Marjorie was.
Hastings weaved where she stood. She felt Dame Agnes’s hand beneath her elbow.
“She has taken my place,” Hastings said.
“No. It seems that the smaller chair where she has sat had a broken leg. There was no choice but for her to sit in your chair. It means nothing, Hastings. You are ill and not thinking clearly.”
“No, I suppose I am not thinking at all.” Ah, but the pain she felt. It was bowing her inward, threatening to bring her to her knees.
“I will go back to my bedchamber now,” she said calmly. She turned one last time to see Severin staring toward her. He half rose in his chair, then turned to look at Marjorie as she said something to him. Hastings saw him stare at those white fingers on the sleeve of his tunic.
“It is too much,” Hastings said, and made her way up the stairs like a bent old woman.
She did not rise from her bed the following morning. Her head still pounded, the muscles in her shoulders knotted and burned. Severin had not come to the bedchamber the previous night.
He had slept with Marjorie, she knew it.
She ate fresh white bread spread with thick butter, and a large bowl of chicken broth, with just a hint of rosemary. Alice brought her chunks of sweet Oxborough cheese.
Alice patted her hand. “Do not worry, Hastings. All goes well. Everyone knows what is to be done. Everyone is very worried about you. I believe Lord Severin rode once again to the village to question all the apprentices again at Robert the leatherer’s house. Still, it seems an accident, though I do wonder how Lord Severin’s saddle could possibly fall on you. It bothers Gwent too. He keeps scratching his head and staring up at nothing at all.”
Hastings knew why that saddle had fallen on her. Marjorie had hired someone to hurl that saddle down on her, Marjorie, the woman who would take her place as mistress of Oxborough were Hastings to die. But a saddle surely wasn’t a very certain way to ensure another’s demise. And why Severin’s saddle? Unless it was Severin himself who had shoved the saddle from the open window down upon her.
She sighed. It made no sense. It had to be an accident. Still, she remained in bed all that day, just staring at the tapestry her grandmother had sewn for thirty years, according to Hastings’s mother.
When Severin came into the bedchamber, looking healthy, windblown, as strong as an oak tree, she just closed her eyes. It hurt too much to look at him.
She said only, “Have you mended Marjorie’s chair leg?”
He frowned at her. “Are you all right, Hastings? Are you thinking clearly? What is this about a chair leg?”
She looked at him straightly, watching him as he strode across the room to come stand beside her bed. “She was seated in my chair last night because, I was told, hers was broken. Is it fixed?”
“I do not know. No one spoke of it to me. I wish you to rise now. You will grow mold if you remain in bed much longer. Come, there are duties you must attend to. The Healer said you were to rest, not sink into the folds of the mattress.”
“Mayhap later,” she said. “I am very tired. I wish to sleep.”
He looked down at her, studying her pale face. “I do not like this, Hastings,” he said, then turned on his heel and left her. Trist crawled out of Severin’s tunic and leapt upon the bed.
“Where did your master sleep last night?” she asked as she stroked the marten’s soft fur. “Were you with him? Was he with her?”
Trist poked his head beneath her chin, opened his mouth, and bit her.
“So you believe I am foolish, do you? You are not a man, Trist, so I suppose she is just another female to you. Her silvery hair doesn’t make your eyes crazed with lust.”
Trist bit her again, this time just a little harder. She laughed. She couldn’t help herself.
She slept throughout the afternoon, Trist beside her.
“Wake up, Hastings. You will bathe. I have had the lads bring the water. Come now, no more acting like the swooning lady of the keep.”
Hastings allowed Dame Agnes to bathe her. She sat docilely while she dressed her and brushed her hair. She wasn’t surprised when Alice slipped into the bedchamber.
“I have a pot of margolis,” she said. “It will add a bit of color to your cheeks. I think your lips need a smear of it as well.”
Hastings allowed herself to be painted. She said nothing when they garbed her in the gown she had worn on her wedding day. Finally, it was done.
“You are beautiful,” Dame Agnes said, stepping back and looking at her charge up and down, rubbing her arthritic hands together. “Do you not agree, Alice?”