What she wanted to tell the impertinent pup was to go eat pig dung and then hang himself from the gate tower. But would Beatrix say that? Beatrix would never call him a spindly legged bastard, or vow to cut off his ballocks while he slept. No, Beatrix would be cool and aloof, and always behave as a lady, far too grand for the mere likes of him.
“Well?” he demanded, taunting her now. “Swallowed your tongue, have you?”
I’ll cut yours out and feed it to that dog of yours, she thought. But outwardly she only lifted her chin a notch. “I am Lady Beatrix,” she stated in the frostiest tone she could manage. She looked down her nose at him, as if he were no more than a disgusting hearth beetle she debated stepping upon.
“Lady Beatrix,” he repeated. But he stretched it out in a drawl that made it sound more an insult. “Well, Lady Beatrix, if you would be so good as to join us.” He indicated the waiting cluster of people with an exaggerated sweep of his arm.
Without replying to him, Linnea turned to face the little group. Elsewhere in the hall, the milling crowd had gone still and silent. Though the villagers had been herded out, most of the castle folk remained, grouped together in anxious knots. And everywhere the heavily armed de la Manse army lent an unrealistic look to the hall.
Her father stared at her with an expression she could not decipher. Defeated? Hopeful? Old, she decided. He looked old, older even than his own mother.
Lady Harriet stared too, but her expression was easier to read. She was consumed by wrath at what was happening to them. But she was also proud of her granddaughter. The old woman raised her chin to a haughty angle, as if to send Linnea a signal, and Linnea responded with the same gesture.
It worked! She thinks I’m Beatrix too. They all do! That knowledge gave Linnea more courage than anything else. She would make them proud of her. Just see if she didn’t.
She stalked across the hall, her head high and her spine straight, aware that every eye followed her progress. But it was her grandmother she kept her gaze upon and drew strength from. Hard and superstitious she might be, but she had the bravery of ten men. And so would Linnea.
“My lord,” the boy began, addressing the tall knight he’d spoken to before. “I present to you the Lady Beatrix de Valcourt.” His imp’s grin swung from the towering, sober-faced warrior to her. “This is Axton de la Manse—son of Allan de la Manse—now restored to his rightful title as lord of Maidenstone Castle.”
Lord of Maidenstone Castle? Linnea’s eyes widened as she stared up at the man. He would be lord here, not this arrogant boy? Somehow that made their situation even more desperate. Axton de la Manse was a man of war, proclaimed as much by the great sword that hung at his hip as by his fierce visage and ruthless expression. God have mercy, but this boded ill. He looked as lief to crush them as anything else.
In truth his appearance was no different from that of the two men who flanked him. But even though all three of them scrutinized her with gazes cold and assessing, it was his eyes she felt. Only his. Cold and gray, they were. Hard as the stone walls of Maidenstone itself. They moved over her, head to toe, with a slow thoroughness that was completely unnerving, and entirely too bold. She knew what that look meant, and it brought a hot blush to her cheeks. But that served, fortunately, to send a jolt of pure fury through her.
Impudent knave!
“Lady Beatrix. Your eldest daughter?” He directed this at her father.
“Aye, Beatrix is my daughter …”
“And yet unmarried?” de la Manse interrupted, his voice pitched low. But that deep rumble commanded every ear in the hall, and every eye watched as he turned back to study Linnea once more.
No one answered his question. That was answer enough, though, judging by the smirk that spread over the boy’s face. He must be a younger brother, Linnea realized, finding it easier to look at him than at the formidable knight. But she knew that Axton de la Manse was her real enemy here, not this boy.
And there was only one reason he would inquire about her marital state. She drew her shattered nerves around her as best she could.
“Faith, sir, but I would see to my brother. If it please you,” she added in a cool tone that she prayed hid the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. He wondered if she were married because if not, he would quickly arrange a marriage for her—that is, for Beatrix. And most likely to himself!
He did not bother to answer her request, but only shrugged and turned back to her father and his previous conversation.
Impudent knave! she thought again. Craven varlet, to imply what he did, then dismiss her so rudely! At the same time, however, Linnea was so overcome with relief not to be the focus of his attention that she could not move. She let out the breath she’d held and her gaze darted to her grandmother’s face. But the reassurance she sought was not to be found there. For her grandmother’s expression was almost as stricken as her father’s.
Lady Harriet knew as well as everyone else in the hall precisely what that inquiry meant, and her fear confirmed it for Linnea. That man meant to marry Beatrix—that man who’d helped defeat Stephen’s army and had crushed Maynard’s forces. He meant to strengthen his claim to Maidenstone by marrying poor Beatrix, the eldest daughter.
It was Norma’s sharp tug on her trailing sleeve that finally started Linnea moving again. With the maid pulling her along, they made their stumbling way through the tense crowd of onlookers. Only when the door closed with a dull thud behind them and they had reached the relative shelter of the little stillroom, did Linnea allow herself to even think the unthinkable.
He meant to marry her—that is, he meant to marry Beatrix.
Thank God she was not really Beatrix!
But that swift surge of relief just as swiftly turned into guilt. Poor Beatrix.
“What will we be needin’?” Norma asked. “Sorrel, of course. And camphor?”
Linnea frowned and beat down her fears for both herself and her twin. “Yes, and willow bark and linden ointment to keep the wounds clean. And perhaps Maybush to calm him. Oh, and we’ll need shepherd’s knot to make a cleansing wash.”
They gathered up the appropriate vials and jugs and pouches while Linnea tried to anticipate everything they might need, including a needle and cord to stitch any gaping wounds closed. There was a comfort to be had in the familiarity of the stillroom—the narrow shelves of supplies; the dusty smell of the small locked room.
But there was no time to linger in the respite it offered. Though the outside world had turned upside down, Linnea knew she could not avoid it. She must see to Maynard first, then she would deal with Beatrix and the terrible fate that awaited her sister. She simply could not think about Beatrix’s plight right now, not and keep her wits about her too.
They found Maynard in a corner of the barracks, lying on a hard pallet on the ground, with only his squire and the stable marshal beside him. The boy had fetched water already and the marshal had cut Maynard’s clothing away from his wounds. But beyond that, and offering him some water to drink, nothing had been done for him.
Blood caked his body in black and muddied crusts. Flies droned in the open barracks, only waved off her brother’s brutalized body by the vacant-eyed squire.
“Move aside,” Norma ordered the two men as she set their basket of supplies down. Then she looked over at Linnea, her normally placid face grim. “’Tis bad,” she whispered, as if to hide the fact from the battered man who lay senseless between them.
It was bad, Linnea agreed. Near unto being hopeless. But he yet lived. His chest rose in a shallow and uneven rhythm, and any bleeding had been temporarily halted by the thick crusts of dried blood.
Unfortunately, that dirty crust had to be washed away.
“Hold his legs, in the event he flails around,” Linnea ordered the stable marshal as she tried to think how best to proceed. She’d always had an affinity for healing, but never had she dealt with such severe wounds alone. She looked at the squire whose eyes were round as saucers. “Frayne, you sit at
his head,” she told the lad. Then she and Norma began their gruesome task.
His right arm was broken, horribly so. The two bones of his forearm jutted right out through the skin, but at least it was not a killing wound. In addition, a huge bruise blackened his brow and one of his eyes had swollen shut. With a head wound she knew you could never be certain. Prayers and a poultice for the swelling were her only choice there.
But the horrendous gash in his right side …
“Took a lance, right through his mail. Unhorsed him,” the squire said in short mutters. His lips thinned and trembled, as if the battle replayed itself in his mind’s eye.
Linnea pressed her own lips together, trying to ignore the hideous picture that rose in her mind. Fighting. Cursing. Blood and screams of unimaginable pain. Men falling and dying.
She had never liked her brother, but he had fought for them this day, for all of them, including her. She refused to let him die. She would make him live!
But the horror of it all threatened to undo her. In desperation she searched for the strength she knew only anger would bring.
“Who did this to him? Did you see it happen? Can you identify the villain who has mutilated him so?”
“Oh, aye. ’Twas himself. The new lord.”
Linnea looked up, and her hands stilled at their painstaking task of cleaning Maynard’s torn chest. The new lord. Axton de la Manse. That meant the sword that had hung at his hip … A shudder of horror rushed over her. He’d almost killed Maynard. Now he would wed Beatrix. Surely God would not allow this to happen!
Then she pinned the squire with a cold stare, for he seemed almost in awe of the man who had tried to kill his lord. “The day will come when Maynard shall have his revenge,” she swore, hot for vengeance herself. “He shall strike that blackguard down—”
“Beg pardon, Lady Beatrix, but that ‘un, he’s powerful strong. ’Tisn’t likely any of Maidenstone’s knights could unseat him.”
If it weren’t for the fact that Maynard jerked—she’d cleaned past the filthy crust, down to the torn flesh itself—Linnea would have boxed Frayne’s ears. How dare he extol that pitiless monster’s skills! How dare he speak of the man as if he actually admired the marauding knave!
For the next few minutes they were far too busy to talk. Maynard was not awake, not in the truest sense of the word. But he was not asleep either, and the four of them had all they could do to hold him steady while Linnea tended to his wounds. She swabbed his side with the wash of shepherd’s knot, then smeared the ointment of willow and linden on it before binding the whole of it with cloth. She would stitch it later. For now it was enough to clean him and stop the bleeding.
His poor, mutilated arm was next, and Linnea had to fight down an overpowering urge to retch as she studied it. Norma cleaned the torn skin and removed splinters of bone while Linnea tried to think out what they must do.
To remove the arm was out of the question. She simply could not do such a thing. Besides it could heal. Couldn’t it?
She set her jaw against any hint of uncertainty. “Norma and Frayne, you two must hold his shoulder still. Sit on him if you must, but keep him still. Marshal, you must pull his wrist—no matter how he screams in pain. You must pull straight out while I position the ends of the bones back together again.”
Simple to say, but it was an ungodly task they’d been given. Maynard screamed. He lurched up on the pallet as if jerked upward by a rope. Norma and young Frayne, both with tears of fright streaming down their faces, fought him back down onto the floor, while the marshal pulled, curses and prayers spitting one after another from his mouth.
Everything inside Linnea revolted against what she did to Maynard. But she forced herself beyond her limits to do it anyway. Blood poured anew from the aggravated wound, covering her hands and making her fingers slick. But still she tugged his skin up and forced the bones back into his arm. Her fingers were inside his very flesh and yet she refused to stop. If she stopped she would never be able to start again. If she paused even a fraction of a second, she would fall completely to pieces.
Then the bone fragments met with a little click that she felt, more than heard. She slid one finger around that bone, feeling the hard, uneven crack. By the grace of God the second bone was easier. She knew, however, that his arm would never be perfect, for pieces of the bones were gone. But it was the best she could do, she told herself.
As she carefully removed her fingers, folding the torn muscle and skin back into place, she suddenly realized he’d stopped screaming. She heard Frayne’s soft sobs and the stable marshal’s labored breathing. Norma was muttering under her breath, “Pater noster, que es in coelis …” the only prayer she knew in Latin. But Maynard was as still as death.
“He’s fainted,” Norma said when Linnea’s fingers paused uncertainly. “Best we hurry now.”
How they managed the rest Linnea could not say. While the marshal and Norma put a splint on the arm to keep the bones fixed in place, Linnea stitched the skin closed and smeared more of the ointment on it. Then they removed the wrappings that covered his chest wound and she stitched it closed too.
Through it all, Maynard remained insensible, breathing shallowly and none too regularly. But he did breathe. Finally they rebound his chest with fresh cloth packed with more of the ointment.
His broken head was last, for Linnea knew there was precious little she would be able to do for that. There was a small depression in the bone just above his left eye, near to his temple. Swelling hid any other damage, however. The few stitches she took in his brow might make for a prettier scar than if she left it to heal on its own. But Linnea feared that scars were the least of her brother’s worries.
Needles of pain sliced up and down her back by the time her task was completed, and she was filthy with blood and straw and her own sweat when she finally stood up. For a blinding moment she swayed, and only Frayne’s quick hold on her arm saved her from keeling over in front of them all.
“Well done, milady,” the boy said. This time the awe in his voice was for her.
“Aye, well done, indeed,” the stable marshal echoed.
Linnea wanted to believe so. But she knew enough of healing to know that her neat stitches ensured nothing. He might live. But the awful truth was that he would more likely die.
Norma covered Maynard with a length of sheeting as well as a blanket, then approached Linnea. “We’d best return to the hall. Lady Beatrix,” she added.
Linnea blinked. Oh, yes. She was Beatrix. She’d almost forgotten. Yes, they’d better return to the solar where the real Beatrix awaited them.
But before they could depart, a commotion started farther down the long barracks building.
“Where is he?” Lady Harriet’s voice carried angrily to them. Then she and Sir Edgar burst into their little circle, followed by Father Martin, Ida, and the seneschal Sir John. Four-men-at-arms, unsmiling and wearing the device of de la Manse, followed behind them.
Linnea drew back as her grandmother and father fell to their knees beside the pale form of Maynard.
“He lives. He lives,” Lady Harriet repeated over and over. “He lives!”
“Milady Beatrix has saved our young lord,” the stable marshal said. “She has repaired his arm and stitched his wounds—”
“His sword arm,” Sir Edgar muttered. “Will he ever fight again?” He looked up at Linnea.
She shook her head. “I don’t know, Father. I don’t know. I can’t even promise that he will live,” she added in the barest whisper.
“Oh, he’ll live. He’ll live,” Lady Harriet vowed. The look she gave Linnea was fierce, but it was also sure. And proud. Proud of Linnea!
The old woman rose slowly, holding hard onto Ida’s sturdy arm. But her hawklike gaze remained on her granddaughter. “Ever have I known that you were blessed. From the moment of your birth have I known it. And now, this day, you have saved Maynard.”
She opened her arms to her granddaughter, and though Linnea hesita
ted, she was not strong enough to resist—nor to confess.
She was not Beatrix, but oh, how she wished she was as she went into her grandmother’s arms. To be so loved. To be so valued!
Then, ashamed of her envy and her fears—and of how much she needed her grandmother’s approval—she burst into tears.
Chapter 3
Axton de la Manse sat in the ornately carved lord’s chair and surveyed Maidenstone’s great hall. He remembered it as much larger—longer, wider, and with towering ceilings held up by massive beams. He remembered a sea of long plank tables and stoutly made benches. He and William had fought many a battle across those tables, as well as under them. Some had been long-simmering battles, fought with mock weapons against imaginary enemies. Others had been brief but intense brawls, brother pitted against brother for some insult or slight or other childish infraction.
He’d never bested William. Not back then, anyway. William had been a head taller, two stone heavier, and four years wiser. Yves had also been older and taller. But he’d never been much of a fighter, even as a boy. How many times had Yves retreated up the stairs to the nursery while William and Axton raged at one another?
Axton winced at the thought. Yves had been given few chances during his short life. He’d have made a better scribe than soldier, a better priest or seneschal. But when Stephen had stolen Britain from Matilda—and de Valcourt had stolen Maidenstone from Allan de la Manse, Yves’ choices had narrowed down to one. He must fight as they’d all had to fight. Fight for their queen. Fight for their country. Fight for their home.
Yves had been the first to die. Then Allan de la Manse, followed shortly thereafter by William. Axton and Peter were all that were left of their family—them and their mother.
But the fighting had ended this day, Axton reminded himself.
He stared blindly across the hall that had managed to shrink during the eighteen years since he’d last set foot in it. The fighting was over, for the de la Manses had returned, and he would never loose his hold on Maidenstone Castle. Never.
The Maiden Bride Page 4
