Chosen for the Marriage Bed (23 page)

Richard watched Gilbert de Burcher, breathing deeply, exerting the last vestiges of control over his temper, his blood so hot, so full of anger, that it would seem impossible to face this man with icy deliberation and clear judgement. His first sight on entering the cloister had wiped his mind clear of any thought but to punish the man who ill treated her. Gilbert de Burcher, dragging his wife against her will, one hand pinioning her wrists, an arm around her body to all but lift her from the floor. Yet control was of the essence against this formidable soldier who was now under orders to take his life. This same man who had been paid off to kill Lewis de Lacy.

‘You will answer for your actions towards my wife, de Burcher.’ At last his breathing and temper answered to his will. ‘And for the death of her brother.’

‘Lewis, is it? And what proof do you have of that?’ The snarled response was immediate, the lips curled in derision. ‘Come then, my lord Malinder. Let us see who will gain the upper hand.’ The smile became a smirk.

Richard was ready as de Burcher lunged forwards, feet agile for so heavy a man, and the personal battle between the two was joined. Attack, retreat. Thrust, parry. Pursue and feint. Both hampered by moving shadows and uneven surface, both intent on victory, because both were aware that defeat would bring death. The swords, heavy enough to crush a skull, to shatter bone, rose and fell with the loud clang of metal on metal, whilst the daggers flashed to search out weak points, careless defence. The protagonists were well matched with muscle and sinew sleek and firm from constant use, much of a height, similar breadth of shoulder. Worthy opponents.

Elizabeth watched with breathless horror, unable to admire Richard’s skill, unable to think anything beyond the worst of outcomes, so evenly matched as they were. Both bloodied, both answering blow with blow. She pressed her hands to her mouth when de Burcher’s sword ripped through Richard’s sleeve into flesh. Felt the pain in her own body when Richard winced with an indrawn breath before leaping forwards into another attack.

Until hope, the tiniest flame, began to flutter in her breast. Richard was fighting with a disciplined rage now perfectly channelled, waging a tireless and implacable assault driven by a need for revenge, his face a graven mask. His sword beat at Sir Gilbert’s, the dagger flashed, lured and tasted blood. Elizabeth knew there would be no forgiveness here, no final mercy for the defeated.

Yet the contest continued for what seemed an eternity, unreal and macabre in the cloister of Llanwardine Priory with an audience of bent and elderly Brides of Christ, over the grassy garth, under the ribbed vaulting. Nothing but the thud and shuffle of booted feet, grunts of effort, the laboured breath, the hiss of pain as honed steel met flesh.

The end had to come. Exhaustion took its toll and the broken edge of a raised flag stone. De Burcher lost his footing, for a blink of an eye, but it was enough to distract and Richard Malinder took advantage with a feint, a lethal lunge. The final thrust took de Burcher in the chest below the ribcage, the poignard angling upwards to pierce the heart. He fell like a stone.

Robert knelt to turn the prone figure.

‘He is dead.’

‘I know. It was my intention.’ Breathing laboured, sweat streaking his face. Blood dripped from a deep slash to Richard’s forearm. The fires of Hell only died from his eyes when Robert touched his arm, bringing him back to the present and unfinished business.

All eyes on the deadly conflict, no one had taken note of Nicholas Capel, the necromancer. No one saw him as he drew a dagger from his sleeve and stealthily advanced. Not until he stood in the midst of the watchers, his blade glinting in the fitful light.

Of everyone there, Jane Bringsty was the nearest to the grim figure with the dagger. A band squeezed around her heart. The darkness round Master Capel was far greater and more intense than that of his black garments. Here was the source of the wickedness, the dark power that had muffled her skills, of that she was certain. But who would he attack? Elizabeth? All Jane’s visions crystallised into one shining certainty in her mind. Of course it was Elizabeth. Had her dreams and cards, her scrying, not told her so? Here was the dark man who would be a threat to her mistress, who would prove to be her sworn enemy. His dagger would take her life. But it must not be! Elizabeth and the child must not be harmed. Without thought, Jane flung herself forwards to impede, to deflect the blade, only to have the necromancer, startled, wheel round in defence. They came together, the small, stout figure at tempting to grab the wrist of the tall, powerful man.

It would always be an unequal struggle and the element of surprise was not enough. Whether by chance or intent, the knife’s point turned and slid silently, with a terrible smoothness, between her ribs. Jane Bringsty fell to the floor at Nicholas Capel’s feet as Robert, too late, too slow in his movements, pulled the man away.

Jane!

Elizabeth fell to her knees beside her serving woman, her friend, her loving companion, uncomprehending of this final turn of fate in the after math of all the other horrors of the night.

‘Jane. Jane,’ she cried, stricken by the total vulnerability of the crumpled figure, the shrunken features which
in extremis
revealed her age. ‘This can’t be.’ Elizabeth tried to call her back as her hands sought to discover the wound, but she knew immediately she could do nothing. The wound was fatal, even though Jane’s eyelids fluttered open. A pure effort of will. Blood stained the pale lips as she coughed. Too much blood. The blade had pierced the lung, for which there was no remedy, even within Mistress Bringsty’s skills.

Now Richard was beside them, kneeling likewise, using his strength to help Elizabeth to lift Jane to lean against him as her serving woman breathed shallowly in agony and choked in her own blood. When their eyes met it was in acknowledgement of what they both knew. Elizabeth read the truth, the compassion, that brought tears to her cheeks.

Jane’s fingers dug hard into Elizabeth’s hand. ‘I saw death,’ she gasped as Elizabeth still tried in effectually to staunch the blood with her skirts. ‘But the truth was hidden from me. I thought it was your death I had seen in the cards. Perhaps it was my own after all…’ Jane twisted her face away as the pain gripped harder.

‘You saved my life, Jane.’ Gently Elizabeth wiped the blood from her mouth and cheek, bent to kiss the hollow of her temple. ‘You have always loved and cared for me. As I have loved you.’

‘You were the child I never had.’ It was an effort for her to speak, to move, but she pulled Elizabeth closer to whisper, ‘Take care of the babe. Teach him what he needs to know.’

‘I will.’

The Prioress had come to kneel beside them, holding her injured arm against the dark folds of her habit.

‘Please…’ Jane showed her teeth in what was not a smile. ‘I know about death. Do me the courtesy of not praying over me.’ Dry humour touched her eyes even in the face of such tragedy, before the pain once more laid claim and she groaned with the power of it. ‘It will do neither of us any good. I shall die—and you will surely fail in your petition to God for mercy.’

Ignoring the blood and her own discomfort, Isabel de Lacy leaned to kiss Jane Bringsty on the forehead in a final blessing. ‘Then I will not pray for you.’ Although she did in her heart. ‘But I will wish you a safe passage, Jane Bringsty.’

‘My thanks. You would have protected us. You would have saved my mistress.’ Jane’s voice and breathing grew more laboured.

‘I would save any soul from the grip of evil—and without doubt evil was present this night. Be at peace, sister. Whatever our differences, we were at one in the end.’

‘A nun and a cunning woman? Who would believe it?’

The soft laugh ended on a cough. And it was over.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he breathless stillness was rent by the harsh rasp of a sword drawn from its scabbard. Richard rose to his feet, lifting Elizabeth with him, to find Sir John de Lacy grim-faced, weapon grasped in his hand.

‘You have killed my commander, Malinder,’ he snarled. ‘But you have not won yet. Nor will you.’

Elizabeth found herself clamped firmly to Richard’s side as he faced her uncle. His face might be weary, his wounds bloody, but there was no doubting his defiance. ‘What do you intend now, de Lacy? Do you kill me now? Or do you take us both to Talgarth? To engineer my death most conveniently in one of your dungeons there, whilst you keep Elizabeth safe and under surveillance until the child is born?’

‘Why, yes.’ De Lacy’s smile broadened to show his teeth. ‘I can think of no better plan.’

Elizabeth stiffened within the shelter of Richard’s arm. Could she believe this, a cool admittance of deceit and bloody murder? And was this a threat to her own freedom? What did Richard know that she did not? She glanced up at his rigid features, but his attention was all for Sir John.

‘You can’t stop me, Malinder. My men-at-arms will escort you.’ Sir John raised the tip of his sword in overt threat.

‘No, de Lacy. You’re wrong. It won’t hold together any longer.’ It amazed Elizabeth how calm Richard could remain under such provocation. ‘The events of this night, the skeins of duplicity, are already unravelling. Too many people know or suspect. So you think no one will question a handful of too-convenient deaths? You will have to silence Lady Isabel, I think. Sir Robert too. And you will have to kill me if you wish to seize control over my child. I will resist you with every drop of blood in my body. I will never hand him over to your guardianship. And nor will Elizabeth.’

‘Richard…!’ Elizabeth could not believe what she was hearing.

‘It will be your choice, of course.’ Sir John’s smile slipped into a grimace since it was no longer needed. The reply cold and callous. ‘No one will be allowed to speak against me. At this moment I hold you—all of you—in the palm of my hand.’ He held his hand open before him, then squeezed his fingers tightly together into a fist, as if to crush whatever might be in his grasp.

‘And David?’ Richard asked evenly. ‘Are you so certain that he will be the willing ally—which Lewis would not? If he resists, must he die too?’

‘Leave David to me. He’s young. He’ll know his best interests—I will show him the glory of his in heritance. He will rival every Marcher family in the extent of his estates.’ Sir John barked a harsh laugh as he swept the matter away as of little account with a confident sweeping gesture. ‘Nothing can halt the progression of events now.’ He turned his attention to Elizabeth. ‘But first I should see to your comfort, my dear niece.’

‘I don’t under stand…’ she whispered.

‘Your uncle,’ Richard said, fury vibrating through him, into her own body, ‘has a well-planned campaign. He has followed it since before we were wed. To kill me and take possession of all the Malinder lands through my heir.’

‘Is that true?’ Even though she asked, she knew it was. She fought to take a breath. ‘And you expect me to accept your hospitality, Uncle, whilst you plot Richard’s death? I’ll never do it. I will broad cast your sins to the world first.’

Sir John merely looked on, considering, icy cold with a terrible confidence, as unconcerned as if she were a small girl intent on some childish piece of defiance, of temper, of rejection of what was good for her. Confidence oozed from every inch of his body, victory in his proud stance.

‘Lewis threatened the same when he saw my reasoning,’ he remarked. ‘I had no choice but to remove him. It should be a warning to you, Elizabeth.’

Elizabeth gasped at the brutal admission.

‘No one will believe you, my obstinate niece, even if you do find someone to listen to your woes. A woman’s sickness, brought on by the sudden and unexpected death of her lord in a Welsh ambush. If it comes to the ears of anyone, it will be cast aside as nothing but the ramblings of a disordered mind. Besides, you make too much of it. Your are and were a de Lacy before you were ever a Malinder. Where is your loyalty, girl? You will come with me to Talgarth. When the child is born, we will rule the Malinder lands together.’

Shivering, Elizabeth dared not look at Richard, fearing her own weakness if she allowed herself to contemplate his death, if she thought of the blood that was even now dripping from his arm to the floor. But she could not stand by and allow this. Could not allow her uncle to have his way. She could bargain. In that moment she knew that she would give her life if there was no alternative. But there was one chance….

‘Sir John!’ Pulling away from Richard’s grasp, she stepped to face him, and push aside the point of the sword, forcing him to look at her. ‘Can we not come to some agreement? Will you not make a bargain with me? In return for my lord’s life, I will return to you all my dower lands. They are not insubstantial—they would increase your holdings in the central March. Would that not be enough?’

‘Such loyalty, Elizabeth. You amaze me,’ de Lacy sneered. ‘No, they are not insubstantial. They were, after all, the bait for the rat, to make it impossible for Malinder to refuse your hand in marriage. But such a small parcel of land compared with the whole extent of the Malinder lands. Mine for the taking, in the name of your child.’

‘You will have to take my life, too.’ She had known it was a futile gesture all along.

‘Then so be it. Meanwhile, Elizabeth, as I said, no one will believe your feverish rantings of threats to your life.’

‘They would believe me, I think.’

The quiet words, dropping like rose petals on to summer grass, fell into the screaming tension. The slide of soft shoes on stone paving. Everyone turned. Ellen de Lacy walked calmly forwards across the cloister until she stood beside her husband. She pushed back her hood from her veil and folded her hands before her. Those ignorant of the proceedings would see her as the perfect sub missive wife.

‘Sir John,’ Lady Ellen said, ‘I think you should release your niece, allow her to go her own way.’ She took in the players in the scene. ‘And Lord Richard too. If any harm comes to them, I will speak of what I know. Any denial from you would bear no weight. There are too many here who know the truth.’

‘Ellen. This is no concern of yours! What are you doing here?’ A façade of concern touched Sir John’s features, but blood drained from his face to leave him ashen in the candle light. ‘You should be at Talgarth.’

Ellen’s amazingly serene smile remained in place. ‘I have not been at Talgarth for some days, my lord. I found a need to make a visit to Ledenshall. And, so it seems, I have a need to be here also.’ Head tilted, she looked at him. Took a step back when he would have grasped her hand. ‘I have to salve my conscience, my lord. I have secrets that I have kept when I should not. I have prayed about this and I need to put it right. I think the state of my immortal soul might depend on it.’

Sir John continued to bluster. ‘Your immortal soul? What nonsense is this? What can possibly trouble your mind?’ Again he stretched out his hand to her, expecting her to acknowledge the gesture.

But Ellen drew back her skirts as if she feared contamination. ‘I know about Lewis,’ she stated clearly. ‘And I know about the scheme to draw in Elizabeth, worked out between you, my lord, and that man—that creature—whom you would call your adviser. I knew Richard’s life was in danger. So I have spoken of it.’

‘To whom?’ Suddenly de Lacy was still; a heavy line was dug between his brows. ‘Who would listen to you?’ he demanded, using all his authority to impose his will on this woman who had never in their marriage stood against him.

‘I would.’ A young voice gruff with emotion.

For behind her, in the shadowed arches, stood David.

Elizabeth at last felt a tremor of hope begin beneath her heart, felt it swell as she heard de Lacy draw in a breath, the confident arrogance overlaid for the first time with doubt. Surely this would be the end of it. But too soon. In instinctive reply, de Lacy lifted his sword, a bright flash of metal to claim every disbelieving eye. Against whom would he use it?

It was David who spoke, a resonant voice of reason. ‘No, Sir John. You cannot. Think of what you are about, Uncle. Do you want more blood on your hands?’

But Sir John’s reply was for his wife. ‘Ellen. You should have trusted me.’

‘I could not. All the lies. What were you thinking? And Lewis… You killed Lewis. You must not be allowed to harm Elizabeth.’

‘You have destroyed me.’

‘You destroyed yourself.’

Sir John looked around the hostile on lookers as if for the first time he realised the enormity of what he had done. The tip of his blade fell. Elizabeth felt Richard’s muscles tighten as his hand clenched around his own sword. She was in no doubt that he would use it to protect her, but she could stand no more.

‘Richard.’ She waited until he turned his eyes to hers. ‘Let him go. We all know his guilt. There has been too much blood shed here tonight. No more, I beg you.’

She saw the battle in Richard’s face. Saw the desire for revenge. And at the end, with gratitude, saw the reason, the compassion ate judgement. He bowed his head. ‘Very well, my wife. It shall be as you wish. Sir John de Lacy’s blood will not be on my hands.’

Sir John sheathed his sword and strode out into the night.

Of Nicholas Capel, alive or dead, there was no sign.

Elizabeth simply stood and looked around her. It was impossible to take in, her thoughts scattered by this whirl wind of unspeakable brutality after so long a period of stagnant in activity and waiting. And now, as in the eye of the storm, the winds that had brought lies and violence and death to Llanwardine had died away to an uncanny stillness. At her feet lay the mortal remains of the woman who had given her the one certainty in her life, who had wrapped her around with reassurance and comfort and counsel. Perhaps not always wise or honest counsel, certainly not tolerant, but always to protect and nurture. She would have faced death for Elizabeth de Lacy. As she had in the end. It was too difficult to take in, a cold hard weight in the centre of her chest.

Around her the nuns went silently about their business to care for the dead, to minister to their wounded Prioress. How strange. She blinked as tears stung at last. That the near-destruction of her marriage, her life, had not come from the hostility of York against Lancaster, but from her own blood. All Sir John’s plotting to achieve the death of Richard. Even, it seemed, her own if she refused to comply. All to get possession of a Malinder heir. And if the influence had been that of Nicholas Capel, who had followed some devious desire of his own, still that did not absolve her uncle from his heinous sin.

And there was Richard Malinder, the centre of her world. He filled her horizon. And he was looking at her as if she filled his. Then they were alone in the cloister and the charged atmosphere dispersed around them into a brittle tranquillity, although the blood-stained paving stones bore testimony to the outrages committed there. The single candle left to them cast a pale flickering circle as the rest of the cloister was doused in darkness. For a little time their own private world.

They stood and looked at each other, reading with their minds as well as their eyes. Elizabeth saw the impossibly disordered hair, the lines of weariness that ran between nose and mouth from long riding over hard ground, to come to her rescue. There was blood on his clothes, on his sleeve, his bloodied sword was still in his hand. But the handsome features and the fierce gleam in his gaze were all that she loved and wanted. He had fought for her and killed the man who would have harmed her. He had come back for her. He had stood for her against her uncle. And in the end he had had the strength not to take another life.

For him, Elizabeth, in her severe habit and linen veil, looked too much like the rebellious nun who had arrived at Ledenshall a year ago to take up a position which she anticipated with little joy. Except that now she was his wife and he knew her, loved her. Saw the beauty in her. Would give his life for her.

They had been apart too long. Placing his sword on the floor at his feet, he opened his arms and she stepped into them. It was so simple. His arms enclosed around her and she leaned against him with a sigh from the depths of her soul.

‘Thank God you are safe. I have prayed for this moment.’ Elizabeth’s forehead rested against his shoulder and she breathed in the sweat and dust, the sharp metallic tang of blood, the knowledge and wonder that at last he had returned to her filling her lungs, racing through her blood until her body shivered at the miracle of it.

‘You are well. Unhurt. And the child.’ It was a statement, to reassure himself. He could see it in her face, feel it in her body pressed close to his. The acceptance surged through him in a tidal wave of relief enough to cause him to breathe deep and turn his face into the soft folds of her veil. Then, on a thought, a des per ate ploy to lighten the mood that threatened to unman him in emotion, he lifted his head, with a wry smile. ‘You haven’t let them cut your hair again?’

A faint laugh was all the answer he needed. Her arms crept slowly around him, her fingers savouring every inch, to hold him closer yet.

‘I can feel that you have not wasted away this time.’ His hands moved softly over her ribs, the sleek covering of flesh beneath the coarse wool.

‘No—because I knew you would come for me.’ Her breath was sweet against his face. ‘It was a sanctuary—not a prison for the rest of my life. But oh, Richard!—it has been hard to wait in ignorance and uncertainty. When Sir John told me you were dying…’ When a shudder ran through her body, he held on so that they stood silently in the shadows, one single entity with no division between them.

‘I love you, Elizabeth.’ He murmured the words against her lips and it was all she needed to hear.

‘And I love you.’

‘Look up.’ And when she obeyed he took her mouth in a kiss of such tenderness, such sweetness, such contrast to the blood and death about them, that her heart trembled. And the tears at last came. He tasted them, under stood, and held her so that he could see her face and wipe them away with his fingers.