Rosehaven (Medieval Song 5)

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.

Hastings, well aware of the cautious conversation coming toward her from all the Oxborough people, was sipping on her wine, staring at the peas on her trencher, when Severin suddenly leaned toward her. “Graelam tells me you don’t wish me near you tonight.” They were the first words he’d spoken to her since Father Carreg had finished their marriage lines and Severin had left the bedchamber.

Her fingers tightened about the goblet. It was pewter, as cold a gray as the thick band he wore on his left arm. She wondered what the band was for.

She simply couldn’t imagine this man, this stranger, touching her, taking her as men did women who were their wives because it was their right to do so. She supposed it was his right to do anything he wished to. He was a man. He was born with the right to own his wife. Hadn’t her father killed her mother? She doubted even Father Carreg had uttered a single rebuke.

“No,” she said at last, “I wish to remain as I am for as long as I can.”

“Tonight, then. I give you tonight.”

“My father will be buried tomorrow. Tomorrow night seems too soon as well.”

“Tomorrow night it must be done.”

“You do not sound like an enthusiastic bridegroom.”

“I’m not,” he said, and stretched, rubbing his neck. “I am weary. I pushed my men and myself to arrive at Oxborough before your father died. So that I would be controlled with you, I even bedded several wenches on our way here. But now, seeing you, I do not believe you even know how to assist me to enthusiasm. So, it is likely that I will have you lying blank-eyed and cold beneath me and that will bring me no pleasure. Sleep in your bed, Hastings. But tomorrow, whether I wish to take you or not, it must be done. Nothing is safe until I have breached your maidenhead and spilled my seed in your womb.”