The Maiden Bride by Rexanne Becnel Page A

for Linnea. Or he might agree to carry a message to her.
    Father Martin was in the small apse opposite the altar where the lord’s family worshipped, but so was her grandmother. They prayed—or conferred—heads close and whispers low. No solace to be found here, Linnea told herself, backing away before they noted her presence. A wary search of the priest’s private solar and nearby storerooms did not reveal Beatrix’s whereabouts either. And so it was with heavy heart and slow tread that Linnea made her way back to the barracks. She could at least sit with Maynard a while and pray for him—for all of them. St. Jude, don’t abandon us, she sent her silent plea aloft. Do not abandon us.
    To her surprise, someone was already praying over Maynard, a slight, bowed figure that started in alarm at Linnea’s entrance.
    “What do you here?” Linnea demanded, fearing for her brother’s safety. Where was that squire, anyway?
    “’Tis all right, sister,” came the response. “’Tis only … ‘Tis only Linnea,” she said, glancing warningly at the prone figure on the floor.
    Thank God! Linnea flew to Beatrix’s side, enveloping her in a grateful embrace. “Oh, but I have feared for you—”
    “Beatrix.” The rusty voice was that of Maynard, though a weak, cracking version of it. Both sisters looked down at him, Beatrix beaming with joy, Linnea filled only with relief.
    “Beatrix,” he repeated. “I am hurt … My head … Why am I in this … this mean place?”
    “The new lord does order it so,” Beatrix began.
    “I spoke to Beatrix!” Maynard cut her off. Even in his suffering he did not forget which sister was firstborn—and which one was not.
    The twins shared a look and an understanding. Beatrix stepped back and Linnea, wearing her sister’s rumpled finery, knelt beside their brother. He was weak and dazed, but yet possessed of the same unpleasant disposition as ever. “You are grievously injured but, God grant it, you shall survive. Only you must rest and allow yourself to heal.”
    He stared up at her and in his eyes she saw both pain and bewilderment. She’d seen mockery in his gaze many times, and devilment. Also fury and cruelty. But never the vulnerability that was there now. He was but human, she realized, much like their father. But also a bully, she reminded herself. Like the boy Peter.
    Maynard was in her power now, as Peter de la Manse had been in the fleeting moments following her threat to poison his dog. How gratifying was this feeling of power, she thought as she pressed a palm to Maynard’s head, testing him for the fever. No wonder men clawed and fought for power, and struggled ever to retain it. When compared to helplessness, there was no contest.
    “I will tend your needs, brother,” she reassured him.
    “And I will pray for you,” Beatrix murmured from her place just beyond them.
    “Get thee gone!” Maynard gasped, his eyes darting accusingly at the disguised Beatrix. “’Tis your curse that has brought us to this pass—and laid me low. Agh, but my arm. My arm!”
    Harsh sobs wracked him as he mourned his ruined arm. But Linnea’s sympathy lay more with her sister—and by association herself. Even in this worst crisis their family had ever faced, they would, all of them, blame an innocent person for their troubles. They would accuse Linnea—or whomever they mistook to be Linnea—for their fall.
    She turned to find her sister’s face as white as a cold winter sky. Never had Beatrix appeared so stricken. She was not used to the scorn Linnea had grown inured to. On impulse Linnea reached for her and hugged her close. “Go now,” she whispered to her beloved sister. “Be safe and know my love stays ever with you.”
    “I cannot leave you,” Beatrix sobbed, breaking down in her arms. “’Tis wrong of me, and wrong of the others to demand it.”
    “’Tis right,” Linnea countered, restored by this unexpected moment with her twin. “’Tis right and … and