Rosehaven (Medieval Song 5)

Hastings took a step toward her. She stretched out her hand, staring, disbelieving. No, it was impossible. She wet her lips. “Mama?”

The woman froze. She moaned softly, then picked up her skirts and ran to Hastings. She grabbed her arms and shook her. “Is it possible? Is it really you, Hastings? Oh my baby, my baby! Oh God, you’re here!”

“I don’t understand this,” Gwent said, coming up to stand beside Severin.

“I don’t either,” Marella said.

“Come here, Harlette,” one of the women called to a dark-haired little girl who had sidled up to Gwent.

“Who is Harlette?” Gwent asked.

“She was William’s mother,” the little girl said. “She was the most beautiful lady in all of Normandy, before Matilda. But who is she?”

“She,” Severin said slowly, watching his wife hug the woman who was her mother, “she is my wife. She is the Countess of Oxborough.”

“But Mama is the Countess of Oxborough,” Normandy said.

“I don’t understand,” Marella said. “They are different women.”

No one would ever deny that they were mother and daughter, the resemblance was so marked.

“But you were beaten to death,” Hastings said yet again as her mother continued to cry and hug her. “Father didn’t want me to see it so I was taken away, but Dame Agnes told me you were dead. She held me when I wept. She took care of me.”

“Ah, Agnes. How I have missed her. Aye, your father had me beaten. When I fell unconscious from the lash he had me taken away. He proclaimed to all that I was dead. Actually he took me to the Healer in the forest. When I was well, he said he could not allow me to resume my place at Oxborough. He would be shamed if he allowed it, for I had dared to cuckold him. But he could not live without me, he said, and he cried, Hastings. He cried and cried, begging me to forgive him.

“I refused. I told him he was an animal. I told him I would never forgive him. He brought me here to this small keep that sits on this point into the River Glin. It was a pitiful pile of stones then. But I planted my gardens. I gave it life. I named it Rosehaven and it became a place of beauty. You will see all the roses later. I named one Hastings, after you. There has never been violence here.” Her mother paused, staring at her daughter, who was exactly her same height. “You are beautiful, Hastings, more beautiful than the rose named after you. I always knew you would grow up well. And just look at you. As each of my other daughters was born, I looked for you in her, and always there was something to remind me of you. A shrug, perhaps, or the way Marella laughs, the way Matilda flings her head back, all have something of you in them. Ah, but I have missed you, wondered about you, wondered if you ever thought of me and what you thought. Did you believe me evil? Sinful?”

Hastings shook her head. She couldn’t speak, the tears were too full in her throat.

“I begged him to let me see you, but he refused. He said that if you knew I still lived, that he still lived with me, that you would not be able to keep the secret.”

“When he was dying, I wonder why he did not tell either of us,” Severin said, rubbing his chin.

“My husband was not overly encumbered with scruples,” Hastings’s mother said. “So he is dead.”

“Aye, many months now. He made Severin his heir; we were married when he was dying. I’m sorry, Mother.”

Lady Janet said nothing for a very long time. She stared toward the small larch that grew in the middle of one of the gardens. “He wasn’t a bad man. I imagine I will miss him. I came to accept him, for I had no choice. But he loved his daughters—all of you—and he saw to it that no neighbor ever coveted Rosehaven. You say he never told you. Well, I doubt he wanted to face your recriminations on his deathbed, Hastings. Now, come into the keep. I will serve you some sweet wine and some cakes that my cook

does very well.”

The great hall of Rosehaven wasn’t very grand. It was more like a manor house, not fashioned for war or siege. The walls were all the same pink stone with beautiful thick tapestries covering them. There were only four trestle tables, each cleaner than the next. There was a small fireplace that had no black soot on it. Fresh rushes were scattered on the stone floor. They smelled strongly of rosemary. It was a keep for a princess.

After they were served wine and cakes, Lady Janet said, “Your father had the tapestries sent from Flanders.”

“They are lovely,” Hastings said. “They must keep you warm in the winter.”

“Not really, but they are lovely to look at.”

Trist poked his head out of Severin’s tunic.

Matilda gasped and pointed. Harlette shouted, “Look, Lord Severin carries an animal in his tunic.”

Hastings looked at the line of girls. “You are all my sisters,” she said, still unable to take it all in, still distrusting her own eyes. Her mother lived and she had four more daughters. She got a hold on herself. “Ah, this is Trist. He is a marten. If you are gentle and you don’t yell too loudly, he will come out and play with you.”

Trist worked his way out of Severin’s tunic and jumped to a trestle table. He eyed each of the girls. He held out his paw to Normandy. She squealed. Trist mewled and turned onto his back, waving his thick tail at them.

“What is your mother’s name?” Severin asked quietly as he watched the girls sidle nearer and nearer to Trist, who was putting on a fine entertainment for them.