by Anne O'Brien
David hung his head, scuffing his feet in the dust until his uncle had vanished into the crowd. ‘Well? Did we do it?’ he murmured, not yet looking up, but his grin wide.
‘I think we did. You were magnificently disreputable through out!’ Richard managed a smile as he picked up the of fending long bow and arrows again. ‘You missed your calling. I owe you much and stand in your debt. Thankfully, you have a hard head!’
David laughed aloud, relieving the tension.
And that, Richard thought, as he disguised a sigh of relief, was that. Or at least until he took Elizabeth home and faced her wrath.
At Ledenshall, Elizabeth abandoned the cloak, suffocating in its folds, and the velvet hat, but she still wore Richard’s tunic and hose. As the few short miles had passed on their silent and edgy return journey, she had begun to review her actions. Not that she regretted them. She could not! But the dangers attached to such public and provocative behaviour had been made very obvious. Without the intercession of her husband and brother, things might have gone very differently. Particularly for Richard, in spite of all her careful planning. Yet she was still not of a mind to repent.
‘I can’t think what to say to you.’ Richard’s voice held no condemnation, she realised, just a weary acceptance that served to increase her guilt.
‘There’s nothing that you can say. I know what you are all thinking.’ She raised her chin. ‘But if you had not stopped me, Lewis would have been avenged.’
‘And you would have been hauled off in chains with the prospect of a rope around your neck. I think we shall not come off scot free, as it is. Too many people saw the situation. No one intervened or was willing to point the finger as Sir John was apparently fooled by our charade, but we shall hear talk. That the archer was not David de Lacy, but the Lady of Ledenshall in disguise.’
‘Sybil de Lacy got her revenge with a knife to the heart of her enemy!’
‘You are not Sybil de Lacy! And she, by God—whoever Sybil de Lacy might be—’ Richard thundered his fist against the table in utter frustration ‘—should have known better! I suppose she became the talk of the March as well.’
It was true. She had been wrong. She had allowed raw emotion to rule her actions. The guilt intensified, but she would not retreat. ‘Let them talk,’ she announced. ‘I have nothing more to say. I’ll leave you to your destruction of my morals, my family and my character. To your squeamish morality. I’m not in a mood for repentance.’ And, then on a final thought, ‘No one has bothered to enquire about my state of health, after being dragged to the floor!’
‘You deserved it.’ Sympathy was entirely absent from her husband’s reply.
If it was possible to flounce in tunic, hose and boots, Elizabeth did.
It could not be put off longer. Giving her temper time to cool, and his, Richard braced his shoulders and followed Elizabeth. She had exchanged her borrowed attire, as if suddenly finding it unseemly, an uncomfortable memory of the day, to cast it carelessly on the bed. Standing by the window of her chamber in a loose robe, she was now clearly waiting for him. Richard could read her resistance in every taut line of shoulder and spine, of raised chin.
Although she chose not to face him, Elizabeth spoke before he had even closed the door. ‘Don’t say it. I know I should not. I know I should have weighed the personal sat is faction against the consequences—and I did not.’ Her voice hesitated on what might have been evidence of regret. ‘But still I wish I had succeeded.’
Richard remained at a distance, his back against the door, his voice remarkably cool and at odds with the temper that still snapped at him. ‘Then we should all have been in the mire. Did you actually consider the political repercussions of your assassination? With so many lords present with their retainers, with war on their lips and in their hearts, the death of de Lacy with an arrow through his heart could have been the flame to light the conflagration. Bishop’s Pyon could have been recorded as the only Midsummer Fair ever to disintegrate into a total blood bath—with de Lacys and Malinders at the centre of it. My blood runs cold to think of it.’
Elizabeth kept her back to him. ‘All I could think of was Lewis. I was wrong.’
Which confession was momentous in itself. Richard allowed his thoughts to drift a little. She looked alone and so sad. So his wife had borrowed Lewis’s clothes, had she, when she had wished to run wild as a girl? Until Philip had persuaded her otherwise with the strength of his arm, as Richard could well believe. The anger that had simmered all afternoon re treated a little and he felt a need to lift some of the weight from her shoulders. She had been wrong—almost disastrously so—but he under stood her motivation and the pain that drove her.
Quietly he came up behind her. Put his arms around her to draw her back against him as she stared out into the twilight. After an initial tensing of her muscles, she leaned back against him with a little sigh.
‘I thought you would be so angry.’ Her voice was tight from mortification.
‘I am angry. But it seems that there is no more I can say that you do not already know. What point in my lashing you with words if you can do the job quite well yourself? Nor is there anything I can do other than rely on the return of your good sense—except lock you up or not take my eyes off you for a second.’ He rested his chin against her hair, noticing in consequentially as he did so that it was growing, thick and dark. It took no effort to turn to rub his cheek against it with an un wit ting little murmur of pleasure. ‘Do you realise that some at the Fair have already named you Malinder’s Black Vixen?’ he asked. He did not know whether to be amused or appalled at his wife’s sudden notoriety.
‘What?’ Elizabeth angled her head to look up and back.
‘Some, it would seem, saw the truth of the incident—and your dark tunic and hose… I heard the whispers as we came away.’
‘Oh.’ Elizabeth was silent, her mind turning over the day. ‘I put David in danger, didn’t I? When he took the blame.’
‘You put us all in danger. Your uncle is probably at this very minute back at Talgarth, re playing the events in his head, rearranging all the details that don’t quite fit the overall impression. Why we should all have been standing on the hill, watching David loose an arrow at his uncle, I have no idea! Sir John will doubtless come to the conclusion that I put David up to it. A family conspiracy, if you will, a de Lacy to kill a de Lacy. Now there would be a fine thing.’ Then he remembered. Tightened his arms around her as he felt her strain against his hold. ‘Except that such an eventuality has already happened with Lewis. Forgive me, Elizabeth. I did not intend to be crass.’
She sighed against him, relaxing again.
‘I am sorry.’ It was the barest whisper, but heart felt for all that.
‘I know. I knew that you would be, as soon as you allowed your hard head to rule your heart.’
When she accepted this in silence he murmured against her ear, ‘You must not do it again—or anything to harm Sir John or compromise our position. A spark is all that is needed to engulf the March in flames.’
‘I just wanted to do some thing… To make him suffer as Lewis had suffered. And you would not…’
Richard chose not to resurrect all the old hurt, but remained silent for some time, his arms around her, wrapping her in warmth and comfort. Her head rested on his shoulder as he felt the tensions of the day ebb from her.
‘You have to promise me, Elizabeth.’
‘Very well.’
‘Say it.’
‘I promise that I will do nothing to endanger Sir John’s life.’
‘Even if you will do nothing to save it.’
A soft huff answered him, which might have been agreement. ‘And I promise to do nothing to compromise your honour. Will that do it?’
‘It’s enough. What a problem you are to me!’
‘Mmm. And I borrowed your clothes.’
He turned her round with careful hands, but did not release her. ‘You are a brave woman, Penthesilea. A true Amazo
n, with or without your clothes. But next time leave the longbow at home.’ Then on a sudden thought, his knuckles brushing along her cheek bone. ‘Did I hurt you? It was the only thing I could think to do.’
Elizabeth sighed, turning her face into his palm that cupped her cheek so perfectly. It healed her heart that he should remember, and care. He might not love her, but this softness was more than she could ever have dreamed of and she was grateful.
‘No. Nothing but a bruise or two. Perhaps I deserve that you had,’ she replied with bitter acceptance.
‘Never that.’ And Richard kissed her, softly, lingeringly.
At Talgarth, Nicholas Capel breathed deep, donned his black robe and trained his concentration on to the matter at hand.
The cards before him were Italian in origin, their colours bright with power. The Fool. The Empress. The Hanged Man. The Wheel of Fortune. Now, under his hands, they would work for Nicholas Capel. He scanned the chart at his right hand. Knowing the exact moment of Elizabeth’s birth, there had been no difficulty in his drawing up of her horoscope. Now he would look more closely into her destiny. Into his mind he brought the image he had seen in his crystal. Richard Malinder and Elizabeth de Lacy standing face to face, hands entwined, a kiss a breath away. Sharp edged, their bodies melded, as their lips met, as he had bound the wax figures. Satisfied, Capel considered his question.
‘Does she carry the Malinder heir?’
A brief pause. His breath barely disturbed the candle at his elbow.
‘Will the child be a son?’
One by one he reversed the cards, revealing their message. His eyes widened, scanning from one to the other.
‘Yes, and yes!’
He allowed his fingers to stroke delicately over the surface of each one as if to draw the power from them for himself. The time was right to act. If Elizabeth was fertile, if she already carried a male child as the cards foretold, then all was in place for Malinder to die. Capel blew out the candle. So would Malinder’s life be snuffed out.
Nicholas Capel smiled.
Chapter Fourteen
Coins were exchanging hands between Richard and a cattle drover as Robert walked into the Great Hall at Ledenshall. ‘Who was that?’
‘A drover from Pembridge,’ Richard replied thoughtfully. ‘A large party of Welsh raiders on the move, he thinks. I suppose I should go and look. A show of force will not come amiss.’
And if nothing else, it would take his mind off the vicious catastrophe. At Northampton, there had been a battle, a desperate clash of arms in which York’s army had emerged victorious. King Henry, outmanoeuvred and outnumbered, was now a prisoner in Yorkist hands, his wife and son on the run for their lives. The prospect of the Duke of York becoming King of England haunted Richard’s every sleeping and waking moment.
They traversed the local roads with a tight, well-disciplined escort. Nothing. All quiet.
‘A figment of our drover’s drunken imagination, I suppose,’ Richard remarked finally. Rain was beginning to fall and the banked clouds in the west threatened more to come. ‘Home, I think. Nothing to be gained by staying out in this. The Welsh are probably long gone if they were here at all.’ Yet Richard frowned as uneasy suspicion, almost a premonition, played along his spine. Perhaps it was just too quiet. At a signal the escort pushed their horses into a steady trot along the road.
Ahead, moving slowly towards them, a party of travellers emerged from the murk with supply wagons, a small herd of cattle, a motley array of dogs. It was not the best of places for the two converging bodies to pass as the road narrowed where trees had been allowed to encroach and overhang, bushes thickening the under growth. Richard signalled his force to halt and pull aside, urging their horses into the thickets on either side to allow the travellers to pass.
The cattle plodded on with lowered heads and frustrating slowness. Until a fierce barking broke out from the undergrowth to their left. Then a sharp yelp of pain, followed immediately by a deluge of noise, as deafening as hounds on the scent, as the rest of the motley pack abandoned their guard duties and rushed to support their suffering fellow.
‘Beware! Ambush! Watch the trees!’ Richard raised his voice above the mayhem as recognition blasted through his mind. Why had it taken him so long to see what was happening? Figures on horse back emerged through the trees on both sides of the road whilst arrows from short bows began to fall amongst them as softly as the rain.
There was no room for either attackers or attacked to take up positions on the road as the cattle surged and pushed amongst them. Seeing this, at a silent signal, those who had placed the ambush abandoned any formal plan and withdrew back into the trees. ‘That way.’ Richard waved his cousin to the right as he drew his sword and plunged into the trees on the left. The soldiers divided into two parties and followed behind, crashing into the dense under growth with shouts and the thud of hooves.
And then it was over as quickly as it began. Agile and light of foot, impossible to catch in the over grown thickets, the ponies and their riders melted away through the dense woodland, leaving Richard no choice but to signal his men back to the road. One of the drovers had taken an arrow through his arm, one of the men-at-arms in the shoulder above his leather jack, neither serious.
‘Your Welsh raiders, I suppose. Well, we managed to stop one of them at least.’ As they re grouped to push on home, Robert pulled aside into the under brush, then dismounted to turn over a body, so far over looked. ‘No livery or emblem, so must be Welsh.’ Richard joined him, to kneel by the body.
Dark haired, eyes dulled and half-closed in death, the raider was tall and well formed, unlike the usual wiry build of the Welsh.
‘I don’t know him,’ Richard stated.
He would have pushed to his feet when his attention was snagged by a glint of gold. The man’s poignard, still attached to his sword belt in a tooled leather scabbard, the hilt highly decorative and chased, set with semi-precious stones, Italian, perhaps, with finely wrought hand guards. Richard bent again, unfastened the fine blade. A memorable piece and valuable far beyond the dagger of any minor knight. Or a Welsh raider.
‘What do you think, Rob?’ The Malinder troop was once more under way as Richard let the series of events trickle through his mind.
‘I don’t know.’ Robert’s grimace expressed his suspicions. ‘A chance attack by opportunist thieves?’
‘I think not.’ Richard’s face was grim as he bent to avoid another over hanging branch. He looked at the dagger, tossed it in his hand, the jewels glowing in the wet. Definitely not one of a common thief. ‘It was a large force, care fully hidden in a most advantageous place. A true ambush rather than a chance en counter. But whether we or a herd of cattle were the main target…’
‘I know where I’d put my money!’
‘I wouldn’t take the bet. Now, if I were to discover the identity of the owner of this fine weapon…’ Richard tucked it into his boot.
‘I’d say someone meant you harm, cousin.’
‘So would I.’
Richard kicked his stallion into a canter. He would consider it later. When he had time to think. But the unease that this was no chance attack grew. Someone sought his death. Not by chance, but with deliberate intent.
Elizabeth, too, was unsettled.
Richard was uncommunicative, his temper on a knife edge, his patience sparse. It nagged at Elizabeth. Something had happened that he wasn’t telling her. She knew of the defeat of the King at Northampton, of course, and of his subsequent. That was enough to put a scowl on Richard’s face, having York in the ascendant. And perhaps the tensions between them had not quite gone away since her attempt to put an arrow through the black heart of her uncle. But there was some thing else. Richard was ferociously preoccupied, so much so that it was like living with a permanent thunder-cloud.
So Elizabeth was unhappy.
It had come to her of late that there was one possibility within her domain that could jolt her lord out of his edgy mood—if
he had an heir to fight for, a future to consider not just for himself, but for a son to carry on the Malinder name. It was time she quickened, hence the little bag of walnuts tucked into her belt, since all clever women knew that to carry a walnut in its shell would aid her fertility. It also explained the sprinkle of poppy seeds in her wine. It was simply a matter of time.
As for Richard’s part in this plan, she could not fault him. He showed no reluctance to come to her bed. He wanted her. His virility was clear enough. But some thing was missing, a warmth, an attentiveness. There was a lack of involvement despite his in variable politeness. And that was the problem. Where he had once taken her with searing passion, some times with humour, always with consideration for her own pleasure, now he was…well, distant. He would kiss her and hold her and take her in physical union—but it was as if he held his thoughts and re actions in check. As if he feared laying himself open to her by saying too much or showing too much emotion. And from his thoughts and concerns, from the dreams that troubled his sleep and the worries that dug a line between his brows, he blocked her out entirely. Sometimes when his physical needs were sated, he left her, without explanation, to go to his own bedchamber.
Which might not have mattered to the Elizabeth de Lacy who had come from Llanwardine as an unwanted bride. That Elizabeth had entertained no illusion over the marriage other than as a pragmatic arrangement. But it mattered now. Filling a bowl of fragrant herbs to aid calmness of mind, Elizabeth crushed the lavender stalks between her palms as she separated them from their dried flower-heads. Stealthily, on silent feet, unsought and unwanted, love had crept up on her and ambushed her, much as the pungent scent now filled her senses. She remembered admitting it, reluctantly, the day Richard had paid his debt on her victory at the archery butts. Since then love for him, strong and dominant, had imperceptibly stolen in, to fill every little space in her heart and mind so that she could not escape it. It was not just his handsome face or his magnificent body. Not just his care of her, his endless support when she had been grief-stricken over Lewis’s death or driven to mindless stupidity against his murderer. Not just his honesty, his sense of justice. Nor his ability to grasp a crisis and turn it to his own advantage. She recalled the near-disaster at the Midsummer Fair with a shudder of horror. Nor even his amazing willingness to let her cry out her grief, soaking his tunic, without a thoroughly masculine with drawal into embarrassment.
