Chosen for the Marriage Bed

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Ah, Elizabeth.’ He pulled her to the floor beside him, before the fire, held her, brought her firmly against him so that she wept against his shoulder. And she wept for Lewis, for herself. For the impossible rifts caused on this day between two powerful families, between herself and Richard. Whilst he cradled her without words, able to give nothing but the strength of his arms, the warmth and security of his body.

  She could ask for nothing more, even as Sir John’s accusation still stood between them.

  At last when the sobs began to abate, Richard lifted her to carry her to the bed. Held her until she fell into an exhausted asleep. He remained awake as the sky grew bright, thinking over the events, the peace of the March effectively destroyed if Sir John decided to pursue a personal vengeance against him. Another bloody wound in the struggle for power between York and Lancaster. With Elizabeth at the very centre of it, pulled between her family of birth and her allegiance through marriage. His heart ached for her. Turning his head to press his lips against the soft skin at her temple, he made another vow, determined to pursue it until the day of his death.

  ‘I swear before God that I will discover the murderer, Elizabeth. And bring him to justice at your feet. Then you will give me your trust.’

  And God give them strength and wisdom to weather the vicious arrows that Sir John de Lacy would loose before he shook the dust of Ledenshall from his feet when the day dawned. Anger and hopeless pain on her behalf welled in him, bitter as the lees of hops in old ale.

  Chapter Seven

  Elizabeth took in the scene as if through the barrier of a veil.

  As if to mock the events of the previous night, the sky grew clear, a cloudless pale blue, sharp and clean with the aftermath of frost. The sun bright with winter clarity, the shining beauty of it in terrible contrast to the stir of emotions—grief and impotent fury—that ripped apart the scene in the courtyard at Ledenshall.

  Most of the de Lacys and Malinders had already left at daybreak, wedding finery packed away, uncomfortable and aware of the nerve-tingling apprehension created by the violence. All to remain in the court yard were Sir John and Lady Ellen, already mounted, without any of the usual polite leave-takings. Nicholas Capel waited with Sir Gilbert de Burcher and their escort at a little distance beside the wagon that would bear Lewis’s body home. And standing near the de Lacy party, yet slightly apart, was David, dressed for travel and holding the bridle of his horse. In the short hours since the bridal feast his face had become drawn, pale.

  ‘Mount up, boy. We can’t wait longer for you.’

  Sir John’s clipped tones drew Elizabeth’s attention. Rigidly composed, restored to her wimple and veil, the cloak falling in straight lines from shoulder to heel, she bore herself with dignity, the forceful presence of her husband on her right. There was no means for her to guess Richard’s emotions. Seeing the iron-hard muscles in neck and jaw, she knew he had them under control, to finish this business as rapidly and painlessly as possible. And within the realms of good manners. But now her uncle’s words struck her with a totally unexpected development.

  ‘David?’ Her eyes flew to her brother, registering for the first time his clothing, his horse. ‘David? Would you leave now?’ She could barely hold the building panic. To lose David as well as Lewis at this moment was beyond what she could bear.

  ‘He comes with me.’ Sir John stared at his nephew, not at Elizabeth, challenging him to refuse his sister’s plea. There had clearly been words already spoken between them on the matter.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, kept her voice low, even when she felt the urge to shriek with the pain centred in her heart. ‘Let him stay. Let David stay.’

  ‘He comes with me.’

  David ignored the harsh command. He thrust the bridle into the hand of a waiting groom and walked instead to Elizabeth’s side, to hug her, clumsy with grief, but knowing instinctively what was necessary. ‘Elizabeth,’ he murmured huskily, ‘I would stay—I would rather stay then go to Talgarth—but he gives me no choice. He holds my lack of years over my head. And my position, now that Lewis…’ He swallowed before he could continue. ‘Now that I am the de Lacy heir.’

  ‘But why?’ Despair rose to lodge in her throat, a hard knot, at being abandoned here to mourn alone with a family who were still strangers to her. Continuing to grasp David’s forearms, she turned to her uncle. ‘Why can he not stay?’

  The dark features, the austere, lined face, contained not one hint of sympathy. Sir John’s lips tightened around the words. ‘David is my heir. I’ll not have him remain here.’

  ‘It would please me, Uncle.’ She would not beg. She must not beg. ‘If only for a little time.’

  ‘Do I have to say it aloud, Niece?’ Sir John used his heels to edge his horse closer to his Malinder hosts, looked down on them, raised his voice. ‘Has your woman with her accursed magic been unable to see into the hearts of those who surround you? Those who would wish our family ill? I should never have proposed this match. The events here this night have confirmed every suspicion that I have ever harboured against the Black Malinders.’

  ‘What need have I of magic?’ Elizabeth met his eyes defiantly, leaping to protect Jane Bringsty as much as the Malinders. ‘You do my lord Malinder an injustice. I have been made welcome here—’

  Sir John cut her off. ‘I have no heir of my own body.’ He ignored the quick intake of breath from Lady Ellen behind him, at the cruel and all too public thrust at her failure to carry a child to term. ‘Lewis is killed. After David, who would inherit all the de Lacy lands in the March? You do not need me to tell you that, girl.’ His eyes snapped, lips tightened. ‘You would, of course. And who would stand to gain most from that in heritance?’ Richard! The realisation struck her a blow beneath her heart.

  ‘Do I need to spell it out further? I will not leave David unprotected in this place.’ Sir John all but spat the words.

  ‘It is as Sir John says.’ In the inter change, Capel had quietly manoeuvred his horse closer. His tone was calming, placatory, for which Elizabeth could not fault him, but she noted that his eyes darted, bright, uncomfortably assessing. ‘It is better in the circumstances if the young lord comes with us.’

  Elizabeth looked from David to her husband of twelve hours. David uneasy, embarrassed at the inter change in which he had un wit tingly become the centre of attention. Richard stony-faced, silent, yet his eyes steady and level on the man who was deliberately destroying his character and his reputation as a man of honour. Was it possible that her husband, in the coldest of blood on the night of their marriage, had wilfully plotted Lewis’s death to strengthen his own claim on the de Lacy estates? All Elizabeth could bring to mind was the oath Richard had sworn to her the previous night. The clear honesty, the utter integrity that she had read in his eyes as he had knelt before her. She would give anything not to believe in his guilt, but the weight of uncertainty was there between them, as surely as the body of Lewis. His blood would stain their newly fledged relationship until the truth was revealed. Beside her she felt Richard stiffen, anger vibrate from him, but his command was impeccable. Had he expected this? It seemed he had. His voice was coated with ice.

  ‘David is in no danger here and never will be. Lewis did not meet his death at my hands or at my wish. I have no claim on the de Lacy estates.’

  Sir John lifted his hand to thrust aside Richard’s words and, without another word, jerked his reins, pulling his horse back and away, signalling for the driver of the wagon to start, the escort to fall in behind. The leave-taking with all its poison and malice was over. Lady Ellen strained to look back for a final moment, to send some unspoken message to Elizabeth, eyes stark with remorse.

  ‘David!’ Sir John snarled.

  But he would not be hurried. He reached up to kiss Elizabeth’s cheek. ‘This is not of my choice.’ He grasped her hands and she held on tight. ‘I can’t believe Sir John. And neither should you. It will make mischief—and you must not allow it.’

&nbs
p; ‘Your words touch my heart.’ Thinking of him only as a young boy, his quick assessment amazed her. Perhaps he had grown up since Lewis’s death. He kissed her fingers in formal salutation, then turned to Richard as he gathered up his reins and prepared to mount. ‘I enjoyed riding with you, Richard.’

  As they clasped hands in formal farewell, Richard forced his mouth to relax in a genuine smile. ‘You’ll always be welcome here, for your own sake as well as that of your sister.’

  ‘I know. I will come if I can. When I can. It may be difficult… Take care of her.’

  ‘It is my intention.’

  He swung into the saddle. ‘I know you did not kill Lewis.’

  Elizabeth gripped her brother’s hand once more until the horse’s movement forced her away. Then, because the de Lacy party with its escort had already made its way to the main gate, she was given no choice but to allow him to go.

  Elizabeth climbed to the battlements alone, to watch the sad little procession. All her family leaving, the silver on blue of the de Lacy heraldic emblems glittering in the sun’s rays through the trees. So much bad blood, so many irreconcilable differences. She saw David look back once and then they were swallowed up in the trees on the edge of the village, until the silver lion could no longer be detected, leaving her to worry over the demands on her stretched loyalties. How could she fix her opinions with no chart to guide her in a new relationship, no links of tradition with her new family? But of one thing she would try to hold to. Her heart and her instincts hammered it home when her mind threatened to give weight to her uncle’s spite and malice. She spoke the words silently in her mind, praying that she could truly believe. Richard Malinder was not responsible for Lewis’s murder. Nor had David thought so.

  She turned to descend to her new life, fighting the despair and distrust. Wondering just what she would say to Richard Malinder when she reached the court yard where he was doubtless waiting for her.

  To Elizabeth’s sharp annoyance, Richard hardly took the time to note her approach. He was already deep in conversation with Robert Malinder.

  ‘What would you do now, Rob, if you were Sir John?’

  ‘Encourage someone to put poison in your ale. Or use a length of cold steel against you on a dark night.’ Robert flushed brightly as he saw, belatedly, the appalling similarity with recent events, and registered Elizabeth’s presence at Richard’s elbow. ‘Forgive me, lady. That was thoughtless and cruel.’

  She shook her head. It was all she could manage.

  ‘Sensitivity was never Rob’s strong point.’ Richard surprised her by taking her hand to pull it through his arm and hold it there, his fingers warm and linked with her cold ones. A casual gesture of owner ship, of unity, she thought. It comforted her a little, allowed the tight bands of distress and un certainty around her heart to loosen. ‘Other than plotting my demise in revenge for his nephew’s life,’ Richard continued, fingers even firmer on hers when she might have pulled away, ‘how do you now see his activities in the March?’

  ‘Well!’ Robert rubbed a hand over his face as they strolled a little way into a patch of sunlight, allowing Richard to manoeuvre Elizabeth into perching on the steps leading to the battlement walk. He still kept possession of her hand. ‘I would go out of my way to cause you as much trouble as possible. Attack one of your castles, perhaps.’ His russet brows twitched into a heavy line.

  ‘Exactly. So I need to put out an immediate show of force.’ Richard’s angled glance down to his bride was not unsympathetic. ‘No one would expect me to be about in the March so soon after my marriage. It would be best to make a show with an iron fist before Sir John can return to Talgarth and get himself organised to take to the field.’

  Robert nodded, seeing the plan of action. ‘Do you want company?’

  ‘If you will come.’ Elizabeth felt Richard’s fingers clench around hers like a vice as the promise of action began to pump through his blood stream. ‘Two hours. I’ll leave Simon Beggard and a garrison of men here. Can you be ready, Rob?’

  ‘Of course.’ Robert was already on the move.

  So was Richard. Releasing Elizabeth’s hand with no more than a preoccupied smile, he abandoned her on the steps and strode off in the direction of the soldiers’ quarters, leaving Elizabeth to follow him with irritation in her eyes. If she had believed that her status as a new Malinder bride should have some claim on her husband’s time and attention, she had been entirely wrong. She might as well have been a stone in the parapet in the previous discussion. Except for the lingering strength and warmth of his hand around hers, of course.

  Two hours later, Richard saw her standing on the steps to the Great Hall, cloak wrapped closely, veil fluttering in the sharp wind. Guilt scratched at his skin, a new and uncomfortable experience, but he had to admit also to an element of uneasy relief at their parting. There would be no opportunity to pick at the painful wound of Lewis’s death for some time—until the dust had settled for both of them. Then he would discover what her thoughts were. Yet to leave her now seemed impossibly insensitive, with not one comforting word to remain in her mind other than his empty denials of Sir John’s impassioned accusations. But it could not be helped. To have the de Lacys under mining his authority in the March, at tacking his property, could not be allowed. Given any encouragement, the whole damned area would rise in rebellion. And with the Welsh propensity to become involved in any conflict…

  Yet guilt still swam queasily in his belly and the urge to stay was strong. There she stood, tall and straight, the pride and dignity of her breeding wrapping around her as did the folds of the glorious cloak. He had no doubt that she would hold his authority at Ledenshall in his absence. In spite of all the events of the past twenty-four hours—or perhaps because of them—he trusted her to keep faith. But to abandon her at this moment would not be good strategy. Pale and strained from lack of sleep, there were prints of grief beneath her eyes and in the tight corners of her lips. Richard stifled a groan as his thoughts ran round in circles from which there was no escape.

  ‘Elizabeth.’ He trod the steps to her, his eyes on hers, willing her to under stand and accept. ‘This would not have been my plan.’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose it would.’

  ‘A quick sortie through the March. I’ll return as soon as circumstances allow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are chatelaine in my absence and carry the final authority. Don’t open the gates to anyone but myself, on my return. I would even say not even for your uncle in my absence, but I think he will not come here after last night’s events.’ He took her hands. ‘Unless it is to take you back to Talgarth, out of my influence if he believes me complicit in Lewis’s death.’ The statement implied a question—she saw it immediately and was quick to answer.

  ‘Sir John will not come. And I would not go with him. Is that what you wish to hear?’

  ‘Yes. Yes—I needed to know.’ And Richard realised what had troubled him during the hours of preparation.

  ‘I am your wife and my duty is here.’ There was no joy in her avowal, but he must accept that. With time, perhaps it could be put right.

  A gleam of sunlight speared through a break in the clouds, to high light the gold and enamel of the brooch on her shoulder. It pleased him that she had chosen to wear it. The fierce little animals gleamed with fire and light. Unable to resist, he touched it with gentle fingers.

  ‘It shines as brightly as your spirit, lady. I can only be thankful to have a bride of such strength and purpose.’ Richard bowed his head and kissed her hand. Then, in spite of the waiting retinue, he pressed his mouth to hers. A firm, hard kiss. Leaving her with the taste of him, the touch of him. He saw the blood surge to her cheeks and her eyes darken.

  ‘Farewell. Have courage, Penthesilea!’

  Without another word he gathered up his reins and swung into the saddle, motioning Robert and the soldiers to precede him through the gate. Except that she left her en trenched position and ran down the steps at the
last.

  ‘Richard.’ He stopped, looked back. When she had reached his side, she raised her hand to touch his where they grasped the reins. ‘God keep you.’

  ‘Pray that He does, lady.’

  Later that night, before she took herself to her empty bed, Elizabeth sat alone in her chamber. She had dismissed Jane Bringsty, but kept the cat by her, a decision that had Mistress Bringsty narrowing a glance, but offering no comment. Now Elizabeth sat and thought as the silence of the room settled around her, the shadows closed in. One brother murdered, the other ordered away. Her uncle prepared to make public accusations of greed and death—vowing revenge for blood spilt. She knew well the dangers, the looming presence of death from a careless moment, a stray arrow. A deliberate attack.

  Her heart was sore. She found herself rubbing the heel of her hand along her breast-bone as if the rhythmic pressure could ease the pain. How could she possibly be expected to sit and read, set stitches or play chess when her loyalties and emotions were being so torn apart? She knew what she should do, but it must be done quietly, secretly.

  ‘Why should I not make an amulet?’ she asked of the somnolent cat. ‘It will harm no one. And if it keeps Richard safe…’

  The cat leapt on to the bed with her ears pricked, her tail twitching as if aware of her mistress’s dilemma. Elizabeth took it for approval, lit a candle and sat before it. On the table to hand was the result of a timely sweep through the herb garden in all its winter devastation. ‘Mullein, for courage—not that he needs it. I think Richard does not lack for personal courage. Comfrey for safety on a journey. Vervain and woodruff.’ She picked them up, ran her fingers over their aromatic leaves. ‘For victory and to escape from the plotting of one’s enemies.’