Authors: Rexanne Becnel
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Medieval
The Maiden Bride (2 page)
Had Linnea been frightened before? As she stared round-eyed at her father’s haggard expression, her fears increased tenfold. She’d seen her father angry; she’d seen him heartbroken, too. She’d seen him cruel and unbending, and she’d seen him recklessly drunk. But she’d never before seen him afraid. Never.
And she’d never seen him defeated.
“Clear a path for my lord. Clear a path!” the seneschal, Sir John, shouted, shoving and kicking people aside so that Sir Edgar could make his way to his family on the raised dais. A pall hung over the place, a chill broken only by the thrum of fear from beyond the solid walls of the stout keep.
Linnea and Beatrix clung together, just to the left of their grandmother. She still stood, leaning on her cane, as she watched her only son’s faltering approach.
For a moment Linnea was actually able to admire her grandmother. Lady Harriet had tormented her all her life. Linnea had never received a kind look or word from her father’s mother. Lady Harriet had lavished all her affection upon Maynard, and to a lesser degree, Beatrix. But there had been no affection whatsoever for Linnea.
Still, Lady Harriet’s steely temperament stood her in good stead this day. As mother and son faced one another, it was clear to Linnea who was the stronger of the pair.
“They have him … Maynard,” Sir Edgar confirmed in a whisper laced with agony. “They have him and he is broken … . Carried in a pig cart for all to see—”
His voice caught, and he covered his eyes with a hand that shook. Linnea’s insides turned to pudding in the face of her father’s emotional display and tears burned in her eyes.
“Poor Maynard. Poor Maynard,” Beatrix repeated, clutching Linnea’s hand with painful intensity.
It was Lady Harriet who stood tall and strong. “Who is this vile emissary from Henry’s decadent court that doth assault us in our own home? Who is this spawn of Satan that wouldst kill our sons and rape our daughters?”
Sir Edgar’s hand fell away from his eyes and he lifted his haggard features to meet his mother’s outraged face. Linnea strained forward to hear, not that she expected to know the name of their attacker. She and Beatrix were kept ignorant of all but the most benign aspects of any matters that dealt with politics. Anything Linnea knew, she’d gleaned from the castle folk or those villagers she’d come to meet during the few times she managed to steal away from her chores.
So when Sir Edgar said, “It is de la Manse—de la Manse—I saw the pennants,” she did not at once recognize the name.
“De la Manse!” Her grandmother’s eyes grew large and her gnarled fingers tightened on her carved walking stick. “De la Manse,” she repeated, spitting the name out as if it were a curse. Only then did Linnea recall where she’d heard it before.
De la Manse. The family that had made their home at Maidenstone Castle before King Stephen bestowed it upon her father for his loyalty. De la Manse, the family that had supported Matilda’s claim to the throne all these years while living in Normandy. The family that would, no doubt, fight more viciously than any other family to reclaim Maidenstone for themselves.
“De la Manse.” The name raced through the rest of the hall, like fire rushing through a dry field. “De la Manse.”
“Silence!” Lady Harriet screeched, stamping her stick on the floor the way she always did when her furious temper overcame her. She glared down at the frightened people of Maidenstone, stilling them with the force of her personality. There was not a one of them who hadn’t borne the brunt of that temper at one time or another, and they all knew to heed her most carefully.
“’Tis imperative we save Maynard,” she stated, speaking to her son. “Come to my solar.”
When he did not at once respond, but only stared at her with a bewildered expression, she impatiently yanked at his sleeve. “Come along, Edgar!”
Linnea watched them depart, her grandmother leaning on her carved stick, but as rigid and determined as ever, her father slumped in defeat already. Behind them Sir John followed, wringing his hands in worry.
While she could sympathize with her father’s distress in the face of this disaster, there was something in her that wanted him to stiffen his spine, to show even half the mettle and fortitude of his aging mother.
“We must pray all the harder,” Beatrix whispered when the trio disappeared up the steep, shadowed stairway. But Linnea was of a different mind, and she easily disentangled her hand from Beatrix’s.
“I want to see,” she replied to her sister, slipping past the seneschal’s elderly wife and crippled son. She leaped down from the dais and picked her way across the now noisy crowd, heading toward the door to the yard.
“Wait!” Beatrix called out to her. “Wait for me!” But as Beatrix started across the hall, she was delayed at every step by the good people of Maidenstone.
“What is to become of us, milady?”
“Shall Lord Edgar save us?”
“Will our Sir Maynard live?”
At every interruption Beatrix stopped and tried to answer and placate the asker. No such questions had been thrown at Linnea. Though she was relieved at that, for she had no answers to give, a familiar longing nonetheless crept over her. A familiar loneliness. No one ever directed that sort of attention at her, only at Beatrix. Beatrix, who was beautiful and sweet and gentle with one and all. Beatrix, whose soul was purer than that of the normal person—because Linnea’s was blacker. As blessed with goodness as Beatrix was, Linnea was cursed with evil. And though she’d long ago become accustomed to her place in the family—with her lot in life—there were times, like now, when the hurt sprang unexpectedly over her.
Still, she could not blame her sister, for it was no more Beatrix’s fault for being born first than it was her own for being born second. God had ordained it that way, and she must resign herself to it—and fight all the harder against the dark urges that sometimes gripped her soul. Some were easier to contain than others. She could walk when she’d rather skip; she could concentrate on her chores when she’d rather daydream in the garden or learn to play the lute.
At times, however, it was nigh on to impossible for her to repress her true nature, like right now, when she knew she should stay here in the hall and help, but no force on earth could prevent her from creeping back up to the wall-walk.
With a last glance back at her sister, and a regretful half-smile, Linnea pushed open one of the immense oak doors and slipped out into the yard.
The smoke was worse than ever, an angry cloud that circled and settled, only to rise once more like a living creature, never quite content. Likewise a worse sort of panic now seemed to have descended over both the villagers and the castle guard. No doubt it was her father’s defeated attitude that had affected them so. But once Linnea clambered up a ladder to the eastern wall, then scurried toward the north tower, she saw the real reason for everyone’s despair,
especially
her father’s.
especially
her father’s.
In the open ground between the castle’s narrow moat and the nearest buildings of the village a vast army had gathered. The supply carts that always trailed armies were now rolling up, and even as she watched, a showy tent of pure white canvas was raised with pennants flying from each of the four corners.
It was their leader’s tent, of course, this de la Manse. He made himself comfortable while he burned down the village behind him!
The poor villagers who had been left outside the castle were herded tightly together in a silent throng just below her perch. They were guarded by two mounted knights and several well-armed foot soldiers, but the mix of men, women, and children did not seem inclined to try escaping their captors. Linnea couldn’t blame them for that. Where would they go if they did manage to escape? How would they live?
But where was Maynard? she wondered. She leaned out between two stone merlons, searching the chaotic scene below. Maybe her father was wrong; maybe it was only a rumor—a false rumor.
Then her eyes locked upon a small, stake-sided cart, the sort of vehicle that livestock or produce might be hauled in, and she froze. Someone lay within the cart, a man sprawled on his back.
It could be someone else, she told herself, though her heart had begun painfully to pound. The fact that he was wrapped in the blue cape of the de Valcourts meant nothing.
Then the man stirred, rolling his head to the side, and even through the shifting gray of the smoke, Linnea could see his hair, his bright golden hair, so like her mother’s—and her own.
Her heart stopped in her chest. It
was
Maynard. Dear God, but it was true.
was
Maynard. Dear God, but it was true.
“You should not be up here!”
Linnea did not even turn at Sir Hugh’s harsh accusation. “He’s still alive!” she cried. “Do they mean to let him die there in front of us without helping him? Won’t they let us see to his wounds?”
Sir Hugh moved up beside her and squinted wearily at the unreal scene spread before them. “He is their negotiating point. We must surrender if his life is to be spared.”
Linnea swallowed hard and stared up at him. “And
will
we surrender?”
will
we surrender?”
The answer came not from her father’s longtime captain, but from one of the pages who rushed up, skidding to a halt before Sir Hugh. “Milady says—” He paused to catch his breath from his fast climb up to the wall-walk. “I mean, Lord
Edgar
says to unfurl the white cloth.”
Edgar
says to unfurl the white cloth.”
Linnea watched with widened eyes as Sir Hugh nodded, then signaled to a pair of guards who promptly hoisted a length of canvas cloth over the rough stone wall. She could not see it fall, opening as it went. But she could picture it, like the shroud around a dead body, unfurling to expose the corpse. Only it was her family’s life at Maidenstone which was dying and being buried this day.
At the sight of the cloth, an unsettling sound rose up from beyond the castle walls—half sob of relief from the captured villagers, half cheer from the marauders themselves. A rider burst away from near the pennanted tent, a youth urging his spirited horse through the other soldiers, carrying the de la Manse banner like a trophy before him. The red cloth seemed almost to glow in the premature dusk of the smoky sky. The black bears, rearing on their hind legs facing one another, appeared to move and claw each other as the fabric rippled above the nightmarish scene.
The boy rode up to the moat, then circled on his handsome steed, back and forth as the bridge slowly creaked down. At that moment Linnea was so consumed with anger and fear that she prayed the horrible lad would tumble off his horse—that he would fall into the moat and drown. The arrogant brat!
But though her tumultuous emotions focused on the boy, she knew he was not the one they must fear. Somewhere beyond him was this de la Manse. Somewhere preparing to enter his former home was a man who must despise them all.
She stared at the white pavillion and tried to picture him, this man her father had bested eighteen years ago. It had happened before she’d even been born, yet she knew that one event was having repercussions in her life still. It would change her life forever.
A shiver of fear snaked up her backbone. The bridge was almost down. The smoke had begun to clear. Best that she join her sister and father now. Best that they all stand together while their lives fell apart around them.
“
T
hey’re like dogs with their tails tucked ’tween their legs.”
T
hey’re like dogs with their tails tucked ’tween their legs.”
Despite the conflicting emotions that roiled in his own chest, Axton couldn’t help but smile at Peter’s words. His younger brother’s excitement was palpable. This was the lad’s first experience with war, his first time away from home as his older brother’s squire. By rights he should have been fostered elsewhere, trained in his knightly skills and duties by someone else. But their mother had feared so for him. She’d not wanted him to become a knight at all, not since she’d already lost a husband and two sons to war.
But Peter was set on becoming a knight and he’d worn their mother down. Still, she’d prevailed in her choice of knights to teach him. To her mind, her youngest son would be best trained—and best watched over—by his only living brother, Axton.
Though an unorthodox approach, after almost a year with Peter as his squire, Axton was well pleased. The fact was, his younger brother was far better suited to a life of war than William or Yves had ever been. He was quicker and more decisive, and already displayed considerable skill with both sword and lance. Added to that, he possessed an uncanny ability with horses, from palfrey to destrier.
It had seemed only right for Peter to accompany him on their siege of Maidenstone Castle, the very place the lad
should
have been raised. And it had struck Axton as particularly fitting for Peter to act as negotiator for the surrender of the castle today. He was the only one of the four de la Manse brothers who’d never set foot in their ancestral home, for he’d been born during their forced exile in Normandy. More than that, however, Axton had known it would humiliate de Valcourt to negotiate with a mere lad, a lowly squire at that.
should
have been raised. And it had struck Axton as particularly fitting for Peter to act as negotiator for the surrender of the castle today. He was the only one of the four de la Manse brothers who’d never set foot in their ancestral home, for he’d been born during their forced exile in Normandy. More than that, however, Axton had known it would humiliate de Valcourt to negotiate with a mere lad, a lowly squire at that.
Axton squinted now at the red and black banner waving jauntily back and forth before the lowering gate. De Valcourt would suffer many more humiliations than this, he vowed. He, himself, would see to it.
Unfortunately, he could pot kill the man or his son now, unless presented with no other choice. Henry had ordered it so. All was fair during the heat of battle. But de Valcourt’s quick surrender of the castle had abruptly changed the rules. Once they surrendered to him, they had come under his protection—and thereby, the Duke of Normandy’s. Axton clenched his fists at the irony of it. His worst enemy within his grasp, and he was bound to uphold Henry’s orders to ensure peace in the land!
Of course, the son might still die of his wounds. Axton was amazed he yet clung to life. As for the father, Axton could not in good faith raise a weapon against the man now—unless the old man challenged him.
A just God would see the old bastard do that very thing!
But there was no justice, and it was unlikely that would ever happen. He was honor bound to oblige his liege lord’s wishes. How often had the Empress Matilda told her son Henry—and he told the lords who supported him—to kill the sons in battle, marry the daughters in peace, and leave the land in good repair? No pillaging or indiscriminate ravaging of the countryside, save what was absolutely necessary to subdue the populace.
Accordingly, Axton had burned only enough of the village to strike terror into the heart of its people, though in truth he would have acted no differently without Henry’s orders. This was his home, despite the fact that he’d been torn from it when only a lad of nine.
When old King Henry had died, Allan de la Manse and his wife and three sons had all been in Normandy, attending the king’s daughter, Matilda, and his young grandson, Henry. Matilda’s absence from Britain gave her cousin, Stephen, the opportunity to usurp the crown and his men had taken over all the king’s strongholds before Matilda could react.
Edgar de Valcourt had found few men to oppose his takeover of Maidenstone Castle, and Stephen had turned a deaf ear to Allan de la Manse’s appeals for justice. Their family had been stranded in Normandy, made homeless by both Stephen and de Valcourt. But during the eighteen long years on the mainland, Maidenstone had remained Axton’s home, at least in his mind and that of his parents. He had no intention now of burning it to the ground, nor of salting the land, tumbling the castle walls, or slaughtering either villagers or beasts.
Maidenstone was finally his, and the thump of the lowered bridge upon the great stone that buttressed the edge of the moat proved it. He had only to enter his home and take possession of it. De Valcourt could have his crippled son back, for he was no longer a threat. Even if the man lived, he would never fight again. His sword arm was too badly mutilated.
But Axton nonetheless meant still to wed the eldest daughter, if there was one. He would wed the wench, whether young or old, fair or hideous. Then he would get her with child as swiftly as he could. Only then would he be sure that no one could ever again dispute his claim to Maidenstone.
No one at all.
The boy with the banner led the procession across the bridge, through the gatehouse, and into the castle yard. Linnea and Beatrix peered down into the bailey from the hide-covered window of the solar they shared. The lad was a sturdy, dark-haired youth, with curls falling over his brow and an arrogant grin that Linnea detested on sight. Who was this jackanapes stripling that led an army as if he had the right? No doubt the son of de la Manse.
The door flew open with a crash, startling them both. But it was only their grandmother and her maid Ida, not a pair of murderous soldiers.
“Move aside, girl. Let me see,” Lady Harriet demanded. She grabbed Linnea’s upper arm in her pincer grasp and pushed her to the side.
Linnea backed away, not bothering to rub her arm, though she was certain a bruise would rise there. She’d had a continuing series of bruises from her grandmother for as long as she could remember. Not that she’d ever been truly hurt. They’d only been surface hurts and swift to heal. But Beatrix was never treated so.
Lady Harriet moved up beside Beatrix, sharing the window view, and even clutching her other granddaughter’s hand reassuringly.
“Art bringing Maynard within. I saw from my solar. Look, there arrives the cart now.”
Linnea inched forward, and standing on tiptoe, tried to catch a glimpse of her wounded brother. But all she could see were the tops of the wagon’s side stakes.
“A pox on de la Manse!” Lady Harriet cursed with a vehemence that startled both younger women. “May he be damned unto hell—and all his family with him. Especially that boy!”
For once Linnea was in complete accord with her grandmother. Yes, especially that boy. Beatrix tried to console her grandmother who was visibly shaking, so violent were her emotions. “It is not the boy who is our concern—”
“Be not a fool! That boy is a de la Manse, son to Allan de la Manse. He above
all
is our concern! Agh, had I but a way to be rid of him.” She slapped the stone windowsill and turned away, her mouth pulled down in a bitter expression. “He should be the one carted around, broken and bleeding.” Then her icy gaze landed on Linnea and her expression grew grimmer still.
all
is our concern! Agh, had I but a way to be rid of him.” She slapped the stone windowsill and turned away, her mouth pulled down in a bitter expression. “He should be the one carted around, broken and bleeding.” Then her icy gaze landed on Linnea and her expression grew grimmer still.
Linnea shrank back instinctively, for she knew that look. It was the reason she avoided her grandmother as much as possible. But she couldn’t avoid her now.
“The blame lies with the devil amongst us,” Lady Harriet hissed. “Once again am I proven right. First did we lose your oldest brother to the fever. Then your mother and nigh onto half our people. And now, once again, does your accursed soul, black as the depths of hell itself, visit disaster upon this family!”
Had Linnea not leaped safely beyond the reach of Lady Harriet’s walking stick, her grandmother would have struck her with the heavy end of it. But that was another lesson she’d learned early. Always stay well out of her grandmother’s striking distance. Now, as Linnea kept a wary eye on her grandmother, Beatrix wrung her hands in agitation. Ida made a sign of the cross to protect her from Linnea’s wickedness. But whether a violent outburst like Lady Harriet’s, or a passive warding off of evil as so many at Maidenstone were wont to do in her presence, both symbolized the suspicion and rejection that were such a pervasive part of Linnea’s life. And both hurt just as badly.
Linnea would never let anyone see her pain, though. Least of all her grandmother.
As always, it was Beatrix who came between them. She caught her grandmother’s arm and stayed the stick in its place. “This avails us of naught. We must see to Maynard’s wounds. Will they let us see him now? Is he to be brought to his own chamber?”
“I don’t know what they plan,” Lady Harriet snapped. “They are heathens, no matter what Father Martin may say.” But her anger petered out against Beatrix’s overwhelming goodness. The older woman sighed as if exhausted. “My Edgar awaits them in the hall e’en as we speak. He will receive their terms. Then will we have our questions answered. But do not expect any leniency from them.”
Her eyes were fixed on Beatrix now, and for a moment the old woman’s voice wavered. “We must protect you from them, Beatrix. For once they lay eyes upon your beauty, there will be no preventing the horrors that will surely follow.”
“Horrors?” Beatrix’s milky white face paled even further. “What do you mean, horrors?”
“Rape,” the old woman’s harsh voice grated out. “Ever do armies rape. Still, your beauty and innocence may save us. Even Henry, boy king that he styles himself, must know an heiress with your dowry is better—”
She broke off and her face froze in sick realization. Linnea realized it too. Henry would know that a beautiful virgin with a handsome dowry was more valuable pure than ruined. But Beatrix would no longer possess such a dowry, not if de la Manse took everything—which there was no reason not to expect. She would no longer be a valuable heiress. Linnea moved up beside her sister and laid a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Perhaps we can escape,” she whispered, staring hopefully at her grandmother.
Lady Harriet’s nostrils flared, as if Linnea’s suggestion were so pitiful as to be beneath contempt. But before she could make some biting rejoinder, the twins’ longtime nurse, Norma, burst into the room.
“Milord … Milord Edgar bids you come to him in the hall, milady.” Her color was high and her breathing labored. Clearly she’d run up the two flights of stairs, no easy feat for a woman of her age and girth. It frightened Linnea all the more, and Beatrix as well.
“What of Beatrix?” Lady Harriet asked. “Doth he make mention of her?”
“He said I am to accompany her to the stillroom and collect whatever she needs. Then we are to see to Maynard. The poor lad is to be put in the barracks.”
Lady Harriet did not hesitate. It was as if this call to duty had somehow restored her. She unfastened the loop of household keys that hung from her girdle and thrust them into Beatrix’s hands. Then she grabbed Beatrix’s arms and steered her to the door. “I will join you at Maynard’s bedside once my counsel is no longer needed. Agh! The barracks, for he who shouldst be lord here.” She spat. “A curse on the lot of them.” Then she fixed her cold gaze on Linnea.
“You. Stay out of my sight. You have caused enough misery for one day. Agh, but Edgar should have listened to me—”
She whirled around and departed, leaving them only with the rhythm of her stick clicking on the hard, cold floor. Once that disappeared, however, Linnea could hear nothing but the roar of blood in her ears, and the silent condemnation she’d lived with all her life—only today it was far, far worse.
She knew what her grandmother meant. She should have been killed at the moment of her birth, so that the evil intrinsic to her soul would be denied an outlet on this earth, and her family would be spared the certain misery that must befall it. Well, that misery was here now, and it
was
her fault. She closed her eyes and swayed, so overcome was she with the horror of her own existence.
was
her fault. She closed her eyes and swayed, so overcome was she with the horror of her own existence.
Then a steadying hand clasped her elbow, and the black shadow over her dissipated a little.
“The fault does not lie with you,” Beatrix whispered fervently in her ear.
Linnea shuddered. Dear, sweet Beatrix. If not for her sister’s deep and abiding faith in her, Linnea would never have survived all these years. While there had been very little Beatrix could do to change others’ harsh views of the second twin, just knowing that Beatrix didn’t believe the worst of her meant everything to Linnea. They shared a bond no one else understood. Beatrix was the only one who loved Linnea, and Linnea loved her back with a ferocity that was sometimes frightening.
Now, that touch on her arm and the whispered words of reassurance were precisely what Linnea needed to rebuild her confidence. She looked into her sister’s beautiful sea green eyes and stroked her softly rounded cheek. “Thank you, Bea. Thank you. But no matter whose fault this is, we are nevertheless in dire straits indeed.”
Beatrix nodded, then touched her forehead to Linnea’s, the way they’d always done when they were children. Linnea felt a closeness to her sister that she hadn’t felt in a long time, and her need to protect this most beloved of her family from any harm swelled to even greater proportions.
Beatrix was the first to pull back. “I must go to Maynard—”
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