by Tamara Leigh
“You!” Raisa said with a slur and pointed at Sebille. “You!” Then the arm with which she pointed dropped. Hand hooked, she gripped the fallen arm and jerkily rubbed it elbow to shoulder.
Was this truly her end? Sebille wondered as she stared at the one she did not have in common with her beloved brother.
Leave her to it, urged the anger sown deep. Why make hell wait when it can have her now?
“Is this real?” Sebille asked again, and receiving no response beyond the sound of suffering, reminded herself it mattered not if this was a ploy to deliver Lothaire to his mother’s side. Regardless what Raisa told of her meeting with Sebille, he would think it born of further spite—would never believe his sister had composed messages in his mother’s name in the hope they would reflect ill on Raisa.
The older woman made a sound even more terrible, one never before heard.
“I shall summon the physician,” Sebille cried and ran.
Guilt. Such an appetite it had.
Lothaire had been certain Sebille was duped again, that her own guilt which had returned her abovestairs near the middling of night made her believe the unbelievable. But the physician’s confirmation Raisa Soames had suffered a stroke was not needed. One had but to look upon her to know she was truly near the end of her life. And no matter how hard she tried to form words with a terribly misshapen mouth, only her eyes were speaking—with desperation and pleading. When she slept finally, Lothaire loosed the hand he had held for hours and followed Martin into the corridor.
“It has been a long night, my lord. You ought to sleep while you can. I believe ’twill be a longer day.”
“You do not think she will survive it?”
“Unlikely.”
Lothaire nodded. “You will send for me if she turns for the worse?”
“Of course, my lord.”
Lothaire traversed the corridor, descended the stairs, and after checking on his sister who slept in the middle of her bed with knees clasped to her chest, entered the solar whose shutters were open to let in dawn’s light.
Laura hastened to his side. “Is your mother as ill as Sebille feared?”
“Aye, she will not make it to her dower property. The remainder of her life shall be spent here.”
She cupped his face. “As it should be.”
He nodded. “I am tired. Will you let me fall asleep holding you?”
“You need not ask.” She drew him to the bed and aided in shedding his garments. When she removed her own, he was pleased, not so they might be intimate again, simply that he could be that much closer to her.
A quarter hour later, she slept where he held her against his chest, and he knew she had lain awake since Sebille threw open the door and told Lady Raisa was dying. Laura had offered to accompany him, but he had declined lest he further expose her to his mother’s venom. Though that was no longer possible by way of word, Lady Raisa’s eyes remained expressive.
Had he wronged his mother as those eyes told? Though all evidence said otherwise, that not only had she endangered the lives of Lady Beata and her husband, but worse, Laura’s, the Lord would not allow him to abandon her in her time of greatest need.
True, there is not much about her to like, he imagined Father Atticus saying, but she is your mother and shall remain so even in death.
Lothaire closed his eyes and remembered a younger Raisa—before his father’s disappearance. He had been only six, and yet he had known she was not happy, just as he had known his father had greater affection for a pretty serving girl than his wife who could never be called pretty. Still, sometimes his mother had smiled and laughed, and just as Lothaire had felt loved by his parents, there was no doubt Sebille felt it more.
Then Ricard Soames did not come home, and of a sudden Raisa had only enough time and regard for her son—naught for her daughter whom she no longer named a miracle.
Why? Lothaire wondered as he had ceased to wonder years ago. What had caused his sister to be reduced to little more than a servant—and on the night past denied entirely?
He sighed and, accepting he would never know, slept.
Finally, the physician departed.
Though the opportunity to confront the witch now lay before Clarice, she hesitated where she stood at the door inside the small chamber into which she had slipped an hour past.
Go, she told herself. Now ere he returns with whatever concoction he thinks will save a life not in need of saving.
But her feet remained fixed to the floor as she peered through the crack at the door behind which lay the woman who feigned sickness so she might remain at High Castle and further threaten the Baron of Lexeter’s new wife.
You are weak, Clarice, she silently scorned. It is daylight. Go!
A sound of distress slipping from her, she opened the door, crossed the corridor, and entered the witch’s lair.
As seen when the physician exited, the chamber was barely lit and turned dimmer when Clarice started to close herself in. Fear urging her to leave the door open a hand’s width, the more easily for her scream to be heard were she roused to one, she clung to the shadow in which she stood. Heart racing, she swallowed so loudly she was certain the still figure at the center of the bed would open her eyes. Did she sleep? Or merely lie in wait, ready to spring upon her prey?
“Be brave,” Clarice whispered and winced at how stiff her legs were as she advanced. Upon reaching the center of the room, she heard a soft moan and halted.
Lady Raisa’s eyes remained closed, but now Clarice could see there was something wrong with her face. Was this what was called a stroke? Regardless, she looked near death. And it made her sad as she ought not be for one like this.
“I care not!” she rasped, and the woman lifted her lids. Clarice wanted to flee, and could have in the time it took those frantically flitting eyes to land on her, but once again she could not move.
The eyes of her mother’s tormentor widened, bent lips parted, and now her moan had volume. But no words.
Clarice resumed her advance. Reaching the bed, she closed her trembling hands into fists. “I am Clarice, the daughter of Lady Laura Soames and now your son. I…” She searched for moisture in her mouth. “I know you hurt my mother—and I wish you to be aware that if ever you even look at her again, I shall…”
She blinked, wished she could say what she meant to say, but the woman was so pitiful it was not believable she could hurt anyone. It had to be true death came for her. “You will not look at her again, will you?” she said softly. “You will not rise again from this bed.”
Another moan, this one very long.
Clarice did not understand why her chest hurt and eyes stung, and it angered her. “You are not a good person, but I am sorry you are hurting.”
The old woman gasped, mouth worked.
“And I am sorry for your son and daughter.”
The woman grunted and one side of her mouth rose in what seemed a sneer.
“I know not how, but surely they care for you.”
A sibilant hiss spilled the lady’s foul breath across the air. Was she trying to speak?
Though Clarice longed to flee, she leaned forward, though not so near the woman could reach her were she capable of doing so. “I do not understand, Lady Raisa.”
Another hiss, then a moan as she sank more deeply into the pillows as if her battle were lost.
Clarice gave her time to recover, and in the silence heard a familiar click from beyond the chamber.
Lady Raisa made a choking sound and lids that had begun to lower flew wide. Her frantic gaze struck Clarice’s, but the bit of speech she pushed past her lips was not needed. “Se…Se…”
Of course it was that lady who came, as told by the sound of her prayer beads. What was not known was whether it was the old woman who whimpered or herself. Regardless, Clarice must not be found here. Lady Sebille, who did not seem to like her, would name it trespass.
Hoping Lady Raisa would not be able to express herself any better w
ith her daughter to reveal who hid inside, Clarice sprang across the room and crouched behind a chair steeped in shadow.
Lady Sebille entered, closed the door, and crossed to the bed.
Peering out from behind the chair where she knelt, Clarice saw fairly well the face of the woman who was now her aunt. The only color about it was splotches that evidenced she had been weeping.
With what seemed sorrow, Lady Sebille said, “How was I to know this time it was real?” Her eyebrows rose, fell. “Not that it would make much difference had I sooner summoned the physician and Lothaire.”
As if Lady Raisa had been holding her breath, she expelled it on a groan at whose end Clarice thought she tried to speak her son’s name.
Lady Sebille lowered to the mattress. “Aye, Lothaire. He sat so long with you I fell asleep waiting for him to leave.”
“Lo,” the old woman said.
“Aye, whom we both love—rather, I do. Methinks ’tis more pride and possessiveness you feel for him than anything of the heart. That you wasted on me, did you not—ere you hated me?”
As Clarice pondered that last, Lady Sebille reached to her mother and swept back wisps of hair that did naught to soften the lined, age-spotted brow.
The younger woman nodded. “Since now you can keep a secret even better than Father Atticus, I would have you be my confessor. What think you?”
Slowly, Clarice sat back on her heels to better observe the women. Though Lady Raisa’s face was very crooked, there seemed interest in her widening eyes and the arch of an eyebrow.
“I thought you would like that.” The younger woman lifted a lax hand between hers. “You know ’twas me, so that is already told, and you know much of it was vengeance. But ere you leave us, I would assure you the greater part of it was done out of a sister’s concern for her brother, even though we are siblings by only half. I had to save Lothaire from you who should have been gone from High Castle years ago.” She shook her head. “You nearly ruined him. Had your convenient illness not kept him from going to Lady Laura ere the weather turned foul, all these years she would have been wed to him.”
Clarice caught her breath, blessedly not so loudly she disturbed Lady Sebille. However, if the woman followed her mother’s gaze that shot to the girl’s hiding place, her presence might be discovered as easily.
“Would she have proven more faithful than Lady Edeva?” Lady Sebille shrugged. “That cannot be known, but the burden she brought with her as Lothaire’s third wife is of your doing.”
Of what did she speak? Clarice wondered. Had her mother had the opportunity to wed the Baron of Lexeter sooner than she had done? If so, why had she not? And what burden was brought to her marriage?
The lady sighed. “Long I have known where you keep your keys and, more importantly, the household items you hid from Lothaire when he took control of Lexeter. Quite the trove that could have been sold with what you could not hide and which would have eased the financial difficulties caused by your extravagance.”
Lady Raisa mumbled something, shook her head.
“Oh, it is true,” her daughter said. “You know it, as do all. So when you are gone, I will conveniently discover that secret compartment in the solar from which many a time I have taken an item to pay for necessary things like…”
Though more and more Clarice grasped what was said, this she did not understand.
“I hesitate to be specific,” Lady Sebille said, “but you are my confessor, and if the Lord cannot put a seal on your lips, the stroke shall.” She caught up her prayer beads. “From out of your trove I paid the assassins to set upon Lady Beata and Baron Marshal.”
Clarice pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.
“But ere you rejoice in believing I am as foul as you, those men but played a part. Never were they to commit murder, only to make Lothaire believe that was what you sent them to do. And ’twas I who alerted him to your plans.” She held up a hand as if to prevent her mother from interrupting. “Of course I know they were not your plans, but I was certain you would approve had you thought to do more than snap and snarl and demand Queen Eleanor honor the marriage made between Lothaire and Lady Beata. And I alerted my brother again the day of the shearing supper when two of those same men were to make it appear the fleece stores were under attack.”
Clarice’s head lightened as all she was privy to whirled through her head. And though she felt guilty for eavesdropping on her parents on the night past, she was glad she had. Otherwise, her shock could have revealed she once more listened in on what was to have been a private conversation.
“Thus, Lothaire was going to send you away at long last, and though I do not trust Lady Laura to be a good and dutiful wife, far more difficult that would be with you here. So you had to go. But I never…” She drew a shuddering breath. “I did not mean you to go like this.”
“Lo,” Lady Raisa said again, then more forcefully, “Lo!”
Lady Sebille clapped her hands over her face, and with her prayer beads pouring between her fingers, began to weep. Moments later, a choking sound came from Lady Raisa as if she wept as well.
Clarice crossed her arm over her chest, caught up handfuls of her bodice, and squeezed. In that moment, she wanted what she would have declared she did not—to remain a girl, womanhood so distant she need not give it more than a passing thought. She did not like the world she had forced her way into. It was too complicated, despairing, and dark.
Far more than a young man’s kisses, she wanted to play with the lambs no matter how muddy they made her. More, she wanted arms around her and kisses atop her head, to be enveloped in her mother’s freshly bathed scent rather than the smell of a boy laboring to become a man.
It was almost enough to make her scramble from her hiding place and run. She was fairly certain of success since surprise ought to see her away from the chamber before Lady Sebille could make it off the bed, but two things held her there—fear of the lady whose depth of deception was frightening, and the horror and shame Lady Sebille would feel knowing she had done far more than bare herself to her mother.
Be still, Clarice told herself. When she departs, then you can, the silent Lady Raisa the only witness to your duplicity.
Lady Sebille did not cry long, and when she dried her eyes on her skirt, her mother returned to silence excepting the occasional hiccough.
“Worry not for Lothaire,” Lady Sebille said and touched her lips to her mother’s brow. “I shall keep watch over him, and if his lady wife fails him again, I will make her life so miserable she will wither away the same as Lady Edeva.”
The threat against her mother made outrage suffuse Clarice’s being. It was not the old woman who should be warned Lady Laura’s daughter would claw out her eyes, it was Lady Sebille.
“And if that misbegotten girl proves no different from her mother,” Lady Sebille continued, “I shall find a way to remove her from High Castle. We would not want her to corrupt my brother’s legitimate children.”
“Witch!” Clarice did not know how she made it to her feet before Lady Sebille’s gaze flew across the space between them.
The woman snapped back so hard she nearly tumbled off the bed, but then she was also on her feet and, belatedly, Clarice lunged toward the door.
“Sly, deceitful child,” Lady Sebille screeched and wrenched the girl back. “Filthy, misbegotten—”
“Nay!” Lady Raisa protested. “Nay, Se!”
Lady Sebille flung the girl onto the bed, causing her to fall facedown across the old woman’s bony legs. Clarice rolled to her back, brought her arms up in front of her chest and face.
But Lady Sebille stood unmoving alongside the bed. “You have ruined all,” she snarled.
“You ruined all,” Clarice retorted.
The lady jabbed a finger at the old woman. “Because she ruined all—my father, me, nearly my brother. It began with her, she who is incapable of feeling deep enough to hold onto love when what was thought a miracle is but a mistake
, even when that mistake still loves her.”
“I know not what you speak of!”
The lady turned away, came swiftly back around as Clarice started to rise. “Do not move! I must think.” She nodded. “I can fix this. I just have to think.” She slapped a palm against her forehead. “Think, Sebille!”
“I want to go.” Clarice scooted to the edge of the bed, but before she could drop her feet to the floor, a hand thrust her onto her back.
“I said do not move!”
Clarice had no intention of obeying, but as she pushed onto her elbows, the lady gripped the hilt of a meat dagger on her girdle opposite her prayer beads.
Clarice stilled, glanced at Lady Raisa.
Though the old woman’s face appeared further misshapen, there seemed sorrow in her eyes.
“I cannot think!” Lady Sebille shrilled.
Clarice’s own thoughts were so murky with fear that the only thing she could think to save herself was a childish act that had oft brought Lady Maude and her mother running. Unfortunately, it would be effective only were someone near.
It was mid-morn, and Clarice had left her mother in the hall and ventured to the third floor as she had promised she would not. Too distant, especially had the Lady of Lexeter gone to the kitchen to oversee the nooning meal. As for Clarice’s new father, did he yet sleep, he might hear. Or a chambermaid. Or the physician returning to administer medicinals.
Clarice returned her focus to Lady Sebille who picked over her prayer beads with one hand while the hand that had touched the meat dagger scratched at her brow. Next Clarice looked to the old woman.
Lady Raisa’s eyes were closed, but tears pooled in their corners as her chest slowly rose and fell.
Clarice wanted to assure the woman that her son would come. Instead, she swung her legs up and to the side, rolled, and as she dropped her feet on the opposite side of the bed, screamed—high pitched piercing wails that made Lady Sebille fling herself around the bed.
Three. That was all she had time for, then the lady’s hand was over her mouth and the force of her body drove Clarice back into the bedside table, toppling two candles and leaving only one to light the chamber. But it was enough for her to see the fury in the face over hers. And fear the meat dagger that would soon be at her throat.