Chosen for the Marriage Bed

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

‘That’s no suitable leave-taking of a bridegroom 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 cheekbones, 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 courtyard.

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 hoofbeats, of raised voices in the courtyard, of warnings from the guards on the gatehouse 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 she 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, guaranteed 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 witchcraft, 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 bridegroom 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 available space housing some degree of relative or family dependant. He also discovered a bride waiting for him in the courtyard, 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 reactions, 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 retreating 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 understanding 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 household, 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 understand 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 bridegroom. 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 courtyard, wallowing in the lost sadness in a pair of deep blue eyes, was finding it difficult not to regret his intemperate 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.’

And before he could ask more, the woman had bustled away. But of course he did not need to ask. He had not needed her warning. Or perhaps he had, because in the deluge of demands on his time he had not thought of the repercussion for Elizabeth of the traditional, very public disrobing of bride and groom, had accepted that it was part of the drink-fuelled celebration as much as the vows and the priest’s pious words. The memory of silvery weals of the lash on her shoulders jolted him back to what he must do. Whatever the residual annoyance from their recent encounter, he could not inflict an array of prurient and inquisitive eyes on her.

He was sorry to have spoken to Elizabeth as he had. There were depths—uncomfortable ones—to his bride that he had not even come close to discovering.

The door to Nicholas Capel’s circular chamber at Talgarth was shut and bolted. There must be no prying eyes to this ceremony. The marriage was imminent; now was the time to take action. All it took was the wax from two stalwart candles, judiciously softened, to fashion two figures. He smoothed, formed, crimped and carved, until two figures lay on the table, male and female. Crudely manipulated yet easily recognisable, naked and sexually explicit.

So the marriage was assured, but it would do no harm to give fate a twist. Capel smote his hands together in a sharp gesture of authority.

‘Let us draw the pair together, with or without their will. Let us ensure the power of Malinder’s loins to get an heir on the woman.’

Capel poured water from an ewer into a silver bowl marked with Christian symbols. He murmured Latin words over the water, consecrating it, and then sprinkled the holy liquid to name the two figures.

‘I name thee both: Richard Malinder. Elizabeth de Lacy.’

From a fold of parchment he shook the contents. Two dark hairs from the head of Richard Malinder. Two longer, equally dark, Elizabeth’s hair from before her departure to Llanwardine. Then, winding the hair around their crude necks, Capel placed the figures face to face, breast to breast, thigh to thigh, and with strong wire he bound them close until they were tight knit.

‘May your union be effective and fruitful,’ Capel murmured with a vicious satisfaction. And smiled gloatingly.

How trusting John de Lacy was in his innocence, believing that the authority was fast in his own fist. How willing he was to follow advice when power was dangled before him, a juicy plum to fall from the tree into his waiting hand.

Except, Capel rubbed his hands together, de Lacy would not be the one to catch the falling fruit.

Richard offered his hand to his bride. Elizabeth placed hers there, lightly. He gave a little nod, either of acceptance or encouragement, his fingers closing warm and firm before they turned together for him to lead her up the final steps to the waiting priest. And there was something that needed to be said.

‘Forgive me my harsh words of yesterday.’

‘I do.’ Her gaze was solemn. ‘I ask pardon for my lack of grace.’

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