by Anne O'Brien
Sir John’s patience was at an end. He sheathed his sword, pushed Jane Bringsty unceremoniously out of the way and grasped Elizabeth with both hands around her forearms. He shook her, pushed his face close to hers.
‘Save your breath,’ he snarled, ‘and your strength for the long ride. I’ll carry you to the horse if I have to. There’s no rescue for you here. I’ll treat you with consideration, but don’t push me too far.’ And he thrust her into de Burcher’s arms. ‘Now, move!’
Elizabeth found herself hauled inexorably across the cloister.
‘No. I’ll not go with you!’ Elizabeth struggled against the cruel hands, raked her nails down de Burcher’s cheek. Blood welled, dripped.
‘Bitch! Vixen! You’re well named.’ De Burcher lifted a hand, clad in a heavy leather gauntlet, and Elizabeth knew that he would strike her. But she would not flinch. She stood her ground and waited for the blow to fall.
‘I advise you not to strike my wife. Take your hands from her or, before God, my sword will let your blood.’
Richard!
Elizabeth froze in Gilbert de Burcher’s grip, her attention stripped from the painful vice of his hands around her arm. She twisted against the hard grip to face the door. Richard! Not wounded. Not dying in blood at Ledenshall. But here, miraculously, at Llanwardine. She did not bother to question how or why, but simply allowed herself that flood of intense relief to thaw the cold dread. The Holy Mother had answered her prayers. Surely Richard’s coming would put an end to this scene of horror. All would now be put right.
At the grim command, softly spoken but with a chilling threat, all eyes were drawn to the arched doorway. Two figures stood there beneath the carved lintel, in distinct in the shadows, but for Elizabeth there was no mistaking the tall figure, the imperious command. Light glimmered along the length of the sword already in his hand. Robert, equally alert with weapons to hand, came to stand at his side.
‘Take your hands from my wife,’ Richard repeated when de Burcher made no move to do so. The order appeared perfectly reasonable, a request even, but no one could ignore the light in his face as he paced slowly forwards. Cold fury coated a blaze of wrath. With one hand he broke the clasp on his cloak and cast the garment aside.
‘Malinder. So you are come.’ Sir John’s face creased in a satisfied smile. ‘I did not expect you. But why not? Why not finish it all here? All my plans coming to perfect fruition at once. It couldn’t be better.’ He turned to de Burcher, who still clasped Elizabeth close. ‘Leave the girl. Kill him.’
Richard raised his sword. ‘What’s this, Sir John? A cur to carry out your orders? Are you afraid to face me yourself?’
‘I have no fear of you,’ Sir John snapped. ‘And even a cur can kill.’
And Elizabeth found herself pushed unceremoniously out of the way as de Burcher turned, sword drawn and threatening, to face Richard and carry out Sir John’s orders. All Elizabeth desired was to move into the shelter of Richard’s arms, to touch him and know for herself that he was solid and alive, not a vision of her over wrought imagination, but this was not the time.
‘Elizabeth.’ One word, expressing all Richard’s concern for her.
‘I am quite safe,’ she replied softly.
‘Unharmed?’ Low, tense.
Elizabeth nodded and their gaze held for one precious minute, speaking everything between them. Thus reassured, Richard turned his attention back to his opponent who already circled, the point of his sword raised in aggression, his other hand gripping his dagger. Elizabeth kept her distance, re treated one step, then another. To distract him now would only hinder him. But she could not take her eyes from him.
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, onl
y 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
The 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. B
ut 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.’
