He smiled, looked past his wife. “You shall wed a sennight hence, Lady Laura?”
Determined to suppress her hurt over the revelation her father was aware she was to wed, Laura moved her thoughts to Tina’s assurance the gown would soon be completed. It was beautiful—albeit extravagantly so—the maid having worked its embroidery down the bodice into the waist and skirts.
“Aye, in a sennight.”
He nodded. “Your daughter has grown much since last I saw her.”
“She was but three when you gave Lady Maude and me aid en route to Castle Soaring. Now she is nine.”
“I was sorry to hear of the lady’s passing.”
“Her loss is much felt, especially by Clarice.”
“It was obvious she adored the lady and was adored in return.”
He could not know how much, few being aware Maude had been Clarice’s grandmother—only Michael, his wife, and now the queen.
Laura nodded and, catching sight of the physician coming off the stairs, motioned him forward.
During his ascent of the dais, she felt tension rise, not only from Lady Beata but her husband, and a glance at the two confirmed it. Before them was the man who had performed Lothaire’s examination to prove Lady Beata was untouched.
As though unaware the Marshals did not welcome him, he said, “Lady Laura, Baron Soames wishes me to inform you the service for his father will be conducted an hour hence after the family has privately shown its respects.”
Feeling for Lady Beata’s discomfort, Laura said, “I thank you, Martin.”
He dipped his head, then ignoring her dismissal, set his regard on Lady Beata. “I see the Lord has blessed you with what we must pray is a boy.”
Slowly, as if exercising control, Baron Marshal leaned forward. “Must we, Physician?”
Had the man been oblivious to the tension before, he could not be now. But more the fool, he said, “’Twill be a sign your marriage is blessed.”
“And if ’tis a girl?” the baron said with great measure.
The physician raised his palms in what seemed a gesture of helplessness. “Displeasure, the birth of another Daughter of Eve being God’s attempt to correct a woman’s—occasionally a man’s—path.”
Never had Laura seen a man so fast upon his feet. Ere the physician’s mouth was fully agape, the neck of his tunic was in Marshal’s fist and his face flecked by the spit of a threat more growl than words. “I have not forgotten, you bag of pus and bones.”
“Baron Marshal!” Laura nearly upended her chair as she thrust upright, which was no match for the speed with which the warriors of Soames and Marshal rose to defend their lords.
But though hands gripped hilts, no blades were drawn. It seemed those who might either defend or set upon the physician understood he was unworthy of rending the peace—at the moment.
Amid the silence, Lady Beata touched her husband’s sleeve, the fine fabric of which bulged with muscles surely capable of flinging the physician far from the dais. “He is of so little consequence it requires but a slap from a Daughter of Eve to render him speechless, Durand. Pray, release him ere he soils himself and further dishonors his lord’s hospitality.”
A slow, deep breath further broadened her husband’s chest, then his high color began to recede. “You will not speak another word to my wife. Ever. You will not move your gaze within sight of her. Ever. You will not breathe the air she casts off. Ever. Do you understand, Martin?”
The physician’s throat convulsed, but were he trying to summon words, he failed.
“You may nod or shake your head,” the baron said. “Either will suffice, though one will see you all the worse for it.”
Hardly had the man bobbed his chin than a voice thundered across the hall, “Release the physician, Baron Marshal!”
Laura snapped her chin around, struggled for words to keep Lothaire’s sword from exiting its scabbard.
“A disagreement only,” Lady Beata’s husband said. “As we have come to terms…” He thrust Martin back, nearly toppling him, then gestured to his men to release their hilts.
“I am glad you appreciate the hospitality shown you, Baron,” Lothaire said and gestured to his own men.
As all resumed their seats, Lothaire looked to Laura.
She forced a smile she hoped would assure him he had not made a mistake in admitting the Marshals to his hall.
Next, he looked to the physician. Though the man had descended the dais, he had yet to distance himself from the warrior who could bleed him in the blink of an eye. He was surely dazed, though from the quick rise and fall of his shoulders he was coming back to himself well enough to gather anger to him.
“Martin,” Lothaire said, “my mother has returned to her chamber. Pray, attend her.”
The man stumbled forward, found his stride. “My lord, Baron Marshal—”
“You came to terms, did you not?”
“As forced upon me, my lord.”
“That is well with me. Now, my mother is distraught and in need of her medicinals.”
The man muttered something, stepped around his lord, and climbed the stairs.
“Baron Marshal,” Lothaire called, “I would speak with you abovestairs.”
The man looked to his wife.
“Go,” Lady Beata said. “Lady Laura makes for good company.”
And additional surety, Laura guessed. Her husband need not worry ill would befall his wife whilst Lothaire’s betrothed was as vulnerable to Marshal’s men as Lady Beata was to those of the Baron of Lexeter.
Durand Marshal bent and spoke something to his knight, then descended the dais and strode toward Lothaire.
“Fear not,” Lady Beata said as the two men mounted the stairs. “Methinks your betrothed is aware of his physician’s shortcomings and will not be surprised to learn my husband was provoked.”
As Laura hoped he would accept she had been provoked if ever Lady Raisa revealed Laura had slapped her.
“Once that is established,” the lady continued, “they can move on to Baron Soames’s questions about his father’s remains.”
Laura picked off a crust of her trencher, crumbled it. “As to where they were found?”
“Aye, that is the place to start.”
“Where were they found?”
The lady sighed. “Where first we ought to have looked.”
One could not be certain they were his father’s bones, they were so barren, nor his clothes, they were so deteriorated, but the heavy signet ring wrapped in a piece of embroidered linen and bound with a gold cord was of the house of Soames.
“It was found near his hand,” Durand Marshal said where he stood at the foot of the table upon which the casket sat. “Lady Beata restored it.”