Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Come to know what Titus liked so well about the woman, Warenne had said. More and more, Atticus could see it. He was finally coming to understand her, one piece at a time.

  “As would I, my lady,” he said quietly. “No one would take your child from you, my brother’s child, and live to tell the tale, so it is my suggestion that you forget about the convent and marry me instead. If you do not, I fear I am in for something quite terrible. You would actually be doing me quite a favor.”

  Isobeau was still frowning as thoughts of baby-stealing nuns filled her mind. “Why?” she asked. “Whatever is the matter?”

  Atticus averted his gaze, leaning against his brother’s coffin and picking at the imperfections of the wood.

  “I have… well, it is quite embarrassing to admit it, but I have women that follow me about,” he said seriously, although he wasn’t serious in the least. “Do you have any idea what a prize I would be to any woman? Not only am I a de Wolfe, but I have earned a reputation for myself as a warrior above men. I have some wealth, of course, but every father with an eligible daughter from Newcastle to Hastings is clamoring after me, demanding I wed their daughters. And what daughters! Fat, short, skinny, tall, in all varieties and shapes. The Earl of Dorcester, for instance, has two daughters and has demanded I pick one. The man has promised me half of Dorset if I do but in order to obtain such wealth, I have to choose between a woman with a mustache and her sister with no neck and a bald spot on her head. What am I to do?”

  Isobeau forgot about baby-stealing nuns and was grinning at Atticus’ distress. He was, in fact, pretending to be quite upset, but Isobeau sensed that he was mostly acting for her benefit. It was quite humorous, actually, because she had no idea that the man had such a personality. She had only seen him serious or angry, or both, so this comical side was unexpected. It was also attractive. She clucked sadly.

  “That is truly a shame, Sir Atticus,” she said with feigned concern. “I would think in such a case, you may want to take the woman with the mustache. She can always shave it off. Mayhap she would not be so bad if she did.”

  Atticus rolled his eyes, leaning his head against Titus’ coffin in mock misery. He hoped his brother was hearing him because they had shared many a laugh over the same subjects, mostly Titus teasing him about the women that really did follow him around. With his striking dark looks and chiseled features, Atticus had more than his share of female admirers.

  “Mayhap,” he said, his voice muffled because he was leaning against his arm. “She is not unattractive in a way. If only her eyes focused in the same direction, she would be nearly pleasant to look at.”

  Isobeau put a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles. “She is cross-eyed?”

  “That is putting it kindly.”

  Isobeau couldn’t help the laughter now. She put a hand on the coffin lid and leaned into it. “Titus?” she asked. “Do you hear your brother? He is attempting to coerce me into marriage with tales of cross-eyed maids!”

  Atticus’ grin broke through and he put his mouth against the coffin lid. “You will confirm whatever I tell her, do you hear?” he told his brother. “Tell her it is true! Tell her of the daughter of the Lord Mayor of Manchester and how the woman sent me gifts for three solid months. Tell her how I had to hide when the woman and her father showed up at Alnwick seeking to negotiate a marriage contract. Tell her how Percy had to entertain them for the night and then he tried to beat me afterwards because they were both terrible creatures with terrible manners. He blamed me for them setting foot in his beloved Alnwick.”

  Isobeau was giggling uncontrollably. “Lord Henry did not beat you.”

  Atticus nodded firmly. “He most certainly tried,” he said. “He even threw a chicken bone at me. He was furious that I had brought those obnoxious people down upon him.”

  Isobeau was laughing so much that she was struggling to catch her breath. “It was not your fault,” she said. “It was not as if you invited them.”

  Atticus pointed a finger at her. “I did not,” he agreed, “but if you do not agree to marry me, I can only look forward to more of the same humiliation. Until and unless I have a wife, these ravenous females will never stop in their quest to acquire me as a prized husband. Therefore, my lady, I beg you… please consider my marriage proposal. It would make Titus happy and it would save me from a lifetime of shame.”

  For the past several moments, Isobeau had been swept up in Atticus’ charm. She had no idea the man possessed such charisma, for he was a gifted and animated storyteller when he put his mind to it. If only this man, this charming and witty man, could be the man she saw from now on and not the bitter and nasty one. It was enough to give her hope that perhaps they could settle into a comfortable relationship with pleasant conversation such as they were having now. She was still torn, still indecisive, but that resistance was barely holding on. Her gaze lingered on the top of the coffin, thinking of the man inside, knowing that she, indeed, wanted to make him happy. And Atticus had a pledge to fulfill.

  With a sigh, one of resignation, she finally nodded her head.

  “Very well,” she said. “If that is truly your wish, I will consent. I suppose you need someone to beat all of those women away from you.”

  Atticus smiled, one of genuine joy. “You are most gracious, my lady,” he said. “But please know that your role in the marriage would be one of honor. I would never expect you to chase foolish women away. I would put you upon a pedestal whilst you watch me do it.”

  It was a kind thing to say, as if he meant she simply wouldn’t be an excuse or a bit of baggage he happened to be tied to. But along with her consent, Isobeau was coming to feel as if a part of her life unfulfilled were slipping away from her, something she wasn’t ready to let go. She put her hand on the coffin lid again, realizing she was fighting off tears. Visions of Titus and the last time she saw him alive filled her head.

  “You do not need to put me on a pedestal,” she said softly, stroking the coffin lid. “Sweet Jesus, this is all happening so quickly. The past few months of my life have been like a dream, so fast and fleeting. I married Titus and came to adore the man and just as quickly he was gone. Now I find myself pledged to you… Atticus, I do not want to forget Titus. I do not want to look back on this time of my life and think I only imagined it. Titus is worth remembering.”

  The smile was gone from Atticus’ face. He, too, put his hand on the coffin lid, feeling the pangs of grief clutch at him. All humor aside, it was a horrible thing that had united them.

  “He is worth that and more,” he said hoarsely, realizing he had a lump in his throat at her words. “I will tell you something I have not told anyone. As Titus lay dying, he told me how proud he was to be my brother. I… I never got to tell him how proud I was to have been his brother. I realize I am the one who has earned the moniker; The Lion of the North they call me. I am a prideful man, my lady. I would bask in the adoration of others whilst Titus would stand in my shadow and applaud me just as others were. He never once showed any jealousy or envy. He was the first one to praise me. He was the rock upon which I stood to show my bravery and receive my accolades. But my rock is gone now and I am not entirely sure how I am supposed to go on.”

  He looked at Isobeau then, tears in his eyes. But she was far ahead of him in that regard; tears were streaming down her face as she felt his pain, deeply, for the very first time. Reaching out, she put a gentle hand on his arm.

  “I miss him dreadfully,” she whispered, fighting off a sob. “I know we were together for such a short time but in that time, I saw such perfection in him. I wanted to know him as my rock just as you knew him as yours, but that will never come to pass. I envy you your time with him, Atticus. Mayhap… mayhap someday you will tell me of the Titus you knew. Mayhap you will tell my child of his father, as you knew him. I hope you will.”

  Atticus averted his gaze, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill down his face. He sniffled loudly, struggling to compose himself.
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  “Of course I will,” he said quietly. “I will tell my nephew how his father used to steal coinage from the knights he squired for and how, when caught, he was once put in the stocks for two days. I will also tell him how Titus risked his life to save a young page whose horse became stuck in a quagmire of mud and Titus slithered across the mud to secure a rope to the horse’s saddle so we could pull them both free. Titus was both hero and devil, my lady. He was the greatest man I have ever known.”

  Isobeau wiped at her eyes, smiling faintly at Atticus as the man gazed upon Titus’ coffin. In the weak light of the livery, illuminated only by the cooking fire directly outside in the yard, there was something very private and personal about the moment, sharing their common grief and coming to terms with it. Isobeau stroked the coffin one last time.

  “I am at peace now,” she said softly. “I have told Titus everything I wanted to say and I have a measure of peace. Thank you for giving me these few private moments with him and for not becoming angry that I ran from you.”

  Atticus touched the coffin lid one last time as well, giving it a pat, before pushing himself away from the wagon. “I was not angry that you ran from me,” he said. “But I will admit that when I realized you were gone, I may have upended the tavern a bit. Just a little.”

  She looked at him, cocking an eyebrow. “A little?”

  He shrugged, averting his gaze. “A lot.”

  Isobeau thought on that. “I see,” she said. “Can I assume they will not welcome us back now and that we will be sleeping in the livery along with the animals?”

  He cast her a long glance, his eyes twinkling. “Would that upset you?”

  She threw up her hands. “Of course not,” she said mockingly. “Why sleep in a warm tavern when I can just as easily sleep in a freezing livery stable amongst the pigs? ’Tis every woman’s dream, I say. Thank God for Atticus and his ability to provide me with luxuries.”

  Atticus gave her a half-grin, holding out a hand to her. She was still up on the wagon bed and she took his hand as he carefully helped her off. Her hand was soft and warm in his big, rough palm. He rather liked the feel of it there.

  “I am not entirely sure they will not welcome us,” he said. “If they do not, I can always upend the tavern again. I will get you a warm bed one way or another, my lady.”

  She looked at him, drolly. “Perfect.”

  Atticus laughed softly at the wry expression on her face. As he led her from the livery, he was coming to think that Isobeau’s choice to run from the tavern that night had evidently been something of a fortuitous happenstance. It had given them a chance to speak, to be honest with one another, and to bond just a bit more over their common grief.

  Come to see what Titus saw in the woman. Those words kept echoing in Atticus’ head, words of wisdom that had helped him come to understand the aura and mindset of Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe. What he saw, he was coming to appreciate. He hoped that they would have a warm and civil relationship towards one another in the coming years but he seriously wondered if he would ever stop viewing her as Titus’ wife and come to see her as his own. It was a thought he had.

  He further wondered if Isobeau would ever stop seeing him as her dead husband’s brother and start viewing him as her husband.

  Only time would tell.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ionian scale in C – Lyrics to I dreamt that you loved me still

  I dreamt that you loved me still

  And loved me forever and a day.

  From beyond the mellow sea

  I felt your spirit calling to me

  And I dreamt that you loved me still.

  —Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.

  Rule Water Castle (known as Wolfe’s Lair)

  Solomon de Wolfe was a very big man with a great, hairy beard and hands the size of trenchers. He had been dark haired back in his youth but age and ill health had seen his hair turn completely white while his beard was an odd shade of grayish-yellow. He knew the strange color was because his beard was dirty but he didn’t care. He took great pride in telling the women of the local village that he ran a bit of hot water through his beard after a long day and made soup out of whatever bits of crumb and meat scraps were caught there. He loved to see the look of disgust on their faces. Much like his sons, Solomon had a wicked sense of humor.

  Rule Water Castle hadn’t been called by its proper name in decades, ever since the de Wolfe family from nearby Castle Questing had annexed the former Scottish garrison for the de Wolfe barony of Killham. Everyone in Northern England and Southern Scotland knew the place as Wolfe’s Lair these days, an extremely fortified fortress that had a very odd look to it.

  Much like infamous Hermitage Castle about a half-day’s ride south, seat of the terrible de Soulis family, Rule Water Castle was built in much the same design. It was square, box-shaped, and four stories tall. The walls of the keep were also the exterior walls of the fortress, as it had no fortification walls at all. It did, however, have a moat that was fed by a nearby stream, a wide and muck-filled ditch that was at least ten feet wide, probably more in places, and had a retractable wooden bridge that crossed it.

  The impression of Wolfe’s Lair was one of intimidation. It sat on a flat plain, with rolling hills in the distance, and could been seen for miles. With its sheer, dark walls, it had the look of dread and danger about it. The entrance to the fortress was also much like Hermitage Castle in that it was a Norman arch, two stories tall, and had two enormous gates that had been forged from the strongest iron. These gates were thick, vastly heavy, and impossible to breach once closed.

  The great gates protected the interior of the fortress, which included a hollowed-out bailey in the center. The stables, trades, great hall, small chapel, and kitchens were all on the lower level whilst the second level contained sleeping quarters for the soldiers. The third level contained living and sleeping accommodations for the family and the fourth floor was mostly the wall walk, a flat roof over the third floor that spanned the perimeter of the fortress.

  Solomon ran Wolfe’s Lair like his own personal kingdom. He was a firm man, fair and decisive, and he never backed away from a fight. He had peace with his neighbors for the most part but he wouldn’t hesitate to send his garrison out if there was trouble. He had one hundred and twenty-seven men under his command, all of them loyal and seasoned, and Solomon enjoyed his life at Wolfe’s Lair for the most part but he found in his later years that his thoughts weren’t so much on war any longer as they were on women. There were a few wenches about he would chase and pinch, but that was as far as it went. The last woman he bedded had been his wife, twenty-eight years ago. He wanted that particular coupling to be his last memory of the act. He still missed Rosalie, very much.

  Therefore, it was a peaceful kingdom that Solomon ruled and this spring day dawned cold and clear, like any normal day. The guards changed shifts upon the wall walk and at the front gates as Solomon rose and broke his fast with hard cheese and warmed-over stew from the previous meal. He hadn’t slept well the night before and his wild hair was wilder, and his beard even more unkempt than usual. A good deal of Wolfe’s Lair’s function had to do with herds and herds of wooly sheep and as Solomon slurped up his stew, he was coming to think that it was time to assess his older herd, the one that was kept off to the north, to see if it was time to take them into town to discuss selling the wool to the local wool merchant.

  But those thoughts of business as usual were interrupted by the sentries on the walls, taking up a cry of an approaching party. Solomon heard the cries but it didn’t deter him from his food until a soldier entered and informed him that a wagon and several riders were approaching. He waved the soldier off and proceeded to finish his meal until the same soldier returned and informed him that his son, Atticus, had been sighted. That was enough to get Solomon onto his feet.

  “Great Bloody Christ!” he exclaimed. “My sons have come home? Did you see them?”

  The soldier was an older
man who had served Solomon for many years. He knew how much the old man missed his sons, for it was something Solomon spoke of frequently.

  “I saw Sir Atticus, my lord,” he grinned. “I did not notice Titus but there are other riders. I am sure he is among them.”

  Solomon flew into a frenzy. “My clothes!” he bellowed as he raced to a pile of clothing that was over against the wall. He began picking articles of clothing up, inspecting them, sniffing them, and then tossing them aside. “I must dress to see my sons. What is this? God, this stinks. And so does that. In fact, everything about me smells awful. Where is my soap?”

  He was bellowing and the servants who tended the rooms and the hearths on that level began to race around, trying to find Solomon clothing that didn’t smell too badly. Solomon wasn’t the cleanest man in the world and a couple of minutes of sifting through tunics and torn breeches had them discovering at least one pair that wasn’t ripped or stained. Solomon, wearing a worn sleeping robe at this point, pulled his breeches up, struggling to secure them as an old male servant, so old he could hardly move about well, tried to pull the sleeping robe off in order to help Solomon on with his tunic. The elderly servant pulled too hard, Solomon lost his balance, and fell onto his hip.

  Angry, Solomon howled as he fastened his breeches and grabbed for the tunic the old servant was trying to give him. He pulled it over his head, rolled heavily to his feet, and began to make his way down to the courtyard with the elderly servant following after him, helping him dress in a fur-lined cloak. By the time Solomon began to descend the stairs into the central courtyard, the great gates of Wolfe’s Lair were open and the party was entering the bailey. The first person Solomon recognized was his beloved second son, Atticus.

  “Atticus!” he bellowed, waving his arms furiously. “Atticus, you have come home!”