Rosehaven (6 page)

She stood there, staring at the closed door, wondering at
this man. She knew, deep down, that he would not have hestiated to humiliate her had the marten not climbed his leg to stare him down. She would prepare a special pork dish for Trist on the morrow. She knew that martens never ate all their food, but stored some away for lean times. She prayed she would never find a mess of rotted pork in some corner of the keep.

She wondered how badly his shoulder hurt him. She hoped it would hurt him a good deal during the night.

It was Graelam who awoke her when the sun was breaking over the horizon.

“Hastings, you must hurry. Severin has the fever.”

She merely nodded and rose. She had wished it on him but now, with the reality of it, she was afraid. She walked quickly to the wooden chest with its myriad drawers, each exquisitely sketched with the herb that was within. She said over her shoulder, “I will make an infusion of gentian.” She picked up a handful of a dark brown herb from one of the drawers and rose. “Go downstairs and have Margaret—she assists MacDear as much as he allows anyone to—boil some water. I’ll be along quickly enough.”

He nodded and left her bedchamber.

When Hastings came into the large bedchamber some minutes later, her old bedrobe wrapped around her shift, she paused, unable not to smile. The marten was seated on the pillow next to Severin’s head, his paw outstretched as if he would stroke his master’s face. He looked profoundly worried. He looked over at her and mewled softly in his throat.

“Don’t worry, Trist, your master will be all right. I truly believe he is too spiteful to sicken more.” At least she hoped he wouldn’t. If he died, she couldn’t begin to imagine what Graelam and the king would do. They’d probably deliver her up to a man more offensive than Severin. At least Severin was young and comely. “I’ve brewed it to the count of two hundred. Now I will strain it and he will drink it whilst it is hot.”

Graelam held Severin’s head as she slowly poured the
liquid into his mouth. He was raging with fever, so hot that he’d flung the covers away from him, and the single blanket came only to his belly. He was quite naked.

She sat down beside him and continued the slow business of getting the potion down his throat.

When at least he’d drunk all of it, she said, “Now we must wipe him down with cold water. The Healer taught me that last year when one of the men-at-arms was ill.”

“Did he survive?”

She shook her head. “No, he was too ill of other things as well as the fever.”

Hastings wrung out the cold cloths and handed them to Graelam. When Graelam started to push the blanket to his feet, she said, “No, it is not necessary.”

“He’s big,” Graelam said after nearly an hour, standing up to stretch his back.

“Aye, nearly as big as you are. I hope for the sake of your wife that you never become fevered. Now, let me look at his wound.” She unwound the bandage. “This man is amazing. Look at the pink flesh. I have never seen such speed of healing.” She took dried bramble blossoms and laid them on the wound, then wrapped it again.

“Then why did he get the fever?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows why it strikes some and not others. Mayhap it is his foul humor. He was very angry with me last night. He came to my chamber and made threats. Mayhap he’ll believe I cursed him and the result is the fever. Aye, I like the sound of that.”

“What do you mean he came to your chamber? He said naught to me of going to you again and we played chess in here until well after midnight.”

“Ah,” she said, and nothing more.

“You’re turning red, Hastings. What happened? What were his threats? Was he rough with you? Did he hurt you?”

“I think he wanted to but he didn’t. He left me alone after he raged at me. Aye, his own nastiness brought on the fever.”

The marten mewled, lifting its paw toward them.

Severin was shivering now, the burning heat turning into a wasteland of cold, freezing him from the inside. He felt the weight of blankets, so many of them, and they were but pressing him deeper into himself, into that frigid wasteland. He hated the weight of them but he didn’t have the strength to throw them off. He heard a strange noise, it was close, too close. He realized then that it was his own teeth chattering. He hated this, the helplessness, this endless Devil’s cold, but there was naught he could do because his mind spun away, leaving him awash in the misery and with no ability to control it.

Suddenly, he felt a spurt of warmth and turned his face into it. Trist was curled next to his head, his fur thick and soft, but he didn’t feel heavy, not like all those deadening blankets. His thoughts returned as the cold slowly lessened. He heard her voice and knew she was close. He felt her hands on him, easing the weight of the blankets off his shoulder. He didn’t want her hands on him. He didn’t want her to know that the blankets were grinding him into frozen pulp, making the pain in his shoulder unendurable. He didn’t want her to see him helpless.

“He’s quiet at last,” he heard Hastings say as she and Graelam stood over him. “That’s a good sign.”

“If he gets the fever again, I just might let him drown in his own sweat. I would rather fight the infidel than wipe down his big body again.”

She laughed. “Do you know,” she said after a moment, “it is said that when a mandrake is uprooted it shrieks and will bring death to the one who has destroyed it. The Healer told me always to have a dog do the uprooting.”

Graelam smiled. “I will tell Kassia the tale. Mayhap she will believe it. She has a streak of witchiness in her. Aye, she just might believe it. You have put me off long enough. Did Severin hurt you last night?”

Severin wished he had the strength to snort. Hurt her? Of course he hadn’t hurt her. He’d shaken her, naturally, she’d deserved that. St. Peter’s thumbs, he was the one who was hurt, couldn’t Graelam see that?

“Nay. Graelam, he didn’t hurt me, not really, but know
that he doesn’t like me, truly. He believes me an encumbrance, nothing more. I am part of this prize of his, very likely the only part he doesn’t want. He is a warrior, ruthless and hard. He wants to treat me like a possession—he probably sees me as less desirable than his bathtub over there. That bathtub does what it is supposed to do. That is what he expects of me. I’m to be humble as that damned bathtub, do his bidding without question or argument, and do it without thought. He is very angry with me. Do you think he will kill me once he has secured my father’s possessions?”

So she believed him a murderer of women as well as an animal? He cherished evil thoughts before the pain in his shoulder made his mind go blank.

“Don’t be foolish, Hastings. You are tired. You are not thinking correctly. Severin won’t kill you, but I fear that you will not mind your tongue when he angers you with his orders and commands. And you are right, of course. Severin hasn’t known much easiness or softness in his short life. But he is a man to trust.”

“Trust, you say? Well, we will see about that. At least he won’t be giving any orders today.”

His mind came back into his body when she spoke those words. As soon as he had the strength he would give her more orders than her feeble brain could take in. And it would be today. If it killed him he would give her all those orders today. Was it still today?

“Now, I need to give him more gentian mixed with a bit of poppy, then he will sleep for many hours.”

He didn’t want to sleep through the day. He wanted to think about what he’d heard. Graelam had said he was a man to be trusted. Naturally he was. He was a man of honor. She doubted even that. Perhaps he wasn’t a model of the minstrel’s songs of the chivalrous knight. He was a man and a warrior and he would rule his possessions. She was one of them. But, damn her, she could trust him. Kill her? Mayhap he would want to thrash her, but not kill her.

He wanted to tell her so, he wanted to give her at least one order, but he simply had not the will to open his eyes
and tell her that he resented her speaking so plainly to Graelam. Graelam wasn’t her husband. He wished Graelam would tell her that he, Severin, didn’t have the feelings of a toad.

There was something else. Aye, he wanted to tell her that he could mend himself without her damned potions. He did not want to have to show her gratitude, not that he had any intention of doing so in any case. But the goblet was at his lips and he felt her fingers prying open his mouth. He had not the strength to fight her.

When it was done, when Hastings was satisfied that he would rest easily, Graelam called for Severin’s man Gwent to stay close to him. Gwent was a giant of a man, larger even than Lord Graelam. There was a wide space between his front teeth and a very deep dimple on his chin. He had large hands, a rough tongue, and, she saw, a gentle manner with both Severin and Trist. But what relieved her mind was that the marten liked him. That satisfied her.

“I will bring you some ale and bread, Gwent, and Trist, well, I will find something to interest him.”

“The little lordling likes eggs that are lightly boiled, not firm on the inside, just very hot, the yellow and the white a bit clingy. Once the yolk was too hard and Trist spit on the back of my hand. I thought I should warn you. But the marten is not spoiled, not really, and it amuses Severin to please him.”

Little lordling indeed, she thought. “You’ve been with Lord Severin long, Gwent?”

“Since he was a lad of seventeen, just arrived in the Holy Land. He saved my life in a Saracen ambush. My master had been killed. I swore fealty to him on that day. Aye, I have never known boredom with Severin.”

Of course Gwent hadn’t ever known boredom, Severin thought, feeling as though his brains were as sand trickling through a sieve, except for those hideous weeks in the dungeon in Rouen. Why was she asking Gwent all these questions? When he was himself again, he would see that she kept her woman’s curiosity to herself. He wanted to tell her that Gwent would protect her while he was still lying flat
on his back, but why should he bother to tell her anything? No, he thought, he would remain as silent as the night. He breathed deeply, feeling the inexorable blankness seep into his brain.

Hastings wished she could stay and ask him to tell her of every happening in his master’s life since his seventeenth year, but she couldn’t. It was late. The servants needed instruction. She needed to speak with MacDear the cook, a brawny Scotsman who had a special way with roasted capon and honeyed almonds. His use of spices rivaled her own knowledge of them.

She leaned down and lightly touched her fingers to Severin’s cheek, felt the coolness, and left him with Gwent. He was sleeping deeply now. He would live.

6

“I
KNOW
,”
SEVERIN SAID TO GRAELAM
. “
YOU MUST LEAVE
. You and your men grow restless.”

“I will leave on the morrow when I am convinced you will have the fever no more. Hastings has told me you won’t, but she isn’t always right. I must visit Edward in London to tell him that all has gone well.”

“I hope that whoreson Richard de Luci rides away from Oxborough.”

Graelam said as he smoothed on his gauntlets, “The man you spared will tell him the Oxborough heiress is both wedded and bedded, that is certain. There is nothing for him here. I worry only that he might try to assassinate you, for he is a mangy coward, so greedy it is said he dug the gems from his father’s sword handle before he allowed him to be buried. Northbert told me he’d heard it said that de Luci poisoned his wife but that she didn’t die speedily enough, thus he was late getting to Oxborough before your wedding to Hastings. It was also said that de Luci would have gladly assisted his wife to a quicker end but the priest stood by her bedside throughout her ordeal.”

“He should be dispatched to hell, Graelam. When I am back to my full strength, I will do it. Do you know that
Hastings made Trist an egg that was boiled just until it was congealed on the inside?”

“How do you know that?”

“He brought it to show me. She had cracked the top of the egg so he could easily shuck it aside. He ate it on my chest. He even let it cool a bit so it wouldn’t burn me.”

Graelam was still laughing when Hastings came into the bedchamber, carrying a tray on her arms. Severin saw her smile at Graelam, a full, easy smile, a lovely smile that showed straight white teeth. Then she looked at him. Her smile fell away as she neared the bed. He didn’t care if she ever smiled at him, damn her. She would fulfill her role—the one he would assign her as soon as he was on his feet again—and that was all he wanted from her.

She said nothing, merely set the tray down on the bed beside him, then leaned down and gently laid her palm on his forehead. He brought up his hand and wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

“I am not fevered.”

“No,” she said, withdrawing from him even though she did not move a finger, “I can see that you are not.”

“Damn you, do not treat me like a puking old man who has not the wit to gainsay you.”

She straightened. He released her hand. “I have brought you food. MacDear is the Oxborough cook. He is excellent. He has prepared you barley broth. You will eat the broth, if it pleases you to do so. If you do not wish to eat it, why then, throw it into the rushes. My lord Graelam, Northbert wishes to speak to you.”

Graelam stared at the two of them. Hastings, that confiding girl he’d known for years, warm and laughing, always humming and singing, rarely showing fear because her father usually ignored her. He’d struck her only in moments he lacked control. Perhaps it would have been better had Fawke thrashed her more often, even threatened to beat her as he had his wife. Then she would treat Severin with more deference. She would tread more warily around him. Now she was dignified as a matron and stiff as Severin’s onyx-handled sword. She didn’t look like she’d even bend
in a strong wind, much less bend to a man’s will, much less a husband’s will.

But no, Graelam thought, he didn’t want her to be any different. He prayed that Severin would not hurt her. Perhaps he would mention it to him, tell him privately that to strike his wife just might kill her and then who would see to his comfort and to his meals? Who then would bear his children?

Graelam wondered, as he met Northbert, his master-at-arms, in the inner bailey below, what Severin had done to her the previous evening. The tension coming from her was like the swirling cold winter winds coming off the North Sea. Yet she had not hesitated to save Severin’s life when de Luci’s man had tried to stab him in the back, nor had she hesitated to attend him, not leaving him until he slept.

He doubted he would ever understand the workings of a woman’s mind. Not that it mattered, not since his own wife adored him, not minding his bad habits, not berating him when he was testy or sore from bruises he’d gained on the practice field. Ah, but she would leap upon a stool so she could yell in his face when he was an oaf. He realized he was grinning fatuously, seeing her as she kissed his mouth whilst he held their babe, stroking the soft black hair—his black hair—whilst Kassia cooed at both of them.

He listened, at first unable to believe what Northbert told him. He rubbed his hands together. He thought of Severin, then shook his head. No, he would deal with this. It would be his last act here at Oxborough. He felt his blood stir. Aye, he wanted to do this. It wasn’t a duty, it was a pleasure, making his blood stir.

Hastings watched Graelam ride out with Northbert and his dozen men not long thereafter. He had not come back into the keep. That meant Severin had no idea that he had left.

She ate some soft goat cheese and some warm bread fresh from MacDear’s oven. She sipped at her milk, watching two of her women clean down the trestle tables. She knew she would have to return to Severin to see if he was continuing to mend, if the fever stayed away from him. He
had to be still asleep. She would work first in her herb garden.

She knelt first to weed the Canterbury bells and the lupines, both blooming wildly. One tall pink lupine was leaning over the hyssop planted at the far edge of her herb garden. She sat back on her heels, wondering what to do. No need to think about it really. She pinched off the tall spike and tossed it over her shoulder. She needed the hyssop and the savory that grew beside it. Both needed sun and a lot of air.

She hummed as she worked, as she always did. She felt calm flowing into her. She plucked off a good dozen ripe strawberries to grind up. They were excellent for whitening teeth.

It was midafternoon before Graelam rode back through the giant gates of Oxborough, past the thick curtain outer walls to the heavy iron portcullis of the inner wall that the porter had to raise since it had been locked down from the moment of the attack on Severin. He and his men rode into the inner bailey, chickens, goats, pigs, dogs scurrying from the path of the destriers’ hooves. Children of all ages grouped together watching the twelve warriors.

It was Severin who met Graelam on the deeply hollowed stone steps leading into the great hall. Graelam saw him immediately, standing on those steps garbed all in gray as was his habit, looking strong and fit and very angry. He couldn’t yet be all that fit. Graelam had left him sleeping. Hastings could not have agreed to allow him to leave his bed, not that Severin would listen to anyone when he had made up his mind about something.

Graelam wasn’t fooled by his stillness, that was just a part of him that baffled his enemies. No, Severin was going to want to bring his mace down on his head, particularly once he heard what Graelam had done.

His hands were on his hips. He didn’t realize that Hastings was standing behind him. Graelam met her eyes and smiled.

“You left without telling me anything,” Severin said, that deep voice of his soft and low. “You left me filled
with the drug she poured down my throat. I do not know what you have done, but I know it is something I won’t like. I am not pleased, Graelam.”

Graelam grinned and slapped him on his unwounded shoulder. “Come inside and I will fill your ears to overflowing. Hastings, can my men have ale? Also there are some wounds for you to see to, if you do not mind.”

Severin turned to see her standing there, the early summer breeze ruffling the hair around her face. “See to Lord Graelam’s men. Fetch them ale. Graelam and I will have the Aquitaine wine if you and Dame Agnes have not drunk it all. Ah, yes, I will see to Graelam.”

“You will not hurt Graelam,” she said.

Severin looked as if he’d spit at her. But Graelam laughed. “See you, Severin, I have a protectress. Harm me not.”

“Go, mistress,” Severin said to his wife, and turned on his heel. She hoped his shoulder hurt.

She called out to Northbert.

“Keep your sword sheathed, Severin,” Graelam said easily as he wiped his hand across his mouth. “Else I might call upon your wife to protect me. Nay, don’t growl. This is excellent wine I brought you. Kassia’s father lives in Brittany, you know. He has vineyards in Aquitaine.”

“Graelam, whatever you did I know I will not like it. But I am ready. Tell me, what did you do?”

“The man you sent back to Richard de Luci, well, he was grateful to you for not torturing him—”

“Not torturing him? Christ’s bones, Hastings made him puke up his toes. He wanted to die. He was a pathetic scrap. All he did when he wasn’t puking was lie there on his side, his knees drawn up to his chin, moaning.”

“Aye, but then he was well again and his body was intact. No broken bones, no bashed head, no cracked ribs. As I say, he was grateful to you. He believed you would slay him after he told you what you wanted to know, but you didn’t. You sent him back to his master.

“It was Richard de Luci who nearly killed him since he had failed to dispatch you. But the man—Osbert is his
name—he survived. When he had the strength, he came here, asking for you. When he heard that you were still abed, he asked for me. In short, Severin, I have done my best by you. You have one less enemy now.”

Severin felt the blood pound in his temples. “No, you would not do this to me, would you, Graelam? Tell me you did not kill that damned whoreson. You did, didn’t you? You dared to kill my enemy. He wasn’t your enemy, Graelam, he was mine, and yet you had the gall to kill him. And you said nothing to me about it. Nothing, Graelam, you bastard.”

Hastings heard Graelam laugh. She saw the fury on Severin’s face. She knew he was enraged even though his voice was low and steady and he did not move. Her father had always yelled his head off when he was angry, always. It gave everyone time to run because right after he yelled, he struck. But not Severin. Would he strike?

Northbert had told her what had happened. Men, she thought, were they born wanting to hack and maim and destroy? Well, mayhap it was wise to destroy Richard de Luci. She eased closer. Severin was red in the face, the pulse in his throat pounding so furiously she could see it, but that was all.

“He is dead, his holding is without a master, and he has a daughter, I am told, who is now his heir. There are no sons.”

Severin said, as he clutched the wine goblet so hard his fingers showed white, “You were wounded. There is a binding around your arm.”

“Aye, but ’tis nothing. I imagine Hastings has already seen to my men. I lost no men, but four were wounded.” Graelam leaned back in Hastings’s chair, drank down the rest of his wine, wiped his mouth, and grinned hugely. “Ah, it was good. We ambushed the whoreson with the information Osbert gave us. They were eating their dinner. There were naught but twenty of them. We took the guards, then the rest was easy.” Graelam rubbed his hands together. “Aye, it was good to exercise my arm. Bloodletting
always clears a man’s brain and makes him forget any pains he has.”

Severin rose, calmly and slowly, took the end of the trestle table in his large hands, and upended it, sending it crashing into the silver laver that stood close by. The laver sent scented water flying on the sleeping wolfhound, Edgar, whose eyes flew open. He leapt up, growling, ready to tear out an enemy’s throat.

“Enough, Severin, enough! Hold your temper. I do not want you to destroy the keep.”

Severin turned to see his wife of two days on her knees, picking up the laver, that thick hair of hers cascading over her shoulder nearly to the rushes. She looked up at him even as she cradled the damned laver against her chest. “You have dented the silver. It belonged to my grandmother. I prized it. I polished it, I—”

He cursed long and loud, then shouted, something Graelam had never heard him do, “Shut your mouth, Hastings! This has nothing to do with you. Fetch my sword. I will gullet this mangy villain, this villain I believed my friend.” The wolfhound growled. Servants and men-at-arms were standing silent along the walls, wondering what would happen, wondering if they should do anything.

“Why?” she said, rising to her feet, righting the laver. “Because he acted without your lofty permission? Because he knew you would demand to fight and he feared you would become fevered again? Tell me, my lord, why are you angry? Are you not an intelligent man, a reasonable man?”