It was so clean and polished Lothaire could only guess what twenty years in the moist earth would have done to the ring whose revelation had caused his mother more distress than the bones she had been determined to look upon. And Sebille…
Though Raisa had insisted her daughter view the remains, Lothaire’s sister had refused and asked Sir Angus to assist her to a bench. They were still there to the left of the altar, and though in shadow, Baron Marshal’s Wulfen training was evident the moment he entered the chapel. As when Lothaire had sensed Laura’s presence on the night past, even sooner Lady Beata’s husband had sensed Sebille’s and Angus’s though they were more distant.
Lothaire closed his fingers around his father’s ring he was not ready to place on his own hand. “I am grateful for your wife’s kindness, Baron Marshal.”
The man inclined his head. There was an air of expectation about him, but were he waiting for his host to demand he defend his encounter with the physician, he would wait forever. Lothaire required no further explanation beyond that deduced when his mother’s collapse brought him belowstairs in search of the physician.
He had tolerated Martin for years. Though the man was as near a confidant as Raisa had, he did not like women. Hence, all the greater Lothaire’s offense against Lady Beata by insisting she prove herself chaste. Following the examination, she had slapped the physician, and though he had denied offending her, Lothaire had known better then as he knew better now. When Lady Raisa retired to her dower property, the physician would go with her and another physician would be found for High Castle. One more expense, but worth it.
“Now,” Lothaire said, “I would know where Lady Beata’s father buried mine all those years ago.”
“The answer is unexpected,” Baron Marshal said. “He did not bury your sire.”
Lothaire glanced into the casket whose contents were so lacking substance it was hard to believe that beneath the material of the fine pall provided by the Marshals was the tall, broad frame that had supported Ricard Soames.
“Who buried him?” he asked.
“His wife, Lady Beata’s mother.”
She who, witness to her nephew’s murder of their guest, had dragged the body to a corner of the garden and dug a grave to hold it until her husband returned from his travels to better conceal the crime.
“You are saying he was never moved from the garden,” Lothaire said and heard his sister’s sharp breath. “Your wife’s father did not bury him distant from the castle as told.”
“He did not, and methinks he would have taken the truth to his own grave had I not ordered the garden razed and a new one constructed at the rear of the donjon so my wife might find peace and rest out of doors.”
Which was not possible in that place where, as a very young girl, she had witnessed the atrocity.
“So we are here with hope that what was broken can be mended to ensure lasting peace between our families, Baron Soames.”
Though it was enough for Lothaire, it would not suffice for Raisa. But of greater import, would it be enough for Sebille?
Lothaire looked around, wished he could see more than her slight figure alongside Angus. Not that he required her consent, but he wished it. When she remained unmoving, he returned his attention to Durand. “The Soames are at peace with you and your wife’s family, as begun when I did not oppose annulment of my marriage to Lady Beata.”
“We are grateful. I know this cannot be easy.”
It was more difficult than anticipated, Lothaire having believed himself too young upon his father’s disappearance to grieve deeply. But though he knew his loss was not as deep as Sebille’s, from the moment he caught sight of the procession delivering their father home, he had hurt—and more as blurred memories sharpened. His father might not have loved his wife, his marriage one of convenience, but he had adored the daughter made with her, and perhaps even the son.
“Once he is in consecrated ground,” he said, “we can better leave the past where it belongs.”
“Have you further questions for me, Baron Soames?” Marshal asked.
Feeling the edges of the signet ring, Lothaire said, “I am satisfied as much as I can be. Pray, give your wife my apologies for taking you from her side and assure her there will be as little delay as possible between the chapel mass and the burial so you may sooner begin your journey home.”
The baron dipped his head and strode from the chapel.
“Under their noses all these years,” Sebille said when the door closed.
Lothaire turned and saw her snatch her arm against her side when Angus tried to assist her to standing, causing the prayer beads she had surely been working her fingers over to clatter as they fell down her skirt.
“So great a risk was it to leave him there,” he said, “I never seriously considered it might be our father’s resting place.”
“Rest,” she hissed as she advanced. “For over twenty years he has cried out to bring him home and avenge—”
“Say no more,” Lothaire commanded. “’Tis over.”
She halted alongside him. “Is it?”
He set a hand on her shoulder. “The man who did this is long dead, and by his own hand, so great was his remorse.” As Lothaire learned whilst listening in on Lady Beata and her father, Ralf Rodelle had drowned himself at the age of thirty and one, the same age Ricard Soames had been when he was murdered.
Sebille’s face opened as if to spew anger, then crumpled and Lothaire pulled her into his arms and pressed her head to his shoulder.
“Leave us, Angus,” he said.
The knight did as bid, and Lothaire held Sebille as she poured out her misery between cries of, “Oh, Papa! Papa!”
When finally she exhausted herself, he offered to escort her to her chamber, but she refused. Unlike their mother who had declared she could bear no more before her collapse alongside the casket, Sebille would not allow her emotions to prevent her from attending the mass.
A half hour later, it began. Rather than Lady Raisa on one side of him, it was Laura, and though it was clear Sebille on his other side did not wish the lady in so esteemed a place, she said naught. And when Lothaire closed his fingers around the soft hand that slipped into his as the priest’s words resounded around the chapel, he silently acknowledged how glad he was to have Laura at his side. No matter her betrayal.
Chapter 20
“The Lord will have to do much work in me if ever I am to forgive them.”
Sebille’s declaration was not discreet, but neither could it be heard by those departing Thistle Cross to begin their journey home to the barony of Wiltford. Once more Marshal’s entourage was accompanied by Lexeter’s people for the protection afforded by warriors. Though the demesne was mostly peaceful, brigands were not unheard of, especially during the dark hours.