“Sweet Corra, lass, I’ve no idea—I was sleepin’, in case you didna notice,” the old one growled. “I havna seen either of them since yesterday.” Isabella’s insistent cries interrupted her. “What’s amiss with the wee one?”
“I don’t know. She won’t—” Haith shook her head and bounced the baby to no avail. Her cries became more piercing, and although Haith was indeed concerned over the whereabouts of her mother-and sister-in-law, another worry was near to eating her alive, and she could no longer hold her silence.
“Minerva, I need your help.” Haith swallowed, rubbing at the phantom streak of pain in her bosom. “I think something has happened to Tristan.”
Chapter 25
They were winning the battle, driving the Welsh back toward the border, and with every swing of his sword, Nicholas felt Handaar’s spirit strong within him. Each hot splatter of Welsh blood healed, in Nick’s mind, Handaar’s wounds, as if they had never been. Each body he left lying lifeless on the ground slowly filled the void in his heart at having to take the old warrior’s leg, to watch him die in Hartmoore’s hall. Nick felt vindicated, invincible, forgiven, as he plowed through the enemy in the fading afternoon light.
“Aaaiiee!”
The high-pitched yell came from behind him and then the blow to the middle of his back, bowing Nick’s body forward. His breath whooshed from him as he fell, and he quickly rolled to face the second blow he knew would soon follow.
A Welshman, covered in blood, toppled toward him, a thick club in one hand and a short ax in the other, the latter raised high over his head. The beast gave another battle scream, his teeth bared in a bloody grimace.
Nick had the strength only to raise his sword, its hilt butted against the frozen ground. The Welshman fell upon it, turning his battle cry into a gurgling screech. The ax somersaulted through the air and bit into the dirt a hair’s breadth from Nick’s ear with a whisper and a dull thunk.
The enemy slid down the length of Nick’s sword until he lay prone atop him, and Nick gave a mighty shove to the side and pulled his blade free. Spirals of color were beginning to dance before his eyes when his paralyzed lungs finally drew breath, and he lay there for precious moments, gasping.
“That was rather close,” he wheezed aloud, and then laughed. The pain in his back turned his chuckle into a groan. “I’ll be pissing blood for a fortnight after this battle, you bastard,” he muttered to the dead Welshman, still staring at Nicholas in frozen surprise.
The sounds of combat were lessening now, and Nicholas knew ’twould only be a short time until they ceased completely. He struggled to an elbow, sheltered by the hulking body of the dead man, and looked about the battlefield before gaining his feet.
The sun was beginning to set beyond the Welsh foothills, turning black the blood-soaked slope where they fought. Already, crows picked their way through the dead bodies littered about, and even though some Welsh still doggedly engaged in hand-to-hand combat, Nicholas could see that most had fled or were fleeing.
“Crane!” The cry came from far off, and Nick turned, seeking he who had called, his eyes scanning the fallen bodies and fighting men.
“Crane!” The voice cried again, and Nick’s head turned toward the border, where the sight he saw caused his blood to slog to a frozen stop in his veins.
Llewellyn ap Donegal stood on his spindly legs mayhap a hundred yards up the slope from Nicholas, his short, fat sword raised high. To the left of the Welshman stood two of his fellow bastards, holding a third man between them. The prisoner was on his knees, helmet-and coif-less, blond hair glinting golden red in the sinking daylight.
’Twas Tristan.
“The battle is mine, Crane!” Donegal bellowed and drew back his sword.
“Nay!” Nicholas screamed and bolted toward the men, his legs feeling as though they were mired in a thick bog, his arms pumping slowly, too slowly.
Donegal drove his sword in a downward arc into Tristan’s chest, the scene a study of black outlines. The men holding Tristan released him, and Nick’s brother collapsed onto his side. Donegal braced a foot against Tristan’s shoulder and withdrew his weapon.
The Welshmen turned and ran, disappearing over the crest of the ridge before Nicholas was halfway to his brother.
By the time night descended upon Hartmoore, those still in residence moved in a fog of panic. All of the guests of the wedding feast had fled, whether to battle or to their own homes, frightened of the strange happenings and bad omens that seemed to have wrapped black arms around the grand stone castle and squeezed.
Rose and Tilly, Genevieve’s personal maids, along with Haith, had scoured every corner of the immense keep and grounds looking for the missing women, and now they gathered around the lord’s table with the old witch, Minerva.
Evelyn sat at the opposite end, alone. She was neither included nor blatantly discluded from the conversation, and so she merely watched and listened, her hands folded over her rosary against the scratchy brown wool of her habit.
Tilly, the younger of the maids, wept openly. “I just don’t know where they could have gone off to,” she wailed. “None have seen them all the day!”
Evelyn’s conscience spasmed, and she thought for an instant of admitting that she had seen the Lady Simone that morn, but her cheeks warmed at the idea of explaining the circumstance. Lady Simone despised her, and Evelyn could not fault the beautiful woman for her feelings. She prayed for Nick’s safety and that Simone was also safe and well.
As if she somehow knew her thoughts, Minerva glanced down the table at Evelyn and frowned. The old woman terrified Evelyn.
“There’s naught we can do about it now, lass,” Minerva said, not unkindly, and Evelyn was glad the old one’s focus was no longer on her.
“Minerva is right. We must wait for Nicholas and Tristan to return.” Haith stared down at the babe in her arms, smoothing sweaty curls away from her forehead. Isabella lay sniffing and gumming a wet, honeyed rag. Both mother and daughter had red noses and mottled cheeks. Haith looked up at the maids. “Off to bed with you both. I’ll wake you should we receive any word.”
When the maids had left the hall, Haith lowered her voice. “Won’t you try again, Minerva? I beg you.” The redhead brought her hand to rest over her heart. “This pain in my chest…”
