Free Rosehaven by Catherine Coulter Page B

you sent back to Richard de Luci, well, he was grateful to you for not torturing him—”
    “Not torturing him? Christ’s bones, Hastings made him puke up his toes. He wanted to die. He was a pathetic scrap. All he did when he wasn’t puking was lie there on his side, his knees drawn up to his chin, moaning.”
    “Aye, but then he was well again and his body was intact. No broken bones, no bashed head, no cracked ribs. As I say, he was grateful to you. He believed you would slay him after he told you what you wanted to know, but you didn’t. You sent him back to his master.
    “It was Richard de Luci who nearly killed him since he had failed to dispatch you. But the man—Osbert is hisname—he survived. When he had the strength, he came here, asking for you. When he heard that you were still abed, he asked for me. In short, Severin, I have done my best by you. You have one less enemy now.”
    Severin felt the blood pound in his temples. “No, you would not do this to me, would you, Graelam? Tell me you did not kill that damned whoreson. You did, didn’t you? You dared to kill my enemy. He wasn’t your enemy, Graelam, he was mine, and yet you had the gall to kill him. And you said nothing to me about it. Nothing, Graelam, you bastard.”
    Hastings heard Graelam laugh. She saw the fury on Severin’s face. She knew he was enraged even though his voice was low and steady and he did not move. Her father had always yelled his head off when he was angry, always. It gave everyone time to run because right after he yelled, he struck. But not Severin. Would he strike?
    Northbert had told her what had happened. Men, she thought, were they born wanting to hack and maim and destroy? Well, mayhap it was wise to destroy Richard de Luci. She eased closer. Severin was red in the face, the pulse in his throat pounding so furiously she could see it, but that was all.
    “He is dead, his holding is without a master, and he has a daughter, I am told, who is now his heir. There are no sons.”
    Severin said, as he clutched the wine goblet so hard his fingers showed white, “You were wounded. There is a binding around your arm.”
    “Aye, but ’tis nothing. I imagine Hastings has already seen to my men. I lost no men, but four were wounded.” Graelam leaned back in Hastings’s chair, drank down the rest of his wine, wiped his mouth, and grinned hugely. “Ah, it was good. We ambushed the whoreson with the information Osbert gave us. They were eating their dinner. There were naught but twenty of them. We took the guards, then the rest was easy.” Graelam rubbed his hands together. “Aye, it was good to exercise my arm. Bloodlettingalways clears a man’s brain and makes him forget any pains he has.”
    Severin rose, calmly and slowly, took the end of the trestle table in his large hands, and upended it, sending it crashing into the silver laver that stood close by. The laver sent scented water flying on the sleeping wolfhound, Edgar, whose eyes flew open. He leapt up, growling, ready to tear out an enemy’s throat.
    “Enough, Severin, enough! Hold your temper. I do not want you to destroy the keep.”
    Severin turned to see his wife of two days on her knees, picking up the laver, that thick hair of hers cascading over her shoulder nearly to the rushes. She looked up at him even as she cradled the damned laver against her chest. “You have dented the silver. It belonged to my grandmother. I prized it. I polished it, I—”
    He cursed long and loud, then shouted, something Graelam had never heard him do, “Shut your mouth, Hastings! This has nothing to do with you. Fetch my sword. I will gullet this mangy villain, this villain I believed my friend.” The wolfhound growled. Servants and men-at-arms were standing silent along the walls, wondering what would happen, wondering if they should do anything.
    “Why?” she said, rising to her feet, righting the laver. “Because he acted without your lofty permission? Because he knew