by Tamara Leigh
The man muttered something, stepped around his lord, and climbed the stairs.
“Baron Marshal,” Lothaire called, “I would speak with you abovestairs.”
The man looked to his wife.
“Go,” Lady Beata said. “Lady Laura makes for good company.”
And additional surety, Laura guessed. Her husband need not worry ill would befall his wife whilst Lothaire’s betrothed was as vulnerable to Marshal’s men as Lady Beata was to those of the Baron of Lexeter.
Durand Marshal bent and spoke something to his knight, then descended the dais and strode toward Lothaire.
“Fear not,” Lady Beata said as the two men mounted the stairs. “Methinks your betrothed is aware of his physician’s shortcomings and will not be surprised to learn my husband was provoked.”
As Laura hoped he would accept she had been provoked if ever Lady Raisa revealed Laura had slapped her.
“Once that is established,” the lady continued, “they can move on to Baron Soames’s questions about his father’s remains.”
Laura picked off a crust of her trencher, crumbled it. “As to where they were found?”
“Aye, that is the place to start.”
“Where were they found?”
The lady sighed. “Where first we ought to have looked.”
One could not be certain they were his father’s bones, they were so barren, nor his clothes, they were so deteriorated, but the heavy signet ring wrapped in a piece of embroidered linen and bound with a gold cord was of the house of Soames.
“It was found near his hand,” Durand Marshal said where he stood at the foot of the table upon which the casket sat. “Lady Beata restored it.”
It was so clean and polished Lothaire could only guess what twenty years in the moist earth would have done to the ring whose revelation had caused his mother more distress than the bones she had been determined to look upon. And Sebille…
Though Raisa had insisted her daughter view the remains, Lothaire’s sister had refused and asked Sir Angus to assist her to a bench. They were still there to the left of the altar, and though in shadow, Baron Marshal’s Wulfen training was evident the moment he entered the chapel. As when Lothaire had sensed Laura’s presence on the night past, even sooner Lady Beata’s husband had sensed Sebille’s and Angus’s though they were more distant.
Lothaire closed his fingers around his father’s ring he was not ready to place on his own hand. “I am grateful for your wife’s kindness, Baron Marshal.”
The man inclined his head. There was an air of expectation about him, but were he waiting for his host to demand he defend his encounter with the physician, he would wait forever. Lothaire required no further explanation beyond that deduced when his mother’s collapse brought him belowstairs in search of the physician.
He had tolerated Martin for years. Though the man was as near a confidant as Raisa had, he did not like women. Hence, all the greater Lothaire’s offense against Lady Beata by insisting she prove herself chaste. Following the examination, she had slapped the physician, and though he had denied offending her, Lothaire had known better then as he knew better now. When Lady Raisa retired to her dower property, the physician would go with her and another physician would be found for High Castle. One more expense, but worth it.
“Now,” Lothaire said, “I would know where Lady Beata’s father buried mine all those years ago.”
“The answer is unexpected,” Baron Marshal said. “He did not bury your sire.”
Lothaire glanced into the casket whose contents were so lacking substance it was hard to believe that beneath the material of the fine pall provided by the Marshals was the tall, broad frame that had supported Ricard Soames.
“Who buried him?” he asked.
“His wife, Lady Beata’s mother.”
She who, witness to her nephew’s murder of their guest, had dragged the body to a corner of the garden and dug a grave to hold it until her husband returned from his travels to better conceal the crime.
“You are saying he was never moved from the garden,” Lothaire said and heard his sister’s sharp breath. “Your wife’s father did not bury him distant from the castle as told.”
“He did not, and methinks he would have taken the truth to his own grave had I not ordered the garden razed and a new one constructed at the rear of the donjon so my wife might find peace and rest out of doors.”
Which was not possible in that place where, as a very young girl, she had witnessed the atrocity.
“So we are here with hope that what was broken can be mended to ensure lasting peace between our families, Baron Soames.”
Though it was enough for Lothaire, it would not suffice for Raisa. But of greater import, would it be enough for Sebille?
Lothaire looked around, wished he could see more than her slight figure alongside Angus. Not that he required her consent, but he wished it. When she remained unmoving, he returned his attention to Durand. “The Soames are at peace with you and your wife’s family, as begun when I did not oppose annulment of my marriage to Lady Beata.”
“We are grateful. I know this cannot be easy.”
It was more difficult than anticipated, Lothaire having believed himself too young upon his father’s disappearance to grieve deeply. But though he knew his loss was not as deep as Sebille’s, from the moment he caught sight of the procession delivering their father home, he had hurt—and more as blurred memories sharpened. His father might not have loved his wife, his marriage one of convenience, but he had adored the daughter made with her, and perhaps even the son.
“Once he is in consecrated ground,” he said, “we can better leave the past where it belongs.”
“Have you further questions for me, Baron Soames?” Marshal asked.
Feeling the edges of the signet ring, Lothaire said, “I am satisfied as much as I can be. Pray, give your wife my apologies for taking you from her side and assure her there will be as little delay as possible between the chapel mass and the burial so you may sooner begin your journey home.”
The baron dipped his head and strode from the chapel.
“Under their noses all these years,” Sebille said when the door closed.
Lothaire turned and saw her snatch her arm against her side when Angus tried to assist her to standing, causing the prayer beads she had surely been working her fingers over to clatter as they fell down her skirt.
“So great a risk was it to leave him there,” he said, “I never seriously considered it might be our father’s resting place.”
“Rest,” she hissed as she advanced. “For over twenty years he has cried out to bring him home and avenge—”
“Say no more,” Lothaire commanded. “’Tis over.”
She halted alongside him. “Is it?”
He set a hand on her shoulder. “The man who did this is long dead, and by his own hand, so great was his remorse.” As Lothaire learned whilst listening in on Lady Beata and her father, Ralf Rodelle had drowned himself at the age of thirty and one, the same age Ricard Soames had been when he was murdered.
Sebille’s face opened as if to spew anger, then crumpled and Lothaire pulled her into his arms and pressed her head to his shoulder.
“Leave us, Angus,” he said.
The knight did as bid, and Lothaire held Sebille as she poured out her misery between cries of, “Oh, Papa! Papa!”
When finally she exhausted herself, he offered to escort her to her chamber, but she refused. Unlike their mother who had declared she could bear no more before her collapse alongside the casket, Sebille would not allow her emotions to prevent her from attending the mass.
A half hour later, it began. Rather than Lady Raisa on one side of him, it was Laura, and though it was clear Sebille on his other side did not wish the lady in so esteemed a place, she said naught. And when Lothaire closed his fingers around the soft hand that slipped into his as the priest’s words resounded around the chapel, he silently acknowledged how glad he was to have
Laura at his side. No matter her betrayal.
Chapter 20
“The Lord will have to do much work in me if ever I am to forgive them.”
Sebille’s declaration was not discreet, but neither could it be heard by those departing Thistle Cross to begin their journey home to the barony of Wiltford. Once more Marshal’s entourage was accompanied by Lexeter’s people for the protection afforded by warriors. Though the demesne was mostly peaceful, brigands were not unheard of, especially during the dark hours.
“I shall pray for you as ever you pray for me, Sebille,” Lothaire said and looked from his sister at his side to Laura and her daughter where they crossed to the gray-and-white speckled palfrey they had ridden to the village.
At a light trot, it would take over a half hour to reach High Castle, and though the clouds were not so heavily hung they portended a storm, that scent was on the air. Hopefully, whatever stirred above would pass—or at least hold off until the villagers reached their homes and Baron Marshal and his party arrived at a neighboring castle where they would spend this night en route to Wiltford.
“It is sorrowful your mother could not attend the mass and burial,” said Father Atticus who stood on Lothaire’s other side.
His regret was sincere, though he knew her attendance would have risked the dignity and solemnity due her husband. She was too bitter and her mind increasingly slippery to present well as the grieving widow. Worse, in the presence of the Marshals and the woman who had cuckolded her son, she might have made a spectacle of all. For that, Lothaire had been relieved his mother would not leave her bed.
“It is sorrowful,” he said, “but for the best.”
The man nodded, sent his gaze in Laura and Clarice’s direction. “You are certain you do not wish to postpone the wedding, my lord?”
“I think you ought to,” Sebille said, her voice louder, the despair that had nearly suffocated during their father’s burial giving way to offense.
“It is past time we rise above our losses,” Lothaire said. “Six days hence, Lexeter shall have a new lady.”
Father Atticus cleared his throat. “In the scores of years you shall be wed to the lady, God willing,” he said, the last surely added in remembrance of the many last rites given to women who died in childbirth, “there is little difference between a sennight and a fortnight, my lord.”
“Wait, Lothaire,” Sebille urged. “Only a fortnight.”
“It is decided, but I thank you both for your counsel.”
“’Tis because of Lady Raisa,” his sister said. “You are eager to rid yourself of her.”
This was not a conversation he wished to have, especially this day. “You know our mother.” He moved his eyes from his sister to the priest. “Though she accepts my marriage to Lady Laura is necessary, the sooner she and my betrothed are no longer in close proximity, the sooner there shall be peace at High Castle.”
Sebille made a sound of dissent, and he thought she would argue, but Father Atticus said, “In that you are right, my lord,” and inclined his head, causing his gray-streaked cap of dark hair to swing forward and conceal his eyes like blinders on a horse.
Sebille gripped Lothaire’s arm. “Mayhap you will be as pleased to see me depart.”
He ground his teeth. “You know I will not, that I would have you remain at High Castle, but that is your decision. I only pray you will be without regrets.”
She withdrew her hand, and when her wet eyes flicked to Angus, he knew her thoughts were of the man she could have wed and with whom she might now have children.
Lothaire sighed, said to the priest, “I thank you for making right all these years of wrong. At last Ricard Soames is at peace.”
Father Atticus inclined his head. “Come see me ere the wedding, hmm?”
“I shall try, but with much shearing to be done, it may not be possible.”
“Then I should come to you?” Another sacrifice like that made this day—entering the donjon to perform the funeral mass though he disliked being so near Lexeter’s lady.
“I will come to you,” Lothaire said. “Until then, Father.” He took his sister’s arm and guided her to her mount. Once she was astride, he moved toward Laura but corrected his course when he saw she had gained the saddle and settled Clarice in front of her.
Lothaire swung atop his horse, considered the church where Laura and he would wed, next the graveyard to which one more Soames had been added. Then he urged his horse forward into what he hoped was a blessed future for all of Lexeter.
“Your sire’s?”
Lothaire raised his gaze to the one he had not expected to return to the hall following a somber supper after which Laura and Clarice had retreated to their chamber. He had not meant to linger belowstairs, and yet here his betrothed found him. In the absence of hearing his tread along the corridor, had she come looking for him?
She halted before him where he leaned against the wall alongside the massive fireplace with Tomas at his feet, looked to what he held between thumb and forefinger. “’Twas your father’s? Found with his body?”
“Aye, his signet ring.”
“Now yours.”
“Replaced long ago—twice, in fact.”
“Twice?”
He looked to those who had bedded down for the night and those yet to do so. “You wish to speak, my lady, or do you but pass through on your way to the kitchen?”
She raised her chin. “’Twas for you I returned to the hall.”
“For what purpose?”
“I thought if you are not ready to gain your rest you would like company.”
He almost smiled. “Are you worried for me, Laura? Do you seek to ease my grieving?”
“I am worried. I know your father has been long gone and you were but six—”
“Methinks it best we continue this elsewhere.” He glanced at two knights who did not appear to be listening but whose bodies had a lean that revealed their lord and future lady were of interest.
“Come.” He tucked the ring into the purse on his belt, pushed off the wall, and strode to the corridor that led to the kitchen if one traversed its entire length. Halfway down, Lothaire retrieved a torch from a wall sconce, turned onto a short corridor, and opened a door at its end.
“Have a care where you place your feet,” he said. “The stairs are steep and in need of repair.” He was a step down when he realized she did not follow. He looked around at where she stood unmoving. “Laura?”
“Why the cellar?” she said so low he might not have understood in the absence of context.
“At meal you said you liked the wine. It is our finest, a cask held in reserve until opened this eve in honor of my sire. I thought another pour would be welcome.”
At her hesitation, he guessed she feared it would be too much temptation were she to accompany him into the donjon’s deepest, darkest place. Considering what had happened between them in the chapel, she had good cause.
“Forgive me,” he said, “I am not thinking right. I will fill a flask and bring it to the kitchen.”
She nodded and turned away.
Lothaire did not keep her waiting long. Upon entering the kitchen, he found it more brightly lit than usual at this time of night, evidencing Laura had stirred the cooking fires.
He crossed to the shelving where less valuable serving ware was stacked scores high and several deep to accommodate the castle folk at meal. With the exception of the rare occasion High Castle hosted noble guests, as done this day with the Marshals, these plates, bowls, and drinking vessels were used to serve Lothaire and his men. What little gold- and brass-trimmed silver and horn ware had not been sold—consisting of pieces passed down through the generations of the Soames family—was locked away when not in use. Thus, Lothaire retrieved two simple goblets and lowered to the stool across the table from Laura.
Her smile almost shy, he was reminded of their first meeting. But then there had been a sparkle in her eyes he had not yet known was of mischief. In the hour of
his family’s grieving, now was not the time to wish that sparkle returned. But he did.
He filled the goblets half full, passed one to her, and was jolted by the brush of her fingertips across his just as a rumble sounded through the stone walls. At least the storm’s arrival was not heralded by a crack of lightning, he mused.
“Do you think the villagers and Baron Marshal’s party are safely inside?” Laura asked.
“Aye, ’tis surely an hour or more since all gained shelter.”
She raised her goblet, sipped. “Tell me about the ring, Lothaire.”
He removed it from his purse and this time she opened her hand beneath his. Wondering if she had been as disturbed by the touch of their fingers as he, he set the signet ring in her palm.
“Why twice replaced?” she asked as she examined it.
He took a drink of the wine, lowered his goblet. “The first time following my father’s disappearance when my mother took control of Lexeter. The second time when I took control and she refused to surrender the ring. She hid it, doubtless with other items that went missing as I settled into my title—valuables whose sale would have eased some of Lexeter’s financial problems.”
“You think she still has them?”
“I do, though not all.”
“How know you?”
“On occasion, she wishes some luxury Lexeter’s coffers cannot afford. On other occasions, she wishes certain services, which require payment to those who do her bidding.”
“What bidding?”
“Those things she does not wish me to know of.”
“Such as?”
That he could not tell, at least not while Raisa resided at High Castle. Much coin his mother had surely paid the men who set upon Durand and Beata on their wedding day. “Activities of which I do not approve,” he said.
She searched his face, held out the ring.
He did not open his palm beneath it, once more subjecting his senses to her touch and his imaginings to those fingers moving up his arm, around his neck, and pressing against his scalp to prolong their kiss.
