Lothaire would not have guessed who sought to once more render the jailer unconscious, but there could be no doubt who did Lady Raisa’s bidding.

The man was seen entering the dungeon an hour ahead of the prisoners’ escape. Not that there was anything unusual about that since he and Nigel sometimes visited each other during the daylight hours and often met at night at a tavern in Thistle Cross where they tipped tankards of ale and patted and pinched serving girls.

Unfortunately for Nigel, his drinking companion was not above endangering the jailer’s position. A half hour after he received this man bearing gifts, the perpetrator departed the dungeon. Shortly thereafter, amid the dusk of approaching night, the three prisoners stealthily exited. And Lothaire’s men were rewarded for their vigilance.

The prisoners were returned to their cells, and all attempts to rouse the jailer were for naught, his head on the table alongside a decimated platter of viands and an overturned cup.

“The last time you were such a good friend to Nigel,” Lothaire said, “it was by the same means, hmm?”

Having not moved from the chickens spitted over a cooking fire since his lord entered the kitchen and ordered the other servants to leave, Cook stared out of twitching eyes.

Advancing on him, Lothaire said, “I am guessing the first time Nigel himself dealt the blows to hide the fact he imbibed too much and slept through the escape.”

The tip of the poker with which the man had been shifting the logs rose.

“But he did not sleep through the escape, did he? Something in his food or drink rendered him as unconscious then as he is now. This time is different only in that the prisoners were recaptured.”

The poker rose higher, and Angus and the other men at their lord’s back drew nearer.

Cook was no easy prey. He was of middling years and nearly as tall and muscular as his lord. Still, Lothaire did not doubt he could better the man who likely had little if any training at arms. As for his brawling over women that sometimes broke bones as easily as chairs and tables, Lothaire believed himself superior as well, though lacking Wulfen training that might have been questionable.

The cook shifted his regard from Lothaire to his warriors, then lowered the poker’s tip. “I but followed my lady’s orders.”

Lothaire halted before him. Though his eyes were fastened on the other man’s, he remained aware of the poker’s position. “You speak of Lady Raisa.”

“Aye, your lady mother. As ever, I do her bidding, whether it is a special food she requires or…other things.”

“As ever?”

“Since you took Lexeter from her when I was but a kitchen servant.”

“You were paid well, hmm?”

“Well enough.”

Confirmation it was more than loyalty that bound him to Raisa. “Always you receive your orders directly from her?” Lothaire tensed as he waited on the answer that would confirm Sebille and Laura’s belief his mother was not as infirm as she appeared.

“Aye, until…” The man shrugged. “It has been over a year since Lady Sebille began delivering your mother’s private messages.”

“My sister?” Lothaire could not contain his disbelief.

“Aye, the same as she did entreating me to once more engage the men sent to avenge the dishonor dealt you by Lady Beata and Baron Marshal. And again this day to aid in their escape.”

“Your sister could not have known the contents of the missives, my lord,” Angus said. “She must have thought—”

“You are right,” Cook said. “I am sure Lady Sebille believed she but delivered a request for special food or drink.”

“Show me my mother’s messages.”

“I would, but ever I am to burn them after reading. And so I have.”

Inwardly cursing that he could not verify Raisa’s handwriting, Lothaire said, “This is serious what you have done. Your position is lost, mayhap your life.”

“I am but a messenger doing the bidding of my lord’s mother. Where is the death sentence in that, my lord?”

There was threat in his words. Were he to receive punishment for his role in attempting to harm Lady Beata and Baron Marshal, Raisa’s involvement would be exposed. Though she was too old and seemingly infirm to suffer severe punishment, shame would fall upon the family.

Moving slowly as if very aware of the sword Lothaire could easily bring to hand, Cook reached the poker to the side and set it in its stand. “Too, no great ill was ever intended, my lord. Just as those men were but to appear assassins, they had but to appear to threaten the fleece stores.”

“What say you?”

“Your mother likes to cause trouble, my lord. I do not ask why. I but take her coin and make the arrangements.”

Did he speak true? Or was he thinking fast in hopes of lessening his punishment?

Likely the former, Lothaire thought, remembering Sebille had said their mother muttered it was time to stir up more trouble.

The man grunted. “And when there are complications as twice there have been with your prisoners, I rectify the situation ere any can be made to talk.”

“This time you failed.”

“This time was one time too many, just as feared. But coin is a great tempter.”

Lothaire motioned his men forward. “I am sure we shall speak more on this. Until then, you shall become acquainted with the inside of a cell.”

Cook tensed as if to resist.

“Do not,” Lothaire said. “If what you tell is true, the loss of your position should suffice and you will be freed.”

Resentment flashed in the man’s eyes, but his shoulders eased on an exhalation of acceptance. “’Tis true, my lord. Do not forget me in that cell.”

As the men took hold of the cook, Lothaire instructed them to remove him by way of the garden. He did not wish to alarm those in the hall settling in for supper, especially Laura. Though she was not as fragile as she ought to be considering her past had nearly repeated itself last eve, he would not have her worry over what was set in motion. When it ground to a halt would be soon enough for her to learn of the breadth of plotting he would never have thought to find himself in the middle of.

“Angus,” he called as his man followed the others.

“My lord?”

“Ensure Cook’s cell is within speaking distance of the others and discreetly set yourself near to listen. Providing they are not overly cautious, the truth may be known all the sooner.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“It could prove a long night.”

“Whatever is required,” the knight said.

After summoning the kitchen servants from the corridor and informing them urgent business had taken Cook from High Castle, Lothaire set the most experienced over the others and returned to his wife at the high table.

“Something is wrong?” she asked.

Angus had been heedful in requesting his lord accompany him to the kitchen, but the event was too unusual to escape notice, especially since the knight had not returned to the hall. Also absent from the table was Sebille, though that was not unusual. Likely, she was with their mother and would yet be there when Lothaire ascended to the third floor. Hopefully, she had not revealed the plot against the stores of fleece nor her suspicion Raisa had arranged it. Lothaire had told her to hold it close so he could himself gauge their mother’s reaction that would be more difficult to mask the longer she was denied word of what she wrought.

“What was wrong is being made right,” he said and caught up his wife’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “Naught to worry over.”

Her smile was uncertain.

“Later I will tell you,” he said and was relieved when Clarice drew her mother’s attention.

It could not be too soon for the servants to deliver the viands and the meal to be done. There were questions without answers and answers without questions. This eve, the unknown and known would meet and this foul business concluded so never again would his family suffer for it. And he and the woman he loved would make good on all the years lost to them.

* * *

“You have decided to allow me to spend my final days in my home, have you?”

They were the first words his mother spoke when Lothaire closed the door.

He glanced from Sebille perched on a chair beside the bed, fingers moving over her prayer beads, to Martin who stood on the opposite side, medicinal bag open and vials sitting atop the coverlet.

“Mother,” he said.

At his approach, Sebille stood and offered him the chair.

He declined and halted alongside the bed.

Lady Raisa, whose head was so far sunk in the pillow it appeared she had lost the rest of her hair, frowned. “That is as you have decided, is it not, Lothaire?”

She looked worse than he had seen her, and he had to remind himself of what she had done. “Nay, Mother. It is but another delay in moving you to your dower property.”

Her lids narrowed. “You do not love me, do you?”

He did not want to yield to her the questions needing answers, but to this he would respond. “I love you, Mother, though you make it difficult.” He had not thought he could be angrier with her than when she hired assassins Cook would have him believe were not truly that, but he was. For attacking Laura in her chamber…for hiring men to stir up trouble that had nearly seen his wife ravished a second time…

But he could not loose cruel words on her as he might have done had he come to her last eve or this morn.

Lady Raisa sighed, and in a voice softened by weariness, said, “Of what would you accuse me now?”

Lothaire looked to Sebille who gave a slight shake of her head to indicate she had remained silent on the matter. “During the shearing supper last eve, the men hired to work ill on the stores at Shepsdale were thwarted and instead turned their attention to the fleeces at Thistle Cross. That attempt was also foiled but not before one of the men sought to ravish my wife.”

Raisa’s eyes widened, his sister gasped.

“They failed and are now in High Castle’s dungeon. A short while ago, Cook was imprisoned as well for hiring them to do your bidding and attempting to release them as he did when two of these same men were sent to murder Lady Beata and Baron Marshal.”

His mother blinked. “So once again I am blamed.”

He stepped nearer the bed. “Cook tells it was under your orders he made the arrangements both times.”

“He lies. Just as I did not hire assassins to kill Lady Beata and Baron Marshal, I did not—”

“Now you would deny it, though you did not a year past?”

She came up off the pillow but immediately fell back. “How could I? I had to protect—” Her lids fluttered.

Of course he was expected to pry out of her what she would not speak. “Tell me, Mother.”

She drew a breath that seemed laborious, and Lothaire could not ignore the need to aid her. He lowered to the mattress, slid an arm around her, and raised her. As he dragged pillows behind her, he felt her hand flatten against his chest as if she searched for the beat of his heart.

Wishing she were worthy of affection, he eased her back against the pillows.

He was about to repeat his question when she said, “I would not tell it if not that my days are few and it hurts knowing when you put me in the ground you will not be sorry because of how evil you think me to be. Aye, I was angered by the annulment of your marriage to Lady Beata—of the funds lost that could have returned High Castle to prosperity—so I cried out, Will no one avenge this offense for me?” She looked past him. “You remember, Sebille?”

The prayer beads ceased clicking. “You were very angry, but your words I do not recall.”

Lady Raisa scowled, returned her attention to Lothaire. “The day you revealed the assassination attempt and without proof of my involvement accused me of hiring those men, I was hurt.”

What Sebille had overheard had been proof aplenty, but then as now he would not reveal his sister had alerted him, giving him time to overtake the assassins.

Lady Raisa looked to the physician. “I guessed it was you who answered my call for aid, that you hired the men.”

The physician straightened abruptly.

Lothaire’s mother looked back at her son. “As I could not bear to lose the only friend I have, I determined it better you thought it me. And ’tis not as if I did not approve.”

“I did not hire those men!” Martin voiced the outrage reddening his face. “You must believe me, my lady…my lord. Much I dislike that Daughter of Eve, but I would not seek her death. I am a healer, not a killer!”

Lothaire did not know whom to believe, but he found himself leaning toward the physician. Certainly he was greatly offensive, but he did not seem one to seek another’s death.

“I vow I did not do it, Lothaire,” his mother said. “And how could it be me? I can barely move from this bed.”

It would have been better had she not resorted to that argument, then Lothaire might not have walked through the door she flung wide. “A year past you could, Mother. Indeed, months past you did. It is only since my wife’s arrival that saw you moved to the third floor you have not ventured belowstairs—at least not to the hall.” He leaned nearer. “Pray, do not further your lies by denying you went to Lady Laura’s chamber and did injury to her.”

“She slapped me!”

“After you insulted her daughter and her. I do not condone her retaliation, but she is sorry for it, and methinks it the response you sought.”

In her eyes he could see she wished to argue, but she did not.

“Regardless,” he said, “Cook has revealed it was by way of Sebille he received your instructions.”

“Me?” His sister jumped to her feet. “I am not a party to her…” She snapped her teeth, glared at their mother.

Lothaire set a hand on her arm. “The messages she had you deliver Cook were not always food requests.”

Finding her voice, Lady Raisa said, “Though that man was useful in making arrangements after you snatched Lexeter from me, ’tis more than a year since I enlisted his aid. As you put a watch on me, and I cannot trust Sebille not to run to you with my private messages, the only ones I send now are meal requests.”

“That is not what Cook tells.”

“He lies!”

“He said the message Sebille delivered several days past instructed him to once more hire the men who were to kill Lady Beata and her husband so they might work ill on the fleece. And this day he received another message to aid in their escape.”

“Lies! Tell him, Sebille. Tell him I have sent no messages for over a sennight, not even for food.”

A sob escaped Lothaire’s sister, and she dropped her prayer beads and pressed a quaking hand over her mouth.

“I know you are distressed,” Lothaire said. “I am sorry for it, but if you can verify what Mother tells, else deny it, all the sooner we shall be done with this.”

She lowered her hand to her side, and her tongue clicked as if her mouth was dry, then she said, “It pains me, but what Cook tells is true.”

Raisa made a choking sound.

“Three—or was it four days past?—I delivered what I believed was a meal request, and again this day.” She looked to her mother. “How could you use me like that? To do evil?”

Raisa’s eyes were all on Sebille. Nostrils flaring, upper lip curling, she cried, “I thought you but disliked me, but ’tis worse. You loathe me.”

“I do not, but I cannot lie for you. And I am done being a party to your hatred.”

Raisa struggled onto her elbows. “I know you, Sebille.”

“Mother!” Lothaire urged her to lie back.

She shoved his hand off and pointed at her daughter. “This is all you, you foul useless thing.”

“Cease!” Lothaire erupted.

“You are the one who paid men to murder Baron Marshal and his wife—the one who sent them to work ill on the fleece.”

Face crumpling further, shoulders bowing, Sebille caught up her prayer beads. “Of course you would see me bear your sins as I have long borne your care—because I speak in truth, because I will not allow you to lay further waste to my life by accompanying you to your dower property.”

Face flushed, brow beaded with perspiration, Raisa said, “You are not my daughter. You know that, aye?”

Sebille burst into tears.

Lothaire was tempted to curse the old woman, but she looked so ill he resisted. “Martin, settle my mother as best you can,” he ordered the physician who had nearly made himself one with the opposite wall, then put an arm around his sister. “Come away, Sebille.”

“Pretender!” Raisa screeched as brother and sister crossed to the door. “Not my daughter. Never my daughter!”

Hardly did they make it into the corridor than Sebille collapsed. Lothaire swung her into his arms and was jolted by how light was this sister who had carried more weight as a young woman despite the demands their mother placed on her. In the years since she had refused Angus, she had nearly gone to bone.

“Do not listen to her,” he said as she buried her face in his tunic.

Though he knew she had slept in the small chamber across from his mother’s since Raisa was moved to the third floor, he carried her down to the second floor.

It proved ill timing, Laura exiting her daughter’s room as Lothaire strode the corridor.

His wife’s gasp drew Clarice to the threshold before Laura could close the door. “Clarice, go back inside,” she entreated. “I—”

“What is wrong with Lady Sebille?” The girl started forward, but Laura pulled her back.

“Naught to worry over,” Lothaire said. “She but feels unwell.” He shouldered open the door of his sister’s chamber, entered, and pushed it closed.

“I am sorry,” Sebille cried as he lowered her to the bed. “’Tis just I am so weary.” She patted a hand across her waist, found the prayer beads, began tripping her fingers over them.

“I shall see you restored, Sebille.” Lothaire swept tear-dampened hair off her cheek. “The decision is made. Even do you think to change your mind and accompany Mother to her dower property—”

The door opened and Laura stepped inside.

He returned his gaze to Sebille. “I will not allow it. This is your home.”

“I wish to remain, but…”

“It is done, Sebille. Here you shall stay and grow strong again.” True, Father Atticus had suggested it would be best for her to enter a convent, but if ever Lothaire could have seen that, he could not now.

He looked to Laura where she came alongside. “My sister has given enough of herself to our mother’s care, do you not agree?”

“Of course.” The smile Laura gave Sebille was genuine. “I am glad you shall remain with us, Lady Sebille. I shall appreciate your companionship.”

A sob escaping Sebille, she turned onto her side and pressed her face into the pillow.

Lothaire drew the covers over her and laid a hand on her head. “Sleep, Sister. All will be better come morn.”

She nodded, and he drew Laura into the corridor. Neither spoke until he closed the solar’s door.

“What has happened, Lothaire?”

To save her from worrying over his mother’s presence, he would not have chosen to tell all that transpired this day. But since she had been exposed to Sebille’s misery, it would be cruel to make her wait on an answer.

He took her hands and drew her close. “You are not to worry. On the morrow, my mother departs, aye?”

“Tell me.”

“Lady Raisa’s lies are unraveling, and she looks for someone to blame.”

“Sebille.”

“Aye, my sister whom I will have suffer no further abuse.”

“What has Lady Raisa done? Did she strike Sebille?”

“Nay, though I believe she would have given the opportunity.”

“Then what?”

“Most recently, she hired men to attack the wool stores, the same you encountered at the lake.”

Laura startled.

“Aye, though it is certain what nearly befell you was not by her orders. You were simply in the wrong place.”

“Dear Lord, why would she do that? The wool is all to Lexeter—to you.”

“No longer all to me, but it means much to the barony and people of Lexeter. Who can know the workings of a mind that is not right, but she has ever been vengeful and all the more for being forced out of High Castle.”

Laura considered this, said, “That is what she has done most recently. What did she before?”

He sighed. “You want all of it, hmm?”

“Surely the Lady of Lexeter ought not be ignorant.”

“Then I shall tell you that which Baron Marshal and his wife know not, how my mother sought vengeance against them for the annulment of my marriage.” He drew her to the hearth. “Sit with me.”

* * *

Was that the mark seen on her mother’s face that she had tried to conceal? The mark Clarice had accepted as the result of a fall?

So it seemed. And the witch had done it to her.

Clarice removed her sore, creased ear from the door’s seam and looked to the ceiling as she tried to draw breath to her churning depths.

Lady Raisa was up there, likely greatly displeased with her failed attempts to kill Lady Beata and her husband, attack the wool stores, and harm Clarice’s mother. What might she do between now and her departure on the morrow?

Clarice shivered. Hating herself for the fear urging her to bolt herself in her chamber until the night passed, she told herself to be brave and go up there and warn the witch that if ever she even looked at her mother she would find her eyes clawed out.

Told herself once…twice…a third time, then absolving herself of weakness with the reminder she was not even ten, hastened to her chamber. And barely suppressed a cry of alarm when Tina, who had taken ill this morn with a cough and running nose, groaned and turned on her pallet.

As Clarice remained unmoving, waiting for the maid to go back down into sleep, she promised herself that if that hag was still at High Castle on the morrow, she would confront her then. In daylight it would not matter so much that her years numbered less than ten. No one was going to hurt or take from her the mother she had only just found and meant to keep.