Anne O'Brien – Chosen for the Marriage Bed (страница 2)

Elizabeth rested her chin on her clasped hands, her thoughts still with the vivid features. ‘All very well, but how do I tell which is which? How will I know?’

‘Use your head and your heart, my lady. What else?’

‘I will if I ever escape this place.’ A depth of despair was allowed to creep into her voice. Elizabeth bowed her head as any nun might, but not in prayer. She sounded tired to the bone. When she looked up, there was a dullness in the dark eyes. Her servant reached out, touched her fingers in silent compassion and Elizabeth squared her shoulders. ‘Jane. Did you bring what I asked of you?’

‘Yes. Not difficult. The nuns watch me far less than they watch you.’ She unfolded the other packets on the table. ‘This is what you wanted. Celandine.’ The metallic golden petals and heart-shaped leaves of this earliest of flowers lay wilting and sad.

Elizabeth nodded, but without discernible pleasure. ‘Excellent. To escape unwanted imprisonment or entrapment of all kinds. In Heaven’s name, I need it. What are the rest?’

Jane unwrapped the remaining packets to reveal a dried mixture of ugly roots and faded leaves. ‘Vervain—to aid escape from enemies. And woodruff to ensure victory.’

Elizabeth picked up a piece of woody stem. ‘Comfrey for safety and protection on a journey. It seems I shall need it if your vision is true.’ For the first time there was a slight curve of the lips, a genuine warmth in the dark stare that fixed on the servant.

‘It does no harm to give fate a nudge, my lady.’ Jane tucked the whole into a small leather bag with a drawstring and pushed it across the dusty wood. ‘Wear it next to the skin, my lady. Be sure to keep it from prying eyes.’

Elizabeth lifted it, pushed it beneath her robe, her expression cold and flat. ‘I will wear it. And pray to God and His Lady Mother that it works. Or I shall assuredly go mad in this place.’

‘I suppose it does no harm to call on all powers to come to your aid, my lady.’ Jane quickly doused the candles with a rapid gesture of her hands and stood. The cat rose and stretched, keen to leave. ‘Let us return before one of the sisters notices your absence and flexes her right arm in the name of Holy Obedience.’

‘Amen to that!’ replied Elizabeth with feeling, already knowing the bite of the whip against her flesh.

In her heart and in her mind, Elizabeth de Lacy—not Sister Elizabeth, she would never be Sister Elizabeth—seethed with anger and rebellion, and all but shook with bitter frustration. Her life at Llanwardine was beyond tolerating, from the unpalatable food to the bone-chilling cold of endless nights. To the freezing water in which it was her task to scour the cups and bowls used by the elderly nuns. As she lifted the remains of the candles, her sleeves fell back from her hands and forearms. The bones of arms and wrists were too fragile, too delicate, as if they might snap at the first provocation. She had never been a robust child, but now the pale skin of her face was almost translucent, the violet imprints beneath her eyes far too deep. Her fingers were rough and red from hard work and chilblains. She must eat more—she knew it—but it was difficult to do more than force a little of the hard bread past the lump in her throat, washing it down with a spoonful of the greasy broth. It was an ongoing battle between her mind and her belly, but the grease of the broth coated her mouth, the rancid vegetables turned her stomach.

Was the rest of her life to be spent in this place? Would she grow old and die here?

No. And, no! No, she could not believe that life would hold nothing for her but this trial of poverty and obedience, deprivation and hardship until the day she died. She was only just one year past her second decade and, before God, she had no calling to be a nun, as He must know. Surely He would see and understand her sufferings and not commit her to such a fate, despite the determination of her powerful uncle, Sir John de Lacy, to keep her here until she bowed in obedience before him.

And, no, she could never wed Owain Thomas, to achieve yet another Yorkist alliance for her family in the March. Never! She shivered at the memory of Sir Owain, the tall, spare knight with thinning hair, elderly enough to be her father, his fingers dry and rough against her hand when he bowed over it with clumsy greed. His eyes when he had agreed to wed her had been as damply cold as a reptile. She swallowed against the remembered scratch of his hand on hers. Whatever life held in store for her, at least she had escaped that!

Elizabeth de Lacy turned her steps towards the priory kitchens, where she would once again plunge her hands in the icy water. Into her mind came the austere face of the scrying, the level stare of the dark-haired man that sent a shiver through her body. It was not from the bitter draughts that fluttered her robes. Within her belly a heat bloomed.

Richard Malinder, Lord of Ledenshall, head bent, frowned over the sword blade he was cleaning, making a pleasing picture if he had either known or cared. His build and temperament were those of a soldier. Faint lines of determination and a certain inflexibility were clear to be read on the vivid face. In the direct gleam of his eyes there was an uncomfortable cynicism. He was dark, black of hair, dark grey of eye, with a straight, high-bridged nose made for arrogance. Lean cheeks, a well-moulded mouth, capable of a disgraceful degree of charm, but now stern. A handsome man, so women would say and frequently did, but high-tempered and imperious, not a man easily dealt with. One of the Black Malinders, who could charm and attract, but whose character could be as forceful as his appearance. Now his frown deepened over the stark announcement made by the de Lacy messenger not an hour ago, news that had had the shock of a lightning bolt.

Maude de Lacy, the ten-year-old daughter of Sir John de Lacy, the girl who was to have been his wife, was dead of a fever.

He had had no premonition of it. How should he—she was only ten years old. He was sorry, of course, had expressed appropriate words to be carried back to the girl’s father, Sir John de Lacy, Lord of Talgarth. The death of Sir John’s only child was an occasion for grief, even though Richard had to dredge through the depths of his memory to bring up any more personal detail of her than a small girl with chestnut hair and a deep blue gown, with laughter on her face as she chased a hound puppy through the courtyard of her home. The only occasion he had set eyes on her, when their betrothal was sealed.

But beneath his regret ran a guilt-ridden torrent of relief. This had been an alliance that in his heart he had never wanted, a political alliance in which the child Maude had been simply a pawn to be used in the struggle for power in the March. It was very clear in Richard’s mind. Sir John had wanted to tie him into an unbreakable union with the de Lacys, presumably to dominate the March between them. But Sir John would be an uncomfortable ally in the present circumstances. The de Lacy loyalties to the House of York did not tally with those of Malinder’s support for the Lancastrian King Henry. Nor did Richard relish the prospect of Maude as a betrothed. She was far too young to be a bride.

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!’