by Anne O'Brien
‘So…I can see his planning,’ Richard mused. ‘How my death would be to his advantage in the March. De Lacy would be pre-eminent. But that rests on the presumption that Elizabeth would hand over her authority as Lady of Ledenshall. That she would willingly hand over the care and up bringing of her child. She’ll never do it.’ But Richard was horribly aware of what Ellen would reply. A heavy weight of anger began to ball in his gut, began to smoulder.
‘And you think Sir John does not know that? Do you truly believe that Sir John is not prepared for resistance from Elizabeth?’ Ellen spat her disgust. ‘He will destroy any opposition with as little compunction as I would wring a fowl’s neck to make a chicken broth.’
‘You say he would harm Elizabeth? Are we talking death here?’ Richard asked the question he could already answer. The threat was real. Richard’s mind was already travelling the road to Llanwardine, to where the defenceless nuns held his most precious possession.
‘If necessary, I believe he would. He would not be squeamish if he could achieve his vision of power through one little act of murder. Lewis’s blood is already on his hands. What would be one more life—or two?’ Lady Ellen’s hands tightened around her own cup. She had not yet finished. ‘Sir John also has a band of Welsh raiders at his beck and call. I think they were sent against you.’
‘Yes. They were.’ In some ways it was a relief to admit it. ‘But why Lewis?’ he asked, re turning to the one point that did not fit the puzzle.
‘I don’t know.’ Ellen wrinkled her nose. ‘Lewis was a fine young man. I like to think that it was because he refused to go along with my lord’s plans. Sir John made a mistake and took Lewis in some part into his confidence. I think—I hope—that Lewis would have threatened to tell Elizabeth—and you. If that were so, Lewis could not be allowed to live, could he? Whereas you, David…’ she glanced across, eyes full of compassion ‘…might be a more conformable heir, young enough to be moulded into Sir John’s own image.’
David, standing silently through all this, looked as if he had been struck on the head with a mace.
‘And since my lord managed to turn the responsibility of Lewis’s death on to your shoulders—’ Ellen shifted her gaze back to Richard ‘—no one bothered to even question the true source of the deed. No one would question Sir John, mourning his heir as he did, as if his heart were broken.’ She twisted her face away. ‘Sir John has no heart to break, as I well know. I cannot bear the knowledge. I had to speak out.’
‘So he accused me of Lewis’s death.’ For Richard the pieces continued to fall into the pattern as pieces into a complicated mosaic in the royal palace at Westminster. ‘You have had much to tolerate.’ Richard raised Ellen’s fingers to his lips in sympathy, marvelling at the inner strength, the sheer courage of the lady to whom he had never given much time or consideration.
But Ellen drew her hands away from the brief caress. ‘Richard! We waste time here. You must go to Elizabeth. It’s imperative. She’s in great danger.’
‘No, no. You are mistaken.’ Richard would have pressed her to sit again. ‘I know where she is. She’s safe.’
‘No.’ Ellen’s renewed grip on his arm intensified. ‘Don’t you dare to humour me! She is not safe at all. I know where she is. At Llanwardine.’ Richard’s brows rose. He glanced across at David, who shook his head in denial. He was not the source of the information. Ellen ignored the silent interchange. ‘And I think that Sir John has gone there to—to take her back to Talgarth.’ She ended on a whisper. ‘To take her under duress if she refuses to go willingly.’
‘But Sir John does not know…’ Richard frowned at Ellen as her words drove home. ‘Ellen…how do you know where Elizabeth is?’
‘Capel discovered it. It is never wise to underestimate Nicholas Capel, you see.’ Lady Ellen shook her head and added, quite calmly, ‘I fear him. I hate him. He knows, although I see that you still have doubts.’ Her smile was sad, but not without understanding.
Not enough doubts were still lodged in Richard’s mind to pre vent him sending David to saddle the horses, giving Richard a final opportunity to ask the question that was burning in his brain.
‘Ellen—why would you do this?’
She looked down at her bone-white fingers, clenched into fists, and he thought she would not answer. Yet when she lifted her face it held a clear conviction and she spoke at last calmly and from the heart.
‘Humiliation can be a very strong motive. My marriage would seem to be one to give sat is faction and comfort to both parties. The perfect match to unite estates in the March.’ Her lips twisted with pain. ‘But I could not carry a living child to term. I have been made to acknowledge that failure every day of my life since I married Sir John. It became worse when Maude died… So it is vengeance, you could say—no more than the reaction of a bitter, neglected wife, if you would. And I could have loved him… But I know too much and I’ll bear no more on my conscience.’
Ellen stood, gathered up her cloak from where it lay over the ladder-back of her chair. ‘I see the love that is possible between you and Elizabeth. It is a splendid thing, out shining everything around it. Even when you were both intent on denying it, and each other.’ She gave a half-laugh. ‘I wish it were for me. But it can never be.’
‘Where will you go now?’ Richard asked.
‘Home. To Talgarth. Where other should I go?’
Ellen allowed Richard to place the cloak around her shoulders and then walked to the door, where Richard stopped to collect his own cloak and weapons from the court cupboard, in advertently dislodging a dagger, that he had all but for gotten, to clatter against the wood, slide and fall. With excellent reflexes, Richard put out his hand to catch it before it hit the floor. Ellen froze, her attention caught, and stretched out her hand to touch his wrist.
‘This. This dagger.’ She turned his hand and took from it the jewel-en crusted poignard, lifting it to inspect the workman ship in the candlelight.
‘What of it?’ Richard frowned down at the weapon now clasped in Ellen’s fist, at her close inspection of it. ‘Do you know it?’
‘Yes. I know who owns it. I would ask how it comes to be in your possession, Richard.’
‘Tell me what you know of it first.’
‘A fine piece, but well worn.’ She smoothed her fingers over the scabbard. ‘If you draw the dagger from its sheath—’ she handed it over to allow him to do so ‘—there’s a deep notch towards the point of the blade. Shall I tell you how it got there?’ He drew the knife. True enough. ‘It was used against an opponent in battle. It struck the edge of the knight’s breast-plate and did not kill as it was intended. It almost cost the owner his own life. I have heard the tale often over a tankard of ale.’ She hesitated. ‘At Talgarth.’
Richard ran his thumb over the disfigured blade. It was the final nail in Sir John’s coffin, hammered in by pure chance.
‘So who owned it?’
‘Thomas Morgan. A Welsh knight from Builth. One of Sir John’s retainers. How do you come by it?’
‘It belonged to a man who tried to ambush me,’ Richard replied softly as his fingers clenched around the chased grip.
Ellen’s answering smile was wry. ‘So, Richard Malinder. Do I have to give you any more evidence? What a pity that Elizabeth’s arrow at the Midsummer Fair did not find its mark.’
But Richard was already opening the door, striding down the stair.
With a handful of picked men-at-arms, Richard Malinder once more rode through the night to Llanwardine, with Robert who would not be left behind. He thought he would know every inch of that rough and pot-holed track. They rode in tense silence, pushing their mounts. Richard’s tired muscles complained, but he drove them on. Elizabeth was unaware of the danger. Elizabeth believed herself to be safe. Dread rode at his shoulder, a heavy presence that shadowed his every move. He tried, without success, to block from his mind the bloody image of what might await him at Llanwardine.
Chapter Eighteen
Holy Mother. Blessed Virgin. In your mercy, keep Richard safe.
Weaving through Elizabeth’s anguished prayers, the voice of the Prioress rang clear and true as she sang the service of Compline, the final office of the day, the sisters kneeling in the choir stalls making the responses.
Keep Richard safe. Let him return to me. Preserve him from his enemies.
Her mind tripped over the request again and again, as beads on a rosary, asking nothing for herself. Except that Richard should return to her. And she added, on a guilty afterthought, safety for David and Robert.
Behind her hovered Jane Bringsty, aware of Elizabeth’s every move with the keen focus of a hawk guarding its young. For there was death in the images that came to her mind through the incense. Through her dreams and the casting of the cards which she did nightly in secret. Grim and dark, a man loomed and threatened. The clothes were unclear, the face undefined, elusive as Welsh mist. Her one certainty was that death would be brought amongst them.
Jane hunched against the cold, quelling her frustrations. What use these old women with their scratchy voices, their empty Latin, shut away in this desolate valley? What use was it if the signs were shown to her, yet she could not read them? Her sight used to be clear enough, but now the future was un read able, doused in that same thick mist, thicker as the hours passed. Was it her own skills, waning with age? All she could do was be on her guard, even in this place of en closing walls and rigid rules and the freezing tranquillity enough to stultify the soul.
But tonight there appeared to be no threat. She allowed her gaze to drift over the elderly nuns, the elegant figure of the Prioress and back, as ever to Elizabeth de Lacy—now Malinder—before her. So strong, so determined. Mistress Bringsty made no attempt to participate in the devotions, but would watch over her mistress on whom the waiting and in activity was becoming more of a burden with every passing day. She would watch over Elizabeth until death robbed her of breath.
The prayers began again. Jane sighed loudly.
The service was over and the nuns began to file out, the stronger helping the more infirm. In the dank February cold, they gathered at the foot of the night stair to take their candles to light them to bed. There was a stir amongst them. Elizabeth deliberately held back, aware only of urgent whispering, the black cowls nodding and fluttering in the draughts. The Prioress turned to Elizabeth.
‘We have guests. They wish to speak with you.’
Elizabeth swallowed against her heart leaping to her throat, only one question on her lips. ‘Is it Richard?’
‘No, my dear. It is not. I will accompany you.’ She laid a hand on Elizabeth’s arm, but her glance was towards Mistress Bringsty in unusual collusion. ‘We will both accompany you. Remember that you are not alone. Have courage, sister.’
But Elizabeth could feel nothing but dread. Not Richard? Who knew she was here other than Richard and her brother? Who would come for her here? And if another had come, was the news they brought of the worst?
She could never have guessed the identity of the impatient guests who awaited her in the parlour. They had not sat and were not at ease, had not put aside their travelling garments and were keen to be gone. They turned to the opening door as one. Sir John de Lacy. Gilbert de Burcher, the Talgarth commander. Nicholas Capel.
‘Sir John.’ Elizabeth drew her tongue over suddenly dry lips. ‘What brings you to Llanwardine, Uncle?’
But her attention was for Nicholas Capel. Her eyes slid to where he stood beside the door. It was as if he dominated the scene, as if he, habitually black-cloaked and stern-faced, held the ultimate authority in that little room. How had this happened? In that moment Sir John de Lacy seemed pale and powerless in comparison.
Master Capel bowed low before her. She could not fault him there, but fear crawled along her skin. Elizabeth felt Jane stiffen behind her, a low growl in her throat, was aware of the Prioress at her right hand, making one subtle step closer to her. It was impossible to ignore the unsettling aura around this man, although there was nothing of disrespect or threat in his manner. Grave and formal, he bowed before the three women, but his eyes and greeting were for Elizabeth.
‘My Lady Malinder. We are relieved to find you here.’ The few candles that had been brought to the parlour flickered and overlaid his features with shadow.
Elizabeth dragged her eyes from him, to address Sir John directly. ‘Why are you here?’ she repeated. Fear licked unpleasantly over her skin. One thought up per most. How did he know she was here?
Sir John approached. It could have been sympathy she saw in his face. His voice was soft with under standing and compassion. Yet she felt Capel’s bright inquisitive gaze compelling her to glance towards him again. There was no compassion there, whatever his words.
‘There’s no way to break this news in a kindly manner, Elizabeth,’ Sir John said brusquely. ‘It’s Malinder. He is wounded—when he returned to the siege.’
‘No! Not Richard!’ Her lips outlined the words soundlessly as she looked from one to the other. Richard dead? Hurt? Not possible. Rejecting all logic, holding to instinct, Elizabeth’s mind resisted. How could she not have known, in her heart, if Richard were hurt? Surely it was all a mistake.
‘He lives still, my lady, at Ledenshall,’ Capel intervened smoothly. ‘But a severe wound. Sir John thought you should join him there. You must come with us.’
Elizabeth fought against the icy blackness threatening to close in on her senses. Simply breathing became sheer effort. If Richard was wounded and near death… Her mind was filled with the image that almost forced her to her knees, so that there was only one choice that she could make. ‘Yes. Of course I must go to him.’
She felt Sir John take her hand in his, speaking to her as if she were a child. ‘We have a strong escort to ensure your safety. We should be there some time before noon if we travel now. We have brought a horse for you to ride and will see to all your needs. We should leave immediately.’ All she could see and hear was the urgency, the concern and the smothering layers of sympathy. All she could imagine was Richard lying at Ledenshall in pain with death approaching, blood on his breast and in his hair. In her waking dream it was as if she could perceive death itself standing by his bed, dark robes spread wide, ready to envelop. She fought against faintness and swayed… Then Elizabeth felt Jane Bringsty’s fingers close tightly around her forearm and she blinked, forcing herself back into her mind to think, aware that she was fighting through a barrier of impenetrable heaviness. ‘Shall we be in time?’ Her words came to her ears from a great distance.
‘I hope so, my lady. I pray that it will be so,’ Capel replied. He never took his eyes from her face, as if willing her to believe. To obey. She knew it, yet could not resist him. ‘But as Sir John says, you should be there at Lord Malinder’s side. It would be unwise to linger here.’
Again Elizabeth found herself seduced by those smooth accents and the heavy concern, thick and cloying as sweet honey. They wound them selves around her senses. ‘Yes, of course I must go with you, as you say. Immediately.’
Then there was Jane’s quiet but in sis tent voice in her ear, pulling her back from a dark brink. ‘Don’t listen to him. Who’s to say its true, that your lord is hurt? And who would Master Capel be praying to, do you suppose? The Devil himself, I’d say. I don’t like it, my lady.’ Jane tugged on her sleeve.
‘I must go to him.’ Elizabeth shook off the nuisance.
But Jane held tight. ‘It’s not right! Listen to me, mistress.’
‘Richard is hurt.’ It was the only thought in her mind, bringing the terrible visions closer again. He was near to death. Why was she still standing here discussing what she should do, when his blood was staining the linen on their bed?
‘I don’t like it,’ Jane repeated, now grasping a fold of Elizabeth’s skirts.
Elizabeth twitched her garment away and was already moving to the door. And then they were in the cloisters, cold air striking their senses. Elizabeth stumble
d, breathed the air, heard the Prioress’s anxious concern. ‘Why not wait until daybreak?’
And Elizabeth hesitated. One thought breaking through. Who’s to say it’s true? Could she trust Sir John? Could she trust Nicholas Capel? She knew in her heart she could not.
As if sensing her resistance, Sir John was with her, urging her forwards. ‘It would not be wise to delay. We leave now.’
‘Yes. I have said I will come with you.’
And Nicholas Capel smiled.
Elizabeth saw the curl of the thin lips, the gleam in the dark eyes. Saw the glow of victory. At that moment, Elizabeth knew it was all wrong. In this strange, shadowed holy place, everything was wrong. As if the world had tipped on its side, upset by a strong will with wicked purpose. Nor was she the only one to sense it. When the Prioress stepped in front of Sir John, hands raised to halt his progress, he drew his sword with a snarl.
‘Get out of my way, woman.’
‘I will not. I question your honesty in this, Sir John.’
It seemed that he considered the wisdom of striking her to the floor. Elizabeth waited with breath held, hardly able to grasp this terrible turn of events. With a grunt Sir John changed his grip and with a sweep of the flat of the blade he struck the Prioress a heavy blow against her arm and side. There was force behind it, enough to shatter fragile bones. The Prioress cried out and fell to her knees.
‘You were warned, Madam Prioress. Keep out of my way.’ He spun on his heel to address his commander, all subtlety abandoned. ‘Take her,’ he ordered.
‘Yes, my lord.’ Gilbert de Burcher seized Elizabeth’s arm and began to drag her to the door, impervious to her attempts to kick and claw and scratch. For the events of the past minutes had awakened her to the real danger in which she stood. This was deliberate abduction and could yet end in bloodshed. Was Richard wounded or was this an excuse to take her from this sanctuary? What did Sir John intend for her and her unborn child? Cold fury rose to give Elizabeth strength to fight. She had no one to call on, nothing to fortify herself but her own determination to resist. She fought against Sir Gilbert’s hold, fuelled by sheer desperation. She would never give in, never allow the Malinder heir to be taken into Sir John’s power.
