The Champion. Heather GrothausЧитать онлайн книгу.
quite easy to look at,” Randall continued, now in an almost goading tone. “Her beautiful wavy hair, skin like cream. Not to mention her great, round, plump br—”
“Enough!” Nick shouted, but he could not keep the laughter from his voice. The path had widened to a sandy ledge and Obny lay before him, twinkling in her candlelit robes, Nick’s future—wanted or nay—safe within. Nick paused on his mount to stare grimly at the border town. “There is no blight upon Lady Evelyn, in body or mind. She is a good match for me, and in truth, I would have no other.”
Randall’s smile faded. “Then why rail so, my lord?”
“Because a woman—a wife—is a shackle.” Nick shook his head and snorted. “This is all Tristan’s doing. Had my brother not become so fully ensnared, Mother likely would have let me be to decide the time to take a wife. Now I feel obligated to appease her.”
“Lord Tristan does not seem shackled by Lady Haith. He—”
Nick waved a hand to cut Randall off. “Be not fooled, my friend. He is shackled, as well as any beast of burden.” Nick’s bark of laughter jarred the starry stillness. “Saddled.”
Nicholas abruptly swung down from Majesty, looked around, and then scrambled up a jumbled motte of boulders—a mountain of sorts. He turned slowly, taking in the shallow bowl of the valley, draped in winter black.
He, by God, would not be saddled.
Nick spread his arms wide, drew a deep, aching breath of the frigid air, and called for any and all to hear.
“Nicholas FitzTodd answers only to God and King William! No woman will own me! I swear it!”
His words echoed over the valley and died away, and Nicholas felt cleansed. He was in control once more and could now face the chore ahead of him. Marriage would not change him, for good or ill. He was the Baron of Crane, and all within his demesne would still bend to his will.
Nick was off the boulders in two giant leaps, and he looked up at Randall’s quirked brow.
“Feeling better now?” his first man asked.
“Aye, better.” Nick swung up into Majesty’s saddle with a grin and wheeled the beast to once more face Obny. “I’m ready to tell Lord Handaar the good news, that I have chosen his daughter for my wife.”
And with that, Nick spurred Majesty in a gallop toward the border town.
“Lord Nicholas.” Handaar rose from his chair before the hearth as Nick entered Obny’s great hall. The elderly lord of the small town bowed slightly at Nick’s approach, and although the man’s smile seemed genuine and welcoming, he appeared to have aged a number of years since last they met. “’Tis good to see you again, son.”
Nicholas reached Handaar, and the two embraced as old friends. At this close range, Nicholas saw more clearly the deeply etched lines on the man’s face, the thinness of the white hair that ringed Handaar’s shining pate.
“And you as well, Handaar.” Nick clapped the old man’s bony back and drew away. “How fare things at Obny?”
“Well. The border is quiet and my scouts report no sign of trespass.” Handaar gestured to the pairing of chairs before the hearth. “Sit, if you would.”
Nicholas gratefully complied, sinking into a padded chair near Handaar’s. His eyes traveled to the small table between them, on which sat a carafe and two chalices—the one closest to the old man already half-full of deep red wine. Nick’s leg bounced on the ball of his foot several times before he took notice and stilled it. He knew it was a nightly ritual for Handaar and his only child to share a drink and talk of the events of the day before retiring, and as thoughts of Evelyn crossed Nick’s mind, his tongue seemed to dry up completely and swell against his teeth.
As if Handaar had noticed Nick’s longing glance at the carafe, he filled the empty chalice and handed it to Nicholas with a weary smile.
“To warm you from your journey.”
“My thanks.” Nick drained the vessel and was immediately obliged with more. He gestured toward Handaar with the chalice. “I vow Lady Evelyn will be much put-out with me for claiming her comfortable perch and cup.”
Nicholas thought he might have seen Handaar flinch before he spoke. Slowly, as if choosing his words with great care, Handaar said, “Evelyn will not be joining me this evening.”
Nick’s brow lowered. “She is not ill, I hope.”
“Nay.” Handaar gazed into the blazing hearth, and the firelight danced across his worn countenance. “She is not ill.”
“’Tis well, then.” Nicholas could not fathom the root of Handaar’s melancholy from the blunt statement, and so he pressed on. “I do hope to speak to her this night if she can spare me a moment. I did not send word of my visit as I wished to surprise her, but mayhap I should have.”
The old man shook his head, his gaze focused on the brilliant flames. “Nay, ’twould have mattered not that you sent word.” Handaar looked directly at Nick now, and his face took on a pained expression. “Two days past, she told me you would come.”
Nick’s eyebrows rose. “Did she? But how…?”
Handaar shrugged. “You know as well as I that Evelyn has always possessed a keen ability to sense certain events. Just as she seems to know what any lowly beast would think.”
Nick chuckled, even though his discomfort with the task before him was being compounded by Handaar’s strange behavior. Something was about in Obny’s keep.
“Yea, you are right, Handaar. Did I not know otherwise, I would wager she calls Majesty to her, therefore requiring my presence as well.” He took a sip of his wine. “Oft times, I suspect she cares more for my horse than for me.”
Handaar’s gaze sharpened. “Evelyn cares for you very much, Nicholas.”
Nick’s stomach clenched like a tight fist at the man’s grave tone. Now was as good a time as any would be.
“Lord Handaar, I—”
Handaar rose abruptly and strode to face the hearth. “How fare your brother and his wife?”
“Well.” Nicholas frowned at being cut off. The subject was difficult enough to voice without being forced to begin again. But mayhap ’twould be better to humor the old man. “They have a daughter now—Isabella. Mother has recently returned from Greanly and brought word that Tristan’s town prospers.”
Handaar nodded but did not turn. “Then the baroness is in good spirits as well?”
“Yea.” Nicholas chuckled and relaxed a bit. “As beautiful and overbearing as ever, and still hounding me ceaselessly.”
Handaar did not laugh at the jest, nor did he make any reply at all.
Nicholas placed his chalice on the small table with unnecessary care and leaned forward in his chair, his forearms braced on his knees. He took a deep, silent breath.
“Her hounding has relevance to my visit to Obny this night.”
“Of course it does.”
Nick frowned at the man’s back. “Handaar, I must speak with you in seriousness. I—”
“Do not, Nicholas.”
Nick’s nerves were wearing thin. “Please, friend, hear me out. This is not a thing I would take lightly and I think ’twill please you.”
After a moment of silence, Handaar sighed, and his words were curled with sorrow. “Go on, then, if you feel you must.”
“Very well.” Nick cleared his throat, rubbed his hands across his thighs. “Since my father’s death, it has been fully realized to me the responsibilities I now hold. Barring Mother’s nagging, I know that for my father’s line to be