“Lothaire,” she spoke his name, and doves to the left and right responded with a whisper of wings.
She slid down the wall onto her knees, clasped her hands before her, and prayed for what only the Lord could grant. “For Clarice’s sake above all, Lothaire’s next, mine last, help me find the right moment and words to fix what I did not mean to break. Show me your arms are not so full you cannot hold all of us.”
Another quarter hour she sought the Lord’s arms and would have continued seeking had she not heard a familiar voice ask after her.
She pushed upright and opened the door as Michael D’Arci reached for it.
Concern on his torch-lit brow, he searched her up and down. “My lady wife thinks you gone too long. She sent me to see you returned to the donjon.”
During Lothaire and Michael’s hour-long discussion of Lexeter’s wool operation, Laura and Lady Beatrix had spoken of small things while Clarice occupied the D’Arci children and, later, carried them abovestairs to bed.
After Lothaire excused himself to find his own rest, Laura had told Soaring’s lady she wished a walk before withdrawing to her chamber. Lady Beatrix had offered to join her, but Laura had declined. Doubtless, the lady eschewed her own bed to ensure her guest returned safely.
“She is kind to worry over me.” Laura stepped from the dovecote and closed the door.
“She is my prize in heaven come to Earth,” Michael said, a smile in his voice.
Inwardly sighing over the love shared by him and his wife, she hesitated when he offered his arm. Then assuring herself she would not feel the stomach-churning discomfort experienced with her three rejected suitors each time she forced herself to accept their touch or extend hers, she laid her hand on his forearm and walked beside him.
Neither spoke until they passed beneath the raised portcullis into the inner bailey and the donjon was before them.
“Why have you not told him?” Michael asked.
She faltered, and he turned to face her. “You revealed the truth of Clarice to the queen. Why not Lord Soames?”
She dropped her hand from him and averted her gaze.
A finger beneath her chin returned her eyes to his. “Do you fear him, Laura?”
His question reminded her of the talk they had before she went to court. She had told him what she had witnessed between Clarice and the son of his older brother, Joseph, which awakened her to the necessity of removing her daughter from Owen. When she apologized for overreacting lest Michael believe that of her, he became angry, though not with her, and said the gift of fear was given by the Lord and one should open it as soon as it appeared. And how she wished she had when it was given her the day she descended to the cellar where Simon cornered her.
“Do you fear Soames, Laura?”
She shook her head. “Not that he will do me physical harm, but I do fear for my heart.”
“You love him still.”
“Aye, and the mere thought I may never again have any part of his heart hurts mine.”
“Then why not reveal to him that revealed to the queen?”
“I needed Eleanor. Though certain she would not give aid to a harlot, I hoped she would help a wronged woman with whom she shares blood.”
“I believe you must tell him, Laura. Though he is bitter, methinks I like him better than the first time we met. And were he without honor, I do not believe anything would persuade Abel Wulfrith to instruct him in arms.”
Laura had wondered how far his conversation with Lothaire had strayed from talk of sheep. “He received training at Wulfen?”
“Indeed. A rarity for one who has earned his spurs, but it speaks well of him that a Wulfrith, especially Abel, expended so much effort reserved for boys and young men. And well that your betrothed is not so prideful he refused the opportunity to better his skill at arms. Doubtless, he has suffered humiliation to be a grown man training amongst squires.”
It did speak well of Lothaire, but not so well she was ready to reveal the true circumstances of Clarice’s conception, especially the part she had played—that which might not condemn her in Michael’s eyes but would likely condemn her in Lothaire’s.
Laura gathered breath. “I have prayed over revealing to him what happened at Owen, but ever I come back to the lack of proof and that for ten years I offered none. Now to tell the tale of a man who cannot defend himself for how long he has been in the grave? Most convenient, my betrothed will say.”
“You but kept your word to my stepmother, which you should not have given.”
“I could not injure her more than already she was by the truth of her son. She was ever kind to me, like the mother I did not have. When my father disavowed me and would not provide funds for me to enter a convent and hide my shame, she remained steadfast. And what of you? Have you not suffered knowing the truth?”
“Not as much as I would now suffer were it never told. Do not forget that Simon’s depravity nearly lost me the woman I love.”
He spoke true, but still he had been deeply pained to learn his beloved brother had become a stranger—the same as Simon had become to Laura during his knighthood training.
“I would not wish my brother’s sin cast wide like seed upon fertile soil,” he said, “but if any ought to be told, it is the man from whom my brother stole what was most precious.”
“I agree, but I do not know Lothaire will believe me, and if ever he should, certainly not now. Mayhap once I have proven a good and faithful wife.”
“Laura, though I could not clearly see Baron Soames kiss your hand, methinks that is a man who still loves even if he does not know it or wish it. He may not believe you now, but I think it the place to start, and ere you wed. If he requires proof, I will stand witness, as will my lady wife.”
She drew a shuddering breath. “I know not when, but I shall tell him.”
He squeezed her shoulder. It was so reminiscent of when her world had been bright and he was the big brother denied her when she was sent to live distant from those of her blood, that Laura lurched forward and put her arms around his neck and pressed her face to his shoulder.
He went very still, and she knew he questioned the appropriateness of her embrace, but he set a hand between her shoulder blades and patted her back.
She did not mean to cry, but she could feel the rise of that emotion that made being awake so difficult. As if sensing it, he said with teasing, “You should know my sweet wife has threatened Lord Soames with bodily harm if he causes Clarice or you unhappiness.”
She lifted her head, blinked away tears. “Lady Beatrix said she would hurt him?”
“Aye.” He chuckled. “Though forsooth, I would be her instrument of revenge. And her brothers.”
Her laughter was weak, but it was sincere, and it calmed the emotions seeking to tip her into misery.
“You are a good man, Michael D’Arci. I am glad you have been blessed to be so loved.”
“I pray the same for you.”
Her smile wavered, but she took his arm again and, with a lighter step, crossed the bailey.