“Leave me, Nick,” Evelyn said quietly, turning her face to Handaar as if she could not bear to look at Nicholas. “I would make peace with my father in private.”
“I cannot, Evelyn,” Nick said. “If he awakens—”
“I will shout down the stones from their mortar. I vow to you, no one wishes vengeance for my father more than I.” Her voice was firm, pained. Bitter. “Go to your wife, and leave me.”
Nick walked to the stone steps, pausing at the bottom as if he walked to a gallows. How could he begin to apologize to Simone for his harsh words? How could he right things between them?
Nicholas did not know, and so he turned from the steps without climbing the first one and left the hall, shamed regret dogging his heavy footfalls.
Chapter 21
Once inside the stables, teeming with men and horses outfitting for battle, Nick sought a full rain barrel. He removed his belt and sword and set them aside, stripped off his ruined tunic, and dunked himself to the waist in the cold water. Rising with a harsh gasp, he scrubbed his palms over his skin, raked his fingers through his stiff hair. He dipped into the water twice more to rinse the filth from him. When he rose again, he realized he had not thought to bring a drying cloth or clean shirt, and the breeze through the stable cut him to the bone. He cursed, shook the water from his hair.
Something soft prodded his lower back, and when he turned, he saw Tristan, a length of linen in one hand and a dingy undershirt in the other.
Of course,Nick thought darkly.Leave it to my brother to swaddle me like the babe I am.He jerked the linen from Tristan, muttering a curt thanks.
“The monks have gone,” his brother confided.
Nick tossed the now-damp cloth over a half wall and took the shirt. He shook it out: stained and rough, but clean. “Good,” he said as he pulled the woolen garment over his head. He continued as he attended to the lacings. “I need not their greedy interference while we wait to see if Handaar wakes.” He picked up his sheath and withdrew his sword.
“They are not the only ones taking their leave of Hartmoore, Nick,” Tristan said, stepping closer.
Nicholas snatched the damp towel from the wall and began wiping at his blade. He glanced at his brother. “Oh?”
“Yea. Some of the nobles—” Tristan halted, looked around, lowered his voice. “Lord Bartholomew has convinced them that you brought the raid on yourself. He’s spoken of reporting to William.”
“Bartholomew’s fat mouth concerns me not, Tristan,” Nick said, swiping his blade clean. “William will not give his wagging tongue a moment’s consideration. Wallace Bartholomew is greedy and envious of Hartmoore.”
“That may be,” Tristan conceded, “but he does hold the ears of some of the other nobles. Many have already sent their wives and servants away, and a few have spoken outright of taking their men and leaving as well.”
Nick paused, his sword in one hand and his sheath in the other. “They cannot do that,” he said. “Should it come to battle, ’tis the lords’ duty to fight. To desert would be treason.”
Tristan shrugged. “I’ve done what I can to stay them, but Bartholomew is relentless.”
Nick sent his sword down into its sheath with a ringing hiss. “I do not need your charity, Brother.”
“Charity?” Tristan drew his head back and gave a humorless laugh. “My God, Nick—I thought I had a healthy dose of pride. ’Tis not out of charity that I speak to the other lords—I’m trying to prevent us from going into battle ill-matched. Who can know what we shall face at the border? If more than a few of the nobles withdraw their support, we could very well be outnumbered and slaughtered, as all at Obny were.”
Nick’s blood turned to ice. “It shan’t happen.”
“Will you at least—”
“Nay,” Nick interjected, not wishing to continue this disturbing conversation. “I must return to Handaar. Leave it, Tristan, all will be well.”
Tristan seemed ready to press his case when his attention was drawn over Nick’s shoulder to the stable’s entrance. Nick saw his brother’s jaw harden, and he turned.
Lord Bartholomew and two other elder nobles had entered the structure and were now walking briskly down the main aisle, looking rather smug.
“Bartholomew!” Nicholas called. His anger rose when one of the nobles gave him a nervous glance but did not slow. “Bartholomew!I am speaking to you! Halt!”
The man did stop and turn, but said nothing, only looked at Nick in his haughty manner. The stable quieted noticeably.
“To where do you hie?” Nicholas demanded. “We do battle soon, and your outfit is needed.”
“I think not, FitzTodd,” Bartholomew replied. “I’ll not sacrifice my men because you were too arrogant to keep watch over your demesne. I warned William in London this would happen.”
“Are you holding me responsible for Obny’s loss?” Nick asked quietly.
