Rosehaven

by Catherine Coulter

  He had made no more movements toward Eloise.

  “I trust you like MacDear’s civet of hare,” she said to her husband, who was pushing the food about the thick pewter plate with his knife.

  “Aye,” Severin said finally, “it is tasty. You had the rushes changed, Hastings. They are sweet-smelling.”

  He had noticed something other than the glorious Marjorie, praise be to Saint Ethelbert’s knees.

  “It is the rosemary you smell. Mixed with just a bit of ground roses, it fills the air with sweetness.”

  What an utterly boring thing to say to a husband she wanted to kiss and caress and demand to love her and only her and not that other woman from his boy’s dreams.

  She took a bite of chicken mixed with rice and almonds. It tasted like the rushes covering the cold stone floor. She thought about the vial in her pocket. It nestled there, ready for her to use, yet she hesitated. She didn’t want to drug her husband. She didn’t want the mandrake to make him turn back to her. No, she wanted him to do it of his own volition. She wanted him to want her as he had before he had laid eyes on Marjorie, who was still giving all her attention to Eloise.

  Why could Marjorie not be a bitch?

  Why could she not rub Hastings’s nose in her power?

  Hastings sighed, leaned over, and lightly stroked her hand over Trist’s head. He mewled loudly, raised his head, looked at her for a good long time, then laid one of his paws over her hand.

  “Trist has mated, I am certain of it,” Severin said, his first unsolicited words to her.

  “He seems content,” she said.

  “He has mated, thus he will show no more real interest until his babes are born. Then he will journey back into the forest to see that they are raised properly.”

  “Is that what you will do if I now carry your babe?”

  He jumped. He stared at her face, then his eyes dropped to her belly. “Are you with child? Have you ceased your monthly flux?”

  How to answer him? She had never known when her monthly flux would come. It had been many weeks, but she had no idea if his seed had made a babe in her womb.

  “I do not know.” Perhaps she should have lied. Perhaps if he believed his babe was in her womb, he would turn back to her. He was honorable—she cursed.

  “What did you say, Hastings?”

  “I remarked that Saint Osbert’s elbows were perhaps too knobby. I cursed, Severin.”

  But he did not reply. She followed his line of vision. He was staring at Marjorie, who had leaned down to pick something from the floor. Her hair, loose and flowing, was a silver curtain, shimmering with light. She hated the woman.

  She saw his hand tighten about the stem of his goblet. She wasn’t blind. She saw the hunger in his dark eyes. He wanted Marjorie, wanted her as he had wanted his wife just two nights before. Had he wanted her as much as he wanted Marjorie, whom he had craved and loved since his seventeenth year?

  Hastings had held his affection for less than three months. And what was that affection? A willing woman who freely gave him her body? Aye, naught more.

  Marjorie had been in his mind for more than eight years.

  Hastings didn’t stand a chance. She fingered the vial.

  No, not yet. She couldn’t bear to resort to that damned vial.

  She had already seen that he had not worn one of the tunics she had sewn for him.

  She wished she could stick her knife through Marjorie’s heart. The thought was deep within her and hard and real. Hastings knew then that she would never be destined for sainthood. She would be fortunate to gain a long purgatory.

  A jongleur appeared, flinging five leather balls into the air, catching them, then tossing them upward, all of them in the air at the same time. He was speaking as he threw the balls in a circle around his head. He was singing. She saw that Belle was leaning heavily against the blacksmith, whose eyes were sated, his eyelids heavy. Belle was eyeing the jongleur with growing interest. Old Morric wore a witless smile.

  She had seen Severin with such a witless smile.

  The jongleur finished juggling the balls. He came forward to praise Lord Severin, the man who had single-handedly killed sixty Saracens near Acre, the mighty warrior whom King Edward had begged to remain at his side but stay away from his beautiful queen Eleanor.

  Marjorie’s bright laughter turned many eyes toward her.

  The jongleur then turned to Hastings. He struck a pose, studying her. Then he sang:

  “The Lady Hastings gave Lord Severin the world.

  She is gracious and wise, healing all who are ill.

  She is above ordinary, it is said, giving her loyalty

  to her lord, who now owns his fill.”

  She saw Severin flinch. Where had the jongleur heard about her being ordinary? Obviously one of the men had overheard his master and repeated it to the fellow.

  Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, the jongleur turned to Marjorie, and stared at her, his hand over his breast. He sighed deeply.

  “Such grace, such beauty, such silver hair

  that makes men weep. The Lady Marjorie surpasses all

  ladies. She is a goddess. She is a beautiful creature

  that will make men dream throughout eternity.”

  Hastings wanted to scream. She looked at Severin, who was staring fixedly at Marjorie. Could he not tell that the jongleur’s rhyme hadn’t rhymed?

  Marjorie was laughing, waving her hand in dismissal to the troubadour.

  The jongleur bowed deeply to Severin, then to Hastings, and finally, he fell to his knees before Marjorie, but she was just laughing at him, waving him away, shaking her beautiful head.

  Hastings wanted to die.

  But first she wanted to kill that beautiful creature who made men dream throughout eternity.

  But even before that, she would kill the damned jongleur.

  Severin came to their bed very late. She was still awake. She said nothing, just listened to him strip off his clothes—she heard every movement he made. She saw him in her mind’s eye. He was naked, beautifully naked, hard and lean. He did not touch her.

  She felt Trist snuggle against her back.

  Just before dawn, she awoke to warmth, a man’s warmth. She sighed deeply. He had come to her. She opened her eyes, expecting to see him over her, but Severin was lying on his side, still deeply asleep. She was pressed against his back, Trist against hers.

  She eased her hand around his flank and pressed her palm against his belly. Then lower until she held him in her hand. He turned onto his back, arching up slightly.

  He kissed her even as she continued to caress him. He said into her mouth, “Ah, Marjorie.”

  Hastings dropped him, leaned close to his face, and yelled, “You whoreson! You kiss me as I caress you and speak her name? May you rot in hell, Severin!”

  She jerked the blankets off him, sending Trist scampering to the foot of the bed, and rolled off the other side. She wrapped herself tightly in the blankets and ran from the bedchamber.

  The jongleur was in the great hall, leaning against one of the stone walls, eating MacDear’s fresh black bread, doubtless writing a poem to Lady Marjorie’s exquisite ears. She ordered him to leave Oxborough after he had chewed that last bite of bread. She didn’t believe she could bear seeing him fall again on his knees in front of Marjorie.

  She was thinking hard. She must be patient, that’s what Dame Agnes had told her. How could she not do something when he whispered that woman’s name into Hastings’s mouth?

  She looked up to see Severin standing at her elbow, looking down at her.

  “You pulled the blankets from me and ran away. Why?”

  “If I had a sword, I would have sent it through your belly.”

  “I have told you before, Hastings, before you had bent your will to mine, that a wife doesn’t threaten her husband.”

  “Nay, you did not ever say that.”

  “If I did not, then I should have. I will say it now. Never threaten
me, Hastings.”

  “Even when you whisper another woman’s name into my mouth?”

  Severin picked up her goblet and drank the rest of Gilbert the goat’s milk. He set it down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He shrugged. He had the gall to just shrug, as if what he had done was nothing at all.

  “It makes no matter if I yelled the Virgin Mary’s name. You will not act the shrew again with me. Fetch me bread and cheese. Ah, and some of that beef MacDear made last night. I am hungry.”

  Trist poked his head out of Severin’s tunic, one of the tunics Hastings had made for him. He stuck his paw toward her and Hastings, smiling in spite of herself, shook his paw.

  She rose from the trestle table bench. She tightened the blankets around her. She leaned down to pat Edgar the wolfhound’s head. She accepted the lick on her palm. “I do not think so, Severin. However, I will tell one of the women to serve you.”

  She began to whistle, though it was difficult to get enough spittle in her mouth. She strolled from the great hall, knowing he was staring at her, wondering if he would yell at her.

  He remained silent. Did he feel guilty?

  She did not tell any of the women to serve him.

  That afternoon, she rode Marella into the village of Oxborough to visit her friend Ellen, baker Thomas’s daughter. As she pulled her palfrey up in a side alley, she heard the veriest whisper of a sound, but it was just strange enough, just loud enough so that she looked up. A huge saddle balanced precariously on a window opening. She had no time. The saddle hurtled down, striking her on her head and shoulder, flinging her into a pile of refuse.

  She looked up. She saw no one, save a shadow. She felt the pain swamp her. She called Ellen’s name, then sighed softly and let herself fall into oblivion.

  20

  SOMEONE WAS LICKING HER.

  No, it wasn’t a someone. It was Alfred. Why was she at the Healer’s cottage?

  Hastings forced her eyes to open.

  “Ah, finally she is awake,” the Healer said, so close to her face that Hastings’s eyes crossed. “Can you hear me?”

  “Aye, I can even see you, Healer.”

  “Good. I’m going to lift your head and you will drink. It is not too foul a drink so do not complain.”

  Was that a man’s chuckle she heard?

  She obediently raised her head and downed the liquid. It tasted of strawberries. “It is delicious,” she whispered, caught a shaft of black pain through her head just from those few words, and moaned.

  “It is good you don’t see the color,” the Healer said. Hastings heard her say to someone else, “The potion will relieve her of the nausea and lessen the pain in her head and shoulder. I have examined her. She will not sing for a while, but she will mend.”

  “What else is in it, Healer?”

  “A bit of ground gentian to calm your belly and just a small chunk of pounded iris root.”

  Hastings nodded, closing her eyes against a sudden shaft of pain. Alfred’s scratchy tongue on her cheek felt good. It tickled. She even managed a small smile.

  She heard the man say, “I will leave her here then. I have duties that must be attended to. I will fetch her this afternoon.”

  “Aye, that will be fine, my lord.”

  My lord? It was Severin. She tried to raise her head to see him, but the dizziness forced her back down.

  “Do not move, Hastings. You should know better than to try that.”

  “I just wanted to see Severin.”

  “You will see him later. You heard what he said. Duties. Men—I learned when I was just a little nit—they always have duties. What are duties, I ask you? Aye, duties are drinking and wenching and slicing each other with their swords and carving each other with their axes. Severin is no different. They are a wicked breed. I would say a worthless breed, but since they are necessary so that the next generation of them may be spawned, it would be going too far. Aye, a pity we cannot bring them all together and let them fight each other off a cliff. Close your eyes, Hastings, and rest. Alfred will lick you to sleep.”

  The damned cat did lick her to sleep.

  When she next opened her eyes, the pain in her head was only a dull throb. She felt only tightness in her shoulder. Her belly was calm. Severin was staring down at her.

  He lightly touched his palm to her forehead, then to each cheek. He sat down beside her. “You feel cool to the touch. The Healer says you will be fine. Do you remember what happened?”

  The hazy fog lifted in her mind and she nodded slowly. “Aye, I remember now. I rode into Oxborough village to visit Ellen, Thomas the baker’s daughter. I was going to tether Marella in the alleyway. A saddle fell on me from an upper window. I don’t remember anything else. No, I remember that I fell into a pile of refuse. It smelled very bad.”

  “It is a very strange coincidence. It was one of my saddles that hit you. Gwent had taken it to Robert the leatherer to mend it. It is big, fashioned for a warhorse. You were lucky it didn’t strike you directly on your head. Also, you no longer smell of refuse. The Healer bathed you. It is a relief. Ellen found you. She ran to the keep and fetched me. I brought you to the Healer.”

  “But why would your saddle—of all saddles—fall on me? Nothing like that has ever happened before.”

  He shrugged, but he was frowning even as he patted Alfred, who was standing on his hind paws, his front paws on Severin’s leg. “I don’t know as yet, but I will find out.”

  Suddenly there was a ferocious hiss. Alfred froze, his tail bushed out, his fur sticking up from his body. He was staring at Severin even as he dug his claws into Severin’s leg. No, it was Trist he was staring at. Trist calmly regarded the giant cat, sniffed the air, looked at Hastings, then retreated back into Severin’s tunic.

  Severin patted the lump in his tunic, saying low, “Stay there, Trist. That cat could eat four of you.”

  Trist rumbled against his chest. Severin smiled. “He is trying to convince me he isn’t afraid of Alfred.”

  It was the first smile she had seen on his mouth for two days, since Marjorie’s arrival at Oxborough.

  Marjorie.

  “I would go home now, Severin.”

  “Only if the Healer says you are well enough.”

  The Healer agreed but told her to remain in her bed for the remainder of the day, to eat a light broth, and to sleep for as long as she could.

  “Be patient, Hastings,” the Healer called after her, Alfred weaving in and out between her legs.

  Hastings had wanted Severin to hold her, but not like this, not when her head was aching more ferociously now, and her belly wasn’t all that calm now with the swaying of his mighty warhorse, despite the Healer’s potion.

  He was holding her in his arms, her head against his chest. Her belly quieted. She sighed and, surprisingly, slept the short ride to the castle.

  She awoke to see Lady Marjorie standing on the top stone step of the keep, Eloise at her side. “Ah, my lord, you have brought her home. Carry her immediately to her bedchamber. That’s right. Be careful now.”

  She sounds like the mistress of Oxborough, Hastings thought, feeling strangely detached. Then she drifted away again from another potion the Healer had given her to drink just before she and Severin left her cottage.

  When she awoke, Dame Agnes was seated beside her bed, sewing. There were three lit candles casting slivers of light through the shadows in the large room.

  “My little pet, you’re awake. Good. I will send for your broth. MacDear was very worried that it would not be exactly as the Healer wished it to be.”

  Hastings said nothing. She was here alone in the bedchamber with Dame Agnes. Where was Severin? Where was Marjorie?

  When she finally swallowed the delicious broth, flavored lightly with chicken and almonds, she heard herself ask, “Where is my lord?”

  “He is in the great hall with all his men.”

  “And Lady Marjorie.”

  “Aye, I suppose so. What does that mat
ter? All that is important is that you mend.”

  “Why would Severin’s saddle fall from a window onto my head, Agnes?” Slowly, she continued eating the broth. Her stomach remained calm. She knew she had to eat. She had to regain her strength.

  Dame Agnes straightened the sleeve of her gown. She studied the thumbnail on her left hand. She frowned at the brown spots on the back of her hands. She would have to see the Healer. “No one knows, Hastings. Lord Severin questioned everyone. The window from which the saddle fell was in the leatherer’s shop, but you knew that. It certainly wouldn’t fall from the baker’s house. That second floor is a sleeping area for Thomas’s three apprentices as well as a storage place for goods waiting to be mended, and raw materials. All believe it was an accident. That sweet Ellen ran all the way from the village to the keep. She is a good girl.”

  “I would go downstairs now, Agnes.”

  “You are not yet well enough, Hastings.”

  Hastings ignored her. She rose slowly, very carefully. Pain bolted through her head, but it wasn’t too bad. Her shoulders were knotted and stiff. She could bear it.

  She was wearing only her night shift. She smiled at Dame Agnes. “Please help me with my clothes. I must go to the great hall, I must.”

  Dame Agnes nodded.

  Six bells were ringing when Hastings stood at the base of the solar stairs and looked over the great hall. She knew what she would see, but still, seeing Lady Marjorie seated in her chair next to Severin, Eloise beside her, nearly brought her to her knees. Marjorie was laughing at something Severin said. Everyone was laughing, arguing, eating with great appetite. No one seemed to find anything amiss. Everything was perfectly normal save that the mistress of the castle wasn’t in her rightful place.

  Marjorie was.

  Hastings weaved where she stood. She felt Dame Agnes’s hand beneath her elbow.

  “She has taken my place,” Hastings said.