The Maiden Bride (3 page)

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Authors: Rexanne Becnel

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Medieval

BOOK: The Maiden Bride
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“No! No,” Linnea countered, holding onto her sister’s arm. “You shouldn’t go out into the bailey alone, not with all those men.”
“Norma will be with me.” Beatrix looked over at their nurse who had lowered herself to a bench and was still breathing hard.
“No, Norma will go with me,” Linnea stated.
“But you heard what grandmother said.
You’re
to stay here.
I’m
to go to Maynard.”
But Linnea was determined. As terrified as she was of what she would find outside—both the bloodthirsty invaders as well as her brother’s physical condition—she was even more terrified of the thought of Beatrix having to deal with them. “Maynard will be bleeding,” she said, speaking quickly before she lost her nerve. “You know I’m much less squeamish than you. ‘Tis better if I go.”
Besides, this is my only chance to show grandmother that it’s not my fault. If I can save Maynard …
“But what if he dies?” Beatrix asked in a trembling whisper, somehow knowing Linnea’s thoughts.
Linnea didn’t want to think about that. “Come with me, Norma. We must hurry. Quick, Bea. Change gowns with me, then lock yourself inside here and do not open that door save for one of your family.”
Beatrix hesitated a moment, and Linnea knew why. They’d not switched identities in many a year—not since their mother had died and their grandmother had forbidden the childish prank. The one time since then that they’d done it, they’d been severely punished—or at least Linnea had been. But finally Beatrix nodded, afraid, but willing as ever to go along with one of Linnea’s outrageous plans.
It had always been thus. Linnea reckless and daring; Beatrix cautious and trusting. Linnea didn’t truly mind the punishments she earned when they were for some disobedience on her part—and she didn’t mind when Beatrix never suffered such punishments, for she knew Beatrix only came along because Linnea coerced her. No, it was only the unfair punishments she resented: being ostracized from her own family; not being loved as much; never having any of the fineries Beatrix was given.
Linnea peeled off her own plain kirtle of faded plunkett cloth. It boasted neither braid nor embroidered trim. The gown she received from Beatrix, however, was bias cut from a fine weave of double twill kersey in a rich forest green. Gold braid circled the neck hole and ran partway down the front of the bodice. A narrow leather girdle worked in a continuing design of Celtic knots and mythical beasts went around her waist. She slipped the beautiful garment over her coarse chemise, for a moment forgetting the circumstances that forced them to chance this exchange of identities. She could almost believe she was the first daughter when she wore such a lovely gown—and it was far from the finest of Beatrix’s gowns. But Beatrix’s meanest gown was better than Linnea’s best.
Linnea smoothed her hands down the skirt, then looped the girdle around her waist. Only when she pulled her thick plait out of the neck hole and looked over at Beatrix did reality once more intrude.
Was that how she looked in her plain garments? No, it could not be and for a moment she feared her ruse would fail. For even in such drab work clothes, Beatrix was still beautiful. Everyone would see through their deception.
“Lord, ha’ mercy,” Norma muttered just then, staring from one to the other of her charges. “If it weren’t for that birthmark setting the two of you apart …”
She trailed off, but Linnea felt better for her words. Maybe the differences between her and her sister were not as obvious to others as they were to her.
“Don’t be forgettin’ the keys,” Norma said, but in a whisper, as if she feared the walls would reveal their deception. Did she dread Lady Harriet’s wrath, or that of de la Manse, Linnea wondered. A shiver of misgiving slid up her own spine. She could as well ask that question of herself.
“Be careful, dear sister,” Beatrix pleaded, catching Linnea close in a fierce hug. “Tell our brother that I pray for him. And hurry back.”
Linnea and Norma descended the curving stone stairs, holding hands for mutual support. There was something profoundly different about Maidenstone Castle in the air. Even if the scent of smoke had not lingered and Linnea had witnessed none of this day’s dreadful events, she would yet sense the change in her home. Some tension thrummed through the very walls. Some terrible anxiety. And the sounds—they were all wrong. Too many male voices. No female ones.
Where were all the women?
They slowed even more as they rounded the last few steps. Norma hung back, unable to disguise her fear. Linnea wanted to hang back too. But just the thought of Maynard suffering more with every moment she delayed was enough to propel her forward, dragging the reluctant Norma along through the low stone arch that led into the great hall.
She spied the boy first, that damnable de la Manse stripling. He stood with three other men, brawny knights all, and looked the dwarf by comparison. Linnea’s nostrils flared with dislike. Who was he to steal their very home from them?
As if he felt the pure venom in her glare, the boy twisted his head, and across the room their gazes met in fiery collision.
A pox on you and all of your line
, she silently cursed him.
But his response was to unexpectedly grin, then tug on the sleeve of the tallest of the three knights. When the knight bent slightly down to hear the boy’s words, Linnea felt a new frisson of fear. The group of them had been speaking to her father, she could now see, and her grandmother stood just beyond them too. But now everyone’s attention was focused on her. Though she could not hear the exchange between man and boy, Linnea knew it concerned her—or rather who she appeared to be. It was only the reminder that she might be saving Beatrix from unwonted attention that gave her the courage to carry on with her charade.
“We’d best hurry,” she muttered to Norma. They turned to the left, sidling along the rough stone wall toward the door that led to the kitchen and the stillroom beyond the herb garden. But before they could reach the steel-banded door and freedom, they were blocked by the boy and the huge wolfhound he held by its collar.
“Beatrix de Valcourt?” he asked with more hauteur than the king himself could possibly possess. “Are you Edgar de Valcourt’s daughter?”
Linnea drew herself up. Her heart thudded with both fear and hatred, but she did not at once reply. She could not. She was too frantically searching her mind for the right thing to say.
She must lie, of course. That was the whole point of her disguise, to protect Beatrix from these horrible men who’d invaded their home. But between her debilitating fear of them and her outrage, she could hardly think what best to say.
What she wanted to tell the impertinent pup was to go eat pig dung and then hang himself from the gate tower. But would Beatrix say that? Beatrix would never call him a spindly legged bastard, or vow to cut off his ballocks while he slept. No, Beatrix would be cool and aloof, and always behave as a lady, far too grand for the mere likes of him.
“Well?” he demanded, taunting her now. “Swallowed your tongue, have you?”
I’ll cut yours out and feed it to that dog of yours
, she thought. But outwardly she only lifted her chin a notch. “I am Lady Beatrix,” she stated in the frostiest tone she could manage. She looked down her nose at him, as if he were no more than a disgusting hearth beetle she debated stepping upon.
“Lady Beatrix,” he repeated. But he stretched it out in a drawl that made it sound more an insult. “Well, Lady Beatrix, if you would be so good as to join us.” He indicated the waiting cluster of people with an exaggerated sweep of his arm.
Without replying to him, Linnea turned to face the little group. Elsewhere in the hall, the milling crowd had gone still and silent. Though the villagers had been herded out, most of the castle folk remained, grouped together in anxious knots. And everywhere the heavily armed de la Manse army lent an unrealistic look to the hall.
Her father stared at her with an expression she could not decipher. Defeated? Hopeful? Old, she decided. He looked old, older even than his own mother.
Lady Harriet stared too, but her expression was easier to read. She was consumed by wrath at what was happening to them. But she was also proud of her granddaughter. The old woman raised her chin to a haughty angle, as if to send Linnea a signal, and Linnea responded with the same gesture.
It worked! She thinks I’m Beatrix too. They all do
! That knowledge gave Linnea more courage than anything else. She would make them proud of her. Just see if she didn’t.
She stalked across the hall, her head high and her spine straight, aware that every eye followed her progress. But it was her grandmother she kept her gaze upon and drew strength from. Hard and superstitious she might be, but she had the bravery of ten men. And so would Linnea.
“My lord,” the boy began, addressing the tall knight he’d spoken to before. “I present to you the Lady Beatrix de Valcourt.” His imp’s grin swung from the towering, sober-faced warrior to her. “This is Axton de la Manse—son of Allan de la Manse—now restored to his rightful title as lord of Maidenstone Castle.”
Lord of Maidenstone Castle? Linnea’s eyes widened as she stared up at the man. He would be lord here, not this arrogant boy? Somehow that made their situation even more desperate. Axton de la Manse was a man of war, proclaimed as much by the great sword that hung at his hip as by his fierce visage and ruthless expression. God have mercy, but this boded ill. He looked as lief to crush them as anything else.
In truth his appearance was no different from that of the two men who flanked him. But even though all three of them scrutinized her with gazes cold and assessing, it was his eyes she felt. Only his. Cold and gray, they were. Hard as the stone walls of Maidenstone itself. They moved over her, head to toe, with a slow thoroughness that was completely unnerving, and entirely too bold. She knew what that look meant, and it brought a hot blush to her cheeks. But that served, fortunately, to send a jolt of pure fury through her.
Impudent knave!
“Lady Beatrix. Your eldest daughter?” He directed this at her father.
“Aye, Beatrix is my daughter …”
“And yet unmarried?” de la Manse interrupted, his voice pitched low. But that deep rumble commanded every ear in the hall, and every eye watched as he turned back to study Linnea once more.
No one answered his question. That was answer enough, though, judging by the smirk that spread over the boy’s face. He must be a younger brother, Linnea realized, finding it easier to look at him than at the formidable knight. But she knew that Axton de la Manse was her real enemy here, not this boy.
And there was only one reason he would inquire about her marital state. She drew her shattered nerves around her as best she could.
“Faith, sir, but I would see to my brother. If it please you,” she added in a cool tone that she prayed hid the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. He wondered if she were married because if not, he would quickly arrange a marriage for her—that is, for Beatrix. And most likely to himself!
He did not bother to answer her request, but only shrugged and turned back to her father and his previous conversation.
Impudent knave! she thought again. Craven varlet, to imply what he did, then dismiss her so rudely! At the same time, however, Linnea was so overcome with relief not to be the focus of his attention that she could not move. She let out the breath she’d held and her gaze darted to her grandmother’s face. But the reassurance she sought was not to be found there. For her grandmother’s expression was almost as stricken as her father’s.
Lady Harriet knew as well as everyone else in the hall precisely what that inquiry meant, and her fear confirmed it for Linnea. That man meant to marry Beatrix—that man who’d helped defeat Stephen’s army and had crushed Maynard’s forces. He meant to strengthen his claim to Maidenstone by marrying poor Beatrix, the eldest daughter.
It was Norma’s sharp tug on her trailing sleeve that finally started Linnea moving again. With the maid pulling her along, they made their stumbling way through the tense crowd of onlookers. Only when the door closed with a dull thud behind them and they had reached the relative shelter of the little stillroom, did Linnea allow herself to even think the unthinkable.
He meant to marry her—that is, he meant to marry Beatrix.
Thank God she was not really Beatrix!
But that swift surge of relief just as swiftly turned into guilt. Poor Beatrix.
“What will we be needin’?” Norma asked. “Sorrel, of course. And camphor?”
Linnea frowned and beat down her fears for both herself and her twin. “Yes, and willow bark and linden ointment to keep the wounds clean. And perhaps Maybush to calm him. Oh, and we’ll need shepherd’s knot to make a cleansing wash.”
They gathered up the appropriate vials and jugs and pouches while Linnea tried to anticipate everything they might need, including a needle and cord to stitch any gaping wounds closed. There was a comfort to be had in the familiarity of the stillroom—the narrow shelves of supplies; the dusty smell of the small locked room.

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