The air was so sharp it nearly hurt to breathe it. The tinge of salt burned her skin. The wind whipped her hair and slapped against her cheeks. There were many waders, rushing forward when the waves receded, only to race back to the dry sand when the waves crashed in again.
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Oystercatchers, curlews, and redshanks shrieked and wheeled about above her head. She’d forgotten to bring them scraps.
She had to return. There was no more time. She breathed in deeply, wondering when she would next be able to come here to feel the freedom of the sea, to draw the salty air into her lungs, to hear the wind whistling strangely through some of the hollowed rocks strewn haphazardly below on the beach.
Tuggle took Marella’s reins as Hastings slipped off her mare’s back. He said in his soft, deep voice, “The lord is ready. You weren’t here. He did not yell or curse, just spoke low, yet all knew he was not pleased. He asked Lord Graelam if you had run away rather than wed with him. Lord Graelam assured him that you were not such a blockhead.”
“Why would anyone believe I would run away from my home? I’ll go in now. Thank you, Tuggle. Please rub Marella well. She’s run hard.”
He had missed her? But she had time, nearly an hour. She picked up her skirts and ran toward the wide wooden doors that gave into the great hall. They were thrown open, warming the hall, and she slipped inside, pausing a moment so her eyes could adjust to the dimmer light.
He was standing directly in front of her as if he had known that she would be coming in at that moment. His gloved hands on his hips. “You are Hastings of Trent? You are the girl I am to wed?”
She thought she would swallow her tongue. Her head felt blank with fear at the harshness of that dark, cold voice. Then, suddenly, the marten peeped out from beneath his tunic. She couldn’t help herself, she smiled, reaching out her hand.
“Nay, he isn’t always friendly. He could bite you.”
But Trist didn’t bite the girl who would soon be Severin’s wife. He lifted his head higher when she rubbed the soft, thick fur, all white, beneath his chin. Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back and slipped beneath his master’s tunic.
“I’m Hastings,” she said, her fear now gone. If the marten didn’t fear him, then why should she? “You are Severin of Langthorne. You are the man my father has selected for me to wed.”
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“Aye. You smell of horse, your gown is dirty, your hair looks like it’s been pulled from your head and thrown back on by a careless hand. Go to your chamber and ready yourself. We will wed by your father’s bedside as soon as you are prepared.” With those tender words, he turned on his heel to stride away.
“It is my greatest pleasure to meet you,” she called after him. “Perhaps Lord Graelam could tutor you in manners to be accorded a lady.”
He paused, his body still, so very still, then slowly he turned to look back at her. “You will prove to me that you are not your mother’s daughter. Then I will treat you like a lady. Go. The sight of you doesn’t please me.” He turned away again.
Her heart pounded with the words that had come out of her mouth. Then the marten’s head appeared behind Severin’s head. He stared at her, his head bobbing up and down. It looked so funny that she laughed. Severin whirled around and stared at her.
“You don’t please me either,” she said, flipped her long ratty braid over her shoulder, and walked up the solar stairs. “I don’t like gray,” she called back, but only when she was out of sight and, she hoped, out of his hearing.
She heard laughter. From Severin of Langthorne? No, it was Graelam de Moreton.
She stood beside her father’s bed. His eyes were closed, his breath shallow and quick. “Father. I’m here. It is time.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her. He drew away, crying out, “You’re here, ah, Janet, you’re here. How do you come here? How?”