it truly does matter.”
Nicholas stared at the old man for several moments, and Handaar stared back. He had already told his mother, his brother, and several of the other underlords of his plan to take Evelyn as his wife. He’d even told his first man. What would they think of him now, when a woman Nick had known the whole of her life would prefer a convent before him as her husband?
Never had he felt such awkwardness, such humiliation in this place that was as familiar to Nicholas as his own home. He could no longer sit under its heavy weight, and so he stood.
“Very well, then. I bid you good night, Lord Handaar.” After a curt nod in the old man’s direction, Nick crossed to the great hall’s doors.
“Nick, son.” The sounds of Handaar rising and calling out chased Nick’s retreat. “Let us not part on poor terms. Stay at Obny tonight. Would that I could have spared you this hurt, but in truth, I am not certain I can bear it myself.”
At Handaar’s words, Nick paused in his stride.
“Please, Nick.” Handaar’s voice hitched on the plea. “I have no one left now.”
Nick turned, and at the sight of the old warrior, his once broad shoulders stooped with age and sorrow, Nick’s chest tightened. He recrossed the hall and embraced Handaar while the man’s shoulders shook.
“Ah, Nick,” Handaar gasped, “I miss her so already.”
“Forgive me, old friend, for my callousness,” Nick said. “Never would I want to further your grief. But I cannot stay within these walls when every stone carries Evelyn’s memory.”
Handaar nodded, clutching Nick’s arms and drawing away to look at him. His voice was gruff when he spoke. “Of course I forgive you. But ’tis my hope that you’ll not stay from Obny forever.”
Nick shook his head. “I will return.”
Handaar nodded and released Nick, his wide, gnarled hands suspended in the air for a moment, as if reluctant to let him go. Nick saw their tremble. “Safe journey, my son. Godspeed.”
With a final squeeze of Handaar’s shoulder, Nick spun on his heel and departed Obny’s hall, leaving Handaar alone with only the ghosts of his wife and daughter for company.
Chapter 1
September 1077
London, England
Simone du Roche perched upon her gilded stool in the king’s grand ballroom, her rich velvet kirtle puddling in deep, green pools at her feet. Her black mane was intricately braided and twined around her headpiece, held at a lofty angle, and her cat-green eyes beheld the other guests with barely concealed disdain as they pranced about to the twanging music.
’Twas the third and final evening of King William’s birthday celebration, and Simone was infinitely glad. With the conclusion of tonight’s fete, she would finally be freed from the curious stares and hushed whispers aimed in her direction by the petty and spiteful lords and ladies that infested the English court.
Simone ground her teeth into a tight smile as a flabby noble nodded toward her.
He tries to be charming, Simone fumed to herself, and yet the dunce knows not that I understood every scathing word his companion said about me.
“He is too fat, Sister,” Didier whispered to her in their native French tongue. “He would smash you, were he your husband.”
Simone hid a wicked grin behind the veil attached to her headpiece and whispered back, “Didier, quiet! You are too young by far to have such knowledge of a husband and wife.” Keeping her head turned to hide her mouth, she added to the boy, “Would that you had stayed behind in our rooms as I asked. I cannot help but feel you will yet cause me trouble this night.”
Didier merely shrugged his bony shoulders. His elfin face was a younger version of Simone’s, with identical green eyes and a mop of unruly, raven hair.
“I dislike being left alone, and no one has noticed me thus far,” the boy reasoned.
“Regardless, you must not speak to me so freely here. ’Twill draw attention I do not wish.” Simone smoothed her veil back into place and rested her hands demurely—she hoped—in her lap.
The set ended and the soft, old lord who had earlier caught Simone’s eye parted from his companion. His fine, fur-trimmed tunic billowed from his considerable backside as he waddled toward her. At least he has a kind face, Simone conceded.
Didier snickered beside her. “Speaking of unwanted attention, the fat one cometh.”
Simone steeled her face into a calm mask as the short, round noble bowed before her. He addressed her in French.
“Lady du Roche, it does not seem appropriate for one of your beauty to sit unattended at such a celebration. Your father has given permission for you to join in the next dance.”
Of course he has, Simone thought to herself. You are a rich old man and ’tis my duty to display the wares.
But aloud, she said only, “The pleasure is mine, Monsieur Halbrook.” And then she placed her fingers into his damp, thick palm with an inward shudder.
He would smash you, were he your husband.
As Halbrook led her to the center of the ballroom and the opening notes of the next set began, Simone struggled not to bolt from the line of ladies she joined and run back to the relative safety of her rented rooms.
Armand du Roche caught Simone’s eye as the women sank into a low curtsey. Simone’s father inclined his head ever so slightly, his auburn hair falling across the wicked scar on his forehead, to indicate the portly lord opposite her. He raised an eyebrow.
He will do, non?
Simone broke gaze with her father to plaster the required smile to her face and concentrate on the set.
Oui, Papa, he will do.
It no longer mattered to Simone whom Armand chose as her husband. Simone, her father, and even young Didier were outcasts in this foreign country, oddities to be whispered about by the gluttonous English. Her entire life was a lie.
Her feet followed the steps mechanically, and she wrapped the coldness of the truth around her like an icy shield.
“You are late, Brother,” Tristan scolded as Nicholas approached. When Nick stumbled into a tall, delicate urn near them, Tristan added, “And also quite drunk, ’twould appear.”
Nick caught the teetering vase just in time and sent Tristan a lopsided grin. “I had some rather pressing business to attend to, I assure you. Lady Haith, you look ravishing this evening. Mother sends her love.”
Nicholas took his sister-in-law’s hand and leaned in to peck her cheek. His lips barely landed on her ear and Haith rushed to steady him.
“Lord Nicholas,” she choked. “Would this business entail dousing yourself in a vat of ladies’ cologne?”
“My apologies, m’lady.” Nick grinned despite
