“I have prayed more hours than I can say …” The rest of her words were lost when he wrapped her in his arms.
“You are home now. Your prayers have been answered.”
They drew apart and the Lady Mildred stared up at her warrior son. “’Twas not for Maidenstone that I prayed, but for you and Peter. Never forget that.” Then her eyes turned to Linnea, and in the awkward silence both Axton and Peter followed her gaze.
Linnea stared back at the woman who she knew must detest the thought that her son had wed a daughter of de Valcourt. The fact that she would detest even more the deception that daughter played brought an unpalatable lump of shame into Linnea’s throat.
“I take it you have met Lady Beatrix,” Axton said.
Lady Mildred nodded. She looked up at her son without speaking, but Linnea heard all her unspoken questions. So, apparently, did Axton, for he gestured for Linnea to approach them.
“I know my hasty marriage has come as a surprise to you. But there will be no question of property ownership now. No matter the agreement Stephen and Henry ultimately make, Maidenstone will remain ours. My marriage to Beatrix ensures it.” He caught Linnea’s hand in his and drew her even nearer. “I am well pleased with her as my wife. When you have time to know her, I hope you will be equally pleased for me.”
To her credit, the Lady Mildred gave Linnea a strained smile. But she did not move to greet her more warmly. She had passed on to Peter his blue eyes, Linnea saw. And to Axton his straight, proud nose. She was not a beautiful woman, but no doubt she’d been very handsome in her youth. Now, though, her face was tired and lined, and she looked beaten down as much by the unsettling news of her son’s marriage as by anything else that had happened to her in the past eighteen years.
Linnea tried to smile. “If I can provide you with anything else—”
“There is no need.” Lady Mildred forestalled any further offers from Linnea. “This chamber is quite adequate.” The older woman drew a deep breath, as if she did marshal her energy. “Ah, here are my maid and my trunk. If I may be allowed a few hours respite?”
Linnea took her cue and backed away. Though Axton and Peter did not linger above stairs much longer than she, Linnea was nonetheless aware that she was excluded from the most important discussions within the de la Manse family. No doubt Axton had much to answer for to his mother. Despite her restraint, it was plain she did not approve of the woman he’d wed, and for some perverse reason, that troubled Linnea mightily. It should not. But it did.
But then, everything was perverse about her situation, most especially her own reaction to it. To try to make sense of it only muddled things worse, for the fact was, she wanted her enemies to approve of her, while at the same time, she was beginning not to care whether her own family did or not … If it were not for her sister—
The thought of Beatrix stopped her cold. It always came back to her. Beatrix was the one person in the world who loved Linnea and always had. Axton and Peter might be coming to accept her presence in their lives. Their mother might conceivably do so as well someday. But it was Beatrix who actually loved her, and whom she loved.
She stared across the great hall that bustled now with dinner preparations. The tables were being assembled and the benches put in place. Two boys filled dozens of ewers with wine and centered them, two to a table.
As children she and Beatrix had played and teased each other and daydreamed in this room. They’d huddled beneath the tables and chased one another between them. As they’d grown, they’d carried their adventures into the bailey and further, into every crack and crevice of the castle. There was no escaping the fact that she was half of Beatrix and Beatrix was half of her—and also that after Maynard, Maidenstone Castle should go to Beatrix.
It would have been best if the real Beatrix had married Axton. Linnea could see that now. But it was too late for that. She must protect Beatrix and allow her to make a marriage that would win back her birthright for her, even if that birthright conflicted with the birthright Axton felt he held.
But she could not care about Axton, not when it came to Beatrix. This was all about Beatrix, she reminded herself, and she must keep that uppermost in her mind.
It was all about Beatrix, the sister she loved.
Chapter 14
Linnea sought out her father. Beatrix and Lady Harriet were gone. Maynard clung but barely to life. That left Sir Edgar, changed though he was, as her only link to the de Valcourt line.
She found him in the stables watching the farrier tend to the shoeing of the great destriers the knights rode in battle. In the scant week since they’d been overrun by Axton and the de la Manse forces, her father had seemed to become another man entirely. He was shrunken somehow, much like Maynard. She knew that Sir Edgar’s affliction was not of the body, however, but rather of the soul. Maynard fought to live, only his body betrayed him. But her father had somehow lost his will to live, and his body was succumbing to the inner sickness of it.
She steeled herself to be strong, as much for him as for herself. “Father, I have been looking for you. I would talk with you a while.”
At first he seemed not to hear. He only stared at the farrier, watching as the man steadied one massive forefoot between his thighs and picked out pebbles and flint and any other debris that might cause injury to the beast. When the farrier paused and slanted her an understanding look, however, Sir Edgar seemed to come out of his trance.
“Beatrix?” He peered at her, squinting from beneath his bushy gray brows. “Beatrix?” he repeated, as if he were enormously relieved to see her. “Something is wrong. Derek will not saddle Vasterling for me. I would ride but he says I may not.”
“I’m certain he is only following orders,” Linnea murmured, shooting Derek a concerned glance.
“But I order him to let me ride,” her father retorted petulantly. “I order him to saddle my horse.”
“But Derek’s orders from Lord Axton are to keep you within the castle.” Linnea took his arm and steered him away from the farrier’s sympathetic gaze. She’d come to her father for comfort, but she knew now that it was only foolish hope that had brought her here. He did not have the means to comfort her when it was he himself who needed comfort. Still, she would not abandon him to his increasing confusion, nor allow it to make of him a public spectacle.
“But I am lord here!” he argued, jerking his arm from her hold. “My word is law at Maidenstone!”
Several servants in the yard turned at the sound of his angry voice. Linnea grabbed him again, and this time she made him face her.
“You are no longer lord here, Father. Try to remember,” she pleaded. “Axton de la Manse has reclaimed his childhood home and I am now wed with him—”
“Beatrix? You are Beatrix?”
Linnea caught her breath in sudden terror. Her father was staring at her in renewed confusion, while beyond him the farrier watched the exchange. The alewife and her helper paused in the yard at the commotion and two knights and several squires were watching them also. Linnea could not think, she was so unnerved by his unexpected words.
“You are my daughter—”
“Of course I am,” Linnea interrupted him. “I am Beatrix. This is Maidenstone Castle, and—” Her mind raced for a way to divert him. “And Maynard, your son, is sorely wounded. Don’t you remember, Father?”
Linnea’s heart pounded an uneven rhythm as he stared at her. She was causing him pain, she knew. Reminding him of everything he’d lost, most especially his beloved son and heir. But she simply could not risk him blurting out the truth about who she was. Still, it cut her to the core to see his confusion give way to painful remembrance. The anguish that came over his face was as grievous as a mortal blow might be.
“Beatrix,” he mumbled, and his eyes clouded as he tried to remember everything. “For a moment I thought you were—”
“She is gone away,” Linnea interrupted him before he could say her true name out loud. “She left before … before
the castle was besieged. I am Beatrix,” she lied to her father, whispering now, so none of the onlookers could hear. “I am Beatrix. You and I and Maynard must cling to one another now, for we are all we have left of our family.”
The resistance left him like red wine gushing from a ripped wineskin. He deflated. His chest sagged and his head sank deeper between his shoulders. “We’ve lost everything, haven’t we?” He looked up at her like a child might, searching for comfort and reassurance. Only she had none to offer.
The same despair that had turned him from a blustering lord with a proud history of accomplishments, into a broken old man, bereft of all hope, swept over her now, robbing her of what little confidence she had. She’d come to him, needy in spirit, only to find him far more needy than she.
“Come along, Father,” she murmured, past the knot of emotions in her throat. “Let us go and sit with Maynard. He needs our prayers, I fear. Come along.”
He followed her without resistance, like a forlorn child would. Linnea guided him toward the keep, beyond which was the priest’s chamber where Maynard lay. But as they mounted the steps, the door swung open and they came face-to-face with Axton.
His eyes caught with hers and held for one long, fleeting moment. Then his gaze switched to her father, and Linnea saw them darken with dislike. Not dislike, she immediately amended. Hatred.
“Where are you going?” He crossed his arms and stared down at them, his body rigid and his expression grim.
Linnea felt her father’s arm tense beneath her hand. He might not have recalled their circumstances just moments ago, but it was clear he was remembering now. “We are going to see my brother,” she answered Axton, hoping to get past him before her father said anything.
Axton studied her a moment. “He may no longer have the freedom of the castle,” he stated, indicating her father with a jerk of his head.
She stared at him incredulously. “Are you saying he may not visit his own son?”
“I would not have my mother upset by the sight of the man who did rob her of her home and husband and sons.”
The sharp retort she wanted to make died unsaid. What argument was she to make against that? That his mother should not blame her father for the disruption of her life? That the woman should simply have adjusted to her circumstances? That she should not hate him and be forever pained by the very sight of him?
It was the sad state of the human race to always covet what others had and to hate those who coveted what you had. Axton had taken Maidenstone from her father. Her father had taken it from Axton’s father. No doubt Axton’s father had taken it from someone else—
“How did your family come by this castle?”
He frowned at her unexpected question and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “My grandfather received it from William Rufus.”
“As a reward?”
“He saved his life during the campaigns in Normandy before the First Crusade.”
“Who was lord here before him? Before your grandfather?”
He nodded then, as if he understood the direction of her thoughts. His expression lifted into a faint smile, but he was plainly not amused. “This castle was but a motte and bailey fortress then.”
“But it had a lord, did it not? A man with a family who claimed it as his home.”
“He was a traitorous fool. But that is of no moment. Maidenstone is mine, and my word is law. Keep him away from my mother, for if he upsets her, I will have no choice but to confine him in the donjon!”
Her father had not said a word during the exchange between the two. But at Axton’s icy threat, Sir Edgar fell back a step.
“What do you here? I hold the demesne in the name of my liege lord, Stephen of Blois, King of England—”
“He won’t be king for long!” Axton advanced on Sir Edgar as if he meant to murder him right there.
Without pausing to think, Linnea stepped between them, pressing her hands against Axton’s chest. He grabbed her by the upper arms as if to thrust her aside. But she clung to him, demanding he hear her out.
“Please, Axton. Do not punish him. I beg you!”
His hands gripped her with bruising strength as he glared over her head at her father. To his credit, however, he did not push her aside or advance any farther toward Sir Edgar.
“Henry will be king of England soon enough. I suggest you bow to the inevitable, old man. Henry holds England and I hold Maidenstone. And your daughter,” he added. He drew Linnea up against him, encircling her in a familiar and intimate embrace.
Caught as she was in Axton’s unyielding hold, Linnea could not see her father’s reaction. But even she could not have imagined the violence of it.
“Unhand her!” Sir Edgar roared. “Remove your foul hand from my daughter!”
“No!” Linnea clung to Axton, certain he would strike her father down. “He’s not right in his mind. He doesn’t understand—”
It was her father who flung her aside. She stumbled and fell down the several steps to the ground. But she was oblivious to the sharp pain in her knee or the burning scrape to the heel of her hand. She had to save her father from Axton.
“I will strike you down!” Sir Edgar screamed his challenge. “I will skewer you—have you drawn and quartered! Mount your head on a pike!”
Linnea scrambled up only to be lifted upright by Axton. “Are you all right?” he asked in a taut voice. His eyes scanned her swiftly.
“Don’t you touch her!” Sir Edgar shrieked.
One of Axton’s men came up, hand on the hilt of his sword. Everyone in the bailey had halted their activities and stared now in morbid fascination at the confrontation between the old lord and the new one.
Axton handed Linnea into his man’s care, then turned to face the ranting man behind him. Linnea saw his lethal calm, and she knew her father was in the greatest danger of his life. What did she achieve to save Maidenstone for Beatrix if she could not save her father’s very life?
She jerked away from the man who tried to support her and reached Axton on the fourth step. Her father was one step up, but Axton’s greater height put their faces on the same level.
“Don’t hurt him!”
“Stay out of this,” Axton ordered.
“He doesn’t understand!”
“He issued a challenge to me. And I am more than ready to meet it.”
“I am lord here!” Sir Edgar bellowed, adding more fuel to the fire. His face had turned an ugly color; his eyes bulged and the veins stood out on his neck.
He had gone mad, Linnea realized. He must have, to confront Axton so. Still, she could not abandon him to her husband’s furious temper.
“Axton. Listen to me. I beg you!”
The two men were but inches apart. Only her arm across Axton’s chest stood between them, and it was little enough barrier. She could feel the tension in him, the stiffness, the taut readiness to strike out at his enemy.
“Begone, daughter—”
“Be quiet, Father!” she snapped back at him. With her other hand she pushed him back from Axton, and to her surprise, he did not resist. She squeezed between them once more. “Father, do you forget that Sir Axton is lord here now? That he is my husband? I cannot have you quarreling with my husband—” She broke off when she saw his scowl give way to confusion and then to a terrible sort of sadness. The very hopelessness of it hurt her to look at. He was her father, and though she’d always known she was the most insignificant of his children, she owed him her life—both the creation of it and the preservation of it. She’d heard the stories of her birth—how her grandmother had demanded that the second babe be killed and her father had prevented it.
She blinked back tears. It was hard to witness his terrible decline now. “Father, this does none of us any good. Let me take you to your chambers.”
He was trembling, his whole body quivering as if at any moment he would shatter apart. The violent anger of before seemed to have become instead a violent sort of sorrow, a self-consuming misery
that she could not save him from. He turned toward the keep as if to mount the steps and go to the lord’s chamber.
“This way, Father,” she whispered, past the emotions that seized her chest and caught in her throat. She caught his hand in hers. “This way.”
She guided him to go down the steps. As they passed Axton, she paused and looked up at him. His expression was hard, like hewn granite, and terrifyingly easy to read. He’d wanted to fight her father. He still did. He wanted his enemy dead.
“Axton,” she murmured, meeting the awful opaqueness of his pale eyes. She started to place her palm on his chest, but her father pulled on her other hand and the moment passed. At least he’d spared her father’s life, she thought as she proceeded with her father to the chapel and the priest’s chamber. He could have had him killed but he did not.
Someone called out for everyone to disperse. Sir Reynold, she thought. The clusters of onlookers began to break up, though the stunned castlefolk stared as she and her father passed.
Where Axton went she did not know. What he did, how he felt—all those things she could only wonder about as she settled her father in a corner of the chapel. He leaned heavily against one of the stone pillars and covered his face with his hands. If he cried, he did it silently.
Linnea did not face the altar. She went instead to the wall niche that held a painted wood statue of the Holy Mother, knelt before it, and began to pray.
I don’t know what to do. Please guide me. Help me. Tell me what to do about my father—and about my husband, who is not truly my husband at all.
Axton strode to the tilting yard. No one spoke to him or hailed him or came anywhere near him. Fury emanated from him in waves—steaming, frigid—and no one would dare come near it.
He had needed to strike someone down, to spill blood and find a release for his rage in raw, brutal battle. But he had no battle, save with an old man he could not justify killing, no matter how desperately he wanted to. He had no opponent to face this day, to vent his seething anger upon. Even in his fury he knew better than to call for one of his men to practice with him. He might not be able to control himself.
The Maiden Bride Page 20
