“But she has a meat dagger.”
“As do I.” Laura glanced at her waist. “But since we are not at meal, they are not needed, are they?”
Still the girl did not move.
“Go, Clarice,” Laura said as evenly as she could.
“I will not hurt her,” Sebille said. “Do as your mother says.”
Clarice gave a gasp. “I love you, Mother.”
Tears sprang to Laura’s eyes. “As I love you, Daughter.”
The girl stepped away, but when she reached the door, Sebille called, “Summon my brother.”
That jolted Laura. And comforted. Surely it meant the lady intended her no harm—that Laura would not have to defend herself in a manner similar to that with which she had thwarted the one who had failed to ravish her.
“As he and his mother are not likely to meet again in heaven,” Sebille continued, “he must needs speak his farewell now.”
Clarice opened the door.
“And tell my brother to send for Father Atticus,” Sebille added. “Lady Raisa and I are in need of ministering.”
Clarice met her mother’s gaze, and it made Laura ache that she might fear it was the last time they looked upon each other. Then she was gone, leaving the door open.
“It must be told,” Sebille said and loosed Laura’s shoulder and moved around to stand in front of her. “He has to know that for as cruel as his mother is, she is not as sinful as believed.”
His mother, not our mother, Laura mused.
“I will not have him think he had anything to do with her passing. ’Tis my burden.”
Laura inclined her head. “Of course.”
“Tell me and her”—Sebille jerked her head toward Lothaire’s mother—“what you feel for my brother.”
This was something Laura did understand. “I love him. Ever I shall. My only wish is that he would have known it ten years longer.”
Sebille searched her face, and Laura knew she looked for a lie that would not be found. Then something of a smile lifting her lips, the lady said, “You hear that, Lady Raisa? She tells your son has what you and I have not. If she speaks true, I am happy for him. But you are not, are you?”
Laura looked to the old woman. Though her face was lax, her eyes were bright, and she moaned as if in response.
Of a sudden, Sebille was upon her sister-in-law, knees to the floor, chest on Laura’s thighs, head tucked against her abdomen, hands on the chair’s seat, one gripping her prayer beads.
“Make him forgive me,” she cried. “Do I lose his love, I shall die.”
Laura stared at the woman, and only when she glimpsed her own hands out to the sides, fingers splayed as if to fend off an attack, did she know where they belonged.
“Sebille,” she said and placed one hand on the lady’s back, the other on her head, then folded forward and embraced her. “Once given, methinks one cannot lose Lothaire’s love. Though he may be greatly angered and hurt, he does not toss it out. He buries it deep, but he knows exactly where to find it.”
“Promise me,” the lady sobbed.
That was not for Laura to do, but it was what this broken woman needed. “I promise you.”
Thankfully, Lothaire was clothed when his daughter threw open the door, and that was only due to Angus rousing his lord to inform him that what he had overheard between Cook and the three other prisoners corroborated the tale told.
Holding up a hand to silence the knight, Lothaire looked to the girl and found her nearly upon him. “Clarice! ’Tis inappropriate—” In the next instant, he strode forward and took hold of her arms. “What is it?” he demanded as she fell against him. “Your mother?”
She lifted her wide-eyed face. “Lady Sebille will not allow Mother…would not allow me…” She tapped her throat with a shaking hand. “I feared she meant to hurt me, and now she has my mother.”
It made no sense, but there was only one thing he needed to know in that moment. “Where is your mother?”
Clarice looked to the ceiling. “Lady Raisa’s chamber. Your sister says you must come and tell your mother goodbye. And s-summon Father Atticus.” A sob burst from her. “I know I should not have gone in. I promised.”
“Remain here.” Lothaire released her, and as he started for the door gestured for Angus to follow.
“It was her, Father,” Clarice called. “Lady Sebille hired those men, not your mother.”
He was certain she misunderstood, but when he entered the chamber with his knight on his heels, the sight was so unexpected he knew he was the one who did not understand.
A glance at his mother confirming she was alert, her eyes wide with distress, he halted mid-stride when his wife raised a staying hand where she sat in a chair, a sobbing Sebille draped over her lap.
Patience, he told himself as Angus halted alongside. All is well. Likely Mother said something cruel.
“My lady”—Laura spoke near Sebille’s ear—“your brother is come. And Sir Angus with him.”
Sebille reared back onto her heels and looked across her shoulder. “Nay!” she cried, then snapped her chin around and sank into her shoulders. “Do not look at me, Angus. Pray, leave!”
He started forward. “What is this, Sebille?”
Lothaire caught his arm. “Let us honor her request. Go to Father Atticus and tell him he is needed.”
Lothaire knew his man wanted to argue, that though he had said it was too late for Sebille and him, he still cared enough to wish to comfort her, but Angus grudgingly acceded.
“He is gone, Sebille,” Lothaire said when the door closed. “Now tell me what has happened.”
Leaning into the hand Laura returned to the side of her head, she said, “Sit with your mother. Hold her hand, for I cannot.”
He looked questioningly at Laura, but she said naught, and he supposed it was best since it was obvious Sebille was in a fragile state.
When Lothaire lowered to the mattress beside his mother, he saw it was where he ought to be. There was little light in her eyes, and her skin was so white he wondered if she bled out onto the mattress, and then there was that soft rattling from her chest.
He took her cold, curled hands in his and kissed her cheek. “I am sorry, Mother.”
She gave a slight jerk of her head as if to refuse his apology.
“And I am sorry you were denied the happiness I lost and have found again. But it will surely be all the sweeter for you in heaven. For that I am grateful.”
He thought she tried to squeeze his hand, and out of one side of her mouth she said, “My…bo.”
“Aye, your boy.” He looked to his sister whose head remained lowered. “And your girl. We are both of us here.”
“Se…”
“I will bring Sebille to you.”
She whimpered and her head ticked side to side. “No Seb.”
“She does not want me, Lothaire,” his sister said. “I do not belong.”
He frowned, and when she gave him her red, moist gaze, he said, “Of course you belong. You are her—”
“I am not.”
He sighed. “Just because she—”