He looked sidelong at her. “Had I gained naught, I would not have wed you.”
Of course he would not have, just as she had not thought—or wished—to wed him until the queen revealed her reasons for rejecting Laura’s other suitors.
“This I know, Lothaire.”
“Nor would I have regretted not taking you to wife.”
Thinking he must seek to hurt her, she averted her gaze.
“But only because I would not know there was anything to regret,” he added. “As now I know.”
She swung her gaze back to his.
“Do you think it by God’s hand what was undone has been done, Laura?” At her hesitation, he continued, “I think it must be, though surely Eleanor would say it was by her hand. I shall never cease to be surprised by those He enlists to do His good work.”
“Nor I. My surprise is that…” Laura blinked amid the wool floating more conspicuously upon the air as they drew near the shelter. “…His arms were not too full to hold me as I feared when I determined to leave Owen and find a father and home for Clarice.”
“Then you believe you can be happy here? With me?”
“I can think of no place or man with whom I would be happier,” she said and silently added, But happier I could be did you allow me to tell you all and you believed me. But that little word—if—could make ill of what was good. Again, she told herself Lothaire was right. If was too great a risk.
As she passed the pen that held unshaven sheep, she glanced across her shoulder and saw the spouses and children of the workers assisting High Castle’s servants with unloading the wagons. Sir Angus and Tina also helped, as did Sebille who appeared to be directing them all.
“It makes me sad your sister has not a husband and home of her own.”
“She could have had both. Had she wed Sir Angus, I would have awarded him the keeping of my mother’s dower property, but Sebille chose Lady Raisa.”
“She must love her very much.”
His brow furrowed. “I think it more she is easily controlled by guilt and obligation, both at which our mother excels at dispensing. Sebille wants to be with Angus, but there is something she wants more.”
“Her mother’s love.”
“She will not speak of it, but I believe so. I was but six when our father disappeared, but I knew she was adored by our parents. Though I felt loved as well, I was certain she was the favored child.”
“A daughter,” Laura said. Sons, whether of the nobility that they might carry on the family name or the common folk that they might better labor alongside their parents, were more desirable—at least until a man had his male heir and one or two more to spare.
“Aye, a daughter,” he spoke louder to be heard above the bleating sheep, talk of workers, and rasp of shears. “I do not think I begrudged her, for I also adored her. She was joyous then and played the little mother well, but all changed when our father departed High Castle to visit his mistress and never returned. Our mother became so bitter over his faithlessness she turned it on Sebille and her attention on Lexeter’s heir. Suddenly I was the favored child—and liked it not.”
Bits of wool swirling more heavily around them, settling on their clothes and hair, Laura stepped nearer. “That must have been difficult for Sebille to lose the adoration of both parents.”
“Certainly, but when she was not occupied with Lady Raisa’s demands, still she mothered me.”
“And had your love. That must have eased some of her ache.”
“I would like to believe so,” he said, then swept a hand before him. “Here, the work of wool, this the last asked of the flock for near on a year—that is, where their fleece is concerned. Still there is sustenance and income to be had from their milk and the meat of those too aged to weather another winter.”
Laura marveled over the chaos of so many workers putting shears to sheep. Some of the animals, likely the older ones, lay on the earthen floor letting be done to them what must be done, whilst others were not of a mind to submit.
Laura watched as one whose fleece billowed every which way was toppled and turned legs up by a male and female worker.
Immediately, the man dropped to the dirt, put a leg on either side of the animal, and bracing it between his knees, drew it against his chest and settled its head on one shoulder. “Shears!” he commanded, but before the woman could pass them to him, the ewe began thrashing.
The man drew his knees up the animal’s sides and squeezed until the ewe’s struggles subsided.
“William is big and strong,” Lothaire said, “as is the man whose arm the physician tends. The difference is that William has been shearing for over ten years, the other man two.”
“’Tis why you would not allow Clarice to attempt such.”
“Not even on a slighter animal. Blessedly, most of the flock are easily persuaded to give up their oppressive coats.”
“How many—?” Laura clapped a hand over her mouth, sneezed.
“It is the wool,” Lothaire said. “Methinks there is no other activity at which you will hear so many sneeze.”
Laura rubbed her nose with the back of a hand. “How many have you sheared this day?”
“Eleven. I hoped to make an even dozen.”
“May I watch?”
He grinned. “You wish to see your lord husband hard at labor?”
“I do.”
“Clarice thought you might.” He motioned to the man who stood before the gate of the nearly barren pen.
Moments later, a large ewe was led into the shelter.
“Mother!”
Laura turned. Lothaire had not exaggerated. Clarice was so fouled—mud spattered across her skirts and chausses—she looked most unladylike. But she was smiling.
“I know,” she read Laura’s alarm, “but it could not be helped.”
“Could it not?” Lothaire said.
She sighed. “Aye, but I have been punished and am behaving.” She patted the ewe as it passed. “That is Grandmother,” she said.
Laura raised her eyebrows. “The one you told had first to be washed in the stream?”
“Nay, this is a different Grandmother. Every flock has one. This one is bigger and less friendly. I asked Father not to shear it until you arrived.”
“Why?”
“So you may watch, and because he will make quicker work of it than the others. He is very good at shearing.”
“Not something with which I ever thought to impress a lady,” Lothaire muttered and took charge of the ewe. “Forgive me for baring you, Grandmother. When the shame passes, I vow you will be as grateful as the others to shed this heavy old coat.”
Laura did not grasp what it meant to be good at shearing, but as she and her daughter watched Lothaire, she did not doubt there were few who could best him.