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He was standing directly in front of her as if he had known that she would be coming in at that moment. His gloved hands on his hips. “You are Hastings of Trent? You are the girl I am to wed?”
She thought she would swallow her tongue. Her head felt blank with fear at the harshness of that dark, cold voice. Then, suddenly, the marten peeped out from beneath his tunic. She couldn’t help herself, she smiled, reaching out her hand.
“Nay, he isn’t always friendly. He could bite you.”
But Trist didn’t bite the girl who would soon be Severin’s wife. He lifted his head higher when she rubbed the soft, thick fur, all white, beneath his chin. Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back and slipped beneath his master’s tunic.
“I’m Hastings,” she said, her fear now gone. If the marten didn’t fear him, then why should she? “You are Severin of Langthorne. You are the man my father has selected for me to wed.”
“Aye. You smell of horse, your gown is dirty, your hair looks like it’s been pulled from your head and thrown back on by a careless hand. Go to your chamber and ready yourself. We will wed by your father’s bedside as soon as you are prepared.” With those tender words, he turned on his heel to stride away.
“It is my greatest pleasure to meet you,” she called after him. “Perhaps Lord Graelam could tutor you in manners to be accorded a lady.”
He paused, his body still, so very still, then slowly he turned to look back at her. “You will prove to me that you are not your mother’s daughter. Then I will treat you like a lady. Go. The sight of you doesn’t please me.” He turned away again.
Her heart pounded with the words that had come out of her mouth. Then the marten’s head appeared behind Severin’s head. He stared at her, his head bobbing up and down. It looked so funny that she laughed. Severin whirled around and stared at her.
“You don’t please me either,” she said, flipped her long ratty braid over her shoulder, and walked up the solar stairs. “I don’t like gray,” she called back, but only when she was out of sight and, she hoped, out of his hearing.
She heard laughter. From Severin of Langthorne? No, it was Graelam de Moreton.
She stood beside her father’s bed. His eyes were closed, his breath shallow and quick. “Father. I’m here. It is time.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her. He drew away, crying out, “You’re here, ah, Janet, you’re here. How do you come here? How?”
“I’m Hastings, Father, not Janet. I’m not my mother. I’m her daughter. Your daughter.”
He was sweating, his gray flesh greasy and slick. He was breathing hard now, still not believing, for she knew he couldn’t really see her with the white film over his eyes. She’d ground up cornflower blossoms, called hurt sickle by the Healer, boiled them in water, and used it as an eyewash. It gave temporary relief, but it hadn’t improved his vision. His sight remained blocked by a slick veil of milky white and it worsened by the day.
He turned away from her, saying not another word. She stared down at him. Graelam de Moreton said at her elbow, “Father Carreg is here.”
“Did my groom come as well?”
“Aye, I am here if you would but turn to see me.”
She turned to see that he was garbed exactly as he had been earlier in the great hall, all in gray. But he’d removed his sword and the whip. The marten was wrapped around his neck like a thick, soft collar.
“You look better,” he said, his eyes on her face, then moving down to her breasts and lower to her belly.
“I do not want this,” she said to Graelam, her fingers clutching at the rich velvet of his sleeve. “Truly, I don’t want this. I don’t know him. What is he? Who is he? Is there not another way?”
“You will speak to me, madam, since in a very few minutes I will own you as I will own everything, even to the gown on your back and the slippers on your feet.”
“Very well, I do not know you. I would prefer to wait.”
“You know that isn’t possible.” He paused, then shrugged. “We must be wed before your father dies. There are greedy men who would do anything to capture you and force you to wed with them. Your only protection is to be my wife.”
She’d heard this argument spewed several times from other mouths. Her father had spoken of Richard de Luci, a man she truly feared when she had met him accidentally at a tourney two years before.
She said, “But Richard de Luci is married. He is no threat to me.”
“A wife would not slow him,” Severin said, his voice uncaring, curt. “I imagine that his wife is now dead.”
“I’ll whip you as I whipped your mother if you do not do as you’re bid. Do it. Now.”
They all stared at Fawke of Trent. He had managed to pull himself up on his elbows. He was looking from his daughter to Severin of Langthorne. “Do it now. My end is near. You must wed each other to save my lands and to give my name permanence.”
And I am little of nothing, Hastings thought. Her father had ignored her since he’d had her mother whipped to death, a deed that her nurse had prevented her from witnessing. But she’d heard her mother’s screams. Her mouth felt dry. She licked her tongue over her lips. “I am ready,” she said. She thrust out her hand and Severin took it.
