by Tamara Leigh
After receiving his lord’s instructions, the knight said in a voice touched with a Scottish accent, “This way, my lady.”
Laura motioned to her daughter and maid, and as they fell in behind, heard Clarice grumble over the state of the hall and knew it a futile hope Lothaire did not hear.
As they climbed the stairs, a man garbed in a long green tunic appeared on the landing above and halted his descent. Broad of shoulders and silver of hair yet stranded with the dark of his youth, he stepped to the side so as not to impede their progress.
“Lady Laura,” Sir Angus said when they reached the landing, “this is High Castle’s physician, Martin.” He nodded at the short man who, despite a deeply-lined face that told he was over three score aged, was yet attractive and straight of back.
Guessing by the color he wore he was one of those who had watched their lord’s return from the upper window, Laura said, “I am pleased to meet you, Martin.”
“And I you, Lady Laura.” It was said with little sincerity. Then his eyes sharpened and brow grew more furrowed. “Surely not Laura Middleton?”
Her surname almost spat, evidencing he had served this family many years, she stiffened her spine. “Lady Laura Middleton, soon to be Lady Laura Soames.”
His upper lip hitched and nostrils flared, but his reaction to the joining of her name with his lord’s seemed a small thing compared to the shock that went through her. It was the first time in a decade she had spoken her name alongside Lothaire's.
“This is Clarice, Lady Laura’s daughter,” Sir Angus said. Though he likely sought to lessen the tension, it thickened when the physician’s gaze landed on the girl, causing Clarice's mouth to tighten.
Fearing whatever words formed behind her lips, Laura said, “And here is my maid, Tina.” She nodded at the woman.
As though a servant were beneath him, the physician turned away, though not to descend to the hall that had been his destination. But as he set foot on the stairs that accessed the third floor, Sir Angus caught his arm.
“Baron Soames waits on you.” The knight’s tone evidenced rebuke. “He would know the state of his mother’s health.”
A flush crept up the man’s neck. “First, I must speak with Lady Raisa.”
To inform her of the identity of her son’s betrothed, Laura guessed.
“Nay, Martin, first you must wait on the Lord of Lexeter, he who pays your wages.”
The man’s jaw clenched so hard Laura heard the grind of his teeth, then he pulled free and started down the stairs.
“Mercy,” Tina muttered.
“I do not like him,” Clarice said, blessedly not loud enough to carry far. “I pray I do not fall ill.”
“Worry not,” Sir Angus said, “though soured by age and circumstance, Martin is accomplished at healing and knows well his medicinals.”
Were he of a mind to minister to one who sought his care, Laura thought.
“Martin has tended my lord’s mother for over a score of years,” he added.
Of course he had.
Grateful for Sir Angus’s intercession, Laura managed a smile. “If you would show us to our chamber, we shall allow you to return to your duties.”
He turned and led the way down the corridor.
The lady of the castle was distraught. Lothaire did not need the physician to tell him that, nor give his opinion on his lord’s betrothed whom he had encountered abovestairs—doubtless, an unpleasant meeting once the man learned the identity of the woman Sebille and he had looked upon from the upper window.
Of course Martin did not like the cuckolding Laura Middleton, protective as he was of Raisa, but just as Lothaire’s mother would not long suffer the barony’s new mistress, neither would the physician. When Raisa moved to her dower property, Martin would go with her, meaning another physician must be found—further expense to make the bellies of Lexeter’s coffers groan. As for Sebille, unless she could be persuaded to abandon the burden of companion and caregiver to their mother, she would also be leaving.
Breathing deep, Lothaire reminded himself his immediate concern was the audience with his mother, which would be more difficult had Angus not insisted the physician report to his lord. Otherwise, Martin would have informed Raisa of who came to High Castle, and she would be beyond distraught.
As Lothaire believed it better he deliver the tidings, he had sent a missive to Sebille and Angus ahead of his return. After informing them to hold close the knowledge of whom he was to wed, he had directed them to prepare the castle folk to receive their new lady, prepare the second-floor room Laura would occupy until the wedding, and move Lady Raisa to the third floor rear-facing chamber to ensure she was not at a window when he returned from court and—of equal import—put distance between her and the lady she loathed.
“This will end your mother,” the physician’s hiss returned the Baron of Lexeter to the man’s presence.
“Not if I am the one to tell her. I shall make her see the good of it.”
“What good?”
Lothaire raised his eyebrows. “You shall remain belowstairs until I send for you.”
“But Lady Raisa—”
“Until I send for you, Martin.” Lothaire gestured at the chairs before the hearth.
The man’s stocky body swelled as if to set upon an enemy, but as ever—excepting when Lothaire was a boy and his offenses earned him a shove, a shake, or a cuff to the ear—Martin acceded with a curt nod.
Lothaire lifted his tankard of bitterly warm ale and drank as he followed the physician’s progress to the hearth. When the man dropped so heavily into a chair it screeched backward, Lothaire turned his thoughts to the meeting to be had after he conferred with Sir Angus. But not for the first time these two days, his mind veered off its path and conjured remembrance of the night at Castle Soaring.
He hated that it bothered so much to discover Laura yet felt for another what he had once believed she would only feel for him. Turn his stomach though it did to admit it—even if only to himself—from the moment he had caught her up in his arms in the queen’s apartment, to the moment he pressed his lips to her palm and she whispered the same memories haunted her, to the moment ere she went into Michael D’Arci’s arms, he had thought they could do better than make the best of their marriage. That they might even reclaim a fraction of the love they had once shared.
“Fool,” he muttered and nodded to the servant who approached with a pitcher of ale.
Shortly, Angus reappeared. Out of hearing of the physician, the knight reassured his lord that though Laura’s encounter with the man had been tense, naught untoward had happened, then he told that the lady and her daughter were pleased with their accommodations.
Next, Lothaire asked after his mother. As expected, Raisa was fitful over her confinement and Sebille bore the brunt of her anger.
That last was told with resentment, a reminder that once Angus had wished to wed Sebille. When Raisa rejected his offer, Sebille refused to go against her mother’s wishes despite Lothaire’s consent. It was many years since the knight had ceased his pursuit of Sebille after exhausting his patience on waiting for Lady Raisa’s wasting sickness to claim her so her daughter was free to wed. Now, even if the tidings the Baron of Lexeter was to wed his former betrothed put his mother in her grave, it would likely change naught.
The Sebille whom Angus had loved was gone. Though she had once been vibrant and joyful, the loss of their father had caused much of the light to go out of the girl deemed a miracle by their parents. One would not know she had once had a lovely lilt to her voice and been quick to smile and laugh. As for her appearance, except on the rare occasion she washed the hair severely braided back off her face, one would not know it was golden-red, and her feminine curves had been lost to an appetite so diminished one sometimes had to look twice to be certain of her presence when she stood in profile. Though thirty and one years aged, it was almost more believable she was Lothaire’s mother.
“I am sorry Lady Raisa was
difficult,” Lothaire said.
Angus arched an eyebrow. “I am not the one to suffer for it.”
As ever when his sister rose between them, Lothaire longed to apologize for what Angus and Sebille had lost. But it would only unsettle the knight whose attempts to suppress his anger would turn him silent for days.
Deciding it was time to reveal to his mother who would birth Lexeter’s heir, Lothaire thanked Angus and strode to the stairs. He took them two at a time, continued past the first landing, and ascended the second flight.
Sebille stood halfway down the corridor, face gaunt, hands clasped beneath barely existent breasts.
As he neared, he saw the circlet of rough-hewn stones by which she counted her prayers spilled over her fingers to gently sway against the worn blue of her gown. “Forgive me for being so long in returning,” he said, halting before her.
Her shrug was so slight it might have been merely an inhalation. “Is Lexeter saved, dear Brother?”
He longed to remind her it did not need saving. However, the new taxes that would pass over his demesne like the spirit of the Lord had passed over the Hebrews who marked their homes with lamb’s blood to save their firstborns, could have proven the ruin of Lexeter.
“It is saved.”
“By Lady Laura.” Sebille glanced at the door behind which their mother awaited him. “Lady Raisa will make misery of you.”
“More of you.”
Once again, a shrug that might or might not be. “Now you shall have to send her to her dower property.”
As the queen required and Lothaire did not regret. “You will not be persuaded to remain at High Castle, Sebille?”
“For what? I must have a purpose, and that I have in serving the Lady of Lexeter who shall soon relinquish that title.”
“It does not have to be that way. You are still young—”
“I am not, Lothaire.” She unclasped her hands, loosed prayer beads that fell against her skirt and swung from the girdle to which they were attached. “Prepare yourself,” she said and led her brother to their mother’s chamber and fit the key.
Chapter 11
Laura surged to sitting, looked to wide-eyed Clarice and Tina, then the ceiling.
“Wh-what was that?” her daughter asked.
Was it Lady Raisa’s response to learning her son was to wed the woman who had cuckolded him?
“Mother?” Clarice leaned forward in the chair she had dropped into when Sir Angus admitted them to the chamber.
Laura swung her legs over the mattress and stood. “It sounded like a hawk. Did it not, Tina?” She widened her eyes at the maid, entreating her to agree.
Tina frowned and resumed the transfer of her lady’s possessions from the packs to a spacious trunk set between the windows. “Certes, hawks screech like that,” she allowed. “Mayhap one entered the donjon through an open window.”
“It sounded like a woman’s scream,” Clarice said.
Laura feigned a shrug. “It was a strenuous journey. Do you not wish to lie down?”
Clarice peered at the ceiling as if awaiting further disruption, then dropped back in the chair. “I am not tired. I prefer to explore my new home.”
Laura might have acquiesced as often she had since Maude’s passing, but this was High Castle, and until she wed Lothaire, it was not truly their home—indeed, might never be if the one who had screeched found a way around Queen Eleanor.
“You may acquaint yourself with it later,” Laura said.
“Why not now? I just sit here with naught to occupy myself.”
How had Maude responded to argument? Two answers—the first being firm correction of a young Laura, the second less than firm correction of the stronger-willed Clarice. Though Laura had not dozed so deeply she was unaware Maude often yielded to her beloved granddaughter, ever it had been easier to allow another to rear her child.
Now it is for you to do, she told herself. You were raised well, presented so fine a young lady the foreboding Raisa Soames approved of you wedding Lexeter’s heir.
“Well?” Clarice tossed her hands wide.
“We shall aid Tina in unpacking and arranging our clothes.”
“But ’tis for her to do! I wish to look about the castle.”
“Later,” Laura said firmly and started toward the maid.
Clarice thrust up out of the chair. “Then I shall rest.”
Laura longed to allow her to laze on the bed though she claimed she was not tired—far less conflict than exerting authority to teach her daughter responsibility as Maude had done with Laura when she was younger than Clarice—but she set a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“What?” The girl’s demand caused anger to nip at her mother.
“You shall aid with the clothes, Clarice.”
“Ah nay, milady,” the maid said with false cheer surely meant to ease the tension. “The task is best left to me.”
“You are more fatigued than we are, Tina. Thus, we ought to unpack whilst you rest.”
“I will not!” Clarice gasped.
Laura kept her chin up. “You will. Now come.” She started to draw her daughter toward the packs, but the girl pulled free and moments later tossed open the door and started down the corridor.
Laura hesitated amid Tina’s entreaty, “Let the child go,” then once more reminding herself she was awake, broke free of all that conspired to drag her in a less uncomfortable direction and ran.
“Clarice!” she called when she saw her daughter stood in the middle of the corridor as if also pulled in two directions.
Clarice resumed her course, but her mother’s legs were longer, and Laura did not stomp her way to the landing. As she took hold of the girl’s arm, Clarice swung around. “I do not wish to be with you.”
“Regardless, you are. As I am your mother, you shall abide by my instruction.”
“Instruction? You are not Lady Maude.”
“True. I am more to you than that. I am your—”
“You are not! You are a shadow.”
Laura nearly choked on her next breath. “A what?”
“A shadow.” Defensively, Clarice raised her chin. “’Tis as Lady Maude told.”
Hurt flooding Laura, she whispered, “She said this to you?”
Her daughter hesitated as if considering a lie, then scowled. “Nay, ever she defended you. I heard her tell it to the baron.”
Her stepson, Michael’s older brother.
Laura swallowed. “She spoke true. A shadow I was, but a shadow no longer. Though I cannot replace Lady Maude in your affections, I am trying to be a better mother.”
“Then you are failing. Try harder!”
Were she alone, Laura would put her face in her hands to muffle her cry of pain. Instead, she suppressed it. “I know, and I regret it.” She released her daughter, touched her cheek. “If you will help me—”
Clarice drew back.
Lowering her hand rather than display how empty it was, Laura said, “I know change is difficult, especially our loss of Maude, but—”
“What of Donnie?”
Her affectionate name for the one who had been her playmate the same as Simon had been Laura’s. But Donald, nearly three years older than the cousin he did not know Clarice to be, had left behind the playthings of boys as evidenced by his exploration of the playthings of men—that which dealt the blow that awakened Laura.
Clarice made a sound of disgust. “It was just a kiss, but you had to make more of it, and now I have lost him as well.”
“You are nine, Clarice! He is nearly twelve. It was not just a kiss.” At the time, perhaps, Laura silently conceded. It had been the same for her at close to the age Clarice now was, but as the years had born out, it had meant far more to Simon. And had been the beginning of the end of Lothaire and Laura.
The tears brightening Clarice’s eyes contrasting with her stubbornly set jaw, she said, “Methinks you are jealous that no one kisses you.”
Laura lurched back, but when
her daughter spun away, recaptured her arm.
“Release me!” Clarice cried as she was pulled off the landing, then she let her legs go out from under her.
Laura stared at the girl at the end of her hand. So much hurt shone from Clarice, as if the one who had born her intended to beat her into submission the same as Simon—
Laura thrust aside the memory. “Forgive me,” she said. “I but wish you to return to our chamber.”
Her daughter’s nostrils flared. “Let me go, and I will follow.”
Laura released her, but once more her daughter made for the stairs.
Laura snatched hold of her and pulled her around. “Pray, Clarice, do not make this more difficult than already it is.”
“You are the one who makes it difficult. Let me go!”
“Nay.” Putting in her eyes what she hoped was steel, Laura lifted her chin.
And could make no sense of the flurry of movement until Lothaire barked, “Enough!”
He stood behind her daughter, gripping the wrist of the hand drawn back to strike the one Clarice defied, and when the girl strained against his hold, he said, “Cease this foolery!”
Clarice drew a breath that added to her height, looked over her shoulder at Lothaire where he must have come off the third floor stairs, then yielded up the extra height on a long exhale.
He released her. “Go to your chamber, Clarice.”
“You are not my father!”
“I need no reminder of that, but henceforth you will treat me with the respect due one’s sire, for that I shall be when I wed your mother. Now go.”
Laura could hardly breathe for the ache of what had happened between Clarice and her, the shame of what Lothaire had witnessed, and the judgment to come.
Clarice brushed past her, moments later slammed the door.
“Have I this to look forward to every day until she is old enough to wed away?” Lothaire demanded.
His eagerness to rid himself of Clarice wounded, but blessedly he spoke low enough to ensure his rebuke did not travel beyond them.
Though Laura longed to defend the behavior he had witnessed, it was a waste. She was at fault for the failed relationship with her daughter, and until she remedied it, Lothaire would have to bear whatever cost was passed to him.