Authors: Rexanne Becnel

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

The Maiden Bride (27 page)

BOOK: The Maiden Bride

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“But it was not enough,” he continued, growing more agitated. “I spared you but I marked you. I burned you, and Ella—” This time he broke off completely.

He’d burned her? But where—Linnea gasped. The birthmark. Only it was no birthmark at all but, rather, his mark, a brand given to her by her own father!

The small raised scar on her calf began to throb as if to say, “He did it. He did it.”

She fell back a step. “You did that to … to me?
You
did it?” She echoed the accusing voice in her head.

“To please my mother. To honor her.” His face crumpled and his shoulders heaved in huge, awful sobs.

It should not matter, Linnea told herself. It should not, for the pain of that mark had been no pain at all, not like the other pains she’d suffered growing up so unloved.

But it did matter. He’d scarred his own child, an innocent babe who’d done no sin save to be born second. Second! As if that signified anything!

She might have suffered her rage in silence. But at that very moment the chapel door creaked open and the sharp click of a metal-tipped walking cane announced the Lady Harriet’s presence. Linnea whirled around, her every sense instantly tuned to the old woman’s presence. Her heart thundered; her muscles tensed. The very hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It was as if she’d come face-to-face with her enemy—and verily she had. For this woman had hated her from the moment of her birth. She’d despised her, tortured her, and never missed an opportunity to make her life miserable.

That she’d caused Linnea’s father to scar his innocent child was, in truth, the least of her many crimes. But it was the one that pushed Linnea beyond her limits.

She glared at the Lady Harriet, but the old woman only smiled. “You have done a commendable job, girl. Against all odds, most commendable. I freely admit I had my doubts,” she said. “But I will be the first to speak your praise. Though but a maiden, you have been brave and true, and you have provided your family the means to a victory over our enemy.”

The cane clicked as the old woman advanced. “Come girl. Let me kiss you, the kiss of peace between us. For you are proven worthy. Let no one say you are not.”

Linnea could not move. From the terrible heights of a rage fueled by a complete hatred, she was flung to the depths of a dreadful despair.

She was worthy. At last her grandmother smiled upon her and would kiss her as one proven to be worthy. But when Lady Harriet grasped her shoulder with one bony hand, Linnea recoiled in horror.

“No,” she mumbled, wrenching free of the old woman’s hold. “No,” she repeated more stridently.

She stumbled back until she came up against the wall and the brilliant likeness of Moses.

Lady Harriet’s eyes narrowed and Linnea was reminded of a lizard or a snake. She shuddered at the cold, reptilian look. “What ails you?” the old woman snapped. Then her expression grew more cunning. “Aha. Methinks I know. ’Tis that overlarge appendage he has attacked you with. Methinks you did enjoy the surrender too well.” Her face cracked in an ugly laugh. “Don’t worry, girl. One is very like another. Is it not, Edgar?”

Sir Edgar had moved closer to Linnea, as if he might protect her from his mother’s cruelty. But his mother stilled him in his tracks.

“One man can substitute for any other much as one woman can take the place of another, isn’t that so?” Lady Harriet continued, staring coldly at him. Daring him to contradict her.

When his head bowed in silent defeat, the old woman turned her triumphant gaze on Linnea. “You see, girl? Whatever he felt for Ella, it did not prevent him from sampling wherever he chose. So it will be with that bear of a man you so foolishly think you love. ’Tis not love!” she snapped. Her mood turned from ugly amusement to sudden anger. “They do not love, nor should we! Nor should
you,”
she amended after a brief pause.

“So.” She took a slow breath. “You have bested him with your cunning. Now Eustace will best him with steel.” She approached Linnea again until their faces were but inches apart. “He is no longer your any—not that he ever was. Your future lies in the fold of your family. With me and Edgar and Beatrix. And Eustace,” she added. “Now. Give me the kiss of peace.”

She grabbed Linnea’s shoulder and kissed her, first on one cheek, then the other. Linnea could not kiss her back, however. She simply could not.

But if Lady Harriet noticed or cared, it did not show. She only stared at Linnea afterward, the workings of her twisted mind buried in the opaqueness of her old eyes. For one moment Linnea fancied she saw fear in them. Fear, of all things. But that ludicrous thought quickly vanished. What had Lady Harriet to fear of her ruined granddaughter?

The old woman stamped her cane on the floor. “Come, the both of you. Duke Henry would see the girl who has deceived one of his mightiest knights. He considers it a huge jest that a man all others fear could have been duped by a woman with no other weapon but a face that looks like her sister’s. Come,” she repeated. “He awaits.”

Sir Edgar moved forward like an obedient child—which he was and always had been, Linnea realized. Linnea pushed away from the wall. Anything to get away from this place and away from her hateful grandmother. But Lady Harriet stopped her at the door. This time her eyes were bright with a shrewd avidity.

“Are you with child?” She stared at Linnea like a vulture might, waiting to dissect her brain, and thereby know all her secrets. Her bony fingers bit into Linnea’s arm. “Answer me truthfully, girl. Are you?”

In that moment Linnea would have given anything to say yes. Anything. Her reasons were confused and perverse, but her desire was very clear. She wished she could say yes. But she couldn’t.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. Miserably.

Whether Lady Harriet was pleased or displeased, Linnea could not tell. As for herself, however, she was crushed. Despairing. Heartbroken.

She’d had her chance to have a husband and bear his children. No other chance would come again, for no other man would want her now.

But that was not the worst of it. The worst was that she would never want any other man.

Chapter 22

T
hey were assembled like actors in a farce, like mimes or tumblers or minstrels come to perform their given roles and then depart. Linnea feared, however, that she would not be entertained.

Henry Plantagenet, Count of Anjou and Duke of Normandy, sat in the lord’s chair, as did befit the liege lord of Maidenstone Castle. To his right sat the handsome knight Eustace de Montfort. To his left, Axton, joined by his mother and then Peter. Lady Mildred’s face was drawn. She feared for the impending battle. Peter’s face was set in a scowl, as if he, himself, would gladly take on Sir Eustace. Arrayed beyond Sir Eustace were Beatrix and two empty chairs. Obviously for Linnea’s father and grandmother.

But where was she to sit?

Nowhere, it seemed, for with a flick of his bejeweled hand, the duke signaled her to approach him.

She had no ally here, she realized. Or no ally with any power, she amended. For Beatrix was with her. That was plain by the look in her sister’s dear, worried face. Their eyes connected and held, and Linnea felt a reviving spurt of strength. Beatrix still loved her and that meant she was really no worse off than she’d ever been.

She took a hard breath and tilted her chin up another notch. Only then did she look directly at Axton.

He might have been a statue carved of unyielding stone, so rigidly set were his features. Even his eyes—his clear gray eyes that could vary from hot as steam to cold as ice—even they appeared like stone as they met hers. Hard, opaque, and brittle.

A sharp nudge from her grandmothér forced her toward the high table. The rest of the hall was empty, save for the trio of servants who did scuttle about, anxious to please the man who would soon be their king.

Linnea advanced slowly toward the table. “My lord.” She curtsied to the hearty young man who did toy with all their futures. Better to gaze upon his half-amused countenance than to face Axton’s condemning stare.

The young duke’s bright blue gaze ran over her appreciatively. “Well, and well again. It is as I was told. She is every bit as fair as Lady Beatrix. No wonder you did not question her more closely, de la Manse.” He grinned then, and shrugged. “But of course, she is sadly lacking in those qualities which make of sweet Beatrix the bone which two of my ablest nobles do snarl over. For this sister is the younger, not the elder.” He paused and Linnea felt the unpleasant rake of his gaze once more. “And she has already been despoiled.”

Someone gasped. Beatrix? Or had she done it herself? In either event, his cruel words cut Linnea to the quick. She hated Henry Plantagenet instantly. She’d feared him before. Now she hated him as well.

“I have no doubt, however, that some man …” Henry paused once more, as if musing. “Some man will find a place for her in his … household.”

Linnea’s cheeks turned scarlet with the implication. Before she could speak, however, Axton pushed upright. “You insult me to allude that I have despoiled this woman.”

Henry looked up at Axton. If he was unsettled to find a man of Axton’s fierce reputation towering over him, fists knotted and muscles tensed, he did not indicate it by so much as a raised eyebrow. “There is no insult intended to you, my ever loyal friend. I only observe the results to her of her own deception.”

The hall fairly shivered with the frosty exchange. It was into this perilous conversation that Linnea thrust herself. “The insult, I believe, is for me.” She stared at the powerful young man and saw with relief the amusement return to his eyes. Axton did not need him as an enemy. She, however, had nothing at all to lose.

“As you will it,” Henry answered. Linnea knew, though, that her will had nothing whatsoever to do with it. It never had. Then he leaned forward, his eyes as sharp as a frigid winter sky. “You were pure when you wed him?”

Linnea nodded, hating him more with every word he uttered. He arched one russet brow. “I assume that in the fortnight of your false marriage he did claim his husbandly rights.”

She did not respond, at least not in words. But her cheeks again burned with the intensity of her shame. Not shame that she’d given herself to Axton. She could never be sorry or ashamed for that. But ashamed that they should be made into such a public spectacle. What would Henry want next, a recounting of every detail?

Henry laughed at her obstinate silence. “I know well enough Axton’s appetite. Safe to say she can well instruct her sister on her wedding night—no matter who shall ultimately be her husband.”

He laughed again, but when no one else did, he looked about with a tolerant expression. “Come, come. Let us not be somber. If either of you would not fight, you have only to say the word. The last thing I want is to lose either of my most loyal men.”

Axton had remained on his feet during the exchange between Linnea and Henry. Now he spoke up. “When will this matter be resolved? I see no reason to delay—”

“Tomorrow will have to be soon enough.” Henry turned a benign smile on him. “Sit down, Axton. Sit down and play the gracious host, for tomorrow—well, who knows what tomorrow shall bring?”

He waited until Axton had reclaimed his chair. Then Henry picked up an ornately bejeweled goblet which he must have brought with him. Linnea knew it was not from Maidenstone’s plate. A servant filled the goblet with a deep red wine. Then Henry smiled at the tense company. “A toast to … to Maidenstone. May its lord and lady reside here in peace, and long pledge their loyalty to England—and to me!”

Everyone drank, despite the ambiguous meaning of the toast. Everyone, that is, except Linnea, for she had no cup. But even that circumstance Henry used for his own perverse amusement. He gestured to her with one finely manicured hand.

“Come. Sip from my cup, fair Linnea. ’Tis only right that one so willing to sacrifice herself for the honor of her family should share my cup. I have spent my entire life sacrificing for the honor of my own family. And look now where it has taken me. I am poised on the brink of my triumph. You too are poised on the brink of triumph—if Sir Eustace can defeat Sir Axton. If not …” He shrugged. “Come, drink from my cup,” he commanded.

Linnea edged toward the table, toward the man who would soon rule all of England. He already ruled everyone in this grim and silent chamber. She halted before the raised table and stared into his smooth, grinning face. He extended the heavy goblet to her. When she grasped it, however, he did not release it. She was forced to lean forward to take her sip, and when his fingers circled hers, to suffer his touch without recoiling, no matter how repulsed she was.

Once she’d had her damning taste of his wine, she tried to release the goblet. It wobbled and nearly fell. But Henry’s clutch tightened around it and caught it. Then he very deliberately turned the handsome vessel, placed his lips where hers had been, and quaffed the remainder of the wine.

A chair scraped back and Axton was once more on his feet. “I would fight de Montfort now. This very minute!”

“Tomorrow,” Henry answered. He glared at Axton, then he turned his gaze again on Linnea. “I would sate my appetite first. My appetites,” he amended, emphasizing the pluralized word.

Linnea did not wait another moment. Without asking his pardon to leave, she gave a trembling curtsy, then backed away. She refused to look at Henry and see the leer she was certain was there. She could not bear to look at Axton and see the contempt in his eyes. She looked, instead, to Beatrix.

But Beatrix’s stricken expression provided Linnea with no comfort, save for the knowledge that someone, at least, sympathized with her plight. It was equally plain, however, that the innocent Beatrix did not understand what the young duke implied. How could she? She knew nothing of men and their carnal desires. Everyone else did, though. Her father and grandmother. Even Lady Mildred and Peter. But none of them cared. Not one of them.

Linnea hastened from the hall, nearly colliding with the seneschal and his wife, who waited just beyond the door.

“Does he wish to be served now?” Sir John nervously asked.

“Yes,” Linnea responded, knowing there was only one “he” when Henry was in residence. “He is ready to be served.”

And he would be served, she feared. He would be served anything he asked for, including a despoiled and terrified young woman whose loyalty he publicly proclaimed, but whose honor he meant privately to steal.

Axton watched Linnea depart with a growing sense of outrage. Henry meant to have her in his bed. In Axton’s own bed, in fact. He threw back the last of his wine and thumped the pewter vessel down. Immediately it was filled by a page and immediately he downed the contents again.

The serving boy hesitated, then at Axton’s impatient glare, hastily filled the goblet a third time. Before Axton could lift it to drink, however, he was stayed by his mother’s hand on his arm.

“You will win nothing this way,” she murmured lowly, so that Henry could not hear. “Not this battle, nor tomorrow’s.”

But Axton did not want to hear that or any other advice. “Give me credit for knowing how to deal with any knave who would stand between me and my rightful heritage.”

“’Tis not the knave I worry for so much as the maiden.”

He turned an incredulous gaze on her. “You worry for that … for that bitch?”

She met his stare with one so sad that it made him feel guilty. “I do not worry for her, but for you. For what she has done to you. I wish we were still at Caen,” she added lower still.

Axton did not respond to her. What was there he could say that would give her any comfort? The meat platters came and he accepted whatever the server offered. He ate, he drank. He responded as little to Henry as was still not insulting to the young man he’d known all his life. He had never deluded himself about Henry in the past, and he did not do so now. Henry was his friend up to a point. Beyond that he was strictly Matilda’s son and King Henry’s grandson. Destined to be king of England. Nothing else interfered with that, not childhood friendships nor lifelong loyalties.

Henry quickly tired of Axton’s sullen mood and turned his attention on Eustace. Eustace preened and swelled under Henry’s interest and sent Axton many a smug glance as the meal progressed past the roasted piglets, poached oysters, and stewed starlings to cheese and herrings, then pears and pastries. But Henry did but set the man up for a fall, Axton suspected.

“I would have a word with Lady Beatrix. A private word,” Axton pronounced when the three musicians he’d brought in had exhausted their repertoire. He made certain his voice carried to one and all.

Henry shifted in the lord’s chair so that his back was now turned to Eustace. The assessing smirk on his face confirmed Axton’s suspicions. Henry loved nothing better than to bait and tease those most loyal to him. Earlier he’d baited Axton. Now it was Eustace’s turn.

Sure enough, Henry tapped a finger thoughtfully on his chin as if considering Axton’s request. In truth, though, Axton knew he’d already decided. The young duke shifted and leaned forward on his elbows to look past Eustace to the pale-faced Lady Beatrix.

“Methinks that a reasonable enough request,” he said.

Eustace’s face darkened in a scowl. He opened his mouth as if to object, but just as quickly closed it. Axton did not have to see Henry’s expression to know the warning it held.

When Eustace’s angry gaze switched to him, he could not resist a smug grin. He would take a complete pleasure in laying low this man who thought to wrest Maidenstone from him. A satisfying, unmerciful pleasure.

“I am weary,” Henry announced into the waiting silence. When he stood, so did everyone else. “Have your word with Lady Beatrix,” he told Axton with a negligent wave of his hand. “Her grandmother will ensure no impropriety,” he added, which implication deepened Eustace’s scowl even further.

They filed from the hall. Eustace, the Lady Mildred, and Peter followed Henry up the stairs to the better chambers, while Edgar de Valcourt wandered away as if confused about where he was to go. Only Beatrix and the old woman lingered at the table. Even the few servants Axton gestured off. He would have no distractions, he decided as he considered the young woman he meant to have, even at the risk of his own life.

The fire in the huge hearth burned low, sending lonely shadows jumping across the empty hall. Neither of the women spoke as he scraped back his chair then moved toward them. The young one stared at him with eyes round with dread. The old one glared her loathing and disdain. A perverse thought occurred to him. Could he merge those two into one, he would have Linnea.

That ludicrous idea stopped him in his tracks, but he knew nevertheless that it was truth. The breathtaking beauty of one coupled with the unquenchable spirit of the other. Without that spirit, this Beatrix was nothing like the woman he’d wed.

And yet, this pale, frightened creature was the one he
must
have.

Ruthlessly he quashed any memory of Linnea. “Will you be a faithful wife, standing with me, though it be against the rest of your family?”

“’Tis a question with no point,” the old woman snapped. “She will not have to stand with you against—”

BOOK: The Maiden Bride

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