Hastings looked to Severin. He looked thoughtful. If she didn’t know of the deep wound in his shoulder she wouldn’t guess there was anything wrong with him at all. She waited, swirling the liquid about in the goblet. It smelled foul but tasted sweet, the flower mixed with the ale. The man was staring at that goblet. She didn’t blame him. Still, she just waited. It was Severin’s decision. She wondered if he would simply slip his dagger into the man’s chest.
Severin said, “Give him the potion, Hastings.”
She came down on her knees and gently tilted the goblet into the man’s mouth. “Drink slowly,” she said. “Very slowly. Then the men will carry you into the shade and you will sleep for a while. When you awake, your belly will be calm.”
When the man slept propped up against the side of a pigsty, Severin said to all the men, “I am releasing him. He will take a message to Richard de Luci. Graelam, come with me whilst I write the message.”
He knew how to write. She wasn’t really surprised. She supposed nothing he did could surprise her. Actually, she was relieved. It meant that she wouldn’t have to keep a close eye on her father’s steward, Torric. Her father had also known how to write and he’d been proud of that fact, telling her that a man shouldn’t be at the mercy of another man, particularly when it came to goods and money.
She trailed after the men into the great hall. She wondered if she would have released the man or stuck a dagger in his gullet. Her father would have killed him with great relish, denying him the curing potion, very probably taunting him with it until he stuck his sword in his chest.
It was late that day when they released the man. He looked toward Hastings, his eyes bright with gratitude. Had he already forgotten that it had been she who’d brought on his vomiting in the first place?
“I expect an answer from your master on the morrow,” Severin said. “If he refuses to exercise his reason, I will kill him and then I will raze his castle.”
Graelam said, “Before Severin dispatches Richard de Luci to hell, our lady here will force a potion down his throat that will make him vomit until his head bursts open.”
The man paled and nodded. After he rode from Oxborough, they buried Lord Fawke of Trent, Earl of Oxborough, in the plot beside the wife he’d had killed eight years before. Father Carreg spoke the words. The men were silent. Chickens squawked in the background, pigs rutted in the midden, cows mooed from beyond the wall.
Then Father Carreg raised his voice. “I hereby give Lord Fawke’s sword to his heir and successor, Lord Severin of Langthorne-Trent, Baron Louges and third Earl of Oxborough.”
Severin drew the sword from its sheath. He raised it high over his head as he spoke in a loud, clear voice, “I accept my responsibilities and hold them as dear as I will hold my possessions. I will accept fealty from all my men before the end of summer.”
There was loud cheering, not just from the men but from the women as well. She could even hear shrieks from the children. Several dogs barked loudly. The entire inner bailey pulsed with sound and life. And acceptance. Of him.
For the first time, Hastings realized to the very depths of her that her life would never be the same again. Everything had changed. There was no going back. There was a new master. He was her master.
All owed fealty to him now and to him alone. She knew he would travel to her father’s three other castles—now his possessions—accepting oaths of fealty, determining which men would act in his stead during his absences. She wondered if any of her father’s vassals would object to Severin’s rule.
5
SEVERIN PAUSED A MOMENT OUTSIDE THE BEDCHAMBER door. He’d had her father’s large bedchamber thoroughly cleaned, surprised even as he’d given the order to Dame Agnes that Hastings hadn’t already seen to it. Regardless, he did not doubt that her women had told her about the cleaning. But still she hadn’t been there awaiting him when he’d left Graelam.
No, she wasn’t there and it enraged him.
His shoulder hurt, but not so much that he wasn’t going to take her again, as he knew he must. Mayhap this time she wouldn’t call him an animal. Or mayhap she would. He didn’t care. He was a man set on his course.
He opened the door and strode into the small chamber, silent, his boots clipping lightly on the bare stone. She was standing in front of the small window, the shutters open, a crisp night breeze blowing in, ruffling her hair. She still wore her gown, a soft green wool with long fitted sleeves, but her hair was free down her back. She had lovely hair, filled with colors, from the palest blond to a dark brown. Rich-looking hair, and soft. Perhaps he would touch her hair tonight, feel its texture in his hands and against his face. He liked a woman’s hair, if it was clean and sweet-smelling. He reached out his hand, then dropped it at the stab of pain in his shoulder. He clenched his teeth, focused hard on her, and controlled the damnable pain the way Gwent had taught him when he’d been knifed in the leg by a street bandit in Jerusalem.
She didn’t turn though she sensed a presence. “Agnes? I’m glad you have come. I have no wish to go to bed yet. Stay a moment with me and let us share a goblet of the sweet Aquitaine wine Lord Graelam brought.”
“I am not Agnes. I passed her on the solar stairs and dismissed her.” He was still displeased that the proud old woman had not immediately obeyed him, but had looked at him with doubt and opened her mouth to object. But she’d kept still, wisely, unlike her mistress.
She turned slowly to face him. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
He took another step toward her and smelled the heady scent of some herb he couldn’t identify. He said slowly, very precisely, as one would speak to an idiot, “I am your lord. I am your husband. Why are you still here in this maiden’s bedchamber? It smells of strange things, all these herbs you collect and grind. You will come to the master’s bedchamber. If you please me, if you obey me, I will consider letting you use this room for your herbs.”
“Ah,” she said, and then she had the gall to shrug. “You forget so quickly that it was my skill with herbs that took care of your wound? I doubt you would be so stupid as to do away with them.”
He wanted to strangle her. His hands fisted at his sides. She saw it and he knew that she paled. Good, she should fear him. He wouldn’t accept anything from her except gentleness and submissiveness. He’d expected it from the moment he’d wedded her, but it hadn’t happened yet. Very well, she would be submissive as of now. Then Trist peered out from his open tunic and reached a paw toward her.
She laughed, waggling her fingers at him. “I have wine. Does Trist like wine?”
His damned marten. He’d forgotten he was sleeping in his tunic. Why must Trist poke his head out of his tunic and make her laugh just when Severin had his boot nearly settled on her neck? He would deal with Trist later. Just how he would deal with him, Severin wasn’t certain. He wanted to shove the marten back inside his tunic, but his hand stilled. Trist was making a soft purring sound deep in his throat. It had been nearly three months since they’d been rotting in that dungeon in Rouen. The marten had made no pleasurable sounds since then, until now.
“My marten has never tasted wine.” What was happening here? “No, he drinks only ale.” Why were they speaking of Trist and wine? He shook his head. “I asked you why you are here. You will answer me and you will do it immediately. You will not try to distract me again.”
“I gave it no thought,” she said, her eyes still on the marten. The animal, all stretched out, at least ten inches of him hanging down the front of Severin’s tunic, gave her courage. “Why would I wish to share a bedchamber with you?”
“I do not care what you wish,” he said. “Come with me now, it is time.”
Slowly, she shook her head. “Nay. You took me last night. There is no more need, surely. I have no wish to be hurt again.”
He cursed and plowed his fingers through his hair. It sent a sharp pain through his shoulder. He ignored it. He would not back down now. “Damn you, I did not want to hurt you! I
used the cream. I eased you.”
“Your yelling has disturbed Trist.” The marten had twisted onto his back and was now looking up at his master’s face. He looked ready to fall out of Severin’s tunic. “If you do not wish to have wine, I bid you good night, my lord. I have some drying chamomile to see to.”
So that was the scent he smelled so strongly. “What do you use chamomile for?”
“For many things, but most desire it when their head aches after they’ve drunk too much ale.” She started to take a step toward him, then stopped. “Also, you should be in your bed. Are you not weak? You must give your shoulder time to heal. It is not too late for a fever to come upon you.”
She turned away from him, back to the open window. Very gently, while her back was turned to him, he lifted Trist from his tunic and laid him on her bed. Ah, it freed him.
He strode to her and grabbed her shoulders. He jerked her around to face him, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He was pleased to see her pallor. She was wary of him, at least part of the time. It was a good beginning. It probably meant also that her father had punished her when she had deserved it. He was twice the size of her father. She should tread warily around him.
Her courage came from seeing Trist hanging off his neck, and he knew his marten had charmed her, and because of his charm had bestowed upon his master an easiness that didn’t fit him at all, at least with regard to her, his damned wife. But this misapprehension on her part would pass, he would see to it.
He shook her for good measure. “Listen to me, wife. You will come with me now. I will take you again and again until you are with child. It must be done. Understand, it gives me no pleasure, save a man’s quick release for his lust. I must do it. It is my duty to my line.”
He raised his hand to the neck of her gown.
“Don’t rip my clothes.”
“Then do as I tell you now.”
Her pallor changed to a dull red. That dull red seemed to climb to her hairline. What was going on here? “You are no longer a maiden. Why are you flushing? I have already seen you naked, Hastings. I’ve seen you with your legs sprawled wide apart, my seed and your blood on your white flesh. It makes no matter to me. All women are the same. All have breasts and a belly and a passage for a man’s sex. You are nothing out of the ordinary. You have no reason to be embarrassed, if that is what you are.”
Her eyes fell. She hated him, hated him desperately. She said very quietly, “Let me go. Stop shaking me. Stop yelling at me.”
He drew a deep breath and said in a low voice, “Then obey me or I will tear your gown off you and take you here against this tapestry.”
“You cannot,” she said, her eyes on his boots. “You cannot,” she repeated when his hands tightened on her upper arms.
“I can do anything to you that I wish to. That you are an heiress makes no difference. You are nothing more than what I choose to make you. Very well, I won’t rip your gown. I have no wish to listen to your woman’s plaints.” He reached down and gripped the hem of her gown and pulled it up.
She shrieked.
He was so surprised he let her gown drop. “Saint Andrew’s teeth, what is the matter with you?”
She tried to back away from him but couldn’t move. He had her pressed against the tapestry her grandmother had woven more than thirty years before, a grand hunt with beautifully gowned ladies looking on. She flattened her palms against his chest. “You cannot, Severin, you cannot. Oh, I wish you would leave or fall in a heap with a fever. You have the feelings of a damned toad.”
What was this? She was railing at him? Where was that lovely pallor of hers that showed him clearly that she was afraid of him? What was this nonsense about feelings?
“Of course I have feelings and not those of a toad. When that knife drove into my shoulder, think you not that I felt it?”
“I don’t mean those kinds of feelings. I mean that you don’t care what I feel. You don’t care if I’m upset or frightened or angry.”
“I do care, sometimes. It’s just that a man doesn’t have time to dwell upon such things. Believe me, I’ve remarked upon it every time you look at me pale with fright. It shows proper respect, aye, a good thing for a wife to feel for her lord and husband.”
She had never doubted his feelings on that, yet she couldn’t prevent her incredulous stare or the shock in her voice. “Are you a brute? Do you like to hurt those with less strength than you have? You like it that I fear you?”
She had said quite a lot, and all of it annoyed him. How dare she question him? Make him sound like a mindless brutal savage? On the other hand, a woman who feared a man perhaps could do him in. That woman could put one of her noxious herbs in his ale and make him retch up his guts. He had seen her do it. “Sometimes it is right for you to stand in awe of me.”
“Leave me, Severin. You anger me now. Go away.”
“You will never give me orders. Now, you will cease your insults.” He reached down to grab the hem of her gown.
She yelled, “It is my monthly flux.”
He straightened stiff as a bow. Her monthly flux? “What lie is this?”
She shook her head, her forehead touching his chest because she still wouldn’t look at him. “I don’t lie. You cannot touch me.”
“The good Lord give me patience. It matters not to me if you bleed. You will bathe me after I take you.”
She looked up at him now, her face pale and set. “If you force me, if you humiliate me, I will never forgive you.”
“You already swore that you wouldn’t forgive me. Do you forget your promises of last night?”
“This is more. This is humiliation and I will not bear it. Leave me be, Severin.”
“Does your belly cramp?”
“What do you know of that?”
“Damn you, do you think me ignorant?”
“I did not believe men knew of such things and if they did, they didn’t admit to it because they find it distasteful. Men do not want that sort of knowledge about women. They do not care in any case. I have no belly cramps this time.”
“I do not find you distasteful. Come with me. I would bed you. Whenever I wish to bed you, you will come willingly and arrange yourself the way I wish it.” He was ready to sling her over his shoulder when he felt Trist’s claws dig into his leg. He looked down to see the marten climb up his leg, skim as light as a feather over his wounded shoulder, and settle himself near his neck. He was mewling loudly. He was rubbing his whiskers against Severin’s cheek.
Severin cursed. “This goes beyond what I will stand,” he said, but he made no move to pull the marten from his shoulder. He looked down at her. Slowly, he released her arms. “Your arms will be bruised. Do you have a potion for that?”
She nodded.
“Good. This is why you believe I have the feelings of a toad? I didn’t comprehend quickly enough that you bled? I didn’t care if you bled while I took you?” He shrugged. “You’re right. A man doesn’t care about that. Why should he? A woman’s blood comes naturally from her body, it makes no difference. I told you before, it isn’t distasteful. If that is what worries you, it shouldn’t.”
“Worry has nothing to do with it. It would just be horrible.”
“You have no knowledge of that.” He turned on his heel and strode away from her, adding over his shoulder, “You were a virgin until last night. You are the ignorant one here.”
“You mean you have been with a woman who was having her monthly flux?”
“Certainly. There is sometimes no choice.” He shrugged, sending a remarkable shaft of pain through his shoulder. He felt a groan deep in his throat and managed to swallow it. Pain was lancing through his shoulder, trying to twist him in upon himself, but he wouldn’t let it. He wondered if he would even be able to take her now. Aye, better to wait. Tomorrow night, when he had more energy, when his shoulder wasn’t hurting like the Devil’s own tail, when he had enough lust to stiffen his rod, then he’d take her. He couldn’t imagine trying and fai
ling in such an effort. He would give himself tonight; he was not giving her a reprieve. He turned on his heel and left without another word.
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.”
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