Rosehaven (3 page)

She’d heard this argument spewed several times from other mouths. Her father had spoken of Richard de Luci, a man she truly feared when she had met him accidentally at a tourney two years before.

She said, “But Richard de Luci is married. He is no threat to me.”

“A wife would not slow him,” Severin said, his voice uncaring, curt. “I imagine that his wife is now dead.”

“I’ll whip you as I whipped your mother if you do not do as you’re bid. Do it. Now.”

They all stared at Fawke of Trent. He had managed to pull himself up on his elbows. He was looking from his daughter to Severin of Langthorne. “Do it now. My end is near. You must wed each other to save my lands and to give my name permanence.”

And I am little of nothing, Hastings thought. Her father had ignored her since he’d had her mother whipped to death, a deed that her nurse had prevented her from witnessing. But she’d heard her mother’s screams. Her mouth felt dry. She licked her tongue over her lips. “I am ready,” she said. She thrust out her hand and Severin took it.

Father Carreg was quick. As he spoke the words from the Latin parchment that he himself had penned, his eyes darted from Severin back to Fawke of Trent. He quickened and Hastings knew that he had skipped parts of the ceremony. Her father breathed his last just as Father Carreg gave them his blessing. Father Carreg gave a sigh of relief and mopped the sweat from his forehead. “I have given him last rites,” he said to Hastings. “I will pray over him now. Make your good-byes.”

“It is done,” Severin said. He leaned over and gently closed Fawke’s staring eyes that hadn’t seen much of anything in weeks. Hastings watched him, feeling numb. Her father lay dead and she was married. What good-byes should she say? Thank you, Father, for wedding me to a man who could be as violent as you were? She lightly touched her fingertips to her father’s cheek, then drew back.

The marten stirred for the first time, stretching, his thick tail brushing Severin’s face. Then the marten froze, making soft mewling sounds deep in his throat.

“It is death,” Graelam said. “The marten hates the smell of death.”

“See to your father’s laying out,” Severin said to her. “Then come to the great hall and we will sup. I would have more pork for Trist. He appears to like the way the cook prepares it.”

Father Carreg said, “My lord, I have instructed everyone that your name is now Severin of Langthorne-Trent, Baron Louges and Earl of Oxborough.”

“The name matters little. I am now their lord. That will suffice.” He turned and left the bedchamber, the marten wheezing until it was beyond the door.

“I trust him,” Graelam said, and drew Hastings into his arms. “He is a good man.”

“My father is dead.”

“Aye, but he had a good life, Hastings, a full life. He was a good friend to me. We will mourn him.”

“Must I bed this man on the same night my father has died?”

“Nay. I will speak to Severin. He will leave you alone tonight. But attend me, Hastings. He is a man, a warrior, he is now the lord of Oxborough. He must spill his seed in you not only to protect you but also to seal the union. It is the way things are done. You know that.”

“I like the marten.”

“Aye, Trist is a wily fellow, smarter than many men I’ve known. He travels everywhere with Severin. Severin told me that you touched Trist and he didn’t bite you. It took me months before the marten would allow my hand near his head. Now, your women will lay out Fawke. You will come with me to the great hall. This is your wedding feast. We will do it properly.”

“How old is Severin?”

Graelam cocked his head to one side even as he was warming her hands between his. “Young, but twenty-five summers, I believe, not an old man of thirty-one as I am.”

She paused, looking back at her father. Two women were already preparing to bathe him. “Good-bye, Father,” she whispered, and turned to Graelam. “I remember when I was very young. My mother told me that my father was pleased when I was born because I was the firstborn girl, and thus the name of Hastings was carried on. But then there were no boys. I think he came to hate me for that.”

“Come,” Graelam said, having no answer, and led her away.

3

T
HE MARTEN LOOKED AT HER SEVERAL TIMES DURING THE
long evening but made no move toward her. He remained very close to Severin, never more than a paw length beyond his right hand.

Hastings, well aware of the cautious conversation coming toward her from all the Oxborough people, was sipping on her wine, staring at the peas on her trencher, when Severin suddenly leaned toward her. “Graelam tells me you don’t wish me near you tonight.” They were the first words he’d spoken to her since Father Carreg had finished their marriage lines and Severin had left the bedchamber.

Her fingers tightened about the goblet. It was pewter, as cold a gray as the thick band he wore on his left arm. She wondered what the band was for.

She simply couldn’t imagine this man, this stranger, touching her, taking her as men did women who were their wives because it was their right to do so. She supposed it was his right to do anything he wished to. He was a man. He was born with the right to own his wife. Hadn’t her father killed her mother? She doubted even Father Carreg had uttered a single rebuke.

“No,” she said at last, “I wish to remain as I am for as long as I can.”

“Tonight, then. I give you tonight.”

“My father will be buried tomorrow. Tomorrow night seems too soon as well.”

“Tomorrow night it must be done.”

“You do not sound like an enthusiastic bridegroom.”

“I’m not,” he said, and stretched, rubbing his neck. “I am weary. I pushed my men and myself to arrive at Oxborough before your father died. So that I would be controlled with you, I even bedded several wenches on our way here. But now, seeing you, I do not believe you even know how to assist me to enthusiasm. So, it is likely that I will have you lying blank-eyed and cold beneath me and that will bring me no pleasure. Sleep in your bed, Hastings. But tomorrow, whether I wish to take you or not, it must be done. Nothing is safe until I have breached your maidenhead and spilled my seed in your womb.”

She looked at the marten. He was lying along the length of Severin’s arm now, looking sleek, his belly stretched with all the food he’d eaten.

“He is fat.”

“Aye, he doesn’t hunt much. Not enough time has passed since he suffered so in Rouen. He will improve.”

“Lord Graelam told me of your captivity and why Trist eats pork.”

“He shouldn’t have. It is not your affair.”

“Evidently he didn’t agree with you. Since we are married, isn’t it right that we know something of each other?”

He stared down at his pewter plate that still held its slice of thick bread with meat chunks on top of it. The thick gravy had congealed. He saw that she hadn’t eaten much either. Not that he cared. He said aloud, “It isn’t important to me. You are my wife. You belong to me. You are an obligation. I will protect you as I will protect all else that is mine.”

She’d been an obligation to her father, keeping her distance, treading quietly around him, seeing to his comfort, but still she was her mother’s daughter, and thus to be despised. She remembered hearing one of the other women say to Dame Agnes that Hastings’s mother had cursed when
she’d borne a girl rather than an heir, even though the girl child would be named Hastings and thus carry on the tradition. No, Janet had wanted an heir because she knew Fawke would make her go through pregnancy again until she bore him one. But Janet had come to love her daughter, Hastings was more certain of that than she was certain of anything else in her life. Aye, her mother had loved her dearly until she had died, beaten to death by order of her husband. Hastings shook away the memories. She looked at her husband, another who saw her as naught but an obligation. “You said you had bedded women before you arrived here. I do not understand that.”

A black brow went upward. “What is there to understand? I am a man. I told you, I wanted to have control with you.”

Because the marten was lying fat and replete along his arm, because she couldn’t fear a man with an animal lying on his arm, she said, “When I was fifteen the jeweler’s son kissed me. I liked it. I suppose I should have enjoyed him more before I wedded you.”

His arm must have locked because the marten raised his head, readying himself to move quickly. Severin drew a deep breath, then rubbed the animal’s head with his finger. Both his arm and the marten eased.

He speared a chunk of beef with his knife, looked at it a moment as if it would perhaps poison him, then ate it. He chewed slowly. Finally, he said, “You are not meek. That is a requirement in a wife. You will hold yourself silent. You will obey me. You will not mock me with an eye to angering me.”

“I am not mocking you, merely jesting with you. Well, mayhap there is irony to be gleaned from my words. Do not misunderstand me, my lord. I see that you are a man. I am assured that you are a strong and an able protector, a warrior. I accept that. I will even accept you as my husband, since I have no choice, but I will not become one of the rushes for you to tread upon. Even my father, who had no affection for me, did not expect that of me.”

“A husband is not a father.”

She felt as if she were battering herself against the curtain wall of the outer bailey. “No,” she said quietly, “I believe you are right.”

“You are not grieving for your father.”

“I have grieved for the past two months. I could ease his pain, but nothing more. I couldn’t cure him. Not that he wanted to accept anything from my hand that would ease him.”

“You are truly a healer?”

“I try. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes the illness overwhelms the victim and all my efforts to heal.”

Lord Graelam cleared his throat as he rose. “Listen, all. Let us all drink to the new lord and lady of Oxborough.”

Everyone did drink and cheer, but it was an effort. No one knew this man who was their new master. All were wary. Most, she knew, were worried for her. Even Beamis and her father’s men-at-arms had kept their distance, but she saw they now seemed more at ease with Severin’s men.

She left the great hall as soon as she could. Tonight would be her last night of freedom. Tonight would be her last night to be herself. Dame Agnes, who had sewn her gown and had been her mother’s nurse and hers as well, accompanied her to her small bedchamber. “It is kindness on the lord’s part,” the old woman said, “that he not come to you tonight. But tomorrow night, my little pet, you must allow him to take you. I will pray that he won’t hurt you, but know that it will hurt a bit the first time. But it isn’t important. You lie still and let him do what he must. Later, we can speak of other things.”

What other things? Hastings wondered. She said, “I know what he will do, Agnes. I’ve heard that some women even enjoy the act. My mother must have enjoyed Ralph the falconer since she willingly went to his bed.”

“You are not your poor mother. She was unhappy for a while, but then Lord Fawke gave her no chance to change. It is a tragedy.”

“What do you mean? She wanted to return to my father?”

Dame Agnes tightly seamed her thin lips.

“Come, my mother has been dead many years now. My father is dead. There is no one here to feel their pain anymore. Tell me, Agnes. Don’t you believe I deserve to know?”

“Hold still,” the old woman said.

Hastings said nothing more, just raised her arms and moved this way and that until Agnes had removed the precious saffron silk gown. “You will keep it safe for your own daughter,” she said. “I doubt I will be here to sew her wedding gown for her.”

“Of course you will. I grow more efficient with my herbs every day. You will see, by next month I will be able to cure the plague. Mayhap even old age.”

Dame Agnes smiled. It was a nice smile to Hastings, even though the old woman was missing most of her teeth. “You keep your head about you, Hastings. You hold firm. A woman bends, that you must remember, but she can still keep her place unto herself. Our new lord, he is a mystery, but he is still just a man, and no man I’ve ever heard of can hide himself for very long.”

“I dare say his marten won’t let him.”

“Ah, the marten. A strange companion for a warrior. Now, little pet, let me assist you in your night shift. It belonged to your mother. I have been keeping it safe for you.”

“Why should I wear it tonight? He will not come. He swore to me that he would not.”

“Ah, I had forgotten that. Aye, just wear your shift. There’s my little pet. You will sleep now. Hear the storm. You have always loved the storm blowing in from the sea. Let it give you sweet dreams.”

Dame Agnes leaned down, pulled the soft wool blanket to Hastings’s throat, and kissed her cheek. She pulled her fingers through her thick hair. “How beautiful you are, Hastings, with your lovely chestnut hair, just like your mother’s. And those green eyes of yours, aye, they’re more vivid than the moss in the Pevensey Swamp. And now, you are my lady. I will inform the servants that they are now
to curtsy when they see you and not just sing out your name as all of them have done since you were a tiny little mite.”

Hastings just smiled. It was difficult to believe all these changes could occur overnight.

The bedchamber was dark. The rain pounded against the closed wooden shutters that covered the only window in her room. She listened to the roiling waves crash against the ancient rocks some sixty feet below. She was lucky, all in all. She wouldn’t have to leave her home as did most girls when they wedded. So she was beautiful, was she? She wondered if her new husband believed her beautiful. He probably didn’t care.

The last thought in her mind as she fell asleep was of the marten, lightly snoring, his face cupped in Severin’s hand. A large hand, callused and strong, the nails clean. She shivered.

The dream wasn’t sweet and vague as her dreams usually were during a storm. She felt someone pull down the blanket. She heard someone breathing close to her face. She was cold. She shivered. Hands were touching her, untying the ribbons of her shift.

Her eyes flew open. There was a single candle burning next to her narrow bed. She looked up into the eyes of her husband.

“You’re awake. Good. Hold still so I can take off your shift.”

He was no dream. He was here in her bedchamber. “What are you doing? You said you would leave me alone tonight.” He said nothing and she began to struggle, hard, and soon she was panting. “What are you doing here? Damn you, you lied.” She jerked away from him, but only for an instant. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

She yelled again, “You lied! You aren’t to be here. You swore you wouldn’t bother me this night.”

He was pulling on the ties of her shift. But he was clumsy. With a growl, he grabbed the soft cotton in his hands and yanked it apart, the ripping sound obscene in the small bedchamber.

He grunted as he stared down at her breasts.

He whipped away the blanket and looked down the length of her. He leaned down to pull off her torn shift. “Nay,” she shouted, and jerked up her legs. She struck him squarely in the chest. It knocked him off balance and he careened backward, flailing the air with his arms until he regained his balance.

She saw his anger, indeed, she felt it, and knew she wouldn’t like what he would do. She knew she should lie upon her back and just let him have his way. But she couldn’t. She struggled up onto her knees. She flung out her hands to ward him off. “Why did you lie to me?”

“I didn’t lie. I meant what I said to you, but now everything is different. I now have no choice. Hold still. Stop fighting me.” He was on her, pulling her onto her back, lying by her side, holding her still with an arm over her chest and one of his legs covering hers.

He jerked up the shift, baring her to her waist. He stilled, but just a moment.

Then his hand was prying open her legs. She felt his fingers touching her, pushing into her, and she cried out.

He cursed, low and long. He probed more with his fingers. She flinched and struggled. Suddenly he left her. He walked to the small table with its narrow mirror. He was looking at the jars on top of the table. He opened one, smelled it, then nodded. She watched him smear a goodly amount of the cream on his fingers. Then he turned back to her. God, what was he going to do with that cream? Stuff it down her throat? He would poison her now that he had what he wanted? Since she was fighting him, he no longer cared if she lived or died?