The Lion of the North (10 page)

The young man shook his head. “Nay, m’lady,” he said, hesitantly, because it was difficult to speak. “I was hoping… my sisters and mother cannot read, m’lady, but I was hoping you could tell them that my last thoughts were of them. Tell them that my father died bravely and that I died bravely, too. I think it will make them feel better to know that.”

Isobeau gazed down into his pale, stubbled face and realized she was fighting off tears. It was so very tragic to see the young man before her cut down before he had ever truly begun to live. She squeezed his hand and nodded. “Of course I will,” she assured him gently. “What are their names? I must find them and give them the news.”

“Hartha,” the young man said. “My mother his Hartha. My sisters are Joi and Desmelda.”

“Hartha, Joi, and Desmelda,” Isobeau repeated. “I will not forget.”

“Swear it?”

“Of course I do. I never forget a name, so I shall remember their names and find them all. I will even give them some coins to help them. Would that please you?”

The young man smiled gratefully. “Indeed, m’lady,” he said, haltingly. His smile faded. “It… is difficult to speak, m’lady. I… would rest now. Just for a while.”

Isobeau could sense that the young man’s life was draining away. He was much weaker than he had been only minutes earlier. Saddened, she squeezed his hand once more. “Please rest,” she told him softly. “Conserve your strength. If you like, I can sing to you. Would that make you feel better?”

The young man could only smile at this point and he did, faintly, and Isobeau took it for permission to sing. She thought quickly on a song, any song that might distract him from his pain. Settling on one she had written for Titus’ return because it was the only one she could recall quickly, she sang softly, for his ears only.

“
A bird sang sweetly to me, on a morning bright with rain;

Said the bird, so sweetly to me, lovers know no pain.

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.”