Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Perhaps it served Titus right to spoil the woman so but, in some small way, Atticus could understand why he would spoil her. When Lady de Wolfe finally emerged from the keep dressed in a beautiful, blue surcoat with a matching fur cloak, her hair arranged in a lovely style and some color to her cheeks, Atticus could understand a great deal of Titus’ infatuation with the woman.

  He found that he couldn’t take his eyes off her, either.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ionian scale in C – Lyrics to My Sweetest Heart

  My sweetest heart… my lovely heart.

  The years will come… the years will go…

  But still you’ll be… my own true love…

  Until the day… we’ll meet again…

  —Iseobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.

  The first day of travel had been marred by melting snow, muddy roads, and great, brisk winds that blew off the sea several miles to the east. It kicked up the mud and puddled water, spraying it up onto their legs as the party from Alnwick made their way towards the borders between England and Scotland and Wolfe’s Lair.

  Isobeau had heard of Wolfe’s Lair enough from Titus, the compact castle along the borders that had belonged to the de Wolfe family for over one hundred years. Castle Questing, the main seat of the de Wolfes, was further to the north and Wolfe’s Lair, whose real name was Rule Water Castle, was actually a garrison that had held a long stretch of the borders for many years. Solomon de Wolfe, the younger brother of the seated Baron Killham and current occupant of Castle Questing, had been a fierce fighter in his younger years. Much like Atticus, the younger brother had earned himself something of a reputation over the older brother.

  Of course, Isobeau had heard all of this from Titus. It had been clear from the first day they’d met that Titus adored his younger brother. Never did Isobeau sense any brotherly rivalry. With Titus, it had always been respect and adoration when speaking of Atticus. He seemed quite proud that his younger brother had earned himself such a reputation at a young age which, Isobeau had discovered, had started several years ago when Atticus had fought for the Duke of Somerset in Normandy. The very strong, very skilled young knight had made a name for himself fighting the French but when he returned home and swore allegiance to Northumberland, where his brother served, his reputation as a fierce warrior gained footing. He was a de Wolfe, after all, and the de Wolfes were known to be fierce fighters against the Scots but, in Atticus’ case, his reputation also extended to the Yorkists and the civil wars that wracked the country.

  On the first day of travel, in fact, the Earl of Thetford was more than happy to tell Isobeau all he knew about Atticus and the origins of the man’s reputation as The Lion of the North. Isobeau listened politely as the earl told her how fabulous and heroic Atticus was but she eventually began to suspect that Atticus must have put the earl up to it. Perhaps the man was trying to make Atticus more appealing to her, as a future husband, but the truth was that he didn’t have to make Atticus attractive at all. Isobeau’s opinion of him was already favorable for the most part.

  She could see him at the head of their small group, riding a big, heavy-boned, black warmblood that had belonged to the previous Earl of Northumberland. Since Atticus’ charger died at Towton, Lady Percy had given Atticus the horse with her blessing. As Thetford prattled on about some battle a few years before where Atticus had been particularly brilliant, Isobeau’s mind wandered to the parting at Alnwick earlier that day and how stoic Lady Percy had been. Her women, ladies-in-waiting who were rather flighty and silly, had wept openly but Lady Percy had been a paragon of strength. Her life had changed forever yet she had still been gracious and resigned. Isobeau had admired that the day before, in the hall with the wounded, and she had admired it more that morning. She, too, wanted to be a lady like that someday.

  Her farewells to Tertius that morning had been of the hugging variety when her brother had brought forth her precious mare from the stables, the one Titus had given her. Although Tertius had expressed regret at not being able to accompany her to Wolfe’s Lair, Isobeau knew it wasn’t exactly the truth. She was quite certain that Tertius, who had always looked at Atticus as a rival, was thrilled that he was finally in charge of Northumberland’s army whilst Atticus was off conducting his own business. Tertius liked power and he liked control, although not in an evil sense. He simply liked to be in charge and he viewed anyone else who liked to be in charge, or who was in charge, as competition. Under any circumstances, he always felt himself the best man for the job.

  Therefore, she hugged her brother farewell and proceeded to follow Atticus, the Earl of Thetford, Kenton le Bec, ten Thetford men-at-arms, and a wagon bearing her capcases and husband’s coffin out of Alnwick. Thetford’s army followed them out, heading south and being led by the earl’s three big knights, men that she’d heard Atticus call Trouble, More Trouble, and Lucifer’s Brother. Thetford had laughed at that whilst the three knights had departed on the road south without knowing what Atticus had called them. But Thetford had laughed uproariously and even Kenton, perpetually stone-faced, had cracked a smile.

  As they travelled down the road now beneath pewter skies, Isobeau’s gaze lingered on her husband’s brother at the head of the column as Thetford chatted about a particular incident at some bridge where Atticus had held off a charge of hundreds of men with only a few dozen soldiers. In all, Isobeau was coming to see that Atticus was something of a mythical god when it came to warfare. She only wished he had been omnipotent enough to save his brother when the man had needed it. She was certain Atticus had wished that also.

  Because they had gotten off to a late start that morning, they traveled until well after sunset in order to make up for lost time. The weather, although mostly clear, remained cold and windy but Isobeau was very warm in her heavy cloak and gloves. The traveling hadn’t bothered her at all until the latter part of the day when her lower back began to ache. She spent the next two hours trying to stretch it out as they plodded along. Furthermore, they were delayed at least three times when the wagon became stuck in a rut or a mud puddle, and everyone would rush to push it out. The roads were truly atrocious because of the mud and melting snow, so their progress had been slow.

  They reached the fairly large village of Rothsburg later in the night, one that had a tavern right in the middle of the town that seemed to be the busiest place on earth. As their party rode up wearily, stopping in front of the tavern, Atticus went inside to secure lodgings while Kenton took the men-at-arms and the wagon to the livery they’d seen on the edge of town as they’d entered. As Atticus disappeared into the tavern with the poorly painted sign over the door proclaiming the Crown and Gull Inn, Thetford went to help Isobeau from her mare.

  She gratefully accepted his help, sliding into his arms as he lowered her to the ground. But the ground was muddy, and smelled of piss, and she quickly gathered her skirts so they wouldn’t drag in the rancid mud. Thetford, seeing that she was desperately trying to preserve her clothing, lifted the back of her fine cloak so it would remain unsoiled.

  “Shall we go inside, Lady de Wolfe?” he asked her.

  Isobeau was eager to get out of the cold and mud. She followed Thetford into the front door of the inn, smacked in the face by the musty, smelly warmth of the common room. It was very crowded, and loud, and the hearth billowed smoke into the room where it gathered near the ceiling in a blue haze.

  Atticus was nowhere to be seen once they entered the establishment so Thetford took Isobeau politely by the arm and found a tiny table crowded next to the corner of the front window for her. They soon realized why it was empty, because there was a terrible frigid draft from the window, but Isobeau was so glad to be sitting on something that wasn’t moving that she waved Thetford off when he offered to find her another table. In fact, Isobeau didn’t find the table bad at all. It was away from the bustle of the room and she found that inviting.

  “This is quite acceptable, truly, my lord,” she told him. “In fact, if I stuff my g
loves into the hole in the window, the draft will be gone.”

  The earl smiled at a woman who would not complain about an uncomfortable table. “As you say, Lady de Wolfe,” he said. “But it would be no trouble to find you another table.”

  Again, Isobeau shook her head. “I am quite comfortable, my lord.”

  Thetford didn’t argue with her. He looked around for another chair, snatching one from the table next to them that wasn’t being used. He put it next to hers but did not sit; instead, he was looking around to see if he could locate Atticus.

  “Will you please do me a favor, Lady de Wolfe?” he asked as his gaze sought out the knight.

  Isobeau looked up from pulling off her gloves. “Anything, my lord.”

  He glanced at her. “I would be honored if you would call me Warenne,” he said. “We have traveled an entire day together, after all. I believe we know each other well enough to not be so formal.”

  Isobeau offered a weak smile. “Of course,” she said. “I would be honored. You may address me as Isobeau if you choose.”

  Warenne dipped his head graciously. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, his attention soon turning to the room. “I am sure Atticus is securing food and drink for you. Is there anything else I can do to see to your comfort?”

  Isobeau shook her head, covering her mouth to stifle a yawn.” Nay,” she said. “Thank you very much, however. You have been most kind since we left Alnwick.”

  Warenne smiled and pulled the empty chair towards him, sitting. “It has been an honor,” he said. “Besides, if my wife was traveling away from me with some strange earl for company, I should hope he would be just as polite.”

  Isobeau’s smile warmed. “You are married, then?”

  He nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “We have been married three years. My wife bore twin girls two years ago and is currently pregnant with our third child. I am praying it is a boy because two little girls have been a chaotic and rather noisy experience.”

  Isobeau laughed softly. “And you think a boy will not be?”

  He shrugged. “I am willing to hope. It will be a boy, after all.”

  Isobeau shook her head at his optimism, grinning. “Then I wish you luck,” she said. “And your wife? What does she think? Does she hope for a son, also?”

  Warenne nodded. “My hopes are her hopes,” he said rather imperiously, laughing when he saw the look on her face. He sobered. “I jest. Whatever my wife wishes is my wish also. She wishes for a healthy son; therefore, I do as well.”

  Isobeau wished for the same thing, knowing that Titus’ wish would have been her own. At that moment, she wished more than anything that she was sitting with Titus, reveling in the joy of their impending child. It occurred to her that she never had the chance to tell him, fainting as she did the moment she saw his sunken, green face. It had been so ridiculous of her to do that. Sadness swept her and tears stung her eyes, thinking that instead of rejoicing over a baby, Titus was lying cold and dead in a hard, oak box. It just wasn’t fair. Distracted with thoughts of her husband, she forced herself to answer the earl.

  “I am sure a healthy son will be born to the House of de Winter,” she said, trying not to sound too sad or disinterested. “You must return home soon so you do not miss the birth.”

  Warenne nodded, thinking on his wife, the lovely Madeleine Summerlin de Winter, when they both caught sight of Atticus as the man suddenly appeared at the far end of the room. He emerged from the kitchen into the smoke-filled chamber followed closely by two serving wenches bearing trays of food and drink. Warenne rose to his feet as Atticus approached.

  “Ah,” he said with approval as he noted all of the food. “A feast fit for a very hungry lady.”

  Atticus immediately noticed that the table Isobeau was sitting at was far too small for four people, as there would soon be when Kenton returned. Since there was only a lone man sitting at a much bigger table nearby, Atticus swapped out tables with the man and presented a larger and more appropriate table for their party. When the tables were finally situated and the food was set out, Warenne begged a momentary leave.

  “I will return shortly,” he told Atticus. “I must see to my horse and Lady de Wolfe’s horse. They are outside in this icy weather and must be tended to.”

  Atticus shook his head. “I will do it,” he said. “Sit and enjoy your meal.”

  Warenne waved him off. “You have not spoken with Lady de Wolfe all day,” he insisted. “Sit and eat. I will tend to the animals and return as soon as I can.”

  Before Atticus could further protest, Warenne was already across the room and out the door. With a heavy sigh, one at the man’s swift disappearance, Atticus sat in the chair the man had vacated.

  “It is not appropriate that an earl should tend to his own horse much less tend to yours,” he said, eyeing Isobeau as he began to cut into a large loaf of cream-colored bread. “He should have let me do it.”

  Isobeau was watching him as he cut the bread and placed a thick slice in front of her; she still wasn’t over thoughts of Titus and the son he didn’t know about. “He seems like a very kind man,” she said. “He has been great company today.”

  Atticus moved on from the loaf of bread and began to cut hunks of meat from a boiled beef bone. “Thetford and I have been friends for many years,” he said. “We fostered together, years ago. He is a good man.”

  “Did he foster with Titus, too?”

  “Aye.”

  Isobeau thought’s lingered on Atticus and Warenne and Titus, all of them fostering together, sharing adventures together. Then she thought again of her husband lying cold and alone in a strange stable, without any companionship now whatsoever. It was wrong that a man so loved was now so alone in death. She gazed at the food he was putting on her trencher without much enthusiasm.

  “Where did everyone go?” she asked. “The wagon and Titus and my things. Where did they go?”

  Atticus pointed in the general direction of the street with his knife. “We saw a livery at the southern edge of town,” he replied. “Kenton has taken them there. He will have the men bring your trunks here, although I cannot see a need for all seven.”

  There was disapproval in his tone. Uncomfortable and sad, and with an aching back, Isobeau was increasingly aware that she needed to relieve herself, as they’d not stopped since leaving Alnwick that morning. More than that, she now knew where Titus was. She had to go to him, to tell him of their child and to make sure he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t fair that he didn’t know what everyone else did and it certainly wasn’t fair that he was alone. Eyeing Atticus, Isobeau knew he wouldn’t let her go to him. He would make excuses to keep her from him, or worse, he would tell her that it was not her right. Therefore, she had to get away from Atticus if only for a precious few minutes. As Atticus continued to dole out food, she stood up.

  “Do you know where the privy is?” she asked.

  Atticus stood up as well, knife still in hand. “I do not,” he said. “But I will find out.”

  Isobeau waved him off; she was already moving away from the table. “I will ask one of the wenches.”

  Atticus wasn’t so apt to let her go alone; he followed. “You will not travel by yourself, madam,” he told her. “I will escort you.”

  Isobeau came to an irritated halt and faced him. “There are some things that women need to do in private,” she said. “This is one of those things. I am sure the privy is out back and there are plenty of people about, so nothing will happen. I will scream if I need you.”

  Atticus wasn’t swayed by the clipped tone. “I will escort you.”

  He took her by the arm but she pulled from his grasp and charged on ahead, asking directions to the privy from the first serving wench she came across. The woman pointed to the rear yard where there were animals and other implements used to run a tavern. Isobeau headed for the back door with Atticus on her heels but before she crossed into the cold, muddy yard beyond, she turned to him and held a hand out.

&n
bsp; “Please,” she said quietly but firmly. “I will tend to this alone. I ask that you return to the table and eat your meal. I promise I will yell if I need you.”

  Atticus was unhappy but he wasn’t accustomed to not granting a lady’s wishes. He looked around the yard outside, only seeing animals milling about, and a shack with a trench dug beneath it that dumped out into a stream that ran behind the tavern. He even went so far as to go out into the yard and throw open the door to the privy only to be greeted by a horrifically smelling hole in the ground with a hollowed-out stool poised over it. Satisfied there were no dangers lurking about, he went back into the tavern.

  “Go on,” he told her. “But if you are not back in two minutes, I will come looking for you.”

  Isobeau didn’t reply. She slipped out into the dark, muddy yard and ran for the privy, slamming the door. It didn’t take long for her to relieve herself, and use a nearby bucket of water to wash with, but when she was ready to leave, she barely opened the privy door to see if Atticus was still standing at the back door of the tavern. She didn’t see him but she knew there was every possibility he was lurking about, waiting for her.

  But she didn’t want to go back into the tavern, not at the moment. She wanted to find Titus and tell him what she had not had the opportunity to tell him, what her fainting spell yesterday had prevented. She wanted to spend a moment with him. A brief moment was all she wanted, a last moment with her husband before they put him in the ground forever.

  In the darkness, she dashed out of the yard gate and into the street beyond.

  Warenne returned to the tavern to find the entire structure in chaos.

  People were running from the building as if the devil himself were inside, demanding their souls, and the closer he came, the more he could hear yelling and banging about. Curious, and on guard, he unsheathed the sword at his side, the sword of his forefathers, Lespada. The ancient blade glimmered wickedly in the weak light as he stepped into the tavern, expecting a fight.