by Anne O'Brien
‘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.
‘I’m sorry I could not save her.’
‘I loved her. Jane was the only mother I ever knew.’
‘First she loved my mother and then she loved me and cared for me my whole life, when no one else cared…’ She could not go on, but wept bitterly for all the memories and the loss, Richard allowing her the healing out pouring of grief in the security of his arms.
Eventually she was calm again. Sighed against him as she remembered.
‘Jane saved my life. She took the blade that she thought was meant for me. She was wrong, wasn’t she? I see it now.’
‘Yes.’ Richard smoothed the damp hair from her cheeks. ‘She thought your life was in danger, but it was not so. She would not have known. Capel’s blade was not intended for you, Elizabeth. You were central to your uncle’s plan and always have been since he released you from Llanwardine. Capel would have used the dagger against me, or anyone who stood in the way of his success, but your present health—and that of the child you carry—was vitally important to the de Lacy future.’
Richard drew her to the stone ledge that provided a sheltered seat around the cloister where the nuns would read and take their leisure hour, where the shadows were darkest as seemed most appropriate, and told her the tale of deceit and unscrupulous plottings. He kept her hands enclosed in his as he separated and recounted the strands of the complicated tapestry from Ellen’s revelations, his own knowledge of past events, Lewis’s role in the tragedy. Seeing how well it fit as he spoke it aloud. Weaving together a whole that would damn Sir John de Lacy as a man of blood and treachery.
‘So I would be a means to an end. Have always been so—to consolidate my uncle’s hold on the March. Our child who would inherit the Malinder land would give him the means to absorb your land into his.’ She turned her face against him as thoughts raced through her mind, quick to see the implications. ‘But of necessity your life would be forfeit.’
‘Yes.’ He moved his hands to bracelet her wrists, feeling the firm pulse of her blood beneath his grasp, taking comfort from it.
‘And mine too.’ She looked up, eyes wide. ‘Once the child was born. If I resisted him.’
‘Yes. You would not be allowed to reject his guardianship.’ At the thought, the rage returned, diamond bright. Unknowingly his grip tightened until Elizabeth squirmed and pro tested. ‘Forgive me.’ He immediately loosened his fingers, raised her wrists to his lips. ‘I find it impossible to contemplate it without…’ But he could not speak it. ‘Perhaps Sir John thought he could persuade you to be amenable.’
‘Then he does not know me! And David would replace Lewis, would be the chosen heir, could be moulded to ask no questions, but accept my uncle’s orders. Which Lewis would not.’
‘Undoubtedly. Except that he did not know David very well either. David is very like his sister with a mind of his own.’
She thought for a little while, then covered her face with her hands, although her voice was strong. ‘It shames me, Richard. That such an outcome should have been in his mind when he offered me as your wife. And you accepted me in all ignorance that he plotted your downfall—your death.’
‘There’s no shame. You were an innocent weapon to be used against me. There’s no blame on your shoulders.’ Reaching out, he lifted her chin, so that she must look at him. ‘As you see, I have come to no harm.’ At last he rose from the cold stone, drew her hand through his arm to lead her from the cloister. ‘Do you wish to leave Jane here?’
‘No. I think she is too restless a spirit for this place,’ Elizabeth replied after only a moment’s thought. ‘What would she think of nuns lighting candles around her and praying over her? I think she would rather rest at Ledenshall.’
‘I shall arrange it.’
Grief took hold again, and an intense gratitude that Richard was here. She continued to lean into the shelter of his embrace. ‘I can’t believe that you are here,’ she murmured. ‘He said you were near death.’
His lips on hers, warm, tender beyond bearing, confirmed the life force that beat beneath the palms she spread against his chest, which echoed her own raised pulse as she sank into his reassurance.
‘Where can I stay until dawn?’ he asked as intense weariness finally bit.
‘Come with me.’ She took his hand, recovered the candle and led him from the cloisters to her own room, closing the door after them. ‘This is the best I can offer.’ A ghost of a laugh stirred the dank air, her breath coming in little puffs of moisture. ‘The holy sisters would be horrified if they knew I had brought you here, but I will not be parted.’
She saw the room, little more than a cell, through Richard’s eyes. The stone walls with their slimy gleam of damp, the bare flagged floor, the single unglazed window that let in the cold night air. The narrow bed and the lack of all furnishings, other than a crude crucifix fixed on the wall—nothing to offer any comfort to the chance guest.
Richard’s quick grimace said it all. ‘A penance in itself! And that bed, if we are to share it, is as narrow as a coffin.’ He hissed a breath at his clumsy words. ‘Ah! Elizabeth, forgive me…’
She placed her fingers over his mouth, then her own lips before pulling him to the bed where they stretched together in a supreme discomfort that neither would have refused. More precious than the most sumptuous of bedchambers, more acceptable than the softest of mat tresses, the smoothest of linens, the hard pallet provided all they needed. Fully clothed, their body heat as Richard held Elizabeth close in his arms, her head on his breast, made magnificent compensation for the thin covering. By mutual decision they left the candle burning until it guttered, as if to keep at bay the images that might encroach with the dark. Whispered words of love, a quiet acceptance of what had almost destroyed them, an in se parable closeness of mind and body, it was the sweetest and saddest of reconciliations, but finally a strange contentment wrapped them round. The visions of death and murder, of headlong fearful flight through the night, gradually ebbed away. Until they were silent, content to simply be together after all that had separated them.
Richard kept watch until dawn. Perhaps Elizabeth slept a little, until the ringing of the Priory bell for Prime stirred them into a new awareness of each other. Without a word they moved together in a very necessary healing. Soft kisses, soft sighs, the minimal removal of garments to reaffirm their love. A slow slide of hands, a catch of breath the only sound in the little room. Lifting her above him, Richard lowered her, filled her, owned her, gave all his tenderness to her, whilst Elizabeth took him in, surrounding him with her body and her love, her gaze never leaving his, drowning in the love she saw in his face for her. Breath ragged, completely involved in their own small world within the four walls of the cell, they rocked together in the gentlest of rhythms until it was done.
Her words, finally, against his mouth expressed both their desires.
‘Take me home, Richard. Take me to Ledenshall.’
Epilogue
Every surface was covered with a thick layer of dust. They breathed it. Ate and drank it, the bed linen scratchy with it. Yet they were home and it lifted Elizabeth’s heart.
Ellen was at Talgarth under David’s watchful eye. Sir John was in London, petitioning the new Yorkist King, young Edward, for justice. Nicholas Capel had vanished, without trace. Elizabeth shivered as if a cloud had obscured the sun. His crimes, and those of Sir John, were beyond penance. As for the future…she turned her mind from it. The scrying dish had not been used since Jane’s death.
Voices in the distance informed her where Richard would be. The shattered stone work and sinking foundations of the massive wall took much of his attention. When it was not focused on her. Elizabeth under stood how hard he had to try not to cushion her with care, and loved him for it. Her lips curved, complacent as a cat in a sunbeam, at the anticipation of the gleam in his eye when he looked at her.
On the battlement walk, Richard rolled up the plan for new buildings and looked across to where Elizabeth had come to stand at the top of the steps outside the Great Hall, her skirts blown agai
nst her thickening waist line as she raised a hand to hold her veil back, a very feminine gesture. Immediately he went to her. The threats to her freedom, even to her life, were still too vivid to be easily cast off. Losing her was more than his mind could contemplate.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Do you need to ask? I can sign my name in the dust on every surface!’
His mouth was firm on hers, his hand possessively gentle on the swell of her belly, but knowing better than to suggest that she rest as he brushed the cobwebs from her sleeve.
‘Don’t worry. David will make an excellent Lord of Talgarth,’ he assured her, sensing the shadow that still lingered in her mind.
‘I know.’
Richard drew her close, an arm around her waist so that she fit neatly against him, resting his cheek against her frisky veiling, content for that sun-filled moment to stand and look towards the activity where the stone blocks were being chipped and shaped. Until a familiar feline figure wound round their feet, down the steps and across the court yard to the stables. Ears alert, her sides bulged and rippled under soft fur.
‘Another with off spring on her mind,’ Richard remarked drily.
‘Perhaps one of them will have the gift.’ Elizabeth laughed softly as the cat disappeared round the stable door. ‘I hope the kittens are better tempered than their mother.’
‘Amen to that. And I think my Black Vixen is content too.’
‘Dear Richard. More than content.’ Her words expressing all the love that was between them.
‘My lord.’ Below, Simon Beggard raised his hand as they began to hoist a large block with rope and pulley.
Richard lifted Elizabeth’s hand from where it was tucked within his arm and rubbed his lips over her fingertips, still tempted to linger in the sun. The future was suddenly full of promise. Time would tell what manner of man Edward of York, their new King, would be. A better man than his father, he admitted, and perhaps a king who would bring peace to a war-torn country.
