by Anne O'Brien
So what was it? She did not know. All she knew was that she loved him. His hard-muscled body combined with his gentle touch. Or the fast race of hands and mouth that set her aflame. He did not love her, of course. Elizabeth’s fists tightened further around the bruised stems. But she missed the man who had talked to her. Laughed with her. Awoken her body to a pleasure she could never have guessed at.
‘Damn the man!’ Elizabeth muttered. She missed the close intimacy that she had begun to take for granted. And her heart ached that Richard should be unhappy whilst she was unable to do anything to help him. How could she when he would not talk to her? Elizabeth ached for her failure to break through the shell of his introspection. Gwladys, lady of all virtues and all talents, would have soothed him with soft words and elegant kisses!
Even now Richard was away from home. He had taken to riding round the Malinder lands, not bothering to tell her where he was going or why. She missed him. She was lonely without him. And desperately restless, for some reason she could not fathom.
Which drove her to make a decision. She would go to Bishop’s Pyon. How could Richard object to that? For some reason—again that restlessness—she had a need to return to the place where she had spent her childhood years.
‘I shall go to Bishop’s Pyon,’ she informed Mistress Bringsty. ‘And don’t tell me that Richard would not approve. Richard is not here to approve or disapprove. I shall go.’ And Elizabeth felt a guilty pleasure in her disobedience.
As Ledenshall finally came into view, Richard found it difficult to found it difficult to extricate himself from the dark cloud that seemed to have en gulfed him for days. If only it were simply the imprisonment and mental state of the King. True, Henry was past knowing his own name, and his son had yet to reach ten years. There seemed to be nothing to bar the path between the Duke of York and the throne. Could he ever give his allegiance to the Duke of York as King of England? Never! Not this side of the grave or beyond! But for now that was not his main concern. The repercussions of the conflict in the March were far more immediate, where law and order had disintegrated alarmingly. Where, in his own lands, safety and security could no longer be guar an teed.
His gut clenched and he was forced to bite down on the nausea that rose, bitter as bile, as he recalled the scene he and his men had just left. That he had been unable to prevent. The tumbled bodies of a party of innocent travellers, cast into the ditch beside the road. The blood and tangled limbs, women and children as well as their menfolk. Robbed, stripped. Slaughtered. The worthless waste of it all. He had not been there this time when the robbers had struck, so the travellers had paid with their lives. Responsibility pressed heavily on his shoulders.
What if Elizabeth had fallen prey to such vicious de spoilers? Richard quickly thrust the vile thought away.
As for the attack by the Welsh raiders… Was it a chance en counter? Or was it a well-laid ambush where the undergrowth encroached on the narrow track, an ambush inadvertently spoiled by the arrival of a herd of cattle? Had he been the target, and if so, whose gold had paid the raiders?
One name persisted in his mind.
But there was no way of knowing, so what purpose in allowing it to sour his mood? Richard cursed himself for a fool. He should have put it all aside days ago. There was Ledenshall before him, familiar, welcoming, and Richard felt a lightening of his spirit, acknowledging that he had allowed himself to be distracted for too long. Better to put aside his fears for the future, hold firm to his authority in the March, and simply wait for events in London to unfold. His own deep reservations over the future king would not affect the clash between York and Lancaster one jot.
First, before anything, he must talk to Elizabeth. As he should have done weeks ago.
A gaudy pheasant rose to wing from the grass verge, causing his stallion to snort and sidestep. As if the russet colouring of the bird had triggered a memory, Richard’s mind slid to Gwladys. He could think of no two women more different from each other than Elizabeth and Gwladys. One so beautiful as to steal his breath. The other…
But what a disaster his marriage to Gwladys had turned out to be. Racked by inexplicable fears and nerves that had nothing to do with reality, Gwladys had watched him as a rabbit watched a circling buzzard. Feared him, feared all men perhaps. Had certainly feared and rejected intimate relations between a man and his wife. Bedding her had been a nightmare of an experience for both of them. No matter how gentle, how slow and considerate he had been, despite his own youth and in experience, Gwladys could hardly bear to have him touch her hand without shivering in distaste, shutting herself away in her own rooms with need le work and music and her prayers. Her connection with his people at Ledenshall was reduced to a minimum. She was as lovely as the gilded statue of the Virgin in the chapel, and just as lacking in animation with her empty smile and blank eyes. Gwladys remained cold and unresponsive. It had been much like bedding a stone statue, Richard recalled, Gwladys cowering against the pillows, the linen clutched to her throat. It would have been laughable if not so painful a memory.
Now Elizabeth was neither cold nor unresponsive. Elizabeth did not shrink from his touch, even when it was only fingertip to fingertip. What a complex woman she had proved to be. Strong-minded, out spoken to an alarming degree, but so vulnerable, touched by the sadness of her past and the cruel ties of the present. Gwladys had been beautiful, but Elizabeth… Before his mind rose a sharp image of her elegant cheek bones, those magnificent night-dark eyes now offset by silken hair in which he could wind his fingers, the softened outline of jaw and chin. Elizabeth was far from unattractive. The picture made him shiver with desire. Suddenly the need to see her, to touch her, was almost overwhelming.
Without questioning the urge, Richard applied his spurs, at the same time pricked by remorse that in recent weeks he had deliberately pushed her away from him so that he would not be drawn to burden her with the worries that gnawed incessantly at his mind. He had proved neither a good husband nor an attentive lover, even knowing that his with drawal hurt her. The thought of her willingness to accept the demands of his body brought a surprising surge of lust to his loins. It was time he made amends. Elizabeth deserved better than his recent neglect of her. He found himself smiling as he approached the gate house.
The smile was wiped from his face when Richard strode into his home to where Master Kilpin bowed him welcome.
‘My lord. I thought it might have been the lady—but perhaps she’ll stay the night after all. The light is already falling.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Gone to Bishop’s Pyon, my lord.’
‘Bishop’s Pyon!’
‘Master David has gone also, my lord,’ Kilpin replied, suddenly wary at the fierce response. ‘And Commander Beggard took her with a strong escort.’
‘What!’ The reply was as sharp as a viper’s strike. ‘Why in the Devil’s own name should she find a need to go to Bishop’s Pyon?’
‘Well, my lord…’
‘The roads are dangerous. If there are a dozen bands of thieves on the prowl, there are two score. I shall fetch her home.’
Richard rode to Bishop’s Pyon with a terrible fear in his heart.
Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth did not stay over night at Bishop’s Pyon. She did not know why she had wanted to go there in the first place, an inexplicable whim that she could only put down to the fidgety, uneasy mood that drove her, unless it was to relive some of the happier times of childhood when her mother lived. The brief visit gave her no satisfaction, and she was glad to return to Ledenshall. Besides, Richard might be home.
There had been another reason for her desire to be gone from Bishop’s Pyon. To her amazement she had found Nicholas Capel there. He had offered no explanation, other than that he was sent there on an errand by Sir John.
He had been polite and respectful. Elizabeth recalled their cursory meeting with a frown between her brows. He had asked after her health. He surveyed her with some deep interest
, lingering on her face, her cloak-shrouded figure, from her toes to the crown of her head. It had been hard not to squirm under the blatant appraisal. Thrusting out his hands, he had seized hers before she could resist, his fingers enclosed around her wrists, and searched her face as if he would read something there.
‘Master Capel!’ She would have pulled her hands away, but he tightened the hold.
‘The last time that we met, lady, at Talgarth, I was concerned for your health.’ His words were soothing enough. ‘I merely wished to satisfy myself that you are restored to the best of health.’
‘Yes. I am well. Why should I not be?’
‘No reason, lady. My mind is relieved.’ He released her.
There was no threat there and yet… The horoscope lingered in her mind. Her flesh crawled. And then David had joined her, put ting an end to any personal discussion.
‘Your uncle would welcome a visit from you to Talgarth, my lady.’
‘Thank you, Master Capel. I’ll consider it.’
But she would not. She had nothing to say to Sir John. And, yes, she would be glad to be home at Ledenshall. How strange that she would think of it as home. And that she should feel this deep desire to see Richard waiting for her in the court yard, his strong hands ready to lift her down from her mare. His smile, for her alone, enhancing his striking features. What had happened in so short a time? There was no other man who had ever touched her senses as he did. No other man could trip her heart and steal her breath, who could inflame her blood with a single look, a single brush of his fingers. No other man had ever stolen her heart other than this marcher lord who held her happiness and contentment in the palm of his hand, who was intent on creating a distance between them, and was at this time God knew where!
She had never loved any man as she loved Richard Malinder. There! She had finally spoken it in bold words, if only within her own head. Elizabeth felt the familiar heat rise to her cheeks at the thought of him holding her in his arms again, kissing her into a miraculous state of joy. Even now she could taste him, scent him, imagine the splay of his fingers on her naked flesh. Her mind lingered unnervingly on the delight she could find with Black Malinder.
And then, as they approached the brow of the rise before the long slope down into Ledenshall, there he was, drawing rein before them. Mud-splattered and sweat-stained, as was his escort, the Malinder pennons lifting sluggishly in the still air. There he was as if her thoughts had magicked his appearance from the shadows.
His brow was black with anger. The muscles of his jaw rigid.
‘It’s Richard. Come to meet us,’ David said unnecessarily at her side.
Elizabeth felt her heart miss a beat. And her breath catch, just as she knew it would. The flush deepened in her cold cheeks as she braced herself for the approaching confrontation.
But Richard simply fell in beside them, so at least the clash of wills was postponed. Beyond a curt acknowledgement, he was clearly in no mood to discuss whatever ill humour rode him and Elizabeth, angling her chin, made no attempt to engage him in conversation. What would be the point? She left it to David.
By the time she reached her chamber, Elizabeth was less sanguine. A half-hour of horse flesh appreciation between her brother and husband had peeled away any tolerance. She stripped off her cloak, her gloves and flung them on the bed. To be all but ignored on the journey home, by both of them. Beneath the chill he had been furious. Beneath the calm discussion with David, anger had bubbled. She had seen it in the tight grip of his fist on the rein, in the cold fire in his eyes. Well, she wouldn’t have it. She might have admitted to loving him to distraction, but if she was to have a frank exchange of views with Richard, she was in no mood to be compliant. She was tired and ruffled and in no good temper. First Capel studying her as if she were some strange creature from his magic charts, then Richard riding beside her with a brow as black as thunder, no doubt furious at her decision to travel to Bishop’s Pyon. She would have some thing to say about that when he deigned to present himself.
The door to her chamber opened to admit her serving woman’s sturdy figure, carrying a jug and ewer.
‘Jane. I’m frozen half to death and weary to the bone.’ She tried to push her edgy mood away as Jane poured the hot water. Sat silently as Jane began to prepare a cup of mulled wine, added logs to the fire that had been allowed to burn low. Came to help Elizabeth remove her gown, stockings, rub some warmth into her cold feet and hands. Produced soft slippers and a houppelande that enveloped her in its soft folds from chin to floor, loosely secured with a plaited girdle. Took away her light veil and brushed out her hair, grunting as the silken black length of it at last reached to her shoulders. When the wine was hot and the pungent scent of the spices filled the room, Jane ladled it into a cup.
‘Lord Richard, I take it, is not pleased.’
‘No. I know not the reason. Our exchange of words so far has been brief.’ Elizabeth sipped. ‘Whether it be my visiting Bishop’s Pyon… But, no, he is not pleased.’
‘Hmm.’ Jane stood before her, fists on ample hips, beady gaze intent.
Unaware, Elizabeth continued, focusing on the swirl of cinnamon in the wine. ‘He won’t talk to me. He shuts me out as if I were a servant. Or one of his hounds that gets under his feet. How can I help him if I do not know what the problem is?’ It suddenly felt good to release the issues that had been layering silently inside her. ‘If he would only tell me…’
On a thought and with narrowed gaze, Jane lifted a candle stick to move it closer. Then stood with it in her hand, her eyes fixed on her mistress’s face.
Elizabeth caught the look. ‘Now what is it?’
‘Let me look at you, lady.’ Mistress Bringsty held the candle stick higher to cast light more evenly over Elizabeth’s face. The clearly marked brows, the dark eyes a little strained, the oval face, now more comely and rounded, but still with sharply elegant cheek bones. Then she put the candle down and took Elizabeth’s hand. Looked long and care fully at the palm, running her fingers over the soft skin, tracing any pattern that she could detect in the lines. ‘Well, now…’
‘Well, now, what?’ Unusually petulant, Elizabeth pulled her hand away. That was the second time this day someone had peered at her as if she were a strange insect in a cup of ale. ‘I swear, Jane, I’m in no mood for riddles either.’
‘No riddles, my lady.’ Mistress Bringsty’s face creased in a rare smile. ‘It’s clear enough to those who can read such things. I wager you’ve fallen.’
‘What?’
‘Perhaps it was a good season for walnuts after all.’
‘No! It cannot be. I didn’t know…’
‘Since when do you need to know to fall for a child? I can see it in your face. As clear as noonday at Midsummer.’
‘No!’
‘No point in arguing, mistress. It’s done. Early days yet, though.’
‘Yes. Early days.’ Elizabeth’s mind tried to pin down the emotions. Stunned, yes. Shocked. And de lighted.
‘His lordship might not have been doing much talking, but he appears to have been proficient in other matters.’
Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her lips. Was this the cause of her restlessness? And what would Richard say? Her eyes lifted to her servant were rapier-keen. ‘Jane! If it is so… You are to talk to no one about it.’
‘Not my place to gossip, my lady.’
Elizabeth angled a glance ‘When I want anyone to know—’ when I want him to know ‘—I’ll be the one to say.’
When Jane left, Elizabeth remained in the chair by the fire. The cat sprang to her lap as if sensing her need for comfort, purring at the soft cloth beneath its paws. Was this not what she wanted? Perhaps. A little warmth grew below her heart to spread and enfold. It was what Richard would want. A Malinder heir. But she would not tell him. Not yet, until it was a reality in her own mind. Until she knew what was in his heart. She spread her fingers over her flat belly and hugged the thought to herself with not a little joy
.
But first she and her husband must come to terms.
When Richard entered her room without knocking, he found himself the victim of a direct attack, swift as a sparrow-hawk. Elizabeth rose to her feet, tipping the cat from her lap without compunction, and advanced. Her head was raised, her shoulders braced and spine straight, her arms stiffly at her side. Ready to do battle.
His intentions were not quite clear even to himself as he flung back the door, but the blaze of fear caused by her thoughtless journey, not to mention her damnably stiff-necked refusal to appear in the slightest contrite, goaded him into taking her to task. If he remembered his earlier decision to talk to her, open his heart to her, even accept some comfort from her, it was swatted away as a troublesome horsefly. So he had stayed only to remove his cloak and his sword before taking the stairs with hot urgency, his thoughts tumbling one over the other in justification of his anger. She would not take herself off around the county on a whim. She would not put her life in danger so that all other thoughts were instantly driven from his mind, his heart frozen, a solid lump in his chest. She was his wife, his woman, and he loved her. He had a need to protect her. He could not imagine his existence without her. She had no right to put herself in danger. He loved her, obdurate as she was. When he had seen her ride towards him, all he had wanted to do was sweep her up and carry her home. Until she had raised her chin in sheer defiance.