He raised an eyebrow.
“The coins and valuables Lady Raisa hid when you took control of the barony—that which she used to purchase what Lexeter’s coffers could no longer supply—and from which I took to work ill in her name.”
Minutes later, the removal of the sill of a candle recess to the right of the one which held the peek door revealed the stash. The space was nearly as wide as Lothaire’s forearm was long and twice as deep. Inside were two pouches of coins, a box of jewelry that included the replacement signet ring his mother had refused to yield, all manner of silver service, a small tapestry woven through with gold thread, a finely wrought misericorde, and a dozen leather-bound books. Some of these had been in the family for generations, but most were purchased by Lady Raisa following her husband’s disappearance.
Lothaire felt a lightening about his heart. Those items acquired following the death of Ricard Soames would be sold to provide Sebille a place in the Church. Whatever remained would be used to advance the barony’s production of wool cloth.
It seemed, at long last, the worst that had befallen Lexeter might come right. Certes, the worst that had befallen its lord was over, nearly enough to make him feel barely a score of years as when he had first been in love. But not the same love as this love. He looked to his wife, his beloved, his future.
This love was abiding.
“Do you think she truly wishes to leave High Castle?”
Lothaire had begun to believe Laura slept, so relaxed was she. Pulling back, he peered into her face lit by moonlight. “I do. There is naught here for her but ill memories made more painful alongside the beautiful ones of when she was a miracle.”
“You are wrong. Her brother is here.”
“As promised, I shall visit her often.” He stroked his wife’s cheek. “Though much of what she did was for love of me, you do not seem angry with her for endangering Clarice and you.”
“Knowing her tale, ’tis hard to be angry, but I do think it best she depart High Castle, not only to find peace and prayer amongst the sisters, but because her need for healing seems so great ’tis worrisome what she might do in its absence. I believe she means well, but her mind may not be right. I am sorry if that offends.”
“It does not. I also hope for her healing and happiness, and it seems Bairnwood Abbey is the best place for that.”
After some minutes, Laura said, “What do you think she meant when she said your father lied about the night he exchanged his dead daughter for her?”
He had also tripped over that but tucked it away. “The first thing that occurs seems unlikely. And yet I think it possible the girl child my mother birthed did not die—at least, not when our father told. If the lie was about the first Sebille’s death, I question how the sister I have loved learned of it. Would our father have told a nine-year-old so recently traumatized by the truth about her parentage?” He shook his head. “Hence, if she learned of it, it would be from someone during the fortnight she was at the abbey or… This seems less believable, but perhaps she met her half sister.”
“It does sound fantastic,” Laura said, “and yet plausible. If you are correct, do you think Sebille is drawn to Bairnwood by her half sister? That the girl—woman—may yet reside there?”
“Mayhap. If so, I hope that a good thing. I do not know the abbess will discuss anything with me we do not already know, but she must be made aware of what my sister endured these years so she is prepared for how damaged Sebille is.”
Laura caught his hand up, kissed it. “I love you.”
“I love you, Laura.”
She slid a finger across the base of each of his fingers. “A ring that ought to be upon your hand is missing.”
“When Lexeter is whole—”
“It is whole, Lothaire. What else is required but you, me, Clarice, and your people?”
“’Tis not prosperous—”
“Prosperous enough.” She rolled away, opened a small box on the bedside table. When she returned to him, he did not resist when she once more captured his hand. “May I?” She touched the cool band to the tip of his finger.
“You are certain I am worthy?”
“You have ever been worthy,” she said and slid the ring on his finger, worked it over his knuckle, and settled it at the base.
Lothaire laughed low and eased her onto her back. “This worthy lord is thinking he would like to make love to his wife. May I?”
“Here? Now?” she said, just as he had done at the lake when she was the one seeking intimacy.
“Here, now, my lady. Providing you are awake enough.”
“Wonderfully awake,” she said and drew his head down to hers.
Epilogue
Wulfen Castle, England
Fall, 1164
Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, had fallen far in King Henry’s estimation.
Lothaire Soames, Baron of Lexeter, had risen high in Abel Wulfrith’s estimation. Even if the trainer of England’s fiercest knights would not admit it, approval glinted in his eyes.
“Methinks I liked you best when you were predictable, Soames,” the warrior said and strode with a slight hitch to where his sword had skittered across the training field. He retrieved it, slid it beneath his belt, and turned. “A pity, for you are easy to dislike. Now it may better serve me to seek friendly terms.”
“A pity, indeed.” Lothaire returned his own sword to his hip. “Far more than fear of yielding up blood, your dislike inspired me to improve my skill. But if we are reduced to friendly terms…” He shrugged. “…I suppose I can find enemies elsewhere.”
“Always. Never forget it.” The Lord of Wulfen Castle halted before him, and something of a smile moved his mouth. “Providing you show no mercy as you showed me none this day, I think it very likely you shall vanquish any threat to your person—more importantly, your family, people, and lands.”
Unlike the past three days when Abel Wulfrith had incited his pupil to anger by naming him a coward, Lothaire had done as commanded—this time giving no quarter when the opportunity presented to take advantage of injuries the warrior had sustained years ago which seemed to have little effect on his ability to defend himself.
Blessedly, Lothaire now knew how to engage all his senses such that he was almost unerringly able to anticipate his opponents’ moves and vulnerabilities. Thus, he had struck, and as Abel Wulfrith’s sword flew, set the point of his own to the man’s neck.
“Then I am Wulfen worthy?” Lothaire said, only to wish he had not fallen into banter with this man who would scorn him, ever holding out of reach the award of a Wulfrith dagger. Grinding his teeth the better to control what might come off his tongue, he waited to be denounced.
That something of a smile eased, strangely contrasting with eyes that continued to shine with what Lothaire had been certain was approval. Mayhap it was mockery.