Free The Maiden Bride by Rexanne Becnel Page A

as she’d been yesterday. “But he will need our prayers,” she admitted.
    It was not the answer the old woman sought, but the timely entrance of Father Martin diverted her attention from Linnea.
    Linnea instructed Norma to begin bathing Maynard, exposing only one limb at a time, while she checked his mutilated arm. But she listened as Lady Harriet dealt with the parish priest.
    “We are in sore need of your intercession, good Father,” she began. “After you pray over our beloved Maynard, I would have you pray with me in the chapel. Overrun we may be with heathens, but still will I hear my daily mass.”
    Father Martin stared at her a long moment. It was clear he sensed some undercurrent in their exchange, but just as clear that he couldn’t determine what it meant. When he spoke, it was slowly, as if he chose his words with care. He was just as unwilling to cross the Lady Harriet as anyone else at Maidenstone.
    “As you wish, milady. But … but if I might make a suggestion. Though you do not value her skills as a healer, Linnea might be better—”
    “Yes, but she is not here, is she?” Lady Harriet cut him off. She had placed her hand on the priest’s arm, and now she tightened her grip. “Say your prayers anon, then will I accompany you to the chapel. Dorcas, attend me.”
    He opened his mouth as if to question her, then abruptly closed it. The guard who’d accompanied them from the keep stood just beyond him, along with two others wearing the red and black of de la Manse. With a carefully blank expression, the priest moved up beside Maynard and placed his hand on the unconscious man’s head.
    “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Santi …”
    While Maidenstone’s longtime priest prayed over the castle’s fallen son, Linnea concentrated on the task at hand. But even as she worked, drawing some comfort from the familiar, droning prayer, she chanced a sidelong glance around the small, ill-lit space. Aside from her and Norma, the others in their party had all bowed their heads in prayer, even Frayne. But the soldiers only watched, the three of them staring unblinkingly at her.
    Because they think I am Beatrix. Because they know their lord will soon marry me—and bed me.
    Her eyes turned in renewed panic toward her sister. Then an even crueler reality struck her. This was the last time she would see her for only God knew how long. Beatrix, whom she’d never been separated from before. Beatrix, who was her sole support, the only person who had ever truly cared for her.
    As Father Martin ended his prayer and all the bowed heads raised, an even worse sort of panic seized her.
    Don’t go! she wanted to cry. Please, Beatrix, don’t leave me!
    As if she heard her sister’s silent plea, the expression on Beatrix’s dirty face mirrored Linnea’s. They were being torn apart and they’d have no chance to say a proper goodbye.
    Linnea started to rise, to go to her, but Lady Harriet must have anticipated just such a possibility, for she stepped between the pair, blocking their view of one another. “Whilst you see to our Maynard’s physical needs, Beatrix, Father Martin and I will see to his spiritual ones. Once finished here, come attend me in my chamber.” Then she turned away, and leaning on the maid Dorcas for support, she made her way regally toward the chapel.
     
    Were it possible, the morning proved to be even worse than the day before, Linnea thought as she gathered up the dirty cloths that had bound her brother’s injuries. Yesterday they’d labored under the dark cloud of fear and uncertainty. Today they were immersed in a storm of despair. Linnea could almost envy Maynard his oblivion.
    At once she willed her self-pitying thoughts away. To envy poor Maynard! How selfish of her to think her misery worse than his! At least she was healthy and unharmed.
    Thank the Lord that his wounds had not festered. But Linnea could take little comfort from that, for he yet remained in a deep sleep. He was