Coulter, Catherine. Rosehaven / Catherine Coulter.

“He won’t eat chicken. He will only eat pork.”

“Pork then, it won’t matter. It’s nourishing.”

The Healer shrugged, frowning at the animal, whose head was resting against Severin’s shoulder. “Tell MacDear to prepare invalid food as if Trist were a human for at least two more days. Hastings, just dab a bit of horehound juice mixed with very old wine onto his tongue. It will also help eliminate all the poison from his body. Not too much now, he’s very small.”

Trist mewled, but didn’t move.

Alfred bunched himself and jumped into Hastings’s arms, knocking her back onto the Healer’s cot.

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Severin slept with his wife. Between them lay Trist, still weak, his breathing not always even, which scared Severin. He kept his hand pressed lightly against Trist’s belly.

“He will eat on the morrow, Severin. For now the milk is enough. I would not want to eat after vomiting up my innards as he did.”

“Still-”

“I believe you worry more for him than you did for me.”

“You’re too mean to die.”

She was silent for a very long time. Then, she said quietly, “I hope you are right. Had I drunk that wine, then we would have seen just how mean I really am.”

She thought he tensed.

“I didn’t want to think about that just yet. Gwent said that amongst the four of us who were drinking from the wine goblets, only you and I had not yet drunk. He has kept my wine and your empty goblet. Also, he has kept the cloth the wine spilled on. Will you examine it on the morrow?”

“Ayej but you know what I will find, Severin. It is just a question of what sort of poison. Mayhap hemlock or a distillation of poppies. Perhaps foxglove, though there is argument about that plant and what it does. I would have to ask the Healer. Where would the poison come from?”

“So many strange and exotic foods and spices, aye, and poisons as well, came back with crusaders from the Holy Land.”

She started to say, Who would want me deadfbut she simply couldn’t say it aloud. It would make it real. It would make it very close to her, at her right hand, near to sitting on her shoulder. The saddle could have been an accident, but not this-oh no, not this.

If she hadn’t rubbed her hands with the cream to make them soft, the goblet wouldn’t have slipped from her fingers. She would have drunk from the goblet and she would have died.

She touched her fingers lightly to Trist’s sides. He still breathed.

“I don’t like this, Hastings.” Severin’s voice was low and deep.

She wondered if she had died, if he would have cried for her. If he would have howled “No!” as he had for Trist.

“Nor do I,” she said.

“Your food will be tasted from now on. Your wine will be sipped first by someone else. I will announce this to everyone tomorrow. Whoever put the poison in your wine should not have any interest in poisoning someone other than you.”

Lady Moraine said, “I have removed the marten’s vomit from Severin’s tunic but the smell remains. What can I do, Hastings?”

“I will give you some ground daisies in cold water. That will remove the smell. At least it sometimes does.”

“You know that silver-haired bitch poisoned you. What will you do about her?”

“I will see that she and all the Sedgewick people return as soon as possible. Severin and some of his men are riding there today to see what is happening. Hopefully, the sweating illness has run its course. I pray that some have survived it. As of our last word, Sir Alan is still well.”

“She wants my son. She won’t give up. I think we should poison her instead.”

Hastings stared at her mother-in-law, so lovely really, with her light hair scarce touched with gray, her slender body, her soft, dark eyes. Her hands were now soft and white, as well as her feet. “You believe me mad again?”

“Nay, I believe you ruthless, as is your son.”

“She wants to replace you. If you hadn’t spilled the wine, you would be dead.”

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