Free Chosen for the Marriage Bed by Anne O'Brien Page B

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 en counter, 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 sat is faction. 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 some thing 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.’
    ‘I give it freely.’
    In her new finery Elizabeth felt strong and confident. Even the weak sun had decided to bless her and to gild her appearance. Its fragile heat comforted her, encouraging her tense muscles to relax. Soon she would be Elizabeth de Lacy no more. She kept her head raised, her chin lifted, secure in her rank and position as Lady of Ledenshall. Why should she not be happy?
    She had been quite wrong after all. Richard Malinder had no intention of wedding her in campaigning garments and the dust of four days or more of hard travel. Her heart stuttered, just once, before resuming its steady beat. At her side he looked magnificent. His dark hair had gleamed as he inclined his head to welcome her. Clad in deep green-and-black brocade, patterned in fluid swirls, his