Anne O'Brien - Chosen for the Marriage Bed

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 satisfaction. 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 something 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.’

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