Authors: Rexanne Becnel
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Medieval
The Maiden Bride (26 page)
He frowned. If he ever wed—
when
he wed, he amended. As a landed knight which he now was—or would be, when he was knighted—he would have to wed in order to beget an heir. When he wed, he hoped he could find a woman as noble and refined as his mother.
when
he wed, he amended. As a landed knight which he now was—or would be, when he was knighted—he would have to wed in order to beget an heir. When he wed, he hoped he could find a woman as noble and refined as his mother.
Even as he thought of his mother, he spied Linnea across the castle yard, darting from the kitchen storage rooms toward the barracks. He’d heard she was no longer confined. She probably was seeking her father to tell him of the coming confrontation.
He frowned at that. She was ever the warrior wench, it seemed. Though she was without argument a beauty, she was nonetheless too bold for his tastes. She could learn much by emulating his mother, he decided. How to be a proper lady. How to know her place. How to care for her husband and create order all around her, though the world beyond be in total chaos.
The wind thrust his hair into his eyes and he turned against it to watch Linnea disappear around a corner of the chapel. For a short while she’d seemed content to be Axton’s wife. Now they all knew the farce she’d played.
Peter shook his head. Poor Axton. He’d seemed to have tamed her, only to learn, to his humiliation, that he’d done no such thing. Now he must do the same with the other sister.
God help this other de Valcourt bitch if she were anything like her devious sister!
H
enry Plantagenet, Duke of Normandy, entered Maidenstone with all the pomp of a king. But then, it was king he claimed to be, king of England and heir to all the lands his grandfather, Henry I, had ruled a score of years before. His mother, Matilda, had fought Stephen to regain her lands. But it was her youthful son, a brilliant strategist though only nineteen years old, who was succeeding already. He’d stormed Britain, fanned across the entire countryside in his march toward London, and with an astounding lack of bloodshed, had claimed the land his own.
enry Plantagenet, Duke of Normandy, entered Maidenstone with all the pomp of a king. But then, it was king he claimed to be, king of England and heir to all the lands his grandfather, Henry I, had ruled a score of years before. His mother, Matilda, had fought Stephen to regain her lands. But it was her youthful son, a brilliant strategist though only nineteen years old, who was succeeding already. He’d stormed Britain, fanned across the entire countryside in his march toward London, and with an astounding lack of bloodshed, had claimed the land his own.
But he seemed intent on seeing blood shed at Maidenstone, Axton brooded. In the guise of sport he would allow two of his nobles to settle their opposing claims by spilling their blood before him. It was Henry’s greatest strength: He assembled powerful nobles around him but kept them at odds with one another and, therefore, loyal only to him.
Axton steeled himself for the coming hours. Maintaining a semblance of civility would be his hardest test. Entertaining Eustace and Beatrix under Henry’s amused observation would strain every bit of his patience. What he wanted was to draw out the other man now. This very minute. Challenge him. Fight him. Defeat him. Then get on with things.
But Henry would never allow the game to be played under any rules but his own. And as Axton’s liege lord, his word was law.
So Axton waited on the stairs to the great hall, then descended when Henry’s milk-white stallion pranced forward.
“Welcome to Maidenstone Castle, my lord,” Axton said, taking his liege’s hand in the required show of obeisance.
Henry looked around the bailey, missing nothing with his quick gaze. “I was wont to see this noble assembly of Hampshire stone, which two of my ablest nobles would both claim.” He shrugged then looked down at Axton from his lofty mount. “’Tis a sturdy place, but grim. Nothing like the Tower in London, where Stephen does yet reside,” he added with a wolfish grin. “Come, show me to your table, for I am famished.”
Henry dismounted. Behind him a tall knight urged his steed nearer, then dismounted as well. “De la Manse,” the man muttered his greeting with a grudging nod and an assessing stare.
“De Montfort,” Axton returned. But before he could turn away from the man de Montfort spoke again.
“You have not yet met the Lady Beatrix de Valcourt. My fiancée,” he added in a taunting tone.
Axton had spied the slender figure on the cream-colored palfrey. Her pale golden cloak and hood had blended with the pretty animal so that she appeared a golden creature, a mythical centaur, half winsome maid, half prancing steed. But he had not looked longer than that first glance. Something in him did not want to see her, this woman he was prepared to kill a man to possess.
Now, though, he must see her.
“Come, my love,” Eustace commanded, holding a gloved hand out to her. A page led both woman and horse right up to the steps. Her back was turned to Axton and he saw only her slender arms and hands as she reached down to Eustace for his aid. But then she looked over her shoulder, just for a fraction of a second. Still, it was long enough for Axton to be stunned.
Though he’d known they were twins and shared the same face and eyes and hair, he was nevertheless completely stunned.
It was Linnea. It was Beatrix, he knew, but it was Linnea too. He was momentarily speechless, a state Duke Henry was quick to note.
“Ah, but she is a beauty, is she not, Axton? Fair and innocent. And the prize that you and Eustace do compete over. But where is her sister? I would see the lively wench who has fooled my most able lord.” He laughed out loud and it took all of Axton’s self-discipline not to react to the insult implied. Instead he smiled.
“I dare to speculate that even you, my lord, would be hard-pressed to discern which of them is which.”
Henry gave him a shrewd look. “Ah, but there is one way, is there not? But, alas, only you—or else Eustace—will ever be able to tell which is the virgin. So, where is this unnatural creature who would whore for her sister? I am fain to reward her for her extreme loyalty to her family, misguided though it may be.”
Of all the things Henry said that were meant to goad Axton’s famous temper, this mention of reward was the most galling. For Axton knew what he implied. To grace the bed of the Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, and soon-to-be King of England, would of course seem a generous reward to one as self-involved as the youthful Henry. He was a man come too young to such a success as he had already found. He was a man who placed no limits on himself—or on his desires. And clearly he would take Linnea to his bed, unless someone stopped him.
Someone. Himself?
Axton kept his face impassive. Though Henry watched him with a mocking gaze, he kept his outrage hidden and his sudden confusion buried. Why should he care what happened to her? Why should he imagine, even for a moment, that he must save her from Henry’s lusty attentions?
“She is most fair,” Axton conceded, though he knew his tone implied no compliment. He faced the maiden, the sister who warranted so great a sacrifice from Linnea, and couldn’t prevent himself from studying her. In truth, he was searching for some difference between them. Some mark or sign that would set her apart from Linnea.
But there was none. Her skin was as creamy and soft, though at this moment, a trifle pale. The downcast fringe of lashes was as thick as her sister’s, her nose as slender, and her lips as lushly formed. Even the tendrils of golden hair that escaped the confines of her hood looked as silky and fine as Linnea’s.
As the moment lengthened, Eustace’s arm circled the girl, pulling her possessively against his side. Startled, her gaze flew up to Axton, then darted over to Sir Eustace, whose dark glower was directed at his foe.
“Do not think you shall gain more than the honor of gazing upon her,” the other man growled the warning.
But Axton ignored Eustace’s threat and stared still at Beatrix. There was a difference in the eyes! He’d seen it though their gazes had locked little more than a moment. Her wide-set eyes were the same variable blue as Linnea’s, but this sister—this Beatrix—was terrified of him. He’d seen it in her eyes and he knew instinctively that she would dissolve in the face of his anger or at the assault of his body upon hers.
But Linnea had not dissolved. Nor had he ever once expected her to. She’d met him with mutiny in her eyes and opposition at every turn, even when she was terrified. He flexed the muscles of his right shoulder, conscious of the tender skin yet healing from the cut she’d inflicted on him. This Beatrix would never have hidden a knife in the bed. She would never have fought him as her younger sister had.
But though this one distinction between the two sisters satisfied some part of him, it nevertheless solved nothing.
He shifted his gaze to meet Eustace’s ferocious glare. “To wed this woman is no honor at all, but a curse I must endure if I am to regain my home. And I
will
regain it,” he promised.
will
regain it,” he promised.
Beatrix gasped and fell back—pushed when Eustace lunged forward. But Henry stepped in with a sharp rebuke, preventing the men from coming to blows.
“Hold! ’Tis not a brawl will resolve this dual claim!” Then he laughed and clapped Axton on the shoulder. “Come, show me this heap of stones you have spoken of since I was but a babe in arms. Show me its wonders and show me its defenses. But first show me to its alewife. Show me its table, for I am famished and would feast and drink and relive all our triumphs with the prompting of your best ale and dearest wine. There is time enough tomorrow to settle this dispute between you.”
From her perch in a chapel window Linnea watched the meeting between Axton and Beatrix with dread. Poor Beatrix.
Poor Axton!
She frowned at such a perverse thought. Poor Axton indeed! He deserved no pity, or sympathy, or any other soft emotion from her. That did not prevent her, however, from straining forward in the window, striving in vain to hear some word of what passed between the foursome. It did not stop her from trying to decipher something of their mood or intention.
She’d identified the young duke at once, as much by his haughty bearing as by his purple cloak and silver helm. Beatrix she spied immediately as well, arrayed in cream and gold and as radiant as one of God’s angels come brilliantly to earth. The hulking knight who’d helped Beatrix dismount Linnea assumed was the man promised to marry her. The man Axton must defeat.
Then the man lunged forward, Beatrix fell back, and Linnea gasped in alarm. But the duke interceded and after a moment they all proceeded into the keep.
Linnea slumped back in the small, cold chapel. What would happen next? When would Axton meet his rival in battle? When would she be able to see her sister?
Then a slight figure was handed down from a horse litter and a new fear gripped Linnea. It was her grandmother. The stooped figure with the ever present cane could be no one else. And like some dark, yet regal witch who knew every inch of her damnable domain and precisely where her victims cowered in fear, she looked up, right at the chapel window and straight into Linnea’s heart—or at least that’s how it felt to Linnea. For the Lady Harriet smiled, a cracked and ancient smile of malicious triumph, and Linnea fancied the old woman knew every emotion she felt: her love for Axton as well as her love for Beatrix.
With a cry of despair, she spun away from the window. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if somehow she could contain her desperate, dangerous emotions, as if she could stop herself from being shredded into a thousand pieces by them.
“Are they here?” her father asked in a voice flat and weary. That he was even aware of what was going on was an improvement, but Linnea could take little joy of it. If this Sir Eustace won the coming battle, her father might very well regain his old vigor and confidence. Most certainly his mother would be overjoyed. But Linnea would be crushed. Whether Eustace or Axton won, her life was over.
“They are here,” she finally answered, steeling herself to express no emotion. “The Duke of Normandy, grandmother, Beatrix, and … and the man who would wed her.”
She expected that news to cheer him, but it did not. If anything, he drooped further still. He had lost weight in the past weeks, and the deep blue tunic he wore hung loose on his frame. The skin on his face seemed too loose also. It sagged in tired folds. Aged folds.
An unaccountable anger leaped in her chest. “Shouldn’t you be rejoicing? Isn’t this what you wanted, a champion to avenge all the wrongs Axton de la Manse has done you, even though that champion is Henry’s man as much as Axton is? But then, ’tis Axton who has killed your son, ruined one daughter, and would wed the other. But worst of all, he has fought to regain the home you took from him. You should be happy, Father. You should be rubbing your hands in glee and anticipating the moment when his blood is spilled in yon bailey!”
Under the barrage of her emotional outburst, he seemed somehow to shrink even further. Only when he raised tearful eyes to her did she stop, suddenly ashamed of herself. He was beyond defending himself against her. She of all people should know better than to take advantage of someone so vulnerable.
She started toward him, unsure of herself, but knowing that she must somehow try to comfort him. But he shook his head and held his hands up as if to ward her off. His hands trembled as he spoke.
“’Tis all … all as it should be.” He blinked and one tear spilled onto his lined cheek. “If only my Ella was here.”
Ella? Linnea felt a shiver up her spine. He hadn’t spoken of his wife in years. To hear him invoke her mother’s name now filled Linnea with a nameless dread.
“I miss her too, Father.” She stared at his damp eyes and the unkind cut of years upon his face.
“She should not have left me,” he whispered, his old face as crushed as a child’s. “She didn’t want to go, but … but God took her from me.” He shook his head as if bewildered. “I tried to do right. I did. But I …” His chin quivered and more tears streaked down his pale cheeks. “I broke too many of his commandments.”
He looked past her toward one of the murals that adorned the chapel’s plastered walls. Linnea twisted her head to see that it was Moses he stared at. Moses with the tablet of commandments clutched unbroken in his arms.
“I have killed. I have lied. I have coveted the possessions of my neighbor—”
His voice broke so piteously that Linnea’s own eyes filled with tears. “Father, it does no good to dredge up every mistake you’ve ever made.”
But he was staring at Moses and seemed not even to hear her. “I have coveted the wife of my neighbor,” he choked out. “Even my own mother have I dishonored.” His eyes came back to her. “She wanted you killed but—” He broke off. His chest heaved with the force of his emotions.
Linnea knew her grandmother had wanted her killed on the day of her birth. The old woman had never kept that a secret. But she’d never known why she had been spared.
“Ella pleaded for you,” her father said, as if sensing her thoughts. “She pleaded, and I would do anything for my Ella.
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