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“He’s quiet at last,” he heard Hastings say as she and Graelam stood over him. “That’s a good sign.”
“If he gets the fever again, I just might let him drown in his own sweat. I would rather fight the infidel than wipe down his big body again.”
She laughed. “Do you know,” she said after a moment, “it is said that when a mandrake is uprooted it shrieks and will bring death to the one who has destroyed it. The Healer told me always to have a dog do the uprooting.”
Graelam smiled. “I will tell Kassia the tale. Mayhap she will believe it. She has a streak of witchiness in her. Aye, she just might believe it. You have put me off long enough. Did Severin hurt you last night?”
Severin wished he had the strength to snort. Hurt her? Of course he hadn’t hurt her. He’d shaken her, naturally, she’d deserved that. St. Peter’s thumbs, he was the one who was hurt, couldn’t Graelam see that?
“Nay. Graelam, he didn’t hurt me, not really, but know that he doesn’t like me, truly. He believes me an encumbrance, nothing more. I am part of this prize of his, very likely the only part he doesn’t want. He is a warrior, ruthless and hard. He wants to treat me like a possession—he probably sees me as less desirable than his bathtub over there. That bathtub does what it is supposed to do. That is what he expects of me. I’m to be humble as that damned bathtub, do his bidding without question or argument, and do it without thought. He is very angry with me. Do you think he will kill me once he has secured my father’s possessions?”
So she believed him a murderer of women as well as an animal? He cherished evil thoughts before the pain in his shoulder made his mind go blank.
“Don’t be foolish, Hastings. You are tired. You are not thinking correctly. Severin won’t kill you, but I fear that you will not mind your tongue when he angers you with his orders and commands. And you are right, of course. Severin hasn’t known much easiness or softness in his short life. But he is a man to trust.”
“Trust, you say? Well, we will see about that. At least he won’t be giving any orders today.”
His mind came back into his body when she spoke those words. As soon as he had the strength he would give her more orders than her feeble brain could take in. And it would be today. If it killed him he would give her all those orders today. Was it still today?
“Now, I need to give him more gentian mixed with a bit of poppy, then he will sleep for many hours.”
He didn’t want to sleep through the day. He wanted to think about what he’d heard. Graelam had said he was a man to be trusted. Naturally he was. He was a man of honor. She doubted even that. Perhaps he wasn’t a model of the minstrel’s songs of the chivalrous knight. He was a man and a warrior and he would rule his possessions. She was one of them. But, damn her, she could trust him. Kill her? Mayhap he would want to thrash her, but not kill her.
He wanted to tell her so, he wanted to give her at least one order, but he simply had not the will to open his eyes and tell her that he resented her speaking so plainly to Graelam. Graelam wasn’t her husband. He wished Graelam would tell her that he, Severin, didn’t have the feelings of a toad.
There was something else. Aye, he wanted to tell her that he could mend himself without her damned potions. He did not want to have to show her gratitude, not that he had any intention of doing so in any case. But the goblet was at his lips and he felt her fingers prying open his mouth. He had not the strength to fight her.
When it was done, when Hastings was satisfied that he would rest easily, Graelam called for Severin’s man Gwent to stay close to him. Gwent was a giant of a man, larger even than Lord Graelam. There was a wide space between his front teeth and a very deep dimple on his chin. He had large hands, a rough tongue, and, she saw, a gentle manner with both Severin and Trist. But what relieved her mind was that the marten liked him. That satisfied her.
“I will bring you some ale and bread, Gwent, and Trist, well, I will find something to interest him.”
“The little lordling likes eggs that are lightly boiled, not firm on the inside, just very hot, the yellow and the white a bit clingy. Once the yolk was too hard and Trist spit on the back of my hand. I thought I should warn you. But the marten is not spoiled, not really, and it amuses Severin to please him.”
Little lordling indeed, she thought. “You’ve been with Lord Severin long, Gwent?”
“Since he was a lad of seventeen, just arrived in the Holy Land. He saved my life in a Saracen ambush. My master had been killed. I swore fealty to him on that day. Aye, I have never known boredom with Severin.”
Of course Gwent hadn’t ever known boredom, Severin thought, feeling as though his brains were as sand trickling through a sieve, except for those hideous weeks in the dungeon in Rouen. Why was she asking Gwent all these questions? When he was himself again, he would see that she kept her woman’s curiosity to herself. He wanted to tell her that Gwent would
protect her while he was still lying flat on his back, but why should he bother to tell her anything? No, he thought, he would remain as silent as the night. He breathed deeply, feeling the inexorable blankness seep into his brain.
Hastings wished she could stay and ask him to tell her of every happening in his master’s life since his seventeenth year, but she couldn’t. It was late. The servants needed instruction. She needed to speak with MacDear the cook, a brawny Scotsman who had a special way with roasted capon and honeyed almonds. His use of spices rivaled her own knowledge of them.
She leaned down and lightly touched her fingers to Severin’s cheek, felt the coolness, and left him with Gwent. He was sleeping deeply now. He would live.
6
“IKNOW,” SEVERIN SAID TO GRAELAM. “YOU MUST LEAVE. You and your men grow restless.”
“I will leave on the morrow when I am convinced you will have the fever no more. Hastings has told me you won’t, but she isn’t always right. I must visit Edward in London to tell him that all has gone well.”
“I hope that whoreson Richard de Luci rides away from Oxborough.”
Graelam said as he smoothed on his gauntlets, “The man you spared will tell him the Oxborough heiress is both wedded and bedded, that is certain. There is nothing for him here. I worry only that he might try to assassinate you, for he is a mangy coward, so greedy it is said he dug the gems from his father’s sword handle before he allowed him to be buried. Northbert told me he’d heard it said that de Luci poisoned his wife but that she didn’t die speedily enough, thus he was late getting to Oxborough before your wedding to Hastings. It was also said that de Luci would have gladly assisted his wife to a quicker end but the priest stood by her bedside throughout her ordeal.”
“He should be dispatched to hell, Graelam. When I am back to my full strength, I will do it. Do you know that Hastings made Trist an egg that was boiled just until it was congealed on the inside?”
“How do you know that?”
