XXII

XXII

By August, even those who feared King Richard's wrath and were well aware that he did not take kindly to criticism were writing letters to their sovereign.

Chancellor Longchamp dismissed Richard's people right and left; he was in control of the White Tower in London, and therefore in control of the city. Isabel de Clare, on Will Marshal's orders, had fortified their Irish holdings and moved into her castle in Wales. Even those who did not directly fear Longchamp distrusted him. In Richard's absence, he had taken over the house.

Elise grew more and more anxious about the situation in Cornwall. The peddler became her friend, and he continued to come to Firth Manor, but he seldom brought cheerful news. Prince John had returned to England—under the pretense of saving the kingdom for his brother; Geoffrey had come, too. Now an archbishop, Geoffrey had taken refuge in a monastery; a member of Longchamp's family had ordered that he be dragged from his refuge—surely a sin against God!

Geoffrey was imprisoned by Longchamp's people, and although he was Henry II's bastard, they began to compare him to Saint Thomas à Becket, slain because of a few choice words muttered by Henry. The people began to hail Geoffrey and John; they hated Longchamp's rule, and were ready to accept John as regent in his stead. If something wasn't done quickly, a full-scale civil war would ensue. Longchamp deserved to be beaten, but many feared that if John went to battle against him, he would also attempt to seize Richard's crown.

And it seemed that Richard was determined to believe that nothing was wrong. He left France with Philip in August; by September, he was further arming troops in Messina.

Elise wrote letters constantly. Not to Richard, but to Bryan.

She did not know what to say to him. In stilted words, she had told him that she had lost their child. But she could not confess her love on paper, and she feared that he would be bitterly disappointed with her. He had wanted a child so dearly.

And that child, conceived in a winter's tempest, had been the tenuous link of her love. Bryan had always wanted land, and Bryan had wanted heirs to inherit that land. Their marriage had been arranged by the king. The longer he was away, the easier it became for Elise to slip into desolation. She had learned to love him, just to lose him. For she did feel as if she had lost him; it was September, and Richard's great Crusade truly had yet to get under way. God alone knew when she would see Bryan again. Sometimes his image misted in her dreams, and she would wonder if he remembered her at all. Once, he had wanted her. Perhaps he had never loved her, but he had wanted her. Now he had been gone so long . . .

And she had lost the child. She could have waited, she could have endured, she could have stayed halfway sane—if only she could have had the babe to love in his absence . . .

Gwyneth's son, young Percy, flourished like a spring flower. He was solid and happy, a chubby little child, cooing whenever she picked him up. Gwyneth's manor had been rebuilt by September, but Gwyneth remained at Firth Manor. She was afraid to go home, and with Longchamp still such a threat to the unfortified manors, Elise could not bid her to leave. And she was happy to have young Percy; she felt a responsibility to him. She loved to hold the babe, although doing so also brought her pain. She had wanted her own child so badly. A beautiful, healthy boy to hand proudly to Bryan. His son, her son, something of true worth from the maelstrom of their marriage.

Elise and Gwyneth had formed an uneasy friendship. Elise had to admit that Gwyneth had little temper, and could be consistently charming. On many a lonely night, Elise was glad that she and Gwyneth had been able to consume some of the long hours with idle chatter. If she could only trust Gwyneth completely, she knew that she could have shared her own worries and fears, and perhaps found them alleviated. But she didn't trust Gwyneth, not completely, and she could never admit to Gwyneth that she had found herself suddenly head over heels in love with Bryan, and that she lay in anguish every night, wondering where—and with whom—he might be sleeping.

She knew that Gwyneth wrote to Bryan—as she did—but she could not bring herself to ask what Gwyneth's letters contained. She assumed that they were like hers: letters that stated the deplorable state of affairs in England, and begged that someone do something that would force Richard to act. Elise knew that her letters were always stiff and formal, just like the letters Bryan returned to her. He had offered her no condemnation for losing their child; his words were polite. Too polite. She sensed bitter disappointment in them. Maddie and Jeanne insisted upon telling her that she was young, that she had years ahead of her in which to have children. Such assurances gave Elise little comfort, for as it stood, it seemed that it would be years before she saw her husband again, and already she felt the distance between them. By the time they met again, they would be strangers. The ties of tenderness so recently begun would have withered with the passage of time.

There was little for her to do except cling to the belief that she held their property safe from the devious and grasping hands of Chancellor Longchamp.

By winter, Longchamp had threatened invasion of all properties belonging to William Marshal and Bryan Stede. Elise had tripled the guard; when winter's snows fell again, she had over three hundred trained and armed men ready to defend Firth Manor and the Cornish properties surrounding it.

But Longchamp's army was double the size of hers. Only the harshness of winter—and the fact that he was still busy stealing offices from Richard's men in London—kept Longchamp from attacking.

In the deep midst of winter, they were visited by travelers again. No banners were raised as the party of ten or so approached the manor, and Elise, brought to the ramparts by her alarmed steward, strained her eyes against the elements to ascertain just who would be coming so. Not Longchamp; if he were to make an assault upon the manor, he would come with his army in force. And Longchamp was in London, the last that she had heard.

"Shall we call the alarm?" Alaric asked her.

Elise shook her head slowly. "No, I don't think so. They are knights who approach us, but no more than ten. From wherever it comes, it is a party come at peace."

It was not until the party had almost reached the manor that Elise realized it was Prince John descending upon her. She was glad that she had risen no barriers against him, but she was uneasy. Eleanor did not trust John, and if a man's mother could not trust him, then others had best beware.

John had sworn not to come to England while Richard was away; the king, it seemed, was ready to forgive his little brother almost anything, but Richard was not a fool, and he knew his younger brother coveted the crown. Prince John was, however, far more preferable to the people than the obnoxious Norman Longchamp. So he had been welcomed to Cornwall.

And as Eleanor had once warned her, Elise knew well enough that John might be the king one day. Richard was one of the most powerful knights in the world, one of the most courageous.

Highly likely to get his fool self killed.

And so it was important to tread a careful path with the prince, especially since he was her half brother, just as Richard. The two were as different as their coloring: Richard, the golden king; John, the dark and often sullen prince. No, he must be humored, but never trusted, and so welcoming him was a nerve-wracking task. Elise always had to hope that John had no conception whatever of her identity.

"Lady Elise!"

He greeted her with affectionate propriety, and she noted that he had changed of late. He still wore high heels affixed to his boots—John despised the fact that he had never grown tall—but his dress was more sober than in previous times, and his behavior was much subdued.

Only his eyes were the same. They were as ever dark and alert, and she thought that he was a fine actor. John was shrewd and greedy. He could make use of expediency and opportunity quite well.

A little chill shook her. What would happen if he did become their king?

"Your Grace, what a pleasure to greet you here!" she returned to him.

"Ah, pleasure is not my quest, Lady Elise. I have come to see how you fare the winter with Longchamp on your heels!"

"Quite well, thank you," Elise replied, restraining her tongue. She knew he hadn't come to see to her welfare; he simply wanted to know how strongly aligned she was with him against Longchamp!

"I don't know why my brother the king is so blind to that man!" John exclaimed vehemently. "A man who threatens to demolish your husband's property, while Bryan Stede rides at his side! Still, I have every faith that Richard will see justice done, and so I have returned to these shores to know the heart of the people in this matter. They have cried out to me, you know."

Elise said nothing. John, acting the benign overlord, turned to introduce the members of his party. Only one man held back; he was cowled in a priest's frock, which made Elise curious. She recognized his other company. They were lords known for a fondness of drinking and wenching, and Elise remained uneasy as she welcomed them all to the manor. The priest did not belong with the group. Of course, it was true that there were members of the clergy known for ignoring the rules of the cloth, but . . .

Gwyneth made an appearance in the hall, and Elise was glad, for Gwyneth subtly took over the duties of hostess, calling for food and wine, bringing an unstilted warmth and welcome to the hall.

Elise was left to welcome the last of the guests, the cowled man who hovered in the background. When the others had moved on to the hearth, he called to her softly, lifting his head. She saw a pair of light, blue-gray, sparkling eyes.

"Geoffrey!" she cried with true delight. "I worried about you, but I see that you are free and well!"

"Shh!" he told her. "Yes, I am free, and very well." He grinned ruefully. "I am even a bit of a hero, but I pretend not to ride with this grouping; I would not want Richard to know that I banded with John." He sighed. "I am accused enough of coveting my half brother's crown, and though I continue to say that the throne of England would be crowded with Richard already in it, rumors still spread!"

"But, Geoffrey, you are an archbishop now! Surely no one—"

"Nay, there is no ‘surely' when one is of royal blood—no matter which side of the sheets they may have come from." He sobered. "Elise, that is why I am here."

"Why?"

"Be careful with John. Be very careful. He is jealous of Bryan—because Richard respects him so, and bestowed such wealth upon him. He is suspicious of you—because of Richard's interest. And if he had all of England while you lived upon a tiny speck of an island, he would want that tiny speck of an island."

"What am I to do?" Elise cried softly. "Longchamp on one side, John on the other!"

"Do nothing; just take care—and sit tight. If Richard should die by a Saracen sword, John will be king. If he believes that you accept that—that you would be loyal to him—you will be left in peace. Longchamp will doubtlessly be bested; he has played his hand too far. The people went wild when his sister dared to arrest me. Richard will do something now; he must. But Richard respects Longchamp, and it is possible that he could rise to power again. And no matter what, Elise, don't let your feelings give you away. These are dangerous times for royal bastards."

"No one knows, Geoffrey," Elise said softly. "Not even . . . Bryan."

Geoffrey smiled. "Ah . . . so you two still fight your little war! I warned you once not to make an enemy of him, little sister."

"We're not exactly . . . enemies," Elise murmured, flushing.

Geoffrey lifted a brow with a slight smile. "I'm glad, Elise, for your husband is sore set upon by the king. Bryan has begged leave to come home; Richard will not part with him."

Elise laughed bitterly. "Then it all seems to matter little, doesn't it? Were we friends or enemies, we would scarce remember by the time he reaches home."

Geoffrey squeezed her hand. "Perhaps it will not be so long," he told her softly.

She tried to smile, but could not. They both knew that he was lying. She had been pitched into a dangerous game between chancellor and prince, with Geoffrey her only real friend.

"Have you . . . seen Bryan?" she asked him.

"Several months ago, before I decided that, despite my promise, I had to return to England."

"And?"

"Bryan is always well. More moody, silent, than I have known him to be. He mentioned that you had lost a child. I'm sorry."

Elise quickly lowered her lashes so that Geoffrey would not see the tears that sprang to her eyes. Bryan had mentioned the child, with great disappointment, she was sure. Perhaps he believed that she could never bear his heir, that she was too frail. Perhaps he spent his days berating his marriage, his nights finding consolation for the prison of marriage that bound him to her . . .

If only she could be with him! It seemed that she would never have a chance to prove that . . .

She loved him. That she could be a wonderful wife . . . and mother.

Elise lifted her head. Wherever else she had failed, she had held the manor strong. She had kept his property safe for his return.

"Thank you for coming to me, Geoffrey," she told him. "And I promise you, I'll take great care with John." Geoffrey nodded, watching her. "Come, have some wine—warmed against the cold!" she told him, and she led him to the table, where they began to speak of casual things. Geoffrey at last took his wine to the hearth. He kept his eyes upon the Lady Elise. She was very cordial; she kept carefully at bay John's more lecherous companions, those who might fear the "Black Knight" Bryan Stede, but considered themselves safe with him a continent away.

Elise was a rare beauty: poised, regal, wise. Geoffrey thought for the thousandth time that they, Henry's illegitimate children, would have made the far better heirs to the throne.

He sighed ruefully as he drank his wine. He was far too fond of keeping his head upon his neck ever to make a bid for the crown. Richard was a formidable man. So formidable that he would never dream of fighting his brother.

But if and when John came to the throne, they would all need to shudder.

He smiled as he heard Elise tap upon the table with her chalice. She lifted it high then, and allowed her eyes to rivet to each man in turn. "Let us drink to our sovereign Lord Richard! King of England, Count of Anjou, Duke of Normandy, and Aquitaine."

The knights all raised their glasses.

Prince John repeated her toast. Geoffrey was certain that he was savoring the words, and mentally substituting his own name for Richard's.

Thank the blessed Lord that Richard was strong, and as healthy as an ox!

* * *

The prince's party stayed with them for a week. For Elise it was misery; she tried politely to fend off the unwelcome attention of John's rowdy followers.

Then there was John himself. He was, as Geoffrey had warned her, suspicious. He quizzed her about her past, about Bryan, about the manor. She was continuously on edge. John needed her now; she was a bulwark against Longchamp. But he was jealous of Bryan; even when he put on his allotment of the Plantagenet charm, she could read the envy in his tone. Would he ever dare to ride against Bryan? Probably not, she thought. John, were he ever to reach the throne, would need men such as Will Marshal and Bryan Stede.

Still, she would probably need to keep alert of this brother for the rest of her life.

The one real benefit of John's arrival was the change in Gwyneth.

Gwyneth seemed to have come alive. She formed no alliances with any of the knights, but reveled in their attention.

"I am so very bored!" she confided to Elise. "None of these are men whom I would wish to marry, though marry I suppose I must now with Percy gone. Richard will command it."

"Sir Trevor is a handsome man," Elise suggested. "He seems more mature than the others. More trustworthy."

Gwyneth laughed. "Sir Trevor rides with the prince. He is as lecherous and foolish as the rest. But . . . oh, Elise! It does grow weary waiting here, snowbound and held almost at siege by that despicable Longchamp! I fear that I shall fade away and die of the monotony if something doesn't happen soon!"

Elise felt the same, but she said nothing.

"You have Bryan to wait for," Gwyneth reminded Elise softly. "If that were my situation, I could bear this solitude . . ."

"At least you have your son."

"Aye . . . and I do love him. But you must know, as I do, the love of a child is not that of a man. Oh, Elise! I would ride to the devil himself to know a real man again!"

"Gwyneth! That's blasphemy!"

"But it is true."

"Something will happen, Gwyneth. Truly it will."

Things did happen. Longchamp increased his threats against the property of Will Marshal and Bryan Stede. The winter kept him at bay; Elise and Gwyneth remained captives of the snowbound and heavily fortified manor.

Elise began to grow frantic, but when it seemed that she had reached her darkest hour, fate gave her a strange reprieve by the grace of another party that appeared at the manor.

She had barely awakened—indeed, Gwyneth and half the household still slept—when she heard the distant sound of trumpets. Elise fumbled into her clothing and raced to the southern tower. Alaric stood with the sentries, staring across the field. Elise joined him. They stared at the party of riders coming toward them, trying hard to read the banners that whipped in the wind.

"'Tis not Longchamp . . ." Alaric murmured tensely. Then, suddenly, he and Elise were staring at each other with joy, for the banners bore the leopards and lilies of England. The emblem of the Plantagenets.

"But it can't be the king!" Elise murmured. "Richard would never leave his crusade. And it isn't John again; John comes too secretively to wave banners!"

"Not the king . . . and not the prince!" Alaric exclaimed. "It's the queen!"

"Eleanor!" Elise cried.

Soon the manor was a hub of activity. And very soon Elise found that she was hugging the queen, and feeling the distance time had brought between them fall away like autumn leaves.

In the hall, Elise begged for news. "Oh, Eleanor! I am ever so happy to see you, but what are you doing here? I thought you meant to follow Richard and see him married—"

"I did see him married, so I am very officially a ‘dowager queen.'"

"Alys?"

"No, and I feel much sorrow, for we wronged that girl pathetically. Richard married the princess from Navarre—Berengaria. But I'm afraid I did poor Berengaria no kindness, for the afternoon of the wedding, the bridegroom was off again." Eleanor stared bluntly at Elise. "I have come as Regent of England. If Richard refuses to save it for himself, then I must do it for him. Now, tell me all that you know of this Longchamp mess!—"

Elise did, solemnly telling all that had happened last spring, including Percy's death. "We could never prove that it was Longchamp's men—"

"But it was," Eleanor said with dry certainty. "Well, we shall miss Sir Percy in our kingdom. But rest assured, Longchamp will take a precarious fall. I come with Richard's seal, and with a goodly number of armed men. Longchamp's rule is over. If I am not enough, Richard has sent others. William Marshal is on his way to Pembroke Castle at this minute. We will return to the ways of the law."

"Will!" Elise exclaimed excitedly. "Richard sent Will? What of Bryan . . ."

Her voice trailed away as she saw the queen's sad expression. "I'm sorry, child, Bryan is not returning. Richard had already given Will leave to come home; he would not release them both."

"Oh," Elise murmured, trying to hide her disappointment. She barely noticed when Gwyneth came into the room; she hardly heard the queen's sympathetic words to the widow. But then Eleanor was addressing her again, and she forced herself to pay attention.

"I heard that you lost a babe, Elise. I am sorry, but you must not take it too much to heart. You will bear others."

"A difficult feat for a woman alone, Your Grace!" Gwyneth supplied for Elise.

"Aye," Eleanor murmured regretfully. "And not even I could convince Richard to release him . . ." Suddenly Eleanor laughed, her still-young eyes sizzling with the excitement of a girl. "Bryan cannot come to you, my dear, but perhaps you could go to him."

Elise caught her breath. "On crusade?" she asked breathlessly.

"Why not? I led the troops of Aquitaine alongside Louis when I was Queen of France. Several of us ladies, heiresses in our own right, rode to the call. They dubbed us the ‘Amazons, ' and I must say, we did ourselves quite proud. I designed outfits so that we might ride as the men. We traveled with no more baggage than the men. Louis and I had that dreadful dispute that led to our divorce while we were on crusade, but my destiny was not with Louis—it was with Henry. And still! What a wonder to see the Eastern palaces. How we were entertained. My uncle was the Duke of Antioch then . . . Oh, if I were but young now . . . but I am not. And England needs me. But . . ." Eleanor's eyes continued to sparkle brilliantly, "If England has me, then Cornwall will be safe from the likes of Longchamp! And you, Duchess, will then have a very strong—but worthless—army. Take those men! Lead them on crusade!"

"Will they follow me . . . ?" she murmured.

Gwyneth settled that question with a laugh. "They have followed your orders for a year now! Surely, with a chance of knighthood awaiting them on the field, they will follow you anywhere! And I will come, too, Elise! I couldn't bear to be totally alone. We've learned to face things together—really, I'd feel so much safer moving with you than staying behind, so isolated. Oh, to end these days of eternal boredom!"

Elise raised a skeptical brow to Gwyneth. Then she shrugged and laughed. Suddenly, she felt alive again. Alive as she had not felt since she had watched Percy die, and lost her child before it had even known life. Excitement made her feel as if her blood rushed through her in great torrents, as if she were strong, and invincible.

Bryan . . .

She could ride to Bryan. She had worked with her guards, time and again. They were prepared to fight. She could lead them, because she had led them this far. She had made of Firth Manor a bulwark so strong that none had dared attack her.

And the Crusade! She could ride on God's holy war; she could see distant places, lands of mystery and beauty.

And Bryan . . . she would no longer have to wonder where he slept. She would be beside him, fighting with him, and for him. No more waiting, no more torture, no more boredom. No more wondering if he would ever return.

They had been parted so long. Did he still think about her? Would he want her? Could she ever hope that he might love her, too?

It didn't matter. She could hear the call to battle, and she was going to go. Her eyes met with Gwyneth's. They mirrored her excitement.

For a moment she felt a tremor of uneasiness. Gwyneth would come with her. Gwyneth . . . the friend with whom she had endured so many things.

But were they truly friends? Was Gwyneth anxious to end the horrible boredom of their days? Or was she, like Elise, heedless of all else except for the chance to see Bryan again?

It didn't really matter. Nothing mattered. If it came to that, she was as ready to fight Gwyneth as she was the whole Islam army for a chance to see her husband again.

To see if life could rival the splendor of memory . . .

She leaped from her chair and strenuously hugged the queen. "Your Grace, I intend to do it!"

Eleanor nodded slowly. "Aye, Elise, I think you shall. Prepare yourself, and then wait for word. I'm quite certain that Longchamp will flee England; if not, he will know a taste of prison. I go to London tomorrow; as soon as I may, I will send word to you that it is safe to set out."

* * *

Things were not to be half so simple as they sounded. Richard had sent the elderly Walter Coutance with Eleanor, but though Walter presented Longchamp with Richard's orders, Longchamp proclaimed them to be forgeries. Prince John was in the southwest, and, hating Longchamp, the people rallied to John. Longchamp called John and Geoffrey traitors; the threat of civil war became stronger. But at last enough strength rallied together; Richard sent new orders. Longchamp was not only to be deposed, but he would face trial, and his estates would be confiscated.

Longchamp fled at last. He was caught—disguised as a woman—in Dover. He was almost hanged as a witch, but he was recognized and imprisoned instead; he was still one of Richard's favorites, and only Richard could pass final judgment.

Longchamp bribed a jailer, and managed to escape to the Continent. It didn't really seem to matter, though—his threat to England—and to Elise—was at last over. Eventually, Richard would find him, and then he would have to answer for everything.

It remained to be seen what John would do.

* * *

It seemed to Elise that her freedom to leave had taken forever. It was spring again—over a year since she had seen Bryan last—before she was able to take her army and Gwyneth, Jeanne, and old Kate, and start out for the Holy Land.

Elise spent her last evening at the manor staring into the fire in her chamber. She argued with herself that she was mad to be attempting such an undertaking. The route would be long, and dangerous. Of course, she was traveling with an army—an army that she would put into the service of Richard the Lion-Hearted.

But she knew that she was not riding to give assistance to the king. She was doing so because she had to; a fever inside of her seemed to drive her. She was desperate to see Bryan again, to discover if there could be love between them. How she ached for him, needed him, longed for him! And she was so afraid, so very afraid that if she did not see him soon, she would lose him forever.

She paced the room, wondering if she weren't indeed the spawn of the devil breed, for she knew now that neither heaven nor earth could keep her from her quest.

In the morning, they took their leave. Young Percy was left with Maddie. Elise wondered how Gwyneth was able to leave the little boy; seeing his hazel eyes fill with tears on the morning that they left, Elise knew that she would never be able to leave her own offspring—should she and Bryan both live to create any.

* * *

It was to be a long journey. From the English coastline they crossed the Channel to Balfleur. Through Normandy, Maine, Poitou, and Aquitaine, they were able to find hospitality at Richard's various castles and holdings. She and Gwyneth and Jeanne shared quarters of varying comfort; the army most frequently camped out in the fields. But it was spring, and the weather, for the most part, remained fair. All throughout the countryside, the planting season was on; farmers tilled their fields; the foliage became more green daily—flowers sprang up everywhere.

From Aquitaine, they traveled into King Philip's domains. Here, too, they found hospitality at the French monarch's holding, since on the Crusade, Philip and Richard were allies. Rugged mountain roads brought them from France into the provinces and principalities of Italy. Every mile brought her closer to Bryan.

They set sail upon merchant ships—bartered from Italian seamen—from Brindisi. The Ionian Sea was calm and beautiful as it brought them to the Mediterranean. They spent a night at anchor near Crete, then set sail again. Storms struck the Mediterranean with a tempestuous ferocity within hours of their sailing. The ship rocked with wild fury. For unending hours of fear she and Gwyneth and Jeanne clung to one another belowdecks, offering up prayers to the Virgin, to all the saints, to Christ, and to God. Elise loved the sea, but never had she seen it so vicious. At last, she left Jeanne and Gwyneth together, and stumbled up on deck, holding fast to the masts and rigging. She stared through the pelting rain up at the iron-gray sky and again prayed fervently that though she might be undeserving, she be allowed to live. And she asked God that her determination not bring about the death of others.

The rain continued, the wind rose. Elise became convinced that God had no care to listen to her.

But as she remained by the mast, huddled against it in cold and fear, the wind began slowly to die. Even more slowly, the sky turned from gray to blue. Elise sank to her knees, whispering her gratitude to heaven out loud.

The daylight showed them that none of the ships had been lost. Only one life had been forfeited, that of a warrior gone overboard in the height of the wind.

A period of peaceful seas brought them to Cyprus.

It was there that they learned King Richard was holding the port town of Acre.

One more journey, only one, Elise told herself, and her quest would be rewarded. She barely slept that night, so anxious was she, so afraid, so nervous. Would Bryan welcome her?

They came at last to Acre.

Beneath a hot and brilliant sun, they first entered the Arab world. Merchants hawked their wares in the streets; veiled women moved hurriedly about. A smell of incense was in the air; braying camels moved their clumsy way along the streets. It was hot and dusty and completely foreign. Western knights walked the same paths as veiled, mysterious women.

Elise looked about herself with wide-eyed fascination.

She was here!

She was exhilarated, exalted . . .

And trembling horribly. Soon, very soon, she would see Bryan.