Jacqueline Navin - The Viking's Heart

She followed the servant he had indicated. As she passed a small gathering of women, she caught one—a buxom lass with hollows under her cheekbones and a bright head of pale hair spilling about her shoulders—staring at her. With a hand on one jutting hip, she regarded Rosamund over her shoulder with a sneer curled on her bee-stung lips.

One of the two others with whom she was standing said something and there was a chorus of laughter. The woman smiled coldly and turned around with an arrogant sniff.

“My lady, this way,” Margaret said politely.

“Oh, aye.” Dutifully, Rosamund fell into step.

Lady Veronica of Avenford, an older, slightly shorter, and perhaps less spectacular version of her daughter Alayna, smoothed the last of Rosamund’s garments and handed it to Hilde to place in the trunk. “There,” she pronounced with a flash of a smile. “Everything seems to be in order. After all of that jostling, they just needed to be refolded and laid again.”

“It is kind of you to help,” Rosamund replied.

Hilde said, “I’ll take out your green gown for you to wear to supper.”

It was Veronica who replied, “Nay, Hilde. She is to rest this night. Was a difficult day for your mistress, and you, I imagine. Let her have her supper on a tray in here, and then you both can find your rest early.”

Rosamund drifted to the window. “You need not trouble yourself, Hilde. I am not very hungry.”

“Go fetch it,” Veronica said in a tone that was gentle but commanding. Hilde—who had a tendency to be bossy herself and was never docile—shocked Rosamund when she muttered, “Yes, my lady,” and scurried out the door.

Veronica had a manner about her, Rosamund considered. One simply didn’t disobey her. “Rosamund, come here. You are restless.”

“My thoughts disturb me,” Rosamund admitted. She sat in the seat indicated.

“I know it has been a trying day,” Veronica said. “Your maid is busy with setting your clothing to rights and fetching your supper. Let me brush your hair for you and you will be ready all the earlier for bed.”

On the small table, Hilde had set out her silver brush and a matched set of pearl-encrusted combs. Veronica picked up the brush and admired it. “Lovely,” she commented, then came behind Rosamund and began to stroke her hair.

“’Twas a gift from my stepfather,” Rosamund said stiffly.

“Ah. It must be a beloved memento.”

Rosamund did not reply.

After a while, Veronica chuckled softly. “I hope my daughter has not given you a poor view of our home here at Gastonbury.”

“Alayna? Why ever would that be so?”

“She is not herself. Lucien is worried sick over it. Oh, he would never admit it, but he fears for her. I can see it in his eyes, the anxious way he watches her. And she makes it not one whit easier with her disposition so sour and her reasoning utterly gone. Bless him, he tolerates much. Even Alayna knows it, yet she says she cannot stop herself from some of the most obnoxious fits of temper I have ever witnessed. And I am her mother!”

They laughed together, then Rosamund asked, “Are you worried about her?”

“Aye. Nay. Oh, I suppose. A mother always worries, but I know ’tis merely the heat and the heavy weight of the babe that makes her cross. ’Twas not like this with the others. This is the third, you know. I have a grandson who you will espy running around the keep. And then there is the pretty little angel who just coos the sweetest song. Bah! What a foolish woman I am to go on so.”

“Nay, my lady. ’Tis pleasant to hear the pride and delight in your voice.”

“You indulge an old woman.”

“’Tis not true. ’Tis I who benefit from your great kindnesses, and I am grateful for your attentions.”

“If my daughter were feeling better, she would be seeing to you and trying to comfort you after your terrible day. I know she feels dreadfully responsible.”

“Nay, my lady, she must not. I cast no blame.”

“Lucien has sent word to Lord Robert. He wishes you to stay with us until we receive a reply.”

“Oh.” The mention of Robert of Berendsfore set Rosamund’s pulse thumping a bit harder.

Veronica twisted the dark blond tresses into a thick braid and fastened the end with a leather thong. “There, now I shall leave you to your supper and your rest.”

“Thank you, good lady.”

Veronica smiled down at her, touching her slim hand to Rosamund’s cheek. A look of uncertainty passed over her features, then was gone. “Rest,” she said with a renewed pleasantness.

“I shall.”

“And eat!” she called over her shoulder.

Rosamund laughed despite her distractions. “I shall try.”

The darkness was absolute when she awoke, panting and sweating from the dream. Her mother falling…

She shook her head, refusing the wispy ghost of memory. Sitting up, she pushed her hair out of her eyes. Tendrils had sneaked out of the braid and stuck to the thin sheen of sweat along her brow and cheeks.

At the washstand was fresh water and a towel for the morning. She wet the linen and rubbed it over her face and neck, down her arms, until gooseflesh pricked her skin.

The night was warm but there was a sweet breeze, and now that she had cooled herself down, it was quite pleasant. She wrapped a sheet about her and went to the window, pulling up a small stool so that she could lean out and listen to the night sounds. The pleasant chorus soothed her. She folded her arms on the windowsill and rested her chin on her crossed wrists.

The dream was gone now, but she was wakeful and troubled. She thought of Alayna, who had been so upset on Rosamund’s behalf. Alayna’s mother, the Lady Veronica, had also touched Rosamund’s heart with her kindness and solicitude. In some ways she reminded Rosamund of her own mother. There was nothing overtly similar save those things common to all mothers. The phrases they are apt to say, a look, a smile—all full of nurturing warmth.

Rosamund thought of Lucien and his terrible scowls, and Agravar and the surprising gentleness of his hands when they had touched her.

She wondered where Davey was, and when he would find her. And she wondered what she would do if he did not.

There was a break in the heat, and the denizens of Gastonbury came forth from the shuttered dark coolness of the castle where they had dwelled in exhausted and sweltering stillness for the past fortnight. A large tent was spread out in the meadow just outside the curtain wall. Alayna brought her small children to play there, under the fond regard of her mother and the silent companionship of her cousin.

The outing was treated with all the celebration of a high feast day. Veronica, Alayna and Rosamund reclined on cushions under the canopy, the men lounged nearby. Couples wandered off together, or gathered under shade trees for more intimate conversation. Spirits were high and musicians played gentle, lilting music, which drifted on the refreshing breeze to mingle with laughter.

“Margaret, sing us a song!” a man cried out.

“My lady?” Margaret asked her mistress, eager to comply with her admirer’s request.

Alayna nodded. Despite the lessening in the heat, she still seemed rather wan. “Yes, go ahead.”

Margaret scrambled up off the cushions to stand primly beside a grinning lyre player. She muttered something and he began to strum.

Her song was lovely. Rosamund smiled and closed her eyes, leaning back against the soft pallet upon which she reclined and let the peace of the day seep into her.

“She sings like a lark,” Veronica whispered in her ear. “But the chit is insufferably vain about it.”

Another voice, harsher, brimming with violence, spoke from somewhere deep in Rosamund’s memory. Vain harlot!