Chapter 26
Nicholas moved his feet, one in front of the other, by rote, his breaths ragged in his chest, heaving in and out like old, rotted bellows. He had walked through the night from Obny, but he would not be spelled by any man. He would bear the litter that carried Tristan’s body back to Hartmoore, each and every step his paltry penance. His eyes never wavered from the easterly horizon, his pace never slowed.
With each numbing footfall, his own tormented thoughts spurred him on: My brother’s blood is on my hands. My brother’s blood is on my hands. The phrase was rhythmic, tormenting, and constant, circling Nick’s mind like the scavenger birds they’d left at the battlefield.
And it was naught but the truth. Too well and too recently did Nick know these circumstances in which he found himself: covered in blood, returning to Hartmoore with a body on a litter. He thought of Lady Haith, of beautiful innocent Isabella, of his mother, and a pain seared his chest and stole his breath for a beat of time.
The litter hitched and jerked behind him, and Nick called out without pausing, “He who causes my brother to fall shall, too, meet the ground by the length of my own sword.”
“Aye, Sire.”
“Apologies, my lord.”
“Not to worry, Sire.”
“Quit being such an arsehole, Nick. I told you I could sit a horse if you would but listen to me.”
Nick did not slow. “And then you would bleed the rest of the way out. Shut your mouth, Brother, and enjoy the ride, you ungrateful pile of dung.”
Tristan gave a weak chuckle, then asked, “Have any of you good men some ale? This arduous journey has given me quite a thirst.”
Nick heard a commotion behind him and a murmured thanks from his brother. Then an “oof” and a grunt, and then finally a growl.
“Might you at least stoprunningfor a moment?”
Nicholas hitched up the litter again and proceeded to climb the slope leading to Hartmoore’s wall. “We’re nearly there.”
A cry went out from the wallwalk atop the barbican, and Nick wanted to sigh with relief. Soon the portcullis would raise, the gates would swing wide, and his mother and Haith and Minerva would be at the ready to care for Tristan. For although his brother lived, the wound he had suffered was most deadly.
Donegal’s short sword had indeed struck Tristan in his chest, the point landing halfway down the left side of his breast and traveling nearly to his hip. Thanks to the chain shirt he’d worn, the blade had not laid Tristan’s chest wide. So though the garment had saved his life, it now posed a serious threat.
The mighty blow had gouged the metal fabric deep into Tristan’s chest, mangling the links and tucking them neatly within the ragged wound. Nick suspected several of his brother’s ribs were broken, and when he’d attempted to pull the mail out of the already swollen and purpled flesh, a wash of blood had flooded down Tristan’s stomach and he had screamed and grabbed at Nick’s arm.
“My God, Nick! Leave it,” he’d croaked. “There is a better nursemaid than you awaiting me at Hartmoore.”
They were nearly upon the gates, and Nick looked anxiously ahead. Not for Haith or Minerva, or even his mother, but for Simone. This time, when she came to greet him, Nick would take her into his arms properly. He would kiss her and tell her that he loved her and that he would spend the rest of his days making her—and Didier, if need be—happy.
And now the gates were opening, and Lady Haith dashed through them, sobbing Tristan’s name.
The next people to pass through the barbican were two men—strangers to Nicholas. And although he did not yet know it, Nick was about to make the acquaintances of Jehan Renault and Charles Beauville.
The blackness within the thick wood through which Simone and her dubious companions traveled was so deep, Simone could not see so much as the head of her mount. If not for the frequent sheets of terrifying lightning, flashing every other heartbeat it seemed, ’twould have been like traversing the floor of a deep, dark ocean.
It was as wet and cold as the sea as well. The wind howled maniacally, and the rain mixed with sleet drove sideways, like cold, stinging needles through Simone’s drenched and ice-crusted clothing. She fought to keep her seat, keep her face averted from the onslaught, keep her hopelessness at bay. Her nose, cheeks, fingers, thighs were numb, and she had stopped shivering hours ago. They had been riding through the storm since the previous night, and Simone was tired, so tired…
Armand’s shout seemed a faint whisper in her ears, and when she raised her head, eyes squinted against the freezing rain, she knew that they had arrived at their destination.
The wood opened up before the quartet, and it was as if the party was poised on the very edge of the earth itself. Four large men, on foot and wearing black rain-slicked capes, stood before Armand, shouting back and forth between them. But beyond the men lay the black and tempest sea, far, far below.
She looked back to the boiling water, foaming and lashing at the sky, and saw a low, single-masted ship anchored far out in the bay and floundering in the storm’s grip. To the right of the cliff, in the valley of the bay, the charred and decrepit remains of some ancient keep leaned and yawned wide its old bones, defying the storm. Tiny pinpoints of light bobbed within and around the broken structure, and Simone wondered how much shelter it could provide.
Here,she thought,here is where my fate lies. On the shore of this unknown coast, I will either die or be left behind to what mercy God would have on me, for surely there will be no aid for us now.
Armand’s arm swept in an arc, signaling Eldon to follow him as the four men dropped over the rise to the ruined shelter. Lightning illuminated Lady Genevieve for an instant, and Simone saw the woman’s face clearly, desperate resignation making her appear haggard, and ill, and very defeated.
Simone’s horse lurched forward through the thick mire, and she peered down over the edge of the cliff as they traversed the narrow, muddy trail, down, down to the violent mating of shore and water. When the lightning flashed again, the wet, red cliffs closing in around them seemed to run with blood.
As much as Nick wanted to press on, they had no choice but to stop and rest. A raging storm had swept down upon him, Jehan Renault, and Charles Beauville just after they had passed through Withington and turned south and, besides the fact that Nick was exhausted and the old Frenchman looked unwell, the wind and black, icy rain had made it so that Nicholas could barely make out Didier’s feather, hovering limp and dripping above Majesty’s head.
