Chosen for the Marriage Bed

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘I think we are in agreement, Jane,’ Elizabeth replied carefully. ‘I cannot like her. But she’ll be gone back to Moccas as soon as the wedding ceremonies are over.’

  ‘Tomorrow would not be soon enough. A little belladonna administered in her wine. Not enough to cause harm, but—’

  Elizabeth’s expression became stern. ‘No, Jane. You will not. I don’t fear her.’

  ‘Well, you should. She’s a danger.’

  ‘Have you been scrying again?’ Elizabeth’s demanded, her fingers stilled.

  ‘What if I have?’ Jane bustled about the chamber, folding the borrowed cloak, then returned to fix her mistress with a stare. ‘But I did not need to. Nor do you if you’ll be honest with yourself. Mistress Anne is easy to read. I have your best interests in my thoughts and actions. She does not.’

  ‘What did you see?’ Curiosity got the better of Elizabeth, even as she silently reproved herself for encouraging such dabblings.

  ‘Not much, but enough to know.’ Satisfied, Jane took the pot of salve from her mistress and replaced the stopper. ‘The dark man who would wish you ill is still there.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Enough of him. Anne Malinder is red-gold and venomous, her green eyes glossed with sly envy and jealousy. She wants him. If you take my advice, a quick bout of sickness would persuade that lady to remove herself to her own home, far away from you and his lordship. I wager she’d not be interested in feasting and dancing with pains in her limbs and in her belly.’

  It was an engaging picture. For a second Elizabeth enjoyed it. Then stared aghast at Jane’s suggestion and her own momentary compliance. ‘Hear me, Jane. I’ll not have it.’

  ‘You’ll regret it!’ Jane’s lips closed with a snap.

  ‘Do you suggest that Lord Richard would not have the power or inclination to with stand Anne Malinder?’ A flame of disappointment began to flicker in Elizabeth’s stomach.

  ‘What man was ever so foolish as to resist so fine a figure and so blatant an invitation?’ Jane Bringsty stood with hands fisted on broad hips, sure of her argument. ‘Have sense, my lady. She dresses as if to attend a court function with a remarkable show of throat and bosom for so chilly a season.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The image of Anne in a glory of patterned emerald velvet and fur crept unbidden into Elizabeth’s mind. ‘Her manner of dress is her own choice.’

  ‘Powdered aconitum root would do the trick,’ Jane continued, unconvinced. ‘It would give her the shivers as if she has the ague. She’d soon wrap up warm within her cloak, enough to hide her un doubted attractions.’

  Which made Elizabeth smile. ‘I’ll not have it, Jane,’ she repeated, despite the appeal.

  ‘Very well, my lady.’ On which note of reproach, Mistress Bringsty exited with disapproval in her portly step, only lingering in the doorway to state once again, ‘You’ll regret it. Never say I didn’t warn you.’ The door swung shut behind her.

  The cat stayed to curl on Elizabeth’s lap in comfort. Yawned widely, but fixed her mistress with narrow eyes. Not unlike, Elizabeth realised, the sharp green gaze of Lady Anne.

  ‘I know. We are surrounded by influences, generous and malign.’ She smoothed her hand over the dense black fur of the cat’s head and back, rousing an instant rumble of pleasure. ‘I like him,’ she whispered. ‘Richard Malinder is dark as a crow’s wing, without doubt, but he’s not the one of Jane’s predictions. I saw him in the scrying bowl at Llanwardine. I felt the bond with him even though I denied it.’ Her fingers dug into the black fur, causing the cat to arch in protest. ‘He is not my enemy. I can’t ever believe that,’ she murmured. ‘But what does he think of me?’

  Against all common sense, Elizabeth de Lacy allowed herself to dream.

  Chapter Five

  Throughout the days before her marriage, Elizabeth found herself fractious, and beleaguered.

  The problem was, as Elizabeth freely admitted to herself, she was feeling lonely. Lewis had taken himself off to Talgarth to report her safe arrival to Sir John. David too had abandoned her to join Richard on his visit to Hereford. Even her betrothed had left her, and in the end with such a leave-taking as to shock her to her bones, giving her more than a hint of the Black Malinder beneath the surface charm.

  His farewell, in full public gaze in the court yard, had been formal, hurried and unsettling.

  ‘God keep you, lady. I’ll be back for the ceremony.’

  A brief inclination of his head, an even briefer squeeze of her hand and he had gone to mount the bay stallion. Was that all he would say? Perhaps it was in the circumstances, surrounded as they were by men-at-arms and baggage wagons, or perhaps the anticipation of seeing his mistress again was strong. But Elizabeth, with narrowed eyes on his splendid shoulders as he gathered up his reins, was reluctant to give him the benefit of any doubt. He was brushing her off as if she was less than important to him. Her stare was less than friendly.

  By chance Richard caught the condemnation. For a long moment he looked at her, then tossed the reins to his squire, handed over his gaunt lets and strode back.

  ‘That’s no suitable leave-taking of a bride groom to his sweet betrothed.’

  Elizabeth coloured at the sardonic words. He must have read every thought in her head. But then he cupped her face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs over her cheek bones, and when she would have stepped back in quick retreat with a murmur of self-consciousness, he took her mouth with his, despite their audience.

  Heat and power. A lingering and most thorough possession. Elizabeth could think of nothing at all as the breath left her body, until he lifted his head and, still unsmiling, raised his brows in wry enquiry. Nor could she find a word to say. Was this a wooing? More like a binding to his will. There was a ruthlessness in him, as instantly proved when he took her wrist and pulled her with him towards his mount.

  From the saddle he leaned down. ‘Smile at me, Elizabeth.’

  She kept her face stern, chin tilted.

  His own smile was edged. ‘Perhaps you will smile when I return.’ And then he was gone, leaving her standing alone in the court yard.

  So she felt bereft. And Elizabeth watched for his return, although would have admitted it to no one. Her ears were tuned to the sound of approaching hoof beats, of raised voices in the court yard, of warnings from the guards on the gate-house battlements and the raising of the portcullis, her hopes to be dashed again and again when the new arrivals proved to be only more wedding guests.

  How could he matter so much to her? She had barely known him for longer than twenty-four hours in her whole life. She sighed as she surveyed the empty road, her fingers clenched against the stone coping. Perhaps he would arrive barely in time to exchange vows at the church door. It could hardly matter to him since this marriage was based on nothing but political necessity. It should not matter to her. She felt her temper rise. It would probably not matter to him even if he were wed in his campaigning gear, travel-soiled, sweat-stained and dusty from a week’s riding along the March. Why she should be concerned with her own appearance, she had no idea. Richard Malinder would only care that the alliance be made.

  The days passed, the hour of the marriage drawing closer. What was he doing to be away so long? It came into her mind that Anne Malinder had known the truth. That Richard’s visit to Hereford involved a long-standing relationship with a woman called Joanna. It was like a cold hand closing its fingers around her heart. Elizabeth hid her anxieties behind an impassively solemn exterior, perfected with long practice. But her temper and her patience shortened by the day.

  Meanwhile she was beleaguered by well-meaning attempts to improve her appearance and Anne Malinder’s less than subtle hints at her deficiencies.

  ‘I feel like a goose being fattened for a Twelfth Night feast,’ Elizabeth grumbled as another platter of little venison pasties, crisp and golden, appeared at her right hand as she sat and set the stitches in her wedding gown. Yet Elizabeth, grateful for the concern, duly tried to eat. She must do so if s
he did not want Richard Malinder to look aghast at the lack of covering on her bones. If he was able to count her ribs, surely he must turn from her in disgust. Doubtless Joanne was an enticing owner of sensual curves to lure Richard to her bed. So she ate.

  She found herself under siege as she rubbed Jane’s salves and potions into her hands, as well as drinking, under protest, a bitter decoction of white willow bark to clear and brighten her skin. But it was entirely possible, she decided finally, with a little spurt of pleasure, that the bridal ring would slide easily past her knuckle rather than stick fast.

  But it would take a miracle to improve the disaster of her hair. In her worst moments of depression Elizabeth remembered it as it had been. Long and thick and straight. Black with the shining iridescence of a magpie’s feathers. As black as Richard’s. She imagined, unable to resist a smile, his being able to run his fingers through the length of it, before she shook herself back to reality. It still hugged her head in an unlovely manner, a short fur covering. She washed it in the heady liquid of dried lavender flowers steeped in wine that Mistress Bringsty swore by as a tried-and-trusted remedy, but her hair’s growth would be a matter of time that she did not have before her wedding day. It would, she thought, be a matter of devising suitable veiling to cover the worst of the damage. She could not—would not—be wed in a nun-like veil and wimple.

  The bridal gown was duly measured, cut and snipped and sewn, the luxurious velvet a deep red, the colour of the best Bordeaux wine, guar an teed to flatter and draw colour into her pale cheeks, a gown to disguise distressingly sharp collar bones and an unfortunately flat chest. And what a miracle, Elizabeth considered cynically, that Richard Malinder should have been thoughtful enough to provide it for her.

  ‘What a lovely gown this will be,’ Anne Malinder announced. ‘And what a shame you do not have the bosom to carry so fashionable a bodice. I could do so, of course. My own gown for this occasion is fashioned on one of Queen Margaret’s herself. Now her figure is magnificently proportioned.’ Anne allowed her gaze to rest knowingly on Elizabeth, before continuing. ‘I believe it is customary to use the bride’s hair in sewing the wedding gown, for good fortune,’ she informed her as she set her stitches with exemplary skill, the needle no sharper than her tongue, her eyes on her stitches, a smile on her lips. ‘I doubt that will be possible, dear Elizabeth. We could, of course, sew in one of mine. It would be perfect.’

  Elizabeth might curb her instincts, watch her words through necessity, but Mistress Bringsty sprang to her defence. ‘We’ve no need of such ruses, which smack of nothing less than witch craft, Mistress Anne. I can think of better charms from nature’s own goodness to bless this union.’

  So into the hem was sewn leaves of periwinkle and a handful of the flat translucent honesty seeds, to promote a lucky and happy marriage. Elizabeth eyed them ruefully. She feared she would need far more than a handful of seeds to bless this marriage. Particularly if, even now as she waited for his return, her bride groom was enjoying a heated liaison with Mistress Joanna.

  Richard’s business in Hereford took longer to complete than he had expected as he had a particular commission of his own, so unavoidably he returned to Ledenshall less than twenty-four hours before the ceremony, which, if he had thought about it, should have warned him of possible consequences. He found Ledenshall in festive and lively uproar, every avail able space housing some degree of relative or family dependant. He also discovered a bride waiting for him in the court yard, a bride who had little time for him, spine strikingly rigid, face set, hardly willing to grant him, or her brother David, more than a few words in passing. Certainly not a smile as might be expected between a lady and her betrothed. Much as on his departure, he received nothing but a flat stare.

  ‘Welcome home.’ Her tone said it all.

  Richard dismounted. ‘Elizabeth. We were delayed.’

  ‘I am aware.’

  ‘You are well?’

  ‘Yes. As you see.’

  He frowned, displeased with her short reply, her brusque manner. So he would push the issue of their relationship a little more. Stern-faced, his eyes never leaving hers, he held out his hand, palm up in a tacit demand that she respond to him. Instead, his gentle bride thrust her hands behind her back.

  Richard held firm, conscious of every eye on the pair of them. Pride stiffened his jaw. He would not be defied in this manner in his own castle by a girl who was not yet his wife. He waited. Until Elizabeth flushed, and, with obvious reluctance, touched her hand briefly to his. With instinctive re actions, he pounced, closed his hand on her sleeve when she would have pulled away. Then raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers with slow deliberation.

  ‘Elizabeth. I have not abandoned you, as you see.’

  ‘No, my lord.’ But the tension from her fingers did not ease.

  Is that what she had feared? That his absence meant rejection? Surely not. He could hardly refuse to wed her now that she was ensconced in his home as his accepted bride. He swung round at a request from Master Kilpin, to give orders for the disposition of the pack animals and their burden. To discover when he turned back again that the only view he had was of the lady’s re treating figure, shoulders still formidably straight as she marched towards the door.

  ‘Well…’ He pushed a hand through his disordered hair, admitting to a brush of anger, until he caught David’s grin and raised brows. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Nothing.’ David chuckled. ‘And not for some days. That’s the problem.’

  ‘So what should I have done?’

  ‘Got back here before the eleventh hour. Elizabeth has a temper.’

  ‘As I know.’ He cuffed the lad gently on the shoulder. ‘Should I fear her retaliation, do you suppose?’

  At which David guffawed inelegantly. ‘I am not afraid of Elizabeth.’

  Richard’s lips twitched at the implication. What had he expected from his betrothed? Well, more than he had received. She had scowled at him when he left and scowled when he returned. His tardiness was not entirely his fault, but Elizabeth de Lacy had not bothered to discover the reason before putting him in the wrong. His temper began to simmer again, and Richard Malinder was aware of a level of disappointment that the under standing they seemed to have achieved in their battlement discussion had vanished in his absence.

  Since it was not in his nature to leave it like this between them, Richard followed her into his home, catching up with her in the Great Hall. ‘Madam!’ His commanding voice, brooking no refusal, stopped her as she placed her foot on the first stair. Elizabeth turned.

  ‘My lord.’

  With long strides he caught up with her. ‘When I return to my home, I expect to find a gracious and welcoming wife waiting for me, not a sharp-voiced shrew. I will not have my people entertained and intrigued by your lack of propriety and good breeding. My lateness was not of my doing, nor should you as my wife question it.’ He found his irritation in full flow and did not consider the force or direction of his words. ‘I had hoped the tales in the March of your wilfulness and lack of courtesy were mere gossip and exaggeration.’

  He saw her hands clench, her lips whiten with pressure, her face grow pale, and watched curiously as she took a breath under the onslaught of his words. Her eyes, suddenly dark with unknown anxieties, held his and he could not fault her courage. Unnerved by the grief, even pain in her face, still he was driven to make his point or what respect would there be in this marriage? ‘There is no excuse for rank bad manners in my house hold, lady.’

  Her eyes fell. ‘No, my lord. There is no excuse.’

  ‘I expect you to receive me and my guests graciously.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Forgive me. I was at fault.’

  ‘Then we have an understanding.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. I will not be guilty of…of graceless ill manners again.’

  He waited to see if she would say more, surprised by her acquiescence. When she merely stood, head bent, because he could think of nothing
more to say and was now perhaps regretting his choice of words, Richard left her.

  Through her lashes Elizabeth watched him go. She had been entirely at fault, but how could she tell him of her fears that made her lash out? Of seeing herself in comparison with the achingly beautiful Anne Malinder, who undoubtedly schemed to become the equally lovely Gwladys’s successor. Of fearing his attachment to the lover in Hereford. Embarrassment, slick and cold, coated her from head to toe. She had undoubtedly been in the wrong—what was it he had said? A sharp-voiced shrew?—and she had no idea how to make amends. Despair washed through her. Still she forced herself to walk up the stair with magnificent dignity.

  To meet Anne Malinder, watching, waiting, at the top, her perfect teeth glinting in a smile of sheer delight.

  ‘I see dear Richard is returned. Have you fallen out with him already?’

  ‘No. We under stand each other perfectly.’

  The girl leaned close. ‘He’ll go back to Mistress Joanna soon enough if you quarrel with him.’ A trill of laughter. ‘His mood is not sweet for a bride groom. I will go and talk to him for you. I could always wind Richard round my fingers, even as a child. Now I am a child no longer. Don’t worry, Elizabeth. I will see to his needs.’

  ‘I am sure you will!’

  It was the final straw. Elizabeth brushed past her nemesis and shut herself in her bedchamber, regretting the mistakes she had made, unable to see any way forwards.

  Whilst Richard, back in the court yard, wallowing in the lost sadness in a pair of deep blue eyes, was finding it difficult not to regret his in tem per ate words. His impatience flared when Mistress Bringsty placed her stout figure in his path.

  ‘I need to speak with you, my lord.’

  ‘I don’t have time for this.’ He would have stepped past her, but she surprised him with a hand to his sleeve. His glance sharpened. ‘Well?’

  ‘Spare her the public bedding, my lord.’