Rosehaven

by Catherine Coulter

  “Will you visit me at Sedgewick?”

  He stared at her, remembering when he had been deep inside her body. He remembered those moments as vividly as any in his entire life. She’d trusted him, loved him, given herself to him. Now she was alone. She was still so very beautiful, so soft, so gentle. He shook with the thoughts. “It is time to return to Oxborough,” he said.

  She threw back her head and laughed aloud. Her incredible silver hair rippled down her back. She wheeled her palfrey about, kicking her in her sides and calling out to him over her shoulder, “I have not forgotten the boy in the man, no more than you have forgotten the girl in the woman. You will come back to me, I know it.”

  When Severin finally returned to the castle, Hastings was sitting on the top step leading into the great hall. Her arms were wrapped around her knees.

  They had been home for eight days. She was mending well. The wound hadn’t become poisoned. Trist was stretched out on his belly beside her, watching his master approach.

  “It is time,” she said when Severin reached her.

  “For what?”

  “For the Sedgewick people to return home.”

  “I forgot to tell you. There were more cases of the sweating illness. A messenger came two days ago to tell me. It still is not safe. I fear it will be an empty keep once the illness is past. However, Sir Alan still thrives, thank God.”

  Hastings cursed.

  “I believe I heard an animal part.”

  “Aye,” she said, and rose slowly and very carefully.

  “I would that you go rest now, Hastings. Alice told me that you have been on your feet for four hours now.”

  “I am not on my feet.”

  Severin picked up Trist, slung him over his shoulder, and began to rub his chin.

  “I had to get out of bed because Trist would not leave me. He is growing fat and lazy. Just look at his stomach, Severin. He is a pig, not a marten.”

  Trist batted his paw at her. She laughed, a bright sound Severin hadn’t heard in too long a time.

  As quickly as it came, the laughter disappeared. “You rode with Marjorie. She enjoyed telling me about it.”

  “Oh? What did she tell you?”

  “That you talked about the past, when the two of you were very young. She spoke about how much you wanted her, how much you loved her.”

  “Aye, that is true enough.”

  Hastings turned on her heel and stomped into the great hall.

  “But it is not the entire truth,” he called after her. She didn’t turn, just got stiffer, her head higher. He just shook his head. What did Hastings wish him to do? Return Marjorie to Sedgewick, taking the risk she would catch the sweating sickness? No, he could not do that, but he would have to do something.

  He followed his wife to their bedchamber. He paused at the door, believing someone was with her. She was saying, “I will be as fat as you are by the fall and then what will I do? I’ll be a prisoner here at Oxborough. He can do just as he pleases, not that he hasn’t always done what he wished to do. Especially with me. What am I to do?”

  “You can begin by trusting me, Hastings.”

  She looked up to see him standing in the doorway. Trist, on his back beside her on the bed, twisted to see his master, and immediately flipped over and slithered to the floor. He raced across the bedchamber, climbed Severin’s leg, and curled himself around his neck. Severin began to rub his chin.

  She said nothing.

  “I have come to look at the wound in your side. You have kept me away from you for a full seven days and nights. I want to see how well you are healing.”

  “Ah, won’t Marjorie let you come to her? You wish to relieve your man’s lust, Severin?”

  “In part,” he said, and that surprised her. “But more important, I want to see how you are doing. You told me you had healed and there was no poisoning. I want to see for myself.”

  “The Healer said I am nearly well. You do not believe her?”

  “Lie down, Hastings.”

  He had not given her orders for a sennight. Of course there hadn’t been too many orders to give her since that night she’d stabbed herself. He’d told her to stay in bed. She’d nearly grown mold in that bed.

  To his surprise, she did lie down. He sat down beside her and pulled up her gown. “Keep your arms at your sides. I don’t need your help.”

  “I am not helping you, Severin. I want to hit you.”

  “Trist, go sit on her chest.”

  The marten unwound himself from his master’s neck and laid himself across Hastings’s chest. He stared at her. She couldn’t help herself. She laughed.

  “That’s better.” He continued his undressing of her in silence. Finally, he said, “Your belly is still flat. I don’t ask for much, Hastings, but perhaps just a slight curve would be enough to content me.”

  “You still do not believe that I am with child?”

  “You have lost your humor, unlike I, who have gained in mine. That was a jest.”

  She chewed her bottom lip. Trist mewled, tapping his left paw against her chin.

  “Now, I’m going to change the bandage. How much longer will you have to have the thick pad there?”

  She was naked from her waist to her toes. He’d even pulled off her cotton socks and shoes. She wished . . . no, she wasn’t about to wish for anything like that.

  She felt his warm hand rest for a moment on the top of her thigh. “Now I see how you have tied this knot.” He worked it loose, then let the narrow binding cloth fall loose to her sides. Slowly, very carefully, he raised the thick white linen pad. It lifted up easily.

  There were only six stitches. They weren’t badly done, but that damned black thread looked obscene against her white flesh. There was a lot more white flesh on her flat belly. His breathing hitched. He hadn’t forgotten. He supposed he’d only suspended his memory of the way her flesh warmed when he touched her, the smoothness of her, the way her muscles tightened when he had caressed her with his mouth. He shuddered.

  “When can the stitches be cut out?” His voice sounded odd, as if he were in pain.

  “In two or three days. What is wrong with you, Severin?”

  “Nothing really, but you are naked and I am trying to concentrate on your wound. Perhaps it is a bit difficult, Hastings.”

  “Try.”

  “The flesh is healthy-looking. Have you any medicine for me to rub on it?”

  “Aye, over there, atop the chest. The small jar on the left.”

  He lifted the lid and sniffed it. “What is it?”

  “That is Saint-John’s-wort mixed with different salves into a cream. The Healer gave it to me. I have been rubbing the wound with it since we returned to Oxborough. The Healer said it would prevent scarring. It also makes my skin very soft.”

  “Your skin was already soft. Why did you not ask me to do it for you?”

  “I don’t want to lie here naked, Severin. You might forget the black thread in my side.”

  He grunted at that.

  “I wouldn’t be able to fight you for fear of tearing the wound open.”

  “You mean you would lie there like a sacrifice and not try to kick me loose from my manhood?”

  “I would have to.”

  He said nothing to that. He watched her close her eyes when he touched her with the cool, white cream. He felt her ease, for his touch was light.

  “I hate to see the thread in your body. It brings back that night.”

  At last he was preparing to yell at her. How long could a man keep his bile swallowed, particularly a man of Severin’s passions? “You will now tell me that I am a fool and threaten me and—”

  “Hush.” He was thorough, she would give him that. More than thorough. She had never stroked her own fingers over the wound to such pleasant effect.

  “I do not need a bandage.”

  His fingers stilled. “You are certain?”

  “Aye, I looked at the wound this morning.”

 
He flattened his palm over her belly. His hand was large, nearly spanning her. He said mildly, “If I threatened to beat you now, you would not believe me.”

  “No. You would do nothing to harm your babe.”

  He cursed. She said nothing, just looked at him. He was still staring down at her. She didn’t like this at all. She was naked and he was touching her and looking at her and she knew that she should draw away from him, but she didn’t.

  Trist was lying flat on her chest. Surely Trist was heavy enough to hold her down for a few moments longer.

  Severin raised his hand and pulled down her clothes. He lay a blanket over her, pulling it to her waist. He said nothing. There was a line of sweat on his brow.

  Ever since their return he had held his temper, coming to the bedchamber to see her every day, sometimes taking his dinner with her. But he did not sleep with her at night.

  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 t
o 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.