She sank back against the pillows. “You think you made me a whore.” She sighed. “Rest easy, Lothaire. You had naught to do with Clarice’s conception. Even had we never met, methinks it would have happened.”
Because she had felt much for Michael D’Arci long before she was betrothed to Lothaire? He wanted to ask when she first realized she was in love with Lady Maude’s stepson, but he said, “We shall never know. Sleep well, my lady.”
Laura watched him go, and her heart ached more that only now with the distance between them stretching she should notice the state of his clothes and disarray of barely bound hair. He had probably smelled more musty than Clarice, but that had also escaped her though he had drawn even nearer.
When the door closed, she let the tears fall. Never had she considered he would claim responsibility for their broken betrothal, for it was true he had naught to do with it. Though as children Simon and she had played at husband and wife, once she left the girl behind she had not regarded Lady Maude’s son as anything more than a friend and brother and discouraged him accordingly. Even had she been betrothed to one other than Lothaire and not loved her intended, she would have resisted Simon’s claim on her. And very likely still he would have done as he had done.
She lifted a hand to wipe at her eyes, paused over the bandages that could grant respite from Lothaire’s desire. Only respite. Best to have done with their nuptial night and see what could be made of it.
“Four days,” she said. “Even if I must wear gloves.”
Lady Laura was miserable, and more so than expected. Unfortunately, this was not her wedding day. That had been the plan before all went askew. But providing she did not suspect the source of her affliction, all would come right. This day’s misery could double. Or worse.
Those imaginings might have caused the one who turned them over to smile despite the certainty the Lord saw all that went below—including here in this dark crack of existence—but deeper reflection proved them mere indulgence.
Were the lady’s wedding day to be spoiled, another means must be found. But between now and then, evidence of this day’s trickery must be swept asunder. No easy feat, but neither a great challenge. Timing was all, and there were yet days in which to see it done.
Lothaire would not like it, but he would not know. Father Atticus would not like it, but neither would he know. The Lord would not like it, but he would forgive. As for this conscience that had no cause to be troubled, it would untrouble itself.
The brazier having lost much of its heat—further evidence of little regard for one who had more in common with Lady Laura’s daughter than was known—the one made to feel of no consequence drew the covers over chest, neck, and face. And ere sleep deepened the dark crack, determined how best to be shed of evidence that could demand investigation. Now only one thing was needed—opportunity.
Chapter 22
Only one day more. And on this, the eve of their wedding, Lothaire made of it the same as he had every day past—riding out early to do the work of wool.
Watching him and a handful of men-at-arms grow distant, Laura did not yield to resentment. Too much she admired the man with whom she would spend the remainder of her life. Though many a nobleman would seek to improve his circumstances by tourneying or selling his sword arm to the highest bidder, she suspected few would debase their nobility by laboring alongside commoners. As seen nearly every eve Lothaire returned to the castle disheveled and damp from his attempt to wash away the filth, and as told by Clarice who had accompanied him several times, he did not merely oversee the work. He cast himself into it.
When the sun made to mount the sky in earnest—gripping its pommel, fitting its stirrup, swinging itself atop the horizon—Lothaire and his men went from sight, the only evidence of the path they had taken the disturbance of the morning mist and slow descent of dust kicked up by hooves.
Lingering atop the gatehouse she had ascended unbeknownst to her betrothed, Laura felt the regard of the garrison and castle folk beginning their day’s work in the smithy, stables, and laundry. They were curious, and doubtless more so knowing though she was their lord’s first betrothed, only now she was to be his wife. She nearly cringed, certain the reason their betrothal had taken ten years to come to fruition was also known. Not that Lothaire would have revealed it, but others would have since Clarice’s birth had not been hidden. And certainly Lady Raisa would not wish it believed her son was at fault.
It would not be easy for Laura to earn the respect of these people, but she would—and in doing so honor her husband.
Breathing the scent and warmth of the new summer day, she looked to her hands. They were not entirely healed, but on the morrow it would not be necessary to don gloves. Only if one looked near upon them would they find proof of the discomfort borne these past days, which would have been less tolerable lacking the physician’s salve. At least in that Martin was competent. And Laura was further grateful for his near absence, whether of his own will he avoided her or Lothaire had warned him away.
Regardless, there was much to do in preparation for the morrow’s wedding and feast. And Clarice, who had made an effort to hide her disappointment over assisting her mother rather than riding out with Lothaire, would learn more duties of a lady.
Minutes later, Laura thanked the porter by name and stepped into the hall in advance of its emptying with the physician’s departure by way of the stairs.
“Come see what we have done, Mother!”
Not empty after all, Laura corrected as she followed her daughter’s voice to the left corner opposite the high table where the girl stood with two others around one of four many-branched candlesticks. The smithy had returned them to the hall on the day past, having straightened out their bends and mended their breaks. They were elegant again, and more so fit with tallow candles as tall as Laura’s forearm and so white they appeared lit in the absence of flame.
“Lovely,” she said when she stood with the others peering upward. “The feast shall be all the more special. I thank you, Clarice and Tina—and you, Sir Angus, not only for arranging the repairs, but your height which I am certain is responsible for seeing the candles properly fit.”
He dipped his head. “I am glad to be of service, my lady.”
“As am I,” a voice called, and they looked around at Sebille who moved toward them from the dais.
Doubtless, she had been breaking her fast at the high table, rendered mostly invisible garbed as she was in a gown of nondescript color and by how quiet and still she could be.
The lady halted before Laura, looked to the knight. “Shall we fit the rest of the candles, Sir Angus?”