“I dare to speculate that even you, my lord, would be hard-pressed to discern which of them is which.”
Henry gave him a shrewd look. “Ah, but there is one way, is there not? But, alas, only you—or else Eustace—will ever be able to tell which is the virgin. So, where is this unnatural creature who would whore for her sister? I am fain to reward her for her extreme loyalty to her family, misguided though it may be.”
Of all the things Henry said that were meant to goad Axton’s famous temper, this mention of reward was the most galling. For Axton knew what he implied. To grace the bed of the Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, and soon-to-be King of England, would of course seem a generous reward to one as self-involved as the youthful Henry. He was a man come too young to such a success as he had already found. He was a man who placed no limits on himself—or on his desires. And clearly he would take Linnea to his bed, unless someone stopped him.
Someone. Himself?
Axton kept his face impassive. Though Henry watched him with a mocking gaze, he kept his outrage hidden and his sudden confusion buried. Why should he care what happened to her? Why should he imagine, even for a moment, that he must save her from Henry’s lusty attentions?
“She is most fair,” Axton conceded, though he knew his tone implied no compliment. He faced the maiden, the sister who warranted so great a sacrifice from Linnea, and couldn’t prevent himself from studying her. In truth, he was searching for some difference between them. Some mark or sign that would set her apart from Linnea.
But there was none. Her skin was as creamy and soft, though at this moment, a trifle pale. The downcast fringe of lashes was as thick as her sister’s, her nose as slender, and her lips as lushly formed. Even the tendrils of golden hair that escaped the confines of her hood looked as silky and fine as Linnea’s.
As the moment lengthened, Eustace’s arm circled the girl, pulling her possessively against his side. Startled, her gaze flew up to Axton, then darted over to Sir Eustace, whose dark glower was directed at his foe.
“Do not think you shall gain more than the honor of gazing upon her,” the other man growled the warning.
But Axton ignored Eustace’s threat and stared still at Beatrix. There was a difference in the eyes! He’d seen it though their gazes had locked little more than a moment. Her wide-set eyes were the same variable blue as Linnea’s, but this sister—this Beatrix—was terrified of him. He’d seen it in her eyes and he knew instinctively that she would dissolve in the face of his anger or at the assault of his body upon hers.
But Linnea had not dissolved. Nor had he ever once expected her to. She’d met him with mutiny in her eyes and opposition at every turn, even when she was terrified. He flexed the muscles of his right shoulder, conscious of the tender skin yet healing from the cut she’d inflicted on him. This Beatrix would never have hidden a knife in the bed. She would never have fought him as her younger sister had.
But though this one distinction between the two sisters satisfied some part of him, it nevertheless solved nothing.
He shifted his gaze to meet Eustace’s ferocious glare. “To wed this woman is no honor at all, but a curse I must endure if I am to regain my home. And I will regain it,” he promised.
Beatrix gasped and fell back—pushed when Eustace lunged forward. But Henry stepped in with a sharp rebuke, preventing the men from coming to blows.
“Hold! ’Tis not a brawl will resolve this dual claim!” Then he laughed and clapped Axton on the shoulder. “Come, show me this heap of stones you have spoken of since I was but a babe in arms. Show me its wonders and show me its defenses. But first show me to its alewife. Show me its table, for I am famished and would feast and drink and relive all our triumphs with the prompting of your best ale and dearest wine. There is time enough tomorrow to settle this dispute between you.”
From her perch in a chapel window Linnea watched the meeting between Axton and Beatrix with dread. Poor Beatrix.
Poor Axton!
She frowned at such a perverse thought. Poor Axton indeed! He deserved no pity, or sympathy, or any other soft emotion from her. That did not prevent her, however, from straining forward in the window, striving in vain to hear some word of what passed between the foursome. It did not stop her from trying to decipher something of their mood or intention.
She’d identified the young duke at once, as much by his haughty bearing as by his purple cloak and silver helm. Beatrix she spied immediately as well, arrayed in cream and gold and as radiant as one of God’s angels come brilliantly to earth. The hulking knight who’d helped Beatrix dismount Linnea assumed was the man promised to marry her. The man Axton must defeat.
Then the man lunged forward, Beatrix fell back, and Linnea gasped in alarm. But the duke interceded and after a moment they all proceeded into the keep.
Linnea slumped back in the small, cold chapel. What would happen next? When would Axton meet his rival in battle? When would she be able to see her sister?
Then a slight figure was handed down from a horse litter and a new fear gripped Linnea. It was her grandmother. The stooped figure with the ever present cane could be no one else. And like some dark, yet regal witch who knew every inch of her damnable domain and precisely where her victims cowered in fear, she looked up, right at the chapel window and straight into Linnea’s heart—or at least that’s how it felt to Linnea. For the Lady Harriet smiled, a cracked and ancient smile of malicious triumph, and Linnea fancied the old woman knew every emotion she felt: her love for Axton as well as her love for Beatrix.
With a cry of despair, she spun away from the window. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if somehow she could contain her desperate, dangerous emotions, as if she could stop herself from being shredded into a thousand pieces by them.
“Are they here?” her father asked in a voice flat and weary. That he was even aware of what was going on was an improvement, but Linnea could take little joy of it. If this Sir Eustace won the coming battle, her father might very well regain his old vigor and confidence. Most certainly his mother would be overjoyed. But Linnea would be crushed. Whether Eustace or Axton won, her life was over.
“They are here,” she finally answered, steeling herself to express no emotion. “The Duke of Normandy, grandmother, Beatrix, and … and the man who would wed her.”
She expected that news to cheer him, but it did not. If anything, he drooped further still. He had lost weight in the past weeks, and the deep blue tunic he wore hung loose on his frame. The skin on his face seemed too loose also. It sagged in tired folds. Aged folds.
An unaccountable anger leaped in her chest. “Shouldn’t you be rejoicing? Isn’t this what you wanted, a champion to avenge all the wrongs Axton de la Manse has done you, even though that champion is Henry’s man as much as Axton is? But then, ’tis Axton who has killed your son, ruined one daughter, and would wed the other. But worst of all, he has fought to regain the home you took from him. You should be happy, Father. You should be rubbing your hands in glee and anticipating the moment when his blood is spilled in yon bailey!”
Under the barrage of her emotional outburst, he seemed somehow to shrink even further. Only when he raised tearful eyes to her did she stop, suddenly ashamed of herself. He was beyond defending himself against her. She of all people should know better than to take advantage of someone so vulnerable.
She started toward him, unsure of herself, but knowing that she must somehow try to comfort him. But he shook his head and held his hands up as if to ward her off. His hands trembled as he spoke.
“’Tis all … all as it should be.” He blinked and one tear spilled onto his lined cheek. “If only my Ella was here.”
Ella? Linnea felt a shiver up her spine. He hadn’t spoken of his wife in years. To hear him invoke her mother’s name now filled Linnea with a nameless dread.
“I miss her too, Father.” She stared at his damp eyes and the unkind cut of years upon his face.
“She should not have left me,” he whis
pered, his old face as crushed as a child’s. “She didn’t want to go, but … but God took her from me.” He shook his head as if bewildered. “I tried to do right. I did. But I …” His chin quivered and more tears streaked down his pale cheeks. “I broke too many of his commandments.”
He looked past her toward one of the murals that adorned the chapel’s plastered walls. Linnea twisted her head to see that it was Moses he stared at. Moses with the tablet of commandments clutched unbroken in his arms.
“I have killed. I have lied. I have coveted the possessions of my neighbor—”
His voice broke so piteously that Linnea’s own eyes filled with tears. “Father, it does no good to dredge up every mistake you’ve ever made.”
But he was staring at Moses and seemed not even to hear her. “I have coveted the wife of my neighbor,” he choked out. “Even my own mother have I dishonored.” His eyes came back to her. “She wanted you killed but—” He broke off. His chest heaved with the force of his emotions.
Linnea knew her grandmother had wanted her killed on the day of her birth. The old woman had never kept that a secret. But she’d never known why she had been spared.
“Ella pleaded for you,” her father said, as if sensing her thoughts. “She pleaded, and I would do anything for my Ella.
“But it was not enough,” he continued, growing more agitated. “I spared you but I marked you. I burned you, and Ella—” This time he broke off completely.
He’d burned her? But where—Linnea gasped. The birthmark. Only it was no birthmark at all but, rather, his mark, a brand given to her by her own father!
The small raised scar on her calf began to throb as if to say, “He did it. He did it.”
She fell back a step. “You did that to … to me? You did it?” She echoed the accusing voice in her head.
“To please my mother. To honor her.” His face crumpled and his shoulders heaved in huge, awful sobs.
It should not matter, Linnea told herself. It should not, for the pain of that mark had been no pain at all, not like the other pains she’d suffered growing up so unloved.
But it did matter. He’d scarred his own child, an innocent babe who’d done no sin save to be born second. Second! As if that signified anything!
She might have suffered her rage in silence. But at that very moment the chapel door creaked open and the sharp click of a metal-tipped walking cane announced the Lady Harriet’s presence. Linnea whirled around, her every sense instantly tuned to the old woman’s presence. Her heart thundered; her muscles tensed. The very hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It was as if she’d come face-to-face with her enemy—and verily she had. For this woman had hated her from the moment of her birth. She’d despised her, tortured her, and never missed an opportunity to make her life miserable.
That she’d caused Linnea’s father to scar his innocent child was, in truth, the least of her many crimes. But it was the one that pushed Linnea beyond her limits.
She glared at the Lady Harriet, but the old woman only smiled. “You have done a commendable job, girl. Against all odds, most commendable. I freely admit I had my doubts,” she said. “But I will be the first to speak your praise. Though but a maiden, you have been brave and true, and you have provided your family the means to a victory over our enemy.”
The cane clicked as the old woman advanced. “Come girl. Let me kiss you, the kiss of peace between us. For you are proven worthy. Let no one say you are not.”
Linnea could not move. From the terrible heights of a rage fueled by a complete hatred, she was flung to the depths of a dreadful despair.
She was worthy. At last her grandmother smiled upon her and would kiss her as one proven to be worthy. But when Lady Harriet grasped her shoulder with one bony hand, Linnea recoiled in horror.
“No,” she mumbled, wrenching free of the old woman’s hold. “No,” she repeated more stridently.
She stumbled back until she came up against the wall and the brilliant likeness of Moses.
Lady Harriet’s eyes narrowed and Linnea was reminded of a lizard or a snake. She shuddered at the cold, reptilian look. “What ails you?” the old woman snapped. Then her expression grew more cunning. “Aha. Methinks I know. ’Tis that overlarge appendage he has attacked you with. Methinks you did enjoy the surrender too well.” Her face cracked in an ugly laugh. “Don’t worry, girl. One is very like another. Is it not, Edgar?”
Sir Edgar had moved closer to Linnea, as if he might protect her from his mother’s cruelty. But his mother stilled him in his tracks.
“One man can substitute for any other much as one woman can take the place of another, isn’t that so?” Lady Harriet continued, staring coldly at him. Daring him to contradict her.
When his head bowed in silent defeat, the old woman turned her triumphant gaze on Linnea. “You see, girl? Whatever he felt for Ella, it did not prevent him from sampling wherever he chose. So it will be with that bear of a man you so foolishly think you love. ’Tis not love!” she snapped. Her mood turned from ugly amusement to sudden anger. “They do not love, nor should we! Nor should you,” she amended after a brief pause.
“So.” She took a slow breath. “You have bested him with your cunning. Now Eustace will best him with steel.” She approached Linnea again until their faces were but inches apart. “He is no longer your any—not that he ever was. Your future lies in the fold of your family. With me and Edgar and Beatrix. And Eustace,” she added. “Now. Give me the kiss of peace.”
She grabbed Linnea’s shoulder and kissed her, first on one cheek, then the other. Linnea could not kiss her back, however. She simply could not.
But if Lady Harriet noticed or cared, it did not show. She only stared at Linnea afterward, the workings of her twisted mind buried in the opaqueness of her old eyes. For one moment Linnea fancied she saw fear in them. Fear, of all things. But that ludicrous thought quickly vanished. What had Lady Harriet to fear of her ruined granddaughter?
The old woman stamped her cane on the floor. “Come, the both of you. Duke Henry would see the girl who has deceived one of his mightiest knights. He considers it a huge jest that a man all others fear could have been duped by a woman with no other weapon but a face that looks like her sister’s. Come,” she repeated. “He awaits.”
Sir Edgar moved forward like an obedient child—which he was and always had been, Linnea realized. Linnea pushed away from the wall. Anything to get away from this place and away from her hateful grandmother. But Lady Harriet stopped her at the door. This time her eyes were bright with a shrewd avidity.
“Are you with child?” She stared at Linnea like a vulture might, waiting to dissect her brain, and thereby know all her secrets. Her bony fingers bit into Linnea’s arm. “Answer me truthfully, girl. Are you?”
In that moment Linnea would have given anything to say yes. Anything. Her reasons were confused and perverse, but her desire was very clear. She wished she could say yes. But she couldn’t.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. Miserably.
Whether Lady Harriet was pleased or displeased, Linnea could not tell. As for herself, however, she was crushed. Despairing. Heartbroken.
She’d had her chance to have a husband and bear his children. No other chance would come again, for no other man would want her now.
But that was not the worst of it. The worst was that she would never want any other man.
Chapter 22
They were assembled like actors in a farce, like mimes or tumblers or minstrels come to perform their given roles and then depart. Linnea feared, however, that she would not be entertained.
Henry Plantagenet, Count of Anjou and Duke of Normandy, sat in the lord’s chair, as did befit the liege lord of Maidenstone Castle. To his right sat the handsome knight Eustace de Montfort. To his left, Axton, joined by his mother and then Peter. Lady Mildred’s face was drawn. She feared for the impending battle. Peter’s face was set in a scowl, as if he, himself, would gladly take on Sir Eustace
. Arrayed beyond Sir Eustace were Beatrix and two empty chairs. Obviously for Linnea’s father and grandmother.
But where was she to sit?
Nowhere, it seemed, for with a flick of his bejeweled hand, the duke signaled her to approach him.
She had no ally here, she realized. Or no ally with any power, she amended. For Beatrix was with her. That was plain by the look in her sister’s dear, worried face. Their eyes connected and held, and Linnea felt a reviving spurt of strength. Beatrix still loved her and that meant she was really no worse off than she’d ever been.
She took a hard breath and tilted her chin up another notch. Only then did she look directly at Axton.
He might have been a statue carved of unyielding stone, so rigidly set were his features. Even his eyes—his clear gray eyes that could vary from hot as steam to cold as ice—even they appeared like stone as they met hers. Hard, opaque, and brittle.
A sharp nudge from her grandmothér forced her toward the high table. The rest of the hall was empty, save for the trio of servants who did scuttle about, anxious to please the man who would soon be their king.
Linnea advanced slowly toward the table. “My lord.” She curtsied to the hearty young man who did toy with all their futures. Better to gaze upon his half-amused countenance than to face Axton’s condemning stare.
The young duke’s bright blue gaze ran over her appreciatively. “Well, and well again. It is as I was told. She is every bit as fair as Lady Beatrix. No wonder you did not question her more closely, de la Manse.” He grinned then, and shrugged. “But of course, she is sadly lacking in those qualities which make of sweet Beatrix the bone which two of my ablest nobles do snarl over. For this sister is the younger, not the elder.” He paused and Linnea felt the unpleasant rake of his gaze once more. “And she has already been despoiled.”
Someone gasped. Beatrix? Or had she done it herself? In either event, his cruel words cut Linnea to the quick. She hated Henry Plantagenet instantly. She’d feared him before. Now she hated him as well.
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