But the upsetting turn of her thoughts was cut short as the party rounded a bend into a stretch of deep forest and was faced with a large group of mounted men blocking the road. Simone gasped and reined her horse with a jerk, looking worriedly to Nicholas. Good omen, indeed.
But he smiled at her. “Fear not. They are but Hartmoore’s own, sent by my mother, no doubt, to lead us on.”
Simone felt the tension leave her with an odd urge to laugh, and she nudged her gray forward alongside Nick’s mount. The men awaiting them in a wide spot in the dirt road appeared to be from a race of lean giants—rugged, hard men dressed in full battle gear, atop barrel-chested steeds obviously bred for their substantial girth and muscle. Their drapings bore the now-familiar crest of Nick’s demesne, and Simone’s excitement grew.
The soldier to the fore of the group approached them at a canter and swept his halberk back from his head, revealing white-blond hair falling over hawklike features. He grinned and drew near to Nicholas.
“My lord, welcome home.”
Nick turned his horse to grasp the man’s forearm. “Randall. I see that Lady Genevieve received my message.”
“Yea, Sire. The keep is in a frenzy most dire. No man of battle dares enter the hall for fear of being set to some maid’s task. Already, guests arrive for the wedding feast.” Randall glanced at Simone, and his grin turned self-conscious.
Nick, too, looked toward Simone and chuckled. “I can only imagine. Randall, I present my wife and Hartmoore’s new mistress, Lady Simone FitzTodd.”
To Simone’s surprise, the man promptly dismounted and knelt, bowing his head. “My lady, ’tis my humble honor to serve you.”
In an instant, the remaining soldiers had done likewise amongst the nearly deafening sounds of clanging metal, and ’twas Simone herself who felt humbled.
“Your homage is well met, Sir Randall,” she said with a nod and seemed unable to banish the delighted smile from her mouth as she looked across the kneeling company of men. She caught a glimpse of Nicholas from the corner of her eye, and the look of pride on his face thrilled her.
The men returned to their mounts and broke rank, consuming the small party from beginning to end. Randall, however, stayed at Nick’s side as they once more began moving forward through the wood. Simone listened unabashedly to the exchange between lord and general.
“How fares the border?” Nick asked.
“Mostly quiet, my lord. We received word from Lord Handaar of a small band of raiders just beyond Obny, four days past.”
Nick grunted. “Damages?”
“Slight,” Randall assured. “’Twas but a skirmish at best. A score or less Welsh doing little more than hurling rocks were no match for Obny’s men.”
“’Tis odd there were so few,” Nick mused. “What clan? Donegal’s?”
“We know not. Handaar’s message did not specify.”
“That does not bode well.” The rough timbre of Nick’s voice sent gooseflesh springing on Simone’s arms. “What of captives?”
“None. All were killed.” Randall glanced to Simone. “Pardon, my lady.”
Simone’s eyes widened slightly, but she said naught, waiting for Nick’s reply.
“Good.” His jaw was set, the muscles working just under his skin. “It seems as though I will journey to Obny sooner than anticipated upon my return. This attack was strange by your account, Randall. We must be on our guard.”
Simone let the men’s conversation fade from her attention as the talk digressed to such topics as arrowheads and armor, of which she had neither knowledge nor interest. She instead occupied her mind with scanning the road ahead, seeking a break in the treeline through which she might spy her new home. She frowned to herself as she thought of the wedding feast awaiting them at Hartmoore. Would the arriving guests hail from the surrounding countryside within Nick’s demesne? Or would she also be plagued with the nobility from London once more, with their sharp eyes and even sharper tongues? She certainly had not expected to be put on display so quickly, instead hoping her first days on the Welsh border would be quiet, peaceful, with time to learn of her new family, Nick’s mother included.
She killed him. Fled France a murderess.
Nick’s words describing his mother’s past suddenly troubled Simone. Should she be fearful of this woman who had killed for her son? Or proud to be now allied with such a strong maternal figure? Nick seemed to love Genevieve very much, and her message to him in London was filled with words of only delight and praise. But the dowager baroness was obviously very protective of her offspring. Perhaps she would not welcome Simone’s intrusion.
Then there was no more time for worries, for they had quit the dense wood and ’twas there, sprawled in the valley below, that Simone laid eyes upon a fortress of such scale that she had never imagined its equal.
Large, square stones comprised the castle, the sheer height of its outer walls reaching up to Heaven as if rebelling against the docile fields surrounding it. Simone counted seven square towers ringing the main complex and two low wings, recently built by the looks of the crisp lines glittering in the late sun’s hazy glare. The wings stretched to the north and south of the keep proper, as if bracing it in a readied stance of attack.
The village huddled on the east side of the fortress, cottages and huts tossed about like giant boulders down the sloping motte to the wide wooden bridge over the river, winding around Hartmoore and snaking out of the valley. On the far side of the bridge, Simone saw a large gathering of people, and her stomach fluttered.
“’Tis not much,” Nick’s voice rumbled playfully, intruding on her fascination. He laid his wide, warm palm upon her arm. “But I vow ’twill keep you safe within its walls.
Why, of course she would be safe here. What could possibly harm her, in a place such as this? Surely God himself must beg entrance at Hartmoore’s gate.
