The ewe struggled and bleated as it was toppled, tossed its head and flailed its legs as it was trapped between knees and thighs, and when it gave up the fight, Lothaire supported its head and upper back against his shoulder and chest. The shears were passed to him, and he set to relieving the animal of its fleece. He parted the thick coat at the center of the ewe’s belly, slid the blades close to the skin, and began cutting and pushing aside the shorn fleece.
The animal resisted again when Lothaire finished its belly and rolled it onto its side. Once more, he clamped it between his knees, and the ewe yielded to the shearing of its neck, shoulders, front legs, and flanks. Once the fleece on the opposite side fell away, the ewe was turned right side up and seemed to sulk as its back and rear legs were bared. Then the considerably smaller, much lightened animal was led to the pen to join those gone before her.
“Not a drop of blood spilled,” Lothaire said, brushing at his clothes as he advanced on Laura amid a flurry of wool to which the cooling breeze added. “Impressed, Wife?”
“Indeed.” Knowing her own hair would appear as touched by snow as his were it not partially covered by a light veil, she had to fold her hands at her waist to keep from brushing at his hair. “You made it look easy.”
“Of course I did. You were watching.” He halted before her where she stood alone, Clarice having been collected by the women shearers who were to wash in a nearby stream in advance of the men availing themselves of its cleansing water. “But as my clothes reveal and, alas, my scent, it is good Grandmother is the last I shall shear this season.”
He did exude a strong odor, the only light about his perspiration-darkened tunic and chausses the white bits of fleece.
Resisting wrinkling her nose, she said, “The women have gone to wash at the stream.”
He inclined his head. “By the time we finish here, they will have returned and the men will then make themselves as presentable as possible.”
She pressed her lips inward. “I saw the lake on the ride here. The one you spoke of years ago.”
He reached, picked fluff from her veil. “You are thinking better I bathe there?”
“Not this day, but…” She cleared her throat. “I thank you for demonstrating the shearing. Mayhap next year I can participate.”
“If you are not with child or have one at your breast,” he said, then added, “Much can happen in a year.”
Laura was struck by his choice of words. She had said the same to him the day their young selves had walked to the pond and he had chastised her for her behavior. The truth of that had been proven. But this time, if God blessed them, it would be Lothaire’s child she birthed, a babe born of wedlock.
“Much can happen,” she murmured. “Thank you for the demonstration. Now I must assist with the food.” She turned away.
Lothaire watched her lift her skirts free of the dirt and upon her person carry away fluff that had escaped the great sacks whose contents would be woven into cloth she herself might one day wear. Though hardly in need of clothes, if much did happen within a year, her lacings would be unable to accommodate her increasing girth and she would require new gowns ere the birth of their child.
That was his hope, though he wished he had not used her words from ten years past. It had not been intentional, determined as he was to go forward and as encouraged as he was by her mention of the lake he could never pass without recall of what his young bride and he were to have made of it. However, he had glimpsed wariness in her eyes and knew she remembered the same.
“Fool,” he muttered and turned back inside the shelter. As the last of the ewes yielded up their coats, he joined the other men in gathering swaths of wool shorn since the departure of the women who had sorted the best from the worst, the former being the back and sides, the latter including the breech. Accordingly, the wool was stuffed in sacks, most of which would bring a good price for the high quality for which Lexeter wool was increasingly known.
There was much work ahead—years of it—but Lexeter was saved.
He searched out Laura. She was at the far table arranging platters of food, and even at a distance he could see the flecks of white covering her. She looked good in virgin wool.
One of the worker’s daughters appeared at her side, and the Lady of Lexeter turned at the tug on her skirt, listened to whatever the child said, and handed her something from a platter.
The girl bounced onto her toes, laughed, and ran opposite.
Lothaire smiled. Lexeter was saved, indeed. As was he, though he would have sworn he did not need saving.
Chapter 28
All had plenty to eat and too much to drink. Now they wanted their lord and lady to join in the dance. Such was not unknown to Lothaire who had years ago given himself to the dizzying, unrestrained whirling of the villagers, partnering with many a maiden to celebrate the last of the shearing, but the movements would surely offend a noblewoman.
“Dance with your lady, milord!” This from the shepherd whose skill at shearing exceeded Lothaire’s.
“Dance with her!” Called the buxom wife of a worker from the village of Thistle Cross whose flushed cheeks told she would not care to rise from bed on the morrow. “See, she is willing.”
Lothaire followed the jut of her chin to where his wife had stood in the midst of other women who had not participated in the last dance. Now she moved toward him with a hand outstretched—just as he imagined the young Laura would have done.
He straightened so abruptly from the tree against which he leaned that many laughed.
“Your lady is a bold one! Dance with her, milord!”
Wishing the lowering of day were farther along so the lengthening shadows concealed the warmth traveling up his face, Lothaire strode forward to meet Laura halfway.
She slid her hand in his. “Too bold?” she said, smile so teasing he wanted to kiss it open.
As those who had brought their instruments to the celebration began to pluck at and blow upon them, he said, “As long as it is my hand in yours…” He drew her nearer, slid an arm around her waist. “…my arm around you…” She settled hers against his broad back. “…my eyes upon yours…my breath upon you…never too bold.”
Sparkles were coming out in her eyes ahead of those of the heavens that would not prick the sky for another hour.
“Are you sure you wish to do this?” he said. “As you have seen, the dances are not only more vigorous but more intimate than those to which you are accustomed.”
She tilted her face higher. “As never have we danced, I am accustomed to none. So pray, accustom me to those of your—our—people.”
“Our people, indeed,” he said and began to move her across the trampled grass dance floor.
As their bodies brushed, pressed, and withdrew, he held her gaze, and though other men spun their women past their lord and lady, he was only vaguely aware of them.