The Maiden Bride

by Becnel, Rexanne

  A streak of light split the sky, illuminating for just one unearthly moment the view beyond the wet window frame. All was a cold white, a harsh world of unyielding stone and unrelenting storm.

  Why had he thought he could again find a home here?

  He snatched an ewer that sat on a three-legged table, but it was empty. With a cry of frustration, he flung the innocent vessel across the room.

  Damn the bitch! Damn the lying little bitch! And damn her all the more for having made him think that peace and happiness were finally within his grasp!

  He braced himself against the window frame, his arms stiff, his head sagged forward, while his breath came hard and irregular. Damn the bitch, he cursed her once more. But the heat he would have mustered, petered out in his dark and solitary vigil.

  She had sucked him in and he had flung himself headlong into her arms. He had not meant ever to trust any offspring of de Valcourt. But he’d let down his guard and now he did pay the price.

  But never again, he vowed. Never again would he let a woman deceive him. This Beatrix—the real Beatrix—would warm his bed when he desired her. And no doubt if she were twin to the other, he would desire her. But aside from that necessary intimacy, there would be no warmer sentiment between them. He would fight for her, win her, and wed her. And he would keep her thick with child until she had populated the nursery to his satisfaction and was no longer of any use to him.

  But what was he to do with her sister?

  A tentative knock at the door saved him the misery of contemplating that question. “Who is it?” he barked.

  “Your brother.” The door swung open with a reluctant squeal of its wrought-iron hinges.

  The last thing Axton wanted was to discuss this newest of disasters, yet he did not want to send Peter away either. Peter, at least, he could trust. Peter and their mother were the only people who suffered as much loss as he from Beatrix’s —no, she was Linnea. From Linnea’s betrayal.

  He slanted a look at his brother. “You warned me ere I wed her that she was not to be trusted. It seems the younger son is wiser than the elder.”

  Peter did not smile at Axton’s dark jest. “I had rather I had been mistaken,” he replied. “In truth, I had come to like her. And trust her,” he added more quietly.

  “Then we have the both of us been duped.” Axton turned back to the bleak view beyond the narrow stone window.

  Peter picked up the battered ewer and placed it on a slab of stone that protruded from the wall, creating a narrow shelf. “What do you plan?”

  What indeed? “To challenge de Montfort. To defeat him.”

  “What of Beatrix?”

  “Which one?”

  “Well, both of them.”

  Axton felt a surge of anger so intense he could not at first answer. “I would like to strangle them both.” He drew a long breath. “But I won’t. One I will wed. The other …”

  The other would torment him all the days of his life, he feared. “The other I will send to a convent. She will never wed, for she is ruined and no decent man would have her.”

  An image of her flashed into his mind, of her last night, welcoming him so gladly to their bed. He spun away from the dreary view without and the dangerous one in his head. “Mayhap I should send her to a stewholder. Or better yet, sell her to him. She would fetch a goodly price. But no,” he continued sarcastically. “That would be no punishment at all for her. She would enjoy it far too well.”

  At Peter’s look of consternation Axton let out an ugly laugh. “Do not worry yourself for that one—that Linnea. She does not warrant any of your concern.”

  “I worry more for you, brother. I would help you did I but know a way.”

  Axton tensed. He did not want Peter’s help. Most especially he did not want his pity. But then, everyone would pity him now. Pity him or mock him. He stiffened in resolve. He would not be pitied. Anything but!

  Axton faced his brother with a determination forged of both pain and rage. “If you would help me, then go and find me a woman. Two women,” he amended. “Then arrange a practice tomorrow, to begin at dawn’s light. I would wrestle Odo, face Reynold with the long sword, and meet Roger with the short. Have the stable master prepare the two best horses, for I would meet Hugh with the lance.”

  “All of that? In one day?” Peter exclaimed. His eyes were round and his expression doubtful.

  “I will not lose to de Montfort,” Axton stated in a deadly tone.

  Peter stepped back, but he nodded his understanding. “If I may suggest—” He raised his hands when Axton frowned. “Only that you forgo the women if you do intend so intense a practice on the morrow.”

  “Send me two women,” Axton reiterated in a tone that brooked no further interference. “And pray that they do their jobs well and take the edge off my mood, else on the morrow I will leave a trail of broken heads and bleeding bodies.”

  Peter left without further comment, and Axton was relieved. His brother was not the source of his rage, but he had come perilously near to becoming the focus of it. Better to exhaust himself upon two nameless women, and then his well-armored men, than to lash out at a lad who did but wish him the best.

  Of course, the one who most deserved his wrath was the best protected from it.

  He glanced at the door and for a moment contemplated seeking her out. He’d had her locked within a storeroom behind the kitchen. But the door and lock which did confine her, instead protected her, he realized. He’d meant for it to be a punishment, but in truth it saved her from the fury of his temper.

  He started quickly for the door, intent on confronting her once more. But the unexpected appearance of a shadowed figure in the antechamber took him aback.

  “Linnea?” He stopped short, unaware he’d even spoken. How was she here? Had Peter released her?

  Then the woman came into the meager light of a guttering candle and he recognized his mother. The quick disappointment he felt, however, only roused his anger to new heights. How could one woman be so devious as to draw this perverse response from him? Had the witch entranced him? Placed a spell upon him? If she had, by damn, then he would break it!

  “What do you here, Mother?”

  “I have just spoken to Peter.” She moved farther into the room and her eyes seemed to miss nothing. Not the dented ewer, the open window with rain now pouring in, or his own disheveled appearance. She looked small and old in the flickering light, but she did not look frail. Even in his distracted mood he could appreciate that.

  “You will not bring any women into this keep,” she said, staring sternly at him.

  That was the last thing Axton had expected to hear, and his jaw sagged open in disbelief.

  “If you would fornicate with loose women, then do so elsewhere, not under the same roof with your mother. But I caution you,” she added in a gentler tone. “What you think will bring you relief will not do so. You must settle this matter with Linnea, my son, not with some other poor substitutes.”

  “There is nothing to settle. Nothing that can be settled.”

  “I know she has hurt you with this betrayal—”

  “I am not hurt,” he countered. “Only enraged that once again a de Valcourt has tried to weaken our claim to Maidenstone. But she will not succeed—neither she nor her sister.”

  “You will fight Sir Eustace.” She said it with a quiet resignation that he knew hid the ever constant fear she felt for her sons. But her fear was not reason enough to stop him, and they both knew it.

  “Seek your rest, Mother. Tomorrow I train for de Montfort. He will not steal our home from us, though the de Valcourts and even Duke Henry do lend him their support. By damn, but I should have let that whelp drown in the Risle when I had the chance!”

  She nodded but she did not leave, and when she spoke, it was not of the young Henry. “I expected to hate her, but I can not. And now … now though I hate what she has done, I think I can understand why she did it.”

  “You can understand?
” he exploded.

  “And I believe could she undo this tangle, she would willingly do so.”

  Axton snorted his disgust. “’Tis a foolish point to speculate upon, since she cannot undo it. Go, Mother,” he said, “go and say your prayers that I best de Montfort.”

  She gave him a steady look. “I will pray for you, my son. I will pray that you best Eustace de Montfort and pray that you find your peace. But I will also pray that you do not seek to bury your pain in the wicked embrace of some loose woman—or two.”

  Axton could hardly believe his gentle mother was discussing such a matter with him. He bristled. “You do not understand a man’s needs.”

  “And you do not understand a woman’s heart,” she replied.

  Whether she referred to her own heart or obliquely to Linnea’s, Axton did not know. Nor, when she turned and glided silently back to her own chamber, did he call out to ask her. Linnea’s heart mattered nothing to him. How could it when his mattered nothing to her?

  Peter sent the women to his brother’s chamber together. One was a saucy thing, young and sweet and amazingly adept, as he had already learned. For a bit of shiny coin she would do the most astounding things to a man. The other was an older woman, possessed of the largest and most impressive bosom he’d ever seen. Gossip held that Reynold had nearly smothered between that pair of quivering white mounds.

  But even as Peter sent the women up the stairs, he was consumed with guilt. He knew little enough of the doings between a man and his wife, but somehow he knew what Axton did was wrong. Though Linnea—how hard it was to think of her by that name—though Linnea had duped Axton and deserved not even a shred of his loyalty, there yet lurked in Peter’s mind a sense that this was wrong.

  But his own anger at her betrayal yet seethed, and it was a strong enough emotion to drown out any guilt he felt. Did she feel any guilt as she lay in her comfortable prison? Did she give a second thought to the man she had wed and seduced—for there was no doubt she’d seduced Axton, body and soul. Otherwise he would not be so heartsore. Ah, but she was a cunning little bitch.

  So he sent the two women up to his brother. But his lingering unease kept him awake in the hall, wrapped in a rug, leaning against a wall near the base of the stairs.

  They were not above stairs very long. They came down together, clearly disheveled, both grinning and whispering. They flashed him the gold coins they’d earned, then disappeared into the night.

  Peter could not help but be awed by his brother’s swift performance. Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps now Axton would feel some relief for his anguish.

  Shedding his rug, he made his way up the stairs once more. He found Axton on the second floor, in the lord’s chamber. He lay facedown on the huge bearskin, sprawled across the bed still fully clothed.

  For an instant Peter stood there just staring. Once he’d seen Linnea in just such a pose—though she’d been Beatrix then. She’d lain naked and waiting, filled with fear and anguish upon that same black fur. Now Axton lay there, and though he was fully dressed, his emotions were every bit as naked and raw as hers had been.

  He grieved for her. For the loss of her. He had not used those women—Peter was certain of it. He might have tried, but he’d not succeeded. He’d not had the stomach for it.

  God in heaven, did he feel so deeply for the deceitful wench? Did he love her?

  Linnea had not even the strength to pace the length of her narrow prison. It was a dark, cold place, blessed with neither a window nor even a grate. But then, the milled flour kept better in such surroundings. So she endured the endless hours of her imprisonment in the company of a week’s worth of flour. Coarse flour, dark and fragrant. Fine flour, powdery and pale. The sacks lined one long wall, and muffled even more what little castle noises drifted to her ears.

  Norma came once in the evening, bearing plain fare and bedding for the night. She came again in the early morn, and while two serving men retrieved flour for the day’s baking, the old maid tried to comfort her.

  “Do not despair, child. Henry is to arrive soon, mayhap e’en this day. You will be freed and returned to the bosom of your family. I am certain of it.”

  Unfortunately that was not a comforting thought to Linnea. She ignored the tray of food. “What of my father? Is he well? Is he the worse treated for what I have done?”

  Norma heaved a great sigh. “He is confined to the priest’s chambers as before. No better, no worse. As to his well-being …” She shook her head. “’Tis hard to tell. He eats what is set before him. He has been told of the new lord’s mistreatment of you, but … he does not respond.” Again she sighed.

  “Axton does not mistreat me,” Linnea whispered, turning away from her loyal maid to stare at the dark end of her storage prison. The two serving men passed her with their second loads.

  “Time to lock up,” the older one murmured, not unkindly, to Norma.

  Before Norma could follow them, however, Linnea caught her by the arm. “How is he? Axton,” she clarified when Norma did not at once respond.

  “Him?” The old woman frowned. “He is hale and hearty, and as full of himself as ever,” she muttered. She glanced at the men who waited outside the small storage chamber. “He is not deserving of your concern,” she said in the barest of whispers. “Already he fills his bed with other women. Women,” she repeated, emphasizing the plural.

  In the silence that resounded after that awful revelation—after Norma shuffled out, the door thudded closed, and the key turned to lock her once again in darkness—Linnea could not move. She remained where she was, frozen in her pose with her hands laced together at her waist.

  Women. He’d taken other women into the chamber they’d shared. Onto the high bed, and upon the luxurious bear pelt.

  She’d tortured herself with the knowledge that when he wed Beatrix he would take her to his bed. But she had not considered, even for a moment, that he would take other women as well. Women. Women he did not care about and yet would share such intimacy with—

  “Oh, God!” The involuntary cry was wrenched from the deepest part of her being. From her heart. From her soul. From that part of her which was her truest self—and which loved him completely, she now knew. Oh, God, could it be that one woman was no different than another to him? Had she been of as little consequence as the women he already took to his bed? And what of Beatrix? Would she be the same, just one more meal to satisfy his robust sexual appetite?

  She did not want to weep, but that’s what she did. She fell to her knees upon the floury plank floor and tried to pray. But all she could do was weep. She had been nothing to him, nothing at all, while he’d become the center of her world.

  But that world had cracked and was shattering all around her. Where she would end up no longer mattered, for she knew that hovel or castle, wilderness or town, emptiness would forevermore be the place in which she dwelled. Emptiness. Solitude. Darkness.

  She might as well live out her days in this storage room as anywhere else.

  Then she thought of her sister. She thought of Beatrix, sweet, generous Beatrix, who deserved better than to marry a man who hated her and who would make a mockery of his vows to her.

  With the back of her hands she wiped the tears from her eyes, then scrubbed her face dry with her sleeve.

  She would save Beatrix from him. That had been her original goal and so it must be again. But how?

  That she did not know, but as she rose to her feet she felt the slide of Axton’s chain against her thigh and her desolation turned to a furious resolve. With a cry of outrage, she pulled up her skirt, grabbed the delicate jewelry and yanked. It came free with a sharp, cutting snap and she flung it as far from her as she could.

  She’d been wrong to let herself love Axton and to think he could ever care for her in return. She’d been wrong to be jealous of Beatrix and Axton’s wish to wed her.

  Beatrix was the only one who’d ever loved her and now she must fight harder than ever to protect her belov
ed sister. Eventually she must be released from this prison. Then she must be clearheaded and ready to do whatever it took. Axton must not have Beatrix, though he win Maidenstone from Eustace de Montfort and Duke Henry.

  It seemed an impossible goal to achieve, and perhaps it was. But as she sank down onto the flour sacks, consumed by both misery and outrage, she found it easier to focus on that unlikely future than on the unbearable present. Worrying for her sister muted, at least a little, the pain of her uncertain future.

  And the absolute devastation of losing the man she still loved.

  Chapter 19

  On the third day Norma came to her, excited, agitated, hardly able to speak.

  “They come. All of them. We must prepare you.”

  “Who comes? Duke Henry?”

  “Yes! And Beatrix and Sir Eustace. Even my Lady Harriet accompanies them. Come, milady, we needs must make haste,” she added, tugging on Linnea’s arm.

  Despite her desperate need to be free of her dreary dungeon, Linnea felt an awful dread. “Haste to do what? Where do we go? What plan does Axton make to use me to hurt my family?”

  Norma stared at her sorrowfully. Her round face was creased with concern. “Ah, child, ’tis not Lord Axton who does command your removal from this closet, but rather that good dame, his mother. She would not have you appear disheveled.” Her faded eyes swept over Linnea. “Nor dusted with the miller’s best efforts. Come along,” she prompted, pulling Linnea toward the door. “There’s not time to be wasting, for milord Axton is expected to return very soon. You must be within Lady Mildred’s chamber before he arrives.”

  Linnea followed Norma’s lead because it would be foolish not to. The light of day hurt her eyes and her confinement seemed to have made her clumsy. But for all her relief to be rid of that storage closet, a tiny part of her wished to return back to the place. There she lived only with her fears for the future. Out here she must face that unknown.