Chosen for the Marriage Bed

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 friendship 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 household. 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 outspoken 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 highlight 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 outspoken,’ 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 comfortable homecoming 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 loathsome 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 insistent 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 decorated 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 staircase 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 storerooms, 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.

Richard Malinder, another early riser, watched her investigate. He saw the flutter of movement, saw her emerge from the Great Hall in a well-worn cloak which swirled some ten inches from the ground as the tall figure strode across the inner courtyard. Noted the energy, the light, confident step as the lady explored his home. Her curiosity, her quick agility as she ran up the staircase, striding around to inspect the view on all four sides. And she talked to people as she passed. The guards on duty. His steward, Master Kilpin, answered some query with a nod and a wave of his arm. The servant girls from the dairy. Anyone who crossed her path. It was as if the pale, damply reserved creature of the previous day had been reborn, a butterfly, if still a sombre one, so perhaps a moth—his lips twitched—emerging from a dull chrysalis.

He should speak with her. He had agreed to take her in matrimony, had he not? Lord Richard had to resist a sigh after that one vivid memory of her, naked and vulnerable, wary as a wild hare before the hunting dogs. No time for regrets now. He climbed the staircase to meet his betrothed where she leaned on the stone parapet to look to the distant Welsh hills.

Elizabeth turned quickly at the sound of his boots on stone. Solemn, her steady gaze watchful, careful, but unnervingly direct. Waiting, he realised, to gauge his mood.

‘You took no harm from your journey, Lady.’

‘No. I am quite recovered from the drenching. Thank you, my lord.’

She said no more but stood, motionless, cautious, as he advanced. He held out his hand in invitation. Elizabeth promptly placed hers there with no sign of reluctance. Richard’s interest was caught. Perhaps she was not wary at all, simply circumspect, unwilling to give too much of herself away until she had taken his measure. Then she surprised him when she reversed their clasped hands, turning his uppermost to reveal the back of his own wrist. And touched the long red scratch gently with apologetic fingers.

‘I’m sorry for this.’

His brows twitched in sardonic humour. ‘I take it the animal isn’t hidden beneath your cloak this morning.’

‘No.’ The corner of her mouth quirked in the faintest of responses. The deep blue of her eyes, reflecting the rich hue of the cloak, picked up a glint of gold from the weak rays of the sun.

‘Do I call you Beth? Or Bess?’ he asked. ‘What do your family call you?’

‘I am Elizabeth,’ she replied gravely.

‘Then Elizabeth it shall be.’ It told him much of her upbringing, that she had never been named informally with affection. ‘Do you approve?’ he asked.

‘Of what?’

‘Ledenshall.’ He gestured to their surroundings. ‘Your new home.’

‘Of course.’ The slightest hint of colour rose from the fur at her neckline, as if in guilt that she had been found out in some lack of courtesy. ‘You didn’t mind?’ A quick contact of eyes, as if she feared a reprimand.

‘Of course not. It’s your home. You’re free to enjoy it.’ A contradiction here, he realised, between confidence and vulnerability. He thought about what he wanted to say to put her at her ease, which she clearly wasn’t. ‘I’m sorry you should have had to face this ordeal alone. Your uncle should have been here to welcome you.’

The heightened colour deepened. ‘And I am sure we can deal well enough without him, my lord. Sir John is the last person I would expect to be here to make me comfortable.’ She closed her lips firmly.

So the tale of the estrangement between uncle and niece was true. He found Elizabeth was now looking squarely at him, head tilted, whilst Richard awaited the outcome, senses on the alert. It was not often that young women appraised him in so serious a manner, without a smile on their lips or an invitation in their eyes. She was definitely taking his measure. Her words surprised him further.

‘Let us be frank. We both know it, my lord. I am here as a replacement for my cousin Maude because Sir John wishes it,’ she announced gruffly. ‘And because for you the de Lacy connection would have its advantages in the March. There’s no need for pretence between us. You did not want me, I know. But I presume that Sir John was most persuasive with my dowry—my mother’s Vaughan lands, I expect. And, of course, you’ll need a Malinder heir. I shall do all in my power to oblige.’

Well, here was plain speaking. But if her words took him aback, he hid it and answered in kind. ‘That is all true. And I warrant that my offer to take you as Lady of Ledenshall would give you far more satisfaction than the narrow life of a nun in Llanwardine. There are advantages on both sides.’

The colour flared as if she had been struck, and he was sorry for his lack of finesse, but her reply was immediate. ‘That is also true. I regret Maude’s loss to you. She had the promise of such beauty and spirit.’

What could he say to that? His mind scrabbled for an answer, until it was made obvious that she had no expectation of empty flattering remarks.

‘I have studied what I see in my mirror, my lord.’ She turned from him to look out over the battlements. ‘I shall try to be everything a wife should be. You need not fear for my loyalty, if that would be a concern. I would not wish it to be an issue between us.’ Now he was definitely startled that she should pick up so contentious an issue, almost as if she could read his mind. Honesty indeed on such brief acquaintance, even if it proved to be painful. ‘My family is Yorkist—you and I have been brought up as enemies from our cradles, and I shall always consider the claim of the Plantagenet House of York to be superior to that of poor mad King Henry. But I swear that my loyalty in marriage will be to you.’

Richard looked at his bride’s stern face with a complex mix of astonishment and admiration and decided to be just as forthright. ‘My own oath is given to that same King Henry, whatever the state of his wits, because he is the anointed King, whilst the Plantagenets have bloody treachery in mind.’ He smiled a little as she stiffened at his accusation. ‘I see we shall never agree on this divisive issue—but with such honesty between us, we shall do well enough together.’

‘I expect we shall.’ She risked a slanted glance ‘We are both adult and see the value of honesty and loyalty between man and wife. I dislike pretence and disguise.’

‘And I.’ How strong she was beneath her pale fragility, how magnificently controlled in the circumstances. But she was not a comfortable presence. He felt it was a bit like negotiating an alliance with a potential enemy with the flags of war still raised on both sides.

‘And the marriage ceremony?’ Elizabeth asked bluntly.

‘Soon. I see no reason to prolong the arrangements.’ He leaned against the parapet to watch the play of emotion over her face. ‘If that is to your liking, of course—I suppose I should never underestimate the amount of time needed by the females of a household.’

‘I have no objection. I have no experience of such matters.’ Her flat words were accompanied by a little lift of her shoulders as if she did not care.

Although his hackles rose, instinct quickly told Richard Malinder that it was a pretence. It mattered to her, though she would not admit it. He did not think she would admit anything to him—yet. He took possession of her hands again, turning them over, smoothing them with fingers callused from sword and reins. Hers were no better than his, he mused, no softer, and impossibly red and rough with swollen knuckles and chapped skin, nails chipped and broken. Not the hands of a lady of birth. His lips tightened as he came to understand her life at Llanwardine.

‘You will not have to scrub floors here, lady.’

‘Thank God.’ She looked at her hands with a little frown of distaste. ‘This was from digging for roots in frozen ground. And breaking the ice on the water to wash the bowls after meals.’

‘Chilblains?’ he enquired in some sympathy. He enfolded her fingers gently within his.