My heart, my joy, is bound to you, like a hero from ancient lore;
My heart, my joy, dream of the day when you will return to leave no more.”
It was such a gentle song, one Isobeau had so hoped to sing to Titus the day he returned. But instead, all she could do was sing it to a dying soldier who had been under her husband’s command. There was something incredibly ironic in that thought as she gazed down at the young man as he breathed his last breath. But there was a smile on his face, perhaps a smile at the tender song a young woman had sung to him that had helped transition him into the next world.
Perhaps Isobeau would never know why he was smiling but she felt as if, at the moment, she had done something kind and generous to help the young man. She had eased his suffering the best way she knew how. Her eyes filled with tears at the loss and the waste, and thoughts of Titus’ loss filled her mind as well. So much loss and death on this day and the tears, so close to the surface, had returned. The young man’s hand, in hers, released its hold and she knew that he was gone, so she carefully placed his hand upon his chest and made the sign of the cross over him.
“Go with God,” she murmured, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “O Lord; unto your hands I commit his spirit. Be merciful.”
Her work with the young man was finished but her gaze lingered on him, suddenly wishing she had sent him with a message for Titus. He would be seeing him in heaven, after all. As she prepared to leave the young man’s side, a quiet voice caught her from behind.
“It was kind of you to relieve his suffering as you did. I know this young soldier; he was a good fighter.”
Startled, Isobeau’s head jerked around and she found herself looking at Atticus standing a few feet away. He was still in heavy mail and pieces of armor, still in the dirty tunic he had probably been wearing for days. He appeared weary and worn but she had no sympathy. Considering their last meeting, her defenses immediately went up and she looked away to gather the bowl and rag that she had brought with her.
“He is far too young to have died in battle,” she said stiffly, motioning to the nearest servant to let the man know that the young soldier was dead and should be carried away. “He should be at home with his parents, dreaming of the young farm girl in the neighboring village. He should not be here with a hole in his chest.”
Atticus stepped aside as she pushed past him, presumably on to the next man she could help. “In a perfect world, he would still be at home tending to his family and farm,” he said. “But this is not a perfect world. He died valiantly for the king’s cause.”
Isobeau came to a halt and looked at him. “Is that what death is?” she asked. “Valiant? Is that how my husband died – valiantly? The result is still the same, Sir Atticus; he is dead and I am widowed at the young age of twenty-one years. I will have to raise his son alone when I had hoped for my child to have his father to guide him. That is what this war means to me, so do not paint a glorious picture of valiant death and expect me to accept it.”
Atticus reached out to grab her arm. “Child?” he repeated, his dark-circled eyes wide. “You are with child?”
Isobeau yanked her arm from his grasp, realizing she had divulged information to Atticus that she had hoped to divulge to Titus upon his return. It had simply slipped out in her emotional state and she snorted wryly when she realized what she had said.
“I suppose it is right that you are the first man to know,” she said. “Since I cannot tell Titus, I have told you. Aye, I am with child. Thank God for his mercy for at least I shall have something to remind me of Titus for the years to come. Or am I not allowed to be thankful for Titus’ child just as I am not allowed to grieve for him?”
Atticus was staring at the woman, struggling to digest the fact that she was pregnant. A son for Titus. He was astonished; thrilled for Titus, but astonished. Had Titus known, he would have shouted his happiness to the rooftops. He knew the man would have been ecstatic. Atticus was torn between the joy of her news and the distinctly standoffish look in her eye.
“My lady, mayhap we should go and speak somewhere,” he said, trying to ease the tension between them. “I fear that when I came to you this morning, I had been in the saddle for six days and then days of battle before that. It was my exhaustion speaking this morning. I would be grateful if you would overlook my bad manners and give your permission for a rational conversation.”
Isobeau was surprised by what could be construed as an apology. From The Lion of the North, she hadn’t expected it. It was well-known that Atticus de Wolfe was a man who did not apologize, in any situation, and his sense of righteousness was common knowledge. Titus had told her about it often enough, making Atticus seem arrogant and unforgiving. She hadn’t been around Atticus to know otherwise, but her impression of Atticus was most definitely one of conceit and power. He’d proven that this morning. Still, it seemed to her as if he were at least trying to be pleasant. She wasn’t sure if she should trust him or not.
“I have men to attend here,” she said hesitantly, looking around the hall with its layer of wounded upon the floor. “Mayhap… mayhap later.”
Atticus knew the men needed help and he didn’t want to pull her away from her work, but he realized he very much wanted to speak with her now that he knew she was carrying Titus’ child. It seemed that his attitude towards her changed at that very moment, not strangely enough, because she carried a living link to his dead brother. In her, Titus wasn’t dead, after all. In her, there was hope that the man lived on.
“I would be grateful, my lady,” he said. “In fact, I came into the hall to see to my men. If you are not opposed, I should like to accompany you as you tend them.”
Isobeau didn’t know what to say to the man so she simply lifted her shoulders, a non-committal answer. She knew that Atticus took it as permission because he was following her now as she moved to the nearest man who was begging for water. Setting her bowl and rag aside, she quickly went to the nearest bucket of fresh water, dipping a cup into it and carrying it back to the wounded soldier with a heavily bandaged torso.
As she returned, Atticus was leaning over the man, speaking with him. She bent over the man to help him drink as Atticus brought her a stool to sit upon. Eyeing Atticus curiously, if not suspiciously, she sat down and continued to help the man drink.
“Thank you, my lady,” the wounded man breathed. “You are very kind.”
Isobeau smiled at the man. “What more can I do for you?” she asked. “Would you like me to help you with anything further?”
The man licked his lips. “I am hungry,” he admitted. “Could… could I have something to eat?”
Isobeau wasn’t sure and she looked to Atticus, uncertain, but he shook his head. “Nay, Gus,” he told the soldier. “You have a belly wound. You cannot eat. In fact, you should not even drink but Lady de Wolfe was kind enough to provide you with some water.”
Isobeau looked rather stricken, as if she had just done something terribly wrong, but Atticus smiled reassuringly. It was a surprising gesture as far as Isobeau was concerned because she had never once seen him smile; the gesture changed his face dramatically. He had straight white teeth with slightly prominent canines, giving him a rather dazzling and handsome appearance.
He was a handsome man. In fact; he had dark, rather stiff and spiky hair, and hazel eyes that appeared gold in certain light. Titus had the same colored eyes but his hair had been lighter, as had his coloring. Atticus was dark all over; dark hair, seemingly darker skin, and if she were to admit it, he was far more handsome than Titus had been. More than that, he was very tall and very muscular – he was at least a head taller than Titus and had the broadest shoulders of any man she had ever seen. There was a good reason why Atticus was called The Lion of the North; he was, quite simply, fierce. He was a handsome and nearly beautiful man who bordered on myth. He was the stuff legends were made of.
Aye, all of this was Atticus de Wolfe. She had noticed before, of course, but she’d never truly
thought about it until this moment because her focus until that moment had been on a husband she clearly adored. Now, she found herself looking at the man she would be marrying next, the brother she barely knew. Just as Atticus seemed to be amending his attitude towards her, perhaps now she was allowing herself to see him just a little bit differently as well.
“Lady de Wolfe is merciful, m’lord,” the soldier said, breaking into her thoughts. “I… I heard what happened to Sir Titus. I heard those bastards killed him.”
The smile faded from Atticus’ face. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want Isobeau to hear the circumstances of Titus’ death. Perhaps it was the polite man in her trying to spare the details or perhaps it was even that he didn’t want to hear them again. Any mention of the betrayal, the murder, made him feel as if he were hearing it again for the first time. He wasn’t strong enough to keep hearing it. With sorrow, he shook his head.
“Those responsible will pay,” he said simply. “For now, let us speak on more pleasant things. You have been in Northumberland’s service for many years, have you not? I seem to remember that you were injured a few years ago in battle. This injury should not set you back much; you will recover.”
The old soldier nodded although it was clear his thoughts were still on Titus. “It is a sorrowful thing to have lost the earl, too,” he said, evidently unwilling to discuss anything else. “At least he did not meet the same fate as Sir Titus; betrayed and murdered. What happened to the men who killed Sir Titus? Did you punish them, m’lord?”
Before Atticus could reply, Isobeau turned to him. “Betrayed and murdered?” she repeated, perplexed. “What is he talking about? Who betrayed Titus?”
Atticus glanced at the woman. “When we speak later, I will tell you the circumstances,” he said quietly. “Finish what you are doing now and we will speak later.”
Isobeau set the cup down, facing him with building agitation. “You will tell me now,” she said. “What does he mean?”
Atticus could see there was no way she was going to let the subject go. Undoubtedly, it was a distressing subject for all concerned and she was nearly the only person at Alnwick who didn’t know the circumstances behind Titus’ death. It wasn’t fair to her but the truth was that Atticus simply hadn’t been given the opportunity to tell her. Now, however, the opportunity had arisen.
Reaching out, he took her by the arm and guided her towards the entrance of the great, smelly hall.
“Outside,” he said quietly.
Isobeau allowed him to lead her out of the hall and into the evening beyond. The smell of roasting meat was floating about the compound but due to the wounded in the hall, no formal meal was served. Men were gathered in groups throughout the inner ward, sitting against the walls as they slurped down their supper, and men upon the battlements were not eating as they vigilantly watched the countryside for any sign of threats. As soon as they were clear of the hall, Isobeau pulled her arm from Atticus’ grasp and turned to him.
“Now,” she said firmly, “what is all of this about betrayal and murder? Will you please tell me?”
She wasn’t being belligerent but she was being firm. Atticus had been trying to formulate a reply that didn’t sound too harsh, or too horrific, but he couldn’t seem to do it. The circumstances surrounding Titus’ death had been nothing short of harsh and horrific. Clearing his throat softly, he began.
“In order for you to understand what has happened, you must understand the dynamics of politics right now,” he said quietly. “Henry had the throne, as the rightful king. Northumberland supports Henry. After this most recent battle, Edward now sits upon the throne. Do you understand that so far?”
Isobeau nodded seriously. “I do.”
Atticus continued. “I would assume you know Simon de la Londe and Declan de Troiu?”
Isobeau nodded again. “I know who they are,” she said. “They are knights sworn to Northumberland. Why do you ask?”
Atticus paused while a soldier passed within close proximity of them. He waited until the man faded out of earshot. “Unbeknownst to us, de Troiu and de la Londe were solicited by John de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,” he said. “Norfolk somehow convinced the two knights to support Edward and he further convinced them to seek out converts from Northumberland’s ranks. The first knight they approached was my brother, who refused. In order to silence Titus so the man could not tell anyone that de Troiu and de le Londe were now traitors, they tried to kill him. That is how Titus became mortally wounded. It was from men he had once trusted.”
Isobeau was looking at him with wide eyes, her hand over her mouth to somehow hold back her horror. “Sweet Mary,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “His own men tried to kill him?”
Atticus nodded, his jaw ticking faintly. Speaking of the incident was bringing his hurt and fury up all over again. “Aye,” he replied, his voice soft and hoarse. “They tried and they succeeded.”
“Are you for certain they did this terrible thing?”
“Titus told me himself with his dying breath,” Atticus replied. “It is therefore my intention to seek de Troiu and de la Londe and punish them for what they did to my brother. I hope you can understand that, my lady. It is something I must do.”
The hand came away from her mouth, the tears spilling over. “Understand it?” she repeated, aghast. “I encourage you to do it, Sir Atticus. If Titus did indeed name his killers, then it is your duty to find them and punish them. You will find them and you will make them pay, do you hear?”
Atticus was mildly taken aback by her attitude. He had never in his life heard of, or even seen, a woman who was in support of vengeance or killing or punishment. “You do understand that I mean to kill them, do you not?” he asked, just to be clear.
Isobeau nodded vehemently. “Indeed I do,” she said, wiping furiously at the tears on her face. “The murderous blackhearts. They must be punished for what they did.”
Atticus was quite surprised at what he was hearing from her. Women, to him, had always been rather indecisive and needy creatures, but Isobeau certainly wasn’t that at all. She was strong-willed, stubborn, and as he could see, passionate in her views. She understood exactly what he had to do and she was not apt to fight him on it. In fact, her support of his duty was encouraging. He realized that it meant a good deal to have her approval on the matter. An inkling of respect for the woman began to sprout.
Come to know what Titus liked so well about the woman, Warenne had said.
Already, Atticus was coming to see a flicker of it.
“Then know that after we return Titus to Wolfe’s Lair, I will leave to pursue de Troiu and de la Londe,” he told her. “You will remain at Wolfe’s Lair with my father. You will be safe there until I return.”
Isobeau was still wiping at the tears that refused to stop flowing. It was clear that she was shaken, angry even. “I have not yet met your father,” she said. “Titus spoke quite highly of him. I am looking forward to meeting him but I wish the circumstances were not so terrible. But won’t your father want to go with you, too, to punish these men?”
Atticus shook his head. “My father is old now,” he said. “I do not believe he has been out of Wolfe’s Lair for ten years. He does not travel well due to the affliction he has with his joints. They are swollen and he cannot move very well.”
Isobeau pondered that information. “Then if he cannot go with you, I will,” she said decisively. “This is as much my vengeance as it is yours. Oh, I know you told me that it is not my right to grieve Titus but you were wrong. So very wrong, Sir Atticus. I adored Titus and he was very good to me. What those knights did… they took away my future and my child’s father. If anyone has a great stake in this, it is me. I will not be any trouble, I swear it.”
Atticus was shaking his head before she even finished her sentence. “My lady, I cannot take you on this journey,” he said, watching her face turn red with anger. “It will be very difficult and the fact that you are with child will only make it
harder. You must remain behind and take care of yourself and the baby.”
Isobeau wouldn’t let him deny her so easily. “Think on it this way,” she said, deliberately attempting to coerce him. She wasn’t one to be denied easily. “When I go with you and help you punish these men, then Titus’ son, through me, will also have a hand in punishing those who killed his father. That will bring him great satisfaction in the years to come.”
Atticus was still shaking his head; he’d never truly stopped. “My lady, I understand that you feel your own sense of vengeance, but I cannot take you with me,” he said, more firmly. “Even for the sake of Titus’ son, I cannot take you with me. It would be foolish to risk you and the child in such a way and I suspect that Titus would be quite angry with me to allow it. Nay, then, I will not do it.”
“Please, Sir Atticus. I am begging you.”
“I cannot. I will not.”
“But I must go!”
“I am sorry, but you cannot.”
Isobeau could see, plainly, that he had no intention of allowing her to accompany him but she could also see that he wasn’t being stubborn about it more than he seemed to truly believe it was in her best interest. But that wasn’t good enough for Isobeau; she was seized with a distinct sense of revenge on behalf of Titus, to punish the men who had killed him. Atticus denying her what she felt was her right was extremely frustrating. Frustrating, but not the end. Not as far as she was concerned. Still, she hung her head, upset and distraught, and struggling not to weep again.
Atticus could see that the woman was despondent but he wasn’t going to back down from his stance. It was ludicrous for the woman to expect to accompany him on a trip wrought with hazard. Still, her bravery was to be commended. It was apparent to him that the woman had little fear of trying to track down dangerous men; at least, in theory she had little fear. The reality of such a thing would more than likely prove to be quite different. He reached out and grasped her gently by the elbow.
“Come with me,” he said quietly. “It is cold out here. Let us go inside where it is warm and you can rest.”
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