by Tamara Leigh
Though Laura tried not to be alarmed, she had to ask, “She is not the one who requires the physician, is she?”
“She is not. Only her pride and gown were harmed when she lost the battle and found herself in a mud puddle. Too, she disagreed with her punishment.”
“Which was?”
“Sacking the wool, which she much dislikes. But she once more assists the shearers.”
“I am sorry she was difficult.”
“I am not. She learned more than she would have had she behaved. Now she knows exactly why she must obey me, though she will surely test me again.”
“She admires you,” Laura said, “and I cannot thank you enough.”
He inclined his head. “She told me she worked well for you on the day past.”
“She did, though methinks she did it more for you than me.”
“Nay, the sheep. I did not expect it, but I am not so certain the excitement of what is new to her will grow old. It is quite possible my new daughter has wool in her blood.”
As would have been more expected had she Soames in her blood, Laura thought. “I am glad she is happy here, especially after—” Laura stopped herself from spilling the name of Castle Soaring for which her daughter had expressed a preference. Even if it had not led to her speaking the name Lothaire did not wish to hear, it would have put the man between them. In the next instant, his smile faltered, and she realized Michael was there regardless.
She looked past him to the simple structure whose roof was long and wide and walls few. On either side were pens, the one on the left holding a dozen unshorn sheep, the one on the right nearly bursting its posts and rails to contain what must number two hundred barely clothed sheep. And all in between was where the shearing was done out of the day’s heat, and which appeared even more the birthplace of snow than it had when first she laid eyes on it.
“While the tables are erected and the food set out,” she said, “will you show me the work of wool, Husband?”
“Providing you do not mind picking the fluff from your gown and hair,” he said.
“I will not, though I may require your aid where I cannot reach.”
She had not meant that to be suggestive, but she was glad it sounded that way when his smile recovered. “I shall be happy to help however I can, Wife.”
And then they would consummate their marriage? Feeling her face warm, she said, “Show me how the Lord of Lexeter saves his lands.”
“With much sweat, lack of sleep, and the aid of a sizable tax break, of course.”
As he took her arm and drew her toward the shelter, Laura said, “Now I have seen how hard you labor, methinks you would have saved your lands had you gained naught in wedding me.”
He looked sidelong at her. “Had I gained naught, I would not have wed you.”
Of course he would not have, just as she had not thought—or wished—to wed him until the queen revealed her reasons for rejecting Laura’s other suitors.
“This I know, Lothaire.”
“Nor would I have regretted not taking you to wife.”
Thinking he must seek to hurt her, she averted her gaze.
“But only because I would not know there was anything to regret,” he added. “As now I know.”
She swung her gaze back to his.
“Do you think it by God’s hand what was undone has been done, Laura?” At her hesitation, he continued, “I think it must be, though surely Eleanor would say it was by her hand. I shall never cease to be surprised by those He enlists to do His good work.”
“Nor I. My surprise is that…” Laura blinked amid the wool floating more conspicuously upon the air as they drew near the shelter. “…His arms were not too full to hold me as I feared when I determined to leave Owen and find a father and home for Clarice.”
“Then you believe you can be happy here? With me?”
“I can think of no place or man with whom I would be happier,” she said and silently added, But happier I could be did you allow me to tell you all and you believed me. But that little word—if—could make ill of what was good. Again, she told herself Lothaire was right. If was too great a risk.
As she passed the pen that held unshaven sheep, she glanced across her shoulder and saw the spouses and children of the workers assisting High Castle’s servants with unloading the wagons. Sir Angus and Tina also helped, as did Sebille who appeared to be directing them all.
“It makes me sad your sister has not a husband and home of her own.”
“She could have had both. Had she wed Sir Angus, I would have awarded him the keeping of my mother’s dower property, but Sebille chose Lady Raisa.”
“She must love her very much.”
His brow furrowed. “I think it more she is easily controlled by guilt and obligation, both at which our mother excels at dispensing. Sebille wants to be with Angus, but there is something she wants more.”
“Her mother’s love.”
“She will not speak of it, but I believe so. I was but six when our father disappeared, but I knew she was adored by our parents. Though I felt loved as well, I was certain she was the favored child.”
“A daughter,” Laura said. Sons, whether of the nobility that they might carry on the family name or the common folk that they might better labor alongside their parents, were more desirable—at least until a man had his male heir and one or two more to spare.
“Aye, a daughter,” he spoke louder to be heard above the bleating sheep, talk of workers, and rasp of shears. “I do not think I begrudged her, for I also adored her. She was joyous then and played the little mother well, but all changed when our father departed High Castle to visit his mistress and never returned. Our mother became so bitter over his faithlessness she turned it on Sebille and her attention on Lexeter’s heir. Suddenly I was the favored child—and liked it not.”
Bits of wool swirling more heavily around them, settling on their clothes and hair, Laura stepped nearer. “That must have been difficult for Sebille to lose the adoration of both parents.”
“Certainly, but when she was not occupied with Lady Raisa’s demands, still she mothered me.”
“And had your love. That must have eased some of her ache.”
“I would like to believe so,” he said, then swept a hand before him. “Here, the work of wool, this the last asked of the flock for near on a year—that is, where their fleece is concerned. Still there is sustenance and income to be had from their milk and the meat of those too aged to weather another winter.”
Laura marveled over the chaos of so many workers putting shears to sheep. Some of the animals, likely the older ones, lay on the earthen floor letting be done to them what must be done, whilst others were not of a mind to submit.
Laura watched as one whose fleece billowed every which way was toppled and turned legs up by a male and female worker.
Immediately, the man dropped to the dirt, put a leg on either side of the animal, and bracing it between his knees, drew it against his chest and settled its head on one shoulder. “Shears!” he commanded, but before the woman could pass them to him, the ewe began thrashing.
The man drew his knees up the animal’s sides and squeezed until the ewe’s struggles subsided.
“William is big and strong,” Lothaire said, “as is the man whose arm the physician tends. The difference is that William has been shearing for over ten years, the other man two.”
“’Tis why you would not allow Clarice to attempt such.”
“Not even on a slighter animal. Blessedly, most of the flock are easily persuaded to give up their oppressive coats.”
“How many—?” Laura clapped a hand over her mouth, sneezed.
“It is the wool,” Lothaire said. “Methinks there is no other activity at which you will hear so many sneeze.”
Laura rubbed her nose with the back of a hand. “How many have you sheared this day?”
“Eleven. I hoped to make an even dozen.”
“May I watch?”
“I do.”
“Clarice thought you might.” He motioned to the man who stood before the gate of the nearly barren pen.
Moments later, a large ewe was led into the shelter.
“Mother!”
Laura turned. Lothaire had not exaggerated. Clarice was so fouled—mud spattered across her skirts and chausses—she looked most unladylike. But she was smiling.
“I know,” she read Laura’s alarm, “but it could not be helped.”
“Could it not?” Lothaire said.
She sighed. “Aye, but I have been punished and am behaving.” She patted the ewe as it passed. “That is Grandmother,” she said.
Laura raised her eyebrows. “The one you told had first to be washed in the stream?”
“Nay, this is a different Grandmother. Every flock has one. This one is bigger and less friendly. I asked Father not to shear it until you arrived.”
“Why?”
“So you may watch, and because he will make quicker work of it than the others. He is very good at shearing.”
“Not something with which I ever thought to impress a lady,” Lothaire muttered and took charge of the ewe. “Forgive me for baring you, Grandmother. When the shame passes, I vow you will be as grateful as the others to shed this heavy old coat.”
Laura did not grasp what it meant to be good at shearing, but as she and her daughter watched Lothaire, she did not doubt there were few who could best him.
The ewe struggled and bleated as it was toppled, tossed its head and flailed its legs as it was trapped between knees and thighs, and when it gave up the fight, Lothaire supported its head and upper back against his shoulder and chest. The shears were passed to him, and he set to relieving the animal of its fleece. He parted the thick coat at the center of the ewe’s belly, slid the blades close to the skin, and began cutting and pushing aside the shorn fleece.
The animal resisted again when Lothaire finished its belly and rolled it onto its side. Once more, he clamped it between his knees, and the ewe yielded to the shearing of its neck, shoulders, front legs, and flanks. Once the fleece on the opposite side fell away, the ewe was turned right side up and seemed to sulk as its back and rear legs were bared. Then the considerably smaller, much lightened animal was led to the pen to join those gone before her.
“Not a drop of blood spilled,” Lothaire said, brushing at his clothes as he advanced on Laura amid a flurry of wool to which the cooling breeze added. “Impressed, Wife?”
“Indeed.” Knowing her own hair would appear as touched by snow as his were it not partially covered by a light veil, she had to fold her hands at her waist to keep from brushing at his hair. “You made it look easy.”
“Of course I did. You were watching.” He halted before her where she stood alone, Clarice having been collected by the women shearers who were to wash in a nearby stream in advance of the men availing themselves of its cleansing water. “But as my clothes reveal and, alas, my scent, it is good Grandmother is the last I shall shear this season.”
He did exude a strong odor, the only light about his perspiration-darkened tunic and chausses the white bits of fleece.
Resisting wrinkling her nose, she said, “The women have gone to wash at the stream.”
He inclined his head. “By the time we finish here, they will have returned and the men will then make themselves as presentable as possible.”
She pressed her lips inward. “I saw the lake on the ride here. The one you spoke of years ago.”
He reached, picked fluff from her veil. “You are thinking better I bathe there?”
“Not this day, but…” She cleared her throat. “I thank you for demonstrating the shearing. Mayhap next year I can participate.”
“If you are not with child or have one at your breast,” he said, then added, “Much can happen in a year.”
Laura was struck by his choice of words. She had said the same to him the day their young selves had walked to the pond and he had chastised her for her behavior. The truth of that had been proven. But this time, if God blessed them, it would be Lothaire’s child she birthed, a babe born of wedlock.
“Much can happen,” she murmured. “Thank you for the demonstration. Now I must assist with the food.” She turned away.
Lothaire watched her lift her skirts free of the dirt and upon her person carry away fluff that had escaped the great sacks whose contents would be woven into cloth she herself might one day wear. Though hardly in need of clothes, if much did happen within a year, her lacings would be unable to accommodate her increasing girth and she would require new gowns ere the birth of their child.
That was his hope, though he wished he had not used her words from ten years past. It had not been intentional, determined as he was to go forward and as encouraged as he was by her mention of the lake he could never pass without recall of what his young bride and he were to have made of it. However, he had glimpsed wariness in her eyes and knew she remembered the same.
“Fool,” he muttered and turned back inside the shelter. As the last of the ewes yielded up their coats, he joined the other men in gathering swaths of wool shorn since the departure of the women who had sorted the best from the worst, the former being the back and sides, the latter including the breech. Accordingly, the wool was stuffed in sacks, most of which would bring a good price for the high quality for which Lexeter wool was increasingly known.
There was much work ahead—years of it—but Lexeter was saved.
He searched out Laura. She was at the far table arranging platters of food, and even at a distance he could see the flecks of white covering her. She looked good in virgin wool.
One of the worker’s daughters appeared at her side, and the Lady of Lexeter turned at the tug on her skirt, listened to whatever the child said, and handed her something from a platter.
The girl bounced onto her toes, laughed, and ran opposite.
Lothaire smiled. Lexeter was saved, indeed. As was he, though he would have sworn he did not need saving.
Chapter 28
All had plenty to eat and too much to drink. Now they wanted their lord and lady to join in the dance. Such was not unknown to Lothaire who had years ago given himself to the dizzying, unrestrained whirling of the villagers, partnering with many a maiden to celebrate the last of the shearing, but the movements would surely offend a noblewoman.
“Dance with your lady, milord!” This from the shepherd whose skill at shearing exceeded Lothaire’s.
“Dance with her!” Called the buxom wife of a worker from the village of Thistle Cross whose flushed cheeks told she would not care to rise from bed on the morrow. “See, she is willing.”
Lothaire followed the jut of her chin to where his wife had stood in the midst of other women who had not participated in the last dance. Now she moved toward him with a hand outstretched—just as he imagined the young Laura would have done.
He straightened so abruptly from the tree against which he leaned that many laughed.
“Your lady is a bold one! Dance with her, milord!”
Wishing the lowering of day were farther along so the lengthening shadows concealed the warmth traveling up his face, Lothaire strode forward to meet Laura halfway.
She slid her hand in his. “Too bold?” she said, smile so teasing he wanted to kiss it open.
As those who had brought their instruments to the celebration began to pluck at and blow upon them, he said, “As long as it is my hand in yours…” He drew her nearer, slid an arm around her waist. “…my arm around you…” She settled hers against his broad back. “…my eyes upon yours…my breath upon you…never too bold.”
Sparkles were coming out in her eyes ahead of those of the heavens that would not prick the sky for another hour.
“Are you sure you wish to do this?” he said. “As you have seen, the dances are not only more vigorous but more intimate than those to which you are accustomed
.”
She tilted her face higher. “As never have we danced, I am accustomed to none. So pray, accustom me to those of your—our—people.”
“Our people, indeed,” he said and began to move her across the trampled grass dance floor.
As their bodies brushed, pressed, and withdrew, he held her gaze, and though other men spun their women past their lord and lady, he was only vaguely aware of them.
When the tempo increased, encouraging partners to widen the distance between themselves, he was glad it had become so crowded that the steps through which he guided Laura provided an excuse to hold her closer and feel curves long denied him. And she surely felt the planes of his body, her pupils dilating, breath quickening though far less effort was required from her since more often she was off her feet than on them as he lifted and turned her.
This eve, I will make love to her, he decided. I will truly accept her as she is and will become, and together we shall throw the last of the dirt upon the past.
As the dance neared its end, the tempo increased further. Here was where men with sufficient strength and space gripped their partners beneath the arms, lifted them above their heads, and spun them wide. In this instance, Lothaire had enough room, but no other man was going to look upon Laura’s legs.
He lifted her high but planted his feet firm to the ground and tilted his head back to look up at her where she looked down at him with a smile so wide he was certain she would welcome his attentions this night.
As he held her there, the outsides of her thighs pressed against the insides of his arms, she laughed and said, “Should you not be swinging me about?”
“Certainly not.” He eased her down his chest, abdomen, and hips. When her feet settled atop his boots, she pressed upward, kissed his cheek, and spoke three words he thought he must have heard wrong amid the joyous shouts of a dance at its end.
“Say it again,” he said as a dozen dizzy couples dispersed. “I do not think I heard right.”
The curve of her mouth eased, and her eyes flitted down his face.
Had she spoken it? Meant it? Did she now regret it?
