A lake—not a pond, just as the young Lothaire had assured her during his third visit to Owen when she had asked if there was a pond near enough High Castle and sufficiently private that when they wed they could swim and bathe together.

He had said there was no such pond nearby, and when her smile fell told her there was a lake, and they would, indeed, swim and bathe there. Just the two of them, mayhap at sunset. Then he had been bolder yet and said he would kiss her there and afterward they would lie on the shore and watch the stars come out and count them until there were too many to number.

God willing, that might yet happen. But first Laura must surrender the hurt of two nights past. And Lothaire would have to release what he held close.

As she reined in and waited for her husband’s long stride to close the distance between her and the final shearing for which she had been told to expect two score workers and three score of their family, she wondered if when they returned to High Castle following the supper and they passed the lake half a league distant from the gathering Lothaire would remember his promise to take her there. She believed he would, though she did not expect he would say anything. But in time…

He was dirty and spotted with wool, having spent the early part of the day shearing the last of the flock, but it was obvious he had brushed himself off as best he could when the wagons bearing Cook’s feast and its escort appeared over the rise.

Laura did not mind his disarray, especially when he smiled at her, regardless if it was more for her benefit or those accompanying the wagons—half a dozen servants, as many knights, ten men-at-arms, Sir Angus, and Tina. There were two others as well, both unexpected—Sebille who said she never missed the shearing supper when Laura could not hide her surprise, and the physician who was to have remained with Lady Raisa but been summoned to tend one of the workers who had broken an arm.

When the rider appeared shortly before the departure from High Castle, Sebille had arranged for a woman servant to sit with her mother and a man-at-arms to keep watch outside her door.

“Your patient rests in the shade of the trees, Martin,” Lothaire called as the physician aided Sebille in dismounting—Sebille whose gaze was on Sir Angus who had lifted Tina down.

“I am glad you came, my lady,” Lothaire said, halting alongside Laura’s mount.

“Is not my place at your side on such an occasion?”

“It is.” He raised his arms and it felt wonderful to go into them, especially as there had been little physical contact these past days beyond the brushing of arms and hands.

As if he also missed the contact, his hands lingered at her waist when her feet were firm upon the ground. “You are lovely,” he said.

She looked down the gown fashioned of rich brown samite that had been far from simple ere she removed its embellishments save the gold braid around neck and hem. “I thank you.”

“I wish I could pay the same compliment to Clarice.” He slid his hands down Laura’s waist and off her hips, and she felt the intention.

Returning her gaze to his, she saw a glimmer in his eyes she had not seen for two days. He truly was pleased by her arrival. “She is a mess?”

“Methinks you will be shocked, and I fear her gown may have seen its last wear—not only fouled but torn.”

“Torn?”

“At waist and hem. She was determined to put shears to one of the lambs though I forbade it since she has neither the experience nor strength to control even a smaller animal without aid.”

Though Laura tried not to be alarmed, she had to ask, “She is not the one who requires the physician, is she?”

“She is not. Only her pride and gown were harmed when she lost the battle and found herself in a mud puddle. Too, she disagreed with her punishment.”

“Which was?”

“Sacking the wool, which she much dislikes. But she once more assists the shearers.”

“I am sorry she was difficult.”

“I am not. She learned more than she would have had she behaved. Now she knows exactly why she must obey me, though she will surely test me again.”

“She admires you,” Laura said, “and I cannot thank you enough.”

He inclined his head. “She told me she worked well for you on the day past.”

“She did, though methinks she did it more for you than me.”

“Nay, the sheep. I did not expect it, but I am not so certain the excitement of what is new to her will grow old. It is quite possible my new daughter has wool in her blood.”

As would have been more expected had she Soames in her blood, Laura thought. “I am glad she is happy here, especially after—” Laura stopped herself from spilling the name of Castle Soaring for which her daughter had expressed a preference. Even if it had not led to her speaking the name Lothaire did not wish to hear, it would have put the man between them. In the next instant, his smile faltered, and she realized Michael was there regardless.

She looked past him to the simple structure whose roof was long and wide and walls few. On either side were pens, the one on the left holding a dozen unshorn sheep, the one on the right nearly bursting its posts and rails to contain what must number two hundred barely clothed sheep. And all in between was where the shearing was done out of the day’s heat, and which appeared even more the birthplace of snow than it had when first she laid eyes on it.

“While the tables are erected and the food set out,” she said, “will you show me the work of wool, Husband?”

“Providing you do not mind picking the fluff from your gown and hair,” he said.

“I will not, though I may require your aid where I cannot reach.”

She had not meant that to be suggestive, but she was glad it sounded that way when his smile recovered. “I shall be happy to help however I can, Wife.”

And then they would consummate their marriage? Feeling her face warm, she said, “Show me how the Lord of Lexeter saves his lands.”

“With much sweat, lack of sleep, and the aid of a sizable tax break, of course.”

As he took her arm and drew her toward the shelter, Laura said, “Now I have seen how hard you labor, methinks you would have saved your lands had you gained naught in wedding me.”

He looked sidelong at her. “Had I gained naught, I would not have wed you.”

Of course he would not have, just as she had not thought—or wished—to wed him until the queen revealed her reasons for rejecting Laura’s other suitors.

“This I know, Lothaire.”

“Nor would I have regretted not taking you to wife.”

Thinking he must seek to hurt her, she averted her gaze.

“But only because I would not know there was anything to regret,” he added. “As now I know.”

She swung her gaze back to his.

“Do you think it by God’s hand what was undone has been done, Laura?” At her hesitation, he continued, “I think it must be, though surely Eleanor would say it was by her hand. I shall never cease to be surprised by those He enlists to do His good work.”

“Nor I. My surprise is that…” Laura blinked amid the wool floating more conspicuously upon the air as they drew near the shelter. “…His arms were not too full to hold me as I feared when I determined to leave Owen and find a father and home for Clarice.”

“Then you believe you can be happy here? With me?”

“I can think of no place or man with whom I would be happier,” she said and silently added, But happier I could be did you allow me to tell you all and you believed me. But that little word—if—could make ill of what was good. Again, she told herself Lothaire was right. If was too great a risk.

As she passed the pen that held unshaven sheep, she glanced across her shoulder and saw the spouses and children of the workers assisting High Castle’s servants with unloading the wagons. Sir Angus and Tina also helped, as did Sebille who appeared to be directing them all.

“It makes me sad your sister has not a husband and home of her own.”

“She could have had both. Had she wed Sir Angus, I would have awarded him the keeping of my mother’s dower property, but Sebille chose Lady Raisa.”

“She must love her very much.”

His brow furrowed. “I think it more she is easily controlled by guilt and obligation, both at which our mother excels at dispensing. Sebille wants to be with Angus, but there is something she wants more.”

“Her mother’s love.”

“She will not speak of it, but I believe so. I was but six when our father disappeared, but I knew she was adored by our parents. Though I felt loved as well, I was certain she was the favored child.”

“A daughter,” Laura said. Sons, whether of the nobility that they might carry on the family name or the common folk that they might better labor alongside their parents, were more desirable—at least until a man had his male heir and one or two more to spare.

“Aye, a daughter,” he spoke louder to be heard above the bleating sheep, talk of workers, and rasp of shears. “I do not think I begrudged her, for I also adored her. She was joyous then and played the little mother well, but all changed when our father departed High Castle to visit his mistress and never returned. Our mother became so bitter over his faithlessness she turned it on Sebille and her attention on Lexeter’s heir. Suddenly I was the favored child—and liked it not.”

Bits of wool swirling more heavily around them, settling on their clothes and hair, Laura stepped nearer. “That must have been difficult for Sebille to lose the adoration of both parents.”

“Certainly, but when she was not occupied with Lady Raisa’s demands, still she mothered me.”

“And had your love. That must have eased some of her ache.”

“I would like to believe so,” he said, then swept a hand before him. “Here, the work of wool, this the last asked of the flock for near on a year—that is, where their fleece is concerned. Still there is sustenance and income to be had from their milk and the meat of those too aged to weather another winter.”

Laura marveled over the chaos of so many workers putting shears to sheep. Some of the animals, likely the older ones, lay on the earthen floor letting be done to them what must be done, whilst others were not of a mind to submit.

Laura watched as one whose fleece billowed every which way was toppled and turned legs up by a male and female worker.

Immediately, the man dropped to the dirt, put a leg on either side of the animal, and bracing it between his knees, drew it against his chest and settled its head on one shoulder. “Shears!” he commanded, but before the woman could pass them to him, the ewe began thrashing.

The man drew his knees up the animal’s sides and squeezed until the ewe’s struggles subsided.

“William is big and strong,” Lothaire said, “as is the man whose arm the physician tends. The difference is that William has been shearing for over ten years, the other man two.”

“’Tis why you would not allow Clarice to attempt such.”

“Not even on a slighter animal. Blessedly, most of the flock are easily persuaded to give up their oppressive coats.”

“How many—?” Laura clapped a hand over her mouth, sneezed.

“It is the wool,” Lothaire said. “Methinks there is no other activity at which you will hear so many sneeze.”

Laura rubbed her nose with the back of a hand. “How many have you sheared this day?”

“Eleven. I hoped to make an even dozen.”

“May I watch?”

He grinned. “You wish to see your lord husband hard at labor?”

“I do.”

“Clarice thought you might.” He motioned to the man who stood before the gate of the nearly barren pen.

Moments later, a large ewe was led into the shelter.

“Mother!”

Laura turned. Lothaire had not exaggerated. Clarice was so fouled—mud spattered across her skirts and chausses—she looked most unladylike. But she was smiling.

“I know,” she read Laura’s alarm, “but it could not be helped.”

“Could it not?” Lothaire said.

She sighed. “Aye, but I have been punished and am behaving.” She patted the ewe as it passed. “That is Grandmother,” she said.

Laura raised her eyebrows. “The one you told had first to be washed in the stream?”

“Nay, this is a different Grandmother. Every flock has one. This one is bigger and less friendly. I asked Father not to shear it until you arrived.”

“Why?”

“So you may watch, and because he will make quicker work of it than the others. He is very good at shearing.”

“Not something with which I ever thought to impress a lady,” Lothaire muttered and took charge of the ewe. “Forgive me for baring you, Grandmother. When the shame passes, I vow you will be as grateful as the others to shed this heavy old coat.”

Laura did not grasp what it meant to be good at shearing, but as she and her daughter watched Lothaire, she did not doubt there were few who could best him.

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.