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He knew that Severin of Langthorne must be drawing near Oxborough. He knew of the negotiations and that King Edward had given his permission. But once he had Hastings of Trent it wouldn’t matter if the Pope himself had given his blessing. The man who took her first and wed her would be the victor.
He flexed his fingers. Why hadn’t he just poured all that white powder into her wine? Surely that would have felled her immediately, not brought her puking to this bedchamber, lying in her own vomit and filth for the past day and a half.
If she had complained that she didn’t like the taste of the wine, he could have simply ordered her to drink it, pouring it down her throat if necessary. She’d been reciting one of her interminable prayers as she sipped at the wine into which he’d stirred that wondrous white powder the gypsy had slipped to him. In return Richard had parted with the red silk scarf he had given his bride when they’d married seven years before.
What if she didn’t die? He twisted his hands together so hard the knuckles were white. Damn the bitch, he would hunt down that gypsy and gullet her.
She moaned again, lurching upward.
“Lie still, my child. Lady Joan, lie still.” The priest pressed her back. She was heaving now, sucking hard for breath. Richard hoped she couldn’t find any. He hoped she would choke to death on her own vomit. Hurry it up, damn you, he wanted to scream at her.
Then, suddenly, with no warning, with no more retching and gagging, she was dead. The last gasp for air caught in her throat, leaving her mouth gaping open, her eyes wide, staring up into his face.
“It is over, my lord,” the priest said. He closed Lady Joan’s eyes and tried to press her mouth shut, but her lips parted again. He stood and pulled the cover over her head. “It is done,” he said. “The poor lady suffered so with the grippe of her belly, but now she is with our Lord, her immortal soul free of its fleshly agonies. I am sorry, my lord.”
Richard de Luci realized the man wanted him to do something, to say something. What? Fall over her meager body and moan his grief? He said to his wife’s women, “Prepare her for burial and clean away the filth in this chamber.” Then he forced himself to bow his head a moment at his wife’s bedside. But a moment later, he strode from the bedchamber, nearly crashing into his small daughter, Eloise, who was crouched beside a chair near the doorway. She shrank back beneath the chair. For once he did not notice her.
At last the bitch was dead. Joan of Rotham was gone. He was free. He shouted for his men as he walked quickly through the hall of his castle. Such a small number of soldiers in his employ. But soon he would have more than he could count. He had to hurry. That damned Severin of Langthorne had to be close now, very close to Oxborough.
He was away from Sedgewick Castle within the hour, his warhorse fresh, ready to gallop the seventeen miles to Oxborough Castle on the coast of the North Sea.
She was to marry the devil who wore that gray cloak. In two hours. Soon she had to return to the castle, bathe, and let her women dress her in the lovely saffron silk gown with its beautiful embroidery that Dame Agnes had been sewing since Hastings had reached her twelfth birthday.
No, not just yet. She was riding Marella, her palfrey with the white star on her forehead. Her mare was gray. She wondered if he would take her horse, this man who seemed to wear no other color. She wasn’t using a saddle, only the bridle she’d slipped over Marella’s bobbing head before she led her from the stables that were built against the thick curtain wall of the outer bailey. Once mounted, she passed by Beamis, her father’s master-at-arms. Three knights and their squires were all responsible to him, and fifty soldiers. They lived in barracks that lined the outer bailey. It was immense, the only grass and trees in the huge open space in the east corner where an apple orchard stood.
Beamis raised his hand to her. He was going to call her back. Then Squibes the armorer caught his attention. Hastings let her mare pick her way through the crowd of men, women, and children as well as animals in the outer bailey. She lightly kicked her sides as they went through the portcullis of the eight-foot-thick curtain walls onto the drawbridge that spanned a chasm dug by her great-grandfather in the last century. There was another wall beyond, this one not as thick as the curtain walls of the outer bailey.
Two miles beyond lay the village of Oxborough, nestled about the mouth of the narrow River Marksby that flowed into the North Sea. It was a small trading town, walled, protected by Oxborough for well over two hundred years, most of it owned by her father. In less than two hours it would become the property of Severin of Langthorne.
The walls weren’t as thick here, but they surrounded the entire enclosure and the village of Oxborough below. Just beyond was a small line of trees, then the decline worn smooth over the years that led down into the village. Here the air was fresh and sweet. She didn’t want to greet any of her friends in the village, but she didn’t see a way out of it when Ellen, Thomas the baker’s daughter, waved madly at her from near the archery range.
“It is chilly today,” Ellen said, patting Marella’s nose. “My pa says there will be a storm off the sea this evening.”
“I didn’t know your father ever brought his nose out of his ovens to see if there would be a storm outside,” Hastings said, and Ellen obligingly laughed.
She was a comely girl, sixteen, with nice teeth and a pale complexion. “He comes out when he’s swept all the ashes from inside the ovens so he can sneeze. You will marry this day, Hastings?”
“Aye,” Hastings said, and that was all. Not an hour before no one had known. But now Ellen knew and that meant that all the village of Oxborough knew as well.
“I heard he was impressive, this man who wears naught but gray. Mayhap handsome and well fashioned in the way of strong men who are warriors.”
Hastings just smiled, watched the wife of the goldsmith throw a pail of slops out of an upper window, heard a man curse, then said, “I must go back. There is no more time.”
“God speed, Hastings,” Ellen said, and backed away from the mare.
Hastings rode beside the long curtain wall, waving to her father’s men on the ramparts above, and let Marella make her way down to the beach. The water was turbulent and dark; waves hurled against the mass of black rocks at the base of Oxborough Castle.
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The air was so sharp it nearly hurt to breathe it. The tinge of salt burned her skin. The wind whipped her hair and slapped against her cheeks. There were many waders, rushing forward when the waves receded, only to race back to the dry sand when the waves crashed in again. Oyster-catchers, curlews, and redshanks shrieked and wheeled about above her head. She’d forgotten to bring them scraps.
She had to return. There was no more time. She breathed in deeply, wondering when she would next be able to come here to feel the freedom of the sea, to draw the salty air into her lungs, to hear the wind whistling strangely through some of the hollowed rocks strewn haphazardly below on the beach.
Tuggle took Marella’s reins as Hastings slipped off her mare’s back. He said in his soft, deep voice, “The lord is ready. You weren’t here. He did not yell or curse, just spoke low, yet all knew he was not pleased. He asked Lord Graelam if you had run away rather than wed with him. Lord Graelam assured him that you were not such a blockhead.”
“Why would anyone believe I would run away from my home? I’ll go in now. Thank you, Tuggle. Please rub Marella well. She’s run hard.”
He had missed her? But she had time, nearly an hour. She picked up her skirts and ran toward the wide wooden doors that gave into the great hall. They were thrown open, warming the hall, and she slipped inside, pausing a moment so her eyes could adjust to the dimmer light.
