Rosehaven (Medieval Song 5)

Some time later, Hastings said to Dame Agnes and Alice, “I don’t know what to make of this, but Severin changed toward me the moment he saw that woman.” She was sewing a tunic for Severin of soft, warm gray. The wool was of the finest. She was pleased that her hands were steady, her voice calm. But she was cold, very cold, on the inside, where there was no warmth to be found, save from Severin. “He is riding with her and the child. He appears to worship Marjorie. He said her hair is like spun silver and shimmers in the sunlight. Lord Severin has never spoken like that since I have known him.”

“It means nothing,” Dame Agnes said, flapping her hands at the young girl she had known since she had pulled her from her mother’s womb nearly nineteen years before, the young girl who had become a fine lady, strong and kind. She was now pale and wooden. “You just sewed a crooked stitch, Hastings. Why do you not stop that whilst we talk?”

Hastings laid the tunic over her legs, smoothing the material, paying no attention, really, just smoothing it, staring straight ahead of her. “The look on his face was worshipful. Thus, would that not mean that he worships her? He loved her as a boy, Agnes, but he could not have her since he was a second son and had no dowry to offer her father. He loves her still.”

“Nay, I doubt that. Mayhap he still sees her through the boy’s eyes, but that will not last, Hastings. Lord Severin is not a foolish man like Sir Roger. He has given himself to you. You are his wife. You will bear his children. You are the heiress of Oxborough. Without you, he would have nothing save his strong arm, and that arm would be in the service of other masters. He is now his own man. You have given him everything, a future, the ability to restore his lands. You have given him back his mother. Do not discount this, Hastings. This Lady Marjorie—bah, she is nothing, merely a memory sewn from unreal cloth, a chimera, a dream from a boy’s past.”

“When you speak thusly, it makes so much sense.” Hastings raised her face to Dame Agnes. “But you did not see him just an hour ago when he spoke of her. You did not see how quickly he left the great hall to ride with her. There is so much work to be done, but he gave it not a thought. I saw the look on Gwent’s face. He was shocked that his master would act thusly. He would not meet my eyes. He was embarrassed.”

“We will see. You will not carp at him. You will observe and you will bide your time. You will be patient.”

“I have never been patient in my life.”

“Aye, I know it. But you will begin now. Also, you will try to be gracious.”

“Gracious? To that woman I heard lying to Eloise? It will be difficult, Agnes, very difficult. Ah, here is Lady Moraine. Do come in, my lady. Agnes and I were just discussing my crooked stitches.”

Lady Moraine picked up her son’s tunic and examined the sewing. “Aye,” she said, ?

?it appears that something bothered you just as you set this stitch right here.” She pointed and handed the tunic back to Hastings. “My foot is healed. Did you not notice that I no longer limp?”

Hastings nodded.

“I went with Gwent to see the Healer again. Alfred jumped in the poor man’s arms. I thought Gwent would faint. At least the cat didn’t knock him over. The Healer told me to give you this.” Lady Moraine handed Hastings a small vial. It was filled with a milky white liquid that looked very thick. “She said you were to pour a small amount into your husband’s wine. She said it would improve Severin’s vision of you, that it would make him feel about you as you do about him.”

Hastings realized then that it was a love potion, probably made up of ground mandrake. How had the Healer found out so quickly about Lady Marjorie and Severin?

It was humiliating. She took the vial and slipped it into the pocket of her gown.

As Dame Agnes and Lady Moraine were leaving the bedchamber, Agnes said over her shoulder, “Remember what I said, Hastings. I would not use that vial as yet. I believe there will be no reason to.”

But what did Dame Agnes know of a pain that seemed to fill every nook in her body? What did she know about a woman whose hair was so silvery and shimmery that a man looked at her and his mouth was suddenly overflowing with a troubadour’s poetry? She shook the vial, watching the cloudy white liquid darken just a bit.

Was Dame Agnes possibly right? Was Severin simply seeing Marjorie through a boy’s eyes?

She went to see Father Carreg, who was reading in the corner of the great hall, Edgar the wolfhound’s head resting on his leather shoes. She merely nodded at him and sat at his feet next to Edgar.

Only Gwent was silent at the evening meal. Like Hastings, he was observing, eating steadily, but Hastings knew he was watching his master watch that glorious woman who seemed oblivious of Severin, all her attention focused on the child and on each dainty bite she took.

Trist was sprawled over Severin’s shoulder, looking to be asleep. Hastings had offered him some roasted pork, a special dish made just for him by MacDear. Trist had eaten two bites from her fingers, stretched, and mewled softly in his throat, and shoved her hand away with his paw.

He had made no more movements toward Eloise.

“I trust you like MacDear’s civet of hare,” she said to her husband, who was pushing the food about the thick pewter plate with his knife.

“Aye,” Severin said finally, “it is tasty. You had the rushes changed, Hastings. They are sweet-smelling.”

He had noticed something other than the glorious Marjorie, praise be to Saint Ethelbert’s knees.

“It is the rosemary you smell. Mixed with just a bit of ground roses, it fills the air with sweetness.”

What an utterly boring thing to say to a husband she wanted to kiss and caress and demand to love her and only her and not that other woman from his boy’s dreams.

She took a bite of chicken mixed with rice and almonds. It tasted like the rushes covering the cold stone floor. She thought about the vial in her pocket. It nestled there, ready for her to use, yet she hesitated. She didn’t want to drug her husband. She didn’t want the mandrake to make him turn back to her. No, she wanted him to do it of his own volition. She wanted him to want her as he had before he had laid eyes on Marjorie, who was still giving all her attention to Eloise.

Why could Marjorie not be a bitch?

Why could she not rub Hastings’s nose in her power?