Solemn. As was fitting.

Honorable. As expected.

Mournful. Greater than anticipated.

But more than Baron Marshal’s impressive procession numbering two dozen armored and sword-girded men astride fine horses, that last was due to the multitude who journeyed from across Lexeter to pay their respects. The common folk had begun arriving shortly after dawn, but those in the outer bailey were outnumbered by the scores ascending the hill behind the greenery-festooned wagon bearing the casket of Ricard Soames.

The ones now come unto High Castle had been gathered along the route Baron Marshal and his entourage had taken. Surely for this—to allow those on foot to keep pace—the projected midday arrival had come and gone.

Though Lothaire had been frustrated by the two-hour delay, mostly for the added grief given Sebille by their mother, now that he knew the reason, he was grateful for the consideration shown those who wished to mourn their long-lost lord. And that their numbers were so great. He had been aware his father was respected but had not realized how much. Even had he known, he would not have thought so many would spend a day free of work on a man twenty years gone.

“I know him!” Laura gasped.

Lothaire looked to where she stood at his side. “Who?”

“Is that Baron Marshal at the fore?”

“It is, and his lady wife beside him.”

“I know him—rather, I am acquainted with him, though not as Durand Marshal.”

Lothaire returned his regard to those nearing the drawbridge, considered the one who had wed Lady Beata after him. “By what name do you know him?”

“Sir Piers,” she said almost too low to catch over the stir of those gathered in the outer bailey behind. “’Twas the name he gave Lady Maude and me when our carriage was lamed en route to Castle Soaring six years past. For his kindness in aiding us, Lord D’Arci permitted him a night’s lodging and…” She trailed off.

As she pondered whatever stole her words, jealousy spurted through Lothaire. He was not surprised there had been other visits to Michael D’Arci’s home, but learning this now roused him.

“Ah,” she said. “It has been so many years I near forgot.”

“What?”

“Later, I learned he was in disguise, having disabled our carriage to gain entry to Castle Soaring so he might do the bidding of his lord, Baron Wulfrith. Michael had imprisoned the man’s sister, Lady Beatrix, believing she murdered Si—”

She closed her mouth, and what appeared to be guilt flashed in her eyes before she averted them.

The clop of hooves on the drawbridge that would soon sound with the rumble of wheels sought to drag Lothaire’s gaze back to the procession, but he was too near something she clearly did not wish him near. “You say Simon was murdered?”

Laura shook her head. “Though Lady Maude and I journeyed to Castle Soaring so she could face the woman responsible for her son’s death, it proved an accident had taken his life.” She returned her gaze to Baron Marshal. “I had heard Durand was the real name of Sir Piers but did not consider he and this one were the same.”

Now the wagon was on the drawbridge, and Lothaire gave his attention to the bearer of his father’s remains.

Shortly, Baron Marshal and the lady who had been Beata Soames for a brief time, reined in before Lothaire and Laura where they stood before the raised portcullis.

“Baron Marshal, Lady Beata,” Lothaire said, and wished his voice did not sound so tight. “Though a grim duty brings you to High Castle, you are welcome.”

Durand inclined his head, but the outspoken Beata said, “’Tis grim, indeed, but the least owed your family. My father sends his regrets that he cannot be here. Most unfortunate, illness sees him abed many a day.”

That might be true, but Lothaire suspected it was more than that. Her father had concealed the murder and location of the remains. Now, just as the man had compelled his daughter to wed the son of a murdered man, he expected her to shoulder this burden.

As when Lothaire had risen above anger and come right of mind, realizing he also wronged the lady, he regretted this fell to her. And yet, from what he knew of Lady Beata, she would have insisted on accompanying the procession even were her father present.

“I shall pray your sire recovers,” he said. He did not like the man, but he did not wish him ill.

“I apologize for the delay,” Durand Marshal spoke. “Shortly after we crossed into Lexeter, your people began following, and ’tis a long walk.”

“I am grateful you slowed to allow them to keep pace,” Lothaire said.

The baron inclined his head, looked to Laura. “Last Sunday, I had business upon your sire’s demesne and heard the banns read for your marriage.”

She stiffened, and Lothaire guessed she had not considered the announcement must not only be made upon Lexeter but her father’s lands to ensure any who wished to contest the union had the opportunity to come forward. That Lothaire had arranged as well. Though he had not expected to hear from the one who had disavowed his daughter, might Laura wonder about it? Hurt over her father’s silence?

Lothaire set a hand on her shoulder. “I understand you are acquainted with my betrothed.”

The baron’s mouth curved. “We met many years ago and under false—albeit necessary—pretenses.”

Grateful Laura had not left him in the dark, Lothaire said, “You called yourself Sir Piers.”

“Aye, the easier to save Lady Beatrix Wulfrith from Michael D’Arci of Castle Soaring. Blessedly, that lady did not need saving. Not only was she in love but loved.”

“A story I would like to hear, but it will have to wait. Now my father is returned, he is to be laid to rest this day.”

The baron’s eyebrows rose. “This day?”

“Another few days may seem naught in the more than twenty years since he breathed his last, but it is too many for his family. And as Lexeter’s people have gathered to pay their respects, a better day could not be had. Too, should your wife and you wish to attend the burial, ’tis convenient.”

“I think it a good thing.” This from Lady Beata, followed by a soft, prettily gapped smile that hardly detracted from her loveliness. “As we would not impose upon your grief by passing the night at High Castle, it also benefits us.”

Lothaire was relieved it would not be necessary to offer lodgings that would distress Sebille and his mother—best for both his family and the Marshals who would not sleep easy beneath High Castle’s roof.

“As my mother is ill,” he said, “the casket will be placed in the donjon chapel where she and my sister may attend the service to be held once you are refreshed with food and drink. Then my father will be taken to the village of Thistle Cross and interred in the churchyard with his forebears.”

“That is well with us,” Baron Marshal said.

Lothaire took Laura’s arm, and the villagers gathered in the outer bailey crowded left and right to allow the procession to pass.

As Lothaire led his betrothed forward, the heads of those on the ground bowed, but the same could not be said of the men on the walls. As instructed, the castle garrison were to save their prayers until Baron Marshal and his warriors departed. Not that Lothaire believed they presented a threat, but danger was most effective when it was not perceived as such. That he had learned long ago, but even better during Abel Wulfrith’s instruction at Wulfen Castle that, surprisingly, was not all to do with the swing and thrust of a blade. Much was strategy and tactics discussed at night during patrol of the walls or demonstrated over games of chess.

That last made Lothaire grimace. Never had he spilled as much blood upon a checkered board than when it was Abel’s brother who sat across from him—Everard who had devoted several afternoons to training Lothaire in a darkened cellar. There he had honed his pupil’s senses of hearing, smell, taste, and instinct despite Lothaire’s initial objections to what seemed a child’s game of Find Me. That it certainly was not.

Laura was relieved by her betrothed’s hand on her that pushed Simon toward the back of her mind, but she dreaded when her betrothed would ask more about Sir Piers’s breach of Castle Soaring’s walls. Even had she held close her recognition of Durand Marshal, it would have been of no benefit. Likely, the baron would have revealed their previous acquaintance, and it would have been ill of her not to prepare Lothaire. But what was done was done, and what was yet to be done had its own worries.

The inner bailey was not as populated as the outer, but scores of castle folk were assembled before the steps on either side of Sir Angus and Tina who had been given charge of Clarice.

Laura had discussed the day’s import with her daughter, and like Lothaire had not told it was by murder the old baron met his end. Clarice had been inquisitive, but Tina had distracted her with talk of which gown was best suited for so sorrowful an occasion and how she would fashion the girl’s hair to make her appear more a young woman than a child.

It had not been mere talk. Even at a distance Clarice presented more as a lady in the making than a girl. Thus, it was unlikely Baron Marshal would recognize her. And neither would Clarice recognize him, having been three years aged when, fastened more often to Lady Maude’s side than Laura’s, she had accompanied them to Castle Soaring.

Still, it would not be long ere the knight whose marriage had elevated him to a great title guessed the girl’s identity. Hopefully, he would be discreet so Laura would not have to evade her daughter’s questions.

At the center of the inner bailey, Laura became aware of Lothaire’s tightening grip and followed his gaze to the window where she had first glimpsed Sebille when she herself arrived at High Castle. The lady was there again—as were the physician and Lady Raisa.

Laura shuddered, certain the latter’s eyes were upon her, then more violently at the realization of how long they may have been upon her daughter.

“Laura?”

She swung her gaze to Lothaire. “Your mother is out of bed.”

“So she may watch her husband’s return. If she is strong enough, she shall attend the service.”

Laura nearly protested, chilling at the thought of standing on one side of him whilst his mother stood on the other. And unless she could summon a viable excuse to keep Clarice away, her daughter would be too near that woman.

“She loathes me,” Laura whispered.

“As told, she is not pleased by our marriage, but you need not fear her.”

Laura almost laughed.

“She knows how important our union is to Lexeter,” he continued, “and understands that if she does not properly conduct herself as my father’s widow, she will be removed from the service.”

Of little consolation.

“For everyone concerned, I have determined it best I escort her and my sister to the service. Hence, Clarice and you and Baron Marshal and his wife shall enter last and remain at the rear of the chapel.”

Of some consolation. Though tempted to look to the window again, Laura kept her eyes upon his. “I agree that is best.”

Moments later, Tina stepped back to allow her mistress to take her place alongside Clarice on whose other side stood Sir Angus.

“Oh,” her daughter breathed, “I thought Lord Soames fair handsome, but Baron Marshal is more so.”

Laura did not like her nine-year-old noting such a thing, but considering Clarice had shared a kiss with Donnie, she ought not be surprised.

“Is that his wife, Mother?”

As the lady reined in, her mount danced its backside around. “Aye, Lady Beata.”

“She is pretty, I suppose, but not at all like the ladies woven into tapestries who are as beautiful as their lovers are handsome.”

Though the volume of Clarice’s voice was discreet enough to escape their guests, Laura said, “Do not speak such.”

“’Tis true, but they did not hear me. And look, she is a bit fat.”

“Enough!” Lothaire growled, peering past Laura.

“Pardon,” Clarice muttered. And once more Laura felt inadequate—and irritated by his interference. But only for a moment. Baron Marshal had dismounted and lifted his wife down. Had Lothaire not silenced Clarice, whatever else gaily skipped across her tongue might have been heard.

As husband and wife approached, Laura’s dismay slipped at the sight that caused her daughter to believe the lady carried too much weight. She did, but it was not her own, and it was confined to her waist and hips. Within a two-month, the Marshals would be parents.

Beside Laura, Clarice caught her breath, evidence she also realized Lady Beata was with child.

“You are to be congratulated,” Lothaire said when the two halted before him. “By summer’s end you shall have a babe in arms.”

Lady Beata touched her belly. “If I birth early, which is very possible with twins.”

“Twins? How know you?”

Her smile revealed more of the small gap between her front teeth than Laura had earlier glimpsed. “Until a month past, we thought it one large babe, but now the movement is so vigorous I find myself kicked by three and four feet at once. Too, the midwife confirms the beat of two hearts.”

“We are pleased for you.”

Lady Beata inclined her head. “As we are pleased for your pending nuptials, Baron Soames.” She moved her regard to Laura. “We shall pray this time next year you are with child.”

The start of Laura’s own smile was genuine. Its end was not. She wished to give Lothaire an heir, but the getting of one meant overcoming fear of what she had only ever experienced as violation—remembrance of which had caused her to tear herself out of Lothaire’s arms last eve.

For that, she must reveal the truth of Clarice ere their nuptial night. He must understand it was not him she rejected but the violence that made memories spread through her like disease. Surely then he would go more slowly, be more gentle and, perhaps, come to love her again. If he believed what she told.

Durand Marshal’s wife set a hand on Laura’s arm. “I am glad to meet you, my lady.”

“As I am to meet you.” Laura cleared her throat. “This is my daughter, Clarice.”

Lady Beata looked to her. “I thought you must be. You are as lovely as your mother.”

Clarice curtsied. “I thank you, my lady.”

Lest the girl claim she had her father’s eyes as she was wont to do when resemblance to her mother was noted, Laura said, “I am sure you must be fatigued after your long journey, Lady Beata.”

“Indeed, we are.”

“Baron Marshal,” Lothaire returned to the conversation, “my betrothed will ensure your party’s comfort whilst my men and I tend to my father.”

Laura caught the narrowing of the baron’s eyes on the upper window ere he returned his regard to Lothaire. Did he sense danger? Did he fear for his wife whose family was responsible for the loss of the man whose wife and daughter watched?

His hand was not on sword or dagger, but she did not doubt his mind was ready to give the command. He could not be pleased Lady Beata accompanied him, especially in her pregnant state, but for that his escort surely numbered more than it would otherwise—and would not enter the donjon were they asked to disarm. Blessedly, it seemed that would not be required of them.

“Laura?” Lothaire prompted.

Glimpsing the vulnerable youth in his eyes, she smiled reassuringly, said, “I shall see to their comfort,” and led the way into the great hall.