VII

VII

Chinon

William Marshal had spent the better part of his night in a futile search for the thieves. When he hadn't had his mind filled with his heartsick and harried task, his thoughts had been even worse. He had worried himself to a nearly frantic point wondering what had happened to Bryan Stede.

The morning had brought further turmoil, but by the time the sun was high in the sky and midday approached, he was atop the ramparts again, scanning the countryside once more for a sign of his friend.

At long last he discovered the lone figure, barefoot and shivering, limp down the hill toward the castle of Chinon. For a moment his brow furrowed in puzzlement, and then a grin tugged at his lips.

It was Bryan. God be praised! It was Bryan, returning alone, without his destrier, without his boots.

Anxiously, William strode to the nearest turret and hurried down the winding steps. Guards sprang to attention as he continued his brisk walk to the entryway and bridge, but he waved aside their confused questions and offers to serve as he walked on past them and crossed over the other side.

He stopped atop the crest just before the landscape dipped into a valley.

Bryan Stede was still hobbling along, swearing with a vengeance beneath his breath. As William watched, Bryan paused with a particularly vicious oath, and balanced on one foot to pluck a thorn carefully from the other.

"Gods . . . balls!" The knight swore vehemently, and William—his vast sense of relief combining with his amusement at his friend's condition—laughed out loud. He had seen his tall and formidable friend receive many a battle wound without a flinch; burrs and stickers were proving to be an Achilles' heel.

Bryan glanced at him with a piercing stare that would have sent shivers racing down the spine of a less courageous man. Then, seeing that the offender to his sensibilities was William Marshal, he scowled and turned his attention back to his foot.

"Damnable burrs!" he grumbled. "Feels as if I've walked over a field of nails!"

William chuckled again. He was so pleased to be seeing Bryan. He had tried to assure himself that it was the storm that had kept his friend out for the night, but concern had tugged at his thoughts anyway, and he hadn't been quite able to subdue his fears that Stede had met with an enemy, and had been left dead or dying upon a lonely road beneath the onslaught of the weather.

It was such a blessed relief to see him alive—and well—except for the small matter of a few annoying splinters.

Will clapped Bryan warmly on the shoulder, demanding, "Where have you been all the night? I must admit that I feared you had met your end at the hands of the enemy."

"I sought shelter from the storm," Bryan said briefly. Then he asked anxiously, "Were any of the thieves caught, Will?"

"No, but we'll discuss that along the way. Come, my friend," William said. He placed a comradely arm about Bryan's shoulder and indicated the castle. "You can soak your feet in a bucket of nice hot water, and tell me why one of the most powerful knights in Christendom is limping along—minus shoes, cloak, and horse!"

Bryan gingerly placed weight upon his sore foot once more and followed William's lead, glancing questioningly at the other man. "Not one of the thieves was found?" he asked sharply.

"Not one, but the answer to the riddle of their disappearance has been discovered. There are subterranean passages beneath the castle. They lead to the village. Those who manned this fortress before we came to it swore they did not know of the existence of the passages. There was no reason not to believe them. But it seems that the thieves have eluded us—and you as well?"

Bryan didn't reply immediately. He narrowed his eyes against the afternoon sun and stared at the castle, then asked, "William, have you knowledge of a small duchy known as Montoui?"

Startled by the question, William stopped walking and turned to stare at Bryan more searchingly. "Montoui?" he answered at last. "Why, yes, certainly, I know of it."

"You do?"

William was surprised by the dismay in Stede's voice. "We are not at all far from Montoui. A day's ride with no encumbrances."

"Damn!" Stede muttered.

"Why?" William demanded.

"Never mind," Bryan muttered. Then he added explosively, "Why have I never heard of this bloody place?"

William shrugged. "It is small, and not oft in the path of an army, as it has been neutral territory since the old duke died. Henry decreed it so and Philip and Richard respected his wishes."

Bryan was glaring at him sharply. "Since the old duke died . . ." he repeated slowly. "So who rules this duchy now? And if it's so small, how is that you know of it?"

"It is ruled by the young duchess, old Will's daughter, of course. And I know of it for I traveled there many times with Henry."

"With Henry?"

"Dammit! Stede, you're starting to sound like one of those parrots at the bazaars in the Holy Land. I have been to Montoui many times with Henry."

"Then why haven't I?" Bryan demanded blankly.

William Marshal's brow furrowed. Then he shrugged. "Last year when we went, you had returned to England to check of Henry's affairs with the archbishop. The year before that, I believe you had been sent to escort Prince John someplace. And I believe that the year before that—"

Bryan lifted a hand in the air. "Enough, enough, Marshal! I'm following the line of thought quite well." He started hobbling toward the castle once more and William hurried to catch up with him.

"Why all these questions, Stede?"

Stede spun about once more, his usually laconic expression now one that was a cross between a scowl and disbelieving confusion.

"This . . . duchess—what is her name?"

"Elise—Lady Elise de Bois."

"Damn!" Bryan swore. "William, can you describe this lady for me?"

"Elise?" Will Marshal's face broke into a broad grin. "She is absolutely charming. As lovely and vital as a sunrise. As—"

"Dispense with the poetry, I beg you!" Bryan groaned.

"Well . . ." William grimaced, thinking. "She is a tall woman, slender, yet shapely. Her eyes are the color of the seas, a shade between blue and green. And her hair . . . is like a sunset, perhaps. It is not gold, it is not red, but, again, a shade between the two. Her voice is as soft as the morning lark's—"

"Oh, God's blood, it is!" Bryan growled low in definitive interruption. "She shrills just like a screaming peahen!"

It was Marshal's tum to be taken by surprise. "Elise? But you just told me—"

"I met up with your ‘charming' chatelaine of Montoui last evening," Bryan said dryly. "She has the claws of a cat, and the tongue of a viper. And she's just about as fragile as a black widow—"

"Whoa! My friend, you've lost me! Where did you meet up with Elise when you left here to chase a thief—"

"‘Charming' Lady Elise was the thief."

"Elise? I don't believe it! Montoui is small, but rich—and thriving. Her land is the most fertile for miles, her cattle and sheep fatten overnight, and the old duke brought back a fortune in gold and gems and ivory from the Crusade!"

"I hate to rattle your ivory tower, my friend, but the lady carried property of the king's."

"Did she, now?" Marshal demanded, startled.

"I tell you this confidentially," Bryan said, suddenly grave, "for I would not see her prosecuted. But, yes, she had upon her the sapphire Henry wore on his small finger. And I know it was upon him, for I saw it when he was placed upon the bier."

"The sapphire . . ." Marshal muttered, further puzzled. He scratched his head in deep contemplation, then shook it. "Makes little sense that I can see. But you are right about the sapphire; he always wore it. Yet Elise de Bois would have little use for the sum that it could draw—even if it were substantial."

"Perhaps she was an accomplice—leading a chase to draw us from the true direction of the others."

"Elise? I doubt such a thing. But I am glad you have not brought her back, for there are others who might not, and in my heart I can not believe her guilty."

"How well do you know this girl?" Bryan demanded, annoyed with William's apparent enthrallment with the object of his disgust, especially since Marshal had had little time for enchantment in his days. He had always been busy with tournaments and battle; he enjoyed a willing woman who would share his bed, but he was not much for courtly games or poetry. The king had promised him Isabel de Clare, reputedly one of the loveliest—as well as richest—heiresses available, and not even of his unknown future bride had he ever spoken so whimsically.

Marshal lifted his shoulders and allowed them to fall. "I know her fairly well, and not at all. Henry visited Montoui once a year for almost twenty years—"

"Twenty years!"

"You forget"—Marshal laughed—"that I have a decade over you, Sir Stede. Yes, I went to Montoui with Henry once a year since I came into his service. He told me it was a trip he had been making for years before that, so I would safely say twenty years."

"The devil take me!" Bryan gasped.

"Looks as if he already has. Or was it the Lady Elise?"

Bryan shot William a hostile glance, but refrained from a heated reply. "The lady helped herself to my horse and boots, yes," he said shortly.

"It must have been quite a meeting."

"Yes, it was. Tell me, do you know anything else of this woman?"

"Only that Montoui is solely hers. Oh, yes, it is rumored that she will marry Sir Percy Montagu. Her own choice."

"Montagu . . ."

"I know. I don't care for the man myself. Courteous, pleasant—but slippery. He does hold quite an attraction for the ladies, though. Years ago there was a scandal with Countess Marie of Bari; seems young Percy sowed his oats with little discretion as to the marital status of conquests. But, of course, to enter into marriage himself, he had always let it be known that he intended to be very discriminating. And," Marshal added with a shrug, "Percy is reputed to be charming and charismatic to the ladies. Elise discouraged any interest from possible suitors until she met young Percy, so apparently her marriage will be one for love. The de Bois family line is impeccable, so she meets Sir Percy's vision of marital material perfectly."

"Humph!" Bryan muttered. So she was to marry, he thought. Good for her—and Sir Percy Montagu. It should be a relief to him that the lady abhorred him and was determined to pursue her own affairs. After last night, she might easily have chosen to throw herself upon his honor and demand that he marry her. Which he would do.... In fact, knowing now that she was the Duchess of Montoui, he would have gone to her himself with such a proposal after last night. He considered the entire situation completely her own fault, but he had still been responsible for changing her "virginal" status. That he still considered her to be a liar and a thief could not change that responsibility.

Bryan shrugged to himself. She had made it blatantly clear that she despised him and wanted no part of him. She was going to marry Percy Montagu. He should be pleased to let her be.

His own future still hung on the winds of change. If he'd been honor-bound to go to Elise de Bois, he would have lost the hope that Richard would decide to honor his father's debts; there would have been no Gwyneth, and no vast lands in England to become his.

Yes, it was a relief . . .

But it was also annoying to think of Percy Montagu with the girl. Montagu was too slippery to deserve such a . . .

Conniving liar? They would have been a perfect match.

No, because liar that she might be, the lady was stunning. She had been cast and molded to a pleasing perfection . . .

She was also a screaming virago. Maybe they did deserve each other.

He smiled to himself suddenly, amused by his possessive feelings. Maybe I am a bit of a primitive beast, he thought. I feel as if I would like to hack Percy's hands off were he to touch her, and he is apparently her choice.

Bryan frowned suddenly, thinking of Marshal's apparent infatuation with the girl. It seemed Marshal had never seen or heard her in a rage.

She reminded him of someone when she cursed. The words she used, the inflections. He shook his head, damned if he knew who he was thinking about. The memory was there, but totally elusive. Bryan gave himself a little jolt; he realized that Will had been talking as they walked, and that he hadn't really heard a word.

"Stede, are you listening to me?"

"Oh, aye. Sorry, Marshal."

"Percy does have his good points. Never faltered in battle. Henry was quite fond of him." Marshal paused a moment, then queried, "So you and Elise tangled—heatedly, I assume, since you have just come home barefoot and unhorsed. But I shouldn't worry about the ring—we didn't catch one of the murdering thieves, and all that was stolen is lost to us." He hesitated. "Bryan, there are many who believe it was Henry's own attendants who robbed him—servants who feared they would receive nothing. But whether he was robbed by familiars or strangers, it matters little now. And to bring an accusation against Elise could damage her incredibly."

"I intended to tell no one but you," Bryan said.

"Then it seems that the matter is closed."

"Closed?" Bryan queried. He shook his head. "I cannot allow it to be closed, Will. She was in the castle when the thieves were, she carried Henry's ring, and she tried very vehemently to stab me. She lied to me; I think the only truth she gave me all night was her name. I don't know what I believe anymore—except that at worst, she could be a murderess, and at best, she is hiding some grave secret."

Will paused, urging Bryan to stop and listen to his words. "Bryan, I can promise you this: Elise was very fond of Henry. She would never have done the least irreverence to his earthly remains. Believe me, she could not have been among the thieves."

Bryan stared at Will, wondering for a moment if he should explain himself to his friend. Then he became impatient with his own sense of anger, and guilt. He would say no more. Not even to Will. He ground his teeth together, still trying to decide if she could really be as innocent as Will claimed. He just didn't know. But for the moment, it seemed he might as well give her the benefit of the doubt. "All right," he told Will. "The ring is forgotten." It wasn't forgotten; he wouldn't forget it until he had discovered what secret lurked so strongly within Elise de Bois that it had driven her to her knees at his feet, rather than allowing her to speak the truth.

"Well," said Will, "this solves one dilemma."

"And what is that?"

"The young serving wench we have now as a guest. We found her among the . . . bodies of the slain guards. Her throat had been slit, but we found her breathing, and Henry's chief physician treated her immediately. She lives—seems the fools didn't bother enough with her to kill her—but she has not been conscious or coherent, and we have been at a loss to know from whence she might have come. That riddle is now clear. The maid must be a servant to Elise de Bois."

"Quite probably," Bryan muttered uncomfortably.

"We will send a rider to Montoui to inform the duchess that her woman lives. When the maid is well enough to travel, perhaps you would like to escort her to Montoui."

"Lord, no!" Bryan began, and a smile tugged slowly at his lips. "Yes, Marshal, perhaps I shall."

It would be quite interesting to see how his little virago would behave if they came face to face once again. Would she be ready to admit their acquaintance, and more?

It was possible she would have her archers upon the castle walls, ready to greet him.

"Fool that man is!" Marshal laughed. "Always ready to meet the devil. But you have a greater devil to deal with than any woman at this time."

"I have?"

"The Lion-Heart has arrived."

"Richard is here? Damn, Marshal! Why didn't you tell me? How have things gone? At least I see that you are still alive and walking. What stand is he taking with us?"

"Not a bad one," William replied, clapping Bryan upon the shoulder and urging him toward the castle once again. "Oh, he raved and ranted to me, and claimed that he would have taken me had he had his armor. But he took no great exception when I reminded him that a king need learn the lesson not to ride without armor, and that I did deflect my blow. You know Richard. He huffed and puffed and put on a great show. But then he embraced me and said that I had been a loyal man to his father. He expected us both to put the past behind and look to the future of the crown."

Bryan mulled over the information in his mind, quickly forgetting the night that had passed as his thoughts turned to Richard Plantagenet. The Lion-Heart seemed to be behaving with commendable good sense, and with an honor and wisdom that could do credit to his reign. He clenched his fists tightly before talking again to Marshal.

"Did he speak to you . . . of rewards promised by Henry?"

"Aye, that he did."

"And?"

"And . . ." Marshal's sallow features were brightened by a broad grin. "He seemed doubtful at first that Henry should have promised me such great riches, but when he learned that many had heard the king's words, he was ready to acquiesce. Isabel de Clare is to be mine. I am to be the Earl of Pembroke. All those lands will be mine!"

"Damn, but the best of luck to you, my friend!" Bryan exclaimed with the greatest sincerity. "Well . . . then it seems that I will see to my own fate shortly, then, doesn't it?"

Marshal laughed. "Aye, Sir Stede, it does seem that 'tis your turn to meet with the devil!"

Bryan halted with visible annoyance just before the entrance to Chinon.

"What is it?" Marshal inquired.

"I'll flay that little ‘charmer' of yours if I do come across her again," Bryan replied irritably. His eyes were upon the men who lined the ramparts and stood guard alongside those who wore Henry's badge. At least forty men walked the ramparts, half of them Richard's. They were still clad in mail and armor—very proud now to carry Richard's lion crest upon their shields along with their own family symbols. These were the warriors Bryan had fought in Henry's long battle against his son and the King of France. Foes to be turned to friends. But men who had once longed to see his downfall, who would still feel a bitter rancor toward him now . . .

And he was going to have to pass them all minus hose and shoes, mantle and horse.

"Damn her!" he hissed. Then he swept past Marshal with his spine straight and his hands upon his hips. And he passed by the Lion-Heart's knights with such a towering power that none noticed that the well-respected warrior was embarrassingly lacking in dress.

But he knew. And even as he gritted his teeth to meet the Lion-Heart, he was thinking once more that he would love to take a horsewhip to her well-curved derrière.

Bryan had barely passed through the gatehouse when he heard Richard's thunderous voice hailing him. He winced, thinking that the "Lion-Heart" did indeed summon with a roar. He squared his shoulders and stopped, standing straight as he watched the new King of England and ruler of half of continental Europe approach him.

Whatever ill might be said of Richard, no one could deny the fine figure he cut with his stature. He was tall, perhaps a half inch shorter than Bryan, but then Bryan was among the tallest men of his day. He was muscular to the extreme, having spent his days at joust and battle since he had been a lad not full grown. Richard was a true Plantagenet; his eyes were sometimes a stormy gray, sometimes as blue as the sky, and, at rare moments of peace, they could be aqua like the Mediterranean Sea. His hair was wheat-gold, bleached by the sun; his beard betrayed many streaks of a blazing red. Where Richard walked, the ground shuddered. Yet for all that he had battled Henry so long, Bryan knew Richard to be a man of character—with principle. Bryan did not flinch at the approach that would have intimidated a lesser man.

"Stede! You have taken your time to make an appearance! And bootless, no less. Good Lord, where have you spent the night?"

"Chasing thieves, sire."

"And being robbed yourself, so it appears."

"Yes," Bryan answered simply.

Richard raised a brow to him, but made no further comment on the subject. Rather, he indicated the doorway to the keep and urged Bryan toward it. "Let us be alone to speak. We have much to discuss."

He started to precede Bryan to the keep, then paused, spinning back so suddenly that Bryan was forced to leap backward to avoid a collision with the king.

"Stede! Do you solemnly swear that you accept me as your sovereign? We have battled long and hard, you and I, but I respect the loyalty you gave my father, and would have it for my own."

"Henry is dead, Richard," Bryan said wearily. "While he lived, I could never pay you homage. Now you are the king, the rightful king, ruler of all his domains. Yes . . . now I pay you all the homage I did give him."

"Kneel, Sir Stede, and swear me fealty."

Bryan did so. Richard quickly bade him to rise. Then he nodded briefly and headed toward the keep. A fire had been drawn in the great lower chamber, but still Chinon, beloved by Henry, left Bryan cold. The great banqueting hall was sparsely furnished. Table and chairs were curiously bland, with no artistry of carving. They were serviceable, and nothing more.

Richard went to the head of the table and sat, kicking out a chair by its feet so that Bryan might take it for his use.

"Sit, Stede," Richard commanded. Then he grinned. "I never could abide your height!"

"There is little difference—"

"I am accustomed to gazing down at other men." Richard raised a hand; a servant came quickly from the shadows with wine and set it between them. Richard waved the servant away and poured out a chalice for each of them.

Bryan raised his chalice. "To a long and prosperous reign, King Richard."

The two drank. Then Richard banged down his chalice. Suddenly he was on his feet again, pacing the room restlessly, and reminding Bryan of his father.

"They are already saying that my father began to bleed when I paid my respects to his earthly remains. What do you think of that, Stede?"

"I think that many things will be said," Bryan told him bluntly.

"Damn!" Richard swore, pounding a fist upon the table and staring at Bryan with a fire blazing in his eyes. "I did not know that he was so ill when we battled last.... Will history revile me, or revere me, Stede?"

"I'm sure, Your Grace, that that remains to be seen."

Richard laughed suddenly. "You'll never really kneel before me, will you, Stede? Or before any man. Ah, well, I was not so much to blame. My brother John actually began this battle years ago before his death. Father himself caused it. He loved to grant us all his titles, to dole out his domains, but he never wanted to relinquish the least bit of his power. We were to be puppets, nothing more. And when we sought to rule, he was of the mind that we were still children to be bullied about by him. He had my brother crowned king during his lifetime, but he wouldn‘t allow him to govern a duchy. But young Henry died and I was left heir—and left to battle Father." He paused again. "I never wished to see him die so broken, Stede."

Bryan looked straight at Richard and shrugged. "The news that your brother John betrayed him is what killed your father, so the physicians say."

"Uh . . ." Richard murmured darkly, walking around the table to take a seat again. "John—I've no idea where the boy is. Have you seen him?"

"Not since he disappeared after the battle at Le Mans."

Richard drank deeply of his wine and leaned back broodingly in his chair. "No doubt he is in hiding, having heard that I do not reward traitors. But, God's blood! Doesn't the young fool realize that I am his brother?" Richard sighed. "He is my blood, and he is my heir. May God help me make him fit for a throne!"

"Amen," Bryan murmured, earning a scowl from Richard.

"I have inherited all of my father's responsibilities," he told Bryan, "and I mean to uphold them—almost all. No doubt, Stede, you will tell me, as Marshal did, that my father promised you a great heiress?"

Bryan shrugged, determined that Richard would not taunt him. He would not play games. Gwyneth would be his, aye or nay.

"He did. He promised that I would have the Lady Gwyneth of Cornwall."

Richard raised a brow. "A great heiress, indeed."

"Yes," Bryan said simply.

"Well . . ." Richard began. Then he broke off suddenly in laughter. "Stede, I cannot promise one of the greatest heiresses in Christendom to a bootless man!" He smiled. "I'm not saying that I will not reward your long and loyal service to my father. But I've work for you. I must remain on the Continent to receive homage as overlord from all my European barons. But I wish my mother released; she will be my regent until I can come to England. You and Marshal will see to her release—and to her travel, for I want her seen by the people across the countryside. The majority of the people loved her; they will be glad to forgive my sins and recognize me when they see her." He paused. "I've also another errand. We've a servant here who belongs to the Duchess of Montoui. You will see to that journey, and you will see that Elise is brought here, quickly, for my father to be interred at the Abbey of Fontevrault, as he desired. Oh—and I believe I will have the duchess accompany you and Marshal. Mother might well need a nobly born attendant."

Bryan was startled by Richard's words; Henry should be buried with all haste. Richard was willing to wait for the attendance of the Duchess of Montoui. Why?

Perhaps, Richard was hoping John would make an appearance by then, Bryan reflected. Whichever, Richard had almost promised that Gwyneth and her lands would be his, so it did not seem an appropriate time to question his monarch. But what was it about Elise de Bois? Temptress, vixen, thief—what was she?

Bryan closed his eyes quickly, annoyed that he could not forget her or put her from his thoughts. But he couldn't deny it; he had wanted to see her again—watch her reactions to him—and Richard was ordering him to do so.

"And then, Stede," Richard was continuing, his voice growing richly impassioned as he slammed his fist against the table again, "it will be time to prepare for the Crusade! Henry vowed to join Philip in the holy quest to regain Jerusalem and our Christian shrines in the East. My father can no longer do so; it is my destiny, and one that I am eager to fulfill! You will ride at my side, then, Bryan Stede."

"Aye, Your Grace, I will ride at your side," Bryan answered. Why not? He had known that the infidels had taken Jerusalem—all of Christendom had been talking of little else. Knights were God's warriors; the Crusades were the holiest battles to be fought, for they were fought for His glory.

The East promised adventure and learning; Bryan would enjoy the change. If all went well, he would leave behind a loving wife, vast lands, and resources, and return to find that he had an heir as well.

"Go find some boots, Stede!" Richard commanded suddenly. "You must be ready shortly to ride for Montoui!"

Bryan nodded briefly and rose, heading for the door. Richard called him back and he paused. Richard was rising, and coming toward him.

"Stede, you will be rewarded. Do you trust my word?"

"Aye, Lion-Heart. That I do."

Richard smiled. Their pact had been made.

* * *

Ah, Montoui! Never had home looked so beautiful to Elise, resting in the valley amid the red and gold colors of the sinking sun!

High atop the last hill that rose before her own lands, Elise paused, taking a deep breath as she stared down upon her castle, her town, her duchy. From her vantage point, she could see the entirety of the stone wall that surrounded the town, which consisted of numerous homes, the mill, the smithy, the Church of the Madonna, the workshops for the potters, the tinsmiths, goldsmiths, and craftsmen of all varieties. Beyond the wall that promised safety for her people in times of battle were the farmlands and the fields, fertile acres where grain and corn and wheat and greens were grown, where sheep and cattle grazed and grew fat. And beyond the farmlands were the forests, alive with game, wild boars and wild birds, and deer in abundance.

And beyond the walled town itself rose the castle of Montoui. Moated and tall, it shined with a white brilliance at dusk. Elise's castle was an octagon with eight tall towers, seven to house guests and her men-at-arms, the eighth being the family donjon where her own apartments lay. Home—a place that was warm and beautiful. Bustling and alive. Fires would be burning, meat would be roasting; the tapestries would warm the walls and fresh rushes would be strewn all about the great banqueting hall. Above the banqueting hall her own chamber would await her, the windows facing the east for the morning sun, her bed, draped in silk, covered with elegant linens and furs. Home. She had reached it at last. It had seemed to take her forever to travel the long miles.

She hadn't been about to return to her duchy tattered and ragged, and so she had taken back roads until she had come across a toothless and aging crone in the forest. The old woman had been glad to exchange a coarse wool tunic for the fine pair of men's boots Elise had offered her. And she had been amazed when Elise had thrown the well-woven hose and striking mantle into the bargain.

Elise had been only too pleased to rid herself of Bryan Stede's property, and to find that she no longer had to clutch her cloak tightly about herself to remain respectably clad.

At the outer wall to the town, men-at-arms challenged her, then rushed forward to greet and escort her. She forced a smile to her lips, called cheerful greetings in return, and waved them aside.

"All is well, my fine sirs! I have returned unscathed!"

"But milady—"

The call came from Sir Columbard, Captain of the Guard, but Elise still managed to evade him.

"Sir Columbard! I am frightfully exhausted. I will beg your leave for a later time!"

She rode quickly through the one main street of the town that led to the castle drawbridge. Clattering over it, she hurried to give the destrier's reins to a stableboy as soon as she passed the tower entrance and came into the outer ward.

But though she had quite easily raised a hand in greeting to her villeins and freemen and had ridden past, she could not deny her stableboy, Wat, his anxious words of welcome.

"Milady! Bless God that ye've come safely home! Since your mare returned—"

"Sabra returned?" Elise asked quickly.

"Aye, 'fore dawn, she did! I cared for her well, milady, I promise you, but my hands were shaking, I was so afrighted for you—"

"Thank you, Wat, for caring for Sabra, and for worrying so. But I am home now, and safe. But so weary!"

Elise smiled at the earnest young boy, and started to hurry past him.

"Milady! Wait—"

She had to pretend that she hadn't heard him. If she didn't find the privacy of her chamber soon, and sink into a steaming bath, she was going to start screaming like a lunatic, and then crying her eyes out like a child.

Only in privacy could she allow herself to vent to her feelings of rage and frustration.

Five guards in Montoui's colors of blue and gold warmed their hands at an open fire that burned before the door to the main keep and banqueting hall. They straightened and rushed to kneel at her feet as she hurried toward the hall.

"Milady!"

"Thank the blessed Lord!"

"We've searched for you in shifts e'er since—"

"Please! Dear sirs! Rise. I am well and safe. Just so eager for rest that I beg you to excuse me!"

With a smile and her chin tilted high, she hurried past them, ignoring their calls in her wake. Whatever business was pressing could wait.

In moments, she would be free to rant and rave and shiver and shake as she chose, with none to witness such unseemly conduct . . .

She had managed to pass by the guards with no explanation, but within the banqueting hall—with its warm, welcoming fire and comfortable tapestries—she found Michael de Neuve, her father's steward and then her own, waiting for her.

De Neuve had fought with William de Bois as the knight's squire; he had gone on crusade with his duke to the Holy Lands to capture Jerusalem, then returned to retire from the field and run the castle. He loved Elise as he had her father, and now, though his face was lined with age and his shoulders were beginning to stoop, his sense of responsibility was fierce.

"Milady! What has happened? I have worried myself ill since your horse returned this morning! And then when the messenger came about poor Isabel—"

"Hold, Michael, please!" Elise begged, feeling a throbbing headache begin to pound at her temples. "What is this about a messenger?"

"A rider came from Chinon not an hour ago, milady. He was surprised that you had not returned, and therefore I worried all the more! Isabel lives, though she is sorely injured. They shall return her here as soon as they might."

"Isabel lives?" Elise demanded, stunned and incredulous.

"Aye, milady, 'tis so—"

"Thank the Lord!" Elise murmured, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. She had been so hurt, and then so furious, that she had forgotten to grieve for the maid. But Isabel lived. Her reckless behavior had not resulted in the death of another. There were things for which she had to be grateful . . .

"But, oh, milady! What happened?" Michael demanded.

"The king's body was set upon by thieves who murdered the guards. I was forced to run through the night, but I am here now. And that is the end of it, Michael."

"Thieves! Murderers! Oh, my lady! I knew I should never have agreed to such a foolish whim on your part. Isabel, almost butchered! And to think that it might have—"

"Michael—stop!" Elise commanded more harshly. "There was no one who could have dissuaded me from my pilgrimage! The king was kind to my parents, kind to me. I felt it my duty to go; nothing would have changed that. Now, Michael, where is this messenger?"

"Gone, already, milady. I offered all the hospitality of the castle, but as Richard is now at Chinon, he returned immediately. The man assured us that Isabel would be returned, and since a knight named Bryan Stede had seen you, he was quite convinced that you would return at your own speed. Lady Elise, whatever took you so long to return to us?"

"I stayed to the back roads, Michael."

"Back roads! More thieves and murderers and . . . oh, dearest Christ in heaven!" Michael began again, and as much as she loved the old man, Elise wanted to scream.

"Michael! I beg of you! I am sorely weary. I long only for a night's rest. And a bath. Summon Jeanne for me, if you will, please; I require a bath. Tell her that I must have hot water, and plenty of it."

"Aye, milady, aye," Michael murmured, shaking his head slightly. His duchess seldom displayed it but she possessed a temper that could make the devil pause. She was speaking to him courteously—the genteel etiquette of Marie de Bois had been instilled within her daughter through rigorous hours of training, but Michael knew Elise. Authority was in her tone now. Her chin was raised, her eyes were dangerously sparkling, and there was no doubt that the lady knew her place in life—and how to use it.

This was one of those occasions when the Lady Elise might well lose the regal composure for which she was well renowned. Michael chose wisely to turn quickly and hurry toward the kitchens to find Jeanne, his lady's maid.

From the great banqueting hall at Montoui a flight of wide stone stairs led to the gallery and the richly furbished family quarters. Elise tried to walk calmly up the stairs, but as soon as Michael's footsteps faded toward the kitchens, she found herself running without ceremony. Upon reaching her door, she threw it violently open and slammed it behind her as if the devil were still after her.

He was not, she reminded herself. He had already caught her and . . .

I am home. In my own castle. I am the Duchess of Montoui and he will never ever have the power to touch me again. Here the power is all mine . . .

And it is all worthless! she thought with renewed dismay and fury. All of her life she had been trained to understand that she was the nobility. That she need only speak to be obeyed. That if she was fair and just, she would be served without question.

She had learned that the most powerful knight could be stalled with a winning smile. Henry had promised her that she would rule her own destiny.

And now . . . it was gone. Bryan Stede had taken away all of it. He had taught her that nobility meant little or nothing when a man decided that he wanted a woman; and worse, far worse, he had taught her that she could be completely powerless . . .

According to the messenger, Bryan Stede had "seen" her. So he had limped back to Chinon. Apparently, he knew for a fact who she was, and it still meant little to him. She had taken Henry's ring, which made her a thief, and therefore fair game for whatever he had done.

He had ruined her damned life, and all he had had to say was that he had "seen" her!

"Oh, God!" she moaned, leaning her head against the door. "Dear God, just let me forget him! Cleanse my mind of him before I go mad with the fury and humiliation . . ."

Her whispered entreaty broke off as there came a soft tapping at the door.

"Milady?"

Elise turned swiftly about and drew open the door. Jeanne bobbed a quick curtsy and moved out of the way. Several of the servants moved in quickly, bearing the heavy bronze tub. Several moved in quickly behind them, carrying huge buckets of steaming water. The bulky youths all blushed and offered her a welcome home, then hurried out of the chamber. Only Jeanne stayed behind.

Jeanne, Elise thought, grating her teeth together hard, was not going to be easy to evade. Jeanne's will matched the steel color of her graying hair. She was a slim woman, but by her competent manner, she might have been a stone tower. She was like a second mother, and Elise knew that Jeanne loved her with complete loyalty—and she was grateful for that love, and returned it. Like Michael, she had been with the household for decades. She had served Elise since the duchess had been eight years old.

She was not going to be put off by any regal airs, no matter how practiced or majestic.

The others were gone, the door had closed. Jeanne had stayed behind; her work-worn hands upon narrow hips, she scrutinized Elise quickly.

"You look all right, child. Where have you really been?"

"Making my way home," Elise replied crossly. "Jeanne . . . I do have the most horrible pounding in my head! I need no help—"

"You won't rid yourself of me that easily, Elise de Bois!" Jeanne stated firmly, moving with determination into the large and sumptuous chamber.

Once, the main chamber had belonged to her parents. It was appointed with a massive, postered bed. The draperies that hung about it were silk, brought back from the east when her father had gone on a Crusade. In the Holy Lands, William had found time to shop and barter. Persian rugs adorned the floors, and heavy tapestries adorned the walls. Fine cabinets, hewn by German master craftsmen, flanked either side of the archer's windows, and a twenty-foot-length wardrobe stretched along the left wall. At the foot of the bed were two Turkish trunks, one housing a supply of fine linen toweling, and one containing such an assortment of rose and herbal soaps and scented bath oils as to be decadent.

Jeanne, long accustomed to attending her mistress, hurried to the trunks and—ignoring the dangerous scowl upon Elise's face—began to gather an assortment of accoutrements for the bath. Jeanne placed linen towels and soaps upon the bed, then dug farther, and withdrew an empty vase that had once contained an Egyptian musk. She grimaced as she approached Elise, handing her the vase.

"What—" Elise began.

"Throw it," Jeanne advised, her dark eyes still brilliant despite her four decades.

"Throw it?"

"Aye—throw it! Hard—so that it will take strength! Make it shatter against the stone of the wall!"

Elise thought of quickly reprimanding her maid and ordering her from the room—not even Jeanne could disobey a direct order—but suddenly she laughed. It was a bitter sound, not a pleasant one, but it was, at least, laughter.

She accepted the empty vase and sent it flying against the wall with admirable power.

"Good!" Jeanne applauded the action. "Now, do you feel any better."

"Aye, I do," Elise admitted.

"The bath will help improve your disposition even more." Jeanne smiled. She took Elise's cloak, and, with a sigh, Elise stripped away her shoes and the rough woolen tunic and stepped into the water.

It was hot. So hot that it burned. But it stole away the tension in her muscles, and the mist that rose high above the tub helped to ease the pounding in her temples. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them to find Jeanne ready at her side with a cloth and a thick sliver of rose-scented soap.

"Thank you," Elise murmured, accepting both. Jeanne moved away, taking a hard, straight-backed chair that gave an archer's view of the countryside beyond the castle. Elise glanced at her maid, then at the soap and cloth. Then she began scrubbing herself with fury. If she washed and washed, she could begin to wash away the memory of Bryan Stede.

"So," Jeanne said at last, "did you lose your heart to a thief, milady?"

Startled, Elise desisted with her furious scrubbing. "Don't be absurd, Jeanne!" she replied with annoyance.

Jeanne was silent for a moment, and then she sighed. "I am glad, milady. Yet you would not have been the first noble maid to leave the confines of her class and find love with a strapping young peasant. Nor the first to know the pain that such a foolish affair could bring."

"Have no fear," Elise said coolly, sinking beneath the water to wet her hair, then rising again. "I assure you, I have given my heart to Sir Percy, and it will belong to no other."

"Ahh . . ." Jeanne murmured. "Then you think that you will fool Percy?"

Elise closed her eyes once more and gritted her teeth together. "Jeanne, I do not wish to be queried, or annoyed. I am exhausted, and—"

"Elise! I am quite sure that I do try your patience! But you must bear with me—for my age, for the service I have rendered your family all these years. And for the future of Montoui."

"Montoui? Jeanne, whatever are you babbling on about?" Elise placed the cloth over her face with annoyance as she allowed the soap to linger upon her hair. If she could smell roses, she would not be plagued by the male and musky scent of the knight . . .

"Milady, you may fool an old man like Michael, and your guards dance to your tune, but I am a woman—an old one at that—and I have seen too much of life. You returned in clothing not your own, alone, on a horse that could only belong to a knight—or to a thief who had stolen it from a knight. There is a deep burning fury in your eyes, and you seek nothing but your own company. 'Tis been my experience that only one thing can cause this in a woman—and the one thing is a man."

"All right—I am angry with a man," Elise muffled out through the cloth.

"Were you raped, or seduced?"

"Jeanne!"

"Have me whipped, milady, the question still stands. I ask for your future, and because I love you."

How had she known? Elise wondered dismally. She might as well have worn a placard that decreed she had warmed the bed of that indigo-eyed devil! Would it all be so evident to Percy? What was she going to do? Tell him? She had to tell him. It would only be honorable.

But what if Percy challenged Stede and swords were drawn? She could be responsible for the death of one of them.

Stede deserved to die. To be drawn and quartered, hanged, disemboweled, beheaded . . . But what if it were Percy to die? She wouldn't be able to bear it . . .

What was she—crazy? She couldn't tell Percy!

"Is the man no one that you could marry, milady?" Jeanne asked softly.

"Marry!" Elise shrieked, at last pulling the cloth from her face to stare at Jeanne. "Never!"

"But if he raped you—"

"He didn't . . . exactly."

"No matter who he is, if he seduced you, he can be brought to the altar. Henry is gone now, of course, but surely Richard will prove to be just in his dealings—though God forgive him for hounding his father to his grave!—and you are the Duchess of powerful lands. 'Tis a pity that if you were an ordinary maid—"

"Jeanne! You do not comprehend this situation. I do not wish to marry this man! I hate him! I will marry Percy as I have planned. I am in love with Percy Montagu, as Percy is with me."

"Will he be so in love, I wonder, if you carry another man's child? Or is that a possibility that has not crossed that shield of anger you wear?"

Elise's silence assured her maid that her words were true. Elise dipped back into the water, carefully rinsing the tangling mass of her hair. She still felt Stede's touch upon her; more so now, with Jeanne's words. Still silent, she started to scrub herself again.

"Elise, speak to me," Jeanne pleaded softly. "Tell me what happened. Who was this man? How did—"

"Nay, Jeanne, stop! I will tell you no more than what you have discerned. I cannot talk about it, and I will not! Rest content with what you believe, because I will say no more!" Elise lathered the soap against her flesh with a greater fury.

"You cannot wash him away," Jeanne advised softly.

"Just his scent," Elise replied briefly.

Jeanne sighed softly. "It seems he made more of an impression upon you than you care to admit."

"Oh, he made quite an impression," Elise replied bitterly.

"Come out, little one. I will dress your hair, and we will talk. I will question you no more, I promise. I will try to help you see the future, since what is done is done."

Elise bit her lip. Perhaps it was best. Jeanne might well nag at her like a mother hen, but she would never betray her confidence. And Elise knew she had to regain her poise and sort out her thoughts before she did see Percy again.

"Aye," she said softly.

Jeanne was ready with a huge towel, and then with a soft robe of caressing silk. In moments Elise was seated before her dressing cabinet, facing the huge oval mirror of hammered silver. Jeanne began to comb the tangles from her great mass of damp hair.

"I am certain that I do not carry his child," Elise said, suddenly quite calm. "The timing is not right."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. And I would never marry such a man."

Jeanne at last lost her worried frown to laugh for a moment. "Ah, Elise! Your fate has been a good one! Most ladies of noble birth are bartered to husbands they have never seen! No more than pawns upon the king's chessboard. Yet you say ‘aye' or ‘nay' with complete authority! Sometimes I worry about you because of this. The world is hard and brutal; it is oft easier to face when you have not been led to believe in your own mind."

"Nothing has changed!" Elise said vehemently. "Somehow, I will find a way to wreak vengeance upon that arrogant. . . bastard! And I will marry Percy!"

"What do you intend to do?" Jeanne queried softly.

"Lie," Elise murmured unhappily. "Oh, Jeanne! I don't know what to do! I love Percy because we are open with each other. We come together as equals. He respects my mind and my thoughts, and he has seen that I am capable and just and manage quite well what is mine. We talk, Jeanne. About everything. I've never lied to him . . ."

Her voice trailed away. She hadn't ever really lied to Percy; but she had never told him the truth about her birth. Henry had warned her to tell no one; she had respected his wishes.

But she wondered now if—in the back of her mind—she hadn't also known that Percy might not love her if he knew the truth. Bloodlines meant everything to Percy.

"We love each other," she murmured, and then she eyed Jeanne sharply through the mirror. "What would happen to me if I didn't lie?" she asked herself softly. Holding back the truth of her birth was one thing; she could think of it as a "vow" to Henry. But lying about herself, about something that had just happened . . .

"It would be noble, milady," Jeanne said dryly. "And stupid."

"You're right, aren't you?" Elise sighed. But what about the pretense she would have to assume? She had tried to pretend that she wasn't a virgin when she was, and had been caught. Now the time would come when she would have to pretend that she was a virgin when she wasn't. It all seemed an ungodly mess, and it was all Stede's fault.

Jeanne appeared to be reading her mind.

"There are ways to fool a man such as Percy, Elise," Jeanne said softly. "A scream upon the wedding night; a tiny vial of calf's blood—"

"Oh, Jeanne! It's so horribly unfair! I have never been so grateful for anything in life as my freedom—to love and marry where I would! To escape the fate of being bartered or manipulated for political reasons! My marriage was destined to be one of sharing, honesty, and trust. And now I am to begin it all with lies and deceit!"

She felt a jerk upon her hair, and frowned, then noted that Jeanne had absently left her to walk to the archer's slit of a window.

"What is it, Jeanne?"

Jeanne turned around with her dark eyes wide and alarmed.

"Think, then, what you will say quickly, milady Elise, for he rides this way."

"Percy!" Elise cried out, flying from the chair to rush to the window.

"Aye! See his standard upon the hill? He comes this way now!"

Elise's heart began to pound; a thunder to join that which remained in her head.

No . . . it was too soon. She was not ready to greet him. It hadn't even been a night since . . .

"I will need my tunic with the ermine-lined neck, please, Jeanne. And the white headdress, I believe. It goes well with the flowing sleeves."

"Aye, milady," Jeanne murmured miserably. Elise was standing straight; her chin was high. There was no quiver to her lip, nor tremor to her voice.

She was calm, and poised. And regal.

Jeanne had never felt more proud of her young mistress.

And yet she was frightened of the folly of youth. Elise was so horrified at the thought of her lie, and so passionately furious. Would she give herself away?

Don't! Jeanne wanted to tell the girl. Forget your vengeance against this other man, forget it completely, if you wish to wed Percy in happiness. Men could behave so strangely. Percy might well love her, but he would be furious and hurt—and he would feel betrayed. And though men might wander where they would, even a great heiress lost half her value when she lost her virginity.

Elise adjusted a golden girdle low upon her hips. "I am assuming Michael has alerted the kitchen that Percy is arriving. I believe he comes with a retinue of . . . I counted five men. Does that sound right?"

"Yes, milady."

"See that we have a fine Bordeaux wine with which to greet them. They will be thirsty from the road."

"Aye, milady," Jeanne murmured.

Elise left the room, resplendent with the beauty nature had bestowed upon her, and with the elegance of her fur-trimmed white silk. She was majestic. And she was a duchess of a rich land.

Percy loved her. It was true, too, that men even married old, ugly women to possess their land.

And Elise was clever and quick. Very mature for her age—as a duchess must be. She had kindness and mercy, and a touch of steel when the need arose. Her people loved her; she knew how to speak without saying a thing when the need arose, how to command, and how to reward. Surely, she would handle herself well with Sir Percy.

But Jeanne had an uncomfortable feeling in her bones. She would do all that Elise had asked . . .

Then she would await her mistress in this chamber. She would be there, in case her regal and poised charge needed a shoulder to cry upon when the audience was gone and she was allowed to be what she was—a young girl, stunned, furious, bewildered. And very hurt.

Jeanne felt a little shudder rake through her. What if things did not go well with Percy?

Elise was so very angry. Furious to the depths of the soul.

Jeanne wondered with a miserable shiver just where that streak of blazing anger might take her proud and reckless young mistress.