Nick looked up at the faces of the men standing around him. Each was grim, and one of the youngest men stumbled away to retch.
“Two men to each leg, two on each side.” Nick rose to a squatting position. “I’ll have his head. Steady now.”
The soldiers stepped into position without hesitation, save Tristan, who went instead to his brother’s side.
“Nick, we cannot transport him in this manner and expect him to live.”
Nick looked up at his brother and was annoyed at the pity he saw. “I’ll not leave him to die, Tristan. Do as I command or be gone from my outfit.”
But Tristan did not heed the threat, only dropped to his knees. “His right leg is destroyed, Nick. Crushed. If he survives transport, the fever of it will kill him.”
Nick stared at his brother with fury boiling inside him as he realized Tristan’s meaning. “I’ll not take his leg! How will he fight again with only—”
“He’ll not fight again, any matter!” Tristan grabbed Nick’s head in both hands and pulled it toward him, their forehead’s butting. Nick’s breath heaved in and out of his body. “Listen to me, Nicholas. Handaar’s battle days are past. If you wish to spare his life, he must lose the leg. I’ve seen it too oft, as have you. Youknowthis!” Tristan gave Nick a firm shake. “Much as your heart would argue the contrary. Think, Brother.”
The acrid smell of smoke and the sweet stench of torn flesh and sweat filled Nick’s senses until he panted and shuddered, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Tristan leaned his head back but retained his grip on Nick. He stared into his brother’s eyes, and ’twas then that Nicholas accepted the truth of his words. Many a proud warrior had been laid in a grave with bloated and mangled limbs still attached. He knew what must be done.
Nick unclenched his fists a final time and raised his hands to mirror Tristan’s hold on him. After a squeeze on his neck, Nick released him and moved away.
“I’ll have need of hot tar.”
Two soldiers quickly dispersed on that errand, Nick retrieved his discarded weapon and wiped it as best he could on his chausses, trying to remove the horse’s thick blood. Tristan grasped his forearm.
“Let me, Nick. He was your friend.”
“Heismy friend.” Nick shrugged off Tristan’s hand and stared at Handaar’s still form. “I’d have no other do it.”
Tristan nodded and stepped away.
The men returned with the tar, placed it near Handaar’s right leg, and quickly moved back. A queer calm seemed to descend upon Nicholas; his trembling ceased and his hands steadied. He sank to the ground at Handaar’s hip, Tristan not far from his side. Nick hesitated when he saw that Handaar had once more opened his eyes and was now watching Nick closely.
“Don’t,” the old man breathed. “Please, Nick…”
Nicholas ran a gentle hand down the proud old face, closing the damning gaze. Then he turned his attention to the split and mauled leg. He drew his sword high over his head and, with a cry that echoed through the dark marches, severed the useless limb with one blow.
Nick shot to his feet as a weak stream of blood spit across the dirt, and he turned away, leaving Tristan to the task of slathering the scalding tar over the stump. Nick bent at the waist, his hands on his thighs, while his stomach heaved painfully, yet nothing was spewed forth.
Tristan stood at his side when Nick straightened. “’Tis done,” his brother said. “Would you have him moved now?”
Nick looked back at Handaar’s broken body and saw that the old man watched him with bitter eyes.
“Yea. We’ll take him to the cottage for the night, find him some ale. On the morn we’ll start for Hartmoore. We may not reach it by nightfall.” Nicholas knew that any movement of his men along the border this night was dangerous. With their small numbers, should any Welsh still be lurking about, their party could easily be overcome and slaughtered. “Send a man ahead to Withington—Evelyn must be told. And command that Randall travel to London as fast as the swiftest horse might carry him. The king needs be aware that we will retaliate against the Welsh.”
Tristan nodded and for once did not offer an opinion differing from Nick’s. The two men returned to Handaar’s side, and the old man’s body seemed impossibly light as they moved him to the cart.
Nicholas stood alone in the hollowed-out bailey as the cart rolled slowly away from the destruction that had once been Obny. The breeze wrapping around his naked chest chilled him, his bloody tunic crushed in one fist, his sword in the other, but still Nick stood in the cold wind, his heart crying out in unspeakable pain.
And he wished he had never laid eyes upon Simone du Roche.
Chapter 17
To Simone’s great surprise, her father had been waiting for her in the bailey the next morn, ready to take his leave. Simone had fought the urge to disobey Nicholas and ask her father to stay. True, ’twas more dangerous to have him at Hartmoore, where he may stumble upon Portia’s journals or further alienate Simone from Nicholas, but Armand was her only living kin. He was herfather—who else could she turn to should her husband refuse her?
But she had bid himadieu,hoping that he would leave her with an encouragement or a kind word. Instead, Armand had only warned that did Simone not send for him within two days, he would return to Hartmoore regardless of Nick’s orders and Simone would surely regret the repercussions. He had not embraced her, not wished her well, merely trotted through the gates eastward.
She had never felt so very alone.
Now Simone sat propped in the middle of Nick’s wide bed, the mid-afternoon sunlight washing the scattered pages of Portia’s journals with a cheery light. She hadn’t slept well at all the previous night, her troubled thoughts chasing slumber away each time it neared. She yawned until her jaws ached and paused in her reading to rub her sandy eyes.
