The efforts of the day past were more obvious with the afternoon sun casting itself through the upper windows like a beautiful sacrifice. So, too, were its shortcomings that revealed how tired the room was.

Clarice at her side, Laura started toward the high table. And halted when a hand touched her arm.

“A moment,” Lady Beata said. “First let us see the casket pass.”

Laura’s face warmed. Of course it was inappropriate to seat one’s self ahead of the procession. She may not have been the best pupil, but Lady Maude had made certain her ward was versed in proprieties.

Grateful for Lady Beata’s encouraging smile, she allowed the woman to hook arms with her and draw her toward Baron Marshal’s knights and the castle folk who stood on either side of the path cleared between doors and stairs.

Laura glanced at her daughter who had also corrected her course, then whispered to Lady Beata, “I am not accustomed to acting the lady of the castle. I thank you.”

Lightly, the lady bumped Laura’s shoulder. “It becomes easier,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “Ere long, it will seem almost like breathing.”

It was some minutes before Lothaire, Sir Angus, and four other Lexeter knights entered bearing the casket on their shoulders. When her betrothed’s eyes flicked to her and mouth tucked up slightly, her ache over his loss increased—as did her gratitude toward Lady Beata.

The procession wended past and up the stairway.

As the sound of their boots faded, Clarice tugged her mother’s sleeve. “May I go to the kitchen?”

Laura frowned. “Are you not hungry?”

“I could not help myself. I ate an hour past.”

“Then go, but do not get in Cook’s way.”

Clarice hastened opposite.

Laura looked to Baron Marshal. “Let us see you refreshed.”

Once they were seated at the high table, their men at lower tables positioned perpendicular to the dais, the viands kept warmed these two hours were served—and not only to those in the hall but Lexeter’s people in the bailey as Laura had directed. Hopefully, Cook would be able to accommodate greater numbers than expected.

There was nothing boisterous about High Castle’s guests as was usual with visitors, and it became more solemn when those who had borne the casket abovestairs returned to the hall—all but Lothaire and Sir Angus. Talk was in hushed tones, and Laura was so worried over her betrothed that the few bites she took were mostly tasteless.

“I thank you and Baron Soames for receiving us kindly,” Lady Beata said. “There has been so much ill between our families that fear for my safety roused an argument between my husband and me over my accompaniment.” She made a face. “Even when he found himself bound and at my mercy aboard ship, I do not think he was as angry.”

Laura could not imagine the formidable warrior reduced to helplessness. “Truly, you tied up Baron Marshal?”

“’Twas not I who bound him, but he was under my control—until we found ourselves shipwrecked. Then I was at his mercy, and much he showed me. I should have gone down with the ship, but he saved my life.”

Laura was captivated, and her interest must have shown, for Lady Beata gave a laugh that likely would not be so restrained were it not for the day’s sorrow. “A tale to be shared in full in future, which methinks possible now my family has made amends as best we can.”

“I look forward to it. I am especially curious about…” Laura trailed off.

“My marriage to your betrothed?” the lady prompted.

“Aye.”

“Know this, my lady, Lothaire Soames gave me reason not to like him, but I mostly understand why he did what he did and am grateful he rectified his trespass without prompting.” She glanced at her husband on her other side where he conversed with one of his knights. “Thus, all the sooner I was able to wed the man I love.”

Laura’s throat tightened. “You are blessed.”

The lady’s brow puckered. “You do not believe you are?”

Though Laura told herself she had no reason to confide in a stranger, she said, “Once I was, then I lost all and thought myself cursed. Now I would like to believe the Lord is providing another chance at happiness. But even were He, I fear I do not know how to take it."

"With both hands and much gratitude to our Creator, of course,” Lady Beata said. “’Tis not easily done, but to be truly blessed, do you not think one must be bold? That such is the part the Lord would have us play in our own lives?”

“But if it did not suffice in the past—”

“Ah, the past,” the lady spoke over Laura. “As Everard Wulfrith’s wife, Lady Susanna, assured me when I thought all lost, the past is not our future. There are better days ahead. And to that I add, be bold.”

“I like you,” Laura said, unable to keep the childish declaration from passing her lips.

Lady Beata’s eyes brightened. “Much appreciated, for many have not a care for me. As oft told, albeit more to my back than my face, I am unseemly.”

“Surely your husband does not think the same?”

She shook her head. “Love tolerates—and forgives—much. Though on occasion I unsettle him, he prefers me less behaved than behaved. And for love and respect of him, I am learning to think my thoughts through to their good and bad end ere speaking them into beliefs and opinions.” Her eyes widened. “Most difficult.”

Laura understood better than the lady knew. Once she had been too free with her own thoughts. Had Simon not changed all, she might be still. And had she wed Lothaire years ago, she imagined his love would have tolerated and forgiven much.

“I thank you for your encouragement, Lady Beata. It gives me greater hope I shall be blessed by the queen’s hand in my marriage just as you were.”

“Eleanor.” She clicked her tongue. “Ever I shall be grateful to our queen though I would not have believed it a year past when she ordered me to return to her court in France. Now…” She set a hand on her belly. “…from love, babes that I pray you will also have.” Of a sudden, her smile fell. “Did Lady Raisa receive you well?”

Laura’s own smile dropped. “She did not.”

“How did your betrothed respond?”

“I…did not tell him of our encounter.” Laura hoped she would not be asked to elaborate.

The lady sighed. “I am not surprised, for the queen told that if I remained wed to Baron Soames his mother would make my life miserable.”

Laura nodded. “For that, Eleanor insists my betrothed move her to her dower property.”

“Wise. Let us hope ’tis done soon.”

“Baron Soames assures me it shall be.”

“Hold him to it, Lady Laura. Too much I like you to worry over your happiness.”

As Laura looked to the bulge beneath the lady’s hand, Baron Marshal’s fingers covered his wife’s.

“Are they restless?” he said low.

“Not at the moment. Methinks them lulled to sleep by good food and drink.”

He smiled, looked past his wife. “You shall wed a sennight hence, Lady Laura?”

Determined to suppress her hurt over the revelation her father was aware she was to wed, Laura moved her thoughts to Tina’s assurance the gown would soon be completed. It was beautiful—albeit extravagantly so—the maid having worked its embroidery down the bodice into the waist and skirts.

“Aye, in a sennight.”

He nodded. “Your daughter has grown much since last I saw her.”

“She was but three when you gave Lady Maude and me aid en route to Castle Soaring. Now she is nine.”

“I was sorry to hear of the lady’s passing.”

“Her loss is much felt, especially by Clarice.”

“It was obvious she adored the lady and was adored in return.”

He could not know how much, few being aware Maude had been Clarice’s grandmother—only Michael, his wife, and now the queen.

Laura nodded and, catching sight of the physician coming off the stairs, motioned him forward.

During his ascent of the dais, she felt tension rise, not only from Lady Beata but her husband, and a glance at the two confirmed it. Before them was the man who had performed Lothaire’s examination to prove Lady Beata was untouched.

As though unaware the Marshals did not welcome him, he said, “Lady Laura, Baron Soames wishes me to inform you the service for his father will be conducted an hour hence after the family has privately shown its respects.”

Feeling for Lady Beata’s discomfort, Laura said, “I thank you, Martin.”

He dipped his head, then ignoring her dismissal, set his regard on Lady Beata. “I see the Lord has blessed you with what we must pray is a boy.”

Slowly, as if exercising control, Baron Marshal leaned forward. “Must we, Physician?”

Had the man been oblivious to the tension before, he could not be now. But more the fool, he said, “’Twill be a sign your marriage is blessed.”

“And if ’tis a girl?” the baron said with great measure.

The physician raised his palms in what seemed a gesture of helplessness. “Displeasure, the birth of another Daughter of Eve being God’s attempt to correct a woman’s—occasionally a man’s—path.”

Never had Laura seen a man so fast upon his feet. Ere the physician’s mouth was fully agape, the neck of his tunic was in Marshal’s fist and his face flecked by the spit of a threat more growl than words. “I have not forgotten, you bag of pus and bones.”

“Baron Marshal!” Laura nearly upended her chair as she thrust upright, which was no match for the speed with which the warriors of Soames and Marshal rose to defend their lords.

But though hands gripped hilts, no blades were drawn. It seemed those who might either defend or set upon the physician understood he was unworthy of rending the peace—at the moment.

Amid the silence, Lady Beata touched her husband’s sleeve, the fine fabric of which bulged with muscles surely capable of flinging the physician far from the dais. “He is of so little consequence it requires but a slap from a Daughter of Eve to render him speechless, Durand. Pray, release him ere he soils himself and further dishonors his lord’s hospitality.”

A slow, deep breath further broadened her husband’s chest, then his high color began to recede. “You will not speak another word to my wife. Ever. You will not move your gaze within sight of her. Ever. You will not breathe the air she casts off. Ever. Do you understand, Martin?”

The physician’s throat convulsed, but were he trying to summon words, he failed.

“You may nod or shake your head,” the baron said. “Either will suffice, though one will see you all the worse for it.”

Hardly had the man bobbed his chin than a voice thundered across the hall, “Release the physician, Baron Marshal!”

Laura snapped her chin around, struggled for words to keep Lothaire’s sword from exiting its scabbard.

“A disagreement only,” Lady Beata’s husband said. “As we have come to terms…” He thrust Martin back, nearly toppling him, then gestured to his men to release their hilts.

“I am glad you appreciate the hospitality shown you, Baron,” Lothaire said and gestured to his own men.

As all resumed their seats, Lothaire looked to Laura.

She forced a smile she hoped would assure him he had not made a mistake in admitting the Marshals to his hall.

Next, he looked to the physician. Though the man had descended the dais, he had yet to distance himself from the warrior who could bleed him in the blink of an eye. He was surely dazed, though from the quick rise and fall of his shoulders he was coming back to himself well enough to gather anger to him.

“Martin,” Lothaire said, “my mother has returned to her chamber. Pray, attend her.”

The man stumbled forward, found his stride. “My lord, Baron Marshal—”

“You came to terms, did you not?”

“As forced upon me, my lord.”

“That is well with me. Now, my mother is distraught and in need of her medicinals.”

The man muttered something, stepped around his lord, and climbed the stairs.

“Baron Marshal,” Lothaire called, “I would speak with you abovestairs.”

The man looked to his wife.

“Go,” Lady Beata said. “Lady Laura makes for good company.”

And additional surety, Laura guessed. Her husband need not worry ill would befall his wife whilst Lothaire’s betrothed was as vulnerable to Marshal’s men as Lady Beata was to those of the Baron of Lexeter.

Durand Marshal bent and spoke something to his knight, then descended the dais and strode toward Lothaire.

“Fear not,” Lady Beata said as the two men mounted the stairs. “Methinks your betrothed is aware of his physician’s shortcomings and will not be surprised to learn my husband was provoked.”

As Laura hoped he would accept she had been provoked if ever Lady Raisa revealed Laura had slapped her.

“Once that is established,” the lady continued, “they can move on to Baron Soames’s questions about his father’s remains.”

Laura picked off a crust of her trencher, crumbled it. “As to where they were found?”

“Aye, that is the place to start.”

“Where were they found?”

The lady sighed. “Where first we ought to have looked.”

* * *

One could not be certain they were his father’s bones, they were so barren, nor his clothes, they were so deteriorated, but the heavy signet ring wrapped in a piece of embroidered linen and bound with a gold cord was of the house of Soames.

“It was found near his hand,” Durand Marshal said where he stood at the foot of the table upon which the casket sat. “Lady Beata restored it.”

It was so clean and polished Lothaire could only guess what twenty years in the moist earth would have done to the ring whose revelation had caused his mother more distress than the bones she had been determined to look upon. And Sebille…

Though Raisa had insisted her daughter view the remains, Lothaire’s sister had refused and asked Sir Angus to assist her to a bench. They were still there to the left of the altar, and though in shadow, Baron Marshal’s Wulfen training was evident the moment he entered the chapel. As when Lothaire had sensed Laura’s presence on the night past, even sooner Lady Beata’s husband had sensed Sebille’s and Angus’s though they were more distant.

Lothaire closed his fingers around his father’s ring he was not ready to place on his own hand. “I am grateful for your wife’s kindness, Baron Marshal.”

The man inclined his head. There was an air of expectation about him, but were he waiting for his host to demand he defend his encounter with the physician, he would wait forever. Lothaire required no further explanation beyond that deduced when his mother’s collapse brought him belowstairs in search of the physician.

He had tolerated Martin for years. Though the man was as near a confidant as Raisa had, he did not like women. Hence, all the greater Lothaire’s offense against Lady Beata by insisting she prove herself chaste. Following the examination, she had slapped the physician, and though he had denied offending her, Lothaire had known better then as he knew better now. When Lady Raisa retired to her dower property, the physician would go with her and another physician would be found for High Castle. One more expense, but worth it.

“Now,” Lothaire said, “I would know where Lady Beata’s father buried mine all those years ago.”

“The answer is unexpected,” Baron Marshal said. “He did not bury your sire.”

Lothaire glanced into the casket whose contents were so lacking substance it was hard to believe that beneath the material of the fine pall provided by the Marshals was the tall, broad frame that had supported Ricard Soames.

“Who buried him?” he asked.

“His wife, Lady Beata’s mother.”

She who, witness to her nephew’s murder of their guest, had dragged the body to a corner of the garden and dug a grave to hold it until her husband returned from his travels to better conceal the crime.

“You are saying he was never moved from the garden,” Lothaire said and heard his sister’s sharp breath. “Your wife’s father did not bury him distant from the castle as told.”

“He did not, and methinks he would have taken the truth to his own grave had I not ordered the garden razed and a new one constructed at the rear of the donjon so my wife might find peace and rest out of doors.”

Which was not possible in that place where, as a very young girl, she had witnessed the atrocity.

“So we are here with hope that what was broken can be mended to ensure lasting peace between our families, Baron Soames.”

Though it was enough for Lothaire, it would not suffice for Raisa. But of greater import, would it be enough for Sebille?

Lothaire looked around, wished he could see more than her slight figure alongside Angus. Not that he required her consent, but he wished it. When she remained unmoving, he returned his attention to Durand. “The Soames are at peace with you and your wife’s family, as begun when I did not oppose annulment of my marriage to Lady Beata.”

“We are grateful. I know this cannot be easy.”

It was more difficult than anticipated, Lothaire having believed himself too young upon his father’s disappearance to grieve deeply. But though he knew his loss was not as deep as Sebille’s, from the moment he caught sight of the procession delivering their father home, he had hurt—and more as blurred memories sharpened. His father might not have loved his wife, his marriage one of convenience, but he had adored the daughter made with her, and perhaps even the son.

“Once he is in consecrated ground,” he said, “we can better leave the past where it belongs.”

“Have you further questions for me, Baron Soames?” Marshal asked.

Feeling the edges of the signet ring, Lothaire said, “I am satisfied as much as I can be. Pray, give your wife my apologies for taking you from her side and assure her there will be as little delay as possible between the chapel mass and the burial so you may sooner begin your journey home.”

The baron dipped his head and strode from the chapel.

“Under their noses all these years,” Sebille said when the door closed.

Lothaire turned and saw her snatch her arm against her side when Angus tried to assist her to standing, causing the prayer beads she had surely been working her fingers over to clatter as they fell down her skirt.

“So great a risk was it to leave him there,” he said, “I never seriously considered it might be our father’s resting place.”

“Rest,” she hissed as she advanced. “For over twenty years he has cried out to bring him home and avenge—”

“Say no more,” Lothaire commanded. “’Tis over.”

She halted alongside him. “Is it?”

He set a hand on her shoulder. “The man who did this is long dead, and by his own hand, so great was his remorse.” As Lothaire learned whilst listening in on Lady Beata and her father, Ralf Rodelle had drowned himself at the age of thirty and one, the same age Ricard Soames had been when he was murdered.

Sebille’s face opened as if to spew anger, then crumpled and Lothaire pulled her into his arms and pressed her head to his shoulder.

“Leave us, Angus,” he said.

The knight did as bid, and Lothaire held Sebille as she poured out her misery between cries of, “Oh, Papa! Papa!”

When finally she exhausted herself, he offered to escort her to her chamber, but she refused. Unlike their mother who had declared she could bear no more before her collapse alongside the casket, Sebille would not allow her emotions to prevent her from attending the mass.

A half hour later, it began. Rather than Lady Raisa on one side of him, it was Laura, and though it was clear Sebille on his other side did not wish the lady in so esteemed a place, she said naught. And when Lothaire closed his fingers around the soft hand that slipped into his as the priest’s words resounded around the chapel, he silently acknowledged how glad he was to have Laura at his side. No matter her betrayal.