Chosen for the Marriage Bed. Anne O'Brien
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The reply came with a spark of temper, with heat from the heart. ‘And what hope is there for happiness for me, or even tolerance in such a marriage, where we shall be enemies before the rings are exchanged?’
‘There is always hope.’ The Prioress was stern, yet Elizabeth felt an understanding there. ‘Before you leave us, I would say this to you. And mind me well, Elizabeth de Lacy. If you are ever in need of help, you will know where to find a safe refuge. At present the March is quiescent. I think it will not always remain so. If the war erupts again between York and Lancaster, you will be caught up in the maelstrom, as will we all. If danger threatens, you and yours will always be welcome here. Come. Soon the bell will ring for tierce. We shall include an Ave Maria for your safe delivery to Ledenshall.’
Some few days later, sounds of arrival at Ledenshall, of the clatter of hooves on cobbles in the courtyard below, caused Richard Malinder to abandon a sheaf of documents to stride across the room, deflecting the hound from his path with a passing caress of its ears, to lean from the window. What he saw below—who he saw—made his face break into a smile of delight that warmed his eyes, a lightening of expression not often seen of late on the face of the Lord of Ledenshall. He took the stairs at a ground-covering lope to welcome the Red Malinders below as the man at the head of the cavalcade dismounted and began to help the lady from her mount with words of impatient encouragement. Their escort was engaged in leading away horses, unloading baggage from pack animals and a small wagon.
‘Rob! Have you perhaps come to stay with us?’ Richard looked askance at the small mountain of boxes and packages which was now growing steadily on the cobbles beside him.
‘Come for the wedding, of course.’ Robert Malinder, clearly a Red Malinder, grinned over his shoulder, then turned back to growl a suggestion that the lady remove her foot from the stirrup this side of nightfall if she expected his help.
‘News travels fast.’ Richard’s brows rose. ‘It seems that you must have known of the happy event before I did!’
Then the cousins came together, gripped right hands in recognition of family and friendship and political allegiance. Robert Malinder. Tall, broad of shoulder. Russet haired and green-eyed. Fair of skin, now pink and glowing, nose more than a little red from the brisk cold. Nothing like the Malinders at Ledenshall except in height and frame, but unmistakably one of the Red Malinders of Moccas.
‘It’s always as well for us to know what the de Lacys are planning,’ Robert explained unnecessarily. ‘We have our sources.’ He hesitated but, typically, only for a moment before making his abrupt acknowledgement. ‘We were sorry to hear of Maude’s death.’
Before he could make a suitable and equally typical non-committal reply to the blunt commiseration, Richard discovered his attention to be quite deliberately sought and captured.
‘Well, dearest Richard. Will you not welcome me? When I have travelled all this way just to see you?’
He felt a gentle touch of a hand on his arm, a tug on his sleeve. He turned with a smile of welcome, looked down. For a moment his breath backed up in his lungs. The muscles of his gut clenched, the smile of welcome faded, leaving the flat planes of his face taut. Gwladys! was all that he could think, when he could think at all. His wife’s image filled his mind, before common sense and brutal reality took control. Of course not. Gwladys was dead. He blinked at the face at his shoulder, feeling foolish, hoping that the girl had been unable to sense his initial reaction to her. But the resemblance was there, stronger than was comfortable. Red-gold hair, neatly braided, mostly hidden by her travelling hood. The same heavy-lidded green eyes, dark as emeralds, framed by long lashes. Well-marked brows, a straight nose and flawless skin. Cream and rose, in comparison with Robert’s ruddy cheeks. Anne Malinder was a beauty. But of course, Gwladys and Anne Malinder had been cousins, both carrying the family traits strongly.
‘Anne. I have not seen you since…’ Since he had wed Gwladys, when his eyes had been only for his beautiful wife and he had seen Anne still as a little maid. No longer so. ‘Since before you grew up!’ Richard, disgusted by his lack of a suitable greeting, surveyed Robert’s sister, whose head now reached quite neatly to his shoulder.
‘I have grown up. I am now old enough to be wed.’ The heavy lashes veiled the brilliant eyes, the perfect lips curved ingenuously. ‘I persuaded my brother to bring me. I thought your new bride might like some company. Of her own age. Although I think she is a good few years older than I.’
‘That was kind of you.’
‘Of course. We must make her welcome, even if she is a Yorkist and older than most new brides.’ Anne tilted her chin with an appealing flash of green eyes.
Richard’s glance sharpened, but the girl’s face shone with innocuous pleasure. Her hand still on his sleeve tightened its hold with quick pressure from pretty white fingers. Even her hands were Gwladys’s—small and slender, made for jewelled rings. Richard bent his head and kissed Anne’s cheeks in a cousinly salute.
‘Welcome to Ledenshall, Anne.’
‘I had to bring her.’ Robert’s grimace was rueful. Horses and men-at-arms had all finally vanished in the direction of warmth and comfort, the baggage disappearing into the living accommodation with smooth-running efficiency. The cousins, after admiring the quality of the Malinder horseflesh, followed into the Great Hall.
‘No matter.’ Lord Richard signalled to a hovering maidservant to replenish the ale and bring bread and meat.
‘My sister threatened to come on her own if I did not escort her, and pestered our mother until she agreed. Anne can be a nuisance when she’s bored or denied.’ Robert stripped off gloves and cloak, cast them on a bench, and began to unbuckle his sword. He cursed fluently at his clumsy and icy fingers where painful feeling was beginning to return. ‘She lacks female company of her own age, I suppose. And with the promise of a wedding on the horizon—well, I had to bring her.’ He stamped his feet and winced. ‘Poor weather for travelling!’
‘She’ll have enough company and more over the forthcoming days.’ Having recovered from the initial shock on seeing the girl, Richard had thrust his discomfort to the back of his mind. He poured ale into a tankard and handed it to Robert, who took it and drank deep with appreciation. Steam began to rise from his damp clothes and boots.
‘That’s better.’ He groaned and ran a hand over his wind-scoured face.
The serving maid bustled in with platters of food and added logs to the fire with an arch look at the newcomer. The hound sank once more with a sigh to its place by the hearth, now that the excitement of arrival was over.
‘A quiet journey?’
‘Very.’ Robert wiped the back of a large hand over his mouth. ‘The Welsh seem to be lying low, for once. And the weather, of course. No one’s stirring.’
‘Come and take the weight off your feet.’
Robert grunted his appreciation, was silent for a moment as he drank, still hugging the fire. Then, having thawed out to his satisfaction, he threw himself into a chair with graceless ease and propped his feet on the opposite settle. ‘Tell me all. You’re to align yourself with the de Lacys, in spite of Maude’s death.’
‘Yes. Sir John’s niece.’
Richard stared into his ale. The name of Elizabeth de Lacy had been swiftly substituted for that of Maude in the betrothal contracts. In the interests of peace in the March, the proposed Malinder–de Lacy marriage would stand if he, Richard Malinder, would agree. Richard exhaled slowly. It was very difficult to like Sir John, a man driven by self-seeking ambition. As for Master Capel, his obsidian eyes had gleamed with conspiratorial interest throughout the proceedings. The man might have remained silent, carefully deferential, but there was about him something that touched Richard’s spine with a slither of distaste.
‘I suppose you know what you are about.’ The lift in Robert’s voice made just a question of the statement.
‘Yes, I do.’ Richard’s brows rose, but he kept the