“Aye,” Alice said. “I believe she was dallying with Morric. He looks besotted, his mouth hanging open, his eyes crossed. She will probably make him take wing tonight. I would not want him to shoe my horse on the morrow.” Alice laughed. “He would likely put the shoe on the horse’s rump. Aye, by the end of summer, he will be her fifth husband.”
Hastings chewed on her bread, took a bit of the wondrously flavored beef stew with a thick sauce and onions and peas. It was salted to perfection. “MacDear has used sage in the stew. It adds a biting flavor. I like it.”
Alice rolled her eyes.
Dame Agnes said, “Now, Hastings, this is what you will do. No, keep chewing your stew, I do not wish to hear any arguments from you. And aye, it is sage.”
Nearly an hour later, Hastings was finally left alone in the bedchamber, staring blankly at the two tapestries, one showing a banquet, the other a jousting tournament. At one corner of the tapestry there was a cup that Hastings knew held an infusion of flowers and leaves from the borage plant. It was believed to give courage to a man before he went into the tournament. If she squinted, she could see the tiny letters, b-o-r-a-g-e, in perfect stitches on the cup.
What was she to do? Was she to become a limp, well-washed rug and let him tread upon her? Was she to smile when he casually tossed out his insults? Was she to ignore his looks at Alice’s bottom? Was she to ask him if he enjoyed himself when he took another woman to his bed? Was she to smile when he mounted her, told her that she was only adequate, and rutted on her like an animal?
No, she would kill him.
He didn’t come to her. She quickly changed into her night shift, a loose cotton gown that came nearly to her knees. She crawled into bed, thinking, thinking. Could it be possible that she was in the wrong?
Alice had said slowly, as if instructing an idiot, “It is pleasant to have a man rut you if he goes slowly and easily, and knows what he is doing. I asked Gwent about his master’s habits. He told me that Severin was usually very careful with a woman, that he enjoyed her and caressed her until she enjoyed him as well. Gwent said he does not understand why the two of you are prepared to slit each other’s throats. He said it made no sense to him unless you were overly prideful, and such a thing in a woman would surely displease Severin.”
Hastings couldn’t believe that. Severin was careful with a woman? No, that couldn’t be the truth. Nor could she believe that all the Oxborough people were discussing Severin and her. She wondered if Dame Agnes would demand to watch them mate to see how each of them behaved tow
ard the other.
Saint Francis’s staff, they should probably mate on one of the trestle tables with all their people looking on, offering advice, telling her how to arrange herself so that Severin would find the most enjoyment. She would never believe that a woman could possibly enjoy this mating.
She wasn’t overly prideful.
She wasn’t.
11
HASTINGS AWOKE EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING TO shouts from the inner bailey below the window. She jumped from the bed and ran to look down. There were Severin and at least twenty-five men—some men-at-arms from Oxborough and some Langthorne men. Where were they going? She realized then that he had not even slept in his bed last night. No, he had not come to her at all. Nor had Trist. She watched them ride out, Severin, garbed all in gray, his chain mail glittering in the early morning sun, at their fore.
He had not said a word to her.
She dressed quickly and ran down the solar stairs. Gwent was in the great hall, speaking to the steward, giving instructions to the thirty-some men-at-arms remaining at Oxborough. He looked up and smiled when he saw her.
“Severin is journeying to his other holdings. The castellans there must swear fealty to him. He will make certain there are no problems, no insurrections brewing.”
“I should be with him. It is the way things are done. It is expected.”
“He did not wish it. No one mentioned it except you. Why would you wish to be with him if you don’t like him?”
“It is the way of things. Liking has nothing to do with it.”
“Severin wished to go alone.”
“I am not overly prideful, Gwent.”
“Mayhap. Mayhap not.”
“When will he return?”
“A fortnight, mayhap longer.”
“Does he also journey to Langthorne?”
“Not as yet. This is more important.” Gwent looked down at the cut on his forearm that did not seem to be healing. He’d been careless. During practice with the quintain, he had fallen and cut himself with his own sword.
“Let me see, Gwent.”