by Tamara Leigh
She heaved a sigh. “Lady Maude was as a mother to me. Now she is gone, all is changed. I have lost my home and my friend. For it I have gained a mother who tries too hard to replace Lady Maude, and you who I do not believe is truly pleased to become a father to me.” She raised an eyebrow. “Nor to wed my mother.”
He ought to like that she was so frank, providing insight into the Laura he no longer knew—had he ever—but it made him feel as much a fraud as she believed her mother to be. “Like many a noble marriage, ours will be of great benefit to our land and people, but that does not mean affection will not grow from our union, nor that I am incapable of caring for another man’s child.” Those last words he had not carefully chosen, but he contained his dismay—blessedly, for the girl watched him with the eyes of one more mature than her years.
But then she rolled them. “Donnie is right. ’Tis good I am misbegotten so I may choose love over affection.”
Lothaire frowned. “Donnie?”
“My friend, the son and heir of Lady Maude’s eldest stepson, Joseph D’Arci.” She lowered her lashes. “Actually, more than a friend.”
Lothaire did not like the conversation’s turn. Ignoring the men and women who waited for him to escort Grandmother into the stream, he said, “I am sorry you lost your friend. How old is he?”
“Near on twelve. Though I did not see him often once he was fostered away from Owen for his squire’s training, we spent time together when he returned home, and more this last visit ere my mother determined she must seek a husband.”
He clenched his teeth to keep from prompting her, remembering how his own mother’s prompts had roused suspicion and resentment, causing the youth he had been to close up. And still he closed up when Lady Raisa pressed him.
“Methinks she became jealous, and that is why we had to leave Owen.” Clarice’s eyes widened. “The argument you happened upon our first day at High Castle was of Donnie.”
“For that you raised a hand to your mother?” Even to Lothaire’s ears his disapproval was rampant.
She flushed. “I would not have struck her.”
“Aye, you would have. I felt the force in your arm, Clarice.” Though he longed to ask what had caused her to strike her mother later, he determined not to speak of it lest she believe Laura had revealed the assault.
She groaned. “I know ’twas wrong, but she frustrates me.”
“You will have to learn to control your frustration. I will not tolerate disrespect of your mother.”
Anger flashed across her face, slid off, and in a defeated tone, she said, “I fear I will not see Donnie again, that he will find other girls to…” She blew breath up her face. “…talk to.”
It was more than talk, but Lothaire kept his tongue. And waited.
“So Lord Soames, show me how you persuade Grandmother to bathe.”
Was it a kiss the almost twelve-year-old Donnie had filched from a nine-year-old girl? For certain, it was not jealousy that caused Laura to seek a husband she did not want for the home required to remove her daughter from a boy moving toward manhood faster than a girl moving toward womanhood.
“My lord?” said the shepherd, an outspoken commoner who did his job too well to begrudge him impatience that oft matched Lothaire’s.
“Watch, Lady Clarice,” Lothaire said. As he strode down the rise where the old ewe stood upon the bank, he was struck by the feeling it would not be enough for the girl to observe. But perhaps he merely cast her in the mold of a young Laura who had sat still only the one time he was first introduced to her in the company of Lady Maude and Lady Raisa.
To lessen the ewe's alarm, he led it backward, but once its hooves met water it began to struggle. Lothaire pressed onward and, thigh-high in the pool, gently tipped her. As she tried to get her legs beneath her, he pulled her to the center of the dammed stream where she came right side up and floated. Immersed up to his chest, he began loosening the dirt and other foul matter from her fleece. Once she abandoned her efforts to swim back to the bank, the workers led other ewes into the stream.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lothaire watched Clarice draw nearer, sometime later heard her screech when a ewe’s thrashing wet the skirt of her gown. But the wetting of her hem was of her own doing.
An hour later, she who liked pretty things was nearly as drenched and fouled by the dirt coming off the matted fleece as the rest of them. Standing in the water, she aided a young woman given charge of year-old lambs who had accumulated enough wool to make the cleaning and shearing worthwhile. And scattered across that bank were dozens of ewes whose much brightened fleece dried in the sun.
As Lothaire pushed a ewe back to the shallows where it dug its hooves into the gravel to heave its water-logged fleece out of the stream, laughter brought his head around.
The voice was more childish than that of the one to whom he had first been betrothed, but it sounded of Laura, just as her daughter’s smile summoned remembrance of the young woman he had senselessly loved.
In disposition, Clarice was more like her mother than she could know, she whom he should have fathered.
The pound of hooves and a shout turned Lothaire toward Angus whose appearance portended ill.
Soaked through, Lothaire stepped from the stream, strode between the dozing sheep, and halted atop the rise.
Angus swung out of the saddle and extended a missive. “Word from Wiltford, my lord.”
Lothaire stared at what remained of the wax seal—doubtless, broken by Sebille who, more than Lothaire and their mother, ached for the tidings likely inked by Baron Marshal.
He reached but drew back the hand over which dripped water from his tunic’s sleeve. “You will have to read it to me.”
Minimally proficient in letters, Angus grimaced as he unfurled the parchment. He cleared his throat. “Baron Soames, by this missive know the answer long awaited is given,” the knight melded the sounds into words and stiltedly strung them together to form a sentence. “That which your family lost has been found, placed in a casket with due respect and…ceremony, and shall be returned forthwith. As my father-in-law has taken ill, my lady wife shall accompany her lord husband to the barony of Lexeter. I trust you will receive us and our…entourage with good will. This missive travels a day ahead of our nooning arrival at High Castle.” The parchment rustled. “Baron Marshal signs his name.”
Lothaire stared at the dirt darkening about his feet as water ran from his clothes. Though glad his father could be properly interred, he almost wished the old baron’s return further delayed. It would be better for Lexeter to receive its lost lord when the disparity between its prosperity of twenty years past and now was not as great, and this was too near the wedding. Not that his marriage would be a joyous event, but it would be further dampened by the burial to take place only days before. Or perhaps it would not.
Lothaire ground his teeth. Sebille would not like it, nor their mother who would not be averse to her son's marriage being more overshadowed by mourning. However, this day a grave would be dug in the cemetery of the village of Thistle Cross so Ricard Soames could be laid to rest shortly after Baron Marshal and his wife arrived with an entourage Lothaire did not doubt would be sizable and well armed lest they were not received with good will.
“My lord?”
Lothaire met Angus’s gaze. “Ill timing,” he said. “Hardly am I returned from court and now this.”
The knight peered past him. “I will aid in cleaning the sheep so you may—” He blinked, nearly smiled. “There is a young lady washing the sheep, my lord.”
Lothaire looked across his shoulder at Clarice who had an arm hooked around the neck of a lamb the village woman bathed. The girl’s face was near the animal’s, and she appeared to be chatting with it. Then she laughed and kissed the top of its head.
He fought imaginings of Laura doing the same. And failed. She would have, even at the expense of a gown finer than her daughter’s. But no longer. She was too changed, surely by abandonment of the o
ne who had made a child on her. And, dare he hope, regret over her betrayal of the one who had loved her? He had believed that last when he returned to her in the garden at Windsor and found her weeping, but after seeing her with Michael D’Arci and the more he learned of this older Laura from her daughter who believed her sorrow a result of being parted from her lover…
“I am thinking her gown is ruined,” Angus said, “but she does not look to mind.”
“She is much as her mother was,” Lothaire spoke aloud his thoughts and grunted when the knight narrowed his eyes. Not that Angus was unaware of what had gone between his lord and the lady. He had served the Soames family since his squire’s fostering at High Castle and been knighted by Ricard only months before his lord’s disappearance.
Years later, Angus had trained Lexeter’s heir in arms after Raisa refused to allow her son to earn his spurs with a fostering lord. Just as Lothaire had protested her decision, so had this knight who believed the loss of a father made it more imperative Lothaire be fostered—and all the better were he accepted by the Wulfriths. But Raisa had been determined to keep her son under her control, citing he might otherwise be led astray, becoming no better than her faithless husband.
How she missed the power she had once wielded, though it had almost been the ruin of Lexeter. Not that she acknowledged what she had wrought, ever blaming Ricard and now those responsible for her husband’s death—even Lothaire whose efforts too slowly revived the barony.
“Your betrothed did ask that I deliver her to you that she might retrieve her daughter,” Angus said.
Lothaire frowned. “As instructed, you were to comply.”
“I agreed, but your sister insisted the lady take charge of the household to prepare for the Baron of Wiltford’s arrival.”
Whilst Sebille prepared Raisa to receive her husband’s bones, Lothaire knew.
“I shall take your place so you may return to High Castle,” Angus said.
Lothaire considered the offer but saw little benefit in returning early. “I am sure Lady Laura has all in hand. Thus, my time is better spent here.”
“As you will, my lord. Should I deliver Lady Clarice to her mother?”
“You may ask her, but I believe she will decline.”
“Might she have wool in her blood?”
That possibility made Lothaire ache. He would wish it of a child he had fathered, but one whose veins carried the blood of the man who had lain with Laura? He had brought Clarice here to acquaint her with the workings of Lexeter and further assert his authority soon to be granted as her stepfather. It was not his intention to foster an avid interest in wool best passed to his heir. He wished her to respect it and be conversant enough that when she was of an age to acquire a husband, she would draw more suitors willing to overlook her unfortunate birth in exchange for one learned in what was increasingly regarded as England’s greatest source of wealth.
“In her blood?” he said. “Methinks she is merely bored and will soon tire of the novelty and bemoan her soiled gown.”
Once more Angus cast his regard her way, then strode down the rise. He soon returned. “She prefers to wash sheep.”
“To which I myself must return,” Lothaire said.
Angus set a hand on his shoulder. “Regardless of the ill timing, I am glad your father shall soon be laid to rest.”
Lothaire inclined his head. Then he instructed his man to pause at Thistle Cross to make arrangements with Father Atticus to conduct the funeral mass at High Castle followed by burial in the churchyard, send word across Lexeter that work be suspended in honor of the old baron, and inform his betrothed of the morrow's plans that he himself would reveal to his mother and sister.
Chapter 16
She had feared she would cry. It proved difficult to direct servants, not only due to lack of experience in prioritizing tasks, but the inability to exude confidence which caused resistance toward one who was not yet Lady of Lexeter.
But then Sir Angus returned with the assurance Clarice was not a burden to his lord and tidings the old baron's burial would take place as soon as he was delivered to Lexeter. From that point onward, the task given her was less daunting owing to the knight's assistance with the servants. Though Lady Sebille had said Sir Angus was inept at household management, under his discreet guidance Laura fared well. A nod from him here, a shake of his head there, and the servants to whom she passed on his urgings began to move faster and with greater purpose.
Cook was another matter. He was not exactly disrespectful and acknowledged that in a sennight it was Laura with whom he would consult over the menu, but he did not temper his frustration that the nooning meal Lady Sebille had approved for the morrow would not be served.
“I am sorry to give so little notice,” Laura said and glanced past the middle-aged man whose stained apron so well fit him it emphasized muscles more suited to a soldier than one who wielded blades over meat and vegetables. Sir Angus’s shake of the head indicating she should not have apologized, she inwardly groaned. She ought to have been kind but firm in informing the man a meal incapable of being stretched to feed the Baron of Wiltford’s party—should they accept Lexeter’s hospitality—must be altered.
Laura cleared her throat. “Most unfortunate, only this day were we informed of the possibility of guests.”
The cook grunted. “I’ve only enough venison for stew—hardly a meal fit for noble guests, my lady, but there is naught for it.”
Laura inclined her head. “I have faith you will ensure ’tis agreeable.” That was as Lady Maude would have said, gently issuing a challenge for the man to prove worthy of his station.
He scowled and started toward the kitchen.
“Well executed,” Sir Angus said low.
She did not agree, but she had done her best. Smoothing the skirt of the old, plain gown into which she had changed, she said, “I thank you for your aid, Sir Knight.”
“My pleasure, my lady.”
Laura looked around the hall. “I wish there were time to clean the tapestries. They are much dulled by dust and smoke.”
“Surely a good beating will suffice.”
She sighed. “And see much of the work in the hall undone—dust everywhere.”
“Not if the tapestries are removed and cleaned outside on the donjon’s steps.”
Laura looked to him. “You are right.”
“Then we shall require ladders.”
Two hours later, several tapestries had been beaten fairly clean and were being returned to their hooks, while another was unrolled on the steps. As women and men took brooms to it, Laura returned to the hall and, catching Sir Angus’s eye, crossed to his side. “I thank you. The room is much brightened. I dare hope Baron Soames will be pleased.”
“I am heartened you wish to please him, my lady.”
“Of course I do. I…” She set a hand on his arm. “No matter the past, Sir Angus, I hope in time I will prove a good wife to your lord.”
He looked to her hand on him. “I am more inclined to believe you than not, Lady Laura. But you must know my first loyalty shall ever be to my lord.”
Too late, his consideration of her hand on his sleeve and now his words alerted her to the inappropriateness of such familiarity—especially in light of what he believed of her.
She lowered her hand and retreated a step. “Baron Soames is blessed to have a friend in you.”
His smile was slight. “I do not know I am that to him—he has little use for friends—but I watch more than just his back, my lady. Closely.”
“Sir Angus…Lady Laura,” Lady Sebille’s voice sounded, and they turned to where she advanced on them. “Where is my brother?”
Curtly, the knight dipped his chin. “Baron Soames is confident his betrothed can put the household in order and determined his time is better spent preparing for the shearing.”
She halted before him. “He ought to be here.”
“I but relay his message, my lady. I am sure he will return as soo
n as he is able.”
She shifted her gaze to Laura. “With so much to be done to receive Baron Marshal, I am all surprise you waste precious time chatting.”
The lady’s disapproval thick as cold soup, Laura felt as if caught in a compromising position.
“I assure you,” Sir Angus said, “’tis not idle talk in which we indulge.” He jutted his chin to the tapestry being set on its hooks. “Much the lady has accomplished during your absence. And you? Your mother is apprised of the old baron's return?”
She looked between Laura and him, drew a whistling breath through her nose. “All has been made known to Lady Raisa. As expected, she is distressed.”
Laura did not doubt that. No matter how severe the lady, no matter it was twenty years since her husband’s disappearance, the return of his remains would be painful—and could prove more so when she and her daughter learned they would be interred without delay.
“Indeed,” Lady Sebille said, “methinks it may be some time ere the Lady of Lexeter is able to attend her husband’s burial—mayhap a sennight.”
The knight caught Laura's eye, raised his eyebrows as if to remind her it was for Lothaire to reveal the burial arrangements, then strode away.
Lady Sebille kept her back to him a long moment, swung around, and watched him cross to the tapestry that had been rehung on the wall. When he aided a shapely young woman in descending the final rungs of a ladder, Lothaire’s sister sucked a sharp breath.
Then still she wanted the man she had rejected? Laura wondered. Certes, the disapproval to which she had subjected Laura thickened as if jealousy were stirred into it.
“Careful, Lady Laura,” Lady Sebille said so low that had she not named the woman alongside her, it would have seemed she spoke to herself. “Gallant and helpful Sir Angus may be, but he has a great appetite for women.”
Laura did not know how to respond, on one side uncertain as to why the lady warned her, on the other side surely expected to have no knowledge that once the knight had been fond of his lord’s sister.
