Whatever the tidings, they were of great import.

Lothaire and Angus strode from the gathering to intercept the rider come over the rise across which the light of waning day shone.

“I come from Shepsdale, my lord!” the man called.

Lothaire tensed, certain the celebration’s interruption had all to do with wool, the storehouse on the outskirts of the village of Shepsdale crowded with one quarter of this season’s shearing, the remainder divided between High Castle and the villages of Wee Wainscot and Thistle Cross.

The rider reined in and swung out of the saddle.

“Deliver your tidings,” Lothaire demanded, and hearing his sister call to him, glanced at where she and the physician hastened forward.

“Two—mayhap three—men broke into the wool stores, my lord. Blessedly, the watch put them to flight ere they could make good on whatever ill they intended.” The man replenished his breath. “’Twas in this direction they headed.”

Lothaire inclined his head. Were they not prepared to cede their loss and quit the barony of Lexeter by way of its southern border, there were only two places they might go—High Castle, which they would not dare for how impregnable it was outside of siege, or Thistle Cross with its own wool stores to which much had been added this day.

“The wool at Thistle Cross,” Sebille gasped. “Dear Lord, not again.”

Lothaire looked to where she had drawn alongside. “Not again, Sebille? What say you?”

“I am not certain, but…” She snatched up her prayer beads, began to trip her fingers over them.

“Speak, Sebille!”

“What if Lady Raisa is involved as she was with the attempt on the lives of Lady Beata and Baron Marshal?”

“How can you think that possible?”

She drew a quavering breath. “You cannot tell I told, but this morn she was so angry you are sending her away she said ’tis time to stir up more trouble—that if you are to make her life miserable, the one to whom she has given all ought not be spared, nor your harlot wife.”

Lothaire believed Raisa would say that, but it did not seem possible her threat went beyond words.

A movement past Sebille drawing Lothaire’s gaze to Tina, who halted and looked expectantly at him as if requesting permission to approach, he held up a hand and returned his regard to his sister. “If Mother is responsible for the attack, tell how she could arrange it.”

“We think we have isolated her from those who once did her bidding for a coin or pretty bauble, but I fear not.” She looked down. “Your wife never revealed the truth of her bruised face, did she?”

Lothaire’s heart pounded harder. Though certain Laura had been struck despite her claim the bruise resulted from a fall, Sebille insinuated he had been correct in believing she was attacked, but not by her daughter.

“What is the truth?” he growled.

“I am sorry I did not tell it, but I believed Lady Raisa satisfied enough that she would not bother Lady Laura again, especially when she took so ill afterward. Too, I thought if she caused no further trouble you might allow her to remain at High Castle and I would not have to leave with her.”

That last Lothaire barely heard. “Mother attacked Laura?”

“She is not as feeble as she feigns. But in her defense, your wife slapped her, though…”

“What?”

“In Lady Laura’s defense, I am certain she was provoked after Lady Raisa stole into her chamber.”

“Mother came belowstairs? How? Even were she well enough to do so, I instructed she be secured in her chamber when there was no one to watch over her.”

“I have done as directed, Lothaire, as I did that morn. Yet when I returned abovestairs, she was slumped on the landing, fully dressed, face reddened and scratched by Lady Laura. She told I left her door unlocked, but I did not and her chamber accesses no inner passages. Thus, she must possess keys. I know not where, though I have searched.”

He pushed a hand through his hair. “You should have told me. My wife should have told me!”

“Doubtless, Lady Laura feared you would be angered she had struck an old woman, and Lady Raisa assured the lady that if she did not speak of it, neither would she.”

Would he have been angered? Mayhap in the moment, but he knew his mother and did not doubt she had said something cruel to Laura. Too, what was a slap and scratches compared to a bruise that powder and the cover of hair could not entirely hide?

Lothaire breathed deep. “Regardless of whether she hired men to break into the wool stores and thieve—if that is all they were there to do,” he added when struck by the possibility they had meant to burn the stores, “she will depart High Castle first thing on the morrow. My only regret is you—”

“Nay!” Sebille’s eyes glistened. “I shall not go with her. I hate she will be without family and may pass alone, but no more will I suffer her intrigues.” She drew the back of a hand across her eyes. “If still you would have me remain at High Castle, I shall.”

“Of course I would.” He glanced at Angus who had spoken no word, wished there was hope in his eyes. Wish not granted, he said, “All will be pleased you are to remain with us.”

“You are too kind.”

Hearing the catch in Sebille’s voice, Lothaire wondered if she had also looked near upon Angus. He turned to his knight. “I would have the celebration continue. Discreetly post men around the perimeter, then gather four knights and instruct them to prepare to ride on Thistle Cross.”

“I am one of those knights, am I not?” Angus said with disapproval that told he did not believe it.

“Would that you were, but there is none better to ensure the safety of my wife, daughter, and sister.”

“Daughter and sister, aye,” the physician reminded his lord of his presence, “but your wife… Alas, nay.”

Lothaire looked sharply at him. “Of what do you speak?”

“She is gone. I saw her moving along the tree line. Such a pity she so soon proves she remains a Daughter of Eve.”

A single stride carried Lothaire so near the physician the man lurched backward, but Tina’s shrill cry kept his white-knuckled fist from breaking a nose—or worse.

“’Tis what I came to tell, Lord Soames!” Of a sudden, the maid was at his side. “A quarter hour milady instructed me to wait, then I was to send ye to her at the lake. By the big weeping tree near the shore is where ye shall find her. Alone. Awaiting her lord husband.”

Pain lanced Lothaire’s chest. At this moment, he would rather Laura was in the bordering wood with a lover than near the lake. If those who had attacked Shepsdale’s wool stores made for Thistle Cross, and had they paused along the way to water and rest their horses or conceal themselves from the man sent to alert the Baron of Lexeter, Laura could be exposed to them.

“Dear Lord,” he rasped, then to Angus, “Get those knights astride.”

Why, Laura? he inwardly shouted as he ran to his mount. Why this very eve did you have to grant my wish?

* * *

Veil cast off. Girdle unfastened. Gown removed and skirts spread at the base of the tree whose farthest branches hung over the water. Next slippers and hose. But not chemise.

She believed Lothaire would like finding her waiting for him, but it was too bold to bare herself entirely. And though determined to become accustomed to looking upon her body as she must accustom herself to looking upon his, this was enough. For now.

She pushed off the tree and drew the ties of her chemise through her fingers as she approached the water that tempted her toes to test its warmth, then her feet and ankles. She was up to her calves, the hem of her chemise raised to her knees, when movement on the opposite side of the lake drew her regard.

A doe and fawn. They saw her as well, now so still she would not have noticed them across the dusk had they not thought themselves alone moments earlier.

She stared, not wishing to do anything to cause them to seek cover. It was too many years since she had found herself thus, her exposure to the gentle animals limited to those brought to table in various states of venison.

“Beautiful,” she whispered, and as if they heard and feared that on the other side of her voice an arrow strained its bowstring, they bounded away.

As Laura watched the last of their pert tails go from sight, she felt a vibration beneath her feet and heard hooves. She turned to the left where Lothaire would soon appear, then the right where he ought not appear. But the latter was the direction from which the rider—nay, riders—came.

Yanking her chemise higher, she ran to the tree. But too late. The white of her chemise having betrayed her, the three riders veered toward her.

As she slipped around the tree and put her back to it, one of them laughed as if excited by the prospect of a chase, and though Simon had not laughed in the cellar, she knew what it meant and her end would be the same if she did not escape.

“Not again, dear Lord,” she whispered. “Not ever again. Pray, send Lothaire.”

When the riders halted beyond the tree’s skirt, all of her was begging to flee. She wanted to, but reason told it would be futile and so deplete her strength she would have little left to fight. Though that would be futile as well, there was one thing that held her together after Simon—that she had fought him all the way.

Sucking air through a throat threatening to close the space between mouth and lungs, she ventured a look around the tree.

“’Twill have to wait,” said one who appeared to be of middling years. “If we are to see the rest of our coin, there is a task that needs doing.”

“It will not take long.” This from a younger man. “Come out, girl! Ye have but to be nice and we be nice to you. That is how it works, don’ it?”

“My husband comes!” she called in a voice that barely carried.

“Did ye hear what she said?” the third man asked.

Another laugh. “Aye, that she is happy to oblige us.”

Gripping her chemise closed at the neck, Laura forced more breath down her throat and called, “My husband comes. Leave ere he puts you through.”

“If ’tis true,” the younger said, “there are three of us to one of him.”

“One of us,” the dissenter once more spoke. “We got business to tend. Ye want somethin’ for free when ye could fill your purse full enough to have a woman every night for a week, stay. We are goin’ on.”

Listen to him, Laura silently entreated. Pray, go!

Another laugh. “When the lass and I be done, I shall catch up with ye.”

“Then make haste. We will not wait, and yer share be ours if’n ye are late.”

The two turned their mounts and spurred around the side of the lake from which Laura had come.

“Show yourself,” the man called above the beat of hooves. “I got no time for games, girl.”

Laura slipped out of sight. As she searched the ground for something with which to defend herself, she wished she had snatched up her girdle with its meat dagger.

Below her was a hand-sized stone, to the right a fallen branch as long as her arm and as thick around as her wrist.

She snatched up the latter, and as she pried the stone from the earth, peered around the trunk. And nearly cried out. The sound of his companions’ retreat having masked his movements, the man guided his horse beneath the tree’s skirt.

“I see ye!” He grinned.

Laura slammed back against the trunk and dropped the branch to scrabble at the stone with both hands. She freed it, snatched up the branch, and careened around the opposite side of the tree.

“Where did ye go, girl?”

She drew a shuddering breath, jumped forward, and spun to face him as he urged his horse around.

His eyes moved from the branch to the stone. “I said I got no time for games, girl. And now I see ye better—that ye are a woman in full—I be less tolerant.” He tugged the reins and clumsily dismounted as if much drink coursed his blood.

“I vow my husband comes.” She backed away. “Do you touch me, he will kill you.”

In a less than straight line, he advanced on her.

“Pray, rejoin your friends and live. You need not die.”

“Neither need ye, but I am becomin’ annoyed.”

She thrust the branch forward. “Go!”

He sprang so suddenly she had no time to swing before he slammed a hand around the branch and wrenched it from her. “Now then, how much harder do ye think ’twill be for me to take the stone?” He tossed the branch aside. “Yer too pretty to mess up, so give over.”

Laura raised the stone higher, drew her hand back past her ear to more forcefully strike him if he lunged.

He did. And she brought the stone down on his temple, causing him to yelp and stumble sideways.

Still gripping her weapon, praying his companions did not hear his cry above their pounding hooves, she turned to run. But swung back around to consider her assailant’s horse. Were she to leave it to its master, she would soon be overtaken.

God willing, the beast would allow her to mount.

Heavenly Father, she silently beseeched as she lunged past the one who stood wide, head lowered and gripped between his hands, let not your arms be too full. I cannot hold myself much longer.