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

his cheek against her hair, not a difficult fore telling to interpret, in the circumstances. It would not be an easy task to woo and win the lady—if that is what he truly wanted. He had looked for no more than an understanding, an affection at best in this union, and yet… The thought caught him unawares but did not displease.
    It might be an exhilarating experience, perhaps for both of them.

    ‘My lord! My lord Malinder!’
    At some time in the dark hours between midnight and the late winter dawn there was an urgent but discreet knocking on the bedchamber door, and a ferocious whisper, enough to rouse the occupants, but not the whole house hold. Richard came awake, aware at first of nothing but the warmth of Elizabeth turned into him, cradled in his arms.
    ‘My lord! You must come!’ As the hammering and the summons grew more demanding, he sat up with a groan, lit a candle and swung his legs out of bed.
    ‘What is it?’ Elizabeth, awake but sleepy.
    ‘I don’t know. Some emergency that cannot wait.’ He yawned, shivered from the cold and scrubbed his hands over his face. ‘Probably one of the guests fallen into the well after a skinful of ale.’ Resigned, he began to pull on hose and tunic. ‘Go back to sleep, Elizabeth. I’ll not be long.’ He stayed to press a kiss to her hair and tuck the coverlet round her shoulders, grabbed his sword and a cloak against the night’s cold. The door closed and all was silent.
    Elizabeth rolled over into the heat of his body’s imprint and went back to sleep.

    In the courtyard, in a shadowed corner between the keep and the chapel, Richard crouched beside a body, face down where the shadow was darkest. Master Kilpin, Simon Beggard, Richard’s Commander of the garrison of Ledenshall, and one of the guards stood uneasily beside him. Simon held up a shuttered lantern, conversation was in muted tones. Better not to alert everyone yet.
    ‘Who found him?’
    ‘I did, my lord,’ the guard replied. ‘It’s my watch. There’s rats here—so I came down to see…and when I saw, I roused Commander Beggard.’
    Richard touched the body, already cold. There was no question but that he was dead. The lantern, flickering in the fitful wind, was sufficient to show the spread of the dark stain between the shoulder blades. One of the guests, velvet and damask, now bloody and soiled. Wedding clothes.
    ‘Hold the lantern up. Now, Master Kilpin, help me turn him over.’
    They moved the body so that the light might fall on his face. Richard hissed out a breath at the confirmation of his worst fears. He had known the dark hair, the slight build, the damask finery, as soon as he had seen it.
    ‘Bad, my lord,’ Simon Beggard stated.
    ‘Couldn’t be worse.’ Richard rose to his feet, his face un read able. Recognising the remains of the man at their feet, the little audience knew why.
    ‘What do we do, my lord?’
    ‘What, indeed!’ Richard continued to stare with mounting dismay. He would do what needed to be done and worry about repercussions later. ‘Let’s move him into the chapel. It’s nearest and suitable for the purpose, I suppose. God’s presence in the face of violent and useless death.’ His terse instructions could not hide the anger that flooded his body at this worthless—and possibly disastrous—spilling of blood.
    Between them they carried the body in and laid it on the wooden bench along the back wall. Richard took off his cloak and spread it over the still figure. The lantern shone down on a face empty in death, eyes wide perhaps with surprise, lips lax, skin grey with a waxen tinge. A sudden draught fluttered the edge of the material and the ends of the dark hair.
    ‘Robbery, my lord?’ Simon Beggard whispered, but his voice echoed unnervingly in the roof space that arched into blackness over their heads.
    ‘It’s possible. His jewels are gone.’ Richard remembered them. His fingers had been stripped of costly rings. Perhaps a chain. And his sword was