Chosen for the Marriage Bed

by Anne O'Brien

  Richard abandoned the blade on the table beside him and leaned back against its edge. Elizabeth de Lacy. A difficult girl by all accounts, with more than a passing interest in the Black Arts. He knew the woman by repute, rumours being quick to spread the length of the March. Nothing good was said about her. A brittle, angular girl—in fact, no longer a girl—with a brittle tongue. Short of temper, short of beauty, short of any softer feminine emotions, she had when still a young girl taken control of her family home at Bishop’s Pyon and the up bringing of her younger brother on the untimely death of her father, and was still unwed despite her advancing years. Add in her forth right speaking and her dabbling in witch craft arts as well… Richard grimaced—no, she was not an appealing bride.

  But, in truth, he doubted that Sir John would offer her anyway. Rumour said she had been sent away to Llanwardine Priory to take the veil under the authority of Lady Isabel de Lacy, her great-aunt, who was the Prioress there. Sir John might claim the girl had found a vocation, but gossip suggested that she had been shuffled off out of Sir John’s way.

  ‘Well, I don’t want her either,’ Richard informed the hound at his side as he made for the door. ‘Whatever the reason for Elizabeth de Lacy’s sudden calling to the wilds of Llanwardine, all I can say is thank God!’

  In a circular tower room in the great de Lacy fortress of Talgarth further to the north, a man donned a black magician’s robe over tunic and hose. Nicholas Capel, renegade priest, necromancer, caster of horoscopes and personal adviser in all unorthodox matters to Sir John de Lacy of Talgarth lit a single candle. Master Nicholas Capel was a man of overweening ambitions and cunning perversion. By his reckoning it was all about to bloom into spectacular manipulate fruition.

  Power! What more could a man desire? The power to manipulate, to bend men to his desires as pieces on a chessboard. The power to destroy if need be.

  He moved to sit behind a table in a high-backed armed chair, painted with strange symbols, with blood-red naked swords on each of the four stout legs. He drew the velvet cover from a crystal. Spread his hands, palms flat against the wood, and looked deep into the crystal’s heart.

  ‘What is the future here?’

  Beside the crystal rested three torn pieces of parchment with Capel’s distinctive angular lettering. Three names. John de Lacy, his temporal lord—or so that fierce magnate believed. A little smile warmed Capel’s eyes. De Lacy would never be his master. Richard Malinder of Ledenshall, whose growing power in the March was a thing to be envied. And it would grow further if steps were not taken to harness or appropriate it. Then there was his own name, or the one that he was known by. Nicholas Capel.

  ‘Our fates are connected.’ He moved his palms to cover the three names. ‘I know it. But how? Show me the future!’

  Then grunted, startled. In the crystal a female figure emerged. Dark haired, tall and slender.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The figure turned full face. Capel strained closer.

  ‘Elizabeth de Lacy?’ he whispered. ‘This is unexpected.’

  Within the crystal sphere the figures flowed silently as if in the steps of some complicated dance. Until he and John de Lacy faded away into nothingness and, in the very centre, Elizabeth de Lacy stood beside Richard Malinder. Silently, smoothly they turned to each other as if drawn by some in visible cords. They smiled. Malinder stretched out his hand. Elizabeth placed her fingers there so that he might kiss them with silken grace. He held out his arms, she stepped into them and they curved around her, enfolding her. The scene shimmered with power as he bent his dark head to take her mouth with his own. She allowed it, clinging to him, so close it was as if they were one being. Her dark robe wrapped around his thighs, the mass of her hair lay on his shoulder, his hand wound and clenched within its heavy weight. The kiss was endless, infused with a striking depth of passion.

  Capel frowned at the intensity of the scene.

  ‘So you too will play your part, Elizabeth de Lacy. It seems you are destined to become lovers. Now, that does surprise me. Perhaps it is not wise after all for you to be left to dwindle into obscure unwed old age in Llanwardine Priory. Perhaps I must ignore your wilfulness and find a new path for you.’

  The scene changed. Richard re treated. Elizabeth stood alone. In her arms lay a new-born child, dark of hair. Massed clouds of danger threatened an imminent storm.

  Capel smile widely to show his teeth, leaned back in his chair after casting the cloth once more over the crystal and blowing out the candle, consigning the lovers to oblivion. For a long time he sat and thought in the dark shadows. Separating the strands, weaving them together until the final tapestry suited his purpose. He would use his powers in the service of John de Lacy for as long as it was in his interest to do so. There was an advantage to being the power behind the mailed gauntlet where no one would look or suspect. And then? Well, then all would be revealed.

  But of one thing he was certain. Richard Malinder and Elizabeth de Lacy must be brought together. They would provide the path to his greatness.

  Chapter Two

  Elizabeth de Lacy stood outside the iron-studded door of the Prioress’s private chamber, defiantly twitching her skirts into more seemly order, smoothing the novice’s wimple around her shoulders. She had been summoned and her nerves raced beneath her skin, even though she could think of no sin she had committed for which she had not already been punished. She knocked lightly. Entered on command, then came to a halt on the thresh old, eyes narrowing in astonishment, then deep suspicion.

  ‘Come in, Sister Elizabeth.’

  She obeyed the calm, beautifully modulated voice. Bowed her head to the Prioress, hands folded before her and eyes downcast as she had been taught, before curtsying to her uncle, Sir John de Lacy.

  Elizabeth gave no thought to the tasteful comfort of the room, in stark contrast with the rooms of the Priory that she inhabited. Her whole attention was centred on the man who stood beside the Prioress’s chair. And the second man who hovered at his shoulder. Now what?

  ‘You have a visitor, Sister Elizabeth.’

  Elizabeth felt the power of his presence as Sir John cast an eye over her. His energy filled the room, as his figure did not. Not over tall, light-framed, wiry with dark hair and light blue eyes, proclaiming more than a hint of Welsh blood in the de Lacy family over the generations, Sir John was all controlled energy. Face heavily lined with impatience but deliberately impassive, he stated the reason for his visit.

  ‘You look well, my niece.’

  Elizabeth inclined her head with arrogant composure as her only reply. Her only protection against those searching eyes. She knew what she must look like and it could not be a pleasing picture, her black habit unflatteringly leaching any colour from her cheeks, and it would be even worse without the disguising folds of her robes and veil. She would not smile or bid him welcome.

  Nor would she even acknowledge the man who travelled with her uncle. Nicholas Capel. Tall, impressive with his sweep of hair to his shoulders, he was a familiar figure at Talgarth. What was he to her uncle? Adviser? Servant? Elizabeth did not think the man served anyone but himself. Some said he was a priest, de frocked for unnamed sins. Jane, tight-lipped, swore he was a necromancer who served the Devil. Clad in black from collar to hose, his bottomless dark eyes all but stripped the flesh from her bones. Elizabeth shuddered.

  ‘I have made a decision on your future, Elizabeth.’

  Elizabeth’s heart leapt in her breast within the confines of the rough black cloth that rubbed her skin raw. A sudden beat of hope that shook her whole body. Surely everyone in the room must be aware of it? But she allowed none of it to register on her face.

  ‘And what is your decision, Sir John?’

  ‘You are to come home.’ Elizabeth allowed the briefest of glances at the Prioress, but found no enlightenment there. ‘Or not home, exactly. But you are to leave the Priory.’

  ‘I see.’ But she did not.

  There was a light knock on
the door, which opened to admit a young man whose presence brought the first genuine emotion to Elizabeth’s face and a quick flush of bright colour.

  ‘David…! I didn’t know you were here.’

  ‘I’ve been seeing to the horses…’

  Once she would have run across the room to greet him. Once she would have flung her arms around the young brother whom she had raised from childhood, holding him close in delight at his presence. Once she would have laughed her pleasure at his familiar, lively features and kissed his cheek, ruffled his dark hair. Now under the stern gaze of the Prioress, her uncle’s un trust worthy watchfulness, Capel’s sinister stare, she stood her ground and waited.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ Regardless of protocol, David strode across the room to grasp her rigid shoulders and salute her cheek, studying her face with the sharp blue eyes of the de Lacys. ‘I couldn’t stay away.’

  ‘You look well. How is Lewis?’

  ‘When does our brother not thrive?’ David swept her query away. ‘Has Sir John told you?’

  ‘No. He has told me nothing.’ Elizabeth returned the grasp of his hands, a quick fierce pressure, then released herself. It would be too easy to allow emotion to hold sway. She must take care to show no weakness. She had still not been told of the plan for her. ‘So what do you want of me, Uncle?’ she asked Sir John. ‘Why must I come home—but not home, exactly?’ Better to know now, however much she might dislike the outcome.

  ‘My daughter Maude is dead.’

  ‘I know.’ Her face softened a little. ‘We had heard. I am sorry.’

  The Prioress was quick to intervene. ‘We are not so closed off here that we were unaware. We have offered our prayers for the little maid’s soul, Sir John.’

  He nodded, but continued to address his niece. ‘It is intended that you take Maude’s place in the negotiated settlement with Lord Richard Malinder of Ledenshall. That you will honour the marriage contract.’

  Startled, Elizabeth took a breath as she considered the statement. Release from Llanwardine. But at what cost? She was once more to be a player in the ongoing de Lacy scheming to achieve even more power in the March. But with a difference. Dismay gripped her. ‘I should have known, shouldn’t I? I am to be a bride again. But this time I am to be married to a Lancastrian, not a Yorkist. I am to be wed to the enemy. Your plots would seem to have taken a turn for the devious, Uncle.’ She ignored her brother’s strangled cough, keeping her direct gaze on Sir John’s suddenly heated countenance. He might prefer that their differences not be aired before Lady Isabel, but what did she care?

  ‘You will find Malinder a more congenial prospect than Sir Owain. His politics need not trouble you.’ The harsh reply dared her to disagree or to continue her public washing of family linen. ‘It will be arranged that you have an escort from here to Ledenshall, Malinder’s home.’

  ‘I am not to go home first. To Bishop’s Pyon.’ Elizabeth’s query hid a wealth of hurt.

  ‘Surely, Uncle…’ David added, ‘would it not be more fitting…?’

  ‘It is better if you travel straight to your new home, my lady,’ Master Capel observed, smooth, conciliatory. ‘The wedding ceremony can take place as soon as you arrive.’

  Better for whom?

  Elizabeth merely dropped her gaze. What did she think of this unexpected development? A handful of months ago it had taken only the space of a heart beat to reject the prospect of Sir Owain Thomas as husband, to dare to run the gauntlet of her uncle’s displeasure. But having spent the intervening months here at Llanwardine, she had learnt a harsh lesson. Surely this new offer would be better, more satisfying than life here. She had thought so often enough, when the bell for Prime dragged her from her bed into the frozen spaces of the Priory church. When her hands had stiffened with cold as she dug the iced and un yielding earth to liberate the final winter roots in the kitchen garden.

  But Richard Malinder? What did she know of him? Tales of him were rife, of his growing authority, the increasing power of his blade and his fist in the name of Lancastrian King Henry. Black Malinder, who had lost his first wife to a tragic pregnancy that had claimed both mother and child. Would she want this man as her husband? He was the enemy. A Lancastrian, giving his misguided allegiance to the man who claimed the throne as Henry VI, whereas she had been raised to follow the superior rival blood line of the Plantagenet House of York. How would it be if she were wed to a man whose political leanings were directly opposed to her own? The dismay deepened. Would he insist that she change her allegiance? Could she do that?

  And then another thought. Black Malinder, he was called. Was he the beautiful face in the scrying dish? Was he one of the dark men of Jane’s scrying, who might be either friend or foe? There was no knowing. All the men in her life were dark. Her brothers Lewis and David. Sir John himself. Even that dreadful creature Nicholas Capel, who was smiling at her as if he could see into her very soul. Jane’s reading of her future had given her no help at all.

  So Elizabeth must decide if she wanted this marriage, and quickly. Sir John was already scowling at her. Well, why not accept the offer? All men were un trust worthy, ambitious, self-seeking. Richard Malinder would only want her as guarantee of peace between two potentially warring families in the March. And to carry his heir to the Malinder in heritance, of course. She could accept that. But at least he was not as dried up as a beech husk and he was not old. In the end, she realised, it was an eminently simply decision to make. This marriage would be for her an escape, a key to an otherwise locked door, and fate might never give her another such chance before her final vows were made, chaining her for ever to rules and enforced obedience. Sir John’s control over her life would finally be at an end. By the Virgin, she would do it! Despite all her reservations, the Lord of Ledenshall’s hand in marriage would give her status, authority, a measure of independence, and would open for her that all-important door from her own captivity.

  It really was not a difficult decision to make at all.

  ‘Very well, Sir John. I will wed Richard Malinder.’

  Sir John’s lips curled in sleek sat is faction. ‘So be it.’

  ‘Does…does Lord Richard accept my hand, sir?’ She found a sudden need to ask, to know his reaction to taking her rather than her cousin Maude. Maybe he would not find her too disagreeable.

  ‘It’s not been finally arranged.’ Sir John waved the query away, a matter of no importance. ‘There’ll be no difficulty. He’ll take you. You’ll be so well dowered he’d be a fool to refuse you.’

  You have not asked him, have you? He does not even know!

  ‘Then of course he will take me if you are prepared to buy his compliance.’ Elizabeth felt the inexplicable hope that Richard Malinder might want her for herself die in her breast. ‘How foolish of me to ask.’

  The visitors were gone, leaving Elizabeth alone with her great-aunt.

  ‘You have many talents, many gifts to offer Richard Malinder,’ Lady Isabel assured her.

  ‘Talents? Gifts? I have no evidence of that. My father showed no affection towards me. Owain Thomas wanted me for my de Lacy blood.’ Elizabeth swallowed against the hopeless self-pity that threatened, refusing to give in to it. ‘Now I am desired only as a replacement. For Lord Malinder’s dead wife. For my cousin Maude. Not for myself.’ The reply came with a spark of temper, with heat from the heart. ‘And what hope is there for happiness for me, or even tolerance in such a marriage, where we shall be enemies before the rings are exchanged?’

  ‘There is always hope.’ The Prioress was stern, yet Elizabeth felt an understanding there. ‘Before you leave us, I would say this to you. And mind me well, Elizabeth de Lacy. If you are ever in need of help, you will know where to find a safe refuge. At present the March is quiescent. I think it will not always remain so. If the war erupts again between York and Lancaster, you will be caught up in the maelstrom, as will we all. If danger threatens, you and yours will always be welcome here. Come. Soon the bell will ring for tierce. We shall i
nclude an Ave Maria for your safe delivery to Ledenshall.’

  Some few days later, sounds of arrival at Ledenshall, of the clatter of hooves on cobbles in the court yard below, caused Richard Malinder to abandon a sheaf of documents to stride across the room, deflecting the hound from his path with a passing caress of its ears, to lean from the window. What he saw below—who he saw—made his face break into a smile of delight that warmed his eyes, a lightening of expression not often seen of late on the face of the Lord of Ledenshall. He took the stairs at a ground-covering lope to welcome the Red Malinders below as the man at the head of the cavalcade dismounted and began to help the lady from her mount with words of impatient encouragement. Their escort was engaged in leading away horses, un loading baggage from pack animals and a small wagon.

  ‘Rob! Have you perhaps come to stay with us?’ Richard looked askance at the small mountain of boxes and packages which was now growing steadily on the cobbles beside him.

  ‘Come for the wedding, of course.’ Robert Malinder, clearly a Red Malinder, grinned over his shoulder, then turned back to growl a suggestion that the lady remove her foot from the stirrup this side of night fall if she expected his help.

  ‘News travels fast.’ Richard’s brows rose. ‘It seems that you must have known of the happy event before I did!’

  Then the cousins came together, gripped right hands in recognition of family and friend ship and political allegiance. Robert Malinder. Tall, broad of shoulder. Russet haired and green-eyed. Fair of skin, now pink and glowing, nose more than a little red from the brisk cold. Nothing like the Malinders at Ledenshall except in height and frame, but unmistakably one of the Red Malinders of Moccas.

  ‘It’s always as well for us to know what the de Lacys are planning,’ Robert explained unnecessarily. ‘We have our sources.’ He hesitated but, typically, only for a moment before making his abrupt acknowledgement. ‘We were sorry to hear of Maude’s death.’