The Maiden Bride

by Becnel, Rexanne

  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 sh
e 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.

  “She has corrupted you,” Lady Harriet fumed. She turned to her son, her face livid with her anger. “She has corrupted Beatrix! I told you this would happen, witless man! I warned you that she would one day cause the downfall of this family!”

  “There was no harm done,” Sir Edgar said in the placating tone he so often adopted with his mother.

  “No harm? No harm? What of your son? Did she do him no harm? Do you truly expect him to recover—”

  “You said she did well,” Beatrix countered. “When you thought she was me, you said she’d done well with Maynard—”

  A sharp slap from Lady Harriet cut off Beatrix’s words. In the awful silence that followed, Linnea finally found her tongue.

  “Do not punish her. It was my idea and … and I thought only to protect her from the horror of our brother’s suffering.”

  Lady Harriet turned toward her as if to slap her too. But Linnea stood her ground, her fists clenched in determination. “I healed Maynard, as well as anyone could, given the brutality inflicted upon him by de la Manse. I saved him,” she added, with a confidence she did not feel. “And … and if you would keep Beatrix from this dreadful man who has overrun us, well … I can save her from him too.”

  Linnea hesitated. She must be mad to suggest such a thing! Yet to protect her beloved twin sister—and to earn the gratitude and appreciation of her grandmother and father, and all the beleaguered souls of Maidenstone Castle—she would do anything, she realized. Anything.

  “Let me wed him—as Beatrix. It will weaken his claim to Maidenstone—”

  “No, Linnea!” Beatrix cried. She grabbed her sister’s arms and swung her around to face her. “I cannot allow you to do such a thing.”

  “Be quiet, Beatrix.” Lady Harriet pushed Beatrix back from Linnea, then stared at her younger granddaughter with eyes that had narrowed to slits. “You would marry this man who invades our home. Why?” She grabbed Linnea’s face with a hand that felt like pincers. “What do you hope to gain?”

  Linnea was at a loss for words. How could she ever explain to this woman who refused to believe anything but the worst of her? “I love my sister,” she began.

  “You love your sister,” the old woman sneered. “Better to say you love the idea of becoming mistress here.”

  “No! No, I do this for Beatrix, not myself.”

  Lady Harriet snorted in disbelief. But before the old woman could speak again, Sir Edgar did.

  “‘Tis a good idea,” he admitted. Linnea had not expected any support from him, but she was glad to have it. “’Tis better for all of us that she wed de la Manse,” he continued. “We must save Beatrix for a more worthy man.”

  Lady Harriet shot him a contemptuous look. Then abruptly, her expression turned crafty. Linnea shivered when the old woman’s hard eyes fastened upon her.

  “If she marries him and keeps him happily occupied while Maynard heals … or else dies …” The old woman ignored Edgar’s strangled gasp at that and continued on. “We will still have the ability to find a suitable husband for Beatrix—a strong knight who can then challenge de la Manse’s weakened claim to Maidenstone, and win it back for us.” Lady Harriet smiled, only it did not reassure Linnea at all. She nodded her ancient head. “Yes, Linnea is the last in line to inherit Maidenstone. If de la Manse marries her, his claim will not be so strong. And it will purchase for us the time to plot against him. Besides,” she added, “if he weds her as Beatrix, they will not truly be wed. We can later petition to have the marriage annulled.”

  Linnea stared fearfully at her grandmother. Her grandmother’s sudden glee at this idea had a sobering effect. What had she said? Keep him happily occupied? It struck her now precisely what she’d proposed. Wed this man who’d nearly killed her brother. Share a bed with that towering knight who’d stared at her so coldly, who’d inquired whether she was unmarried. Be a wife to the very beast who sought to steal her home.

  A crushing wave of panic made her legs go weak. If Beatrix had not taken her arm, her knees surely would have buckled.

  “You cannot do this, Linnea. I have benefited so long from being the firstborn of us, and you have suffered for being second. You cannot now step in to take this responsibility that is mine and mine alone.”

  “Why can’t she?” Lady Harriet challenged. “This is her opportunity finally to do something good for this family. To make penance for her corrupt soul. To prove herself once and for all,” she added, as the idea took hold in her mind.

  Be
atrix started to protest again, but Linnea cut her off with a searching look. She did not want to take Beatrix’s place. Not really. The very thought terrified her. But how much worse it would be to let Beatrix go through with it. She knew that she herself could bear it; she wasn’t as certain about her sister. And then there was her grandmother’s point. She could finally prove herself to them. To all of them.

  “Grandmother is right,” Linnea told Beatrix. “Though my suggestion was impulsive, now that Father has explained it all, I’m more determined than ever to go through with it.”

  “But he will—” though Beatrix broke off, Linnea knew what she meant.

  She clenched her teeth. “To share their husband’s bed is something women have borne through the ages. I will bear it.”

  “But … but what if you have his child?”

  “There are ways to prevent that,” Lady Harriet answered brusquely. “Besides, what will it matter if she has a child? Its father will be dead. There will be no need for an annulment and the child can be gotten rid of—sent away,” she amended with an offhanded shrug. “But enough of this debate. There is much we must do if we are to succeed.”

  Without admitting Linnea’s idea was a good one, or that her son’s plan for restoring Maidenstone to their family was sound, Lady Harriet took over the planning of their deception. No one else was to know—save perhaps Norma and Ida. Linnea was to assume Beatrix’s role in everything, while Beatrix was to disappear. They would dress Beatrix as a serving girl, covering her bright hair and dirtying her lovely face. They would employ Father Martin to help remove her from the castle, perhaps to Romsey Abbey on the road to Winchester.

  “Father Martin will not believe that you wish to spirit Linnea away from here,” Linnea pointed out. Though it was strange to think of herself in the third person, it seemed the only logical thing to do. She must become Beatrix now, in what she said and how she behaved. She must be quiet and calm—demure, though it would be nearly impossible.