Reclaimed By The Knight. Nicole Locke
Nothing we’ve seen here,’ Louve said. ‘I speak of boundary fences. The coin we’ve gained from the fields has supported this, but not soon enough. There are times when deer have been as destructive as the weather.’
‘Boundary fences?’
Nicholas knew of enemies and boundaries—was all too aware of how they could be crossed. He had no interest in the stone and mortar kind, but still, an inspection would serve his purposes. Maybe he’d invite Roger to go with him, and there in the empty fields he’d demand his honour returned. If Roger ever showed.
Nicholas rolled his shoulders. Whatever sense of homecoming he’d felt in the kitchens was now gone. There was only the strain in his shoulders, the weight in his stance. The weight of this moment—as if this pause, this time, held some significance.
For what or for whom? A pregnant woman and a man who made too many jokes? If so, this was his welcome home feast and there was one guest missing.
‘It’s getting late, isn’t it?’ he said, turning his head towards Matilda.
‘We should eat,’ Matilda agreed.
‘Surely the fields are empty at this time of year?’ At their quizzical looks, he added, ‘It’s too late for man or beast to still be out.’
Matilda frowned. ‘We’ve been able to get the work done before dark these last few years...’
That wasn’t what he was asking. Over the years he’d received Louve’s reports and, despite everything else, he trusted them when it came to maintaining the estate.
What and who he didn’t trust was Roger, who was avoiding this welcoming feast. However, eventually Roger would be expected to enter the hall to eat. Until then...
‘I will wait to sit until everyone is present.’
Nothing. Louve looked mildly curious while Matilda stayed implacable. Did they expect him to say nothing about the man—his friend—who’d stabbed him in the heart? Then they didn’t know him very well. He’d wait until next winter if that was what it took.
Louve drained his ale, the tenants’ chatter eased, and all eyes turned to him. Of course they would—because they couldn’t eat unless he sat. He wanted to announce that it wasn’t he who delayed their meal, but a coward. One he should have faced years ago.
He had been travelling for weeks alone, lacking sleep in order to protect his horses and the satchels. His body ached and rest beckoned. Still he stood, waited, and thought about what he would say to Roger. His childhood friend, his reeve, who took care of the crops. Waited for the man who loved his betrothed but hadn’t had the courtesy to tell him, who had married her and given her a child.
Patience, he told himself. But it wouldn’t come. Not with all eyes turning to him now. Not with the constrictive band and the pressure of the patch over his eye. His right hand tightened as if it wanted to grasp a sword. His heart thumped as if he rode onto a field of enemies.
He’d been polite and had enquired gently regarding Roger’s absence. He’d waited for Roger to reveal himself, or for Louve and Matilda to inform him of Roger’s whereabouts. He’d come here to bury his past. To seek some revenge. To demand apologies. The man had married the woman he loved, and now he wouldn’t show his face.
Enough was enough. Right now he would demand that Roger show himself. He wouldn’t wait for answers—he’d force them.
He didn’t—couldn’t—ease his stance, or the tension mounting inside him as he bit out every word. ‘Matilda, where is your husband?’
There was a sound from Louve and Matilda paled. The crowd around them faded. The lights seemed to dim as her brows drew in.
No. No balance. No patience. No understanding.
His fingers curled and there was a roaring in his ears as he glanced to Louve, whose expression was stricken, his mouth slack.
Nicholas glanced behind them to the Great Doors that remained shut, and the tenants waiting by their seats. Even the children and the animals were finding their places.
There wasn’t space for anyone else.
His gaze locked on Matilda. There was a flush in her cheeks and an answering emotion gleaming in her hazel eyes. He recognised them all. Anger. Rage. A warrior’s cry for battle.
His sense of betrayal was overwhelming. Patience? Balance? None to be found. He shook his head—a warning to himself, to Louve, who stood agape. To Matilda, whose lips had parted.
He was lifting his curling fist before she said the words, ‘He’s dead.’
Nicholas struck.
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