Lady Harriet stared at her, dislike still evident in her lined face. “Father Martin is of no moment. Leave him to me.”
So it was agreed. As they prepared for the coming confrontation with Axton de la Manse, Linnea immersed herself in the details of their plot. She would continue to nurse Maynard—as Beatrix. She would meet the new lord of Maidenstone as Lady Beatrix, his soon-to-be-bride. She would take her vows to him as Beatrix, and she would go to her marriage bed with Axton de la Manse as Beatrix.
She could take some pleasure from the rest of the deception, some satisfaction at deceiving her family’s vengeful enemy. But to lie with him as his wife … Linnea could feel her heart’s pace increase and her palms grow damp.
No matter how well she played the role of Beatrix, the fact was, the woman who went to his bed would be Linnea.
Only Linnea.
Chapter 4
There was no dinner in the hall the first night, at least not for the de Valcourts and their personal retainers. They kept to their chambers—or rather, they were locked in the two chambers on the top floor of the keep. Sir Edgar, Sir John, and her father’s manservant, Kelvin, occupied the west chamber. Lady Harriet, Norma, Ida, Linnea, and Beatrix crowded into the other chamber. Beatrix had been well disguised as one of Lady Harriet’s personal maids. Sir Reynold, de la Manse’s captain of the guard, had not questioned them at all about her. He’d simply had the rooms searched for weapons, assigned a pair of guards to the top of the stairs, and left. Bread, ale, and a vegetable soup had been provided for them. Then they’d been forgotten.
Below stairs the conquerors celebrated. Linnea could hear the drunken shouts, the raucous laughter. From the window she could see the spillover into the bailey. The villagers had gladly fled back to their homes, and now a veritable army camped in the bailey.
How did the castle folk fare? Linnea wondered. She’d heard tales of war all her life, how the victors robbed and raped whomsoever crossed their paths. Was that happening down there somewhere beyond her view? Was Hilda from the dairy being raped this very minute? Or Mary and Anna, the alewife’s budding young daughters?
She squinted hard into the darkened yard lit here and there with a torch or lantern. But though she searched for signs of violence and mayhem, she saw only soldiers. Drinking; telling tall tales of their exploits; relieving themselves in the shadows; and, as the evening progressed, vomiting in their hastily prepared beds. But she saw no rape and only a scuffle or two among the men themselves.
When she finally slept lying in the window enclosure with her head pillowed on her arms, dawn was already approaching. And when the first streaks of mauve-gold light fell across her face, she came instantly awake and recalled at once everything that had happened the previous day.
So did Lady Harriet, it appeared, for she was already up as well, sitting in a plain oak chair, staring out at nothing. Plotting, no doubt.
“Guard!” she called out, startling Linnea and jerking the others into an uneasy wakefulness. “Guard!”
A bleary-eyed young giant and an older grizzled fellow burst into the room. “What? What is it?”
“’Tis my wish to see my grandson. I would tend his wounds and pray over him. See you obtain an escort for me.”
The older guard scowled at her. “Sir Axton said ye are to stay put.”
“And verily I say that I have much to do this day. Say me this. Does he order his men to practice their superior fighting skills upon old women? Do you slay a one such as me should she choose to visit her dying grandchild?”
Linnea blinked and stared at her grandmother. Her voice still rang with authority, but she also managed to look older than ever—and completely harmless, despite her sarcasm. The guard muttered a moment to his compatriot. Then the younger man left and the remaining guard said, “If milord Axton says you may go, you may go. Otherwise you stay here.”
The young man was back in less than a minute. That must mean Axton de la Manse was nearby—probably ensconced in the lord’s chamber, immediately below this one. Linnea stared down at the well-worn floorboards. Such a very short distance away, sleeping in the bed she must soon share with him.
She swallowed hard and began nervously to finger comb her tangled hair. It had been her idea to marry him, she told herself. It was no more than most women put up with anyway: marriage to a man not of her own choosing, with no right to say no, no power to change her fate.
At least she had chosen to marry him, if this could be termed choosing. Still, that thought brought her no comfort at all.
“He says you may go. I’m to take you meself.”
Lady Harriet nodded like a gracious, though feeble, matriarch. “Come, Beatrix. Come, Norma and Ida … and Dorcas,” she said, using the name they’d given to the real Beatrix. “You too shall attend us.”
“Now hold a minute! You just said you,” the guard protested. “You didn’t say nothin’ about five of you!”
Lady Harriet fixed him with a benign smile. “The Lady Beatrix is healer here. You see in me merely an old woman who would pray over her grandchild. As for the others, had you been raised in a better household, you would know that a lady does not travel without several servants or retainers, even within her own household. Norma, Ida, and Dorcas we take to attend us.”
The fellow scratched his head a moment and frowned. “I dunno.”
“Well, then, why not send down to your master. Again,” Linnea threw in, hoping her voice did not carry too strong a note of hauteur, and hoping also that the man would not want to disturb his liege from his bed another time.
“I dunno,” the older man muttered once more. “What d’you think, Fergie?”
The younger man’s brows raised high. “If you want to ask him, you’ll have to do it. I’ll not be the one aknockin’ on his door again.”
Linnea stifled a smile. Even Lady Harriet seemed marginally pleased when the two men conferred a moment, then waved them forward.
“’Tis my wish to have the priest join with us as well,” Lady Harriet informed the much aggravated guard as they followed him single file down the two curving flights of stairs. “Have a boy fetch Father Martin. Most likely will he be in his quarters next the chapel at this hour, preparing for morning mass.”
There was no conversation after that, only a few indecipherable mutters from the unshaven fellow, and the soft pad of their leather-soled feet on the cold stone steps. Lady Harriet led the way with the real Beatrix close on her heels. Then came Ida, with Linnea and Norma behind. When they passed the second floor, the others hurried by. Not one of them, even Lady Harriet, wished an encounter with Axton de la Manse. Only Linnea paused, just long enough to peek beyond the dim antechamber toward the solid door that gave the lord’s chamber privacy.
He was in there, whether alone or with some poor woman unlucky enough to catch his eye, she could not say. Soon enough, however, she would be the unlucky woman—
“Move along, Linnea—I mean Lady Beatrix,” Norma swiftly corrected herself.
Linnea did not need to be told twice. But before they could begin the descent to the main floor, the door to the lord’s chamber flung wide, and her demon bridegroom emerged.
He was buckling on a wide leather girdle over a red knee-length tunic, so he did not at first see them. When Norma nudged Linnea, however, and they both hurried to catch the others, he looked up sharply.
That was all the glimpse Linnea had of him before the solid walls mercifully blocked her view. But as they flew down the steep steps, then weaved carefully through the throng of soldiers sleeping off the night’s excess in the hall and hurried to the barracks, that one brief glimpse of Axton de la Manse stayed fixed in Linnea’s mind.
Yesterday when she’d first laid eyes on him, he’d been weary and dirty, his cropped hair sweaty and plastered to his skull, his expression triumphant yet nonetheless grim. This morning, however, he was clean and refreshed. His night-dark hair had glinted in the erratic light of the wall-mounted torches. His eyes had been
clear and bright.
He was a reasonably handsome man, she grudgingly admitted. Comely in the hard way some men were wont to be. But he possessed a hardness beyond that even of Maynard. It had sent a shiver of awareness through her that yet lingered in the pit of her stomach. For he had looked precisely as he proclaimed himself to be: Lord of Maidenstone.
And he’d looked at her, in that fleeting exchange, with the confidence of a man who ruled all he saw. Including her.
Especially her.
As if he’d seen beyond her wrinkled gown and inadequate ablutions, he’d marked her with those ice-cold eyes as his. God help her, but before this day was done it would be so!
Her limbs were awkward with fear as she scuttled along the dim barracks corridor behind Lady Harriet. What if he had confronted her then? What if he had addressed her as Beatrix, the woman he meant to wed? With only that one piercing glance he’d left her petrified. What if she had collapsed in fear and admitted the truth?
Linnea paused outside the curtained off area that served as Maynard’s sickroom. You must collect your wits, she told herself. You make more of him than he is. After all, he is only a mortal man. And she was the only chance her family had to hold onto its home. The only chance Beatrix had to keep her safe from that giant of a knight who would use her to guarantee his position at Maidenstone. She, Linnea, the reviled second twin, had been given this opportunity. She was the sole hope of her people now, and she could not let something as paltry as fear sway her in her mission!
“Beatrix. What gains you this delay? Your ailing brother awaits.”
Linnea was slow to respond to her grandmother’s sharp words, for her thoughts were so tangled up in her fear. When Beatrix—that is, Dorcas—tugged at her sleeve, however, she realized with a start that her grandmother was calling to her, the new Beatrix. The Beatrix who must learn to respond faster when addressed by that name.
“Yes, Grandmother. I am here.”
“He lies insensible still. What gave you him that he lies the night through in such a stupor?”
Linnea bent over her brother. Maynard’s eyes were closed, one of them swollen and dark with ugly bruises. As she removed the compress from his head, she could feel the heat that consumed him. “I’ll need water—several buckets—to bathe and cool his body.” As if awaiting any excuse to be away from such depressing surroundings, the squire Frayne, who’d stayed the whole night at his liege lord’s side, jumped from his place in the corner to do her bidding. Linnea began then to check Maynard’s wounded side, but before she could do much, her grandmother’s hand clamped down on her shoulder like a bony claw. “Will he live?”
Linnea looked up from her crouched position next to Maynard. “I hope so,” she said, not nearly as sure as she’d been yesterday. “But he will need our prayers,” she admitted.
It was not the answer the old woman sought, but the timely entrance of Father Martin diverted her attention from Linnea.
Linnea instructed Norma to begin bathing Maynard, exposing only one limb at a time, while she checked his mutilated arm. But she listened as Lady Harriet dealt with the parish priest.
“We are in sore need of your intercession, good Father,” she began. “After you pray over our beloved Maynard, I would have you pray with me in the chapel. Overrun we may be with heathens, but still will I hear my daily mass.”
Father Martin stared at her a long moment. It was clear he sensed some undercurrent in their exchange, but just as clear that he couldn’t determine what it meant. When he spoke, it was slowly, as if he chose his words with care. He was just as unwilling to cross the Lady Harriet as anyone else at Maidenstone.
“As you wish, milady. But … but if I might make a suggestion. Though you do not value her skills as a healer, Linnea might be better—”
“Yes, but she is not here, is she?” Lady Harriet cut him off. She had placed her hand on the priest’s arm, and now she tightened her grip. “Say your prayers anon, then will I accompany you to the chapel. Dorcas, attend me.”
He opened his mouth as if to question her, then abruptly closed it. The guard who’d accompanied them from the keep stood just beyond him, along with two others wearing the red and black of de la Manse. With a carefully blank expression, the priest moved up beside Maynard and placed his hand on the unconscious man’s head.
“In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Santi …”
While Maidenstone’s longtime priest prayed over the castle’s fallen son, Linnea concentrated on the task at hand. But even as she worked, drawing some comfort from the familiar, droning prayer, she chanced a sidelong glance around the small, ill-lit space. Aside from her and Norma, the others in their party had all bowed their heads in prayer, even Frayne. But the soldiers only watched, the three of them staring unblinkingly at her.
Because they think I am Beatrix. Because they know their lord will soon marry me—and bed me.
Her eyes turned in renewed panic toward her sister. Then an even crueler reality struck her. This was the last time she would see her for only God knew how long. Beatrix, whom she’d never been separated from before. Beatrix, who was her sole support, the only person who had ever truly cared for her.
As Father Martin ended his prayer and all the bowed heads raised, an even worse sort of panic seized her.
Don’t go! she wanted to cry. Please, Beatrix, don’t leave me!
As if she heard her sister’s silent plea, the expression on Beatrix’s dirty face mirrored Linnea’s. They were being torn apart and they’d have no chance to say a proper goodbye.
Linnea started to rise, to go to her, but Lady Harriet must have anticipated just such a possibility, for she stepped between the pair, blocking their view of one another. “Whilst you see to our Maynard’s physical needs, Beatrix, Father Martin and I will see to his spiritual ones. Once finished here, come attend me in my chamber.” Then she turned away, and leaning on the maid Dorcas for support, she made her way regally toward the chapel.
Were it possible, the morning proved to be even worse than the day before, Linnea thought as she gathered up the dirty cloths that had bound her brother’s injuries. Yesterday they’d labored under the dark cloud of fear and uncertainty. Today they were immersed in a storm of despair. Linnea could almost envy Maynard his oblivion.
At once she willed her self-pitying thoughts away. To envy poor Maynard! How selfish of her to think her misery worse than his! At least she was healthy and unharmed.
Thank the Lord that his wounds had not festered. But Linnea could take little comfort from that, for he yet remained in a deep sleep. He was also far too warm despite their efforts to cool him. She feared he was more likely to die than to live, though she would admit as much to no one. Mayhap her grandmother’s prayers and Beatrix’s would pull him through.
Where was Beatrix right now? she wondered.
She stretched her back and rolled her aching neck from side to side. Maybe her grandmother would know. “Stay with him at all times, and send for me should he awaken or begin to sweat,” she told Frayne. “I’ll come back later, though I hope to prevail upon this de la Manse to allow Maynard to be nursed in his own bed.”
Frayne did not reply but only glanced warily at the two men who guarded his master. No doubt she should have held her tongue as well, Linnea castigated herself as she and Norma made their way back to the keep. She was three times a fool to speak her mind too plainly in front of his men. But she was too tired and too cross to be cautious.
“’Tis more as it should be out here,” Norma remarked as they came into the bailey. Indeed, as they stared about them it was true. Most of the army and its accoutrements no longer filled the yard to overflowing, though their presence was plainly felt. Still, Iron James worked in the open shed of the armory, sharpening swords and other weapons as he often did. A pair of knights instructed several squires in hand-to-hand combat, and the laundress and her helpers worked over their large wash kettles. A half-grown pup romped good-naturedly behind a furiously hissing
cat.
Linnea rubbed her tired eyes. It was almost as if nothing had happened here yesterday. As if her life had not been shattered apart in one tense afternoon.
Would that it had all been a dream.
But it was no dream. Rather it was a nightmare come fully to life, she realized. For striding along the wall-walk toward the gatehouse was none other than the author of this disaster. Axton de la Manse. He of the two clawing bears. And now he and that awful boy, trailing him like a flea-bitten bear cub, were up there inspecting her family’s castle, with Sir Hugh and two other men accompanying them.
It was an outrage! Worse, though, there was nothing she could do about it—at least not at the moment.
But in the end, once Beatrix was wed to someone willing to challenge de la Manse …
“St. Joseph’s bones,” Norma murmured. “He makes himself quickly to home, doesn’t he? Oh, milady, ’tis hard to think that you and he—”
Linnea cut her off with an impatient oath. “Then don’t think about it. And for mercy’s sake, don’t speak of it, least of all to me!”
Then Linnea sighed. She was behaving like her grandmother, blaming everyone around her for things not within their control. “Forgive me, Norma. You’re in no way to blame for this and I’ve no call to be so sharp with you. Please, let’s just find the Lady Harriet. I won’t feel better until I know Bea—till I know Dorcas is safely away from here.”
Lady Harriet and Lord Edgar sat at an empty trestle table in the hall, taking a late morning meal alone while the servants prepared for the midday meal. When Linnea and Norma joined them, Lady Harriet gestured impatiently for Norma to take some food and then leave. Linnea she drew to sit beside her on the bench.
“He shames us before our own people!” the old woman hissed, though not loud enough for it to carry. “Eating here, below the salt!”
The Maiden Bride Page 6
