She felt his dismissal like a blade to her heart, but Nicholas’s attention did not linger on her as a clattering filled the hall. Simone turned and saw two stern-looking monks with neatly shaven pates and broadswords standing just inside the doors.
“Evelyn Godewin,” one of the monks called flatly. “You have witnessed your sire’s deathbed. We will now return to the priory.”
Simone heard Evelyn’s wild mew. “Nick, please, nay! I beg you, do not let them take me from Handaar!”
Nick shushed her gently. “Fear not, Evelyn.” And then he released her and stood, drawing his own soiled weapon in one smooth movement and approaching the monks.
“Get thee from my hall, men of God,” he warned, prompting the monks to lay hands to their sword hilts. “Lady Evelyn is most welcome to remain as she so pleases, and you will not move her.”
“’Tis not your will to be done here, nobleman,” one of the monks sneered. “Dedicant Sister belongs to the Heavenly Father, and her duties lay only in service to Him.”
Nicholas raised his sword until it was held horizontally to his waist, and his pace quickened as he neared, ready to champion Evelyn’s cause. A collision seemed imminent, and Simone held her breath.
“As do you too belong to God, you arrogant prat, and I shall send you to test his mercyshould you not leave us in peace!”
Tristan stepped into the trio of readied, deadly weapons, and Simone’s soiled hands flew to her lips.
“There will be no more blood shed in this hall,” Tristan commanded. His voice lowered to mumbles, and Simone looked once more to Evelyn, still kneeling at her feet.
To her surprise, the woman was appraising her, her wide, powdery blue eyes taking in Simone’s macabre gown. And then Evelyn spoke, and her voice was as gentle as rain.
“I thank you,” she whispered, her lips trembling and her hand resting on Handaar’s shallow chest. “I thank you for what you have done for my father. Here—” She fumbled at her small pouch for a moment and then withdrew a single, misshapen coin. She held it toward Simone. “Its value is not much, but ’tis all I have. Please, take it.”
Simone stared at the coin, frozen.
“Please,” Evelyn repeated with a hitch in her voice and a nervous glance at the monks. “Before they see.”
Simone held out her hand, stained and lined with Handaar’s blood, and Evelyn placed the ragged, dull coin in it gently. “God bless you. Now go, and do as your lord commands lest he punish you for your disobedience.”
Simone looked at the small circle in her palm, then back to Evelyn, before clenching her fingers around her payment until her nails bit into her flesh.
Haith appeared at her side, touched her arm. “Lady Simone, let me—”
Simone jerked away, not bothering to address Evelyn’s questioning frown, and turned toward the stairs, fleeing the hall as quickly as her trembling legs would allow.
“I will handle this, Tristan,” Nick gritted out between clenched teeth as he eyed the burly monks. “Step aside.”
“Nay, Nicholas. You are not thinking clearly,” Tristan said, and for an instant, Nick wanted to turn his weapon on his own brother. Hartmoore was his and Tristan had no right to command anything. Could he never live up to his brother’s shining example? ’Twas bad enough that Simone had witnessed his failures firsthand, now must he also bear Tristan’s reprimand before his wife?
“I said, step aside.” Nick moved closer to the monks, his shoulder pushing against Tristan’s chest.
Tristan grasped Nick’s upper arm. “I know you are angry, Nick,” he said in a low voice, “but put your anger aside for a moment and think. These men are no match for you, and their deaths would bring repercussions you do not desire.” Tristan’s eyes flicked to the robed men. “I stand with you—they will not take Evelyn before Handaar breathes his last, I swear it.”
As if sensing Nick relenting, one of the monks announced, “We have no quarrel with you, Nicholas FitzTodd, but we have our orders and we will obey them.”
Inside, Nick shook with rage and humiliation. Tristan—damn him!—was right again. To challenge these monks was folly—the king would hear of it, and combined with the devastating loss of Obny to the Welsh, William would be furious. Nick dare not lay further shame upon his family.
Nick sheathed his sword with a powerful thrust and a low growl. “Get from my hall. You may bed in the stables until”—Nick paused, swallowed the thorny lump in his throat—“When he is dead, you may return with her to Withington. I can assure you, you will not have a lengthy wait.”
Both the monks sheathed their weapons, and one spoke. “We must return this day,” he said firmly, but his beady eyes encased by plump flesh narrowed. “Mayhap we could fetch Dedicant Sister in a fortnight had we coin to replace her holy labors. You see, we are but a poor house of God…”
Nick could feel his mouth twitching in a disgusted sneer at the monk’s greed. He knew that, more likely than nay, the monks were under no such orders to return Evelyn to Withington within any set time and that ’twas probable they would spend the next two weeks drinking the payment they bargained for.
“How much?” Nick asked. Tristan apparently felt the situation had been properly diffused, for he moved from between Nicholas and the monks.
The robed men glanced at each other before the beady-eyed one answered. “Fifty gold pieces should fulfill Dedicant Sister’s obligation for a fortnight.”
“You’ll get ten,” Nick said. “Wait for my clerk at the stables.”
