my throat. Then she comes to me, on her knees, no less . . . God in heaven! What did I ever do to get involved with that woman!"

Will had the audacity to laugh. "Well, my friend, I would say that at one point it must have surely been your desire to . . . get involved with that woman!"

Bryan glared balefully at Will. "I begin to hunger for the Crusade—and a thousand screaming Moslems with their swords waving at me."

"Perhaps," Isabel spoke up, her tone soft and soothing, but her words a knife that twisted and goaded his anger, "you should have asked to marry the Duchess of Montoui."

"Marry her!" Bryan exploded. "Dear God, that the devil should suffer such a fate!" But then he sighed. "Isabel, I am no more a monster than Will, here. When I knew what I had done, the thought did cross my mind. But 'tis true she vehemently wishes me dead, and 'tis equally true—as you saw this evening—that she is in love with Sir Percy. I kept silent about that night, as did she—or so I had believed. I meant her no further harm. She is betrothed to Percy, and I . . . I hope that Gwyneth and I will soon say our vows. If I truly owe a woman, it is Gwyneth I owe, for we have known each other for many years now."

Isabel listened to Bryan, offered him the cup of wine, then spoke serenely again. "I don't know, Bryan. Your anger is curious to me, as was your expression when you watched the Lady Elise give tender concern to Sir Percy." She gazed at Will, her features set in a soft smile that enhanced her young beauty. "I have come to know that expression well, Will. Do you know of what I speak?"

Will grinned broadly at his wife, then glanced slyly at Bryan. "Aye, Isabel, I know of what you speak."

"Well, I'll be damned if I understand either of you!" Bryan exclaimed.

Isabel laughed delightedly, and Bryan discovered that he envied his friend his newfound happiness. Marriage, yes, this was what marriage was meant to be. This pleasant understanding, this wonder of knowing each other. This marriage had been arranged, yet it might not have been, for the stalwart warrior and the young heiress were truly well matched.

"Bryan, if I am any judge of men and women, you do not so much despise Percy Montagu as covet what is his—or will be his."

"What?"

"'Tis my belief you yet desire the duchess."

"Lady Isabel," Bryan said with a long sigh, "I fear that marriage has caused you to take leave of your senses." He shook his head, then chuckled. "Perhaps not. She is a creature of beauty and allure. But she touches the senses, and not the heart, for she is hard and proud. Yes, maybe I desire her—as man was meant to desire woman. But I assure you, I do mean her no harm. I pray that she and Percy marry and live happily as long as they both shall live."

Isabel shrugged. "Think on this, Sir Stede. What you wish for them may not be possible. I believe that Sir Percy is very jealous of you. You both fought, but you and Will were Henry's favorites. Already Richard draws you to him, and relies upon you. Now you have taken something else from Percy."

"What? A single night with a woman? Then Percy is an idiot, for life is composed of many nights."

"You heard him," Isabel said softly. "You were first. To Percy, this means something. And you know well, Bryan Stede, that most men would feel the same. Men may wander where they will, but they expect their brides to come to their marital bed as virgins."

Bryan listened to Isabel's words and smiled thoughtfully at her. He stepped forward, took her hands in his, and kissed each palm lightly. "Truly," he told her, "had Will scoured the earth, he could have found no woman more lovely, or more wise. Will, my heartiest congratulations to you both."

He embraced Will, then turned to leave them.

"Bryan!" Will called after him. "'Tis late! Stay the night here!"

"Nay, I cannot stay." Bryan grinned. "Your happiness would haunt me to insanity. And I must return to the manor. Richard has demanded that I meet with him in Sir Matthew's study at the crack of dawn."

"Godspeed!" Isabel called after him.

Bryan waved, then departed. Will and Isabel soon heard the pounding hooves of his destrier as he rode away, his horse's gallop as wild as the anger in his heart.

Will sighed. "It is painful . . ." he murmured.

"Because they are both your dear friends," Isabel said.

"Yes."

"My lord, they are both proud, and both are possessed of tempestuous natures. They are fighters, and therefore they must wage their own battles."

"You are right, wife," Will murmured, taking her into his arms. The feel of her soft, curved body against his made his thoughts of worry and concern begin to fade. He had been blessed with this woman, beautiful, caring, wise . . .

And passionate.

And he was so new to marriage . . .

His lips touched hers with wonder, and when he looked into her eyes again, his own were dazed.

"We cannot interfere," he murmured. But already he had forgotten what it was he spoke of. He lifted her into his arms and began to blow out the candles.

* * *

But there was someone who did intend to interfere—fully.

Eleanor was up and gone when Elise awoke. She rose, still weary despite her night's sleep, and poured water from a pitcher into a bowl. She had barely washed her face before a knock sounded on the door, and a serving girl entered, bobbing a curtsy.

"Good morning, Lady Elise. His Grace, Richard Plantagenet. . ." The girl hesitated, and Elise frowned curiously, then realized that the girl was having trouble repeating Richard's words. The girl sighed, then continued. "His Majesty commands you to come to Sir Matthew's study, beyond the banqueting hall."

Elise stiffened, wondering what was afoot. Commands . . . commands! This was not an invitation, but a royal summons.

"I shall be down immediately," Elise promised the girl with a composure that belied her quaking heart. The serving girl bobbed her way out, apparently relieved that her message had been well taken.

What have I done? Elise wondered, worry furrowing into her brow as soon as the girl was gone. Nothing, she had done nothing. And Richard was her half brother! He was fond of her . . .

He was Richard—"Coeur de Lion." He was stretching his arms, flexing the muscles of power. He had battled his own father for years and years . . .

And he was about to be crowned King.

He was power, the supreme power . . .

With dread filling her heart, Elise dressed quickly, then hurried downstairs. The banqueting hall was empty; despite the early hour, the servants had long ago cleaned away the mess of the previous evening.

Double, heavy wood doors framed the study off the side of the hall. Elise hesitated before them, trying to still her pounding heart. She was the Duchess of Montoui. She had done nothing wrong. She was Richard's own blood . . .

She forced herself to knock soundly.

"Enter!"

It was the Lion-Heart's voice. He was in a rare mood for roaring. Elise held her head high, then entered the room.

Richard was seated behind Sir Surrey's worktable, a score of ledgers and parchments before him. He glanced at her, and his gaze was impersonal, sending new shivers to plague her spine. Elise noted that Eleanor was ensconced in an elaborately carved, high-backed chair near the table. Eleanor smiled vaguely at her. Elise approached the desk as Richard shuffled and arranged the parchments upon his desk.

What was this? Elise wondered fleetingly. Whatever, at least it would involve only herself, Richard, and Eleanor.

Or so she was lulled into believing at first. But then she heard a faint sound behind her, the soft shuffle of a boot. She spun about to see that they were not, after all, alone.

Bryan Stede stood by the mantel, an elbow casually leaning against it, his stance that of the knight who could relax, and yet always be alert. He was dressed formally; his fine linen tunic was a deep blue; his mantle was a shade darker, and flowed over a single shoulder. The rigidity drawn into his handsome features was severe; his expression was anything but casual. And his eyes seemed neither blue nor black; they appeared to burn with all the fires of hell.