Isobeau looked into Atticus’ face, hope and relief and joy in her expression, but Atticus was focused solely on du Reims. He had yet to even look at her. Without a word, he marched up on them, seated on the ground against the wall of the great hall, and lashed out a massive boot, kicking du Reims in his damaged legs. The pain must have been horrendous because du Reims groaned, more than likely biting off a scream, and instinctively let go of Isobeau with his left hand, reaching down for his injured legs as if to hold them fast against Atticus’ assault.
But his inability to control his reaction to pain and Atticus’ advantage of a surprise attack had devastating consequences for du Reims. The moment he loosened his grip on Isobeau, Atticus reached down and yanked her forward, trying to break du Reims’ grip on her. In the same motion, he thrust a nasty-looking dagger straight into du Reims’ neck, plunging it so deep that it came out the other side. The man’s main artery was cut as well as his windpipe. Dying, he fell over onto his side as Atticus pulled Isobeau completely free.
“Atticus, no!” Isobeau screamed. “Sweet Jesus, no!”
Atticus didn’t even look at her. Warenne was beside her now, holding her fast, because it seemed to him that she was trying to run to du Reims to somehow help the man. But he was beyond help. Without thought or sympathy or regrets, Atticus removed the dagger in du Reims’ neck and plunged it again into his chest. With the heart of the big knight punctured, death was immediate.
The only sound now was that of Isobeau’s shocked weeping. She stood in Warenne’s grip, her hand over her mouth as she looked with horror upon du Reims’ dead body. It had happened so fast that she was still struggling to process it all. But it was then, and only then, that Atticus seemed to notice her. He looked her over closely, his gaze intense and still deadly.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked.
Isobeau looked at him, tears spilling over. “You did not have to kill him,” she wept. “He only wanted to go home to his wife and children.”
Atticus had absolutely no sympathy, not one ounce of pity or guilt for what he had done. In fact, Isobeau’s tears seemed to irritate him.
“And so he will not,” he said coldly. “He signed his death warrant the moment he touched you. What are you doing in the hall, anyway? I told you to stay to your chamber.”
Isobeau couldn’t stop the tears; they kept coming and coming. “I came to help,” she wept. “I came to help the physic tend the wounded. I was giving the knight water when he grabbed me. He… he only wanted to go home, Atticus. You did not have to kill him.”
Atticus’ gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before turning to Kenton, who was gazing down at du Reims’ bloodied body.
“Take him up to the wall,” he told Kenton. “Throw him over the side. They will see that Atticus de Wolfe keeps his word.”
Without hesitation, Kenton reached down to haul du Reims up. Isobeau, unable to watch, took off running. She heard Atticus call her name but she ignored him, bolting from the hall and running for the steps that led to the upper floor. But she didn’t make it to the stairs before coming to a halt and vomiting into the mud in the middle of the bailey. Overwrought, she wiped at her mouth and continued her trek towards the stairs but before she could reach them, someone grabbed her arm.
Startled, she turned to see Atticus. When she saw who it was, she yanked her arm away from him, brutally, and stumbled back, falling onto the first step behind her.
“Do not touch me,” she hissed. “Leave me alone!”
Atticus’ expression remained emotionless, following her as she attempted to crawl up the steps to get away from him. “I will not leave you alone,” he said. “Do you not understand what happened in there, Isobeau? I saved your life.”
She was climbing up the stairs on all fours, struggling to get away from him. She was nearly hysterical at that point, laboring to control her breathing. She simply couldn’t wipe the image of the dead knight from her memory, a man who had spoken so lovingly of his children. It was heartbreaking in more ways than one.
“Catrina,” she gasped. “His wife’s name is Catrina. He has three daughters – Charlotte, Cassandra, and Annabelle. Annabelle is crippled. You did to them what de la Londe and de Troiu did to me. You took their husband and father away, and you did not have to do it. You murdered him!”
She was shouting at him by the time she was finished and Atticus’ emotionless façade was starting to crack. He was starting to understand what had her so upset, the taking of a man from his wife and children. She put it in context that both of them could understand; you did to them what de la Londe and de Troiu did to me! Aye, he understood that very well. But she didn’t see the other side of it, the warring side, the side of honor where a man threatening another man’s wife would guarantee that man’s death. She understood none of what was in Atticus’ heart.
“I was protecting you,” he said, struggling not to let the emotion she was exhibiting bleed out onto him. Infect him. “Du Reims had nothing to lose; he was going to kill you. I had a choice to make between sparing his life and saving yours. Did you truly think I would let the man kill you?”
Halfway up the steps to the upper level, Isobeau came to a halt. She dry heaved as nothing was coming up. She refused to look at Atticus, standing on the step below her.
“He would not have killed me,” she breathed, feeling ill and overwhelmed. “He was frightened, Atticus. All he wanted to do was see his wife and children again and you took him away from them. Now they will face the same grief that you and I have faced over Titus’ death but mayhap that means nothing to you. Mayhap life in general means nothing to you. Is that the kind of man you are? Do you treat all life so callously?”
Atticus simply stood there, trying not to feel wounded by her words. Each one of them was like a dagger, impaling him, drawing blood. His heart began to hurt in a way he never knew it could ache. All of it was swirling around him, causing him pain and turmoil. He didn’t know what to say because, God help him, she made some sense. He didn’t like that she made sense.
“Go to your chamber and bolt it,” he told her, his voice oddly hollow and raspy. “You will not come out until I tell you to, not even to help the wounded. Is that clear?”
Isobeau pushed herself off the stair, rising unsteadily to her feet. “But your men are suffering,” she said, wiping at her tear-stained cheeks. “I can help them. Even if you are cruel and unfeeling, I am not.”
He was deeply hurt by her words when they should not have bothered him at all. He’d heard worse. But coming from her lovely lips, her words stung. He wasn’t used to being stung by someone he cared for and lashed out at her.
“Your desire to help men and disobey my orders is what got another man killed,” he snapped, watching her turn sharply to him, utter distress on her face. God, he couldn’t look at her. Her distress was eating away at him. He turned away and headed down the steps. “If there is anyone to blame, then blame yourself. Now, go to your chamber and stay there. If I have to tell you again, I will lock you in the vault until all of this is over.”
Isobeau didn’t say anything more, watching the man as he headed down the steps and into the muddy, bloody bailey. He was heading for the wall, back to his warring ways. Isobeau watched him as he walked, realizing he wasn’t stalking as he usually did. His movements seemed to be labored, as if he were exhausted or as if… as if there were things on his mind. Perhaps guilt at killing a man he didn’t need to kill.
She wondered.
What kind of man have I married?
Someone who killed for her without hesitation. Although she was still devastated by du Reims’ death, shaken by the brutality of it, there was a part of her that was glad Atticus was willing to kill for her. Without hesitation, knowing she was in danger, he had done precisely that. He was following his instincts, instincts that had him protecting her above all else. His wife. Perhaps she shouldn’t have become so angry with him. He was only doing what he had been trained to do.
; With a heavy heart, she headed up the stairs and made way to her chamber.
The siege continued into the night and on into the next day.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ionian scale in C – The Fear
I speak of thee in hush’d tones,
Fearful to hear the words.
In time, it seems, that which I speak of,
Will soon meant to be heard.
—Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.
The smell of smoke was heavy in the early morning air, damp and icy as the sun began to rise. Juston had been on the road from Alnwick for two days, now beginning a third day as the gray mists of dawn began to lighten with the coming of the new day. He was exhausted and very cold, but he knew that Wolfe’s Lair was close by. He’d been there once before, years ago, and knew it was less than a three day ride from Alnwick, the legendary de Wolfe fortress nestled upon the contested England/Scotland border. He was frankly looking forward to spending the night in a fortress with food and warmth. He might even stay an extra day and sleep. Lord knew he’d had little of that as of late. He swore after this jaunt he was never going to travel so much ever again.
But Juston thought it rather odd that the smell of smoke was so heavy in the air. Upon these moors were clusters of trees, occasional forests, but everything was fairly wet and frozen from the particularly cold weather they’d experienced as of late. What he was smelling was quite heavy, as if an entire forest were burning somewhere. Smoke mingled with the fog, turned to moisture, and clung to his freezing armor. Plodding along the muddy road that was on an incline to the top of a hill, he had to direct his steed onto the grass because the animal kept slipping on the mud.
The grass, cold and dead, offered some traction to the horse’s hooves as Juston directed the beast up the incline. By the time they neared the top, the road had become a little less slippery and muddy because all of the water was rolling down the hill. Reining the horse back onto the road, they moved the last several feet to the top of the hill in relative ease.
At the crest of the hill, the smoke was much heavier here, as was the fog. But immediately, Juston could see a big-walled fortress off to the west, set right in the middle of a frozen moor, that was clearly under attack. He could see men in the distance swarming around it, and at least two siege engines up against the walls. Somewhat startled at the sight, he immediately spurred his horse into the nearest cluster of trees so that he would not be seen and possibly set upon by those conducting the siege. He’d been in enough battles in his lifetime to know how men in battle mode thought. Everyone, even a lone traveler, was a potential enemy.
So he wedged his horse back behind some thick-trunked trees, watching the siege carefully. There were perhaps a thousand men, maybe less, trying very diligently to mount the walls of the enormous gray-stoned structure. He knew it was Wolfe’s Lair because he recognized it; therefore, it stood to reason that someone was trying to mount the de Wolfe walls and from what he could tell, it most certainly wasn’t Scots. They fought much differently from the English. Nay, this was a methodical and well-thought-out siege.
Someone was trying to get to the de Wolfes, including Atticus.
It made sense to Juston that the only one who would be foolish enough to attempt that was Edward or men loyal to Edward. But why attack Wolfe’s Lair? The fortress was nearly unbreachable. As Juston watched, flaming arrows suddenly shot out from the walls of the fortress, aimed at those attempting to breach her. Juston couldn’t see what the damage was because he was too far away, but he could imagine it was substantial. A nasty battle was commencing on this foggy day in April as Juston stood helplessly by to watch.
But no, he wasn’t helpless, not in the least. Perhaps Wolfe’s Lair wasn’t close to being breached or perhaps it was – he couldn’t really tell and he didn’t want to move any closer. But he knew one thing… Alnwick, a huge supporter of the House of de Wolfe, was only two days away if he rode swiftly. He could summon assistance for Wolfe’s Lair. It was the only option as he saw it because he certainly couldn’t ride away and pretend he didn’t see anything. What he saw was an ally under attack. He had to summon help.
Turning his beast back onto the road, he spurred the animal as fast as it would safely go, avoiding mud puddles and great slicks of dirt as he headed back the way he came. He had to make it to Alnwick, and quickly, because Wolfe’s Lair needed assistance.
Exhaustion and cold forgotten, Juston de Royans made haste for Alnwick and Northumberland’s mighty army.
“You should know that I have sent word to my son.”
In the near pitch-blackness of Wellesbourne Castle’s vault, Andrew’s quietly uttered words reverberated with ominous finality off of the moss-covered walls. De la Londe and de Troiu, who had been sitting in blackness and silence for days on end, flinched when they heard the words. Even though they had been spoken softly, because of their sensitivity to sound, it was as if the man had shouted at them. De la Londe groaned and rubbed at his painful right ear.
“Sent word about what?” he grunted. “And by what right do you keep us locked up in here like this? No light, no air. You have condemned us to hell!”
Andrew stepped into the vault, nearer to the iron-barred cell. He had a torch in his hand, dipped in fat and burning brightly with a heavy black smoke. De la Londe and de Troiu shied away from the fire as if the sun had just entered their world.
“And you think me unfair, do you?” Andrew asked bitterly. “You, who would come to my home and try to convince me that my son is a traitor? What you have received is not nearly as bad as you deserve, but your just reward will come once my son is notified of your presence here at Wellesbourne. I simply want to inform you of what was coming so that you can sit here in the dark and imagine all of the horrible things that will happen once my son arrives from Alnwick. And you know he will come.”
De la Londe squinted up at Andrew in the weak light. “Adam is not the man to be feared,” he said. “The man to be feared is de Mowbray. When he finds out what you have done to us, he will bring his army and raze Wellesbourne Castle. He will punish you.”
Andrew was unmoved by the man’s threat. “De Mowbray will not care that I have imprisoned two traitors,” he said. “He knows as well as I do that men like you can be bought. Your loyalty is not worth the effort it takes to speak those vows and he will not waste the time nor the manpower to seek retribution on your behalf. He can easily find two more men to buy for his cause.”
De la Londe glared at the man a moment longer before looking away, slumping back against the slippery stone that smelled of rot. “De Mowbray will not let us languish here,” he said. “He will come and you had better be prepared.”
Andrew snorted. “The only men who need be prepared are you and your companion,” he said, “because I am quite certain that Adam will not keep this information to himself. When he tells the other knights that you have come to Wellesbourne spreading your lies, I would not be surprised to see more than one Northumberland knight upon my doorstep. They will all want to know why you have been spreading such lies, de la Londe. You are creating mischief and they will demand answers. I would suggest you think on a good answer.”
De la Londe refused to look at him, instead looking at his lap and thinking on Wellesbourne’s statement. I would not be surprised to see more than one Northumberland knight upon my doorstep. That bit of information did not please him, not in the least, but he could not worry over it. Dead men did not speak and with Titus dead, the knights of Northumberland would have no way of knowing de la Londe or de Troiu’s role in Titus’ death. They would not even know that de la Londe and de Troiu had sworn fealty to Norfolk. They would be coming in blind, which would work to de la Londe’s advantage.
De la Londe had served Northumberland for several years. He had worked with, fought with, and died with these men who would be coming to seek answers from him. It was imperative that he concoct the best story he could in order to convince these men that he was not a traitor.
He had been forced to side with Norfolk, to support the man. They had to believe had no choice in the matter and if the subject of Titus’ death came up, he would disavow any knowledge of it.
Denial was the only thing he could do in that case because if they suspected he was responsible for Titus’ passing, the wrath of The Lion of the North would be upon him and he would be hunted for the rest of his life. Clearly, that was not an option – he didn’t want Atticus de Wolfe seeking vengeance against him. At the moment, for all de la Londe knew, no one had made the connection between him and Titus’ death. He wanted to keep it that way.
He had to be the victim
“Let them come, then,” he muttered. “There is nothing I can do to prevent it. But know that all of this… everything I have told you was because I had to. It was not of my free will.”
Andrew was puzzled by the statement but suspected it was just another lie in a long line of de la Londe lies. He was an old man and had seen much, and was suspicious of everything, especially knights who would try to turn him against his own son.
“We shall see,” he said after a moment. “When my son arrives, you are free to tell him why your lies about my son were not of your free will.”
“There is much more to the situation than merely your son.”
“I would like to hear that, as well.”
De la Londe fell silent, refusing to say any more. He would wait until Wellesbourne left before speaking to de Troiu, in the darkness, and pulling together their plan. Now that they knew Adam Wellesbourne and the knights of Northumberland would soon be upon Wellesbourne Castle, they had to pull together a common defense. They had to convince their former friends and allies that the bonds of loyalty between them were not broken and that their association with Norfolk had been at great personal peril. More lies, to be sure, but there was little alternative.
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