“I am the Earl of Oxborough. This is my wife, Hastings.”
“I wanted to be named Hastings,” another girl of about seven said, stepping forward, “but Father said it wasn’t possible, that another girl already had that name. My name is Normandy. That is where William came from.”
“You can’t be the Earl of Oxborough,” Marella said, grabbing Matilda’s hand and pulling her back. “My father is the Earl of Oxborough. You are lying.”
“Oh dear,” Hastings said.
“He will come and take you away,” Matilda said. “Papa wouldn’t let anyone harm us.”
Suddenly a woman’s voice rang through the children’s chatter. “Who are you, sir? What is going on here? Why did my men allow you to enter?”
Hastings turned slowly at the woman’s voice. Oh God, memories flooded through her mind. She remembered that voice. The woman was standing in the pure sunlight, tall and straight, no gray in her rich chestnut hair, her eyes still a vivid green. She was heavier, but still she was beautiful, her dark green wool gown falling in graceful folds to the ground.
Hastings took a step toward her. She stretched out her hand, staring, disbelieving. No, it was impossible. She wet her lips. “Mama?”
The woman froze. She moaned softly, then picked up her skirts and ran to Hastings. She grabbed her arms and shook her. “Is it possible? Is it really you, Hastings? Oh my baby, my baby! Oh God, you’re here!”
“I don’t understand this,” Gwent said, coming up to stand beside Severin.
“I don’t either,” Marella said.
“Come here, Harlette,” one of the women called to a dark-haired little girl who had sidled up to Gwent.
“Who is Harlette?” Gwent asked.
“She was William’s mother,” the little girl said. “She was the most beautiful lady in all of Normandy, before Matilda. But who is she?”
“She,” Severin said slowly, watching his wife hug the woman who was her mother, “she is my wife. She is the Countess of Oxborough.”
“3ut Mama is the Countess of Oxborough,” Normandy said.
“I don’t understand,” Marella said. “They are different women.”
No one would ever deny that they were mother and daughter, the resemblance was so marked.
“But you were beaten to death,” Hastings said yet again as her mother continued to cry and hug her. “Father didn’t want me to see it so I was taken away, but Dame Agnes told me you were dead. She held me when I wept. She took care of me.”
“Ah, Agnes. How I have missed her. Aye, your father had me beaten. When I fell unconscious from the lash he had me taken away. He proclaimed to all that I was dead. Actually he took me to the Healer in the •„,, „.- J
forest. When I was well, he said he could not allow me to resume my place at Oxborough. He would be shamed if he allowed it, for I had dared to cuckold him. But he could not live without me, he said, and he cried, Hastings. He cried and cried, begging me to forgive him.
“I refused. I told him he was an animal. I told him I would never forgive him. He brought me here to this small keep that sits on this point into the River Glin. It was a pitiful pile of stones then. But I planted my gardens. I gave it life. I named it Rosehaven and it became a place of beauty. You will see all the roses later. I named one Hastings, after you. There has never been violence here.” Her mother paused, staring at her daughter, who was exactly her same height. “You are beautiful, Hastings,
more beautiful than the rose named after you. I always knew you would grow up well. And just look at you. As each of my other daughters was born, I looked for you in her, and always there was something to remind me of you. A shrug, perhaps, or the way Marella laughs, the way Matilda flings her head back, all have something of you in them. Ah, but I have missed you, wondered about you, wondered if you ever thought of me and what you thought. Did you believe me evil? Sinful?”