Tristan gave a put-out sigh and was silent for several moments before he again spoke. “Do you remember when first we met?”
Nick pulled on his chain coif, tied it beneath his chin. “Of course.”
“’Twas on the precipice of a battle not unlike the one that now lays before us,” he said. “I knew no more of you than I do of the Welshmen we will soon fight. ’Twould have been my right to refuse your aid for fear of being deceived. In truth, I did not yet believe our mother was not the monster of my youth.”
“But you knew that we were brothers.”
“Precisely.” Tristan had fastened his own coif and was now pulling on his gauntlets. “And so your men joined mine. And when I would have jeopardized Haith’s safety by rushing at my adversary, ’twas you who held me back.”
Nick only grunted, untying his helmet from his saddle.
“And yet, I did not rail at you for your interference; I did not scold you for your lack of faith in my less-than-clear judgment.”
“’Tis not the same,” Nick grumbled.
“Is it not?” Tristan seated his own helmet on his head. “I owe you a great debt, Brother. And I’ll repay that debt until I deem it fulfilled, whether ’tis to your liking or nay. You helped me to regain my demesne, my woman—my family. I would see you keep that which you already have.”
Nick shook his head and pulled himself up into Majesty’s saddle, the loud creaks of armor and battle trappings somehow comforting. ’Twould do not good to argue with the stubborn lout now, and in truth, Nick was more than a little shaken by his brother’s sincere speech.
Perhaps his brother did not think him a complete failure.
But it baffled Nick how Tristan could believe he owned Nicholas a debt of any kind. Tristan, who was self-made, assured, who kept close council with the king. The notion was ludicrous to Nick.
The two brothers faced the Welsh border as the ground beneath their mounts rumbled with the approach of their men. Nicholas looked to Tristan a final time, grinned, and held out his hand.
“It looks as if you will soon have your opportunity to repay me, Brother. Keep count of the men you lay low—’tis my wager I’ll kill thrice more than you. If you surpass my number, your debt shall be forgiven.”
Tristan seized his arm and laughed. “I’ll take that wager. But keep close count—ciphering is not your strength. Mayhap you will end up the one indebted.”
As their men closed in at his back, Nicholas could have no idea how much the battle would cost his brother.
Chapter 24
Had Simone had more than an instant to assess the situation, she may have handled it differently. But the dull thud of Armand’s fist connecting with Genevieve’s temple, sending the woman limp to the floor, and the arm about her own waist, a filthy hand stifling her scream, sent her into a panic.
She flailed and bucked and kicked her heels at her unseen captor while Armand stared hungrily down at the unconscious Genevieve. “Oh, Genevieve, forgive me, my love,” he crooned, his words slurred.
Armand’s right eyelid twitched frantically, drawing nearly closed, and his cheek hitched in a crazed grin. His hair had come undone from its usually messy tie and lay thin and greasy against his filthy tunic. Armand looked as though he’d been sleeping outdoors for days. Finally, he looked at Simone, but his words did little to comfort her.
“Portia?” he whispered with a dawning horror, but then reality shook him from that terrifying possibility. “Ah, Simone. You so resemble her in that gown—you gave me quite a start for a moment.” And then he cackled, as if this were the most humorous thing he’d ever heard.
Simone had ceased her struggles, but her stomach heaved from the very stench of the unseen stranger holding her. She feared the telltale saliva filling her mouth, a herald of the vomitus that would follow did she not soon draw a clean breath. Her eyes watered, her nose clogged.
Armand looked at her conspiratorially. “Will you promise to be quiet if I allow Eldon to release you?” he asked in a loud whisper.
Simone gave a jerky nod.
“Let her go.” He gave the command in French, and Simone hurled herself from her captor, gagging and swiping at her mouth.
She turned and beheld a large man, thick with fat and muscle and covered in what looked and smelled like dung.
“You must forgive Eldon’s hygiene,” Armand tittered. “He’s been hiding behind the stables, practically in the midden heap for days, awaiting the right moment.”
“I know what you did,” Simone gasped. “I know, Papa! How could you? How could you do that to her, to an innocent boy?”
In one giant step, Armand was upon her and had slapped her face so hard that Simone fell to her backside. Her nose cleared for an instant and then clogged again with warm blood. Armand stood over her, his entire body trembling and his tics twisting his features into what he had become—a madman.
“Have a care for your lively tongue, Simone, lest Irip it out!” He lowered his voice with visible effort, growls and whines issuing from his throat, and then he shook his head violently as if to clear it. He stumbled down into a crouch over Simone, and she could not help but shriek.
