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!’
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,
