THE AWAKENING_A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

  “Even for love of your mother, you will not be moved from tossing your father in the ground come the morrow?”

  “It has been arranged and will be done.”

  “That you may sooner send me from High Castle?”

  There was that, too, though it had not been a conscious consideration. He had assured the queen it would be done to ensure the safety of Laura and her daughter, it being but a year since Raisa sent men to murder those soon to return the body of Ricard Soames.

  He clasped his hands between his knees, leaned forward. “There is to be a new Lady of Lexeter. For both your sakes, distance must be put between you.”

  Her jaw shifted. “Sebille will go with me.”

  “This I know.”

  She curled her fingers over the coverlet, slowly gathered it up her chest. “Then who will watch over you?”

  “I am a grown man—”

  “And Laura Middleton is now a grown woman—one of great appetites.”

  He narrowed his lids. “What is it you wish me to beg you to reveal?”

  A corner of her mouth lifted. “It may not be as dire as feared—yet—but your sister observed something disturbing.”

  The muscles of Lothaire’s legs twitched with the longing to leave. Chances were Raisa would exaggerate what her daughter had seen, but on the chance she did not, he said, “Tell, Mother.”

  “Your betrothed is too familiar with Sir Angus. Though she denied it when Sebille confronted her, she worked her flirtations upon him.”

  Jealousy rose through Lothaire, but he pushed it down. There was naught over which to be concerned. Not only was he confident of the knight’s loyalty, but Sebille viewed women who received the most innocent attention from Angus as being flirtatious. However, that of which he could not be confident was Laura. She had betrayed him once—

  He sliced the thought in two, consigned one half to darkness.

  “Worry not,” he said. “I will not be cuckolded again.”

  “As much as you are absent from High Castle, you cannot keep close watch on her, my son. Did Sebille and I remain—”

  “Nay.” He sat back and thrust his feet out before him. “We will speak no more of this. Now rest. The morrow will be long.”

  She continued to grumble and snap. But when she finally quieted, the long day had settled into his bones, and the sleep he feigned became truth.

  Chapter 17

  Still Lothaire was with his mother. As in his younger years when he prayed in the chapel ere gaining his night’s rest, several times this past fortnight Laura had heard him enter and exit the sanctuary beyond the chamber she shared with Clarice. With all he must face on the morrow, he would surely come again this eve.

  Lest she sleep through his prayers, she eschewed the comfort of a bench and leaned against the cool stone wall at the rear of the chapel. Each time her lids lowered and knees softened, the sensation of falling returned her to her senses.

  Lothaire entered at what she guessed was middle night—and immediately broke stride, gripped his dagger’s hilt, and pivoted toward her with an expression so fierce she could not move. But he could.

  “’Tis Laura!” she gasped.

  That snapped him to a halt and kept the point of his blade from exiting its sheath.

  As he peered into her darkness, the flickering candles on the altar revealed one she hardly recognized. He wore the skin of a warrior never before seen. Though the sight made her tremble, she ached for all she had missed of the man he had become in the years since their parting.

  Upper lip lowering over bared teeth, he thrust the dagger back into its scabbard. “What do you here, Laura?”

  As she approached, she guessed from the deep wrinkles about his tunic’s waist he had sat long with his mother, might even have slept. “I must speak with you.”

  “About?”

  She stepped into his light and stared into a face framed by hair that had mostly come free of the thong at his nape. “About the morrow, this day, and what came before.”

  His lids narrowed. “Before?”

  “I did not know I am to be your third wife.”

  His lids flickered. “Sebille told you?”

  “She did.”

  “Does it matter?”

  She might have taken offense were his words not weighted with more fatigue than derision. “Only so I know what I shall face when I stand before Baron Marshal and the woman who was your wife ere she was his.”

  The breath Lothaire drew adding to his height, he said, “I do not think this the place to discuss it.”

  “Would it so offend the Lord?” she said and, at his hesitation, added, “The hall is taken with those at rest. Until we wed, ’twould be unseemly for me to enter your bedchamber.”

  “And you are no longer unseemly, hmm?”

  His sarcasm stilled her, but before she could force a response, he said, “Forgive me. I am raw from the audience with my mother.”

  She swallowed hard. “May we speak here?”

  He looked to the altar, the hair brushing his jaw so tempting her fingers she pressed them into her palms to keep them from betraying her. “We may, but first prayer,” he said.

  She should have expected that, but she was not prepared to kneel alongside him as she had done upon the barony of Owen. Never had she been as eager to pray as during his visits. Hand in hand, they had traversed the aisle. Reluctantly, they had released each other’s fingers. On separate kneelers, they had lingered over their conversations with God. Silently she had bemoaned that soon they would part and the night between them and the morn would be long.

  “First prayer,” she acceded and, as she followed him, recalled that ten years past the walk had been filled with lovely imaginings of when she would traverse a chapel beside her new husband and a priest would speak the nuptial mass over them.

  To her surprise, one that so pained she thought her heart might bleed, Lothaire caught up her hand when they reached the altar. Broad calloused fingers a breathtaking contrast to her slender soft ones, he handed her onto a kneeler. Then as if as surprised by the gesture as she, he immediately released her.

  When he lowered to the other kneeler and bowed his head, Laura raised her palm. It had not forgotten his. And never would it.

  Clasping her hands hard, she closed her eyes. Over the next quarter hour, she asked the Lord to be with them this night, on the morrow when Lothaire’s departed father returned to his family, and a sennight hence when their lives were joined to secure both Clarice’s and Lexeter’s future.

  Ever Lothaire’s prayers had surpassed her own, and that had not changed. Her beseeching done, she sank back on her heels and watched him as she had done the young man. Years ago, he had grinned when, upon opening his eyes, she swept back his hair and slid her fingers over his scalp. His reminder such behavior was not appropriate in the house of the Lord had been more teasing than correction. Were she to give in to that impulse when he finished these prayers, would there be any teasing about him?

  Not this Lothaire. But God willing, eventually some lightness might be found between them.

  He raised his head and looked sidelong at her. “I thought never again to be at prayer with you.”

  “I thought the same.”

  He inclined his head. “It grows late. Let us speak and be done with it.”

  She was also fatigued, but it hurt he was so eager to be rid of her. She glanced at where he knelt. “Here?”

  He stood and raised her to her feet.

  They were too near, and though she tried to give volume to her voice, it was breathy. “I thank you.”

  He released her. She thought they might sit, but he remained unmoving, and she guessed it was because even the benches near the altar were in shadow. Whereas she had most often imagined being intimate with Lothaire in daylight, whether the sun cast halos against a wall or sparkled on water, the dark seemed the preferred medium in which lovers became better known to each other. Did the shadows present too much temptation?


  She gripped her hands at her waist. “You told your mother and sister the old baron is to be buried on the morrow?”

  “I did. As expected, it was not well received—an offense to my sister, an inconvenience to my mother.”

  That last surprised only for its honesty. It seemed she was not alone in believing the woman who had slammed the face of her son’s betrothed onto the table was too unfeeling to love. Had she always been? And was it possible Lothaire would believe Laura were she to reveal her encounter with Lady Raisa—that her slap had been provoked?

  She was tempted to test him, but as naught had transpired between her and the lady since, perhaps it was best consigned to the past. But if Lothaire did not soon remove the woman from High Castle…

  “For what else did you seek me here?” he asked.

  Trying not to be unnerved by his impatience, she said, “This day your sister accused me of flirting with Sir Angus whilst he aided me in directing the servants.”

  “I am aware.”

  Of course he was. Sebille had warned she would protect him from further betrayal.

  “My mother told me,” he said, “not my sister.”

  She pressed her shoulders back. “Regardless, there is no truth to it.”

  “I am glad.”

  Glad, but no acknowledgement of her innocence, nor disbelief over the accusation. Now herself impatient to seek her bed, she said, “Your sister indicated Lexeter’s financial difficulties are due to the excesses of a grieving wife.”

  Something not quite a smile touched his lips. “She would not have you believe I am at fault for our reduced circumstances.”

  “I did not think you were. After all, our first betrothal was sought for my generous dowry.”

  He frowned.

  “Lady Maude was thorough as my father required. Thus, I was aware the dowry was of greater import than the possibility of mutual happiness. It made me sad until your second visit when we—” She closed her mouth. He did not need to be told what already he knew of their beautiful courtship. Though he believed she had cuckolded him in the end, he could not question how enthralled she had been with the young man who, shed of his mother, had proven they could be wondrously happy.

  As if Lothaire was also uncomfortable dabbling in a past that had promised much and delivered naught, he said, “What Sebille believes is mostly true. Months following our father’s disappearance, our mother accepted he was dead and began indulging in the things denied her whilst he lived—finery like that gifted his mistresses, elaborate furnishings, choice foodstuffs, the best French wines. When the steward protested the lightening of Lexeter’s coffers, she dismissed him, took charge of the finances, and cast coin where she pleased. Had our father’s wool business been given the attention it required, the barony could have afforded many of her extravagances, but she had not the mind nor care for such. Shortly after you broke our betrothal, I wrested control of Lexeter from her. But too much damage was done.”

  His tale made her ache, that last more so. She had known she hurt him deeply the day she turned from the pond to reveal her reason for rejecting him, but to learn of the burden he had carried alongside that pain…

  “It was a difficult year,” he said, “one in which I was able to keep hold of Lexeter by selling off most of the costly furnishings and some of my mother’s fine clothes.”

  She wished she had been at his side…

  “The barony’s recovery has been slow, so when the opportunity to sooner set it aright was offered in the form of a wealthy heiress—my first wife, Lady Edeva—I took it.” He fell silent, then said, “Now we return to the matter of my second wife, if Lady Beata can be named that.”

  Guessing the tale was not one quickly told, Laura settled into her feet.

  “Come.” He drew her to the nearest bench, and keeping a respectable distance between them, lowered beside her. “Lady Beata’s father, realizing he was about to lose another infant son to sickness, summoned his daughter from France to take her place as his heir. As this outspoken and rather inappropriate lady was widowed by a man of so great an age she was more a daughter to him, she was called The Vestal Wife. You have heard of her?”

  “I have, and that after she lost her husband she was called the Vestal Widow.”

  He inclined his head. “Lest the king and queen undertake to wed her to a favorite, Lady Beata’s father attempted to hide the loss of his infant son until he found a husband of greater benefit to his family than to the royal coffers. The lady’s reputation being well known, he had few good prospects. Thus, seeing the potential in Lexeter’s wool, he approached me, confident my need for funds would cause me to overlook her faults. It could not have been easy for him since my father was last seen alive upon his family’s demesne and my mother had long accused them of being responsible for his disappearance.”

  “As they were,” Laura prompted.

  “Aye, though ’twas not known for certain until the lady’s father enlisted me to aid in stealing her away from Sir Durand, who was to ensure she did not wed without Queen Eleanor’s permission.”

  “You forced her to marry you.”

  Lothaire eyed her. “I was getting to that, but my trespass against the lady began further back when I required proof she was, indeed, vestal.”

  “Proof?”

  Despite the dim, she saw a muscle in his jaw convulse. “At my mother’s urging, her physician accompanied me to the barony of Wiltford and the lady was persuaded to undergo an examination.”

  Laura had heard such might be done were it suspected a woman would not come to the marriage bed virtuous, but mere imagining of that humiliation so repulsed, her face surely reflected it.

  “It was wrong of me, but”—Lothaire’s gaze upon her sharpened—“once, for a time, I had a lady pure of heart, mind, and body. A lady turned only to me.”

  The young Laura Middleton. Were she not sitting, her knees might fail her. Sinking her hands into her skirt, she said, “Twice cuckolded, you wished your second wife pure as Lady Edeva and I were not.”

  His brow lowered. “Sebille and you talked much.”

  “Where her beloved brother is concerned, she believes I am in need of counsel.”

  His searching gaze disturbed her, but finally he said, “I sought purity, in part to salve a battered pride, but more for the chance of life with one who did not long for another as my father had done, one whose arms only opened to me as mine would to her.”

  “You are saying your first wife longed for another whilst you were wed?”

  His tension leapt—so deeply felt she glanced at her hands to be certain they had not strayed to him.

  “Of course you wish to know about that as well,” he growled.

  “Should I not?”

  He set his forearms on his thighs and gripped his hands between them. “It was I who chose the second woman to whom I was betrothed, and I believed I had chosen better than my mother. Lady Edeva had a good dowry, was fine of face and figure, and presented as proper—until the morn after our nuptial night when I discovered my bride had not been chaste. I arose ere my wife and completed my ablutions. Thinking to awaken her, I returned to the bed. Had I not approached her side, I would not have seen the vial amid the rushes that bore traces of the blood she spilled upon the sheet to conceal I was not her first lover.”

  Laura did not have to imagine how that betrayal hurt, his ache crossing the space between them.

  “I confronted her, but she said the vial was not hers and denied giving herself to another. Though I knew she lied, I resolved to make the best of our marriage. However, she was so unhappy that whenever she wished to visit her family I allowed it. But that last time when I was delayed in returning her to Lexeter…” He shook his head. “I arrived at her family’s home two days late and went to the office of the master of horses to arrange our mounts to be readied at dawn for our departure. He was there.” Lothaire turned his gaze upon Laura. “As was my wife.”

  She waited for him to contin
ue. He did not, and it took some moments for her to realize he need not. What he did not speak, his eyes and clenched jaw told. Though she had thought herself prepared for a painful revelation, she startled.

  “Aye,” he said, “and I beat him as never have I beaten a man. Had I not felt a grip on my fist—surely of the Lord, for there was no other to stop me—I might have killed him.”

  Laura shivered. “What of your wife?”

  “The only hand I laid on her was in separating them. ’Tis true Edeva’s cuckoldry was the death of her, but it was not my doing.”

  “How?”

  “The beating of her lover was no quiet affair. Hardly did I have my mantle around her than her father appeared. Before I could get her away, he slew his master of horses. Had I not placed myself between him and his daughter, methinks she would have fallen to the blade. Immediately, we departed for Lexeter, though I might as well have left her behind. Countless hours I spent on my knees trying to forgive her—and perhaps there would have been peace between us had she not blamed me for the death of the man she loved. Edeva’s unhappiness became misery, her tolerance contempt. I could not even express concern over her wasting away without leaving myself open to accusations and physical attacks she likely hoped would cause me to end her life more quickly than she was capable of doing herself.”

  Laura’s throat tightened. How she had hurt upon learning Lothaire had wed, having hoped he had not done so sooner because he still felt for her…thinking he did so only because he loved again.

  “A fever laid low many at High Castle,” he continued, “and my fear Edeva would take ill in her weakened state was realized. Every dawn ere departing the donjon, I opened the door of her chamber and listened for her breathing. Then one morn I heard naught, and when I touched her shoulder, she was cold.”

  Laura slid a hand over his two. “I am sorry. Upon hearing you had wed, I imagined you were happy. That you loved again.”

  “I am not the fool I once was—at least, where love is concerned. Certes, a fool I made of myself with my second wife.”