by Tamara Leigh
He opened his eyes, stared at Laura’s hand on his knee, then set a hand over hers.
“Forever,” Sebille repeated.
He looked from her to the man over her shoulder. “All this you knew, Father Atticus?”
“Upon your sister’s return to High Castle, she needed someone to confide in and chose a man of God who could keep her secret whilst praying for and counseling her. However, only this day have I learned those things she did in hopes of permanently removing your mother from High Castle. Though I do not condone them, I understand her desperation. And now I can tell you it was not only Lady Raisa’s disapproval of how near you drew to me that led to my departure from High Castle. Though your mother was unaware Sebille and I knew the circumstances of her birth, oft I corrected her behavior toward her daughter until…” His eyes moistened. “…she cursed me, near shouted down the chapel, and pushed me so hard against the altar I fell.”
Lothaire felt Laura jerk. Certain she recalled his mother’s attack on her, he squeezed her hand.
“Still, I would have stayed at High Castle had Lady Raisa not demanded I leave,” the priest continued. “So I might remain near should Sebille and you need me, I went only as far as Thistle Cross. Blessedly, Sir Angus and others of your father’s knights were discreet in arranging for me to meet with Sebille from time to time—and you as your relationship with your mother grew strained.”
Lothaire remembered. The priest had listened, advised, and prayed for him. And the wary boy he had become following his father’s disappearance had known not to reveal those meetings to his mother.
“I did what I could,” Father Atticus said. “As I do what I can now.”
There was no question he cared for the siblings, just as there was no doubt the years of Lady Raisa’s vengeance had damaged Sebille. For that, the priest worried over the family Lothaire now had with Laura and to which they would add. For that, he believed Sebille ought to enter a convent.
“Do you remember when I left High Castle, Lothaire?” his sister asked.
“Aye, I missed you, felt your absence and Father’s all the more for how difficult Mother became. She was angry and often at tears, and never had she spent so much time with me as she did whilst you were gone. It seemed I could go nowhere without her following and assuring me of her love for me and mine for her. Though I did not wish to be carried, oft she fixed me on her hip as if I were a babe.”
Sebille’s tear-swollen face convulsed.
“I was pleased to discover I could sooner climb down from her did I ask when Father and you would return. Then, finally, you came home.” That was something he remembered clearly—barreling into his sister and hearing the click of prayer beads that would sound from her person thereafter. “It seemed like months you were gone.”
“’Twas a fortnight. For as much as I cried, it felt months to me as well. When Lady Raisa arrived at the convent and said Father had decided I should not give my life in service to the Lord and had sent her to collect me, I tried to hide how frightened I was since I had vowed not to reveal I knew the truth of my birth. Though in the presence of the abbess she behaved as if pleased by our reunion, her eyes were cold. Still, I thought if I tried very hard I could make her love me again. Not until our return to High Castle did she reveal Father had never come home and said his disappearance was a result of fornication—that he had been with a mistress and the Lord punished him for sinning against his wife.”
Sebille pulled a hand down her face. “She watched me closely, as if I might reveal my knowledge he had gone to the woman who birthed me. I said he would surely return soon, and she revealed he had passed a night at the castle of Lady Beata’s family and not been seen since. She was certain ill had befallen him there.” She sighed. “So it did, though until a year past when we learned of his murder, ever I suspected her hand in his disappearance. I wronged her.”
Not as much as Raisa had wronged Sebille, Lothaire reflected. “She neglected you, reducing you to little more than a servant.”
His sister peered down her body that had been pleasingly plump as a girl and prettily curvaceous as she grew into gowns never again as fine as those worn whilst Raisa believed her a miracle. She had been lovely, but following her refusal to wed Angus she had become gaunt, face and figure trading softly rounded edges for sharp ones that made her appear sunken, golden-red hair dark and lax from too little grooming.
“And she lied,” she said low. “As did he about the night he exchanged his dead daughter for me.”
“What lie did Father tell, Sebille?”
“He…” Her eyes widened, and she gave a quick shake of her head. “Not Father—Mother. She lied.”
Hardly convincing, but Lothaire could see it was useless to press her. More, perhaps, it was too painful for her.
“But still I had you,” she said in a rush.
“Better, Sebille, you could have had Angus.”
She raised and dropped a shoulder. “Lady Raisa said he would be as faithless to me as my father was to her.”
“Tell me you did not believe her.”
“For how much he likes women, I thought it possible. And lo, has he not time and again betrayed me?”
Determined not to argue that since the knight and she had not exchanged vows it was not she whom Angus betrayed, Lothaire allowed, “He does like women, though that was never as apparent than when you refused his offer of marriage.”
She considered this. “Regardless, that is not why I would not wed him. Would you know the reason?”
“You said Mother required too much attention for you to be a good wife.”
“Aye, but more true was she would have made Angus and me miserable had we taken her to live with us at her dower property that you meant to give into his keeping. No marriage would that have been. True, you said she could remain at High Castle and you would hire a companion, but no life would that have been for you. Without me here to mop up her bitterness, I feared you would sink in it. And she would ruin you as she nearly ruined all of Lexeter.”
He retrieved her hand, squeezed it. “For love of me you refused Angus.”
“Love of you.”
“And thereafter, you ceased trying to regain Mother’s affection.”
“Finally, I accepted it was futile, and I was so angered by the years wasted on trying to love her back to me that I embraced her vengeance, mostly by way of little things that frustrated her. It was not to have lasted long, the physician having said her years were few. But they were not, Lothaire. I felt every one of them, though with each that passed I assured myself I was that much nearer a life with Angus.” She swallowed. “I know ’tis wrong, but I longed for her sickness to be as serious as she made it appear, for it to free the living of her. But only now that I have lost my youth and Angus no longer wants me are we freed.”
Lothaire wished he could assure her his knight would yet have her, but it could easily prove a lie. “Sebille, you know it was not only Lady Raisa’s illnesses that time and again turned me from sending her away.”
“It was concern for me—that you did not wish me to follow her—but I also know how great your sense of responsibility and faithfulness. Had she not family at her side, soon you would have brought her home, else taken the burden of her upon yourself, visiting often though you were needed at High Castle. Therefore, I committed to serving as a barrier between her and you here, and still I would be that if not for Lady Beata.”
He frowned. “Lady Beata?”
“Surely you remember how your mother railed over your refusal to contest the annulment?”
“I do.”
“It made me realize she was nowhere near the end of her miserable life. And when you said you must find a wife else the queen would force one on you, I knew that marriage would be as doomed as your first with Lady Edeva. It was no longer enough for me to serve as a barrier. I knew I must leave High Castle with Lady Raisa.”
Momentarily, she closed her eyes. “When she cursed Lady Beata in fron
t of Martin and me and bemoaned no one would rid her of the foul woman, I conceived the idea of assassins to which I would alert you so you could prevent the attack. Though the men hired to play the part were not to have been captured, it unfolded beautifully, convincing you of your mother’s duplicity. Thus, you were determined to send her away though I would accompany her. But she foiled me. Was it truly a stroke as Martin told? I but know it looked very different from what finally took her life. By the time she deigned to regain her strength, her offense and endangerment of Lexeter had faded sufficiently that once again you allowed her to remain. And my plans…”
“More plans, Sebille?”
“I would not have harmed her, but I believed her removal from High Castle would speed her passing.” She dropped her prayer beads, touched her fingers to her lips. “It sounds evil, and ever I pray for forgiveness, but I knew life would be better without one who made me want to sleep away every minute of every day.”
Lothaire turned her hand up and slid his fingers between hers. “Dear Sebille, I am sorry.”
She drew a shuddering breath. “If only Father had not exchanged his deformed daughter for me. If only Lady Raisa had not brought me out of the convent. A better, more useful life I would have led serving the Lord.”
That he could not dispute. “The men sent to attack the fleece stores were also pretense to move me to banish our—my—mother?” He hated having to correct himself, but it was surely best he cease associating Sebille with her tormentor.
“Aye, first Shepsdale, and when the hue and cry was raised, on to Thistle Cross. I thought the attempts to attack the wool, met with revelation of the assault on Lady Laura in her chamber would prove so dire you would accept your mother must be moved to her dower property. Indeed, I was so certain that I agreed to remain at High Castle. Though I knew it might be too late for Angus and me, I believed I would find happiness enough just being your sister and…” She glanced at Laura. “I thought if I became your friend, I could turn you back to Lothaire should you think to stray again.”
Though Laura had good reason to be offended, she leaned near and said, “Good, godly counsel I would welcome, my lady—to be reminded of how much I love your brother and he loves me—but I assure you never shall I want any other than Lothaire. As never have I wanted any other.”
Confusion grooved Sebille’s brow. “But the flesh is weak, Lady Laura. Is not your daughter testament to that?”
Laura’s hesitation made Lothaire tense, but she said, “I am ten years older, ten years wiser. I love and am loved, for which I thank the Lord and shall ever seek His guidance to ensure my vows remain as true as the day I spoke them.”
Sebille looked to Lothaire. “Already it is a good marriage?”
“It is beyond blessed.”
Her eyes brimmed. “Then more I am glad your mother shall no longer dwell at High Castle, though I vow I did not mean her to depart as she did.”
“This I know.”
She looked over her shoulder at the priest who inclined his head, then angled toward Laura. “There is something else of which I must be unburdened.”
“Aye, my lady?”
“I hated you for cuckolding my brother and hurting him so, but I mostly ceased years ago, thinking it emotion better spent on Lady Raisa than one he would not see again. Then it was you he brought home and the anger returned. And yet, I could not make it stick to you. It kept sliding off. Though you had the daughter to prove how ill you had treated my brother, the more I observed you, the more I found myself well disposed and thought you might make Lothaire happy if you would but remain faithful. But when I saw you with Angus—flirting with him…” At Laura’s gasp, she held up a hand. “I accept ’twas not your intention, but at the time I felt betrayed. And I wanted to punish you for fooling me.”
“Punish me?”
“Your wedding gown. It was not the dog. Nor was it Lady Raisa as I hoped you would suspect were you unconvinced Tomas was the ruin of it.”
“You burned it?” Lothaire said sharply.
Her eyes swept to him. “I had no choice.”
He breathed deep, managed one word. “Why?”
“When it was so perfectly stitched and embellished it was certain not to be worn until the wedding day, I rubbed foxglove over the bodice’s lining.” She returned her gaze to Laura. “I wished you to be terribly uncomfortable on the day you wed, not only as retribution for cuckolding my brother but that it serve as a reminder of the vows you spoke when next you thought to betray him. But in undoing the pearls and beads, you touched that tainted fabric ere you should have.”
Laura studied her hands. Though they no longer evidenced affliction, she surely recalled the pain and likely wondered how much worse it would have felt upon her chest and abdomen. “The physician believed it was in the garden I came into contact with foxglove.”
Sebille’s shoulders sank further. “I am ashamed to say it, but I was pleased by what I wrought, that it was no mere itch or discomfort you suffered. And further pleased knowing the shame the physician would impart, since he oft diagnoses rashes as sexual disease ungodly women inflict upon men. But when I realized the gown would be suspect were you further afflicted, I knew I must burn it and find another means of ruining your wedding night.”
Lothaire ground his teeth.
His wife drew a deep breath. “I do not understand how you could have set the fire, Lady Sebille. Shortly after I entered the hall, you came from the high table.”
Lothaire’s sister nodded. “From your window, I watched for your return to the donjon. When you appeared in the bailey, I tipped the chair, draped the gown over the brazier, and slipped belowstairs. You were so occupied you did not see me. Thus, I made it appear I approached from the dais. So you would think that mangy dog responsible—or Lady Raisa—I soon withdrew abovestairs to raise the alarm ere the fire got out of control.”
Laura nodded slowly. “You say you meant to find another means of ruining my wedding night.”
“I did, but unbeknownst to Sir Angus, he persuaded me to leave you be. The day ere your wedding, I accused him of pursuing you.”
In the garden, Lothaire realized, recalling the conversation to which he had been privy.
“He claimed never would he betray my brother, but were he so foul to do so, you would not want him—that one had only to see how you gazed upon him to know ’tis with love. Though I feared he was as fooled as I thought myself, for Lothaire’s sake I longed for him to be right. But at the shearing supper…”
“What of it, Sebille?” Lothaire asked.
“I saw her slip away, and thinking she went to a lover, determined she had only herself to blame did she encounter the men sent to threaten the stores at Thistle Cross.” She turned back to Laura. “When I learned ’twas Lothaire you were to meet, I thought I would die. Sir Angus was proven right, my plans exposed you to danger, and more, my brother might soon find himself in the path of those men.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, as I am for frightening your daughter. I like her for how fond she is of my brother and how hard she tries to please him. Indeed, she reminds me of my younger self.”
This Lothaire remembered—how hard Sebille the girl had tried to please the woman who no longer believed her worthy of worship.
“We have much in common—born outside of marriage, longing for a father, seeking a mother’s love. I was nine when I lost all. She is nine when what is lost might yet be found.” She bit her lip. “I did not mean her harm, but when she screamed I was confused and needed time to determine how to mend what was broken. I so ached to keep hold of my brother’s affection as ’tis all the love I have. Do I still, Lothaire?”
“Ever you shall, Sebille. Naught can change that.”
She gave a little sob, drew his hand to her mouth, and kissed his knuckles.
Lothaire pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. “How I wish you had told me this years ago. Did you think I would no longer care for you?”
She gulped. �
�I knew only that I was dirty, as Lady Raisa made me feel from the moment she rejected the daughter she had loved.”
He tipped up her face, and just as he had assured Laura at the lake, said, “You were never dirty. You were wronged. Now tell me what I can do to help you.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Father Atticus and I believe I would be content at the convent of Bairnwood Abbey. He tells the abbess who administered that place when our father left me there yet lives. She was very kind.” She lifted her prayer beads. “These were hers, but too long for a girl, so she cut the necklace and gave me half.”
He forced a smile. “That was kind of her. But are you certain you wish to leave your home?”
“Dear Lothaire, this has not been my home since Father took me away. Thus, I would return to where I was born and should have remained. All I ask is that you visit, and when I am better, bring your wife and children.”
“Of course,” he said, unashamed by how choked he sounded. “You shall be missed.”
She eased out of his hold. “I would leave on the morrow.”
“So soon?”
“I am glad it seems that to you, but ’tis a long time coming for me, and I prefer not to be here when Lady Raisa is put in the ground alongside our father. Though I shall pray my heart softens enough that one day I forgive her, I am not able to now. And ’tis hard to bear even the thought of her being nearer our father than I am.”
“As you will.”
She drew a sharp breath. “I have something that should ease your financial difficulties, allowing you to spend more time with your family.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“The coins and valuables Lady Raisa hid when you took control of the barony—that which she used to purchase what Lexeter’s coffers could no longer supply—and from which I took to work ill in her name.”
Minutes later, the removal of the sill of a candle recess to the right of the one which held the peek door revealed the stash. The space was nearly as wide as Lothaire’s forearm was long and twice as deep. Inside were two pouches of coins, a box of jewelry that included the replacement signet ring his mother had refused to yield, all manner of silver service, a small tapestry woven through with gold thread, a finely wrought misericorde, and a dozen leather-bound books. Some of these had been in the family for generations, but most were purchased by Lady Raisa following her husband’s disappearance.