“You will have the money to make things right. You will have Hastings as your wife. She will oversee the management of Oxborough when you are visiting your other estates.”
“My mother wasn’t able to oversee anything. When I arrived at Langthorne, she was huddled in filth, starving, afraid to come into the sunlight. I doubt she even recognized me. She is a woman with a woman’s mind and now that mind is mired in demons. She is quite mad, Graelam. She could not hold Langthorne together. She could not do anything save whine and huddle in her own excrement. Why would I expect anything different from this Hastings? From any woman? What do you mean she isn’t like her mother?”
“Her mother was faithless. Fawke found she had bedded the falconer. He had her beaten to death. Hastings isn’t like her mother.” He thought of the girl Severin had wanted to wed, this Marjorie. He had spoken of her long ago, with a dimmed longing. Did he think little of her also?
“We will see.”
Severin was a hard man but he was fair, at least he was fair to other men. Graelam knew there was nothing more he could do. He missed his wife and sons. He wanted to leave as soon as these two were married. He rather hoped Hastings would approve her father’s choice, though that didn’t particularly matter.
2
Sedgewick Castle
RICHARD DE LUCI STARED DOWN AT HIS WIFE’S VOMIT-stained night shift. He wished it was a shroud. When would she die, damn her? She moaned, her back bowing upward. Pain rippled the slack flesh of her face. Her mouth twisted and opened.
He wished he could just throttle her right here and now, but the priest was standing at his elbow, four of her women hovered next to her bed, and his steward hadn’t left the odorous chamber for three hours.
He knew that Severin of Langthorne must be drawing near Oxborough. He knew of the negotiations and that King Edward had given his permission. But once he had Hastings of Trent it wouldn’t matter if the Pope himself had given his blessing. The man who took her first and wed her would be the victor.
He flexed his fingers. Why hadn’t he just poured all that white powder into her wine? Surely that would have felled her immediately, not brought her puking to this bedchamber, lying in her own vomit and filth for the past day and a half.
If she had complained that she didn’t like the taste of the wine, he could have simply ordered her to drink it, pouring it down her throat if necessary. She’d been reciting one of her interminable prayers as she sipped at the wine into which he’d stirred that wondrous white powder the gypsy had slipped to him. In return Richard had parted with the red silk scarf he had given his bride when they’d married seven years before.
What if she didn’t die? He twisted his hands together so hard the knuckles were white. Damn the bitch, he would hunt down that gypsy and gullet her.
She moaned again, lurching upward.
“Lie still, my child. Lady Joan, lie still.” The priest pressed her back. She was heaving now, sucking hard for breath. Richard hoped she couldn’t find any. He hoped she would choke to death on her own vomit. Hurry it up, damn you, he wanted to scream at her.
Then, suddenly, with no warning, with no more retching and gagging, she was dead. The last gasp for air caught in her throat, leaving her mouth gaping open, her eyes wide, staring up into his face.
“It is over, my lord,” the priest said. He closed Lady Joan’s eyes and tried to press her mouth shut, but her lips parted again. He stood and pulled the cover over her head. “It is done,” he said. “The poor lady suffered so with the grippe of her belly, but now she is with our Lord, her immortal soul free of its fleshly agonies. I am sorry, my lord.”
Richard de Luci realized the man wanted him to do something, to say something. What? Fall over her meager body and moan his grief? He said to his wife’s women, “Prepare her for burial and clean away the filth in this chamber.” Then he forced himself to bow his head a moment at his wife’s bedside. But a moment later, he strode from the bedchamber, nearly crashing into his small daughter, Eloise, who was crouched beside a chair near the doorway. She shrank back beneath the chair. For once he did not notice her.
At last the bitch was dead. Joan of Rotham was gone. He was free. He shouted for his men as he walked quickly through the hall of his castle. Such a small number of soldiers in his employ. But soon he would have more than he could count. He had to hurry. That damned Severin of Langthorne had to be close now, very close to Oxborough.
He was away from Sedgewick Castle within the hour, his warhorse fresh, ready to gallop the seventeen miles to Oxborough Castle on the coast of the North Sea.
She was to marry the devil who wore that gray cloak. In two hours. Soon she had to return to the castle, bathe, and let her women dress her in the lovely saffron silk gown with its beautiful embroidery that Dame Agnes had been sewing since Hastings had reached her twelfth birthday.
No, not just yet. She was riding Marella, her palfrey with the white star on her forehead. Her mare was gray. She wondered if he would take her horse, this man who seemed to wear no other color. She wasn’t using a saddle, only the bridle she’d slipped over Marella’s bobbing head before she led her from the stables that were built against the thick curtain wall of the outer bailey. Once mounted, she passed by Beamis, her father’s master-at-arms. Three knights and their squires were all responsible to him, and fifty soldiers. They lived in barracks that lined the outer bailey. It was immense, the only grass and trees in the huge open space in the east corner where an apple orchard stood.
Beamis raised his hand to her. He was going to call her back. Then Squibes the armorer caught his attention. Hastings let her mare pick her way through the crowd of men, women, and children as well as animals in the outer bailey. She lightly kicked her sides as they went through the portcullis of the eight-foot-thick curtain walls onto the drawbridge that spanned a chasm dug by her great-grandfather in the last century. There was another wall beyond, this one not as thick as the curtain walls of the outer bailey.
Two miles beyond lay the village of Oxborough, nestled about the mouth of the narrow River Marksby that flowed into the North Sea. It was a small trading town, walled, protected by Oxborough for well over two hundred years, most of it owned by her father. In less than two hours it would become the property of Severin of Langthorne.
The walls weren’t as thick here, but they surrounded the entire enclosure and the village of Oxborough below. Just beyond was a small line of trees, then the decline worn smooth over the years that led down into the village. Here the air was fresh and sweet. She didn’t want to greet any of her friends in the village, but she didn’t see a way out of it when Ellen, Thomas the baker’s daughter, waved madly at her from near the archery range.
“It is chilly today,” Ellen said, patting Marella’s nose. “My pa says there will be a storm off the sea this evening.”
“I didn’t know your father ever brought his nose out of his ovens to see if there would be a storm outside,” Hastings said, and Ellen obligingly laughed.
She was a comely girl, sixteen, with nice teeth and a pale complexion. “He comes out when he’s swept all the ashes from inside the ovens so he can sneeze. You will marry this day, Hastings?”
“Aye,” Hastings said, and that was all. Not an hour before no one had known. But now Ellen knew and that meant that all the village of Oxborough knew as well.
“I heard he was impressive, this man who wears naught but gray. Mayhap handsome and well fashioned in the way of strong men who are warriors.”
Hastings just smiled, watched the wife of the goldsmith throw a pail of slops out of an upper window, heard a man curse, then said, “I must go back. There is no more time.”
“God speed, Hastings,” Ellen said, and backed away from the mare.
Hastings rode beside the long curtain wall, waving to her father’s men on the ramparts above, and let Marella make her way down to the beach. The water was turbulent and dark; waves hurled against the mass of black rocks at the base of Oxborough Castle.
The air was so sharp it nearly hurt to breathe it. The tinge of salt burned her skin. The wind whipped her hair and slapped against her cheeks. There were many waders, rushing forward when the waves receded, only to race back to the dry sand when the waves crashed in again. Oyster-catchers, curlews, and redshanks shrieked and wheeled about above her head. She’d forgotten to bring them scraps.
She had to return. There was no more time. She breathed in deeply, wondering when she would next be able to come here to feel the freedom of the sea, to draw the salty air into her lungs, to hear the wind whistling strangely through some of the hollowed rocks strewn haphazardly below on the beach.
Tuggle took Marella’s reins as Hastings slipped off her mare’s back. He said in his soft, deep voice, “The lord is ready. You weren’t here. He did not yell or curse, just spoke low, yet all knew he was not pleased. He asked Lord Graelam if you had run away rather than wed with him. Lord Graelam assured him that you were not such a blockhead.”
“Why would anyone believe I would run away from my home? I’ll go in now. Thank you, Tuggle. Please rub Marella well. She’s run hard.”
He had missed her? But she had time, nearly an hour. She picked up her skirts and ran toward the wide wooden doors that gave into the great hall. They were thrown open, warming the hall, and she slipped inside, pausing a moment so her eyes could adjust to the dimmer light.
He was standing directly in front of her as if he had known that she would be coming in at that moment. His gloved hands on his hips. “You are Hastings of Trent? You are the girl I am to wed?”
She thought she would swallow her tongue. Her head felt blank with fear at the harshness of that dark, cold voice. Then, suddenly, the marten peeped out from beneath his tunic. She couldn’t help herself, she smiled, reaching out her hand.
“Nay, he isn’t always friendly. He could bite you.”
But Trist didn’t bite the girl who would soon be Severin’s wife. He lifted his head higher when she rubbed the soft, thick fur, all white, beneath his chin. Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back and slipped beneath his master’s tunic.
“I’m Hastings,” she said, her fear now gone. If the marten didn’t fear him, then why should she? “You are Severin of Langthorne. You are the man my father has selected for me to wed.”
“Aye. You smell of horse, your gown is dirty, your hair looks like it’s been pulled from your head and thrown back on by a careless hand. Go to your chamber and ready yourself. We will wed by your father’s bedside as soon as you are prepared.” With those tender words, he turned on his heel to stride away.
“It is my greatest pleasure to meet you,” she called after him. “Perhaps Lord Graelam could tutor you in manners to be accorded a lady.”
He paused, his body still, so very still, then slowly he turned to look back at her. “You will prove to me that you are not your mother’s daughter. Then I will treat you like a lady. Go. The sight of you doesn’t please me.” He turned away again.
Her heart pounded with the words that had come out of her mouth. Then the marten’s head appeared behind Severin’s head. He stared at her, his head bobbing up and down. It looked so funny that she laughed. Severin whirled around and stared at her.
“You don’t please me either,” she said, flipped her long ratty braid over her shoulder, and walked up the solar stairs. “I don’t like gray,” she called back, but only when she was out of sight and, she hoped, out of his hearing.
She heard laughter. From Severin of Langthorne? No, it was Graelam de Moreton.
She stood beside her father’s bed. His eyes were closed, his breath shallow and quick. “Father. I’m here. It is time.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her. He drew away, crying out, “You’re here, ah, Janet, you’re here. How do you come here? How?”
“I’m Hastings, Father, not Janet. I’m not my mother. I’m her daughter. Your daughter.”
He was sweating, his gray flesh greasy and slick. He was breathing hard now, still not believing, for she knew he couldn’t really see her with the white film over his eyes. She’d ground up cornflower blossoms, called hurt sickle by the Healer, boiled them in water, and used it as an eyewash. It gave temporary relief, but it hadn’t improved his vision. His sight remained blocked by a slick veil of milky white and it worsened by the day.
He turned away from her, saying not another word. She stared down at him. Graelam de Moreton said at her elbow, “Father Carreg is here.”
“Did my groom come as well?”
“Aye, I am here if you would but turn to see me.”
She turned to see that he was garbed exactly as he had been earlier in the great hall, all in gray. But he’d removed his sword and the whip. The marten was wrapped around his neck like a thick, soft collar.
“You look better,” he said, his eyes on her face, then moving down to her breasts and lower to her belly.
“I do not want this,” she said to Graelam, her fingers clutching at the rich velvet of his sleeve. “Truly, I don’t want this. I don’t know him. What is he? Who is he? Is there not another way?”
“You will speak to me, madam, since in a very few minutes I will own you as I will own everything, even to the gown on your back and the slippers on your feet.”
“Very well, I do not know you. I would prefer to wait.”
“You know that isn’t possible.” He paused, then shrugged. “We must be wed before your father dies. There are greedy men who would do anything to capture you and force you to wed with them. Your only protection is to be my wife.”
She’d heard this argument spewed several times from other mouths. Her father had spoken of Richard de Luci, a man she truly feared when she had met him accidentally at a tourney two years before.
She said, “But Richard de Luci is married. He is no threat to me.”
“A wife would not slow him,” Severin said, his voice uncaring, curt. “I imagine that his wife is now dead.”
“I’ll whip you as I whipped your mother if you do not do as you’re bid. Do it. Now.”
They all stared at Fawke of Trent. He had managed to pull himself up on his elbows. He was looking from his daughter to Severin of Langthorne. “Do it now. My end is near. You must wed each other to save my lands and to give my name permanence.”
And I am little of nothing, Hastings thought. Her father had ignored her since he’d had her mother whipped to death, a deed that her nurse had prevented her from witnessing. But she’d heard her mother’s screams. Her mouth felt dry. She licked her tongue over her lips. “I am ready,” she said. She thrust out her hand and Severin took it.
Father Carreg was quick. As he spoke the words from the Latin parchment that he himself had penned, his eyes darted from Severin back to Fawke of Trent. He quickened and Hastings knew that he had skipped parts of the ceremony. Her father breathed his last just as Father Carreg gave them his blessing. Father Carreg gave a sigh of relief and mopped the sweat from his forehead. “I have given him last rites,” he said to Hastings. “I will pray over him now. Make your good-byes.”
“It is done,” Severin said. He leaned over and gently closed Fawke’s staring eyes that hadn’t seen much of anything in weeks. Hastings watched him, feeling numb. Her father lay dead and she was married. What good-byes should she say? Thank you, Father, for wedding me to a man who could be as violent as you were? She lightly touched her fingertips to her father’s cheek, then drew back.
The marten stirred for the first time, stretching, his thick tail brushing Severin’s face. Then the marten froze, making soft mewling sounds deep in his throat.
“It is death,” Graelam said. “The marten hates the smell of death.”
“See to your father’s laying out,” Severin said to her. “Then come to the great hall and we will sup. I would have more pork for Trist. He appears to like the way the cook prepares it.”
Father Carreg said, “My lord, I have instructed everyone that your name is now Severin of Langthorne-Trent, Baron
Louges and Earl of Oxborough.”
“The name matters little. I am now their lord. That will suffice.” He turned and left the bedchamber, the marten wheezing until it was beyond the door.
“I trust him,” Graelam said, and drew Hastings into his arms. “He is a good man.”
“My father is dead.”
“Aye, but he had a good life, Hastings, a full life. He was a good friend to me. We will mourn him.”
“Must I bed this man on the same night my father has died?”
“Nay. I will speak to Severin. He will leave you alone tonight. But attend me, Hastings. He is a man, a warrior, he is now the lord of Oxborough. He must spill his seed in you not only to protect you but also to seal the union. It is the way things are done. You know that.”
“I like the marten.”
“Aye, Trist is a wily fellow, smarter than many men I’ve known. He travels everywhere with Severin. Severin told me that you touched Trist and he didn’t bite you. It took me months before the marten would allow my hand near his head. Now, your women will lay out Fawke. You will come with me to the great hall. This is your wedding feast. We will do it properly.”
“How old is Severin?”
Graelam cocked his head to one side even as he was warming her hands between his. “Young, but twenty-five summers, I believe, not an old man of thirty-one as I am.”
She paused, looking back at her father. Two women were already preparing to bathe him. “Good-bye, Father,” she whispered, and turned to Graelam. “I remember when I was very young. My mother told me that my father was pleased when I was born because I was the firstborn girl, and thus the name of Hastings was carried on. But then there were no boys. I think he came to hate me for that.”
“Come,” Graelam said, having no answer, and led her away.
3
THE MARTEN LOOKED AT HER SEVERAL TIMES DURING THE long evening but made no move toward her. He remained very close to Severin, never more than a paw length beyond his right hand.
Rosehaven Page 2