Authors: Rexanne Becnel
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Medieval
The Maiden Bride (22 page)
Then Axton signaled to the seneschal and with many a bow and a promise, the trio backed away.
Linnea stared at her husband in unabashed amazement. He’d been stern—threatening, even—at least to the young man. But he’d not been unjust. He’d forced the self-righteous miller to loosen his notoriously tight pursestrings and made it clear to an aimless young man that he must rise to his responsibilities. She realized now that he’d never had any intentions of putting a breeding woman in the stocks.
Was ever a man so perfect? she wondered with a glad burst of feeling. No wonder she loved him.
When he waved her forward, she was filled with hope that the same sense of fairness would influence his judgment when she presented her case to him.
Axton was unaccountably pleased by his wife’s appearance in the morning court. Well enough that the stingy miller had made this small gesture for his youngest child. Better yet that the slackard bridegroom would clean out the castle’s cesspool and thereby learn the value of honest labor. But knowing his wife had witnessed this particular triumph gave him an unexpected yet undeniable satisfaction. She’d sensed at once what he’d done, and she’d been impressed, if her softly colored cheeks and round, wondering eyes were any indication.
“Would you sit?” He gestured to the chair beside him.
“No, my lord. I have not come here to intrude upon your business.”
“There is no intrusion. Is there something I can do for you?” Besides what I would like to do, he thought, shifting to the left at the arousal that rose so quickly from just the sight of her. It was his good fortune that the heavy table hid his discomfort.
She approached the table hesitantly and lowered her eyes from his. She had woven her fingers together in a knot at her waist and he sensed her sudden nervousness. Was it because she knew how intensely he wanted her? Or perhaps because she wanted him just as much? He felt a deep satisfaction as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the oak tabletop.
“I … I bring you news, my lord. And I make a request which … which I hope you will consider with the same fairness you have shown to other of your petitioners.”
Axton smiled indulgently. “What news do you bear? And what request?”
She drew a slow breath as if she did prepare herself for his reaction, and in that moment he suddenly knew he would not like what she had to say. “I would bury my brother beneath the altar as befits a noble son of Maidenstone who did die in its defense—”
“No!”
The denial came out before he had rationally even considered her request. But then, he did not need a lengthy consideration to make that decision.
“No,” he snapped once more. He rose to his feet, shoving the heavy chair back with a screech of wooden legs on the stone floor. His wife’s cheeks had gone pale in the wake of his violent reaction, and a small part of him regretted that. But by damn, had the wench no sense at all? Maynard de Valcourt had been his enemy! The man had fought as hard to kill Axton as Axton had fought to kill him. He had been the son of a usurper, and a usurper himself. And he’d contributed to the deaths of Axton’s father and two brothers. Now that he was dead … Now that he was dead, Axton felt only a vague sort of relief, not the satisfaction he’d expected. But that only increased his anger. Would these damnable de Valcourts forever thwart him? Although there was no longer anyone who could dispute the de la Manse claim to Maidenstone now, that did not change the past. Axton would not honor his enemy with a burial in Maidenstone’s chapel.
He leaned forward over the table, his entire being rigid with hatred for his wife’s family—and in that moment, for her as well. Would she forever align herself against him? Would she never realize that her future rested in his hands?
“If you would mourn him, do not do so in my presence. If you would bury him, find some mean plot of ground that has no other use—not for crops, nor grazing, nor even foraging. But do not think to inter him in the place where my father should now rest, and my two brothers as well!”
He was shaking with rage when he finished. Every eye in the hall had fastened upon him, but it was only Beatrix he fixed his furious glare upon. “Do not speak to me of this matter. Not ever again.”
Then, although other petitioners awaited him, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the hall.
From a sheltered spot near the pantler’s cabinet, Lady Mildred watched her son’s violent departure. The massive oak door shuddered closed with a heavy thud. A satisfying sound, she thought as her fingers knotted around the curtain beside her. Had there been a door between the hall and the pantler’s cabinet, she would have slammed it herself.
Imagine! A de Valcourt buried at Maidenstone. It was too much to bear!
Yet for all her outrage at the girl’s insolent request, Lady Mildred could not drag her eyes away from her. She stood yet in the same place, slender in her green gown and pretty golden hair. Yet distressingly vulnerable in the great, cavernous hall.
The others drifted away—the servants and villagers and castle folk—sidling along the walls on silent feet. No one approached her to offer comfort, neither for her brother’s death nor her husband’s terrible rebuke. She simply stood there while those who had been her people, but were now her husband’s people, deserted her. Then the girl swayed a little, and her vivid green eyes welled with tears.
It was more than Lady Mildred could bear. Her fingers tightened on the figured cloth curtain, as if she might somehow prevent herself. But in the end she could not. She hated the weeping woman out there and everything she symbolized. But she had felt that same sort of pain before, and she knew how deeply it cut.
With a soft imprecation at her own perverseness, Lady Mildred stepped out of the pantler’s cabinet and into the hall proper. The silence was so oppressive that the padded soles of her slippers sounded like warning signals. The girl looked up at her approach and stiffened, as if she expected even more pain from this new source. But to her credit, she did not turn away. She did not attempt to hide the hurt and anguish in her face either. Nor the tears.
That she could be both vulnerable and brave all in the same moment was what most affected Lady Mildred. By the time she’d reached her son’s young wife, she found herself truly sympathetic to the girl’s plight.
“Shall I take you to your private chambers?” Lady Mildred asked. Up close she could see that the girl did tremble with the ferocity of her grief. “I am sorry …” She hesitated, for she did not wish to lie. But in the face of Beatrix’s grief, Lady Mildred realized it would not be a lie. “I am sorry for the pain visited upon your family by our return to Maidenstone. It would have been so much easier if there had been no need for war. If you and Axton had been wed in peace instead of …” She trailed off with a helpless shrug.
The girl stared at her warily, as if she did not believe a word being said to her. Suddenly it seemed very important to Lady Mildred that she did believe her. “My sister Anne was sent as a token of peace to be the bride of a man she did not know. She was the eldest, and so the responsibility did fall to her. I was younger and I wed a man I already had a care for. But I suffered for Anne. Her life was hard, whereas mine brought me much joy.” She paused, wondering at her own perversity at dredging up her youth for this girl who must hate her. Still, she forced herself on. “I would not have your union with Axton be based on hatred.”
As quickly as that, the wariness left Beatrix’s eyes, chased away, unfortunately, by hopelessness. “How can it not be based on hatred?”
Lady Mildred restlessly tucked her hands into her pendant sleeves. “To hate your husband because your brother fell to him in battle gains you nothing—”
“I
do not hate
him!”
do not hate
him!”
Lady Mildred frowned in confusion. “Then … then what is the difficulty?”
“He hates
me!”
she cried. “He hates me and all of my family!”
me!”
she cried. “He hates me and all of my family!”
“No—” Lady Mildred caught herself and her mind spun. Axton
had
hated the de Valcourt family a long time—as had they all. But he did not hate his wife; that she knew instinctively. He might
want
to hate her, but he could not bring himself to do so.
had
hated the de Valcourt family a long time—as had they all. But he did not hate his wife; that she knew instinctively. He might
want
to hate her, but he could not bring himself to do so.
That sudden intuition took her aback, and for a long moment she could do no more than stare at the young woman before her. That Axton, her own son, could harbor deep feelings for this woman, this daughter of his enemy, was a bitter dose to swallow. And yet, if he did …
In the uncomfortable silence the girl started to turn away. But Lady Mildred stayed her with a hand on her arm. “Wait. Wait. I would … I would walk with you awhile. There is much we ought to speak about.”
At her new daughter-in-law’s hesitant and fearful glance, Lady Mildred mustered a smile. It was not nearly so hard as she expected. “He does not hate you. Of that I am certain. And if you do not hate him … Well, that is a beginning, is it not?”
M
aynard was buried in the same crypt as his mother and brother, beneath a stone in the floor beside the altar. How the Lady Mildred had achieved such a thing, Linnea feared to ask. It was sufficient that the deed was done. The fact that only she, her father, Norma, and Frayne attended the simple service was of no consequence.
aynard was buried in the same crypt as his mother and brother, beneath a stone in the floor beside the altar. How the Lady Mildred had achieved such a thing, Linnea feared to ask. It was sufficient that the deed was done. The fact that only she, her father, Norma, and Frayne attended the simple service was of no consequence.
It was Peter who had delivered the news to her. A solemn and subdued Peter. He’d found her in the chapel and related his mother’s message.
“Axton had agreed to this?” Linnea had questioned him.
Peter had given a one-sided shrug. “He does not oppose it.”
“That’s not the same thing, though. Is it?”
“Why should you care?” He’d flung the words back at her.
But Linnea had not wished to argue with Peter, so she’d not responded to him. She had permission to bury Maynard properly. That was more than she could have hoped for. Nonetheless, she’d been more than a little nervous about her next meeting with Axton.
But he’d not returned, either for the evening meal or to their bedchamber later. He stayed away the entire night as well as the day of the burial too. It was only after the long summer twilight had begun to fail that the seneschal brought word that Axton did approach the castle.
Linnea looked up from her discussion with the alewife, relieved and yet alarmed as well. Everyone else looked up too and stared at her, for they’d all heard about his outburst and they all knew about the burial. Linnea sought out Lady Mildred’s eye, however, and took a small comfort from the woman’s steady gaze.
The two of them had shared no real discourse since their conversation the day before. When Linnea had tried to thank her for her intercession, the woman had waved her thanks away. “Do not thank me for seeing to my son’s happiness. ‘Tis a mother’s duty. ’Tis her nature. Some day you will understand that.”
Linnea was not sure how Maynard’s burial at Maidenstone could possibly contribute to Axton’s happiness, but she was glad to have this matter behind them. It remained, however, for her to face Axton. She had no intention though of doing so before so avid an audience as presently filled the hall.
“I shall be in my chamber,” she said in a voice she meant to carry throughout the capacious place. “Norma, pray convey to my lord husband that I await his pleasure there. Have a bath prepared for him,” she added. “I will attend him myself.”
That started a faint buzz of whispers in the far reaches of the torch-lit hall. When Linnea glanced again at the Lady Mildred, however—seeking her approval, if the truth be told—the older woman’s face reflected more pain than reassurance. There was more regret than anything else in her aging eyes.
Deflated, Linnea nevertheless had no choice but to go forward as she’d planned. Norma hurried after her as the hum of speculation rose in the smoky atmosphere behind them.
“P’rhaps I should stay with you, milady.” Norma huffed along the curving stairwell.
“That will not be necessary.”
“But he may be sore angry—”
“No.” Linnea reached the second floor antechamber and turned to face the worried maid. “No, he won’t be angry. Nothing has happened here that he did not permit to happen. I cannot guess why he has allowed Maynard to be buried with all the honor of any son of Maidenstone, but I know it was he who said yea. He will not be angry.”
Only perhaps grieving someplace on the inside
. Linnea vowed to ease that grief of his no matter what it took. She welcomed the chance to do it.
Only perhaps grieving someplace on the inside
. Linnea vowed to ease that grief of his no matter what it took. She welcomed the chance to do it.
Norma patted her arm, drawing Linnea’s thoughts back to the moment. “Your grandmother would be proud of you—and rightly so—were she to see you now. Mark my words, milady, I shall convey to her how well you have played your part.”
It was the last thing Linnea wanted to hear—how well she did dupe her so-called husband and the rest of his family, when all they wished was to live a life of peace. Though Norma left with an encouraging nod, it was all Linnea could do not to dissolve into tears.
Axton was coming, a man she’d grown to love—yes, love!—in just two short weeks. But she had committed herself to a path that must bring him down, to a lie which must strike him down when he was most unaware.
A step on the stair caused her to gasp in alarm. But it was not Axton. Not yet. The servants filed in with the tub and all the other accoutrements of his bath. She let down her hair and sat watching at the window, combing the red-gold tresses until no knot or tangle marred their length. Her life was a hopeless tangle—hers and Axton’s. But her hair was smooth and silky for him, just the way he liked it. And she would be eager and waiting for him, as he also liked. She would show him her love in every way she could, she told herself. With every pull of the carved bone comb through her waist-length hair, she vowed to make him certain of her feelings for him, for she knew the day would eventually come when he would question everything that had ever occurred between them. Though she doubted anything she did now could change the way he would feel once he learned who she really was—or rather, who she wasn’t—that didn’t stop her from needing to try.
When a commotion at the gatehouse heralded his return, she leaned out the window, watching for her first glimpse of him. When he cantered into the yard with neither hood nor helm to cover his hair, when the orange glow of the torches showed him clearly to her—the dark glint of his hair, the white gleam of his teeth—she felt a swell of a painful joy in her chest.
Then he looked up at her, at the window of the chamber they shared, and she knew in that moment that he could love her too. If she let him. Mayhap he already did.
It was a thought that should have brought her to the pinnacle of happiness, and for the long moment that their gazes met and clung, it did. But then Sir John approached him and Axton looked away, and Linnea’s happiness became a hell.
If he loved her, then her betrayal would be all the worse. Norma had said that the Lady Harriet would be proud of her for the role she did play. But, oh, Norma did not know even the beginning of it. Yes, Lady Harriet would be proud. Everyone of de la Manse would be proud, and she would have at last redeemed herself of the taint her birth had given her. But at what a cost …
“Leave me,” she snapped to the two maids who yet fussed over the arrangements of towels and soaps. In a moment she was alone, and in almost as short a space of time, she heard Axton’s footfall.
Moor bounded first into the room, followed by a frowning Axton and an anxious Peter.
“Get that hound from here,” Axton barked when the dog gave an interested sniff to the black bear pelt that covered the high bed.
“Mother had hoped to have an audience with you,” Peter replied.
“Tomorrow.” Axton stared steadily at Linnea who stood silently before the window. Her hair hung in rippling streamers against the dark green of her gown. Her feet were bare and she’d shed all the complicated portions of her daily wear. “Tomorrow I will see her.” Then he seemed to relent and sent his brother a patient glance. “But convey to her, little brother, that no one need fear for my temper, nor for my lady wife’s well-being.”
Peter’s tense posture relaxed and the crease in his young brow eased. He slapped his thigh, clearly content by what he’d heard. “Come, Moor. There is nothing for us here.”
He sent a wink to Linnea, but she could not share his mood. That no one should fear for her well-being with Axton was no surprise to her. But it brought its own peculiar sorrow with it. Peter left; Axton shut the door firmly behind him. Then he faced Linnea.
“Are you satisfied, woman?”
“Satisfied?” Linnea repeated.
“I have let my enemy be buried within the walls of mine own home. It remains for you to tell me whether or not you also have buried the remains of your animosity toward me.”
“Yes. Oh, yes,” Linnea answered, without pausing even an instant to think. She moved forward until she stood just inches from him. Once before she had undressed him, though that night it had been a game to him, a hunter proving his power over his hapless prey. This, however, would be different, she vowed.
Without speaking, at least not with words, she began to disrobe him. Hauberk, chainse. Chausses and braies. She removed all the trappings of the warrior from his beautiful warrior’s body until he was only a man—a husband—come home to his wife.
She bathed him, slowly and reverentially. It was not playful this time. He did not drag her into the steaming waters with him. Instead it was a silent communion, a silent commitment between them.
When they at last met, skin to skin upon the luxurious black fur, it became the union she could only have dreamed of—had she even known all those long, lonely years to dream of such a thing. She knew now, though. They came together in the hot, sweet violence of lovers who love with the completeness of their entire beings.
One thing only marred the perfection of it. In the finest moment of his passion he cried out her name. Only it was not her name. How could it be? Though she refused to let that spoil the deep joy she found in him, this husband of hers whom she loved, that one word lingered afterward in her mind.
They collapsed in a passionate exhaustion that encompassed both their bodies and their spirits. They rolled beneath the massive fur and burrowed into the quiet depths of a satiated sleep, tangled together in the perfect knot of marital bliss.
But Linnea slipped into sleep with a single thought circling in her head. To hear Axton call out her name—her name, not her sister’s—was what she desired above all the many pleasures the wide world might offer. That one cry, in the moment of completion, that single utterance. It would mean both heaven and earth to her if he could just one time breathe out, “Linnea.”
She awoke with the firm resolve to tell him.
But Axton was not there. Not in the bed nor in their chamber. Linnea raked her hair back from her sleep-flushed face, and stared blearily about the bedchamber. It was well into morning, she realized by the bright spark of light that fell through the window glass, long past time for the morning mass and all the daily responsibilities that fell to the lady of any castle. She must order the meals and measure the spices. Today was the day to inventory the storerooms and plan for all the sacks and barrels that would be needed for next fall’s harvest.
But first she must speak to Axton.
After the hastiest of ablutions she dressed herself, only wondering for a moment why Norma had not come to her once Axton had descended into the hall. Though it was not important, she would have preferred to have her hair better dressed when she met with him.
But then, the state of her hair or garments, or anything else was inconsequential, she told herself. What she had to tell him could not be made easier by the way she appeared to him. Truth be, she did court disaster this sunny morning. He might hate her—No, he
would
hate her, as would Peter, the Lady Mildred, and even that hound Moor. Their hatred, however, would be insignificant when compared to her grandmother’s.
would
hate her, as would Peter, the Lady Mildred, and even that hound Moor. Their hatred, however, would be insignificant when compared to her grandmother’s.
Still, her grandmother no longer mattered to Linnea. Even Beatrix, who was her beloved sister, her other, better half, could not compete with Axton when it came to Linnea’s deepest feelings. She was not betraying Beatrix, she told herself. She was only being honest with Axton. Wherever that might lead her, it must be better than this lie she’d been living.
She found him in the hall. Only it was not the hall as it should be on a late morning in the spring. It was an empty cavern with no fire burning in the massive hearth and no servants busy with the myriad tasks necessary to maintaining a castle like Maidenstone.
Her brow creased in concern. Something was not right, she thought as she stared across the wide plank floor to where Axton sat in the lord’s chair. He had pushed it back from the table and stared blankly at the de la Manse banner that hung down behind the dais. When she approached him on hesitant feet, however, his attention turned sharply to her.
Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Then she spied a creased length of parchment in his left hand, and a quick comprehension sent her heart plummeting to her feet.
He knew!
“Axton,” she whispered. She did not know where to begin or how to explain, but she knew she must somehow make him understand. But he cut her off with a glare of such pure and frigid contempt that she stumbled backward. Had he struck her hard and with the full weight of his considerable strength behind the blow, he could not have hurt her more cruelly.
“I have a correspondence from Duke Henry. It contains news that you will find most interesting.”
“Axton …” She stepped forward, her hands upturned in entreaty.
“No! You will be silent and hear me out!” He lurched out of his chair and stood, tall and forbidding. The lord of Maidenstone, standing in terrible judgment over the lowliest of his people.
He raised the parchment. “England’s king does yield to the young duke. Stephen yields demesne by demesne, county by county to Henry. Soon enough it will be the entire country, and then the crown itself. The prediction is that Stephen is defeated in spirit as well as body, and that he will not long reign over this isle he has stolen.”
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