She would be there for them all.
Eleanor walked more sedately and sat down upon her narrow bunk. She began to stretch and flex her fingers, as if she already tested her power.
Soon . . .
Soon, now, they would come for her. Who would Richard send? Perhaps William Marshal. Perhaps de Roche . . .
Perhaps young Bryan Stede. Henry’s men—but loyal men. And her men, too. Just as they had loved their sovereign, they had loved their queen—and never denied their love.
Yes, it was likely that they would all make their peace with Richard. And it was likely he would send one of them to her.
She would be waiting.
And she would be ready.
She was, after all, a very young seventy. And she had so much more to give.
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 over
night, 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 mu
st 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!”
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