by Tamara Leigh
Lothaire felt a lightening about his heart. Those items acquired following the death of Ricard Soames would be sold to provide Sebille a place in the Church. Whatever remained would be used to advance the barony’s production of wool cloth.
It seemed, at long last, the worst that had befallen Lexeter might come right. Certes, the worst that had befallen its lord was over, nearly enough to make him feel barely a score of years as when he had first been in love. But not the same love as this love. He looked to his wife, his beloved, his future.
This love was abiding.
“Do you think she truly wishes to leave High Castle?”
Lothaire had begun to believe Laura slept, so relaxed was she. Pulling back, he peered into her face lit by moonlight. “I do. There is naught here for her but ill memories made more painful alongside the beautiful ones of when she was a miracle.”
“You are wrong. Her brother is here.”
“As promised, I shall visit her often.” He stroked his wife’s cheek. “Though much of what she did was for love of me, you do not seem angry with her for endangering Clarice and you.”
“Knowing her tale, ’tis hard to be angry, but I do think it best she depart High Castle, not only to find peace and prayer amongst the sisters, but because her need for healing seems so great ’tis worrisome what she might do in its absence. I believe she means well, but her mind may not be right. I am sorry if that offends.”
“It does not. I also hope for her healing and happiness, and it seems Bairnwood Abbey is the best place for that.”
After some minutes, Laura said, “What do you think she meant when she said your father lied about the night he exchanged his dead daughter for her?”
He had also tripped over that but tucked it away. “The first thing that occurs seems unlikely. And yet I think it possible the girl child my mother birthed did not die—at least, not when our father told. If the lie was about the first Sebille’s death, I question how the sister I have loved learned of it. Would our father have told a nine-year-old so recently traumatized by the truth about her parentage?” He shook his head. “Hence, if she learned of it, it would be from someone during the fortnight she was at the abbey or… This seems less believable, but perhaps she met her half sister.”
“It does sound fantastic,” Laura said, “and yet plausible. If you are correct, do you think Sebille is drawn to Bairnwood by her half sister? That the girl—woman—may yet reside there?”
“Mayhap. If so, I hope that a good thing. I do not know the abbess will discuss anything with me we do not already know, but she must be made aware of what my sister endured these years so she is prepared for how damaged Sebille is.”
Laura caught his hand up, kissed it. “I love you.”
“I love you, Laura.”
She slid a finger across the base of each of his fingers. “A ring that ought to be upon your hand is missing.”
“When Lexeter is whole—”
“It is whole, Lothaire. What else is required but you, me, Clarice, and your people?”
“’Tis not prosperous—”
“Prosperous enough.” She rolled away, opened a small box on the bedside table. When she returned to him, he did not resist when she once more captured his hand. “May I?” She touched the cool band to the tip of his finger.
“You are certain I am worthy?”
“You have ever been worthy,” she said and slid the ring on his finger, worked it over his knuckle, and settled it at the base.
Lothaire laughed low and eased her onto her back. “This worthy lord is thinking he would like to make love to his wife. May I?”
“Here? Now?” she said, just as he had done at the lake when she was the one seeking intimacy.
“Here, now, my lady. Providing you are awake enough.”
“Wonderfully awake,” she said and drew his head down to hers.
Epilogue
Wulfen Castle, England
Fall, 1164
Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, had fallen far in King Henry’s estimation.
Lothaire Soames, Baron of Lexeter, had risen high in Abel Wulfrith’s estimation. Even if the trainer of England’s fiercest knights would not admit it, approval glinted in his eyes.
“Methinks I liked you best when you were predictable, Soames,” the warrior said and strode with a slight hitch to where his sword had skittered across the training field. He retrieved it, slid it beneath his belt, and turned. “A pity, for you are easy to dislike. Now it may better serve me to seek friendly terms.”
“A pity, indeed.” Lothaire returned his own sword to his hip. “Far more than fear of yielding up blood, your dislike inspired me to improve my skill. But if we are reduced to friendly terms…” He shrugged. “…I suppose I can find enemies elsewhere.”
“Always. Never forget it.” The Lord of Wulfen Castle halted before him, and something of a smile moved his mouth. “Providing you show no mercy as you showed me none this day, I think it very likely you shall vanquish any threat to your person—more importantly, your family, people, and lands.”
Unlike the past three days when Abel Wulfrith had incited his pupil to anger by naming him a coward, Lothaire had done as commanded—this time giving no quarter when the opportunity presented to take advantage of injuries the warrior had sustained years ago which seemed to have little effect on his ability to defend himself.
Blessedly, Lothaire now knew how to engage all his senses such that he was almost unerringly able to anticipate his opponents’ moves and vulnerabilities. Thus, he had struck, and as Abel Wulfrith’s sword flew, set the point of his own to the man’s neck.
“Then I am Wulfen worthy?” Lothaire said, only to wish he had not fallen into banter with this man who would scorn him, ever holding out of reach the award of a Wulfrith dagger. Grinding his teeth the better to control what might come off his tongue, he waited to be denounced.
That something of a smile eased, strangely contrasting with eyes that continued to shine with what Lothaire had been certain was approval. Mayhap it was mockery.
“Wulfen worthy,” Abel Wulfrith said. “That you are, Baron Soames.”
The air turned so thick it was hard to breath. No mockery, and the man had titled him. It was disconcerting how much it made Lothaire feel like a boy receiving praise from one he revered.
Then Abel Wulfrith clapped him on the shoulder. “Have I shocked you, Baron?”
The air thinned, and Lothaire said, “You have. You do me great honor.”
“And you make much of it—as you should.” Abel Wulfrith strode past. “Come!”
Thoughts flying ahead to Laura with whom he would soon be reunited after nearly a month of training more intense than any before, Lothaire followed. Moments later, he passed from the training yard in which he had proven himself into the one in which his old adversaries, Durand Marshal and Elias de Morville, were hard at quarterstaffs.
Legs braced apart, arms crossed over his chest, Abel Wulfrith watched his friends who had arrived at Wulfen Castle last eve. Time and again, the men shifted from offensive to defensive amid lengthening shadows that marked the setting of the sun.
Just when it seemed neither would best the other, the Lord of Wulfen said, “One more thing to prove yourself worthy, Soames. Tell me who shall win this contest.”
Lothaire nearly laughed, but it was no joke. Abel saw what his pupil did not. And now again Lothaire must prove he possessed that which was among a warrior’s greatest weapons—observation.
“You do not see it?”Abel pressed.
He did not, and he hated he might shame himself. True, he was greatly distanced compared to when he was the one engaged in combat, but that was the point—know thy opponent even whilst he is not yet that.
“Keep watching, Soames. Watch as if you were Baron Marshal, then as if Sir Elias. It is there.”
So it was, Lothaire observed moments later. “Baron Marshal shall prevail.”
“Why?”
“They ar
e well matched, but Sir Elias’s swings and thrusts are not as smooth nor as timely, though not for lack of skill, methinks. It is as if…”
Abel looked sidelong at him. “As if?”
“He is distracted. If Baron Marshal is as bereft of mercy as is required of him, he will soon land the deciding blow.”
And so it came to pass. Still, Lothaire suspected the victor had shown the defeated mercy. It would have required little effort to drop Elias de Morville to his knees, but the baron was content with knocking aside the opposition’s quarterstaff and thrusting his own against the man’s chest.
“Well met, Durand!” Abel called. “As for you, Elias, we shall have to get a good quantity of drink in you to learn what so distracts.”
Sweating profusely, tunics and chausses darkened with the foul moisture also dampening their hair and beading their faces, the men advanced on Lothaire and their friend.
“You read me near as well as your brother, Everard,” Elias said, halting before Abel. “But drink is not required to loosen my tongue.” His gaze shifted to Lothaire, and he considered him some moments. “What distracts is the reason I asked Durand to accompany me to Wulfen.”
“Ah, I thought something afoot. But if it can wait a while longer, first I would have the two of you bear witness to the award of a Wulfrith dagger.” He nodded at Lothaire.
“It can wait,” Elias said.
“You agree to bear witness?”
“I would be honored.” This from Durand, and without hesitation.
“Elias?” Abel prompted.
The knight inclined his head. “I trust your judgment.”
“As well you should.” Abel swung away, said over his shoulder, “Once we are shed of this filth and stink, we shall meet in the solar.”
An hour later, all four men were as groomed and well-clothed as Sir Rowan who also bore witness. Then the priest prayed over the Wulfen-worthy knight, beseeching the Lord to ever hold Lothaire accountable for all he had gained at Wulfen—that it never be questioned he was worthy of his faith, country, people, and family. Then the Wulfrith dagger was fastened on Lothaire’s belt.
As they ate their supper in the solar whilst the young men who had yet to earn a Wulfrith dagger filled their bellies in the hall, Lothaire was awarded something else…something more valuable than the jeweled weapon…something he had not known he coveted, especially now he had Laura.
Friendship. Not in the truest, deepest sense, he suspected—especially where Elias was concerned—but it seemed a good beginning.
Eyes so dark they might haunt did they not sparkle like stars on a moonless night …
“Lothaire!”
He had known Laura was aware of his approach, though not because she had set High Castle knights on the road to ensure their lord passed by the lake. Because knowing she was here—that much nearer to being in his arms—he had pushed his destrier harder and its thunder had surely been heard ere he saw she stood near the shore with her back to him.
Not until his breath moved her hair had she turned and thrown her arms around him.
“You, Wife, are eager to welcome your husband home,” he said and was certain the sparkles in her eyes were reflected in his own.
“It has been a month, Husband!”
He touched his brow to hers. “Much too long. But as I know what years feel like in the absence of you, I dare not complain.”
She rose to her toes. “You are right. But still ’tis too long to wait on your kiss.” She angled her head and opened her mouth upon his.
He gathered her closer, and feeling like a man nearing starvation, kissed her back.
They could have gone much further than kisses and hands desperate to reacquaint themselves with every curve and hollow despite the heat of the sun reminding it was daylight, but one particular curve made Lothaire draw back.
He looked down, back up.
Laura’s thoroughly kissed mouth parted with a smile. “I am showing. And this morn methinks I felt our wee one move.”
There was not much to her belly, but as she was barely halfway through her pregnancy, little was expected. But in the months to come…
“Do you know if it is a boy or a girl?”
She grinned. “Too soon to tell—if ever one can. Though the midwife is certain she will know by the lay of the babe when I am further along, methinks we shall have to wait until our child is in our arms.”
Imagining that day, Lothaire’s eyes burned, and he did not mind that his wife saw he was moved. Indeed, he would have her know. Though a warrior ought to hold close his vulnerabilities, not where his wife was concerned.
“Make love to me?” she said.
He blinked. “Here? Now?”
“Once we have washed away the dust and scent of your ride.” She touched the purse on her girdle. “I brought soap.”
He laughed, and as the joy trailed off, she said, “Laugh again, Lothaire.”
He hiked an eyebrow. “I must needs have something over which to laugh.”
She smiled. “We had quite a disturbance a week past.”
“Oh?”
“You know Clarice loves her lambs.”
“’Tis the wool in her blood.”
“True, but in this instance, it was the wool in her bed.” She nodded. “Poor Tina went to rouse Clarice and found the chamber a mess, the rushes sparse. When she drew back the covers, our daughter was curled around the lamb you entrusted to her.”
The one whose mother had rejected it, and whose care was to have been provided in the stables. He gave Laura the laughter she wished, then scooped her up and carried her to the water’s edge.
They were not long in divesting their garments, pausing only long enough for Laura to exclaim over the Wulfrith dagger and proclaim Abel Wulfrith had been derelict in not sooner seeing her husband fit with one. Then they stepped into the lake and lingered in water that was too cool—though only for a short time.
Later, as Lothaire cradled his fully awakened wife, she said, “I like the new physician. When he is not attending the complaints of the castle folk, he is all about the demesne caring for the villagers.”
“I am glad he is worth the coin paid him.”
“Ever so.”
“And Cook?” he asked since the one he had chosen to replace Raisa’s man had proven incapable of that responsibility. Thus, Laura had herself named a new cook.
“She is wonderful, Lothaire. And not overly reliant on expensive spices to render her dishes appealing.
“I am glad,” he said, and as he began to drift, reflected on the three prisoners he had not released with the cook. The two older ones had served six months of hard labor upon Lexeter in order to gain their freedom. The younger one was sent to the queen to dispense justice for the assault upon Eleanor’s kin. Lothaire did not know what form that had taken, but the queen had written that justice was served and never again would the man harm a woman.
“I received a missive from your sister,” Laura said.
“Sebille?” he murmured.
She turned to face him. “Aye, she who is now a bride and professes to be more loved than ever she thought possible.”
Pulling himself up out of sleep, he opened his eyes and saw sparkles. “I must visit her soon.”
“Did you not stop en route to Wulfen Castle?”
“Aye, a fortnight ere she was to speak her vows. But this next visit will be less personal. I have a favor to do Baron Marshal’s friend, Sir Elias de Morville.”
“At Bairnwood Abbey?”
That place which had well enough healed his sister that she now wore a nun’s habit. “Strangely enough, aye.”
When he did not elaborate, she said, “’Tis not for my ears?”
“Though I am to be discreet, I see no reason I cannot share what I know. But later, hmm? Now I just wish to hold you.” He tucked her nearer, and she fit so perfectly he praised the Lord so much could, indeed, happen in a year.
Laura captured his hand and drew it over her h
ip onto the bulge of their child. “I thank you, Husband.”
“For?”
“A life blessed with far more laughter than tears.”
He nuzzled her neck. “’Tis a beautiful day to be in love. A beautiful life.”
Dear Reader,
There being only so many hours in a day and far more books in one's to-be-read pile, I'm honored you chose to spend time with Lady Laura and Sir Lothaire. If you enjoyed their love story, I would truly, sincerely, most fervently appreciate a review of The Awakening at your online retailer—just a sentence or two, more if you feel chatty: Review The Awakening.
For a peek at the eighth book in the Age of Faith series—that of Sir Elias de Morville of The Longing and The Vexing, an excerpt of The Raveling is included here and will soon be available on my website: www.TamaraLeigh.com. Now to finish that tale for its spring/summer 2018 release.
Pen. Paper. Inspiration. Imagination. ~ Tamara
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The Raveling: Book Eight
EXCERPT
CHAPTER ONE
Forkney, England
Fall, 1164
He had lost a son he had not known he had—providing the child was his. After all, there was a reason he had not married the mother. More, a reason she had not wished to wed him. And it appeared that reason had not changed.
“Dead,” she repeated, then lowered her voice. “’Twas the devil took him.”
Elias had reached for his purse to put coins in her palm, money he prayed would not be spent on drink, but he stilled over those last words sent past teeth no longer pretty.
