XIV

XIV

September, 1189

London

Elise stared out from her window to the street below. The people were so plentiful that if she half closed her eyes, they seemed to combine in a great and colorful wave.

Priests, monks, peasants, merchants, and nobles all scurried about. Richard Plantagenet would be crowned king tomorrow and the spectacle could easily be a once-in-a-lifetime affair.

The last month had been spent in preparation for the event. Holy fathers had rehearsed their chants for hours; seamstresses and tailors had sewn garments until their fingers were raw but their purses were full; and the nobility had flocked in from all over England, as well as neighboring Scotland and the Continent. Richard had inherited vast provinces on the Continent, but even those who owed their allegiance elsewhere had come for the pageantry—and for the sake of curiosity. The Lion-Heart was about to be duly crowned King of England.

Donkey carts mingled along with the fine, polished coaches of the landed and titled aristocracy. Occasionally a cry of fury erupted as a chamberpot was emptied from a town house window, but for the most part, priest, peasant, soldier, merchant, and lady moved through the street with little difficulty. The sheriff of London had things well in hand; armed knights were stationed throughout the town, and there were few willing to create a disturbance on this, Richard's most holy day. Richard, with his flare for the dramatic, wanted the streets to overflow with people hoping for just a sight of him. There were but two guiding lights in the eyes of the average man, and those lights were God and King. The only people un welcome at the event would be those who did not love and embrace Christ, and that meant London's Jews.

Elise knew that Richard meant to protect his Jewish community, for its people were, on the whole, educated and industrious. They kept together, and they were necessary, for they were moneylenders. And when a man defaulted to a moneylender, or should that moneylender die, the debt was owed threefold to the king.

In Henry's day, the king and the Jewish community had maintained a relationship that was distant, but peaceful. Richard intended to carry on that tradition.

But as Elise stared down at the colors of the street, she noted that she saw no yellow, the color worn by the Jews. The Christian population was too easily whipped to a frenzy these days against anyone who was not Christ's disciple. God's knights had been fighting the disbelievers in the Holy Land for many years now, warring against the Saracens, Arabs, and Turks, and now, if one was not a Christian, one was an enemy.

"Milady?"

Elise turned from the window as she heard Jeanne's voice querying her softly. Jeanne had been with her for three weeks now, and she still seemed nervous—about London, about the events that were taking place. She knew Elise, and although Elise had confided her well-laid plans to no one, she felt that Jeanne sensed she was up to something.

"Is it time?" Elise asked blandly.

"Aye, Elise, it is time. Will Marshal waits to escort you to the chapel. He asks that you make haste since His Grace, Richard Plantagenet, takes time from this busiest of days to stand as sponsor for you before your bridegroom."

"I am ready," Elise said smoothly. She was ready. She had been dressed for hours. Since she had not dared insult either Richard or Bryan with a flagrant lack of concern for her own wedding, she had donned the stunning gown of ice blue made especially for the occasion. Her mirror of hammered metal had assured her that she appeared the perfect bride—or offering. The shift she wore beneath the gown was of the softest white silk; the tunic had flowing, angled sleeves that were trimmed with elegant white fox. Her headdress was delicate, combining gauze silks of both blue and white, and crowned with a row of gleaming sapphires and gold fleur-de-lis.

It mattered not, Elise decided, that the bride herself was as pale as snow, or that her eyes were huge sheets of turquoise, and seemed far too large for her face. She had pretended to no one that she entered into marriage happily; the artificial trappings, those that designated her obedience to her king despite her own wishes, were all that was important.

"Your cloak, Elise," Jeanne said.

The protecting garment was swept around her, and then she was moving down the stairs to meet Will and Isabel, who spoke with her current hostess, Mistress Wells, a plump, childless widow who had been only too happy to welcome a ward of the Lion-Heart into her home.

"Ah, Lady Elise! You are lovely!" Mistress Wells cried, her radiant smile sincere. "Pippa!" she called to her maid. "We must have a toast to the Lady Elise."

Wine, served in elegant red glass chalices that were reserved for only the most special occasions, appeared. Elise drained hers quickly. She knew that both Will and Isabel were watching her closely, their expressions a mixture of pity and fear.

Fear—that she would act rashly and cast them all into a state of turmoil the day before Richard's greatest moment.

Elise thanked Mistress Wells for the wine, then turned to Will. "Let's get on with it, shall we?" she queried.

The chapel where she was to be married was but a street away; with the crowds, however, Will had decided that they should ride. He was very awkward and uncomfortable himself, and, therefore, he rode in front of the ladies, his ear attuned to whatever advice his own bride might have for the reluctant duchess.

Isabel was doing her best to ignore cheerfully the fact that Elise despised her husband-to-be. "'Tis strange, isn't it?" she inquired of Elise. "I'd heard so much of Will, yet never met him! All I knew was that a knight reputed to be fierce was coming to be my groom. I cannot tell you all the horrible things I imagined, knowing that he was twice my age. But then he was before me, and he was not fierce at all, but gentle and well mannered. I hated the thought of marriage, yet it has brought me nothing but happiness."

That is because you married Will Marshal, and not Bryan Stede, Elise thought. But she replied to Isabel with a vague smile. Will and Isabel had offered her nothing but kindness; she could not make them any more miserable about their task as escorts than they already were. And she remembered poignantly that it had been Isabel who had come to spend the day with her—conversing nonstop about flowers, laces, meat, anything to keep her mind occupied—on that morning several weeks past when she had heard that Sir Percy Montagu had willingly—no, eagerly—married the heiress Gwyneth of Cornwall.

Elise knew that they had reached the chapel; Richard had come in secret, but men-at-arms lined the street and guarded the doorway. Will helped her dismount from her horse, and the guards gave way.

The chapel was dim, lit by no more than twenty candles. Elise saw the friar standing at the altar; she saw Richard, royal and formidable in a rich violet cape. She felt Isabel, squeezing her arm reassuringly. "What a splendid groom!" she whispered. "Surely all the women in the land would envy you such a magnificent man!" she added with a soft sigh of envy.

Elise allowed her eyes to fall on Bryan. He stood beyond the Lion-Heart, and was every bit as formidable. His shirt, like hers, was white, and trimmed with Spanish lace. His tunic was red velvet; his legs, sheathed in white hose, gave evidence of the sinewed strength of his hard, lean muscled frame. His mantle, pinned at one shoulder by a silver broach, was the black for which he had become known, and its angle enhanced the knightly breadth of his shoulders.

Embroidered into the back of the mantle, Elise noted bitterly, was the new coat-of-arms that now belonged to him: a shield, comprised of four sections. The falcon—an insignia bestowed upon him by Henry; the crossed swords of Montoui; the flying hawk that indicated his new holdings, which spread along the Welsh border; and the charging stallion of his counties in Cornwall.

He watched her in return. She had taken great care to avoid him until this day, and now she wished that she hadn't. She had forgotten how his eyes could fall upon her, so deeply blue that they seemed to match the black of his mantle; fathomless and compelling, piercing into her as if they could possess her soul . . . warning . . . threatening.

"Elise?" It was Richard who spoke; all else seemed suspended in motionless time. His hand stretched out to her. The candles, the incense, the silence of those around her seemed to envelop her. It was a misty dream, she convinced herself—one that must be endured so that she might awaken elsewhere . . .

She stepped forward and accepted Richard's hand. He nodded to the monk and pressed her hand in Bryan Stede's.

She wanted to wrench free, to disclaim the possession she felt in his firm touch. Her eyes met his and found them blue again, filled with mockery and triumph. The monk began speaking; Elise did not hear him. She felt the force of Bryan's hand as he pulled her down beside him so that they were on their knees together, facing the monk. Still, she didn't hear the words. She watched Bryan's chest as it rose and fell with the easy rhythm of his breathing; she felt the warmth of his body emanating about her. He was newly shaven, and a fresh scent of soap lingered about him, and something else, something very faint, and masculine. A pleasant scent that was his alone as a man: clean, but as unique as he. A halting reminder that although time had taken them apart so that they met now almost as strangers, she had known him, and would never forget the night in which they had met.

"Elise de Bois?"

The monk was uncomfortably prodding her with his stern voice. She was supposed to speak. He told her the words again, and she forced her lips to move, to repeat them.

And then Bryan was speaking. His words did not falter, as did hers; they were strong and clear.

The glowing light of the candles seemed to mesh together; it was too hot. She was being engulfed by a swirling darkness that threatened to plunge her into a senseless void. The heat and the powerful, innate tension that belonged to the man beside her became oppressive.

Elise clenched her teeth tightly together. She would not pass out; she would not give way to either fear or hatred . . .

The monk was speaking quickly, very quickly, relieved that his task was almost done. He offered mass with nervously trembling fingers, then muttered a last blessing in Latin, and sighed loudly.

Stede was pulling her to her feet. Then his hand was upon the small of her back; the touch was firm; as calculated and coolly victorious as the narrowed indigo eyes that turned to her.

"'Tis done!" Richard cried jovially. But his impatience was apparent. He stepped forward, clapped Bryan upon the back, and kissed Elise upon the cheek. "We've time for no more than to raise a cup to this union, so let it be done! Elise, my mother awaits the assistance of yourself and Lady Isabel at Westchester Palace. Bryan, I am sorry to offer you such a bride and demand that you leave her, but there is still much to be done before tomorrow."

"Such is life, Your Grace," Bryan replied cordially, his tone belying the unease he was feeling. The wedding ceremony had gone too smoothly; it was true that she had faltered and whispered her vows, but Elise had spoken them without a knife at her throat. When he looked into her eyes, he knew that she was anything but reconciled to the situation. She is my wife now, he reminded himself. As Richard had said, it was done. Elise was his, as were all the titles, lands, and wealth that she brought him.

Still, he did not like the look in her wide, turquoise eyes. They were calmly defiant when they met his. The hostility he expected to find within them was tempered, as if . . .

As if she didn't at all accept what had happened.

Richard was leading them out to the portico of the chapel, where one of his retainers had appeared to offer them wine; there should have been a feast for a wedding, but the soon-to-be monarch had warned them previously that they should have to dispense with the customary meal. Bryan knew that Richard was already chaffing with impatience, determined to be back at work planning the morrow and his reign to follow. "'Tis to Trefallen Castle I suggest you give the most care," Richard told Bryan as they drank the wine. "I cannot allow you leave to go until things are settled here, but it is your wealthiest holding, and falling to disrepair since the death of the old lord."

Bryan nodded. He had inspected the deeds and ledgers of all his new holdings since Richard had given him the complete list, and he knew that his wealth lay at Trefallen. Elise, he was certain, assumed that Montoui would be their main residence. She would have to accept the fact that she was to live in Cornwall. It was better, he decided. Kinder, in the long run, to her. At Montoui, she would feel her own power, and try to fight him. Taken from her home and those who thronged to serve her, she would better accept her role as wife.

"I shall make Trefallen my first concern, as soon as it is convenient," Bryan promised Richard.

Richard finished his wine. "We must leave, and adhere to business," he said, beckoning a guard to dispose of his cup. Bryan made a pretense of finishing his wine while he watched Elise. She was speaking with Isabel as she sipped her wine, but as if she felt his eyes upon her, she turned to him.

It was almost as if she smiled.

He didn't like it.

She had taken the proper pains with her appearance for the day; indeed, he had never seen her look more beautiful. The youth and perfection of her form were accented by the soft material of her clinging gown; the sapphires that crowned her golden headdress caught the gemstone quality of her eyes and made them dazzling. Her hair was loose beneath the headdress, flowing in thick, lustrous waves that beguiled a man's fingers to caress those tresses. A straying tendril swept and curled over the provocative fullness of her breasts, and he found himself imagining her disrobed, allowing his hands to entangle freely in that lock of hair, and cup around the feminine softness beneath.

Would she fight him still? he wondered bitterly. Or, as she had warned, would she endure him, and dream of Percy with his every touch upon her?

A flash of heat as intense as a blacksmith's fire swept through him; he wanted to take her now. He did not trust her, and he railed silently against Richard for arranging his wedding this way. An hour would have been enough—enough to take that secretive smile from her lips, and convince her that what had been done was real. She was his wife, his property—his to possess. Perhaps it would take time to wipe all thoughts of Percy Montagu from her heart and mind, but in just an hour, he could have made a damned good beginning. He did not want to hurt her, just teach her that he was all the male she ever possibly could hope to handle, and exhaust her so with his imprint that she would tire of her hostility and bow to the inevitable.

Bryan compressed his lips. He did not dare to dream yet of a future when she would greet him with pleasure and curve her lips into a winning smile that was meant to welcome and seduce. But he was older and wiser than she was, and aware that, whether she begrudged him or not, she was blessed with youth, vibrant health—and an inherent sensuality. She might well revile him; but, by God, she would accept him, and she would not be able to deny herself.

"Bryan," Richard repeated impatiently. "The lords from Normandy await my council, and the sheriff of London is eager to finalize the guard arrangements for tomorrow night's banquet." He lowered his voice to a comradely whisper. "You may leave the banquet early, and claim your bride then, and I shall give you a royal promise not to disturb your privacy for three full days. Enough time, I should warrant, for any man to satisfy his lust!"

It is the now that is so important, Bryan thought fleetingly, noting again that calmly defiant look in his bride's eyes. But Richard had granted him great wealth, greater than he had ever imagined. He had bestowed upon him a high place within the nobility. He had no right to dispute the Lion-Heart. What, after all, was one more day? He had upheld his agreement and stayed away from Elise until this day. Tomorrow night, Richard would be indisputably king, and he could give his full attention to his private affairs.

Still . . .

"One minute more, Your Grace," Bryan said to Richard. "I've yet to kiss my bride."

Elise, pretending an interest in Isabel's conversation, yet longing to be away, could not hide her alarm when Bryan took a sudden, and very deliberate, step toward her. She saw the cool determination in his eyes, and she almost panicked, stepping away from him when he stood near her, towering over her, forcing her chin to tilt back to continue to meet his eyes. He smiled as his arms came sweeping around her, and she felt the hardness of his body. He bent low, enfolding her full against him, and claiming her lips with a slow deliberation. Something, as always, filled her with his touch. Something that was sweet, seeping to stain her soul as wine spread its stain over cloth. Something that was fire, invading her, enveloping her. Something that stunned her against her will, and left her bereft of all reason to fight . . .

Fight. She could not fight. she was standing before Richard, and she was Bryan's wife. So the kiss went on; her mouth gave way to Bryan's, her lips molded pliantly to his. She felt his tongue upon her teeth, finding hers, ensweeping it, caressing it. Strength seemed to fail her; the muted glow of the candles spun and dimmed and began to mist again. His left hand was strong upon the small of her back; his right cupped and supported her head. She could barely breathe; and she became aware of only his dizzying scent, and the sweet taste of the wine that lingered upon his tongue.

A ribald jolt of laughter at last interrupted the kiss. "Come, Stede, the girl is yours for a lifetime!" Richard exclaimed impatiently.

Bryan drew away from Elise; he smiled as he saw that he needed to steady her. But his smile faded as he saw the seething anger fill her eyes again, and he bowed low to her, mocking her with his own gaze.

Richard stepped forward to kiss her quickly on the cheek once again, and at that moment, Elise hated him as thoroughly as she did Stede. "Girl," he had called her. She was his blood, and he might care for her, but only when it was convenient. It had been convenient to fulfill propriety, and still richly reward Bryan Stede with her. But Bryan was the more important individual to Richard; Elise saw that clearly now. Brother, king—traitor . . . was all that she could think and feel.

She was still steadying her wobbling knees as Bryan gave her a final glance—as full of promise and warning as his kiss—and followed the bellowing Richard out of the chapel.

Tears sprang to Elise's eyes; she blinked them away impatiently as she instinctively raised her fingers to her mouth, as if she could brush away the taste of Bryan's lips. She caught Will Marshal's eyes upon her, and they were pitying. Was it because he knew the man who had married her? But Will was Bryan's friend. Maybe it was because he knew how the man who had married her felt about her . . .

She straightened her back, fighting to regain the strength Bryan had somehow managed to rob from her. She smiled at Isabel, and then Will. "Shall we go ourselves? We mustn't keep the queen waiting."

Will exhaled as if he had been holding his breath for a long time; he slipped one arm around his wife, and one around Elise, then proceeded to escort them to the street, where guards flanked around them. He delivered the two women to Westminster Palace, where they would attend Eleanor, and then hurried off to join Richard.

Elise endured the queen's congratulations and good wishes, and sat to discuss the proprieties for the next day's coronation. She listened carefully to the queen's words regarding her obligations in greeting the guests, and noted with great relief that she had planned well; she would be free in plenty of time to make good her disappearance. Bryan Stede would never rob her of her strength and reason again. The marriage kiss was the last he would take from her.

As dusk fell, she was relieved of service, and allowed to return to Mistress Wells's town house. Her hostess—who had generously offered the town house to the young couple for "those days of bliss following a wedding!"—had already departed for a sister's residence.

Elise, feeling a bit guilty since she had grown extremely fond of Mistress Wells, was nevertheless relieved that she was gone. She was alone with only a houseful of discreet servants, and, of course, Jeanne.

The latter was to cause Elise more difficulty than Elise had expected.

"I'm sure," Jeanne told her as she carefully helped her out of the elegant blue gown, "that you haven't eaten a thing all day. I'm going to the kitchen myself to see to a full meal, and then I'm going to put you to bed. You'll have need of a good night's sleep before the ceremonies tomorrow, and then tomorrow night . . ."

Elise clenched her jaw tightly as Jeanne's voice trailed away uncertainly. She spoke impatiently. "I'm not at all hungry, Jeanne. Nor am I ready for bed. I've a letter to write, and then we must sit down together to talk."

Jeanne's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Milady, what are you about? I know how you felt about this knight, Stede, but things have surely been righted by this wedding—at Richard's command. I was so pleased to watch you accept what was surely the best solution under God; and now you are his wife and sworn to obedience—"

The use of the word "obedience" was the final element that caused Elise's temper to flare. "Jeanne! I can bear no more!"

Elise swept her nightgown from the servant's hands and slipped it impatiently over her head. "I need parchment and a quill," she said firmly, her voice brooking no interference.

Jeanne pursed her lips together, but supplied the requested items with no further word. Elise sat on her bed and leaned over a trunk of her clothing with the parchment laid upon it and the quill in her hand. She had mentally composed the note many times; it took her only a second now to refresh the words in her mind.

"Stede," she addressed it, purposely withholding any of his titles, and most certainly not referring to him as her husband. She began to move the quill quickly over the parchment:

I have recently heard of a problem in my Duchy of Montoui. As not to ruin Richard's day, or press your mind with further worry, I leave this note, rather than bother you with a discussion. I wish you my best with your Cornish holdings, and I pray God keep you when you depart on the most noble Crusade.

She did not affix her signature to the note; when he found it upon the bed the next night, he would know whom it was from, just as surely as he would know its meaning. Montoui was hers, and she would rule it alone. If he contested such a claim, she would use all her forces against him. He was welcome to everything else that the marriage had brought him.

She was studying her words when Jeanne challenged her again. "Milady, what are—"

"Sit down, Jeanne," Elise said. She waited until her disgruntled maid sat uneasily upon the foot of the bed, then continued. "I have no intent of becoming nothing more than a useful vassal to Bryan Stede. I—"

"You're his wife!" Jeanne gasped out.

"As Richard ordered. I did nothing to fight that. But I will not live with him, or be ordered about by him. I have sent messages home, Jeanne, arranging for an escort to meet us at Bruges, and take us safely on to Montoui."

"You plan to travel through England to the crossing alone? That is madness, Elise!"

"Jeanne, I'll remind you that I am your duchess," Elise said primly. "I do not plan on traveling through England—or even to make the crossing—alone. Tomorrow night at ten we are to meet a party of holy sisters at the river Thames. They have come for the coronation, but plan to leave London tomorrow night. We will travel with them, and be entirely safe from wayfarers."

"Milady, this is foolhardy. I cannot allow you to walk out on your husband, and to so flagrantly defy Richard!"

"Jeanne—" Elise leaned over and firmly grasped Jeanne about the wrist to draw her full attention. "This is what I will do. And so help me, by Christ, I will see that your tongue is sliced from your mouth if you betray me! If you choose not to come, that is your affair. But I will leave."

Jeanne was silent for several minutes, meeting Elise's glare. The girl was dead-fast determined. Jeanne allowed her eyes to fall with a soft sigh. There had been a time when she understood; when she had hated Bryan Stede as much as she loved Elise. But that had been when her lady had been dishonored; she had even taken secret pains to see that Elise's honor had been avenged. But now, with marriage, honor had been returned. Most ladies of breeding were wed without choice or consent; it was the way of the world. Elise was creating a road of deeper misery for herself to desert and humiliate the man she had married—a man who was not, Jeanne was certain, the type to forget and forgive such treachery.

"Milady," Jeanne began again, but she saw the stubborn set to Elise's jaw, and knew that nothing would change her mind. She loved Elise as she might have her own child. She would never leave her.

"What of the banquet?" Jeanne asked.

Elise smiled brilliantly, and laughed with a sound more sweet than Jeanne had heard come from her mistress in a long time. "You shall await me at the rear door of the banqueting hall. You'll be quite safe; Richard has men stationed all about. You'll have a cart; I've already purchased it; it will be here tomorrow. I'll leave the banquet as soon as it's safe to do so, cover myself with the simple wool cloak that you'll bring, and we'll be on our way."

"I don't like it," Jeanne murmured.

"We must pack," Elise said, ignoring the words. "And then it's true; we will need a good night's sleep."

* * *

The streets were filled like an overfull cup; the crowd hustled and shoved, and the Lion-Heart's men were hard put to hold back the cheering throng. But the pageantry was magnificent. Cloth covered the ground from the palace to the abbey, and first the highest clergymen, and then the most powerful nobles, would precede Richard along the path to his coronation.

Summer flowers were thrown; the monks raised their trained voices high in chant. And then, Richard was before them, acknowledging his people with nods, absorbing their idolization. He was wonderful to the people: a beautiful, muscled soldier of God; a king who would make them proud and England great.

Elise was not a part of the procession, but she had a special place reserved for her along with Queen Eleanor, Isabel de Clare, and John's new bride. She watched the proceedings, feeling every bit as awed as any spectator. The clergy and the nobles were all decked out in their finest dress; gold, silks, furs and jewels abounded, and she felt the sense of excitement as a child would . . .

Until Bryan Stede passed.

He walked with Will Marshal and Prince John, and the crowds went wild when the three passed. Bryan and Will had long been famed as "England's" champions, and John, well, John was Richard's brother; his boyish sins could be forgotten for today.

Elise barely noticed John; her eyes were upon the man who stood a head taller than he. Bryan was dressed in crimson today, and with his dark eyes serving as a sharp contrast of color, he was arrestingly handsome. He nodded to the crowds, as did Will, accepting their homage gracefully. Like Richard, he was a man to give them pride. A proven soldier, stately, masculine, and heartachingly handsome to boot.

If only they knew him! Elise thought bitterly. Then she paled suddenly, for he was before her, and his eyes were upon her. He bowed low to her; Eleanor laughed delightedly and cheered, and the crowd took up the cheer. Such a knight should have a young and lovely lady, and just as the crowd loved pageantry, it loved a good romance. Elise saw that Bryan's eyes were filled with sardonic mockery; the crowd did not. There was little she could do but smile graciously, and wish that the day would end so that she could make good her escape.

The procession went on into the abbey; here Elise had a place. She watched Richard humble himself before his people, swear to protect and defend them, and then be crowned King of England. The crowd went wild, welcoming him to their hearts. If there were any dissenters, Richard's guards had seen that they had no voice.

The parade and the religious ceremony took most of the day; it was dusk when Richard made his last appearance before the crowd, then ducked into the banqueting hall. There was still a crowd about him, for hundreds of guests had been invited. But these guests were the nobility. Silks and furs and jewels filled the hall.

Even entering with Eleanor, Elise found herself jostled about and brushed and bruised as she followed the queen to the head table. Drink was already flowing freely—mead, ale, and wine—and it quickly appeared to Elise that England's nobility was pleased for any occasion to behave as drunks, the ladies no less than the lords.

She tensed as she felt a hand upon her shoulder, and spun about to see that Bryan had at last caught up with her. "Good evening, wife," he said softly.

He was not among those who had been imbibing freely, she noted instantly. He was dead sober, which made his grim smile all the more difficult to tolerate. Elise did not resist his grip, but neither did she reply to his greeting.

"We are, I believe, at the head table, seated to the left of Eleanor. I understand that we will be by Percy and Gwyneth. It should lead to an interesting evening."

Bryan saw the blood drain from her features, leaving her face pale and strained. So she still craves Percy! he thought, and he fought desperately to control the fury that rose within him with reason, reminding himself that she had been deeply in love with the man—happenstance had worked against her. Bryan grated his jaws hard together and swallowed to keep his voice even. Tonight was his; he might have to watch his wife adore Percy with her eyes, but he would be the one to take her home, and if he left a dozen candles burning throughout the night, she would know that it was not Percy Montagu who held her.

"Come," he said more kindly, "let's take our seats." She still did not speak to him, and as he led her through the crowd, he wondered at his fury, and his emotion. Marriage . . . it was a legal matter, meant for the procreation of legal heirs. It was a contract. He had always considered it so. He had cared for Gwyneth, enjoyed her sweet spirit and willing embrace. Yet he had accepted her marriage to Percy easily. Regret, yes, he had felt a tug of regret. But nothing like this . . . fury . . . that consumed him senselessly over a woman he had touched but once, and would need to watch like a hawk just to assure himself that she wasn't ready to take a blade to his back.

Possession, he told himself dryly. A man was always ready to fight for his possessions. He would fight readily for the land so recently given to him; with equal fervor he would protect his horse, his castles, his crops—and his wife.

"Bryan!" His name was called with cheerful delight as they reached the head table. He saw Gwyneth, and smiled in return, then extended his greeting to the scowling Percy, who rose beside her.

"Sir Percy," he said with a nod, trying to ignore the fact that Percy's eyes were upon Elise, and that Elise was returning his stare. "Gwyneth, I don't believe that you and Elise have met as yet."

"No, and 'tis a great pity, for we are to be neighbors!" Gwyneth exclaimed enthusiastically.

Elise tried to return the smile offered to her by the dazzling Gwyneth, but the awkward situation was not so easy for her to handle. How can you smile at me so when it is I who am wed to this man who you . . . loved? And bedded. She wanted to shriek.

Gwyneth's smile seemed to be sincere. She was a beautiful woman with snapping dark eyes, beautifully translucent, fair skin, and thick, midnight hair that enhanced the beauty of her pale features. Elise could not resist a glance at Bryan. Was he looking at Gwyneth and seeing her as she was? Or did he, in his mind, strip her of her finery and imagine the times that they had shared together in sweet and eager passion?

Suddenly, she hated Bryan all the more fiercely. He had slept with Gwyneth, and with her. And Gwyneth had slept with Bryan, and now, with her husband, Percy. Elise felt a sudden fury that the situation was not twofold. She wished fervently that she had fallen into bed with Percy that long-ago night at Montoui just so that now she might force Bryan to wonder whether she was remembering another man's touch, just as she wondered about him.

"Neighbors?" she heard herself query.

"Oh, yes!" Gwyneth said, her smile broadening with pleasure. "Our main manors are but an hour's ride apart. I so look forward to becoming friends, Elise."

Elise managed to mutter something polite in return. Whether Gwyneth was glad that she was to be her neighbor—or merely pleased that Bryan, her old lover, would be near—Elise wasn't sure. But she convinced herself that her own feelings were immaterial; she would never be Gwyneth's neighbor because she was leaving—this night. Gwyneth and Bryan were welcome to each other. And Percy! Percy deserved whatever fell his way. He had turned from her because of Bryan, but had pliantly taken Gwyneth when so offered. . .

And tonight! How could he stare at her with such longing and reproach! It was his doing. His! Yet she could not hate him, for the hurt lurked so strongly in his eyes. He looked wonderful. Lean and slender, handsome with his fine-boned features and dark-fringed, light eyes. She wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, soothe the pain that tightened his brow . . .

"You'll enjoy Cornwall, I'm sure of it!" Gwyneth said, turning to Percy. The hurt instantly left his eyes, and Elise realized that he was not at all dismayed with his marriage. "Don't you think that Elise will enjoy the countryside? It is so beautiful."

"Yes . . . I've seen it so briefly, but it is beautiful," Percy responded to her.

Elise became aware of Bryan's hand, encircling her waist. She didn't want him touching her, and she didn't want to endure any more of their polite farce. "Excuse me. I see the queen, and I promised to help her oversee the seating arrangements . . ." She managed to elude Bryan's grip easily and to move with graceful dignity toward the queen.

Bryan watched her go speculatively, then took his seat beside Gwyneth. Percy's behavior was circumspect, and the three enjoyed a surprisingly civil conversation about animal husbandry and the benefits of having a trustworthy steward to govern a fief in the owner's absence.

A stalwart knight who had apparently imbibed freely of ale hailed Percy. Percy, too, excused himself, and Bryan found that he and Gwyneth were alone. He smiled at her with the comfort of a long friendship. "How does married life go with you, Gwyneth?"

She chuckled huskily. "Well enough, Bryan. He is young, gentle, and can be very charming. But I miss you," she added with a soft insinuation. "But . . . we will be neighbors."

Bryan took her hand with a tender smile. "Gwyneth, I have wronged your husband once. I cannot, in good conscience, do so again."

Gwyneth's eyes traveled down the hall. Bryan saw that she watched Elise, who was helping Eleanor to placate a knight who had been given a position at the far rear of the hall.

"She is lovely," Gwyneth said with no rancor.

"Yes."

"But not at all pleased with the situation."

"Not at all."

"Well, remember, if life becomes too bitter, I can still be your friend."

Bryan took her hand in his and squeezed it gently, then placed a tender kiss upon it. "A good friend," he told her. "And I'll always remember."

Elise could not hear the words exchanged; she did see the chivalrous gesture, and she felt a burning of fury deep within her. She shouldn't care that he was still entranced by his old mistress; she was leaving him. But she did care. She cared because . . . because he intended to have her . . . imprison her and keep his alliance with Gwyneth all the same. Well, he could have Gwyneth this very night if he wished; she would be gone.

Elise frowned suddenly, forgetting the disturbing picture of Bryan Stede tenderly touching Gwyneth. An armored guard had just jostled his way through the drunken revelers to Stede's side. She watched Bryan's features tense and harden. He nodded to the guard, then rose and followed him out.

Elise nervously moistened her lips. If Bryan were outside, he could waylay her plans to escape.

She hesitated only a minute, then rushed through the crowd to follow Bryan at a discreet distance. But when she at last cleared the hall and reached the street, she stopped in horror.

Bodies littered the steps; men were screaming with pain, and she saw the harried sheriff of London thundering above the chaos to bring order.

"Go no further, lady!" a guard cried, stopping her.

"What has happened?" Elise cried out.

"The Jews!" the young guard exclaimed breathlessly. "They sought to honor Richard with the gifts, but the rabble went crazy. They called them the enemies of Christ, and a riot broke out. Get back inside; no one is safe here . . ."

"Oh, dear God!" Elise caught her breath as the body nearest her moved, reaching out a bony hand. The man's yellow cloak was stained with a brilliant spot of red. Blood. "He needs help!"

"His own will help him," the guard told her. "Feeling runs high against the Jews tonight; a man risks his life and reputation to give them succor. The best we can do is stop the slaughter. God Almighty! The priests are urging the people on to murder!"

"Go home! Disperse! God does not ask us to be murderers of innocent, unarmed men and women!"

The stern, deeply thundering shout at last stilled the noise of the crowd. Elise saw that it was not the sheriff who spoke, but Bryan. He was moving through the crowd, not brandishing his sword, but walking with such a vengeful fury that all gave way. "Go, I say! And seek no blood. God has given you a king this day; do not sully the gift with the spilling of blood."

The people murmured beneath their breath, but they began to move away. Tears and cries of anguish rose then, as women and children ran about to find their dead and wounded.

As Elise continued to stare with horror, she saw Bryan stop and kneel down before one of the yellow-clad bodies. He ripped a length of fabric from his mantle to bind the wound of an old man. Then, from the corner of her eye, she noted a furtive movement near Bryan. A man, who by his size and bulk and tattered, sooted clothing might well have been a smith, was moving upon Bryan with a wooden beam held high in his hand to strike—not at all ready to forget his vendetta against the Jews at the say-so of a well-clad knight.

"Bryan!" Elise heard herself shriek out. He spun about in the nick of time, wrenched the club from his would-be attacker, and broke it over his knee. "Go home, man!" he charged furiously.

The large man backed off in fear, then lowered his head in shame. He met Bryan's eyes, nodded, and departed.

Elise started, swallowing as her husband's eyes came to rest upon her once again. His look was different . . . curious. She didn't mean to walk toward him, but her feet carried her to his side nevertheless. Once there, she knelt down by the injured man.

"Go back into the hall, Elise," Bryan told her.

"This man . . . is . . . hurt," she said miserably. Her teeth were chattering.

"I'll tend to him until his family comes. Get back inside."

She met his eyes. In the darkness of the night she could read nothing in them, nor could she find anything in his voice except for a weary acceptance that the night had brought him more to handle.

"Elise, go in. I'll join you soon."

"I . . . I . . . was told that the nobility should not involve itself. . . that a man could risk his reputation . . . or his life, by helping these people. The crowd is surly and dangerous . . ."

"You did your part to save me from the crowd," Bryan said quietly. "And I will leave no unarmed, innocent man to die merely because he tried to honor his king. I care not for the temperament of the people; my reputation must stand alone. Now, please, Elise, go back inside. There are many dead out here, and many wounded. And there are still those about who are frenzied with the scent of blood. Go inside; I do not wish to have to worry about your safety."

She rose, her movements lacking their usual grace. I am not going inside, Bryan, she thought, I am running away.

But she did begin to walk. Toward the entrance to the hall. She moved like a puppet, following her plans. Jeanne would be around the corner, waiting for her—if nothing had happened to her during the riot.

Tears that she could not begin to understand stung Elise's eyes. She skirted by the entrance to the hall, and saw that Jeanne was, indeed, waiting for her. Jeanne was safe; this eastern street had not succumbed to the violence at the entrance to the hall . . .

Elise paused before hurrying toward the cart. She glanced back to try and catch a glimpse of Bryan, but Richard's guards had already thronged around him to take charge.

A tear slid down her cheek and she impatiently brushed it away. She was doing what was right, what she had to do. It was her only chance to escape Bryan Stede, to escape the plight of finding herself his wife in truth.... It was just a pity that tonight, of all nights, had to be the occasion when she had seen in him something that she had to . . . respect, and admire.