Page 45 of The Raven and the Rose
The old pain washed over him. Not again, Christ, not again! He breathed deeply and calmed himself. No, his last wife had been a whore, but Roseanna was as far removed from that as day from night. She was his rose without a thorn, and he would not profane her with vile thoughts or doubts that only sprang from his unsavory past. He schooled his thoughts and then his blood. He sipped a glass of wine and promised himself, tomorrow night!
The morning was taken up with Tristan’s departure for Ravenscar, about forty miles distant on the east coast. The journey was being made to scout out the countryside, to watch for any movement of men or ships on the coast. It was a precautionary measure on behalf of King Edward, who was far too trusting. If Tristan found nothing untoward, Roger had given him orders to return within the week. It was to the west that they really looked for treachery; Roger would not rest secure until Tristan had returned and together they had journeyed to Ravenglass and back.
Rebecca was not accompanying her husband but would stay at Ravensworth with her ladies. Tristan was surprised and pleased when his young wife bade him a lingering farewell and whispered that she would miss him. “If Roseanna were your wife, she would ride with you and disregard the danger.”
Tristan observed his wife closely and was pleased with and whispered in her ear, “When you are stronger, you can ride with me. I’ll look forward to it.”
Rebecca blushed prettily. “Hurry back, Tris!”
He grinned wickedly. “I shall. But be warned, the separation will make me randy as hell.”
Roseanna accompanied Rebecca to the stables to bid Tristan and his men godspeed; then Rebecca returned to the castle and Roseanna inspected the horses they owned.
Old Dobbin was at her elbow, holding each animal for her examination. “Ravenspur has a few good stallions and, of course, dozens of geldings. But his stables are sadly lacking in good mares to breed from,” she told Dobbin.
“Aye, my lady. The mare you brought from home is better than any they have here.”
Roseanna nodded. “I’m so thankful I brought one that’s breeding. She was served by Zeus and no other that I know of. She’ll produce something quite fine in the spring.”
“I think this mare here is breeding. The head stableman told me she was covered by Ravenspur’s stallion, but she has a history of abortion.”
Roseanna frowned as she ran her hands along the sleek belly of the only mare Ravenspur owned besides the one she had brought with her. “Get the head stableman for me, Dobbin,” she said with determination.
Dobbin left and returned in the company of a strapping young man who looked as if he could lift a horse if it were necessary.
“This is Tom. He’s in charge of Ravenspur’s stable.”
Roseanna smiled warmly. “You do a fine job with Ravenspur’s animals, Tom. It’s quite a large stable.”
He grinned. “There’s over a hundred men-at-arms to be mounted. ‘Course, most knights take a personal interest in their animal. See that it’s fed and groomed and exercised. But they know naught about doctoring a sick animal or binding up its wounds after a battle. I hear ye have a special interest in horses, my lady.”
“Yes, we bred the best in England at Castlemaine, and I see no reason why we can’t do some breeding here, Tom. Dobbin tells me this mare has a history of abortion?”
He answered her as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be discussing these matters with Ravenspur’s new bride.
“I’ve had lots of experience with that problem, Tom, and I think we’ll be able to save this one if you’ll follow my advice. It’s worth a try if she was covered by Ravenspur’s black stallion; he’s a beauty.” She looked around the stables to find a quiet box stall removed from the heavy traffic of horses. “I want her checked every week. Keep her quiet and warm and comfortable. Wash her shapes down every few days with strong soap and water. Keep her meticulously cleansed, and at least one of her feedings every day should be oatmeal gruel.”
“Does that prevent abortion?” asked Tom with deep concern.
“It certainly helps. Whenever a mare aborted, we always disinfected the stall immediately, gave the horse an enema to clean the bowels, and then rubbed it with olive oil. And of course, most important of all—always burn the fetus.”
Tom nodded sagely as these new ideas were presented to him.
“I’m going to buy Ravenspur some new mares so we can breed the Arabian.”
“They have horses something like that one over Middleham way. Some monks at an abbey breed white horses,” said Tom.
“Really?” asked Roseanna with interest. “I’d love to see them.” When she raised her head, she saw Sir Bryan saddling his horse, so she quietly excused herself and unhurriedly made her way in his direction. She must take the chance of being seen together, for at all costs she must warn him not to come to her chamber.
“Bryan, your note has distressed me,” she said low.
“My sweet, I miss your company sorely. How have I distressed you?”
“You must not come to my chamber, especially after the hour of midnight. It would cover us with guilt. If any saw you, we would be charged with adultery!” she warned.
He stiffened. “What I feel for you, my lady, is love, not lust. It is a pure love, beyond the physical, on a higher plane,” he insisted as if she had offered him grave insult.
She softened. “Oh, Bryan, I know, and that is why I love you. But we must keep it secret between us, or I shall not know a moment’s peace. If our love were known, you would be in mortal danger.”
