Rosehaven (Medieval Song 5)

“He brought it to show me. She had cracked the top of the egg so he could easily shuck it aside. He ate it on my chest. He even let it cool a bit so it wouldn’t burn me.”

Graelam was still laughing when Hastings came into the bedchamber, carrying a tray on her arms. Severin saw her smile at Graelam, a full, easy smile, a lovely smile that showed straight white teeth. Then she looked at him. Her smile fell away as she neared the bed. He didn’t care if she ever smiled at him, damn her. She would fulfill her role—the one he would assign her as soon as he was on his feet again—and that was all he wanted from her.

She said nothing, merely set the tray down on the bed beside him, then leaned down and gently laid her palm on his forehead. He brought up his hand and wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

“I am not fevered.”

“No,” she said, withdrawing from him even though she did not move a finger, “I can see that you are not.”

“Damn you, do not treat me like a puking old man who has not the wit to gainsay you.”

She straightened. He released her hand. “I have brought you food. MacDear is the Oxborough cook. He is excellent. He has prepared you barley broth. You will eat the broth, if it pleases you to do so. If you do not wish to eat it, why then, throw it into the rushes. My lord Graelam, Northbert wishes to speak to you.”

Graelam stared at the two of them. Hastings, that confiding girl he’d known for years, warm and laughing, always humming and singing, rarely showing fear because her father usually ignored her. He’d struck her only in moments he lacked control. Perhaps it would have been better had Fawke thrashed her more often, even threatened to beat her as he had his wife. Then she would treat Severin with more deference. She would tread more warily around him. Now she was dignified as a matron and stiff as Severin’s onyx-handled sword. She didn’t look like she’d even bend in a strong wind, much less bend to a man’s will, much less a husband’s will.

But no, Graelam thought, he didn’t want her to be any different. He prayed that Severin would not hurt her. Perhaps he would mention it to him, tell him privately that to strike his wife just might kill her and then who would see to his comfort and to his meals? Who then would bear his children?

Graelam wondered, as he met Northbert, his master-at-arms, in the inner bailey below, what Severin had done to her the previous evening. The tension coming from her was like the swirling cold winter winds coming off the North Sea. Yet she had not hesitated to save Severin’s life when de Luci’s man had tried to stab him in the back, nor had she hesitated to attend him, not leaving him until he slept.

He doubted he would ever understand the workings of a woman’s mind. Not that it mattered, not since his own wife adored him, not minding his bad habits, not berating him when he was testy or sore from bruises he’d gained on the practice field. Ah, but she would leap upon a stool so she could yell in his face when he was an oaf. He realized he was grinning fatuously, seeing her as she kissed his mouth whilst he held their babe, stroking the soft black hair—his black hair—whilst Kassia cooed at both of them.

He listened, at first unable to believe what Northbert told him. He rubbed his hands together. He thought of Severin, then shook his head. No, he would deal with this. It would be his last act here at Oxborough. He felt his blood stir. Aye, he wanted to do this. It wasn’t a duty, it was a pleasure, making his blood stir.

Hastings watched Graelam ride out with Northbert and his dozen men not long thereafter. He had not come back into the keep. That meant Severin had no idea that he had left.

She ate some soft goat cheese and some warm bread fresh from MacDear’s oven. She sipped at her milk, watching two of her women clean down the trestle tables. She knew she would have to return to Severin to see if he was continuing to mend, if the fever stayed away from him. He had to be still asleep. She would work first in her herb garden.

She knelt first to weed the Canterbury bells and the lupines, both blooming wildly. One tall pink lupine was leaning over the hyssop planted at the far edge of her herb garden. She sat back on her heels, wondering what to do. No need to think about it really. She pinched off the tall spike and tossed it over her shoulder. She needed the hyssop and the savory that grew beside it. Both needed sun and a lot of air.

She hummed as she worked, as she always did. She felt calm flowing into her. She plucked off a good dozen ripe strawberries to grind up. They were excellent for whitening teeth.

It was midafternoon before Graelam rode back through the giant gates of Oxborough, past the thick curtain outer walls to the heavy iron portcullis of the inner wall that the porter had to raise since it had been locked down from the moment of the attack on Severin. He and his men rode into the inner bailey, chickens, goats, pigs, dogs scurrying from the path of the destriers’ hooves. Children of all ages grouped together watching the twelve warriors.

It was Severin who met Graelam on the deeply hollowed stone steps leading into the great hall. Graelam saw him immediately, standing on those steps garbed all in gray as was his habit, looking strong and fit and very angry. He couldn’t yet be all that fit. Graelam had left him sleeping. Hastings could not have agreed to allow him to leave his bed, not that Severin would listen to anyone when he had made up his mind about something.

Graelam wasn’t fooled by his stillness, that was just a part of him that baffled his enemies. No, Severin was going to want to bring his mace down on his head, particularly once he heard what Graelam had done.

His hands were on his hips. He didn’t realize that Hastings was standing behind him. Graelam met her eyes and smiled.

“You left without telling me anything,” Severin said, that deep voice of his soft and low. “You left me filled with the drug she poured down my throat. I do not know what you have done, but I know it is something I won’t like. I am not pleased, Graelam.”

Graelam grinned and slapped him on his unwounded shoulder. “Come inside and I will fill your ears to overflowing. Hastings, can my men have ale? Also there are some wound

s for you to see to, if you do not mind.”

Severin turned to see her standing there, the early summer breeze ruffling the hair around her face. “See to Lord Graelam’s men. Fetch them ale. Graelam and I will have the Aquitaine wine if you and Dame Agnes have not drunk it all. Ah, yes, I will see to Graelam.”

“You will not hurt Graelam,” she said.

Severin looked as if he’d spit at her. But Graelam laughed. “See you, Severin, I have a protectress. Harm me not.”

“Go, mistress,” Severin said to his wife, and turned on his heel. She hoped his shoulder hurt.

She called out to Northbert.

“Keep your sword sheathed, Severin,” Graelam said easily as he wiped his hand across his mouth. “Else I might call upon your wife to protect me. Nay, don’t growl. This is excellent wine I brought you. Kassia’s father lives in Brittany, you know. He has vineyards in Aquitaine.”

“Graelam, whatever you did I know I will not like it. But I am ready. Tell me, what did you do?”