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