Lothaire returned his regard to those nearing the drawbridge, considered the one who had wed Lady Beata after him. “By what name do you know him?”
“Sir Piers,” she said almost too low to catch over the stir of those gathered in the outer bailey behind. “’Twas the name he gave Lady Maude and me when our carriage was lamed en route to Castle Soaring six years past. For his kindness in aiding us, Lord D’Arci permitted him a night’s lodging and…” She trailed off.
As she pondered whatever stole her words, jealousy spurted through Lothaire. He was not surprised there had been other visits to Michael D’Arci’s home, but learning this now roused him.
“Ah,” she said. “It has been so many years I near forgot.”
“What?”
“Later, I learned he was in disguise, having disabled our carriage to gain entry to Castle Soaring so he might do the bidding of his lord, Baron Wulfrith. Michael had imprisoned the man’s sister, Lady Beatrix, believing she murdered Si—”
She closed her mouth, and what appeared to be guilt flashed in her eyes before she averted them.
The clop of hooves on the drawbridge that would soon sound with the rumble of wheels sought to drag Lothaire’s gaze back to the procession, but he was too near something she clearly did not wish him near. “You say Simon was murdered?”
Laura shook her head. “Though Lady Maude and I journeyed to Castle Soaring so she could face the woman responsible for her son’s death, it proved an accident had taken his life.” She returned her gaze to Baron Marshal. “I had heard Durand was the real name of Sir Piers but did not consider he and this one were the same.”
Now the wagon was on the drawbridge, and Lothaire gave his attention to the bearer of his father’s remains.
Shortly, Baron Marshal and the lady who had been Beata Soames for a brief time, reined in before Lothaire and Laura where they stood before the raised portcullis.
“Baron Marshal, Lady Beata,” Lothaire said, and wished his voice did not sound so tight. “Though a grim duty brings you to High Castle, you are welcome.”
Durand inclined his head, but the outspoken Beata said, “’Tis grim, indeed, but the least owed your family. My father sends his regrets that he cannot be here. Most unfortunate, illness sees him abed many a day.”
That might be true, but Lothaire suspected it was more than that. Her father had concealed the murder and location of the remains. Now, just as the man had compelled his daughter to wed the son of a murdered man, he expected her to shoulder this burden.
As when Lothaire had risen above anger and come right of mind, realizing he also wronged the lady, he regretted this fell to her. And yet, from what he knew of Lady Beata, she would have insisted on accompanying the procession even were her father present.
“I shall pray your sire recovers,” he said. He did not like the man, but he did not wish him ill.
“I apologize for the delay,” Durand Marshal spoke. “Shortly after we crossed into Lexeter, your people began following, and ’tis a long walk.”
“I am grateful you slowed to allow them to keep pace,” Lothaire said.
The baron inclined his head, looked to Laura. “Last Sunday, I had business upon your sire’s demesne and heard the banns read for your marriage.”
She stiffened, and Lothaire guessed she had not considered the announcement must not only be made upon Lexeter but her father’s lands to ensure any who wished to contest the union had the opportunity to come forward. That Lothaire had arranged as well. Though he had not expected to hear from the one who had disavowed his daughter, might Laura wonder about it? Hurt over her father’s silence?
Lothaire set a hand on her shoulder. “I understand you are acquainted with my betrothed.”
The baron’s mouth curved. “We met many years ago and under false—albeit necessary—pretenses.”
Grateful Laura had not left him in the dark, Lothaire said, “You called yourself Sir Piers.”
“Aye, the easier to save Lady Beatrix Wulfrith from Michael D’Arci of Castle Soaring. Blessedly, that lady did not need saving. Not only was she in love but loved.”
“A story I would like to hear, but it will have to wait. Now my father is returned, he is to be laid to rest this day.”
The baron’s eyebrows rose. “This day?”
“Another few days may seem naught in the more than twenty years since he breathed his last, but it is too many for his family. And as Lexeter’s people have gathered to pay their respects, a better day could not be had. Too, should your wife and you wish to attend the burial, ’tis convenient.”
“I think it a good thing.” This from Lady Beata, followed by a soft, prettily gapped smile that hardly detracted from her loveliness. “As we would not impose upon your grief by passing the night at High Castle, it also benefits us.”
Lothaire was relieved it would not be necessary to offer lodgings that would distress Sebille and his mother—best for both his family and the Marshals who would not sleep easy beneath High Castle’s roof.
“As my mother is ill,” he said, “the casket will be placed in the donjon chapel where she and my sister may attend the service to be held once you are refreshed with food and drink. Then my father will be taken to the village of Thistle Cross and interred in the churchyard with his forebears.”
“That is well with us,” Baron Marshal said.
Lothaire took Laura’s arm, and the villagers gathered in the outer bailey crowded left and right to allow the procession to pass.
As Lothaire led his betrothed forward, the heads of those on the ground bowed, but the same could not be said of the men on the walls. As instructed, the castle garrison were to save their prayers until Baron Marshal and his warriors departed. Not that Lothaire believed they presented a threat, but danger was most effective when it was not perceived as such. That he had learned long ago, but even better during Abel Wulfrith’s instruction at Wulfen Castle that, surprisingly, was not all to do with the swing and thrust of a blade. Much was strategy and tactics discussed at night during patrol of the walls or demonstrated over games of chess.
That last made Lothaire grimace. Never had he spilled as much blood upon a checkered board than when it was Abel’s brother who sat across from him—Everard who had devoted several afternoons to training Lothaire in a darkened cellar. There he had honed his pupil’s senses of hearing, smell, taste, and instinct despite Lothaire’s initial objections to what seemed a child’s game of Find Me. That it certainly was not.