The woman turned.
“Will Baron Marshal and his wife require a chamber? If so, I will have to do some shifting to accommodate them.”
“Nay, they will not pass the night at High Castle. Our hospitality does not extend that far to the family responsible for the murder of a beloved father.”
Laura inclined her head. “I understand.” And she did mostly. Though the baron and his wife had not murdered Ricard Soames, their presence would likely pick at the scab of a twenty-year-old wound. Were the Marshals to pass the night here, that scab might be torn off—if not by Lothaire, then his mother who was not as infirm as her daughter believed and could attempt to do worse to those of the barony of Wiltford than what she had done to Laura.
“If possible,” Lady Sebille said, “I shall return belowstairs to aid you. Much depends on how the Lady of Lexeter receives the tidings.” Her brow furrowed. “Lest she requires calming, I must alert the physician.”
He who was no more receptive to Laura and her daughter than when they were first introduced, continuing to exude such disapproval that Laura's prayers for Clarice’s continued good health had become lengthier.
Laura watched Lothaire’s sister go from sight, then considered enlisting Tina’s aid, but the woman’s time was better spent on the wedding gown—that which would be removed on the nuptial night that too rapidly approached.
She pulled her thoughts back, looked upon the hall with an eye to setting it aright for Lothaire whom she would not have shamed amid the grieving to come.
“This one we call Grandmother.”
Clarice frowned. “Grandmother?”
“She is the matriarch. First we deal with her, then the others follow.” Lothaire smiled. “Fortunately, she and I are of an understanding.” It was an overstatement, for the old ewe had tried his patience and bruised him many times, but he appreciated the challenge, poor substitute though it was for the heft and swing of a sword.
The girl took a step back that placed her to the left and behind Lothaire. “She glares at me.”
“Heed her well, Lady Clarice. Just watch, hmm?”
She snorted. “I have no intention of going nearer. She is so filthy I can smell her stink from this distance.”
“Hence, our purpose in moving the sheep here.” He jutted his chin at the clear-water stream temporarily dammed to form a pool, this portion chosen for its considerable width and graveled bottom that aided in cleaning the sheep without introducing more dirt stirred by the muck found farther downstream.
“It seems a lot of trouble when you could wash the fleece after ’tis sheared,” Clarice observed as did many who did not understand the business of wool.
“It would save some time and effort,” Lothaire allowed, “but this way there is less waste—meaning higher yield and greater revenue.”
The girl wrinkled her nose. “If I watch, my debt is paid?”
“Watch and learn. What we do here keeps food in your belly and shoes on your feet.”
“What of gowns?”
He glanced at the one she wore. It was too fine for the work of wool—even if only in the capacity of observation—but when he had suggested she change into something simpler, she told this was her least favorite since she had nearly outgrown it. It was tight and showed more of her ankles than would be permissible were she older. Hence, all the more reason not to waste good coin on expensive fabric for the garments of a rapidly growing child.
“Aye, gowns as well, Lady Clarice, though I warn you the cloth will not be as fine as you are accustomed to.”
Her brow lined. “I like pretty things.”
As did Lady Raisa whose indulgences following the disappearance of her husband were largely responsible for Lexeter’s decline. “I imagine that is a taste acquired from your mother. Her gowns are exceedingly fine.”
Clarice shook her head. “She hardly cares, though ever she pretended she was pleased with Lady Maude’s gifts so she did not hurt her feelings.”
Eager as Lothaire was to lead the workers in cleaning the sheep, his impatience slowed to a crawl. “Your mother does not like her finery?”
“I believe she likes it, but I do not think she would be terribly bothered were she reduced to homespun cloth.”
Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I am sorry there is strife between the two of you. I am guessing the loss of Lady Maude has been difficult for both.”
She heaved a sigh. “Lady Maude was as a mother to me. Now she is gone, all is changed. I have lost my home and my friend. For it I have gained a mother who tries too hard to replace Lady Maude, and you who I do not believe is truly pleased to become a father to me.” She raised an eyebrow. “Nor to wed my mother.”
He ought to like that she was so frank, providing insight into the Laura he no longer knew—had he ever—but it made him feel as much a fraud as she believed her mother to be. “Like many a noble marriage, ours will be of great benefit to our land and people, but that does not mean affection will not grow from our union, nor that I am incapable of caring for another man’s child.” Those last words he had not carefully chosen, but he contained his dismay—blessedly, for the girl watched him with the eyes of one more mature than her years.
But then she rolled them. “Donnie is right. ’Tis good I am misbegotten so I may choose love over affection.”
Lothaire frowned. “Donnie?”
“My friend, the son and heir of Lady Maude’s eldest stepson, Joseph D’Arci.” She lowered her lashes. “Actually, more than a friend.”
Lothaire did not like the conversation’s turn. Ignoring the men and women who waited for him to escort Grandmother into the stream, he said, “I am sorry you lost your friend. How old is he?”
“Near on twelve. Though I did not see him often once he was fostered away from Owen for his squire’s training, we spent time together when he returned home, and more this last visit ere my mother determined she must seek a husband.”
He clenched his teeth to keep from prompting her, remembering how his own mother’s prompts had roused suspicion and resentment, causing the youth he had been to close up. And still he closed up when Lady Raisa pressed him.
“Methinks she became jealous, and that is why we had to leave Owen.” Clarice’s eyes widened. “The argument you happened upon our first day at High Castle was of Donnie.”
“For that you raised a hand to your mother?” Even to Lothaire’s ears his disapproval was rampant.
She flushed. “I would not have struck her.”
“Aye, you would have. I felt the force in your arm, Clarice.” Though he longed to ask what had caused her to strike her mother later, he determined not to speak of it lest she believe Laura had revealed the assault.
She groaned. “I know ’twas wrong, but she frustrates me.”
“You will have to learn to control your frustration. I will not tolerate disrespect of your mother.”