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.
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 hopefu
lly 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.
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—”
“No! No,” Linnea countered, holding onto her sister’s arm. “You shouldn’t go out into the bailey alone, not with all those men.”
“Norma will be with me.” Beatrix looked over at their nurse who had lowered herself to a bench and was still breathing hard.
“No, Norma will go with me,” Linnea stated.
“But you heard what grandmother said. You’re to stay here. I’m to go to Maynard.”
But Linnea was determined. As terrified as she was of what she would find outside—both the bloodthirsty invaders as well as her brother’s physical condition—she was even more terrified of the thought of Beatrix having to deal with them. “Maynard will be bleeding,” she said, speaking quickly before she lost her nerve. “You know I’m much less squeamish than you. ‘Tis better if I go.” Besides, this is my only chance to show grandmother that it’s not my fault. If I can save Maynard …
“But what if he dies?” Beatrix asked in a trembling whisper, somehow knowing Linnea’s thoughts.
Linnea didn’t want to think about that. “Come with me, Norma. We must hurry. Quick, Bea. Change gowns with me, then lock yourself inside here and do not open that door save for one of your family.”
Beatrix hesitated a moment, and Linnea knew why. They’d not switched identities in many a year—not since their mother had died and their grandmother had forbidden the childish prank. The one time since then that they’d done it, they’d been severely punished—or at least Linnea had been. But finally Beatrix nodded, afraid, but willing as ever to go along with one of Linnea’s outrageous plans.
It had always been thus. Linnea reckless and daring; Beatrix cautious and trusting. Linnea didn’t truly mind the punishments she earned when they were for some disobedience on her part—and she didn’t mind when Beatrix never suffered such punishments, for she knew Beatrix only came along because Linnea coerced her. No, it was only the unfair punishments she resented: being ostracized from her own family; not being loved as much; never having any of the fineries Beatrix was given.
Linnea peeled off her own plain kirtle of faded plunkett cloth. It boasted neither braid nor embroidered trim. The gown she received from Beatrix, however, was bias cut from a fine weave of double twill kersey in a rich forest green. Gold braid circled the neck hole and ran partway down the front of the bodice. A narrow leather girdle worked in a continuing design of Celtic knots and mythical beasts went around her waist. She slipped the beautiful garment over her coarse chemise, for a moment forgetting the circumstances that forced them to chance this exchange of identities. She could almost believe she was the first daughter when she wore such a lovely gown—and it was far from the finest of Beatrix’s gowns. But Beatrix’s meanest gown was better than Linnea’s best.
Linnea smoothed her hands down the skirt, then looped the girdle around her waist. Only when she pulled her thick plait out of the neck hole and looked over at Beatrix did reality once more intrude.
Was that how she looked in her plain garments? No, it could not be and for a moment she feared her ruse would fail. For even in such drab work clothes, Beatrix was still beautiful. Everyone would see through their deception.
“Lord, ha’ mercy,” Norma muttered just then, staring from one to the other of her charges. “If it weren’t for that birthmark setting the two of you apart …”
She trailed off, but Linnea felt better for her words. Maybe the differences between her and her sister were not as obvious to others as they were to her.
“Don’t be forgettin’ the keys,” Norma said, but in a whisper, as if she feared the walls would reveal their deception. Did she dread Lady Harriet’s wrath, or that of de la Manse, Linnea wondered. A shiver of misgiving slid up her own spine. She could as well ask that question of herself.
“Be careful, dear sister,” Beatrix pleaded, catching Linnea close in a fierce hug. “Tell our brother that I pray for him. And hurry back.”
Linnea and Norma descended the curving stone stairs, holding hands for mutual support. There was something profoundly different about Maidenstone Castle in the air. Even if the scent of smoke had not lingered and Linnea had witnessed none of this day’s dreadful events, she would yet sense the change in her home. Some tension thrummed through the very walls. Some terrible anxiety. And the sounds—they were all wrong. Too many male voices. No female ones.
Where were all the women?
They slowed even more as they rounded the last few steps. Norma hung back, unable to disguise her fear. Linnea wanted to hang back too. But just the thought of Maynard suffering more with every moment she delayed was enough to propel her forward, dragging the reluctant Norma along through the low stone arch that led into the great hall.
She spied the boy first, that damnab
le de la Manse stripling. He stood with three other men, brawny knights all, and looked the dwarf by comparison. Linnea’s nostrils flared with dislike. Who was he to steal their very home from them?
As if he felt the pure venom in her glare, the boy twisted his head, and across the room their gazes met in fiery collision.
A pox on you and all of your line, she silently cursed him.
But his response was to unexpectedly grin, then tug on the sleeve of the tallest of the three knights. When the knight bent slightly down to hear the boy’s words, Linnea felt a new frisson of fear. The group of them had been speaking to her father, she could now see, and her grandmother stood just beyond them too. But now everyone’s attention was focused on her. Though she could not hear the exchange between man and boy, Linnea knew it concerned her—or rather who she appeared to be. It was only the reminder that she might be saving Beatrix from unwonted attention that gave her the courage to carry on with her charade.
“We’d best hurry,” she muttered to Norma. They turned to the left, sidling along the rough stone wall toward the door that led to the kitchen and the stillroom beyond the herb garden. But before they could reach the steel-banded door and freedom, they were blocked by the boy and the huge wolfhound he held by its collar.
“Beatrix de Valcourt?” he asked with more hauteur than the king himself could possibly possess. “Are you Edgar de Valcourt’s daughter?”
Linnea drew herself up. Her heart thudded with both fear and hatred, but she did not at once reply. She could not. She was too frantically searching her mind for the right thing to say.
She must lie, of course. That was the whole point of her disguise, to protect Beatrix from these horrible men who’d invaded their home. But between her debilitating fear of them and her outrage, she could hardly think what best to say.
The Maiden Bride Page 3
