“Bloody right I am,” Bartholomew sneered. “We shall see what William thinks of his darling now, eh?” Bartholomew took a step forward and spat on the stable floor. “A young fool who has married a madwoman and must cling to a brother not of his blood to hold his keep in check. Old Richard turns in his grave.”
“You son of a bitch,” Nick growled. “You tell William what you would.You tell him.And I will be there to see your head part with your body for treason.”
Bartholomew chuckled and shrugged. “We shall see, shall we not? In any case, you must be overjoyed to have the lovely Evelyn back at your side. Shame you had to get her sire killed to make her return to you.”
Tristan lunged for the smug man, causing Bartholomew to scramble backward, but Nicholas stayed his brother.
“Get from my sight, vermin,” Nick said, his whole body shaking with rage and humiliation. “When next I see you—and I vow, I will see you soon—’twill be upon the eve of your death.”
Bartholomew laughed and gave a mock bow, and the two nobles he’d entered with approached, leading their own mounts as well as Bartholomew’s gelding. The codger took the reins and swung up to mount.
“Good day, FitzTodd,” he said solicitously before spurring his horse from the stables. His two cronies gave chase, and from beyond the door, a faint rumbling was heard. Nick and Tristan approached the stable yard, and at the sight they beheld, Nick felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut.
No fewer than four score men had retrieved their battle mounts and were now crowding toward the barbican. Nick turned his head to the doors of the great hall, where servants ferried trunks from within and gowned ladies and their maids took seat.
Behind him, Tristan cursed. Nick set off in a trot toward the group of soldiers. He entered the fringe of the crowd of riders, holding both arms aloft.
“Hold! All you men, hold!” he shouted, jerking at trappings. “You and your lords are bound by fealty to me! You must stay and fight! Would you let the Welsh rape your countryside? Terrorize your towns and slaughter your people with no recompense?”
But the riders pulled free and moved closer to the gates. A queer feeling began to spiral in Nick’s stomach, a sensation like nothing he’d ever felt before.
Panic.
A young soldier slowed his horse and looked down at Nicholas. “’Tis sorry I am, milord,” the man said. “But Lord Bartholomew has put the fear into us—he says we canna win.” The lad winced, looked about furtively. “I doona wanna die, milord. I gots a woman what needs me—and a bairn comin’, too.” He nodded, as if he’d just made a decision. “Godspeed ye, milord.”
Nicholas could do naught but stare after the young man as he rejoined the exodus through Hartmoore’s gates.
That is ridiculous,Nick thought wildly.We have—had—nearly five hundred armed men. No Welsh village could best us. Why can they not see that?
He turned in a slow circle to face the keep, his body buffeted by horseflesh and spurred boots. Old Lord Cecil Halbrook was talking with Tristan, and both men looked concerned. The cacophony of soldiers and thudding hooves, jingling tack and rumbling cart wheels, throbbed in Nick’s ears, coated by an underlying buzz, as if a mammoth bee circled his head.
He began walking toward Halbrook and Tristan, his legs tingling curiously. When he neared enough for the man to hear, he called out, “Not you as well, Cecil.”
“Good night! Do not even think it for a moment, my boy,” Halbrook replied in his hearty baritone. He clapped Nick’s arm. “My men do not number many, but they are yours to command.”
“Not all flee, Nick,” Tristan said. “Lord Halbrook has spoken to many of the others, and they still stand with us.”
Nick looked to Cecil, and the man nodded. “Bartholomew is a pompous braggart and not well liked.”
Nicholas thought in silence for a moment. “How many do we keep?” he asked both men.
“Oh…er, quite a few, I’d say,” Halbrook offered, looking to Tristan.
His brother’s cheek twitched. “Not quite half.”
Nicholas turned to watch the rear of the departing cowards so that Tristan would not see the uncertainty in his eyes. Dusk was upon Hartmoore now; purple clouds crowded the slate sky and the air swelled with cold. A fat rogue raindrop splashed on his cheek, cold and shocking.
This cannot be,he thought absently. The situation was most dire. He knew not if Randall would reach the king in time, and if he did not, with their numbers cut by more than half, a battle likely easily won would become a bloody contest on foreign soil. It could not get worse.
But when he heard his mother’s frantic voice calling for him from the hall beyond, Nicholas felt ’twas about to become infinitely worse indeed.
Hartmoore’s maze of corridors was unnaturally deserted, and Simone assumed that most of the guests had retreated behind closed doors to escape the solemn and mournful atmosphere descended upon the festivities since Nick’s return from Obny. Simone was grateful for not having to dread encountering one of the spiteful courtiers, but neither were there any of Hartmoore’s servant’s about—all of them taken to hovering about the great hall, tending to their masters and waiting just as eagerly as the family for a sign from Lord Handaar.
Simone knew what she had to do. She would fetch Didier from the old woman and, after warning Lady Genevieve, she and Didier would somehow get to London and beg mercy from King William. Nicholas could have his annulment. She had nowhere else to go after that save France, and then she would tell Didier the truth about their father.
But not yet. God forgive her selfishness, but she could not imagine letting Didier go now, when she needed him so. She had no one left.
“Lady Simone, there you are,” a voice from behind her said, and Simone’s nerves were stretched so that she jumped and gave a frightened yelp.
