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Lady Moraine sighed. “He is my son. Wear the gown.” She smiled suddenly. “He was also right. I would say anything to protect you.” She hugged Hastings tightly to her chest, then released her, patting her cheek. “Just two nights and it is over.”
When Hastings came into the great hall there was immediate silence. Everyone knew what had happened and knew what would happen now. She stared straight ahead. Severin rose. In his hand he held a rope.
He said nothing, merely motioned her to the fireplace where Edgar the wolfhound was staring at her with unblinking eyes.
“Sit down,” he said.
She sat in the rushes.
He tied the rope around her ankle, the other end around Edgar’s neck. He motioned for Alice to serve her. He returned to his chair.
“Your food has been tasted. Your wine has been sipped.”
“Why bother with the tasting when you believe I poisoned the wine myself?”
“Enough, Hastings.”
And that was that. Talk was slow to resume. All the people she had known since she was born did not meet her eyes. She knew they were wary, mayhap even scared of their new lord. She ate a bite, then turned when she heard Gwent say something.
She heard a slurp. Edgar the wolfhound was swallowing the large hunk of fish he’d stolen from her trencher.
She heard a laugh. It was Lady Moraine, curse her. Evidently her wonderful son had jested with her.
At least Marjorie wasn’t there.
But she would be the following night.
Hastings said nothing to anyone. Some time later she was dozing, her back against Edgar, when she felt the knot being unfastened about her ankle.
“Come to bed, Hastings.” He was holding out his hand to her. She ignored him, rose slowly, and walked past him to the solar stairs. He did not come after her.
27
“EVERYONE SAW HIM TIE YOU TO THAT FILTHY WOLFHOUND, like an animal, tethered in the rushes. I believe I can still smell the wolfhound on you. Do you also have fleas and lice?”
Marjorie gave her the sweetest smile.
“Aye, it is a difficult odor to get rid of,” Hastings said, and ate another bite of sweet yellow cheese. “But the rushes were fresh with rosemary. There were no fleas or lice.”
“It is interesting that Severin ordered me to my bedchamber, yet he tied you to the wolfhound for all to see. I was told you threw the laver at him. You are not very wise, Hastings. A woman who is not particularly beautiful should learn wisdom.”
“You are right about that.” Hastings drank the rest of Gilbert the goat’s milk. She had awakened feeling queasy that morning, but now she was filled with energy, her step light, her heart so heavy she didn’t think she could bear it. And here was Marjorie laying her sneers on with a trowel.
“I will enjoy seeing you tied to the wolfhound this evening meal. I wonder if Severin will invite me to sit in your chair?”
“If he does—” Hastings broke off. Severin came into the great hall. He was sweating, his hair plastered to his skull. There was blood on his clothes. He was grinning, Gwent just behind him, slapping his shoulder.
“I have killed a boar and given it to MacDear. See to its preparation, Hastings. Alice! Bring us ale!”
Hastings left the great hall without another word. Later she went to her bedchamber to fetch the vial. She would take him a goblet of sweet wine that Lord Graelam had brought to Oxborough and in it would be the love potion. She would make sure there was no other woman around. She would sweetly beg his pardon for hurling the laver at him. She would try not to choke on her words as she spoke them.
She had failed, she thought, as she searched behind the herb jars for the vial. She was preparing to drug her husband so that he would love her. She was pathetic.
In the end it didn’t matter.
The vial was gone.
Severin stood in the bedchamber door, the rope in his hand. “Come, Hastings.”
