by Anne O'Brien
Richard looked at the impassioned features, unconcerned with the threat, astounding in itself, more taken with the fierce loyalty of the young man and the glimpse that had been unexpectedly opened into Elizabeth de Lacy’s previous existence. He found that he liked Lewis de Lacy no worse for that fierce loyalty.
‘The lady will receive all consideration at my hands. I can free her from de Lacy control, if that’s what you mean. I hope she can be happy and content here.’ He kept the tone light as he felt the heat of the fire in Lewis’s regard.
Then Lewis nodded. ‘That’s what I want for her. So come and meet her. Elizabeth…’ Lewis walked to her, touched her arm. She turned slowly to face the two men. And so Richard Malinder gained his first true impression of his bride.
His inner and very candid reaction to her appalled him.
A drowned rat would have presented a more appealing picture. Despite the heavy cloak, she was soaked to the skin with unflattering consequences. The dark gown, not a nun’s habit, but no more attractive with its sodden folds and mired hem, clung to her figure, clammy and revealing. She was tall—her eyes almost on a level with his—but too thin, too angular. He noted her wrists as she held a mug of steaming ale, the bones pressing against translucent skin, the sharp collar bones where the neckline of her gown revealed them. The drenched wimple clung to her head and framed a face notable for its hollow cheeks and thin, straight nose. Her hair was completely covered by the unflattering cloth. Her skin was sallow, colourless, the faintest smudge of mud on one cheek where she had wiped away the rain. She looked stretched and strained from lack of sleep. Her mouth might be full with a generous lower lip, probably enhanced by a smile if she was ever moved to give one, but instead it was taut and uncurving. Dark unfathomable eyes watched him warily, the brows, beautifully arched, raised a little. She awaited his response with what? A certain confidence? Or a deep disquiet, well concealed? Whatever feelings she hid, she was not a prepossessing presence.
As he approached, and as Elizabeth de Lacy turned to acknowledge him for the first time, Richard saw her eyes widen, a flash of light in their depths. Her fingers tightened on her cup, high colour slashing across her sharp cheek bones, her colourless lips parted as if she would express some immediate thought. Then she pressed them together, at the same time veiling her thoughts with a down-sweep of lashes.
Her reaction to him—was it shock? Fear? What was she thinking?
But then that question was obliterated by a slight movement to one side of Elizabeth. Richard’s attention was caught. Anne Malinder had approached to stand quietly there, as if to give Elizabeth some companionable support on this tense occasion. Gowned in rich blue damask, a profusion of braided red-gold hair covered with a transparent veil and delicately tinted cheeks, she was rounded and feminine and astonishingly pretty. A fleeting image again leapt unbidden into his mind, of Gwladys, who had also enjoyed wearing blue. It provided an unfortunate and terrible comparison with Richard’s new bride.
His heart sank.
Richard, his manners impeccable, deliberately turned his eyes from Anne and back to Elizabeth de Lacy, careful to show none of his inner turmoil. Taking her hand, long fingered and cold, he found himself wondering whether there was any warm blood to be found anywhere in her body.
‘Welcome to Ledenshall, Elizabeth de Lacy.’
He raised her hand to his lips in a brief formal salute. Her fingers were as icy against his mouth as he had suspected, the skin roughened, the knuckles ugly and swollen.
Recovered from whatever had disturbed her, Elizabeth inclined her head, the tiniest of movements. ‘Thank you, my lord Malinder. I am honoured by your desire to wed me.’ Her eyes remained direct beneath his searching gaze. ‘I am most pleased to be here.’ Her voice surprised him a little. Low and soft, it had a husky depth that was most appealing. His heart sank even further. It was the most attractive part about her as far as he could tell.
Elizabeth allowed herself time to admire the room that would be her own. Timber-ceilinged, plaster-walled, painted in floral patterns now faded into delicate soft colours with the years, a patterned tiled floor—it all wrapped her round in an aura of wealth and comfort. A fire burned in the stone fire place and beeswax candles had been lit in tall candlesticks to push back the shadows. The bed—oh, glory!—had patterned silk curtains and tester, the canopy attached by tasselled cords to the ceiling beams. After the deprivations of Llanwardine, she could imagine the sheer luxury of lying there, beneath the silk cover where she could see the luxury of a feather mattress and cool linen sheets. An oak chest, a box chair, a stand with pewter ware. Elizabeth took it all in with a silent sigh of delight. The Malinder house hold had taken pains to make her feel welcomed. The bands of tension around Elizabeth’s heart loosened a little; her fingers, which had been clenched into fists at her sides, slowly opened.
Before she could express her thanks, her attention was truly caught because there before the fire stood a bound wooden tub. And buckets of steaming water brought in by servants. Elizabeth looked at it longingly, with unspeakable gratitude, as she tugged at her gown where it clung unpleasantly to her hips. Her appearance on her arrival could not have been worse. She hated to think what she looked like. She knew what she looked like. What a shock it must have been for Richard Malinder to see his betrothed for the first time, as if she had just been dragged from a river. At least she could only improve. A cynical twist touched the corner of her lips, quickly hidden as she recalled her first unfortunate reaction.
Richard Malinder was definitely the man of the scrying bowl. The same astonishingly attractive features, the same fall of black hair. And when those grey eyes had looked at her she had felt her bones melt, and was almost compelled by some inner force to reach out a hand to touch him. Not that she had, but surely he was everything a woman could want in her husband if physical beauty mattered.
How tragic that she could not match him with a beauty of her own.
Yet she must remember. Elizabeth, unaware, frowned at her new surroundings. He was a Lancastrian, and there fore her enemy. It would be unwise to be seduced by the magnificence of a man’s face. And what was it that Jane had said in warning? Two dark men, one friend, one enemy.
If Richard Malinder was to prove to be her enemy, then she must be on her guard.
She had seen the tightening of his muscles when he approached her, until good manners had forced him to play the gallant. It was the moment she had been dreading. She had to summon all her inner re sources to present a blank and unresponsive exterior, anything but reveal the fear in her heart. And he was so cold and formal—he must dislike the match more than she thought. A pity she had nothing to recommend her to change his mind. Not compared with the decorative little cousin who was even now watching her, head tilted, with a slyly amused light in her eyes.
Elizabeth’s meagre belongings had already been brought in. Never had a bride from so powerful a family been so poorly prepared. Jane Bringsty deposited the cat, which took up a position on a corded box and watched the proceedings with half-veiled hostile eyes. Then as warmth pervaded, it stretched and began to wash its damp fur with intense concentration. If only it could be as easy for her to settle into these new surroundings.
Jane Bringsty, aided by a suspiciously willing Anne, began to open the packages on the bed, intent on discovering a suitable gown. An impossibility, Elizabeth acknowledged, knowing the contents. Meanwhile with cold stiff fingers she unpinned and removed the heavy wimple. As she held the coarse cloth in her hands, Elizabeth sensed and heard the reaction. And knew why. She herself had grown used to it—almost.
‘Oh.’ Anne’s eyes danced. ‘How shocking!’
‘The nuns,’ Elizabeth found herself explaining, ‘believe that long hair encourages vanity and distracts a woman from her vocation and the true meaning of life. At least they did not shave my head. It could be worse.’
‘Not much worse!’ Anne answered with devastating frankness.
True enough, ev
en though the comment was pure malice. The shortest of dark hair covered her head. Soft and short, raggedly cut, it hugged her skull, hardly a covering at all.
Knowing that she had no control over the next few minutes, Elizabeth tensed against what must follow, grateful that the candles in the room were few, the light dimly shadowed. Her gown was removed and then her chemise until she stood, clammy and damp in shivering flesh beside the steaming tub. A little draught touched the skin of her neck and shoulder, as of a door opening, and with it a sudden presentiment. Elizabeth lifted her head, quickly glancing over her shoulder, to see that the door was indeed partially opened. There, unmoving on the thresh old, was a dark figure. He must have knocked and, receiving no answer, opened it to ask after her needs. This was far worse than any of her imaginings. Richard Malinder, shockingly aware of the most intimate of her secrets.
Elizabeth stood immobile, as unmoving as he, her eyes wide and lips parted in dread, appalled at what she knew he must see. His face might be expressionless, but she could imagine the thoughts clamouring in his mind. To her horror his gaze moved from hers to slide over her shoulders, her back, down to buttocks and thighs. Then back to hold hers again. Light, insubstantial his appraisal might be, yet she felt that his keen eyes had taken possession of every inch of her skin—and presumably found her undesirable. How mortifying! Elizabeth shivered in awareness at the chill in that direct judgement, the only blessing that the flickering of the candles might mask the worst of the scars.
And that was not the worst of it. By the Virgin! Would he come in? Would he find a need to comment, to draw even more attention to her with its ensuing degradation? And if he did, would she be forced to abandon what dignity she had left to snatch up her robe to cover herself and her shame? Elizabeth prayed he had enough sensitivity to retreat and not inflict any more humiliation on her. Was it not bad enough that his beautiful cousin should see her punishment revealed?
Even as the thought crossed her mind, as if hearing her silent plea, as if reading the dismay on her face, Richard Malinder bowed, and withdrew before the others in the room knew of his presence, closing the door softly. Leaving Elizabeth to claw back her control. The whole had only lasted a matter of seconds, yet it had seemed to Elizabeth a lifetime of raw exposure, to be scrutinised and judged.
Meanwhile, Anne Malinder, unaware, looked at Elizabeth with emerald-eyed interest.
‘What did they do to you?’
In her mind, Elizabeth saw herself as Anne would see her. As Richard Malinder must have seen her. She carried no extra flesh. Her ribs could be detected beneath her skin, as could the press of bones at hip and shoulder. Her breasts were small and undeveloped. Almost a child’s body in its slightness, despite her age and obvious womanhood. She could almost hear the condemnation. If Richard wanted a wife for childbearing, he had not chosen well. Overcome with shame, as if her deficiencies were all her own fault, Elizabeth turned her back on her unwelcome audience to pick up a bedgown and so hide herself from this too public view and inspection. An action that allowed the candlelight to glimmer along silver welts. Healed but visible. As she realised what her action had revealed to Anne Malinder, Elizabeth stiffened again, but it was too late.
A fraught silence descended. Until the sharp tension was broken by a quick and attractive gurgle of laughter. Mistress Anne covered her smiling mouth with her hands in what Elizabeth instantly recognised as a parody of regretful sympathy. Her eyes shone brilliantly.
‘What do you suppose Richard will say when he sees you?’
For the first time Elizabeth truly looked at the girl who stood beside the bed with one of her desperately unattractive and unfashionable gowns in her pretty hands. And immediately recognised in Anne Malinder a danger. There was no friend ship offered in those sparkling green eyes.
But was Mistress Anne Malinder not accurate in her observation? Elizabeth decided Anne was everything that she was not. Beautiful, well groomed, compliant, socially at ease in this house hold. And cousin to Lord Richard. In that one moment of blinding recognition, Elizabeth had no doubts of the girl’s intentions. She wanted Richard for herself, and resented Elizabeth’s presence. To be so out spoken suggested a child-like naïvety but Elizabeth recognised the sly deliberation for what it was. Recognised the deliberately fashionable clothing that displayed Mistress Anne’s figure to perfection, and would high light her own failings. No wonder the Lord of Ledenshall had looked as if struck with a battle-axe when Anne had so cunningly positioned herself in close proximity to the new bride!
But would Richard care what she, Elizabeth, looked like? As long as he had the alliance he desired and a wife who would bear him an heir, he would not care at all. She was only a replacement for Maude, after all. She must not forget it.
‘Forgive me, my lady.’ Anne smiled, eyes wide in regret. It could almost have been a simper, but the charm was heavy, as if Anne was aware of her lack of discretion and would make amends. There was no harm in offering an apology after all since the damage had been done. ‘I should not have been so out spoken,’ she murmured. ‘I meant no ill.’ But it was difficult for the girl to disguise the glow of triumph in her eyes.
Yes, you did! Elizabeth swallowed the words. Recognising an enemy, swamped with alarm at Richard Malinder’s reaction to what he had seen, Elizabeth returned the smile as she pinned the girl with her night-dark eyes in which there was no humour. ‘Why should you ask forgiveness? You spoke nothing but the truth, as all here must recognise. Perhaps I will tell you what my lord has to say, Mistress Anne, when he has made his thoughts known to me. And if I consider his words to be any of your concern, of course. And now—’ she turned her back on the girl ‘—I would welcome that hot water!’
Elizabeth realised that she had stoked the enmity further, but sank into the warm water in delicious relief. So much for a comfort able home coming as Richard Malinder’s betrothed. Elizabeth sighed. She would think about it all tomorrow.
For now, the battle lines had been drawn.
As she tumbled into sleep, one impression remained with Elizabeth. The sleek dark hair, the bold grey eyes, the austere features of Richard Malinder. How much had he seen of her in that brief appraisal? It had been cursory enough, and she had been in the shadows, but was it enough to cause him to regret his decision to take her? She had been able to read nothing on his face, but could well imagine. Dismay at best, but perhaps revulsion, outrage. And what would he say when he saw her uncovered and fully revealed in his marriage bed? Their marriage would have, of necessity, to be consummated. He was hardly marrying her for the sharpness of her wit or for her unusual education, was he? What if he touched her only out of necessity, because he had no choice, or even worse out of pity for her deficiencies? The thought appalled her.
Retreating rapidly from so intimate a female preserve, to stand silently for some minutes outside the door, Richard was forced to consider the impression that had been made on him with the sharp bite of a lance against unprotected flesh. In retrospect he should not have gone there, and had known better than to linger when all had become clear. What was it he had seen in that brief instant, what had taken his eye to the exclusion of all else? A bride with marks of a whip on her shoulders—oh, yes, he was sure of it, as the weals had caught the light, although the intensity of the punishment was overlaid by the poor quality of light. A bride with eyes wide in fear and shock. Had the whip been used to force her into marriage with him? The thought that it had made it necessary for him to breathe deeply. Elizabeth de Lacy certainly gave the impression that the last thing she wanted was to spend a night in his arms, as if the act of love would be nothing more for her than an assault, the touch of his flesh against hers simply a matter of loath some tolerance. Richard prayed wordlessly to God that she would not flinch from him. He could not—really could not—tolerate his wife shrinking from him yet again.
Chapter Four
Ledenshall looked cold and rain-washed from the vantage point of Elizabeth’s bedchamber, with a nasty
little teasing wind, but she felt no inclination to remain in her bed.
‘This is now my home,’ she stated firmly to the empty room.
Weeks of rules and in sis tent bells had awakened her before first light. With the stir of the castle around her as the servants took up their duties for the day, and no urgent need to break her fast, Elizabeth was driven by a desire to explore. She pulled on the first gown to hand, hating the coarse material, but it was not as if she had a choice in the matter, even if the garment had curled Lady Anne’s mischievously disdainful lips. She covered it with a heavy fur-lined cloak borrowed from one of the clothes presses. Considerably shorter than Elizabeth’s own garments, barely reaching down to her ankles, yet it was fine and luxurious, better than anything she had ever possessed. Elizabeth pulled the collar close around her throat with a little shiver of pleasure at the touch of the soft fur, and would have left to begin her investigations until she remembered, with a little moue of distaste. Hurriedly she pinned a plain linen veil into place to hide her shame from the view of any interested eyes.
For the next hour she indulged her own whims with no one to hinder or forbid. From the main family rooms in a comparatively new wing, she descended into the Great Hall, remnant of the original castle with its square keep. Here the windows were still arrow-slits, the roof timbers high above her head, the spaces vast and the draughts lethal enough to swirl the smoke and shiver the tapestries that deco rated the walls.
On to the kitchens, where, with a brief smile and a word of greeting, Elizabeth accepted the offered heel of a loaf, before climbing the outer stair case to the battlements, to look out over the bare hills and leafless trees, the muddy track leading back to Llanwardine. Her spirits lifted. By the Virgin, she would never return there! Then back down to the stables, brushing crumbs from her fingers and the damask of the cloak. The chapel. Pantries and store rooms, a rabbit-warren of corridors and doors. Aware of the glances and whispered comment from soldiers and servants who knew this inquisitive newcomer was to be their mistress.
