Laura was relieved by her betrothed’s hand on her that pushed Simon toward the back of her mind, but she dreaded when her betrothed would ask more about Sir Piers’s breach of Castle Soaring’s walls. Even had she held close her recognition of Durand Marshal, it would have been of no benefit. Likely, the baron would have revealed their previous acquaintance, and it would have been ill of her not to prepare Lothaire. But what was done was done, and what was yet to be done had its own worries.
The inner bailey was not as populated as the outer, but scores of castle folk were assembled before the steps on either side of Sir Angus and Tina who had been given charge of Clarice.
Laura had discussed the day’s import with her daughter, and like Lothaire had not told it was by murder the old baron met his end. Clarice had been inquisitive, but Tina had distracted her with talk of which gown was best suited for so sorrowful an occasion and how she would fashion the girl’s hair to make her appear more a young woman than a child.
It had not been mere talk. Even at a distance Clarice presented more as a lady in the making than a girl. Thus, it was unlikely Baron Marshal would recognize her. And neither would Clarice recognize him, having been three years aged when, fastened more often to Lady Maude’s side than Laura’s, she had accompanied them to Castle Soaring.
Still, it would not be long ere the knight whose marriage had elevated him to a great title guessed the girl’s identity. Hopefully, he would be discreet so Laura would not have to evade her daughter’s questions.
At the center of the inner bailey, Laura became aware of Lothaire’s tightening grip and followed his gaze to the window where she had first glimpsed Sebille when she herself arrived at High Castle. The lady was there again—as were the physician and Lady Raisa.
Laura shuddered, certain the latter’s eyes were upon her, then more violently at the realization of how long they may have been upon her daughter.
“Laura?”
She swung her gaze to Lothaire. “Your mother is out of bed.”
“So she may watch her husband’s return. If she is strong enough, she shall attend the service.”
Laura nearly protested, chilling at the thought of standing on one side of him whilst his mother stood on the other. And unless she could summon a viable excuse to keep Clarice away, her daughter would be too near that woman.
“She loathes me,” Laura whispered.
“As told, she is not pleased by our marriage, but you need not fear her.”
Laura almost laughed.
“She knows how important our union is to Lexeter,” he continued, “and understands that if she does not properly conduct herself as my father’s widow, she will be removed from the service.”
Of little consolation.
“For everyone concerned, I have determined it best I escort her and my sister to the service. Hence, Clarice and you and Baron Marshal and his wife shall enter last and remain at the rear of the chapel.”
Of some consolation. Though tempted to look to the window again, Laura kept her eyes upon his. “I agree that is best.”
Moments later, Tina stepped back to allow her mistress to take her place alongside Clarice on whose other side stood Sir Angus.
“Oh,” her daughter breathed, “I thought Lord Soames fair handsome, but Baron Marshal is more so.”
Laura did not like her nine-year-old noting such a thing, but considering Clarice had shared a kiss with Donnie, she ought not be surprised.
“Is that his wife, Mother?”
As the lady reined in, her mount danced its backside around. “Aye, Lady Beata.”
“She is pretty, I suppose, but not at all like the ladies woven into tapestries who are as beautiful as their lovers are handsome.”
Though the volume of Clarice’s voice was discreet enough to escape their guests, Laura said, “Do not speak such.”
“’Tis true, but they did not hear me. And look, she is a bit fat.”
“Enough!” Lothaire growled, peering past Laura.
“Pardon,” Clarice muttered. And once more Laura felt inadequate—and irritated by his interference. But only for a moment. Baron Marshal had dismounted and lifted his wife down. Had Lothaire not silenced Clarice, whatever else gaily skipped across her tongue might have been heard.
As husband and wife approached, Laura’s dismay slipped at the sight that caused her daughter to believe the lady carried too much weight. She did, but it was not her own, and it was confined to her waist and hips. Within a two-month, the Marshals would be parents.
Beside Laura, Clarice caught her breath, evidence she also realized Lady Beata was with child.
“You are to be congratulated,” Lothaire said when the two halted before him. “By summer’s end you shall have a babe in arms.”
Lady Beata touched her belly. “If I birth early, which is very possible with twins.”
“Twins? How know you?”
Her smile revealed more of the small gap between her front teeth than Laura had earlier glimpsed. “Until a month past, we thought it one large babe, but now the movement is so vigorous I find myself kicked by three and four feet at once. Too, the midwife confirms the beat of two hearts.”
“We are pleased for you.”
Lady Beata inclined her head. “As we are pleased for your pending nuptials, Baron Soames.” She moved her regard to Laura. “We shall pray this time next year you are with child.”
The start of Laura’s own smile was genuine. Its end was not. She wished to give Lothaire an heir, but the getting of one meant overcoming fear of what she had only ever experienced as violation—remembrance of which had caused her to tear herself out of Lothaire’s arms last eve.
For that, she must reveal the truth of Clarice ere their nuptial night. He must understand it was not him she rejected but the violence that made memories spread through her like disease. Surely then he would go more slowly, be more gentle and, perhaps, come to love her again. If he believed what she told.
Durand Marshal’s wife set a hand on Laura’s arm. “I am glad to meet you, my lady.”
“As I am to meet you.” Laura cleared her throat. “This is my daughter, Clarice.”
Lady Beata looked to her. “I thought you must be. You are as lovely as your mother.”
Clarice curtsied. “I thank you, my lady.”
Lest the girl claim she had her father’s eyes as she was wont to do when resemblance to her mother was noted, Laura said, “I am sure you must be fatigued after your long journey, Lady Beata.”
“Indeed, we are.”
“Baron Marshal,” Lothaire returned to the conversation, “my betrothed will ensure your party’s comfort whilst my men and I tend to my father.”
Laura caught the narrowing of the baron’s eyes on the upper window ere he returned his regard to Lothaire. Did he sense danger? Did he fear for his wife whose family was responsible for the loss of the man whose wife and daughter watched?
His hand was not on sword or dagger, but she did not doubt his mind was ready to give the command. He could not be pleased Lady Beata accompanied him, especially in her pregnant state, but for that his escort surely numbered more than it would otherwise—and would not enter the donjon were they asked to disarm. Blessedly, it seemed that would not be required of them.
“Laura?” Lothaire prompted.
Glimpsing the vulnerable youth in his eyes, she smiled reassuringly, said, “I shall see to their comfort,” and led the way into the great hall.
Chapter 19