by Tamara Leigh
“Yet more I must pay for the queen’s tax break?” he scorned.
Now his words cut. “A sizable break of which you ought not be dismissive, Lord Soames! After all, its reward for wedding me is your greatest chance of saving Lexeter.”
How she missed the young man who had regarded his betrothed with dismay when she behaved as he deemed inappropriate but could be teased into accepting her displays of happiness. How she missed the possibility he was not entirely lost to her when he had kissed her palm at Castle Soaring. Now he regarded her with what seemed disgust. There would be no teasing the man he had become. No way of stopping whatever words of condemnation he loosed upon her.
Actually, there was a way. Though her question was unkind, his answer might better prepare her for the reunion to come. “Was that your mother screeching like a hawk defending its territory?”
Condemnation falling from his eyes, he said, “A blow she has been dealt, but she will recover.”
“You will send her from High Castle as Queen Eleanor directed?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I know how to be hated, Lothaire. My daughter does not. Yet. The longer that is delayed, the better.”
His shoulders broadened with breath. “In advance of our arrival, I had Lady Raisa moved to a third floor chamber. As she is unwell, you are unlikely to encounter her providing neither you nor your daughter venture above this floor. Once my mother is hale enough to travel, I will deliver her to her dower property.”
That was hardly comforting, for it was nothing definite, increasing the likelihood Clarice would be exposed to the woman. Moved to a threat, albeit a gentle one—for now—Laura said, “I look forward to sending word to my cousin that my daughter and I are comfortably and safely settled upon Lexeter.”
His lids narrowed.
She inclined her head. “Until supper, my lord.”
He let her go. Thus, it was she who halted her progress. Turning before her chamber, she saw Lothaire stood in profile, a hand to the door beyond which must lay the lord’s solar.
“I wish a bath,” she said. More than wished. She hungered for warmth and weightlessness.
Lothaire looked over his shoulder. “And you wish me to do what? Collect a basin and towel?”
She frowned. “Such I would not ask of you. I but wish to arrange a tub bath.”
His eyebrows rose.
Feeling herself shrink, she said, “Is it asking too much?”
“This is not Windsor, Lady Laura, and your host is not the Queen of England. This is Lexeter, and as you must know from the state of the castle, few are the luxuries afforded even its lord since labor is far better spent improving the living conditions for all than heating and lugging water for one.”
Mayhap I am as spoiled as Clarice, Laura silently admonished. Ashamed by her request that must have sounded like a demand, she said, “I apologize. I did not mean to be thoughtless.” She turned aside.
Once she had closed herself in her chamber, she felt such relief that if not for the sight of Clarice sitting back on her heels alongside Tina, she would have propped herself against the door. Instead, she lowered to her knees on the other side of the maid and, ignoring her daughter’s sulking, began making High Castle her home.
A bath was not unreasonable, especially after the long journey. However, the audience with his mother who had screeched like a hawk upon learning Laura Middleton had come to take from her the title of Lady of Lexeter, had dragged Lothaire’s toes—then heels—to the edge of forbearance.
There had been only one screech, then Raisa went lax and would have crumpled to the floor had he not caught her. As he laid her on the bed, she had gripped the neck of his tunic and demanded he return the Delilah-Jezebel and her misbegotten daughter to Eleanor.
It had taken some time to reason her down from hysterics which she often scorned as a weapon wielded by women too weak of mind to control a man any other way. But as Sebille and he knew, her aversion had more to do with such displays being ineffectual with her roving husband.
When Raisa had calmed, she grudgingly conceded King Henry’s harlot had given her son no choice. Without the tax break Laura Middleton brought to the marriage, it could prove impossible to hold onto Lexeter. As he did not need his twice betrothed to remind him, it was generous compensation—naught of which to be dismissive.
Nor were the hours that remained of daylight. It was time to resume the labors neglected during his absence.
Garbed in homespun tunic and chausses, to which he had become so accustomed he no longer scratched at his skin, he departed the donjon certain he would not join Laura for supper. If he returned ere the middling of night, it would be early. And likely he would once more depart ere she rose to face the first full day of the thousands she would pass upon Lexeter.
Chapter 12
“Catch me!” Laura called and peered over her shoulder at Lothaire, certain once his much longer legs overtook her they would kiss. If she unbalanced him as she had on the day past, they would find themselves in the grass again. And when their kiss progressed as far as he permitted, they would entwine their fingers and watch the clouds glide in and out.
But this was only a dream, she realized as she rose up through it. A dream made of remembrance. Unlike the other times it had visited, Lothaire would be with her when she opened her eyes. Or nearly so. Were he outside the donjon, he would not be far—even if he rode out to survey his demesne as he had done on the day past. Therefore, he was no longer entirely out of reach.
And what fool you are to think that, she reminded herself of her purpose upon Lexeter and their confrontation over Clarice. You are a tax break and a womb for the making of an heir, his—
What did he call you? His somehow. Merely a somehow.
She lifted her lids, found the ceiling above. Though once she had preferred sleeping on her side, after what had been done to her in the cellar, it made her feel vulnerable to give her back even to the walls. From the moment she closed her eyes upon night to the moment she opened them upon day, she wanted the assurance no one was near enough to catch her from behind.
She shifted her gaze to the right side of the bed. She was alone, Clarice surely having set off to explore the castle as had been denied her on the day past. And Tina? There was no humming or movement about the chamber, meaning the maid had gone for viands to break her lady’s fast.
Laura stretched, then wondering how late she had slept, pushed onto her elbows. And could not contain her cry of surprise and dismay at finding she was not alone.
She tried to speak the name of the woman who stood before the door garbed in a beautiful, albeit outdated gown, but her voice failed. And the Lady of Lexeter did not look of a mind to make it easy for them to renew their acquaintance.
Laura sat up, turned the covers back from her modest chemise, and rose from the bed. Clasping her hands at her waist, she said, “I am pleased to see you again, Lady Raisa.”
They both knew it a lie, so it was not really that, Laura supposed, but it was proper.
With a rustle of skirts that evidenced the gown was not worn often enough to soften its weave, Lothaire’s mother slowly advanced.
Wishing Tina were here, grateful Clarice was not, Laura remained unmoving. When the lady and she stood eye to eye with barely a reach between them, Laura wondered as she had all those years ago how such an aged and dour woman had birthed so attractive a son. The lady’s young husband must have been pleasing to the eye. And illness and the addition of these past ten years had been even less kind to his widow.
She startled when Lady Raisa lifted a hand and took hold of her chin, held her breath as sharp eyes scrutinized her.
“I did not think you would be so lovely when you grew into your face and body,” Lothaire’s mother said. “I should have heeded the Lord when He burdened me with uncertainty, but your father was generous with your dowry—at least until you proved the foulest Daughter of Eve.”
Laura took a step back and came up again
st the bedside table.
The lady lowered her hand but followed. “Alas, you are a necessary evil, as is the one you and your lover spawned who will surely prove as much a Delilah and Jezebel—mayhap more a whore than you.”
The hand Clarice had raised against her mother on the day past became Laura’s hand. But unlike Clarice’s, this one landed its slap and turned the woman’s head to the side.
Hardly had Laura time to feel the horror of what she had done before Lady Raisa retaliated with such force it was not believable her thin body possessed half the strength required to overpower one thirty-five years younger. Her hand gripped Laura’s face, wrenched it to the side, and when her victim’s body followed, slammed her head onto the bedside table.
Pain spearing Laura’s skull, she dropped to her knees. Not realizing the lady’s hand remained splayed over her face—pressing it to the tabletop—until that one’s breath was in her ear, Laura floundered for a response. And half senseless, wondered if the assault was her due. Albeit provoked by what the woman said of Clarice, she had struck first. So was this deserved? And was it only the beginning, as when she had refused Simon?
“My son does not want you, Laura Middleton,” Lothaire’s mother said. “I do not want you. The people of Lexeter do not want you. Though we shall suffer you and the foul fruit of your fornication as long as we must, I warn you—do you even think to cuckold my son again, the pain you feel this day will be naught compared to what I will do to you.” She pinched Laura’s earlobe. “As now you know, I am not as frail as I appear. And this wasting sickness… Aye, I am afflicted, but not so much you will soon see me in the ground.”
She released Laura and stepped back.
Gripping the edge of the table with one hand, Laura slapped her other hand to the bed and pressed to her feet. With a breath that quaked her body, she turned.
A placid smile showing gray-cast teeth, Lady Raisa said, “Heed me well, and do not forget your great weakness. Well, great insomuch as you have a care for your brat.” She turned, paused at the door, and touched the mark on her cheek. “I will not tell my son you struck a sickly old woman if you do not tell I have yet enough life in me to defend my person.”
Her threat confirmed she had sought to be aggressed upon. And foolish, still impulsive Laura had done her bidding.
Refraining from touching her own cheek that would be more marked than the other woman’s, Laura said, “Do not come to my chamber again. More, stay away from my daughter.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “Do you give me no cause to visit you or trouble your little girl, you need only tolerate me in passing.” She opened the door.
“If not in passing, the next time I shall be prepared,” Laura called.
The lady chuckled and closed the door behind her.
All of her trembling, Laura looked to the bed to which she longed to return and hold herself close. But she had been vulnerable enough for one day, and were she not more cautious now she was reacquainted with Lady Raisa, she would leave Clarice open to that woman’s threats.
She dropped her chin to her chest. She had been grateful to escape Lord Benton’s perverse clutches, but now there was this which could prove as dangerous to her daughter. Perhaps more…
“Father,” she whispered, “aid me in keeping Clarice safe—in persuading Lothaire not to delay in sending his mother from High Castle.” She lifted her head, probed her aching face, muttered, “Certes, she is well enough to travel.”
Determined that if her betrothed would not do as bid, she would send word to Eleanor as she had gently threatened Lothaire, she began preparing for the day.
Blessedly, the mirror on the dressing table revealed her face felt more tender than it appeared. Providing a bruise did not rise, none need know an elderly woman had retaliated for the offense dealt her.
“After the offense dealt my daughter,” Laura murmured as she smoothed creamed powder over her flushed, lightly abraded cheek. Still, despite Lady Raisa’s cruelty, she felt evil as the woman had named her.
“A necessary evil,” she whispered. And nearly cried.
One step. It was all she could manage of the stairs that reached from the second floor to the third.
Lungs aching with each draw of air, joints protesting how tightly she gripped the railing, Raisa let her shoulder fall against the wall and clutched her side. So hot had her blood coursed when she stood before the one unworthy of her son that she had thought it a great lie she was frail and soon to have dirt flung upon her corpse. But it was no lie, all of her day's strength wasted on the Delilah-Jezebel.
“Not wasted,” she croaked and released her side to finger the mark on her cheek. The flesh had cooled, likely presenting little evidence of the attack, but it had served its purpose. Despite Lady Laura’s own threats, the younger woman was afeared enough she would not soon take a lover. But when Raisa was gone…
Catching the sound of humming on the stairs below, she straightened her spine. Certain the noise belonged to Lady Laura's maid whose earlier descent was marked by tune which assured the reunion with Lady Laura would be uninterrupted, Raisa forced herself to mount the steps. With strength scraped from her depths, she made it out of sight and sank to the floor on the uppermost landing.
She disliked the prospect of being found by Sebille who would guess the Lady of Lexeter possessed a key to her chamber, but unless she recovered sufficiently, there was nothing for it. Of course, Sebille might be persuaded she had forgotten to secure the door, especially if Raisa provided a good distraction.
Chuckling at the realization her inability to reach her chamber could prove of benefit, she gave her cheek a more vicious pinch than that dealt the harlot’s ear and improved on the injury by raking her nails down her jaw.
Poor old woman. She did what she must to ensure the future of the Soames family as her husband had not—he whose body had yet to be returned by the family who murdered him, he whom she did not mourn as a loving wife should. Had his treachery not led him to seek out his mistress, during his return to Lexeter he would have had no cause to request a night’s lodging upon the barony of Wiltford. He would yet live. If never her unfaithful husband was exhumed and replanted in consecrated ground she would be all the happier.
It was a long quarter hour before the one who had once seemed a miracle nearly stumbled over the old woman.
“What—?” Sebille caught her breath when a bruised and scratched face was raised to her, dropped to her haunches.
“The Delilah,” Raisa choked. “I sought reassurance she repented of her sins against your brother, but she is less godly than ten years past.” With a shaking hand, she touched her face. “I defended myself as best I could—pushed her away. Certes, she would have done me greater harm had she not stumbled and struck her head on the table.” She let slip a smile, knowing to suppress it would cause the disbelief rising on the younger woman’s face to blossom, then she gripped Sebille’s arm. “The whore will further ruin Lothaire.”
Raisa did not believe Sebille had a great care for her as she had when she was a girl—when she had good cause to love the Lady of Lexeter and be loved in return—but Lothaire’s sister had been devoted to her brother since she first held Ricard’s infant son. Thus, the younger woman who was growing old ahead of her years might finally serve a purpose other than that to which she had rightfully given her life.
Clenching her teeth so hard her bony face that had once been softly rounded looked harsher, Sebille struggled to help Raisa to her feet. “Let us get you to bed, my lady.”
It was no easy thing, Raisa so weak she could offer little assistance and Sebille so spare of muscle she was huffing by the time she nearly dropped the older woman onto the mattress.
“We must tell Lothaire what that woman did to you,” Sebille said.
“Nay.” Raisa groaned back into the pillows. “I wish we could, but Lexeter does need what that harlot brings to the marriage, and I would not give him cause to break the betrothal. We will simply have to
be vigilant, protecting him as best we can, eh?”
She was pleased by the emotions struggling across Sebille’s face that made the younger woman close a hand over the prayer beads hung from her girdle. And further pleased when Sebille said, “I shall watch the lady closely.” She drew the covers up over Raisa’s shoulders, glanced at the door. “How did you gain a key to your chamber?”
No feat that. As Lady of Lexeter, she had possessed keys to all doors of import—two sets, the one Lothaire took from her when he determined he could manage the demesne better than she and the set hidden in a dozen pockets sewn into the inner lining of her clothes trunk to allow them to lie flat and keep them from rattling against one another.
“Would that I possessed one,” she said and let a smile onto her lips as would be expected. Though this one trembled, it was not entirely for show, so fatigued was she. “When you departed earlier, I noted you did not lock the door.”
“But I did!”
“Nay. I heard no turning of the key, and it was unlocked when I tried it.”
Sebille studied the older woman’s face, slowly nodded.
“Worry not,” Raisa said. “I will not tell Lothaire you were remiss lest he no longer entrust you with my care.”
Something flashed in and out of Sebille’s eyes.
Dismay, Raisa named it and drew an arm from beneath the covers and patted the younger woman’s hand. “I vow I will not tell him—and most selfishly, for you know I would have naught to live for were you taken from me, do you not?”
Another nod, then Sebille said, “I will have to be more mindful of securing the door,” and hastily added, “to protect you should you be tempted to expose yourself to Lady Laura’s venom again.”
Venom. Raisa liked the word applied to that woman, Lothaire having accused his mother of the same when he brought to ground men sent to punish Lady Beata whose unconsummated marriage to her son had been annulled by Queen Eleanor. “You are right to do so, but more to keep that whore from my chamber lest she seek to permanently remove me from my son’s life.”