Rosehaven (11 page)

Hastings squawked, opened the rose drawer, took out some of the drying blossoms, and ate them.

Alice said, lightly laying her fingers on Hastings’s sleeve, “Men do not think clearly and sensibly as women do. They like to fight—to test their manhood and to clear their blood—to eat and drink, and to have sex as often as they can. There is little more to any of them.”

“That is an excellent description, Alice,” Dame Agnes said, nodding in approval. “So, Hastings, you have really mucked things up here. You have taken a simple man whom you could have led about by the nose if you’d just thought about it. Instead you have treated him to fits of outrage and given him only quarrels. You have argued with him when there was no need. You have yelled and ranted and carried on at great length when all you would have had to do was smile.”

Hastings grabbed another rose blossom and ate it, chewing viciously. “By Saint Godolphin’s shins, he has never kissed me, not once. He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m ordinary, well, he did say that I was not an ordinary heiress.”

“An ordinary heiress?” Alice repeated, frowning. “What does that mean?”

“It means that Severin always believed that an heiress would be ugly. I am not ugly, but I don’t have anything else to please him. He doesn’t like me, even after I saved his life. Bedding me is a duty, nothing more. You are wrong about him, Agnes. He does not want sex with me.”

“Ah,” Dame Agnes said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Hastings,” Alice said with exaggerated slowness, “that you are angry because he did not show you proper gratitude. He is a man, a warrior. Such a man cannot tell a woman that she is brave and courageous and that he will revere her above all others for the rest of his life. Men are not like that.”

“Aye,” Dame Agnes said. “To be felled by an assassin, it probably shriveled his soul as well as his manhood. Then to have you save him, well, it is as Alice says. A man of his stature would find that more than difficult to accept.”

“This is all very confusing,” Hastings said, and took another bite of a rose blossom. Then she sighed and began to carefully wrap the foxglove blossoms in soft linen.

“And then you cured him.”

“Aye, Agnes,” Hastings said, jerking up. “That was a mighty crime on my part. Mayhap I should have kissed his
feet instead? Mayhap I should have just leaned down and let him put his heel upon my neck.”

“Do not become impertinent with me, Hastings. Now, sit down and eat the bread and stew Alice brought you. Rose blossoms are fine, but you need MacDear’s stew.”

Her nurse pointed to the bed, saying no more, until Hastings, shrugging her shoulders, sat down and allowed Alice to place the tray on her legs. She picked up the crusty bread and took a nice bite. Her stomach growled.

“You eat and we will talk. If you wish, you may ask questions. I wonder, Alice,” Dame Agnes said, turning away from Hastings, “do you believe we should fetch Belle from the great hall? Her knowledge of men is legendary.”

Belle, Hastings thought, her eyes widening. She was old, fat, and had scarce a tooth left in her mouth. Her hair was long and thick, however, very black with only a bit of gray showing. She had been wedded to four men, all of whom were dead now. However, Old Morric, the blacksmith, was casting his eyes in her direction and everyone poked everyone else with their elbows and whispered behind their hands, laughing. It was very confusing.

“If we discover that we need Belle, we will call her later,” Dame Agnes said.

“Aye,” Alice said. “I believe she was dallying with Morric. He looks besotted, his mouth hanging open, his eyes crossed. She will probably make him take wing tonight. I would not want him to shoe my horse on the morrow.” Alice laughed. “He would likely put the shoe on the horse’s rump. Aye, by the end of summer, he will be her fifth husband.”

Hastings chewed on her bread, took a bit of the wondrously flavored beef stew with a thick sauce and onions and peas. It was salted to perfection. “MacDear has used sage in the stew. It adds a biting flavor. I like it.”

Alice rolled her eyes.

Dame Agnes said, “Now, Hastings, this is what you will do. No, keep chewing your stew, I do not wish to hear any arguments from you. And aye, it is sage.”

Nearly an hour later, Hastings was finally left alone in
the bedchamber, staring blankly at the two tapestries, one showing a banquet, the other a jousting tournament. At one corner of the tapestry there was a cup that Hastings knew held an infusion of flowers and leaves from the borage plant. It was believed to give courage to a man before he went into the tournament. If she squinted, she could see the tiny letters,
b-o-r-a-g-e,
in perfect stitches on the cup.

What was she to do? Was she to become a limp, well-washed rug and let him tread upon her? Was she to smile when he casually tossed out his insults? Was she to ignore his looks at Alice’s bottom? Was she to ask him if he enjoyed himself when he took another woman to his bed? Was she to smile when he mounted her, told her that she was only adequate, and rutted on her like an animal?

No, she would kill him.

He didn’t come to her. She quickly changed into her night shift, a loose cotton gown that came nearly to her knees. She crawled into bed, thinking, thinking. Could it be possible that she was in the wrong?

Alice had said slowly, as if instructing an idiot, “It is pleasant to have a man rut you if he goes slowly and easily, and knows what he is doing. I asked Gwent about his master’s habits. He told me that Severin was usually very careful with a woman, that he enjoyed her and caressed her until she enjoyed him as well. Gwent said he does not understand why the two of you are prepared to slit each other’s throats. He said it made no sense to him unless you were overly prideful, and such a thing in a woman would surely displease Severin.”

Hastings couldn’t believe that. Severin was careful with a woman? No, that couldn’t be the truth. Nor could she believe that all the Oxborough people were discussing Severin and her. She wondered if Dame Agnes would demand to watch them mate to see how each of them behaved toward the other.

Saint Francis’s staff, they should probably mate on one of the trestle tables with all their people looking on, offering advice, telling her how to arrange herself so that
Severin would find the most enjoyment. She would never believe that a woman could possibly enjoy this mating.

She wasn’t overly prideful.

She wasn’t.

11

H
ASTINGS AWOKE EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING TO
shouts from the inner bailey below the window. She jumped from the bed and ran to look down. There were Severin and at least twenty-five men—some men-at-arms from Oxborough and some Langthorne men. Where were they going? She realized then that he had not even slept in his bed last night. No, he had not come to her at all. Nor had Trist. She watched them ride out, Severin, garbed all in gray, his chain mail glittering in the early morning sun, at their fore.

He had not said a word to her.

She dressed quickly and ran down the solar stairs. Gwent was in the great hall, speaking to the steward, giving instructions to the thirty-some men-at-arms remaining at Oxborough. He looked up and smiled when he saw her.

“Severin is journeying to his other holdings. The castellans there must swear fealty to him. He will make certain there are no problems, no insurrections brewing.”

“I should be with him. It is the way things are done. It is expected.”

“He did not wish it. No one mentioned it except you. Why would you wish to be with him if you don’t like him?”

“It is the way of things. Liking has nothing to do with it.”

“Severin wished to go alone.”

“I am not overly prideful, Gwent.”

“Mayhap. Mayhap not.”

“When will he return?”

“A fortnight, mayhap longer.”

“Does he also journey to Langthorne?”

“Not as yet. This is more important.” Gwent looked down at the cut on his forearm that did not seem to be healing. He’d been careless. During practice with the quintain, he had fallen and cut himself with his own sword.

“Let me see, Gwent.”

He looked puzzled, then realized she’d followed his vision to his arm. There was a dirty rag tied around his forearm.

“It is nothing,” he said, and rose. “I must work the men. It is what Severin wants.”

Without thinking, Hastings shoved him back onto the bench. “You will go nowhere until I have seen what is wrong. I do not wish you to die, and that happens many times when there is an open wound. It is something about the blood that turns bad and poisons the body. Hold still, Gwent.”

He suffered her. He didn’t make a sound when she bathed the cut. It was deep and ugly. When she rubbed an infusion of chives and Saint-John’s-wort onto the sore, he didn’t even flinch. She knew that it hurt. “Listen to me, Gwent. You will keep this bandage clean. I will change it every evening until the wound is healed. If you do not obey me, there is every chance that you could die.”

Gwent wanted to tell her that she was a woman and thus she saw every little cut or bruise as something to fell a man. But he kept still. Men did die too easily from wounds. Also, she was the mistress of Oxborough, Severin’s wife, and he rather liked her. He had never seen his master so utterly baffled in his life. She had right upended him and he had said to Gwent that if he didn’t learn to control her he might thrash her and then she would make his bowels
turn to water and what man wanted that?

Gwent rose, smiled down at her, and said, “My thanks, Hastings. Worry not about Severin. If there is any trouble at the keeps, he will send a message to me. Ah, Hastings, since you have cured my arm, I agree. I don’t really believe you are overly prideful.”

“Keep the bandage clean, Gwent.”

“Aye,” he said, then turned to see Torric the steward standing there. “Ah, I believe it is the worm who has crawled into the hall to see if I have yet realized that he is a miserable cheat. By Saint Andrew’s teeth, I hate cheats.”

Torric was a cheat? He had been with her father for five years now. Her father had trusted him. They were rich, all their holdings prospering. Gwent believed he was cheating? That meant that Severin believed it too. She had never paid any attention to the steward’s varied tasks about Oxborough. She only knew that Torric performed all his duties well, was usually fair with all their people, and smiled perhaps not as much as a man should, but it wasn’t all that important. Perhaps she should begin to pay a bit more attention.

During the second week of Severin’s absence, on a hot and dusty afternoon, Alart, the porter, yelled that a company of men were approaching. Since Oxborough rose above the surrounding countryside, they could see all who approached from great distances. These men were still some miles away.

Hastings saw the king’s standard. Surely King Edward was not arriving for a visit. But still, Hastings quickly changed her gown, combed her hair, and braided it neatly about her head, and grabbed Eloise’s hand to stand in front of the keep.

It was the chancellor of England, Robert Burnell, King Edward’s secretary and most trusted advisor. He looked as if his bones had been rattled into dust. He didn’t ride well. His face looked drawn and tired, yet they were but a three-day ride from London. Riding beside the chancellor on a bay palfrey with white stockings was one of the most
beautiful women Hastings had ever seen in her life. She was so fair, her hair shone nearly white in the sunlight. She was wearing a white wimple that fastened beneath her chin. She was young, not more than five years older than Hastings, and she rode her palfrey well. She was wearing a soft green gown with long, loose sleeves that fell nearly to the ground. Burnell slowly dismounted. Then he shook himself, looked up at her, and nodded. He handed the reins of his horse to one of the Oxborough stable lads.

“My lady,” Burnell said, giving Hastings a fat smile, for he’d known her since she was born, though he’d seen her only rarely during the past ten years, “this is Lady Marjorie, widow of Sir Mark Outbraith. King Edward has sent her to you to care for Eloise of Sedgewick. This is the child?”

The child pressed herself against Hastings’s side.

“Eloise,” Hastings said, “my dear, this is a very nice man who serves our king. He isn’t here to hurt you.”

“What is wrong with her?” Robert Burnell asked, one eye on Eloise, who refused to release Hastings’s leg.

“Her father beat her and her mother set her on her knees most of the day to pray. She is much more at ease now, but it will take time.”

“Ah, the little girl,” Lady Marjorie said, and without paying any attention to the dirt on the keep steps, she dropped to her knees and looked straight into Eloise’s pale blue eyes.

“You and I,” she said very slowly and quietly, “will become great friends. You may call me Marjorie.” She reached into the pocket of her beautiful cloak and withdrew a cloth. Slowly, knowing Eloise was staring down at that cloth, she unwrapped it. Inside were almonds covered with honey. “Just one, Eloise, just one. That way they will last a long time and you will have something to look forward to.”

Eloise very slowly reached out and took an almond. She studied it. Then she eased it into her mouth. Almost immediately she closed her eyes in ecstasy.

Marjorie smiled and rose. “You are Hastings of Oxborough?”

“Aye. You have come quickly.”

Robert Burnell said, “We will remain until tomorrow, Hastings, then go to Sedgewick. Lady Marjorie will be the child’s guardian until she comes of age. Where is Lord Severin?”

“He is away visiting his other holdings.”

The evening meal was an odd affair. Robert Burnell sat in Severin’s chair, Lady Marjorie sat in Eloise’s chair with Eloise on her lap. “She is so very thin,” Marjorie said.

“You should have seen her when she first arrived at Oxborough.”

“All of this is very strange. However, I fancy that at Sedgewick, everything will soon be all right again.”

What am I, Hastings thought, a witch to terrify and starve the child? She realized she didn’t want Eloise to return to Sedgewick. Beale was there. Both Hastings and Eloise were afraid of Beale, probably with good reason. When she spoke of this to Robert Burnell after the long dinner, he was silent for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “I will hang the woman. Then there will be no problem. You did say that she threatened you, did you not, Hastings?”

“Aye, I did, but sir, surely hanging is a bit too severe, even for Beale. Cannot Eloise simply remain here? It is kind of Lady Marjorie to come to her, but I can be Eloise’s guardian until she is of marriageable age. Severin will protect her and her holdings.”

“I am sorry, but His Majesty is set on this course. Besides, you are newly wedded. You and Severin will have babes. What need do you have of a child not your own?”

“I like Eloise. She has not had an easy life. I cannot believe she would be happy if she went with a stranger back to Sedgewick. Please, sir—”

“Hastings, you don’t understand. His Majesty is indebted to Sir Mark Outbraith. Some four years ago he rallied to the king’s side during an ambush near to Jerusalem. We heard that he was killed in a squabble with his neighbor some six months ago. Lady Marjorie is his widow. He left
her with nothing. His Majesty thus decided that to repay his debt he would make her the child’s guardian.”

“But she is so young.”

Robert Burnell laughed in that raw way of his that made him sound out of practice. “You are but eighteen, Hastings. Lady Marjorie is twenty-three. Leave be. See to your own affairs. Eloise is no longer your responsibility.” He took a deep drink of wine and sighed deeply. “If I mistake it not, this is from Lord Graelam. From his father-in-law’s vineyard in Aquitaine?”

“Aye, it is. Would you like another goblet, sir?”

Burnell drank deeply, then said slowly, “I had hoped to see Severin, yet it is wise of him to see to his holdings immediately. I am surprised that you did not accompany him.”

“He did not wish me to.”

“Is he to your liking, Hastings?”

“He appears to be a brave warrior, sir. If you would know the truth, he does not like me. But then again, I suppose many husbands don’t like their wives. I know that I am not particularly fond of him.”

Robert Burnell waved an indifferent hand. “You are both young. You will change. Once you begin having children, you will see him in a different light. I understand that Richard de Luci poisoned his wife so he could take you and wed you? That he failed because the poor lady didn’t die speedily enough?”

“So I have been told. Lord Graelam said he slipped on a rabbit bone and hit his head. He is dead.”

“Excellent. You have grown up well, Hastings. You are comely and you fed me an excellent meal. The keep is sound and well managed. You and Severin should try to model yourselves upon our blessed king and queen. Aye, it is a pleasure to serve our king and queen. Their affection for each other is a constant in this chaos of men’s affairs. Fret not, Hastings. You are young. You will bend, as you should to your husband.”

Did everyone want her to become a sheep in women’s clothing?

“And Severin? What will he do, sir?”

“He is a lusty young man. He will teach you to enjoy lust and to laugh.”

She sipped at the wonderful Aquitaine wine. It warmed the belly. It also made her feel easy and smile a lot, despite the fact that Robert Burnell was again telling her it was she who had to change, not Severin. She smiled now at Robert Burnell. “How long will you remain at Oxborough, sir?”

“Ah, I must take Lady Marjorie and the child back to Sedgewick on the morrow, as I told you. As to this woman Beale, I will see the extent of her madness, for mad she must be to hold a knife to the child’s throat and try to escape with her. You are not to worry about the child. Look at the lady. Already the child is smiling and holding her hand.”

It was true, Hastings thought. Eloise had gone to Majorie with scarce a thought to Hastings. She felt betrayed and a bit jealous of the beautiful woman. She did not like that in herself but it did not seem to matter if she liked it or not. It was there, that jealousy. Why had Eloise gone so quickly over to her?

Severin returned to Oxborough three days later, a fortnight to the very day. Hastings was standing on the top steps of the keep watching him and his men ride into the inner bailey. Children and animals scattered out of the way. She watched him dismount and hand the reins to Mark, his squire, who was patting his warhorse’s sweating neck, speaking to him, Hastings thought, telling him about the delicious carrots from her garden. She liked Mark. It was just that he couldn’t bring himself to speak to her. All he did was open his mouth, stutter, then shut it again.