The Champion. Heather Grothaus

his last words, so he stole another quick gulp of wine before continuing.

      “The baroness loves Evelyn as she would her own daughter, and I care for her as well.” Nick took a deep breath, his heart kicking against his ribs as if it would burst from his chest and gallop from the hall without him. “As my wife, Evelyn will want for naught. I swear it to you.”

      “’Tis not possible,” Handaar said, his voice gravelly and low.

      Nick paused a moment to collect his thoughts. He had expected this, and he was prepared. “I know that she is promised to the convent, but Handaar”—Nick rose—“I will secure her freedom. I will pay the abbess her dowry so that Evelyn may marry.”

      When no reply came, Nick’s nerves were outrun by his growing frustration. “Do you not see? She need not throw her life away by joining the order. You must admit that you are loathe to send your only child from you, and now, ’twill be avoided. She will be close at hand for the rest of your days and cared for by one you claim to be as your own son.” Nick felt confident in the logic of his argument. “It only makes sense that we wed.”

      “I made a vow to Fiona,” Handaar said. “I beg of you, Nick, let us not speak of it further.”

      “Evelyn’s mother is dead, Handaar,” Nick said as gently as possible. “Though do you not think if she were still alive, if she could see what a companionable match your daughter and I make, that she would bless this union?”

      “Mayhap,” Handaar said quietly. “But it matters not. As I’ve said, ’tis impossible.”

      Nick felt his choler rising as it never had before with the old warrior. “Nay, ’tis not impossible. As baron, ’tis my responsibility to see to the welfare of my people, and I will not have Evelyn waste away in a moldy priory when she could live in comfort, among family and friends.”

      Nicholas stepped closer to Handaar’s back. His next words would be difficult to say to the elder lord, but Nick felt his authority in this matter need be exercised.

      His voice was steady now, deep with resolve. “Handaar, as baron, ’tis also my right to take a bride of my choosing. I have made my choice, friend, and there is naught you can do to sway me.” He placed a comforting hand on the stooped shoulder. “Fiona would understand, I am certain. Now, let us seek Lady Evelyn and share with her the good news.”

      Handaar turned under Nick’s palm, and Nick was shaken and disturbed to see streaks of wet glistening on the wrinkled cheeks. Handaar’s voice was strained but, aside from the tears on his face, his expression was stony.

      “Evelyn is already gone, Nick.”

      Nicholas took an involuntary step back as Handaar’s words hit him like a physical blow. “Gone? What do you mean?”

      “She has left for the convent.” Handaar swiped a hand over his face. “Two days past, when she foretold of your arrival.”

      Nick returned to his chair, stunned. “But…but why would she go if she knew I was coming? Were we not always friends?”

      “That is the very reason,” Handaar said, as he too regained his seat. He poured more wine into the chalices. “Although I am certain you perceived your hints about the matter as subtle, Evelyn knew you would offer marriage. As you yourself said, it only makes sense.”

      “But…she knew?” Nick asked, his thoughts tripping over themselves. He looked at Handaar and at the old lord’s expression of sympathy, Nick knew that his bewilderment must have been evident on his face. “She would choose the convent over me?”

      Handaar shook his head and looked to a spot between his boots. “She had no wish to marry, to bear you the children she knew you would require of her. Evelyn took the vow I made to Fiona most seriously.”

      Nick felt his jaw harden until he thought his teeth would crack. “Then she is selfish and stupid. There is no guarantee that her fate would have been as Fiona’s—that she would die in childbirth. She has thrown her life away and abandoned me.”

      Handaar sighed quietly. “In her heart, she felt she was freeing you.”

      “Freeing me? For what purpose? To be forced to take a stranger for a wife?” Nick’s bark of laughter was bitter and jagged. “Ours would have been a union of friendship and trust. That she would leave me is unforgivable. She never cared for me at all.”

      “Evelyn loves you very much, Nick.”

      “Nay!” His palm sliced through air thick with tension. “Nay, you do not treat one you claim to be in love with in such a manner as this—with deceit.”

      “I said that she loved you, not that she was in love with you. There is a difference.” Handaar looked weary now to the brink of collapse, but Nick’s hurt was not considerate of the old man.

      “Love, in love.” Nick waved a hand. “What does it matter?”

      “Mayhap that is the very core of why she left—to give you the opportunity to see how much 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