Authors: Rexanne Becnel
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Medieval
The Maiden Bride (21 page)
But she was content, and so was he, if his tender considerations were any indication. His arm circled her waist and his hand rested comfortably on her hip. As they came out of the woods and onto the road that led to the castle, and spied the twin torches that marked the gate, she impulsively slipped her arm around his waist too.
“Are you afraid to return?” he asked her.
“Afraid?” she echoed. Afraid did not begin to describe her feelings about their return to the castle and all the troubles, deception, and responsibilities it harbored. “I wish … I wish that for once there could be peace at Maidenstone.”
“For once? Was there not peace there before I arrived?” He stopped and turned her to face him. “What was life like here before I came?”
Empty, she wanted to say. Before you came into my life it was empty, hollow, and lonely.
But that was not entirely true. She hadn’t felt those things then, because she hadn’t known what else there could be for her. Now, though, she knew. Thanks to him and the way her heart was filled with only him, she knew exactly how terrible her life used to be. How aimless and without purpose.
“It was simple and uneventful,” she finally answered.
“But not peaceful?”
When she only shrugged, he went on. “The day will come, Beatrix, when it shall be simple and peaceful again.”
“But not uneventful,” she said, only because, as always, her sister’s name had jolted her and she could think of nothing else to say.
He cupped her face in both his hands then, and kissed her. His mouth met hers, parting her lips and devouring her whole, it seemed. But not so much with passion as with … as with something else, her dizzied mind vaguely noted.
He’d kissed her very seldom, she realized when he slowly drew back from her. At the wedding ceremony, but not otherwise. Not even when they’d made love before.
But he’d kissed her today up against that tree, and when he’d laid her down in the bed of ferns.
And now again.
Something had altered between them today. Did he sense it? Did he realize she loved him? Had she revealed that in something she’d said or done?
She searched his face, fearful and hopeful all in the same moment. Then a cry drew his attention away and, to her dismay, she saw a trio of riders bearing down on them, followed by a dog. Peter’s dog, she saw as they drew nearer. It was Peter and Sir Maurice and another knight.
“What ho, brother?” Peter’s horse danced an excited circle around them. While the other men held back, Peter continued. “We did begin to think some wood ogre had made mischief with you. I see, however, that it was no ogre, but rather a wood nymph who has distracted you so long.”
“Perhaps,” Axton replied, pulling Linnea closer into the shelter of his arms. “I am touched by your concern,” he added dryly.
“’Twas the Lady Mildred who did bid us—” Sir Maurice broke off when Linnea stiffened and Axton frowned. “She feared the evening meal would be delayed,” the man finished lamely.
“Would you ride?” Peter offered a hand to Linnea. He stared at her curiously, as if to ask how she had dealt with Axton’s terrible temper. In answer she leaned her head against Axton’s shoulder, though she worried it was too bold a gesture.
But Axton did not shrug her off, and Peter’s face lit with an unsubtle grin.
“We will walk,” Axton stated. “Be off with you and allow us to return at our own pace. We will arrive in sufficient time to dine as ever.”
Sir Maurice and the other knight nodded, wheeled their anxious beasts, and rode off at once. But Peter circled them once more, handling his massive steed with an admirable ease while Moor scratched his ear, chasing some unseen pest.
“Shall I announce to your men that they should no longer fear being summoned by you to practice with sword or lance, or any other weapon?”
Axton eyed his younger brother warningly. “Tell them this. Should I desire to strike anyone low this evening, ’tis my promise that the first one I summon shall be you.”
But Axton’s threat had little effect on the boy’s exuberant mood, for he laughed then spun his spirited animal and charged back toward the gate with Moor behind him, sprinting through the lowering light like a dark and silent wraith.
Peter had every right to be jubilant, Linnea thought as she and Axton started forward again along the wide, dusty roadway. The boy thought matters were easing at Maidenstone. The fact was, in spite of the rude reminder of the Lady Mildred and her disapproval of his marriage, even Axton was not nearly so tense and frustrated as he’d been after the confrontation with Sir Edgar. Their interlude in the forest had done much to ease his mood. Peter had been right to send her to him.
But the new peace between her and Axton, perversely enough, made Linnea’s situation worse than ever. She loved him. There was no longer any doubt in her mind. But she was bound to betray him—she’d betrayed him the moment she’d made her vow before the priest. There was no way for her to undo the lie and the damage it would wreak.
Loving him only made it that much worse.
T
he mood surrounding the evening meal was strange. The de la Manse soldiers, led by Peter, did seem to celebrate. Lady Mildred’s return to her home was the culmination of their long struggle and the symbol of their ultimate victory. Lady Mildred herself tried hard to participate in their gaiety. But Linnea was seated near enough to her to see the effort it took. The woman’s smile was forced; her hands trembled; and not once did she look directly at her new daughter-in-law.
he mood surrounding the evening meal was strange. The de la Manse soldiers, led by Peter, did seem to celebrate. Lady Mildred’s return to her home was the culmination of their long struggle and the symbol of their ultimate victory. Lady Mildred herself tried hard to participate in their gaiety. But Linnea was seated near enough to her to see the effort it took. The woman’s smile was forced; her hands trembled; and not once did she look directly at her new daughter-in-law.
Axton, likewise, did not seem as caught up in the mood. He sat between his mother and his wife, with his predecessor, Sir Edgar, nowhere to be seen. Linnea had made certain her father was kept content in his new quarters tonight, and well out of sight. Still, for all his appearance of calm, Linnea knew that Axton could not be entirely satisfied until Maynard and Sir Edgar were dealt with by the young duke, Henry.
So the dinner progressed through twelve courses of suckling pig, blackbird pie, stuffed swan, grilled eel, and prodigious amounts of roasted and stewed vegetables and fruits, as well as oysters, meat pasties, and breads. They were entertained by minstrels, musicians, and tumblers, and even a man who ate fire.
But while the rest of the castle folk ate and drank themselves into a happy oblivion, at the head table a somberness prevailed.
Lady Mildred retired first, and Axton escorted her to her chamber. Linnea waited for his return before bidding him a good-night. It was Peter who escorted her upstairs, a grinning, drunken Peter who looked more the boy than the man in his foolish state. As ever, his dog followed at his heels.
“I have told my mother that you and Axton are well suited. After this day, there is none who can doubt it.” He tripped over the edge of the carpet that stretched across the antechamber on the second floor, only catching himself on Moor. He rubbed the dog’s ears affectionately and gave Linnea a sheepish grin. “’Tis a good day to be a de la Manse.”
Linnea glanced up the stairwell toward the third floor where Peter and Axton’s mother now resided. “I don’t think everyone in your family feels as you do.”
“She will thaw toward you. You must only give her time. My mother is a good person. The fineth …
finest
lady I have ever known.” Holding on to Moor’s leather collar with one hand he made a reasonably credible bow. “I bid you good night, milady. I must return now to the hall, for we are laying bets—”
finest
lady I have ever known.” Holding on to Moor’s leather collar with one hand he made a reasonably credible bow. “I bid you good night, milady. I must return now to the hall, for we are laying bets—”
He broke off with a shame-faced expression that would have been comical had she not immediately suspected that the wager had something to do with her. Her and Axton, she realized with dismay.
“Peter?” she said warningly. “What sort of bet?”
He was backing away though, his face red, but his eyes sparkling nonetheless with drunken mischief. “I give him no more than a half-tankard downed before he is back up here with you.”
“Peter!” she exclaimed again. But he was gone. She heard a clatter, as if he’d stumbled and fallen on the stairs, and she hoped he had. She hoped he’d fallen and dented his thick head!
But the secret truth was, she too wondered how long it would be before Axton joined her.
She was ready when he came, and he was ready too. Linnea did not think about the older woman upstairs when she welcomed Axton into their bed. She did not think of her grandmother or father, nor sister or brother, as he and she together sank into that dark, private oblivion. This would not last for long, this blissful feeling of loving someone and receiving his love in return—or at least his affection.
She had no control over what was to come. But she had some control over now, and she meant to squeeze whatever joy she could from this brief, ill-fated marriage. She meant to take a lifetime’s joy of it. For the memory of their time together was all she would ever have in the empty years to come.
The week that followed was peaceable enough. A new routine settled over Maidenstone, though it was not so very different than the routine of before. But it was Linnea who did direct the castle servants now, not her grandmother. It was Linnea who decided on the menu and dispensed the herbs and spices; she who supervised the inside workers and the kitchen staff. She’d expected the Lady Mildred to assert her authority, but she had not done so. Axton’s mother spent most of each day in her solar, accompanied only by her maid, and visited each day by both of her sons.
She did join the family for the midday meal, and of course for the morning mass. When she and Linnea had occasion to interact, it was cordial, but brief, and usually initiated by Linnea. Was her chamber comfortable? Did she have sufficient candles to sew by? Were the dishes seasoned to her liking?
To these questions Lady Mildred always gave the answer which least required any further response from Linnea. Yes, her chamber was comfortable. No, she needed no extra candles. Yes, the food was well seasoned.
If Axton noticed the awkwardness between his mother and his wife, he did not speak of it. Most certainly Linnea did not bring the subject up to him. But she felt a deep sorrow for the aging woman. Lady Mildred was home again, but she could take no true joy from it.
But Linnea was taking a joy from Maidenstone, despite the dark sword of truth that hung always over her head. Maynard shrank into a pitiful semblance of himself; her father was silent and lost somewhere in his thoughts; and Lady Mildred was a sad specter of a long-ago past. But Linnea had Axton and everything else faded beneath the light he brought into her life.
Whether it was his hard embrace as he drew her nightly to their bed, or merely the caress of his eyes from across the bailey, the effect he had on her was profound. She lived for those looks, for the casual touches. Even his hand at her elbow set tremors alive deep inside her. Though she knew it would not fast—that it was in fact a fantasy that she lived—the more she had of Axton, the more she wanted.
Foolish as it was, the idea of bearing his child had begun to obsess her. Not a fortnight had she known the man—a man who’d begun as her enemy—and now she had no more fervent desire than to give him a child that would forge an enduring peace for Maidenstone—and for them.
Except that, of course, it would not. If anything, it would make matters worse, for the babe would ultimately be termed a bastard—if the Lady Harriet even allowed it to survive.
Linnea shivered and pressed a hand to her flat stomach. One thing she knew, she would not let her grandmother near her child. She would fight heaven and earth to protect any child of hers.
But she tried to put the idea of having Axton’s child out of her mind, for to worry on that would have spoiled what little time she did have with him. She was determined not to do that.
Then on a Friday, the feast of St. Theodore, Maynard died, and she could no longer ignore reality or the awful implications of her only brother’s death.
“He is gone,” her father muttered helplessly as he stood in a corner while Linnea supervised the preparations of Maynard’s body for burial. “He is gone. He is gone.”
“He has been gone all along,” Linnea whispered, though she knew her father was too caught up in his grief to hear her. She shaved Maynard’s cold, shrunken cheeks, while Norma bathed his arms and legs. There was a scent of death about him, though in truth it had permeated the room a week and more. Perhaps it would have been kinder of her to have let him die that very first day.
Her trembling hand slipped and she nicked his cheek with the razor-sharp knife. He did not bleed, though, and that fact made her hands tremble all the worse.
“I cannot do this.” She stared helplessly at Norma. “I cannot do it.”
Norma took the blade from her. “Fetch his clothing. I will finish this task.”
“He is gone. He is gone,” Sir Edgar mumbled in the background, like a chant he must repeat to hold himself together.
Somehow they made Maynard ready, though Linnea feared at every moment that she would go mad from her father’s incessant words. Why must he keep reminding her? She knew Maynard was gone, and she knew that it meant everything now fell to her. All the responsibility for her father and sister and grandmother.
Still, if she thought about that she would fall to pieces, and she didn’t have that luxury. Clasping her arms around herself, she looked at her father. “Pray take him away from here, Norma. Entertain him somewhere else. Frayne can help you.”
“What of Sir Maynard? Where will he be buried?”
Linnea wiped her hands with a length of toweling, though cleansing this sense of doom from herself was proving impossible. “I go now to speak to Lord Axton about that very subject. Be sure to keep my father away from my husband,” she added.
She found Axton in the hall presiding over the morning court. She’d not personally observed him in his dealings with the various problems within his demesne, but she’d heard enough to know the people of Maidenstone would not suffer for his return. According to Norma, he’d thrown the tanner in the stocks for drunkenness and for beating his wife, Norma’s niece. Frayne reported that Lord Axton had donated the timber beams and posts needed to reconstruct the storehouses that he’d had burned. And the entire castle fairly buzzed with the news that they would celebrate the planting of the spring crops with a grand feast and a day of sports and games, sometime before St. Dympna’s Day.
The man certainly knew how to win the loyalty of his people—and his wife, she thought as she paused in the open door and studied him.
He sat in the lord’s chair, the table before him, the day’s petitioners arrayed in a short line across the hall. He was listening attentively to a grizzled man who was dusted with a powdery substance. The miller, she realized. Behind him stood a buxom young woman and a glum-faced young man. The miller was speaking with his hands, gesturing toward the silent couple. Curious, Linnea moved nearer.
“ … lazy and a spendthrift. He has not the wherewithal to pay the marriage fee,” the miller complained, glaring at the silent fellow.
Axton leaned back in his chair and rubbed one finger along his chin. “I take it
you
will not pay the fee for your daughter and her bridegroom.”
you
will not pay the fee for your daughter and her bridegroom.”
“If he cannot pay, he is not prepared to wed!” the man exclaimed, his face going red with the intensity of his outrage.
“But, Papa—” the girl began. She broke off, however, at a sharp gesture from her father. Linnea was near enough to see tears well in the girl’s eyes and spill over onto her cheeks. The young man placed an arm around her for comfort, drawing a further frown from the miller. But the instinctive movement touched Linnea’s heart. Two lovers separated by a disapproving father and, apparently, the cost of the marriage fee which must be paid to their lord.
She turned her gaze back to Axton only to find him looking at her. If he was surprised to see her here, he gave no indication in his clear gray perusal. After only a brief moment he turned back to the miller and his unhappy daughter.
“If they have preceded the marriage with the consummation and yet cannot pay the fee to wed, there is only one solution. They will both spend a day in the stocks-tomorrow—as an example to those who contemplate such a sin, and again when her belly has swollen with the child, as a reminder to others who might behave so. Of course, the babe must be sent away once it is born. A bastard child must not—”
The poor girl’s anguished wail drowned out whatever else Axton said.
“No! Not my child! You cannot mean to take my child!” Had her young man not caught her, the girl would have collapsed on the floor. Linnea was nearly as stricken as the prostrate woman. She stared at her husband, crushed by his callous decision.
He, however, was watching the miller, not the man’s grieving daughter. When Linnea looked also at the burly fellow, she saw that his face had gone gray.
“Well, miller? Will you deliver her to the stocks?” Axton asked. “Not today, for ’tis midmorning already. Bring her tomorrow so that she may serve the full day as an example to other unmarried maidens who might be tempted to sin.”
The miller could not respond. Whatever judgment he’d expected of his liege lord, this was clearly not it. “But … but, milord …” He sputtered to a halt. In the absence of any further discussion, the girl’s weeping filled the hushed hall until Linnea could no longer bear it.
She started forward, but Axton’s sharp gaze stopped her in her tracks. Then, before she could speak out, the miller let out a great sigh. “I will pay it,” he muttered.
Though quietly spoken, all the principals in the drama heard him well. His daughter looked up, her face wet and red with her weeping. The hasty bridegroom’s pale face showed a spark of hope.
Axton smiled. “Only half, miller. You shall pay but half the fee. The groom shall toil extra hours to pay the rest.”
“Oh, thank you, milord. Thank you,” the young man repeated. He drew his sweetheart to her feet, all the while bowing to Axton. “Thank you.”
“Do not thank me yet, for I will order that only the most noxious of tasks be given to you. Best you learn from them the value of hard work and of a man’s responsibility. You do bring a child into this world. If you will not yourself set a good example to it, then I needs must make sure you do so.” He paused a long moment. “See that such will not be required of me.”
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