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She was bathed and dressed in her favorite saffron wool gown, fitted at her waist with a narrow golden belt, the sleeves fitted down to her elbows, then flaring out, falling beyond her fingertips. She felt beautiful. Even her hair was shining clean. There would be nothing Marjorie could possibly say.
Her side ached, but it was nothing, really. She did not walk like an old woman.
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Her chair was empty. That was a relief. Marjorie sat in her place beside Eloise. Lady Moraine was speaking to her son. Gwent punched Beamis’s arm. There was loud talk, as usual, ale splashing over the sides of the goblets from enthusiastic toasts. All in all, everything looked to be normal. Edgar the wolfhound was gnawing on a bone that Severin had tossed to him.
“Welcome, Hastings,” Marjorie called to her. She leaned over and patted the arm of her chair. “I have had MacDear prepare your favorite dishes. He even prepared some rose pudding. He said it was a favorite of your mother’s.”
Her mother. Hastings said aloud, “Yes, my mother was very fond of rose pudding. I believe it was she who gave MacDear the recipe when she first came to Oxborough.”
Hastings wanted to tell Marjorie right then that she would never enter Oxborough’s kitchens again.
“I heard that your mother was so evil and lewd that your father had her beaten to death,” said Eloise.
It was bad enough to hear her husband’s mistress speak of her mother, but that she’d poisoned Eloise was too much to be borne. She opened her mouth, but Marjorie forestalled her. “Nay, Eloise, those are just mean stories that you should never speak of yourself. Neither you nor I know anything oTHastings’s mother. Now, come close and let me serve you some of these garden peas that Hastings grew herself.
“Forgive Eloise, Hastings,” Marjorie said more quietly as Hastings passed her chair. “It is true that your mother is sometimes spoken of, but it was not well done of her to speak to you of it. You look pale, Hastings. Now that I see you more closely, you don’t look well enough to be here in the great hall. Perhaps you should return to your bedchamber. Aye, you are very pale, Hastings. You still walk bowed over, your shoulders rounded, like an old crone.”
Hastings hurt, but not from the healing wound in her side. She wanted to pick Eloise up and shake her until . . . until what? Until she pleaded
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with Hastings to forgive her. As for Marjorie, Hastings said nothing. Her eyes were on Severin. He finished speaking to his mother, looked up, and merely waved his knife at her. She was at her chair when he rose to pull it back for her.
She said to him, “Thank you for not shaming me in front of all our people.” She sat down. She felt a particularly vicious pull in her side.
“What, I wonder, does that mean?” Severin said, a black eyebrow arched upward.
“I mean it is kind of you to allow me to sit in my own chair.”
“Eloise has prayed for you every day,” Marjorie said in that sweet voice of hers.
Hastings smiled at the child as she scooped up the rose pudding with her spoon. “I hope your knees are well healed, Eloise.”
The child shrugged, not looking at Hastings. “I do not like rose pudding.”
“Then you do not have to eat any,” Marjorie said, scraping the small portion from Eloise’s trencher.
Lady Moraine said, “You look lovely, daughter. I like the braids plaited with the yellow ribbons. Your eyes look greener. Aye, you are worthy to be my daughter.”
Hastings laughed and lifted her goblet to toast her mother-in-law. But she had not wiped all the cream off her hands after she’d patted it on her wound because, as she’d told Severin, it softened her skin. Her hands were slippery still. The goblet slid from her fingers, falling on its side, the rich sweet red burgundy flowing onto the white tablecloth.
Trist raised his head, saw the red wine flowing toward him, and slapped at it with his paw. Then he sniffed his paw and licked it. He stuck his paw in the wine a second time, then licked it. Suddenly, his entire body stiffened, his back arched. He mewled loud and long, then suddenly he collapsed onto his belly.