Anne O'Brien - Chosen for the Marriage Bed

And yet he needed to marry again after the death of his wife Gwladys. It was high time that he sired an heir to the Malinder estates. On a thought, his black brows twitched together as he applied the soft cloth to the blade’s edge. As long as Sir John did not try to remedy this sudden collapse of the negotiations by offering another de Lacy bride. What if Sir John proposed his unwed niece, Elizabeth de Lacy, to take the place of his daughter in the Malinder marriage bed?

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 upbringing of her younger brother on the untimely death of her father, and was still unwed despite her advancing years. Add in her forthright speaking and her dabbling in witchcraft 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 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 invisible 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 retreated. 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 threshold, 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.