“What did you say, Hastings?”
“I remarked that Saint Osbert’s elbows were perhaps too knobby, I cursed, Severin.”
But he did not reply. She followed his line of vision. He was scaring
‘**& ***•• at Marjorie, who had leaned down to pick something from the floor. Her
hair, loose and flowing, was a silver curtain, shimmering with light. She hated the woman.
She saw his hand tighten about the stem of his goblet. She wasn’t blind. She saw the hunger in his dark eyes. He wanted Marjorie, wanted her as he had wanted his wife just two nights before. Had he wanted her as much as he wanted Marjorie, whom he had craved and loved since his seventeenth year?
Hastings had held his affection for less than three months. And what was that affection? A willing woman who freely gave him her body? Aye, naught more.
o n o
Marjorie had been in his mind for more than eight years.
Hastings didn’t stand a chance. She fingered the vial.
No, not yet. She couldn’t bear to resort to that damned vial.
She had already seen that he had not worn one of the tunics she had sewn for him.
She wished she could stick her knife through Marjorie’s heart. The thought was deep within her and hard and real. Hastings knew then that she would never be destined for sainthood. She would be fortunate to gain a long purgatory.
A jongleur appeared, flinging five leather balls into the air, catching them, then tossing them upward, all of them in the air at the same time. He was speaking as he threw the balls in a circle around his head. He was singing. She saw that Belle was leaning heavily against the blacksmith, whose eyes were sated, his eyelids heavy. Belle was eyeing the jongleur with growing interest. Old Morric wore a witless smile.
She had seen Severin with such a witless smile.
The jongleur finished juggling the balls. He came forward to praise Lord Severin, the man who had single-handedly killed sixty Saracens near Acre, the mighty warrior whom King Edward had begged to remain at his side but stay away from his beautiful queen Eleanor.
Marjorie’s bright laughter turned many eyes toward her.
The jongleur then turned to Hastings. He struck a pose, studying her. Then he sang:
“The Lady Hastings gave Lord Severin the world.
She is gracious and wise, healing all who are ill.
She is above ordinary, it is said, giving her loyalty
to her lord, who now owns his fill. ”
She saw Severin flinch. Where had the jongleur heard about her being ordinary? Obviously one of the men had overheard his master and repeated it to the fellow.
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90:*,
Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, the jongleur turned to Marjorie, and stared at her, his hand over his breast. He sighed deeply.
“Such grace, such beauty, such silver hair that makes men weep. The Lady Marjorie surpasses all
ladies. She is a goddess. She is a beautiful
creature that will make men dream throughout
eternity. ”
Hastings wanted to scream. She looked at Severin, who was staring fixedly at Marjorie. Could he not tell that the jongleur’s rhyme hadn’t rhymed?
Marjorie was laughing, waving her hand in dismissal to the troubadour.
r, The jongleur bowed deeply to Severin, then to Hastings, and finally,
he fell to his knees before Marjorie, but she was just laughing at him, waving him away, shaking her beautiful head.
Hastings wanted to die.
But first she wanted to kill that beautiful creature who made men
dream throughout eternity.
But even before that, she would kill the damned jongleur.
Severin came to their bed very late. She was still awake. She said nothing, just listened to him strip off his clothes-she heard every movement he made. She saw him in her mind’s eye. He was naked, beautifully naked, hard and lean. He did not touch her.
She felt Trist snuggle against her back.
Just before dawn, she awoke to warmth, a man’s warmth. She sighed deeply. He had come to her. She opened her eyes, expecting to see him over her, but Severin was lying on his side, still deeply asleep. She was pressed against his back, Trist against hers.