Rosehaven

by Catherine Coulter

  She was frowning ferociously up at him. He leaned down and kissed her open mouth. “Do you not remember, Hastings? I came upon you twice in your garden. That first time you gave me a provocative look and talked me into taking you into the forest to punish you. The next day, I was no sooner a shadow on your mugwort than you were hurling yourself against me and begging me to take you back again.”

  “Aye, I know all about that, but why do you bring it up and in such detail? You sound as if you know more than you should about the entire matter.”

  “Ah, now I have your attention.” He gently came out of her and went down onto his back. He drew her against his side, but she reared up over him, staring down at him. “My mother told me what Dame Agnes and Alice had advised you to do. She was laughing when she said that you had wondered if this would always be their only advice. When I saw them, I agreed that it was the best advice they could ever serve you. They told me everything, Hastings.”

  She closed her hands about his throat and tried to squeeze, but her hands just weren’t big enough. “I should be furious with all of you. I should yell and stamp and throw the laver at all of you.” Then she leaned down and kissed him, shrugging those lovely white shoulders of hers. She whispered against his mouth, “Alice said that men were simple. Dame Agnes said that the second time more skill was required but she believed I could do it. I too believed it was wonderful advice.”

  He squeezed her against him. “All of us decided that it would calm your humors and make you realize that your husband wanted you more than he wanted Oxborough itself or a string of titles. Did I not prove myself to you those two afternoons in the forest, Hastings? I let you do just as you pleased to my man’s body. Did I not compliment you on your skill?”

  “No, all you did was moan and groan and thrash about.” She fell silent. She was still furious at the women who had advised her with such seriousness. She had trusted them, yet they had discussed everything with him and Lady Moraine. “I cannot believe that they told you, that they asked you what you thought of their advice to me.”

  “I made only one or two corrections in their advice.” He shrugged, knowing she wanted to hit him since she couldn’t manage to strangle him. “Do you want me to tell you exactly what they were?”

  “I know what they were,” she said, and stroked her hand down his belly to find him. “Aye, I know exactly what they were.”

  She moved against him and he smiled against her hair, then he groaned. He wanted to talk to her, not make love to her again. He sought to distract her and himself, particularly himself, since her hand was caressing him. “I can feel that small curve now. Thank you.”

  There was a muffled mewling sound. Hastings released him. He sighed. They sat up and pulled up the covers. A ruffled Trist slipped from beneath a sheet and came up to Severin’s chest. They lay down, taking turns stroking his thick fur.

  “You didn’t ask Trist to advise you, did you, Severin?”

  “Trist always knows what I’m about.”

  The marten mewled loudly and stretched himself out over the both of them.

  “He has also disrupted our play.” Trist batted Severin’s chin with his paw.

  “You are well, are you not, Hastings?” She felt his hand lightly rest on her belly.

  “Aye, but I believe I will not fly off any more cliffs until after our babe is born. No, don’t stiffen up, it annoys Trist. It was a jest, Severin, just a jest. I am very well. You are not to worry. Now, should we move Trist and continue with our play?”

  Severin’s hand was quiet on her belly. She heard his breathing even. Trist was stretched his full length atop both of them. “I have brought down the warrior, Trist. I have done to him what Belle does to the armorer. What do you say to that?”

  Trist trilled a snore.

  Epilogue

  IT WAS THE NIGHT OF THE WINTER SOLSTICE, A FRIGID NIGHT with the wind howling off the sea, coming through the thick walls of the castle, making the tapestries billow and flap. Thick snow filled the courtyards.

  Trist had been gone for two days.

  Severin was frantic. He would not eat. He just sat in his chair and stared over Edgar the wolfhound’s head into the huge fire that burned in the middle of the great hall. Smoke billowed upward, turning the air blue.

  “He is dead.”

  “You do not know that.” But Hastings feared the worst as well. Everyone did. Her four sisters were clustered next to their mother, watching her sew, all of them quiet.

  “I should never have let him leave me.”

  “You had no choice. Trist does as he pleases.”

  “He is just like you. I ordered you never to leave the great hall without my permission, yet you were feeding chickens the very next day.”

  “I will not leave the great hall now. Trist will be all right, Severin. Have faith.” It sounded hollow, but she knew that Father Carreg had said it several times already to Severin, trying to comfort him.

  “But I knew the storm was coming. I should have kept him close in my tunic. I should have tied him up with the lacings.”

  Hastings heaved herself out of her chair. Her belly was large, her eyes bright with good health, her heart heavy for what she knew had to be true.

  Trist could not survive in this storm.

  Severin rose and took his gauntlets and thick cloak that Gwent handed him without comment. He went out every hour to search, coming in again when he could bear the cold no longer.

  It was then that they heard a shout.

  The doors were slowly pushed open. The porter, Alart, stood there panting, his breath heaving out in white puffs, kicking away a pile of snow. There, next to him was Trist, moving slowly into the great hall, laden with snow, his whiskers thick with ice, and in his mouth he was carrying something.

  It was a baby marten.

  “My God,” Severin yelled, and hurried to Trist. He picked him up, holding the small baby in his palm as Trist burrowed against him for warmth. Then Trist pulled away and leapt to the floor. He was out the doors before Alert could pull them closed.

  “It’s another baby,” Hastings yelled, and waddled toward the doors.

  “Take this one,” Severin said, gave her the small baby marten, and ran after Trist.

  Man and marten came through the door just a few moments later. Pressed against Severin’s chest were Trist and another baby.

  The Healer rose from beside the hearth and said in her commanding voice, “Gwent, you will have MacDear warm milk immediately.” She was silent a moment, her fingers stroking her chin. “Hastings, we will need a bit of white linen to soak in the milk. Aye, that should do it.”

  An hour later, Severin held Trist against his chest, and against Trist’s chest were two babies, well fed now, healthy, asleep. Trist looked very pleased with himself.

  “His mate must have died,” Severin said. “Trist brought his babes here.” He looked up to see his four sisters-in-law pressing against his leg to see the babies better. He said, smiling at each of them in turn, “The babies must have names. Then we must be very careful to keep them warm.”

  Harlette whispered, “I will have Mama sew me a tunic so that one of the babies can sleep against my chest like Trist does you, Severin.”

  Matilda crowded her away. “I will take both of them and put them in my bed. I won’t come out of bed until it is warm again.”

  Hastings was tired, the babe pulling at her, making her back ache, but still she smiled, so relieved she wanted to weep. “I could offer to let them sleep on me but they would roll off.”

  Severin grinned at her.

  They were a family. They argued and laughed and yelled and kissed. She looked up hearing gagging. Poor Alice. She was with child. The babe wasn’t making it easy for her. Even the Healer could not find a potion that settled her belly. Beamis, her husband, was hanging over her, wringing his hands, all the while the Healer was saying, “Men, look at how useless they are. Will he puke up his guts for her? Nay, he will just stand there and do na
ught of anything. I am always telling my Alfred that—”

  Suddenly, Gwent grabbed his wife of four months and hauled her up against him. He kissed her hard, saying into her mouth, “I suffer Alfred in our bed. I do not mind because he stretches out along my back and keeps me very close to you.” He raised his head and shouted, “This is my potion to keep the Healer quiet.”

  There was loud cheering in the hall. Even Alice looked up, a smile on her face, but just for a moment.

  Trist raised his head from Severin’s chest, batted his paw at Hastings, and settled in again, mewling softly. His babies burrowed closer.

  Hastings decided in that moment that she loved the snow and the bitter winds that swirled it into thick white clouds that cascaded down on the great castle of Oxborough.