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Authors: Rexanne Becnel

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

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BOOK: The Maiden Bride
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But there was no time to linger in the respite it offered. Though the outside world had turned upside down, Linnea knew she could not avoid it. She must see to Maynard first, then she would deal with Beatrix and the terrible fate that awaited her sister. She simply could not think about Beatrix’s plight right now, not and keep her wits about her too.
They found Maynard in a corner of the barracks, lying on a hard pallet on the ground, with only his squire and the stable marshal beside him. The boy had fetched water already and the marshal had cut Maynard’s clothing away from his wounds. But beyond that, and offering him some water to drink, nothing had been done for him.
Blood caked his body in black and muddied crusts. Flies droned in the open barracks, only waved off her brother’s brutalized body by the vacant-eyed squire.
“Move aside,” Norma ordered the two men as she set their basket of supplies down. Then she looked over at Linnea, her normally placid face grim. “’Tis bad,” she whispered, as if to hide the fact from the battered man who lay senseless between them.
It
was
bad, Linnea agreed. Near unto being hopeless. But he yet lived. His chest rose in a shallow and uneven rhythm, and any bleeding had been temporarily halted by the thick crusts of dried blood.
Unfortunately, that dirty crust had to be washed away.
“Hold his legs, in the event he flails around,” Linnea ordered the stable marshal as she tried to think how best to proceed. She’d always had an affinity for healing, but never had she dealt with such severe wounds alone. She looked at the squire whose eyes were round as saucers. “Frayne, you sit at his head,” she told the lad. Then she and Norma began their gruesome task.
His right arm was broken, horribly so. The two bones of his forearm jutted right out through the skin, but at least it was not a killing wound. In addition, a huge bruise blackened his brow and one of his eyes had swollen shut. With a head wound she knew you could never be certain. Prayers and a poultice for the swelling were her only choice there.
But the horrendous gash in his right side …
“Took a lance, right through his mail. Unhorsed him,” the squire said in short mutters. His lips thinned and trembled, as if the battle replayed itself in his mind’s eye.
Linnea pressed her own lips together, trying to ignore the hideous picture that rose in her mind. Fighting. Cursing. Blood and screams of unimaginable pain. Men falling and dying.
She had never liked her brother, but he had fought for them this day, for all of them, including her. She refused to let him die. She would make him live!
But the horror of it all threatened to undo her. In desperation she searched for the strength she knew only anger would bring.
“Who did this to him? Did you see it happen? Can you identify the villain who has mutilated him so?”
“Oh, aye. ’Twas himself. The new lord.”
Linnea looked up, and her hands stilled at their painstaking task of cleaning Maynard’s torn chest. The new lord. Axton de la Manse. That meant the sword that had hung at his hip … A shudder of horror rushed over her. He’d almost killed Maynard. Now he would wed Beatrix. Surely God would not allow this to happen!
Then she pinned the squire with a cold stare, for he seemed almost in awe of the man who had tried to kill his lord. “The day will come when Maynard shall have his revenge,” she swore, hot for vengeance herself. “He shall strike that blackguard down—”
“Beg pardon, Lady Beatrix, but that ‘un, he’s powerful strong. ’Tisn’t likely
any
of Maidenstone’s knights could unseat him.”
If it weren’t for the fact that Maynard jerked—she’d cleaned past the filthy crust, down to the torn flesh itself—Linnea would have boxed Frayne’s ears. How dare he extol that pitiless monster’s skills! How dare he speak of the man as if he actually admired the marauding knave!
For the next few minutes they were far too busy to talk. Maynard was not awake, not in the truest sense of the word. But he was not asleep either, and the four of them had all they could do to hold him steady while Linnea tended to his wounds. She swabbed his side with the wash of shepherd’s knot, then smeared the ointment of willow and linden on it before binding the whole of it with cloth. She would stitch it later. For now it was enough to clean him and stop the bleeding.
His poor, mutilated arm was next, and Linnea had to fight down an overpowering urge to retch as she studied it. Norma cleaned the torn skin and removed splinters of bone while Linnea tried to think out what they must do.
To remove the arm was out of the question. She simply could not do such a thing. Besides it could heal. Couldn’t it?
She set her jaw against any hint of uncertainty. “Norma and Frayne, you two must hold his shoulder still. Sit on him if you must, but keep him still. Marshal, you must pull his wrist—no matter how he screams in pain. You must pull straight out while I position the ends of the bones back together again.”
Simple to say, but it was an ungodly task they’d been given. Maynard screamed. He lurched up on the pallet as if jerked upward by a rope. Norma and young Frayne, both with tears of fright streaming down their faces, fought him back down onto the floor, while the marshal pulled, curses and prayers spitting one after another from his mouth.
Everything inside Linnea revolted against what she did to Maynard. But she forced herself beyond her limits to do it anyway. Blood poured anew from the aggravated wound, covering her hands and making her fingers slick. But still she tugged his skin up and forced the bones back into his arm. Her fingers were inside his very flesh and yet she refused to stop. If she stopped she would never be able to start again. If she paused even a fraction of a second, she would fall completely to pieces.
Then the bone fragments met with a little click that she felt, more than heard. She slid one finger around that bone, feeling the hard, uneven crack. By the grace of God the second bone was easier. She knew, however, that his arm would never be perfect, for pieces of the bones were gone. But it was the best she could do, she told herself.
As she carefully removed her fingers, folding the torn muscle and skin back into place, she suddenly realized he’d stopped screaming. She heard Frayne’s soft sobs and the stable marshal’s labored breathing. Norma was muttering under her breath, “
Pater noster, que es in coelis
…” the only prayer she knew in Latin. But Maynard was as still as death.
“He’s fainted,” Norma said when Linnea’s fingers paused uncertainly. “Best we hurry now.”
How they managed the rest Linnea could not say. While the marshal and Norma put a splint on the arm to keep the bones fixed in place, Linnea stitched the skin closed and smeared more of the ointment on it. Then they removed the wrappings that covered his chest wound and she stitched it closed too.
Through it all, Maynard remained insensible, breathing shallowly and none too regularly. But he
did
breathe. Finally they rebound his chest with fresh cloth packed with more of the ointment.
His broken head was last, for Linnea knew there was precious little she would be able to do for that. There was a small depression in the bone just above his left eye, near to his temple. Swelling hid any other damage, however. The few stitches she took in his brow might make for a prettier scar than if she left it to heal on its own. But Linnea feared that scars were the least of her brother’s worries.
Needles of pain sliced up and down her back by the time her task was completed, and she was filthy with blood and straw and her own sweat when she finally stood up. For a blinding moment she swayed, and only Frayne’s quick hold on her arm saved her from keeling over in front of them all.
“Well done, milady,” the boy said. This time the awe in his voice was for her.
“Aye, well done, indeed,” the stable marshal echoed.
Linnea wanted to believe so. But she knew enough of healing to know that her neat stitches ensured nothing. He might live. But the awful truth was that he would more likely die.
Norma covered Maynard with a length of sheeting as well as a blanket, then approached Linnea. “We’d best return to the hall. Lady Beatrix,” she added.
Linnea blinked. Oh, yes. She was Beatrix. She’d almost forgotten. Yes, they’d better return to the solar where the real Beatrix awaited them.
But before they could depart, a commotion started farther down the long barracks building.
“Where is he?” Lady Harriet’s voice carried angrily to them. Then she and Sir Edgar burst into their little circle, followed by Father Martin, Ida, and the seneschal Sir John. Four-men-at-arms, unsmiling and wearing the device of de la Manse, followed behind them.
Linnea drew back as her grandmother and father fell to their knees beside the pale form of Maynard.
“He lives. He lives,” Lady Harriet repeated over and over. “He lives!”
“Milady Beatrix has saved our young lord,” the stable marshal said. “She has repaired his arm and stitched his wounds—”
“His sword arm,” Sir Edgar muttered. “Will he ever fight again?” He looked up at Linnea.
She shook her head. “I don’t know, Father. I don’t know. I can’t even promise that he will live,” she added in the barest whisper.
“Oh, he’ll live. He’ll live,” Lady Harriet vowed. The look she gave Linnea was fierce, but it was also sure. And proud. Proud of Linnea!
The old woman rose slowly, holding hard onto Ida’s sturdy arm. But her hawklike gaze remained on her granddaughter. “Ever have I known that you were blessed. From the moment of your birth have I known it. And now, this day, you have saved Maynard.”
She opened her arms to her granddaughter, and though Linnea hesitated, she was not strong enough to resist—nor to confess.
She was not Beatrix, but oh, how she wished she was as she went into her grandmother’s arms. To be so loved. To be so valued!
Then, ashamed of her envy and her fears—and of how much she needed her grandmother’s approval—she burst into tears.
 
A
xton de la Manse sat in the ornately carved lord’s chair and surveyed Maidenstone’s great hall. He remembered it as much larger—longer, wider, and with towering ceilings held up by massive beams. He remembered a sea of long plank tables and stoutly made benches. He and William had fought many a battle across those tables, as well as under them. Some had been long-simmering battles, fought with mock weapons against imaginary enemies. Others had been brief but intense brawls, brother pitted against brother for some insult or slight or other childish infraction.
He’d never bested William. Not back then, anyway. William had been a head taller, two stone heavier, and four years wiser. Yves had also been older and taller. But he’d never been much of a fighter, even as a boy. How many times had Yves retreated up the stairs to the nursery while William and Axton raged at one another?
Axton winced at the thought. Yves had been given few chances during his short life. He’d have made a better scribe than soldier, a better priest or seneschal. But when Stephen had stolen Britain from Matilda—and de Valcourt had stolen Maidenstone from Allan de la Manse, Yves’ choices had narrowed down to one. He must fight as they’d all had to fight. Fight for their queen. Fight for their country. Fight for their home.
Yves had been the first to die. Then Allan de la Manse, followed shortly thereafter by William. Axton and Peter were all that were left of their family—them and their mother.
But the fighting had ended this day, Axton reminded himself.
He stared blindly across the hall that had managed to shrink during the eighteen years since he’d last set foot in it. The fighting was over, for the de la Manses had returned, and he would never loose his hold on Maidenstone Castle. Never.
A clatter of hard-soled shoes on the stairs drew his gaze. He was not surprised when Peter bounded down the last steps, the wolfhound, Moor, at his heels.
“Why can I not have a chamber in the keep?” the boy began without preamble. “Four chambers there are above stairs. Two upon each level. And a broad hall that serves as an antechamber where Moor could stand guard.”
“You sleep with the other squires unless I require your services. Then you sleep in the antechamber—standing guard,” he added as he eyed his younger brother sternly. Perhaps he should not have allowed the boy so many liberties today—bearing the de la Manse standard; negotiating for the surrender of the castle; riding at the head of the column as they entered the home they’d finally reclaimed. At the time it had seemed fitting, since Peter had been denied any access to Maidenstone Castle since long before his birth. Unfortunately, the day’s events seemed to have gone to the rascal’s head.
But Axton knew well enough how to remedy that. “If you’ve time for exploring, then it’s apparent you have too little to do. Clear out the lord’s chamber and have my belongings moved in there. I’ll want my red and black tunic brushed to wear at dinner. Also see to it that these de Valcourt pennants are removed and replaced by ours.” He gestured to the hangings that decorated the hall.
“Won’t Mother be pleased to know we’ve taken her home back for her,” Peter said, unfazed by the time-consuming tasks his brother had set for him. “Shall we send word to her in Normandy?”
“I’ve already composed the letter. But I want everything in order when she arrives. That means you’ve no time for sitting and gloating over our enemies. Get to your tasks,” he added in a less than brotherly tone.
While Peter was not averse to testing his older brother, he knew better than to actually cross him. With a few grumbling complaints he went off to do as he’d been ordered, the massive hound trailing like an overgrown pup at his heels.
Axton remained as he was, sprawled back in the heavy oak chair in the middle of the dais, staring gloomily over his restored domain.
Whence came this discontent? He should be elated, drinking and celebrating with his men who’d been so loyal these long years, searching out a toothsome wench eager to win favor with the new lord of Maidenstone. Instead he’d sent everyone off to one task or another, clearing the hall save for the servants who now set up the trestle tables for this evening’s victory feast. Sir Reynold was reorganizing the castle guard, installing their own men in all the key positions and determining who would swear fealty to the new lord and who would only cause trouble.
Sir Maurice was meeting with the seneschal, Sir John, to determine how the household functioned. Axton’s mother would take over that task once she arrived, of course.
Or should he trust that task to the new wife he meant to take?
Axton had not thought of Lady Beatrix since their brief introduction. He’d put her completely and deliberately out of his mind. But now, with no reason preventing it, he allowed himself to picture her in that first moment when their eyes had met.
She was a beauty. No use pretending otherwise. Young and fair, with eyes the color of the sea, wild and tumultuous, and hair as vivid as an autumn sunset. Tall, slender—and haughty—in appearance she’d been more than he could have hoped for. In truth, following Henry’s admonition to marry the eldest daughter—in this case, the only daughter—would not be the hardship he envisioned. But she was still a de Valcourt.
Her father had been horrified when Axton had stated his intention. The man’s hands had clenched and his arms had quivered with his rage. But it had been impotent rage, for the man knew he’d been defeated.
If only the coward would have challenged him. To kill de Valcourt in battle would surely have brought him the satisfaction he still sought.
But that was not going to happen, he realized, as his restless gaze once again swept the hall. Though a blood lust yet burned in his veins, there would be no outlet for it this day. And mayhap never. He would have to take his bitter satisfaction in banishing the man from Maidenstone, and from knowing his son would never fight again—assuming he yet lived.
“God’s bones!” He swore and slammed a fist down upon the table. His empty goblet rattled on the heavy board surface and a serving wench appeared at once to refill it with ale, then disappear.
But it was not ale he sought. No, only revenge would assuage this thirst. To banish de Valcourt and see the son a cripple was far from enough to douse the fires that eighteen years of rage had fueled. He needed more. He needed some enemy to fight, but they gave him none.
The women of the family offered more resistance than did the men. The old crone would murder him in his sleep, should he allow her the opportunity. And the young one …
The young one would be his wife soon enough. He would wed her and bed her on the morrow.
He shifted in the chair. Just the thought of lying with the haughty little wench caused blood to rush to his loins. Perhaps he would have his satisfaction from her pretty hide, he mused. There was something in those stormy green eyes that bespoke a fiery temperament. Perhaps in the struggle to bring her to heel and make of her a meek and tractable wife, he would find the release he needed.
Yes, he was long overdue some pleasure of this place. That de Valcourt’s daughter should be the one to provide it seemed especially fitting.
 
“We could poison him. ’Twould take very little of belladonna or bittersweet to kill him and all the other spineless bastards who do follow him.” Lady Harriet paced the solar back and forth, her metal-tipped stick beating a furious rhythm across the plank floor. “Perchance in his ale. A cruel tonic that will see him suffer before he dies, that will make him retch and burn, and twitch on the floor—”
Linnea and Beatrix huddled together as their grandmother ranted on and on. They were perched in the window alcove, Linnea still garbed in her sister’s now-stained finery. There had been no time to exchange clothes again and return to their own identities, and now neither of them considered doing it. Lady Harriet was in a towering rage. Even their father shrank away from her when she was like this.
“At least Maynard shall live, blessed be.” Lady Harriet stared at Linnea—whom she mistook for Beatrix. “’Tis well you did, to repair his wounds. But then I should not be so amazed. You have ever been a blessing upon this family.”
Linnea sat there stunned, not knowing how to react. When her grandmother’s piercing stare slid to Beatrix, however, and darkened with her habitual dislike, Linnea cringed, and her hand tightened on her sister’s.
Fortunately Lady Harriet’s fury was too focused on Axton de la Manse to bother with the second of her granddaughters. She stalked once more across the room, then fixed her son with her narrowed glare. “Have you nothing to say? No ideas on how we might rid ourselves of Henry’s pestilence?”
“What would you have me do?” Sir Edgar muttered, though without any real show of spirit. “Maynard lies at death’s door. And you saw his arm—his
sword
arm. Even healed it will never be as strong as it was.”
“’Tis the very reason I propose poison! Beatrix, what say you? Belladonna or bittersweet?”
Beside her, Linnea felt Beatrix stir. But a quick tug on her sleeve stopped her from answering. It was Linnea who responded. “Bittersweet would work, but it has a distinctive taste and would be hard to disguise. And we have no belladonna.”
“Ach! Accursed man! There must be something else we can use.”
“Perhaps it would be better to wait until after he weds Beatrix,” their father suggested.
“After! After? And let him ruin her?” Lady Harriet cried, shaking her stick at him as if he were insane. In truth, it was she who looked more than a little mad at that moment, with her hair springing loose around her face in hanks of wiry gray. The flickering lights of the torchères painted her gold and red, with grim shadows lining her ancient face.
Linnea was so caught up in the exchange between her father and grandmother that she did not anticipate her sister’s reaction to this news.
“He wishes that we be
wed
?” Beatrix gasped when the full impact of her grandmother’s words struck her.
Lady Harriet shot her a venomous glare. “Not you, fool. ’Tis Beatrix he would wed. Why would he wish to marry
you
—”
She stopped abruptly. So did Linnea’s heartbeat. She knew. Somehow, that easily, their grandmother had deduced the truth.
As the old woman made her way toward the two of them, one ominous click at a time, the sisters sat frozen, side by side in the window. The one was garbed in plain plunkett cloth, her hair wrapped in a head cloth no better than that worn by the indoor servants. The other wore the softest kersey, albeit soiled, with gold braid winking back the flickering of the smoky torchères. When Lady Harriet stopped before them, her eyes flitted back and forth, from Beatrix’s flushed face to Linnea’s, which had gone as pale as death.
She surely was in for it now, she feared, and she braced herself for the thrashing she expected. To impersonate her sister was bad enough; to deceive her grandmother and thereby make a fool of her—would bring all of the Lady Harriet’s considerable wrath down upon her head with a vengeance.
The old woman grasped Linnea’s chin with gnarled fingers that were unexpectedly strong and tilted her face toward the uncertain light, searching it for a clue—any clue. Linnea sent a furtive glance toward her father, but it was clear that he did not care about what was happening. His daughters had always been of far less value to him than his sons. He’d lost young Edgar almost ten years ago, and soon after, his beloved wife. After that everything had been for Maynard. He had never loved Beatrix as much as his mother did, nor had he despised Linnea as strongly. And now, when the greatest drama of his daughters’ lives was being played out, his primary reaction was disinterest.
Lady Harriet’s searching glare went back and forth between the twins again, then settled on the real Beatrix. “Which one are you?” she demanded to know. “You look to be Linnea, but—”
Again she broke off. With a swift yank she jerked up the plain gown Beatrix wore, so that her legs were exposed. Then she let out a guttural cry and whirled to face Linnea.
“You!” She jerked up Linnea’s dress—Beatrix’s dress it was, but draping Linnea’s legs. She grabbed Linnea’s ankle and twisted the leg without any regard for her granddaughter’s pain. “You devil!” she screamed when she spied the red birthmark on Linnea’s leg, the only mark that distinguished the two from one another. “How dare you deceive me! How dare you pretend to be your sister!”
She swung her hand, but the brutal slap did not find its target, for Beatrix grabbed her grandmother’s arm before it could, and hung on like a terrier. “She did it for me! To protect me! You cannot in good conscience punish her for that!”
“She had no right to pretend to be you—to trick us all. Agh! She says it is to protect you but I know better. She is filled with deception, that one. Now unhand me,” she finished, glaring at Beatrix with the vicious expression more normally reserved for Linnea.
“You do her a grave disservice, Grandmother.”
“And you have ever been too forgiving of her!”
Linnea did not know what to do. Beatrix had always shown her love and support in quiet ways, helping Linnea with a chore, sneaking a sweet treat to her—but when their grandmother was not in sight, of course. This overt opposition, however, was something new. Linnea did not know whether to be pleased for herself or worried for Beatrix.
BOOK: The Maiden Bride
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