“You must learn to understand the world very well, my girl. You are too precious to be . . .” Henry paused for some seconds.
“To be what, Your Grace?”
“A pawn,” he said softly. “Come—we return to the castle!”
From that day forward, Elise found her education comprehensive. She learned all the boundaries of England and Europe and the East; she learned who the powerful princes were, and what lands were fading into obscurity.
On her fifteenth birthday, she saw the king again. It was a rare occasion, for by that time, young Henry had died, and Richard had sided with Philip, the young King of France, in a furious battle against his father.
Eleanor was still locked within her prison, and Elise was still mourning the death of her father. William de Bois, Duke of Montoui, had sickened and died of a wound to his shoulder, incurred during a battle for his overlord against Richard.
The king was melancholy. He had grown old.
But Elise sensed that he found a haven with her. He brought none of his knights when he visited Montoui; it was as if he escaped from battle and pain and bitterness.
Elise was glad to be with him, especially that day. She had learned all that she might to please, and since her father’s death, she had managed her estates brilliantly. Marie had considered her old enough to take full responsibility for her inheritance, and Elise had proven herself responsible. She balanced the household accounts, dealt with the head of the castle guard, encouraged her villeins to greater efficiency in the fields, and kept Montoui in a productive state of internal peace.
And she had studied very hard. She had mastered English and Latin, and much, much more. At fifteen, she had grown tall and straight and shapely—a stunningly beautiful young woman. She had learned to despise the general lot of womankind, to abhor the system that decreed women to be vassals—bought and sold for their wealth and lands by fathers and husbands.
But she had also learned the wiles and cajolery of her sex.
“Mother says that I am more than of age to marry,” she told the king as they rode. “She has suggested the Duke of Touraine, but I feel that such an alliance would be a grave mistake.” She did not tell Henry that she despised the Duke of Touraine for being a dandified fop who never sat straight in his saddle; she used cool logic. “His loyalty to the Angevin empire is questionable; he has too often in the past been in the company of the King of France.”
“You are quite right!” the king cried passionately. “No, you shall not be the wife of such a man. Nay, you shall not marry at all until I have chosen for you. Ah, the pity, the price of it!” He spat. “With his legitimate heirs, a man must sell for the highest bid and the best alliance; not with you shall I do that, my little Elise.”
And so she learned that day that she was a bastard. The king’s bastard.
No one knew, he assured her. He had loved her true mother, a young peasant girl from nearby Bordeaux. She had been gentle and kind and sweet, and as she weakened toward death after the ordeal of childbirth, she had asked Henry one boon. Her child was to be raised by nobility, but spared the stain of bastardy . . .
So she had been brought to the childless Duke and Duchess of Montoui, and been given the gift of legitimacy.
Elise had been stunned. Unsure. All her life she had dearly loved her father and mother, and now she was learning that the noble William was not her father at all . . .
She was the king’s bastard.
“I have taken much from you, with a truth I should have kept silent,” Henry told her astutely. “Ah, my pet, I am so sorry. But perhaps I can give you much in return. I will give what I could not give my legitimate daughters. I will give you your freedom, and your duchy. For a woman, that is a great gift. You will choose your own husband, my daughter. And you will rule your own lands. But bear in mind, daughter, that it is only by deception that Montoui can be yours. If your true birth were known, the country would abound with ‘legally related’ wolves to claim Montoui. While I live, no one would dare assault you, but should something happen to me—”
“Please! Let’s not speak of such a thing, Your Grace!”
She could not bring herself to call him “Father.”
“Sire,” she asked him, “did you truly love my mother?” Elise was no fool. She had heard of the king’s many conquests—not the least of whom was the fair Rosamund Clifford, dead, too, these many years now, some said poisoned by the queen’s hand. But the queen had already been incarcerated while Rosamund lay dying, and Elise could not believe that Eleanor had hired a murderer.
“Aye, that I did. I was very much in love when you were conceived.” Henry lifted his hand and showed her the small sapphire ring he wore upon his smallest finger. “She gave me this when we first loved together. I have worn it since.”
Marie, Duchess of Montoui, died the next year. Henry was fiercely engaged in his war with Philip and Richard, but he managed to come to the castle.
He looked horrible. Old and dissipated.
But Elise knew now that she loved him no matter what sense of betrayal she had felt at learning that she was a bastard. He was her father. Her heart went out to him.
“Father,” she asked him, when they were alone, “is there no way that you can make peace with Richard? Perhaps, if you were to free the queen—”
“Never!” Henry railed. “It was she who set my sons against me! Nay Richard will come to heel! He is an arrogant young pup . . .”
The king raved on. Richard was an insolent young pup; Henry had asked so little of him. And Eleanor was as dangerous as a black widow.
Elise felt she understood a large part of Henry’s problems—problems that had made the great warrior king old and bitter and garrulous.
He had been hurt as only a father can be hurt by a son. He was judging his son as a boy, but Richard Plantagenet, already the “Lion-Heart,” was not a boy asking for a new steed or bow. He was a hulking man in his prime. And Eleanor . . .
Well, Elise could well believe that the queen could be dangerous. But she also believed that Eleanor still loved Henry.
His line of thought had followed hers.
“Eleanor,” he murmured, and Elise knew that his mind had wandered to thoughts of his wife. He glanced her way, and for a moment his smile was young. “I saw her once when she was the French king’s wife. Old Louis. Yes, Louis should have been a monk. He was no match for Eleanor. She was dazzling then, the brightest flame of Christendom, perhaps. She had more wit and strategy in her little finger than Louis had in his entire flaccid frame. How I wanted her! And Aquitaine, of course. We created the Angevin empire, she and I. And she has never broken. Jailed all these years and she is a proud and wily old fox! Always plotting and planning! She is a queen, my Eleanor, that she is . . .”
Henry paused a moment and stared piercingly at his daughter. “But you see, my child, that she sits in prison—as she has for almost twelve years! Follow her example in pride and spirit, but should you marry, be warned! Don’t turn your sons from their father.”
With the change in him, Elise suddenly forgot protocol and threw her arms around him. “I shall never do so, Father, for I am in love!”
“In love, eh? With whom?”
“Sir Percy Montagu, Father. He is a knight who serves you well. And I know that his father has approved our match; he will soon ask for my hand.”
Henry laughed. “Ah, and well. I know of young Montagu, yes. I would have approved a more prestigious match for you, but—”
“But you promised that I might marry where I loved!”
“That I did.”
“And, Father, I will retain ownership of my lands.”
“Good! You have paid heed to your tutors.”
“Yes, it can be done quite legally.”
“When young Percy asks for you, send him to me. I will approve the marriage, if that is what you seek.”
Elise tried to hide her glee.
“Thank you, sire,” she told Henry gravely. But in her
heart, she was pitying her father, and envying herself.
I have learned so much from you, Father, she thought a little sadly. I will always know that a man—or a woman—must not use a child as a pawn in battle. I will know that my children are as much my husband’s blood as my own, and that to injure a parent whom they love is to injure them.
I will not fall prey to a man with a roving eye—such as yours. When I say that I love, I will do so, with my whole heart and purpose, forever.
As I love Percy, and Percy loves me.
Lands and titles will mean nothing to the two of us; we will protect ourselves from the way of the world with the blanket of our own truths and sincerity.
Her roving thoughts ceased as Henry cleared his throat and caught her attention.
“Elise . . . I . . .”
“What is it, sire?”
“Nothing. I . . .”
He had not said it for so long. To anyone. Life had become too bitter for King Henry II of England, Count of Anjou, Duke of Normandy. The words faltered on his tongue. But then he said them.
“I love you, daughter.”
“And I love you . . . Father . . .”
* * *
It had been the last time she had seen him alive.
“Oh, Henry,” Elise whispered, tears forming in her eyes again. “It was so very bad for you. If only you had learned to speak to your legitimate son as you spoke to me.”
She had heard about the end—the truce he had been forced to sign with Richard and Philip. He had been stripped of his pride, of everything. A lifetime of success had been turned to failure.
And then he had died. Died, after discovering that his youngest son had been among the men to desert him at the end. Prince John—John Lackland, as they called him, since all had been parceled out to his older brothers before him.
They were a nest of vultures.
They were her half brothers.
A shiver rippled through Elise. Thank God no one knew. Almost no one.
Eleanor knew. And Richard would surely release Eleanor from her prison of sixteen years immediately.
Elise clenched her eyes tightly together. She could not believe that Eleanor would betray her. Eleanor had once promised to protect her. She was safe then, or so she fervently hoped.
Richard would be crowned King of England.
But Richard would bear her no malice. After her father—William de Bois, that was—died, Henry would allow no other knights from her duchy to fight with him. Henry had, in truth, granted her all his royal care.
Elise flicked at her lashes and stared at the shriveled face of Henry the II. A new wave of tears filled her eyes.
“It ended with sorrow, Your Grace, but know this: you did give to me—so much. So very much. And I did love you. I love you now. I will love you all the days to come in my life. And I will be happy, Father. You left me that. I will arrange my own betrothal to Percy Montagu. We will rule our lands together, and live in peace and harmony with one another. I will have learned from you, Father.”
Percy. Elise thought of him now with longing. Tall and slender and golden, his mahogany eyes so ready to mirror compassion and caring—and laughter. If she could but be with him now.
Soon. The war was over. The majority of Henry’s men had gone north into Normandy after Henry had decided to come south with only a few retainers for his last confrontation. Percy would be in Normandy now, horrified to hear of the king’s death. But Richard could not punish honorable warriors who had fought for the crowned king; and even if Percy were to be stripped of his lands and wealth, she wouldn’t care in the least. She had Montoui. And the small, neutral duchy had an army of five hundred strong to defend her borders.
Oh, Father!
She clenched his cold hand and felt the bite of metal.
Elise smiled wistfully as she looked upon the small sapphire ring on his little finger. Her mother’s sapphire.
She bit her lip suddenly, then drew the ring from the bony finger. “I hope you don’t mind, Father. It is all that I might ever have of both of you. I never saw her, and now you too are gone.”
She smiled then, and slipped the sapphire into her bodice. Henry would have understood. And he wouldn’t have begrudged her the ring that meant so much to her.
Then Elise forgot the ring, for she realized with horror that she hadn’t said a single prayer for him.
Henry was in dire need of prayer!
It was rumored that he had denied God his soul when he had fled before Richard after Le Mans—the city of his birth—had been burned over his head.
Elise folded her hands together and bent her head in fervent supplication.
“Our Father, who art in heaven . . .”
II
He stood upon the ramparts of the castle, staring eastwardly. The dreary rain had at last ceased, and the night breeze lifted his cloak and had whipped it about him.
He was a proud and formidable figure, tall and still in the night. His was a true knight’s form, hard and trim from constant battle in his king’s behalf.
He might have been a king himself. He was tall enough to stare the Lion-Heart in the eyes. And like the Lion-Heart, he was proven in both tournaments and battle. A more fierce warrior did not exist, nor one with greater cunning and skill. For all his sinewed size, there was a feline grace about him. He could dodge a double-headed ax with ease, leap above the swipe of a sword with the grace of an acrobat. He knew that he was feared and respected, but the knowledge gave him no great pleasure.
No single strength could have changed the tide of war.
He had ridden with Henry for three years. And in that time, he had always matched his voice against the king. He had never backed down, despite the king’s famed temper; yet Henry had never banished him from his company, no matter how fierce the argument. It was Henry who had dubbed him the “Black Knight,” the Rogue, the Falcon. All in affection, for he had always known his plainspoken and somewhat unorthodox warrior to be completely loyal—to both his king and to his own conscience.
He stared out upon the night now, but without really seeing it. Blue eyes so deep that they often appeared to be indigo or black were even darker still with his brooding. The rain-soaked breeze grew wilder, but he was heedless of the wind. Indeed, it felt good. It seemed to cleanse him.
He had grown so tired of the eternal bloodshed.
And now he was left to wonder: For what?
The king is dead; long live the king. Richard would be crowned King of England. It was right; Richard the Lion-Heart was the legal heir.
There was a movement upon the ramparts, the click of boots against stone. Always a warrior, Bryan Stede spun about, instantly alert, his knife in his hand, poised to parry a blow.
A deep chuckle sounded from the dark pit of the nearest tower, and Bryan relaxed, grinning, as he realized that he was being interrupted by a friend.
“Sheathe your knife, Bryan!” William Marshal said, striding toward him. “God knows, you could be defending your life soon enough.”
Bryan slipped the knife back into the strap about his ankle and leaned against the stone of the castle as he watched his friend come closer. There were few men he respected as he did Marshal. Many called him “the Arab,” as he was a swarthy man with a thin beak for a nose, but whatever his background, he was an Englishman to the core. He was also one of the best fighters alive; before becoming Henry’s right-hand man, Marshal had traveled from province to province, besting anyone who cared to challenge him in a tournament.
“If I am to be defending my life, friend Marshal, so shall you. I met Richard on the battlefield; we came to an impasse, and both bowed out, but you unhorsed him!”
Marshal shrugged. “Who is to say which of us he would rather draw and quarter? ’Tis true I might have killed Richard, but he was unarmed when he charged across that bridge. He met you in fair battle—and could not kill you. It can’t do much for that great pride of his to know that either of us might have dealt his deathblow.”
Bryan Stede laughed, and the sound was only slightly bitter. “I guess we have to face it, Marshal. Tomorrow we shall see if Richard cares to give his father his last respects. After that, he shall be the king. Lawfully. And we shall be worth less than the ground he walks upon.”
Marshal grimaced, then grinned.
“I couldn’t have changed a thing, Bryan.”
“No, neither could I.”
They stared out at the night in companionable silence for a moment. At last Marshal asked, “Are you afraid to face Richard, Bryan?”
“No,” Bryan said flatly. “His father was the rightful King of England.” He paused a moment, studying the stars that were breaking through the darkness of the night. “It should never have come to warfare between those two, Marshal. It all seems so petty now. But I cannot ask the new king to pardon me for fighting for the old. To my mind, it was right. Richard is welcome to strip me of what little I have, but I will not beg that he forgive me for following my conscience.”
“Nor I,” said Marshal. Then he laughed softly. “Hell, shall I remind the man that I could have killed him, but instead held my blow.”
“And thank God that you did,” Bryan muttered, suddenly fierce. “Could you imagine Prince John King of England?”
Marshal sobered hastily. “No, I could not. I still believe that Henry might be with us still had he not seen John’s name at the top of the list of traitors who left him at Le Mans.”
Again both men were silent, thinking of the dead king. Poor Henry! To lead such an illustrious life and to be brought so low at death, hounded to his grave by his sons.
Blue Heaven, Black Night Page 3
