The Healer turned on Alice. “You will not talk about my tender Alfred Hlce”tHft. He is a sweeting. It is Gwent that is a hulking cretin, so sure of himself and his prowess that he must needs follow Lord Severin. Now he will die in a dungeon, rotting.”
“But I thought you hated men,” Lady Moraine said.
“Of course I do,” the Healer said, staring darkly at Lady Moraine. “They are all useless, windy bladders, concerned only with themselves. But you, lady, you blather nonsense. You will say no more about it. I will leave now. I will return tomorrow to see if there is any news. That lackwitted oxhead had better return to Oxborough well enough so that I can fix him.”
Without another word, the Healer marched out of the great hall,
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everyone staring after her, even one man who was too weak a moment before to raise his head.
“Well,” Hastings said, shaking her head, “this is a remarkable thing.” “Aye,” said Alice, “more than remarkable. Gwent kept his distance from me when I told him I would consider bedding him and giving him a man’s pleasure. He did not seem interested. Well, he was interested, but something held him back. I could not understand him. By the Devil’s horns, does the wind blow that way?” She just shook her head and carried a mug of milk to one of the ill men, saying a silent prayer now for Beamis, who rode with Lord Severin.
Hastings was laughing even as she lightly rubbed her palm over her belly.
I
Within two days fifty men from Severin’s other keeps had arrived at Oxborough.
“We will starve if they long remain,” MacDear said as he stirred a giant caldron of stewed pheasant with cabbage, onions, and leeks.
Steam curled up about his massive head, wreathing him in gray mist.
“I will tell them they can only eat every other day,” Hastings said, poked his huge arm, and returned to the great hall. The sick men were nearly well, the one man who had died shortly after the Healer had come had been buried in the Oxborough graveyard.
Sir Alan was dealing well with the three castellans, drawing Sedgewick keep on a large square of parchment so they could see what they would face as soon as Lord Severin returned.
The Healer returned the morning of the third day.
“I am sorry, Healer, but there is no word. But Severin said I was not to worry. He will bring them back safely.”
“He is a man. His horse brings him back, not his small brain. Gwent’s brain is even more shriveled. I will grind borla root and stir it into his ale.
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l.
It will make his toes numb and his manhood as flaccid as the onions in MacDear’s soup. I will tell my sweet Alfred to grant him the weight of all his affection.”
Hastings was holding her stomach she was laughing so hard. “But Healer, if he is flaccid, then what pleasure is there for you?”
“You speak like that silver-haired bitch, failing to give me proper honor and respect.”
“Oh nay, never that. Please remain, Healer. Please.”
But the Healer had already turned on her heel. She raised a hand, but did not turn around.
Hastings was not laughing that afternoon as she lay in her bed, the cover pulled to her chin, staring up into the darkness. She could hear the wind howling, feel the coldness of it in her bones even though she was warm.
She missed Severin. She was afraid for him. What was happening?
Sir Alan had sent a dozen men to camp in the woods near Sedgewick to keep watch and report back if Richard de Luci did anything untoward. Another dozen men followed the route back to where Gwent and the
other men had lain unconscious. The remainder were guarding Oxborough as if it were the king’s residence.
As for Eloise, she did not leave Lady Moraine. She was pale and silent, a little ‘ghost who missed that damnable Marjorie.
Hastings turned onto her side. Severin had wanted a curve in her belly-just a slight curve to please him, he’d told her-and now she had one for him to feel. She wanted his hand pressing lightly against her.