Rosehaven (Medieval Song 5)

Hastings began to fidget.

Lady Moraine did nothing at all, merely stroked Alfred’s length in long, slow strokes. He was hanging over her lap, purring so loudly Hastings wondered if it didn’t distract the Healer.

Evidently not.

The Healer finally turned to Hastings and said simply, “I am the most skilled healer in all of Britain. The potion I gave your husband’s mother has cleared out the clogged pathways in her brain and balanced her humors once again.”

Lady Moraine cleared her throat even as she petted Alfred, who was now purring so loudly she had to speak louder than normal. “Healer, I thank you. Will I take your potion the rest of my days?”

“Aye, my lady, I think it wise. I do not know if the potion has permanently removed all the clogging from your brain or if it will return if you cease the potion.”

“I will take it even when I am on my deathbed.”

“Aye, you want to be full-witted when you prepare to leave this earth. Now, Hastings told me that one of the wounds on your left foot hasn’t healed properly.”

Alfred had to leave the goddess, though it was obvious he didn’t want to. Hastings hadn’t realized her mother-in-law was so strong. She actually lifted Alfred and set him on the cottage floor. His huge tail whipped the air. He meowed loudly, then nudged over his bowl with his nose, sending it careening out the front of the cottage.

The Healer laughed even as she lifted Lady Moraine’s foot and closely examined it. She felt every toe, pulling them apart to peer closely between them. The Healer said, “Does this hurt, lady? No? Very good. Ah, here is the problem. Just a pinch of patel root and saffron strands mixed in a bit of hot water will heal this. Ah, lady, you clean well between your toes. This is good. It keeps lice and ticks away.” She looked to see Alfred, looking ready to leap at Hastings, adding, “It will not, however, keep Alfred at bay.”

Alfred leapt. Hastings staggered backward, clutching the cat in her arms.

When Hastings and Lady Moraine left the Healer, after giving her three fresh pheasants for her cook pot, two of them for Alfred, Gwent and his two men did not at first react. They were staring at Alfred, who did at that moment look like the Devil’s familiar. He was seated in the open doorway of the cottage, nearly as tall as Edgar the wolfhound, cleaning his teeth with the claws of his left paw.

“That beast came from a witch’s brew,” he said under his breath, but Alfred snapped his tail hair, stared hard at Gwent, and looked very pleased with himself when Gwent jumped a good two feet into the air.

“That damnable beast,” Gwent yelled, angry with himself for reacting so strongly. One of the men dared to laugh. Gwent turned on him, giving him so mean a look that the man paled and shrank down in his saddle.

“You are well, Lady Moraine?” he asked, as he assisted her into her palfrey’s saddle.

“I will remain sane, Gwent, and thus able to give my son endless advice on the running of Oxborough. What think you of that?”

Gwent smiled widely. “I believe Lord Severin will be so pleased we will have a feast to celebrate. As for advice, lady, you will have to contend with Hastings.”

“I will never contend with Hastings. She is the most perfect of daughters.”

Hastings blinked at that, opened her mouth to stammer some sort of profound delight, when Lady Moraine added, “Then again, Gwent, she is very young and doubtless needs my advice more than does my son. I saw him frowning over naught just this morning. What had she done to bring that frown to his beautiful face? I will find out and teach her.”

“You will have to contend with Dame Agnes and Alice, my lady,” Hastings said, and laughed. “Aye, they have endless advice, and I vow that much of it pleases me.” She laughed again.

Lady Moraine waved good-bye to Alfred, lightly kicked her heels into her palfrey’s sides, and laughed over her shoulder at Gwent, who was still looking at the damned cat, who was now waving its huge paw. The Healer stood in the open doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, just staring at them.

He shook his head. “Nothing is as it should be in this place.”

The ride back to Oxborough took only fifteen minutes. There were dark clouds lowered in the sky, the air was thick and cooling rapidly. The men didn’t want to get wet, but Hastings wasn’t uncomfortable, nor did she worry about the rain pouring down, as it would, surely, in the next few minutes. No, she was thinking of her husband, blessing again Dame Agnes and Alice, who had told her how to deal with a man.

She had dealt with him very well the previous night. He’d let her do just as she pleased, as he had promised. She had explored his hard body, tracing each of the scars with a light touch, then kissing each of them, spending the most time on the scar that had slashed the inside of his right thigh. That thigh was thick, covered with a light furring of black hair, and she loved to knead the muscles, to stroke him as Lady Moraine had done Alfred.

When she had loved him with her mouth, he had bowed off the bed, moaning and thrashing until she was heady with success. She did not care that she received no pleasure, for his had peaked into such intense release that she had found herself drawn into it, watching him as he shook and twisted, then freezing with the utter force of his release. And she thought, as she saw his dark eyes fix on her face with unleashed wildness, that surely he was a man to love, a man to protect, a man to trust, for all her life.

He had grabbed her waist and pulled her down close to his face. He had held her there until he could breathe and speak again.

“Think you to control me?”

“Nay, I think to enjoy your pleasure.”

“I gave you nothing, yet you smile at me and you still caress me with your hand on my shoulder. I do not understand you, Hastings.”

“Must I be as carnal as a man all the time?”