by Tamara Leigh
Still, it would not be long ere the knight whose marriage had elevated him to a great title guessed the girl’s identity. Hopefully, he would be discreet so Laura would not have to evade her daughter’s questions.
At the center of the inner bailey, Laura became aware of Lothaire’s tightening grip and followed his gaze to the window where she had first glimpsed Sebille when she herself arrived at High Castle. The lady was there again—as were the physician and Lady Raisa.
Laura shuddered, certain the latter’s eyes were upon her, then more violently at the realization of how long they may have been upon her daughter.
“Laura?”
She swung her gaze to Lothaire. “Your mother is out of bed.”
“So she may watch her husband’s return. If she is strong enough, she shall attend the service.”
Laura nearly protested, chilling at the thought of standing on one side of him whilst his mother stood on the other. And unless she could summon a viable excuse to keep Clarice away, her daughter would be too near that woman.
“She loathes me,” Laura whispered.
“As told, she is not pleased by our marriage, but you need not fear her.”
Laura almost laughed.
“She knows how important our union is to Lexeter,” he continued, “and understands that if she does not properly conduct herself as my father’s widow, she will be removed from the service.”
Of little consolation.
“For everyone concerned, I have determined it best I escort her and my sister to the service. Hence, Clarice and you and Baron Marshal and his wife shall enter last and remain at the rear of the chapel.”
Of some consolation. Though tempted to look to the window again, Laura kept her eyes upon his. “I agree that is best.”
Moments later, Tina stepped back to allow her mistress to take her place alongside Clarice on whose other side stood Sir Angus.
“Oh,” her daughter breathed, “I thought Lord Soames fair handsome, but Baron Marshal is more so.”
Laura did not like her nine-year-old noting such a thing, but considering Clarice had shared a kiss with Donnie, she ought not be surprised.
“Is that his wife, Mother?”
As the lady reined in, her mount danced its backside around. “Aye, Lady Beata.”
“She is pretty, I suppose, but not at all like the ladies woven into tapestries who are as beautiful as their lovers are handsome.”
Though the volume of Clarice’s voice was discreet enough to escape their guests, Laura said, “Do not speak such.”
“’Tis true, but they did not hear me. And look, she is a bit fat.”
“Enough!” Lothaire growled, peering past Laura.
“Pardon,” Clarice muttered. And once more Laura felt inadequate—and irritated by his interference. But only for a moment. Baron Marshal had dismounted and lifted his wife down. Had Lothaire not silenced Clarice, whatever else gaily skipped across her tongue might have been heard.
As husband and wife approached, Laura’s dismay slipped at the sight that caused her daughter to believe the lady carried too much weight. She did, but it was not her own, and it was confined to her waist and hips. Within a two-month, the Marshals would be parents.
Beside Laura, Clarice caught her breath, evidence she also realized Lady Beata was with child.
“You are to be congratulated,” Lothaire said when the two halted before him. “By summer’s end you shall have a babe in arms.”
Lady Beata touched her belly. “If I birth early, which is very possible with twins.”
“Twins? How know you?”
Her smile revealed more of the small gap between her front teeth than Laura had earlier glimpsed. “Until a month past, we thought it one large babe, but now the movement is so vigorous I find myself kicked by three and four feet at once. Too, the midwife confirms the beat of two hearts.”
“We are pleased for you.”
Lady Beata inclined her head. “As we are pleased for your pending nuptials, Baron Soames.” She moved her regard to Laura. “We shall pray this time next year you are with child.”
The start of Laura’s own smile was genuine. Its end was not. She wished to give Lothaire an heir, but the getting of one meant overcoming fear of what she had only ever experienced as violation—remembrance of which had caused her to tear herself out of Lothaire’s arms last eve.
For that, she must reveal the truth of Clarice ere their nuptial night. He must understand it was not him she rejected but the violence that made memories spread through her like disease. Surely then he would go more slowly, be more gentle and, perhaps, come to love her again. If he believed what she told.
Durand Marshal’s wife set a hand on Laura’s arm. “I am glad to meet you, my lady.”
“As I am to meet you.” Laura cleared her throat. “This is my daughter, Clarice.”
Lady Beata looked to her. “I thought you must be. You are as lovely as your mother.”
Clarice curtsied. “I thank you, my lady.”
Lest the girl claim she had her father’s eyes as she was wont to do when resemblance to her mother was noted, Laura said, “I am sure you must be fatigued after your long journey, Lady Beata.”
“Indeed, we are.”
“Baron Marshal,” Lothaire returned to the conversation, “my betrothed will ensure your party’s comfort whilst my men and I tend to my father.”
Laura caught the narrowing of the baron’s eyes on the upper window ere he returned his regard to Lothaire. Did he sense danger? Did he fear for his wife whose family was responsible for the loss of the man whose wife and daughter watched?
His hand was not on sword or dagger, but she did not doubt his mind was ready to give the command. He could not be pleased Lady Beata accompanied him, especially in her pregnant state, but for that his escort surely numbered more than it would otherwise—and would not enter the donjon were they asked to disarm. Blessedly, it seemed that would not be required of them.
“Laura?” Lothaire prompted.
Glimpsing the vulnerable youth in his eyes, she smiled reassuringly, said, “I shall see to their comfort,” and led the way into the great hall.
Chapter 19
The efforts of the day past were more obvious with the afternoon sun casting itself through the upper windows like a beautiful sacrifice. So, too, were its shortcomings that revealed how tired the room was.
Clarice at her side, Laura started toward the high table. And halted when a hand touched her arm.
“A moment,” Lady Beata said. “First let us see the casket pass.”
Laura’s face warmed. Of course it was inappropriate to seat one’s self ahead of the procession. She may not have been the best pupil, but Lady Maude had made certain her ward was versed in proprieties.
Grateful for Lady Beata’s encouraging smile, she allowed the woman to hook arms with her and draw her toward Baron Marshal’s knights and the castle folk who stood on either side of the path cleared between doors and stairs.
Laura glanced at her daughter who had also corrected her course, then whispered to Lady Beata, “I am not accustomed to acting the lady of the castle. I thank you.”
Lightly, the lady bumped Laura’s shoulder. “It becomes easier,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “Ere long, it will seem almost like breathing.”
It was some minutes before Lothaire, Sir Angus, and four other Lexeter knights entered bearing the casket on their shoulders. When her betrothed’s eyes flicked to her and mouth tucked up slightly, her ache over his loss increased—as did her gratitude toward Lady Beata.
The procession wended past and up the stairway.
As the sound of their boots faded, Clarice tugged her mother’s sleeve. “May I go to the kitchen?”
Laura frowned. “Are you not hungry?”
“I could not help myself. I ate an hour past.”
“Then go, but do not get in Cook’s way.”
Clarice hastened opposite.
Laura looked
to Baron Marshal. “Let us see you refreshed.”
Once they were seated at the high table, their men at lower tables positioned perpendicular to the dais, the viands kept warmed these two hours were served—and not only to those in the hall but Lexeter’s people in the bailey as Laura had directed. Hopefully, Cook would be able to accommodate greater numbers than expected.
There was nothing boisterous about High Castle’s guests as was usual with visitors, and it became more solemn when those who had borne the casket abovestairs returned to the hall—all but Lothaire and Sir Angus. Talk was in hushed tones, and Laura was so worried over her betrothed that the few bites she took were mostly tasteless.
“I thank you and Baron Soames for receiving us kindly,” Lady Beata said. “There has been so much ill between our families that fear for my safety roused an argument between my husband and me over my accompaniment.” She made a face. “Even when he found himself bound and at my mercy aboard ship, I do not think he was as angry.”
Laura could not imagine the formidable warrior reduced to helplessness. “Truly, you tied up Baron Marshal?”
“’Twas not I who bound him, but he was under my control—until we found ourselves shipwrecked. Then I was at his mercy, and much he showed me. I should have gone down with the ship, but he saved my life.”
Laura was captivated, and her interest must have shown, for Lady Beata gave a laugh that likely would not be so restrained were it not for the day’s sorrow. “A tale to be shared in full in future, which methinks possible now my family has made amends as best we can.”
“I look forward to it. I am especially curious about…” Laura trailed off.
“My marriage to your betrothed?” the lady prompted.
“Aye.”
“Know this, my lady, Lothaire Soames gave me reason not to like him, but I mostly understand why he did what he did and am grateful he rectified his trespass without prompting.” She glanced at her husband on her other side where he conversed with one of his knights. “Thus, all the sooner I was able to wed the man I love.”
Laura’s throat tightened. “You are blessed.”
The lady’s brow puckered. “You do not believe you are?”
Though Laura told herself she had no reason to confide in a stranger, she said, “Once I was, then I lost all and thought myself cursed. Now I would like to believe the Lord is providing another chance at happiness. But even were He, I fear I do not know how to take it."
"With both hands and much gratitude to our Creator, of course,” Lady Beata said. “’Tis not easily done, but to be truly blessed, do you not think one must be bold? That such is the part the Lord would have us play in our own lives?”
“But if it did not suffice in the past—”
“Ah, the past,” the lady spoke over Laura. “As Everard Wulfrith’s wife, Lady Susanna, assured me when I thought all lost, the past is not our future. There are better days ahead. And to that I add, be bold.”
“I like you,” Laura said, unable to keep the childish declaration from passing her lips.
Lady Beata’s eyes brightened. “Much appreciated, for many have not a care for me. As oft told, albeit more to my back than my face, I am unseemly.”
“Surely your husband does not think the same?”
She shook her head. “Love tolerates—and forgives—much. Though on occasion I unsettle him, he prefers me less behaved than behaved. And for love and respect of him, I am learning to think my thoughts through to their good and bad end ere speaking them into beliefs and opinions.” Her eyes widened. “Most difficult.”
Laura understood better than the lady knew. Once she had been too free with her own thoughts. Had Simon not changed all, she might be still. And had she wed Lothaire years ago, she imagined his love would have tolerated and forgiven much.
“I thank you for your encouragement, Lady Beata. It gives me greater hope I shall be blessed by the queen’s hand in my marriage just as you were.”
“Eleanor.” She clicked her tongue. “Ever I shall be grateful to our queen though I would not have believed it a year past when she ordered me to return to her court in France. Now…” She set a hand on her belly. “…from love, babes that I pray you will also have.” Of a sudden, her smile fell. “Did Lady Raisa receive you well?”
Laura’s own smile dropped. “She did not.”
“How did your betrothed respond?”
“I…did not tell him of our encounter.” Laura hoped she would not be asked to elaborate.
The lady sighed. “I am not surprised, for the queen told that if I remained wed to Baron Soames his mother would make my life miserable.”
Laura nodded. “For that, Eleanor insists my betrothed move her to her dower property.”
“Wise. Let us hope ’tis done soon.”
“Baron Soames assures me it shall be.”
“Hold him to it, Lady Laura. Too much I like you to worry over your happiness.”
As Laura looked to the bulge beneath the lady’s hand, Baron Marshal’s fingers covered his wife’s.
“Are they restless?” he said low.
“Not at the moment. Methinks them lulled to sleep by good food and drink.”
He smiled, looked past his wife. “You shall wed a sennight hence, Lady Laura?”
Determined to suppress her hurt over the revelation her father was aware she was to wed, Laura moved her thoughts to Tina’s assurance the gown would soon be completed. It was beautiful—albeit extravagantly so—the maid having worked its embroidery down the bodice into the waist and skirts.
“Aye, in a sennight.”
He nodded. “Your daughter has grown much since last I saw her.”
“She was but three when you gave Lady Maude and me aid en route to Castle Soaring. Now she is nine.”
“I was sorry to hear of the lady’s passing.”
“Her loss is much felt, especially by Clarice.”
“It was obvious she adored the lady and was adored in return.”
He could not know how much, few being aware Maude had been Clarice’s grandmother—only Michael, his wife, and now the queen.
Laura nodded and, catching sight of the physician coming off the stairs, motioned him forward.
During his ascent of the dais, she felt tension rise, not only from Lady Beata but her husband, and a glance at the two confirmed it. Before them was the man who had performed Lothaire’s examination to prove Lady Beata was untouched.
As though unaware the Marshals did not welcome him, he said, “Lady Laura, Baron Soames wishes me to inform you the service for his father will be conducted an hour hence after the family has privately shown its respects.”
Feeling for Lady Beata’s discomfort, Laura said, “I thank you, Martin.”
He dipped his head, then ignoring her dismissal, set his regard on Lady Beata. “I see the Lord has blessed you with what we must pray is a boy.”
Slowly, as if exercising control, Baron Marshal leaned forward. “Must we, Physician?”
Had the man been oblivious to the tension before, he could not be now. But more the fool, he said, “’Twill be a sign your marriage is blessed.”
“And if ’tis a girl?” the baron said with great measure.
The physician raised his palms in what seemed a gesture of helplessness. “Displeasure, the birth of another Daughter of Eve being God’s attempt to correct a woman’s—occasionally a man’s—path.”
Never had Laura seen a man so fast upon his feet. Ere the physician’s mouth was fully agape, the neck of his tunic was in Marshal’s fist and his face flecked by the spit of a threat more growl than words. “I have not forgotten, you bag of pus and bones.”
“Baron Marshal!” Laura nearly upended her chair as she thrust upright, which was no match for the speed with which the warriors of Soames and Marshal rose to defend their lords.
But though hands gripped hilts, no blades were drawn. It seemed those who might either defend or set upon the physician understood he was unworthy of
rending the peace—at the moment.
Amid the silence, Lady Beata touched her husband’s sleeve, the fine fabric of which bulged with muscles surely capable of flinging the physician far from the dais. “He is of so little consequence it requires but a slap from a Daughter of Eve to render him speechless, Durand. Pray, release him ere he soils himself and further dishonors his lord’s hospitality.”
A slow, deep breath further broadened her husband’s chest, then his high color began to recede. “You will not speak another word to my wife. Ever. You will not move your gaze within sight of her. Ever. You will not breathe the air she casts off. Ever. Do you understand, Martin?”
The physician’s throat convulsed, but were he trying to summon words, he failed.
“You may nod or shake your head,” the baron said. “Either will suffice, though one will see you all the worse for it.”
Hardly had the man bobbed his chin than a voice thundered across the hall, “Release the physician, Baron Marshal!”
Laura snapped her chin around, struggled for words to keep Lothaire’s sword from exiting its scabbard.
“A disagreement only,” Lady Beata’s husband said. “As we have come to terms…” He thrust Martin back, nearly toppling him, then gestured to his men to release their hilts.
“I am glad you appreciate the hospitality shown you, Baron,” Lothaire said and gestured to his own men.
As all resumed their seats, Lothaire looked to Laura.
She forced a smile she hoped would assure him he had not made a mistake in admitting the Marshals to his hall.
Next, he looked to the physician. Though the man had descended the dais, he had yet to distance himself from the warrior who could bleed him in the blink of an eye. He was surely dazed, though from the quick rise and fall of his shoulders he was coming back to himself well enough to gather anger to him.
“Martin,” Lothaire said, “my mother has returned to her chamber. Pray, attend her.”
The man stumbled forward, found his stride. “My lord, Baron Marshal—”
“You came to terms, did you not?”
“As forced upon me, my lord.”
“That is well with me. Now, my mother is distraught and in need of her medicinals.”
