Simone was a bit unsure why she felt it necessary to defend the woman, except that had she not come to their aid, Handaar would have surely died.
Leaving Evelyn alone at Hartmoore with no kin.
Haith seemed ready to speak again but was interrupted by Tristan’s entrance into the hall, followed in a moment by Nicholas. At the sight of her husband’s familiar stride, Simone’s heart lurched. He, too, was still covered in filth from the past days’ events, and his brow was lowered into what seemed to be a permanent frown.
There was a skip in Nick’s gait when his eyes met hers, but he recovered quickly and was soon at her side. Simone wondered if he would ask after her welfare, if he would apologize for his earlier words, blame them on his anger at the Welsh. She tried to give him a smile.
“Has he wakened at all?”
Her weak smile fell from her face. “What?”
“Lord Handaar, Simone. Has he spoken?” Nick’s face was impatient.
“Nay. Nay—he’s…he’s quite ill.”
Nicholas nodded curtly, and his eyes roamed Handaar’s still form. “He looks better, I vow.”
Haith broke the awkward silence. “His leg…was it the battle?”
Nick’s gaze flicked over the old man’s pieced lower half. “I had no choice. He would have died in Obny’s bailey for certain.”
Simone’s chest contracted painfully as she realized what her husband’s words meant. He’d had to amputate his friend’s leg.
Lady Haith laid a gentle hand upon Nick’s shoulder. “Oh, Nick, I am so sorry.”
Simone wished she could touch her husband in the same easy manner, but since his return, she did not know how her advances would be received.
Torment me no more with the strange tales of your kin. Not just this day, but all days.
“’Tis no matter now,” Nick replied brusquely. “Over and done. I can only hope now that he awakens so that I might avenge him as I crave to do.” He looked to Simone once again, his features shuttered. “My mother?”
Simone cleared her throat. “Minerva sent her to her chamber to re—”
Simone’s words were interrupted by a faint wailing, a screeching like a lone oak in the grip of a relentless storm. The sound grew louder, and chills raced over Simone’s skin as she recognized its source.
She knew all too well the sound of grief.
“Papa!” The dreadful scream sliced up Simone’s spine, and she could feel the shift in the atmosphere of the hall as the door flew open and a figure stumbled inside. “Papa!”
The woman’s puffy eyes swept the room before landing on Handaar’s still form at Simone’s feet. Evelyn choked back a sob before running across the rushes and falling to her knees. No one in the hall moved or spoke, but Simone instinctively took a step backward while the woman bent over her father and wailed. She was draped in yards of coarse brown wool—even her head and neck were covered—a rough wooden cross and primitive hemp belt holding a leather pouch, the ensemble’s only adornment.
Simone swallowed as the woman abruptly clapped her hands together against her breasts and raised her sobbing face toward the ceiling. Her eyes were squeezed shut, belying the rivers of crystal tears that flooded over her pale cheeks, and Evelyn’s lips moved frantically, speaking desperate, fervent prayers in Latin, her body rocking and trembling so that Simone did not know how the woman remained upright.
Simone felt gruesomely mesmerized by the sight of her and could not seem to drag her eyes from the slim nose, reddened at its tip and dusted with freckles, the dark fringe of lashes, clumped and spiky with tears, her wide mouth and lips moving with frantic pleas for mercy from her Creator.
My dearest Nicholas…
Even in the throes of grief, Evelyn’s holy beauty, her purity, had no equal. She seemed to glow, like an ivory statue in some ancient cathedral, her eyes rolled heavenward.
The ground seemed to tremble beneath Simone’s blood-soaked slippers as her world began to crumble. This was the woman who held Nick’s heart, his family’s affection, and Simone could not help but realize how woefully lacking she was in comparison: mad, and French, and looking like some exotic peasant. Tears filled her own eyes at the sweet wails coming from the dedicant, stabbing viciously at Simone’s heart.
And then Nicholas was there, but not at Simone’s side. He dropped to his knees and pulled Evelyn into his arms, and she turned into him, sobbing. Nick’s face was twisted painfully, and Simone felt herself growing lighter, as if she would soon depart from the stone hall and float away into the sky.
Nay. Nay, she would not give up yet.
“My lord,” Simone called softly down to him, forcing herself to stay focused on his face. She would help him, if he would let her.
Nick’s eyes opened, and Simone felt sick at the expression they held in their reddened confines. “Simone.” He glanced over her sticky form and then looked away from her. “Go to your chamber. You need not be party to this.”
