Rosehaven (25 page)

Not once had he yelled at her for fleeing Oxborough. Not once had he even growled or looked mean. Not once had he threatened to strangle her.

Why hadn’t he at least yelled at her? Why hadn’t he even spoken of it to her? It had been seven very long days and nights. Not a word remotely irate had spewed from his mouth. The good Lord knew that Dame Agnes, Gwent, and Beamis had all burned her ears, but Severin hadn’t said a
single thing. Neither had the pulse pounded in his neck nor had his face turned red.

It was driving her mad. She couldn’t stand it another minute.

“I was just traveling to Rosehaven,” she blurted out when he continued to be silent. “Beamis wouldn’t take me because he was afraid you would kill him. I promised him you wouldn’t really kill him, that you were just and fair, and perhaps you would pound him just a bit, but he still wouldn’t do it. I do know that this Rosehaven is near to Canterbury. I would have found it. Did you not see that I was dressed like a boy? I looked like a boy. Even you would not have recognized me, Severin. I was safe enough. Well, there was obviously one problem and that was Marella. Those men wanted her, not me.”

He said nothing.

She slammed her fist onto the bed beside her. “I have waited seven long days and nights for you to yell at me, Severin, yet you haven’t said a single word. Surely you have not swallowed your bile. You have never swallowed your bile for as long as I’ve known you.”

He said in the calmest voice she’d ever heard out of his mouth, “Why are you spitting all this out, Hastings? It is true I haven’t said anything. It would seem to me that you would be pleased with yourself, that you would believe you had escaped my wrath and a fair and just punishment for what you did. You did say just a moment ago that I was fair and just, did you not? Aye, you did, do not shake your head at me. You are guilty, Hastings, so guilty my head aches with it. But still I hardly expected you to chirp it out like a guilty magpie.”

“I am not a bird, nor am I guilty.”

“I had no need to threaten you. Would you like to continue with your confession? Feel free to add all sorts of trappings you believe excuse what you did.”

“Damn you, Severin, why can you not just yell and be done with it?”

“You truly want me to chastise you now?”

“Well, I don’t like the way you said ‘wrath’ and spoke
of punishment. Is not a bout of yelling sufficient to make you forget everything?”

Severin bent over to stroke Trist’s back. He mewled and stretched until his front and back paws were hanging off Hastings’s chest.

Severin said finally, straightening, “When I remove that black thread, you will receive your punishment. You will rest now, Hastings. Trist, come with me.” He snapped his fingers. Trist looked up at him, stretched even more, then in the fastest move Hastings had ever seen, he rolled off her and bounded from the edge of the bed onto Severin’s shoulder.

“Sleep, Hastings,” he said over his shoulder as he left the bedchamber.

What had he and Marjorie talked about during their ride? Marjorie had seemed very sure of herself when she’d stopped to speak to Hastings in that sweet voice of hers, that damned sweet voice she could still hear clear as a clanging bell inside her head.

“Did I tell you that Severin loved me even before I passed out of my girlhood? How much he has always wanted me?”

“I don’t believe you were ever a girl, Marjorie. That would have meant that you were occasionally graceless, mayhap even clumsy and had spots on your face. No, you were never a girl.”

“It pleases you to jest. Look at you, pale and thin, your hair in those tight braids. Do you honestly believe Severin could ever be content with you?”

“Aye.” Hastings’s side began to hurt.

“Content, you are right. But there is more, Hastings, and you will never have it from him. He will bed you when he must because he knows he must have heirs.” She shrugged. “He is a man. A man will also bed whatever is available to them, unless he has great affection for his wife. Severin has none for you.” Marjorie gave her a gentle smile even as she touched her fingertips to her hair. “I believe I will wash my hair. Severin stares at my hair, have you seen him do that?”

“I have. You have beautiful hair. But I do begin to wonder about your insides, Marjorie.”

“What do you mean, my insides?”

Her voice sounded more sharp than sweet now. “I just wonder how far you would go to gain your way.”

Marjorie laughed. “You do jest well, but nothing else. Poor Hastings, you move about like an old woman.”

Hastings didn’t sleep as Severin had ordered her to. No, she worried. She wondered about Marjorie’s insides. She realized that all she’d gained from her attempted escape from Oxborough was a knife wound in her side and a husband who was treating her very strangely. He wanted to wait until the black thread was out of her flesh to punish her.

Tomorrow, she would make certain that Marjorie would no longer be in control of Oxborough. When she had brought it up two days ago, Severin had merely frowned at her and told her to rest. Well, Oxborough was her home. These were her people, not Marjorie’s. She would show everyone that she was well again, that she was once again ready to be mistress.

She was bathed and dressed in her favorite saffron wool gown, fitted at her waist with a narrow golden belt, the sleeves fitted down to her elbows, then flaring out, falling beyond her fingertips. She felt beautiful. Even her hair was shining clean. There would be nothing Marjorie could possibly say.

Her side ached, but it was nothing, really. She did not walk like an old woman.

Her chair was empty. That was a relief. Marjorie sat in her place beside Eloise. Lady Moraine was speaking to her son. Gwent punched Beamis’s arm. There was loud talk, as usual, ale splashing over the sides of the goblets from enthusiastic toasts. All in all, everything looked to be normal. Edgar the wolfhound was gnawing on a bone that Severin had tossed to him.

“Welcome, Hastings,” Marjorie called to her. She leaned over and patted the arm of her chair. “I have had
MacDear prepare your favorite dishes. He even prepared some rose pudding. He said it was a favorite of your mother’s.”

Her mother.
Hastings said aloud, “Yes, my mother was very fond of rose pudding. I believe it was she who gave MacDear the recipe when she first came to Oxborough.”

Hastings wanted to tell Marjorie right then that she would never enter Oxborough’s kitchens again.

“I heard that your mother was so evil and lewd that your father had her beaten to death,” said Eloise.

It was bad enough to hear her husband’s mistress speak of her mother, but that she’d poisoned Eloise was too much to be borne. She opened her mouth, but Marjorie forestalled her. “Nay, Eloise, those are just mean stories that you should never speak of yourself. Neither you nor I know anything of Hastings’s mother. Now, come close and let me serve you some of these garden peas that Hastings grew herself.

“Forgive Eloise, Hastings,” Marjorie said more quietly as Hastings passed her chair. “It is true that your mother is sometimes spoken of, but it was not well done of her to speak to you of it. You look pale, Hastings. Now that I see you more closely, you don’t look well enough to be here in the great hall. Perhaps you should return to your bedchamber. Aye, you are very pale, Hastings. You still walk bowed over, your shoulders rounded, like an old crone.”

Hastings hurt, but not from the healing wound in her side. She wanted to pick Eloise up and shake her until . . . until what? Until she pleaded with Hastings to forgive her. As for Marjorie, Hastings said nothing. Her eyes were on Severin. He finished speaking to his mother, looked up, and merely waved his knife at her. She was at her chair when he rose to pull it back for her.

She said to him, “Thank you for not shaming me in front of all our people.” She sat down. She felt a particularly vicious pull in her side.

“What, I wonder, does that mean?” Severin said, a black eyebrow arched upward.

“I mean it is kind of you to allow me to sit in my own chair.”

“Eloise has prayed for you every day,” Marjorie said in that sweet voice of hers.

Hastings smiled at the child as she scooped up the rose pudding with her spoon. “I hope your knees are well healed, Eloise.”

The child shrugged, not looking at Hastings. “I do not like rose pudding.”

“Then you do not have to eat any,” Marjorie said, scraping the small portion from Eloise’s trencher.

Lady Moraine said, “You look lovely, daughter. I like the braids plaited with the yellow ribbons. Your eyes look greener. Aye, you are worthy to be my daughter.”

Hastings laughed and lifted her goblet to toast her mother-in-law. But she had not wiped all the cream off her hands after she’d patted it on her wound because, as she’d told Severin, it softened her skin. Her hands were slippery still. The goblet slid from her fingers, falling on its side, the rich sweet red burgundy flowing onto the white tablecloth.

Trist raised his head, saw the red wine flowing toward him, and slapped at it with his paw. Then he sniffed his paw and licked it. He stuck his paw in the wine a second time, then licked it. Suddenly, his entire body stiffened, his back arched. He mewled loud and long, then suddenly he collapsed onto his belly.

Severin was on his feet in an instant. “Trist! Damn you, what is wrong?”

The marten lay unmoving.

“Oh no,” Hastings whispered, “oh no.”

“What is it? What is wrong with Trist?”

“The wine, he licked it twice off his paws. There must be something wrong with it. Oh no.” Without thought, she grabbed the marten, holding him close to her chest, and ran from the great hall.

25

“M
Y LORD
!”
MARJORIE WAS ON HER FEET
. “
WHAT IS THIS
? She is mad! What is she doing? The animal is dead, we all saw it collapse. Where is she taking it?”

Severin said to Gwent over his shoulder as he raced after Hastings, “The wine. Let no one touch it.”

He caught her at the stables. He grabbed Trist and shoved him into his tunic. “He will be warmer there. No, I’m being a fool. It is no use, Hastings. Marjorie is right. He is dead.”

“No, he is not. We will take him to the Healer. Quickly, Severin.”

The Healer looked as she always did in the dying afternoon light, slightly sour in her expression, her feet bare, Alfred meowing around her.

“The marten,” Hastings yelled even as she was sliding from Marella’s back. “He drank some wine that was mayhap poisoned.”

Severin pulled Trist from his tunic. He was limp. He looked quite dead. Severin’s hand was shaking. He looked at the Healer. “Please,” he said. “I do not wish to lose him.”

“I have no knowledge of this animal. I am a healer of people. Go away.”

“Healer, please.” Hastings didn’t realize tears were
streaming down her face. “Please, help him. He is dear to both of us.”

“Oh very well,” the Healer said, took the limp marten from Severin, and carried him inside her cottage.

Alfred snapped his tail but didn’t make a sound.

Severin went after her, but the Healer shouted, “Nay, stay out, my lord. Hastings, help me.” But Severin ignored her. He stood behind Hastings, his face tense and white.

“Open his mouth, Hastings, wide, and keep it wide.”

Severin said, “What will you do?”

“I will make him vomit, just as I would do to a human. Will it be enough? Does this animal even vomit? I do not know, my lord. Go outside. You fill up too much of my cottage.”

“Your cat is outside. There is now enough room for me.”

The Healer actually smiled, then she snapped at Hastings, “Wider, Hastings. That’s right. Now, let me get this down his throat.”

Trist didn’t move. The Healer continued to spoon the liquid down his throat.

Time passed. It seemed an eternity. The marten’s body was still and limp. Hastings was feeling for his heart. She found it. “He’s alive,” she whispered. “Here, Severin, feel.”

Severin slipped his hand beneath Trist’s body and held it close to him. He thought there was a slight beat but he couldn’t be sure. He looked at his wife, at the tears that were still dripping down her face. She was unaware that she was crying.

Suddenly, the Healer took Trist, raised him in front of her, and began to shake him. Then she laid him again atop the small scarred table and began to press into his body, pressing, then moving upward in a long, single motion. Again and again.

“I do not know where the creature’s belly is. It must be somewhere along my path.”

The marten jerked.

A paw slid over to Severin’s hand.

The marten bunched up onto himself, then heaved forward. Food and liquid flew from his mouth. His small body shuddered and he twisted and heaved again and again.

“He’ll heave himself to death.”

“It’s the only way, Hastings. If he can vomit up the poison, then he has a chance.”

Severin reached down and began to press lightly on Trist’s belly, pushing upward.

The marten continued to vomit until at last he simply fell flat, still as death.

The Healer raised his head with her hands and stared at his face. Then she lifted each of his front paws. She slid her hand beneath him, searching for a heartbeat.

She straightened, shaking her head. She looked at Severin, then at Hastings. “I am sorry, my lord, Hastings. The animal is so very small. He fought, but it was not enough. He is dead.”

Severin was white and still, staring down at Trist. Then he raised his head and yelled, “No!”

He lifted the marten in one large hand and pressed him against his chest inside his tunic. He smoothed Trist against his own heart, stroking his fur, lightly squeezing the long body, again and again, whispering to the marten, saying over and over, “You cannot leave me, Trist. No, you will not die. You cannot.”

He continued to rub his hands over the marten. The Healer said nothing, merely cleaned up the animal’s vomit. Hastings felt bowed down with the pain of it.

Alfred came into the cottage. He looked at each of the occupants and meowed loudly. He jumped onto the table, turned to look at Severin, and meowed even more loudly. He stood on his hind paws and steadied himself against Severin’s stomach. He was sniffing. He meowed again.

Suddenly Hastings saw a movement against Severin’s tunic.

She was afraid to move, afraid to hope.

Alfred raised a front paw and swatted at the lump in Severin’s tunic.

He meowed loudly.

Then, in the quiet of the small cottage, they all heard a faint mewl. A paw pressed against the inside of Severin’s tunic.

Alfred swatted at the paw.

The mewl was a bit louder.

“My little baby saved the marten,” the Healer said, and managed to pull Alfred off the table.

Slowly, as if he were afraid he’d kill Trist, Severin eased him out of his tunic.

He stretched Trist out along his chest, cradling him in his hands.

Trist mewled.

“Aye, tell me how rotten you feel,” Severin said. “Just keep talking to me.”

Trist vomited on Severin’s tunic.

“There is no more wine,” the Healer said. “There is hardly anything at all. I and my Alfred have saved him.”

Hastings lightly stroked her hand over Trist’s back. “You will rest, sweeting. You will be all right now. Perhaps by tomorrow you will be able to thank Alfred properly.” She looked up at Severin. She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingertips to his cheek. “You are crying.”

“Not as much as you are,” he said, leaned down, and kissed her mouth.

“Have you hurt your side, Hastings?”

“Nay, Healer.”

Severin frowned. He said to the Healer, “Have her lie down. Please look at the wound. I did this morning and it looks healthy. I rubbed more of the cream on her.”

“And then what happened, my lord?”

Severin raised a black eyebrow at her. “Look at Hastings’s side,” he said again, continuing all the while to stroke Trist’s back, feeling as if his heart would burst when Trist’s paws closed around one of his fingers.

“All right, Hastings. Lift your gown and shift. I need to look at your belly anyway.”

Hastings saw no way out of it and lay on the Healer’s
narrow cot, her clothes again at her waist. “I do not like this, Healer.”

“Why? He is your husband. Besides he does not care what you look like. All his attention is on that damned marten. As for Alfred, he does look interested, but for what reason, I don’t know.”

Finally, the Healer stood up. She walked to her small fire and poked at the embers, making threads of flame shoot upward. “I am hungry now and you should leave.”

“That is all you have to say?”

The Healer laughed at the outrage in the lord’s voice. “Very well. I believe you should be more gentle with your wife, my lord. Play is one thing and many women find it pleasant enough. I never did, but I have heard that some women have this weakness. However, this went beyond play. If you must chase her down, don’t hurl yourself at her back when she is carrying a knife. She is healing well. The babe is fine. I will remove the stitches in two days’ time. Now, as for the animal, give him milk to drink. It will dissolve any remaining poison in his belly. Tell MacDear to prepare a very light chicken broth for him.”

“He won’t eat chicken. He will only eat pork.”

“Pork then, it won’t matter. It’s nourishing.”

The Healer shrugged, frowning at the animal, whose head was resting against Severin’s shoulder. “Tell MacDear to prepare invalid food as if Trist were a human for at least two more days. Hastings, just dab a bit of horehound juice mixed with very old wine onto his tongue. It will also help eliminate all the poison from his body. Not too much now, he’s very small.”

Trist mewled, but didn’t move.

Alfred bunched himself and jumped into Hastings’s arms, knocking her back onto the Healer’s cot.

Severin slept with his wife. Between them lay Trist, still weak, his breathing not always even, which scared Severin. He kept his hand pressed lightly against Trist’s belly.

“He will eat on the morrow, Severin. For now the milk
is enough. I would not want to eat after vomiting up my innards as he did.”

“Still—”

“I believe you worry more for him than you did for me.”

“You’re too mean to die.”

She was silent for a very long time. Then, she said quietly, “I hope you are right. Had I drunk that wine, then we would have seen just how mean I really am.”

She thought he tensed.

“I didn’t want to think about that just yet. Gwent said that amongst the four of us who were drinking from the wine goblets, only you and I had not yet drunk. He has kept my wine and your empty goblet. Also, he has kept the cloth the wine spilled on. Will you examine it on the morrow?”

“Aye, but you know what I will find, Severin. It is just a question of what sort of poison. Mayhap hemlock or a distillation of poppies. Perhaps foxglove, though there is argument about that plant and what it does. I would have to ask the Healer. Where would the poison come from?”

“So many strange and exotic foods and spices, aye, and poisons as well, came back with crusaders from the Holy Land.”

She started to say,
Who would want me dead?
but she simply couldn’t say it aloud. It would make it real. It would make it very close to her, at her right hand, near to sitting on her shoulder. The saddle could have been an accident, but not this—oh no, not this.

If she hadn’t rubbed her hands with the cream to make them soft, the goblet wouldn’t have slipped from her fingers. She would have drunk from the goblet and she would have died.

She touched her fingers lightly to Trist’s sides. He still breathed.

“I don’t like this, Hastings.” Severin’s voice was low and deep.

She wondered if she had died, if he would have cried for her. If he would have howled “No!” as he had for Trist.

“Nor do I,” she said.

“Your food will be tasted from now on. Your wine will be sipped first by someone else. I will announce this to everyone tomorrow. Whoever put the poison in your wine should not have any interest in poisoning someone other than you.”

Lady Moraine said, “I have removed the marten’s vomit from Severin’s tunic but the smell remains. What can I do, Hastings?”

“I will give you some ground daisies in cold water. That will remove the smell. At least it sometimes does.”

“You know that silver-haired bitch poisoned you. What will you do about her?”

“I will see that she and all the Sedgewick people return as soon as possible. Severin and some of his men are riding there today to see what is happening. Hopefully, the sweating illness has run its course. I pray that some have survived it. As of our last word, Sir Alan is still well.”

“She wants my son. She won’t give up. I think we should poison her instead.”

Hastings stared at her mother-in-law, so lovely really, with her light hair scarce touched with gray, her slender body, her soft, dark eyes. Her hands were now soft and white, as well as her feet. “You believe me mad again?”

“Nay, I believe you ruthless, as is your son.”

“She wants to replace you. If you hadn’t spilled the wine, you would be dead.”

“I know.”

“At least Severin has told everyone that someone will taste your food and drink your wine before you do. I like that he said he would select a different person before each meal. Thus no one would know when they would be asked.”

“It is a good plan. There are still saddles, however.”

Lady Moraine gave a lusty sigh. “Aye, I know it. Gwent frets about it. I think you should consider poisoning the silver-haired bitch first.”