The Lion of the North (22 page)

There was betrayal in the air.

Wolfe’s Lair

Dream of angels,
my sweet, as they rock you softly to sleep…

Isobeau had been repeating those lyrics in her mind, over and over, a song she had written for the child she no longer carried. No one had to tell her that she was no longer pregnant; she knew.

Half-asleep, she struggled to wake up. The physic had given her something to drink that would make her sleep; whatever it was affected her greatly. Her eyes lids felt as if they weighed as much as a full-grown horse because try as she might, she could hardly lift them. Her eyes kept rolling back into her head. But she fought it, the lethargy, and pushed herself over onto her left side.

“M’lady?” came a thin, frightened-sounding female voice. “M’lady, you shouldn’t move. Lie still.”

Isobeau struggled to open at least one eye and it worked, somewhat. She found herself looking at a young woman with missing teeth and oily skin. The servant hovered near the end of the bed, the chamber illuminated by the fire in the hearth, so all Isobeau could really see was the woman’s shadowed face. Isobeau licked her dry lips.

“How long have I been asleep?” she murmured.

The servant woman twisted her hands nervously. “A long time, m’lady,” she said. “The sun has just set. M’lady, you shouldn’t move around!”

Isobeau ignored the woman, struggling to clear the cobwebs, trying to recall her last coherent memory. She remembered the cramping of course, and the blood, and the physic who had forced her to drink the potion that put her to sleep. After that, she remembered nothing.

“Where is the physic?” she asked. “What did he do to me?”

The servant woman fled to the door, jerking it open and calling for someone named Piney or Pliney. Isobeau really didn’t know. She tried to look around, for she had no idea where she was and she didn’t recognize the chamber. But she noticed one thing right away; it smelled terrible and she was laying on an oiled cloth. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, either. As she struggled to prop herself up on an elbow, the tall and skinny physic entered the chamber. He had hands that looked like skinny skeletal bones and wisps of white hair around his pointed head. When he saw that Isobeau was trying to sit up, he rushed to her and gently, but firmly, pushed her back down again.

“Nay, my lady,” he said politely. “You will remain down. You must rest now.”

Isobeau was on her back, gazing up at the man. He still had his hands on her and she didn’t like it. “Remove your hands,” she commanded. “Who are you?”

The physic took his hands away. “I am Pliney,” he said. “I am Sir Solomon’s physic.”

Isobeau eyed the man, or tried to. She still felt as if her eyelids were extremely heavy. “What did you give me?” she said. “I cannot seem to keep my eyes open.”

The physic nodded. “That is the drug,” he said. “I gave you a potion of poppy. It will take away your pain and allow you to sleep. You need a good deal of rest, my lady. Your body must recover.”

Isobeau thought on that a moment, coming to realize what he meant. She’d known it the moment it happened, the moment she had awakened. But she needed to hear it from the physic.

“I am no longer with child,” she whispered. It was not a question.

The physic shook his head. “Nay, my lady.”

Isobeau sighed heavily, fighting off the tears. “Was…,” she began, stopped, and started again. “Was there anything left of the child? Was… was he very big?”

The physic shook his head. “We stripped you of your clothing, my lady,” he said, watching Isobeau as she realized she was in an article of clothing that did not belong to her. “I inspected everything that was on the dress and there was nothing I could see. You must have been very early in your pregnancy.”

Isobeau nodded, gazing up at the ceiling and thinking that her son was now with his father in heaven. “No more than six or seven weeks at the very most,” she said. “It was not very advanced.”

The physic suspected as much. “Then it is God’s Will that this should happen, my lady,” he said. “You must trust in the Lord that he knows what is best.”

His words inflamed her. “Best?” she repeated, raising her voice and trying to push herself off the bed. “How is the death of my child for the best? I have only just lost my husband and now my child? I have lost my entire family, you fool. How can this be for the best?”

The physic was used to dealing with the high emotions of illness or loss, or at least he thought he was. He had yet to come across anyone with Isobeau’s fire. “I am not God; therefore, I would not know,” he said. “Now your son will not have to grow up without his father. That is a blessing.”

Isobeau was utterly outraged. “Get out,” she spat. “Get out before I throw you out. You are a barbaric, foolish idiot and I want you away from me!”

The physic backed up but he did not leave. “My lady, you must calm yourself,” he said. “You must not get excited.”

Groggy and weak, Isobeau rolled onto her side. There was a table next to the bed with a dirty wooden cup on it, a knife, and part of a shriveled apple. She lashed out a hand and grabbed the first thing she could, which happened to be the knife. She hurled it at the physic, barely missing the man. Rather than remain in the room if the lady was starting to throw weapons, the physic quickly vacated along with the toothless servant. Isobeau threw the cup at them just for good measure. When the door slammed, she collapsed back on the uncomfortable bed and cried.

The tears were cleansing and comforting. Isobeau cried tears for the child, tears for Titus. She comforted herself with the knowledge that their son was with his father now and the two of them had each other. The physic had been right about that particular point and she was at peace with the idea. But she herself had no one. She’d never felt more alone in her life.

Head aching, and feeling unsteady, she forced herself from the bed, wiping at her eyes. She didn’t want to lie on the smelly bed any longer; she wasn’t sure where she wanted to go or what she wanted to do, but she wanted to find Atticus. Somehow, all roads pointed to him in her mind, as nearly the only familiar person in her world, and she wanted to find him. She knew he wasn’t far away, for he never seemed to be far away. As she staggered to her feet with the intention of leaving the chamber to hunt for Atticus, the door suddenly flew open.

“Isobeau!” Atticus gasped, rushing to her and grabbing her before she could fall on the ground. “Jesus Ch… you must return to bed immediately.”

He sounded harried, concerned. He very carefully swung her into his arms and took her back to the smelly, oil-cloth covered bed, but the moment he attempted to lay her down, she balked.

“Nay,” she gasped, putting her hand down to prevent him from laying her on the mattress. “Please… I would rather lie on the floor than that bed. It smells and is horribly uncomfortable.”

Atticus, who had just run up three flights of stairs when a panicked servant told him that Lady de Wolfe was having a fit, looked down at his father’s horrible bed and knew that she was correct. He had simply wanted to lay the woman down somewhere to calm her down. He still wasn’t over his fright at the news of her fit and, with his heart still pounding against his ribs, he stood straight with her in his arms and turned for the door.

“I believe they are nearly finished with your chamber,” he told her. “I’ll take you there. We did not move you there sooner because the physic told us that you should not be moved at all.”

Exhausted, and feeling a good deal of comfort in Atticus’ arms, she laid her head against his big shoulder. “That physic is a fool,” she uttered. “I do not want that man near me again. Will you make sure of it?”

Atticus took her out into the corridor, careful not to bang her head against the stone walls. “If that is your wish,” he said. “But why? What did he do?”

She sighed, feeling quite calm now that Atticus was with her. It was both surprising and amazing that the sensation of being held in his arms should soothe her soul and her fears so much. She’d never known anything like it, ever. Somehow, she knew that she was safe and that everything would be all right as long as Atticus held her. He gave her peace.

“He told me that the loss of the child was God’s Will and that I should be grateful,” she murmured. “I do not want him near me again. If I see him again, I may have to kill him.”

Atticus fought off a grin because he could hear humor in her weak tone. “I see,” he said. “Well, I shall make sure if it, then. I should not want you to be forced to kill.”

She nodded, or at least attempted to. “It would be messy, for I have never done such a thing,” she said. “I would have to guess on the best way to kill a man. His brains would be in one place and his heart would be in another.”

He laughed softly. “That sounds quite messy, indeed,” he said. “I shall make sure he is kept away. Are you feeling better, then?”

Isobeau put her arms up around his neck, pulling herself closer to him, a gesture that was not lost on Atticus. She was warm and soft in all of the right places as far as he could tell. It was a rather enticing position he found himself in with her but he quickly chased those thoughts away. He was both embarrassed and intrigued by them.

“I am very tired,” Isobeau said softly. “The physic gave me something to drink and it has made me very sleepy. It was probably poison, whatever it is.”

They entered the chamber Isobeau had originally been put in, but now it was much different from the sparse chamber it had been before – servants had brought in a larger bed and a new mattress set upon it, now being sewn shut by an older, female servant. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, several sheep hides on the floor for warmth, and all seven of her trunks had been stacked neatly in a corner. There was also a pile of what looked like linen on the table and the elderly male servant who serviced Solomon’s chamber was going through the linen, inspecting it and sniffing it. It was clear he was looking for clean things to put on the mattress.

When the servants heard Atticus and Isobeau enter, the old woman with the big, bone needle in her hand looked to them rather anxiously.

“M’lord,” she said, her heavy Scots burr evident. “We hadna the straw nor grass tae stuff the mattress with. We must have that for the livestock. Instead, we stuffed it with wool from the spring sheer. ’Tis quite comfortable.”

Atticus didn’t put Isobeau down yet. He eyed the mattress. “That should do nicely,” he said, looking over at the old man standing by the table. “What are those? Clean linens?”

The old man nodded. “These belonged to your mother, Sir Atticus,” he said. He had been with Solomon many years and knew the family well. “They have been stored away. Lord Solomon does not know I have brought them out. I fear he will be angry. He does not like his wife’s things touched.”

Atticus thought of his father, still in the chapel with Titus. The priest from Hawick was there, and Warenne and Kenton were in the chapel, too. In fact, they had been in the process of trying to convince Solomon that Titus should be buried this night when the panicked servant had come for Atticus. He had wanted to hold the burial off until Isobeau was strong enough to attend but he had no idea when that would be and Titus could no longer wait to be put into the ground. Therefore, there had been a strong movement underway between him and Warenne to convince Solomon to bury Titus this night. That was still the plan as long as Atticus had anything to say about it.

Atticus thought of his father and how broken he was over Titus’ death. The man never had recovered from the death of Rosalie, as indicated by the elderly servant. Atticus honestly wasn’t sure if his father would ever recover from Titus’ death. Atticus wasn’t so sure he would, either.

“I know,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “But I do not think he would mind it if Lady de Wolfe used Mother’s things since there is nothing else of feminine comfort to provide. Hurry and prepare the bed, now. There is no time to waste.”

The old man began scurrying, grabbing the clean linens and rushing towards the bed where the female servant had just finished stitching the mattress shut. Between the two of them, they managed to adequately make the bed up with old but clean linens and even two old, silk pillows that had belonged to Atticus’ mother. By the time they were finished, it looked rather inviting.

Isobeau, meanwhile, watched all of it from Atticus’ arms. She was not really sleepy now as much as she was simply weak and exhausted. Her head was still against his shoulder as she watched the servant woman smooth out the faded coverlet that was beautifully embroidered but creased in places where it had been stored for years, folded up.

“Your mother had beautiful things,” she said softly. “What a lovely silk coverlet.”

Atticus’ gaze lingered on it. “I remember that coverlet,” he said. “She slept in this room because my father snored so badly she could not sleep otherwise. That coverlet used to cover her bed and I can remember, as a child, laying upon it as she would sing to me.”

Isobeau’s head came up and she looked at him. “Your mother sang?”

He met her gaze, thinking she was far too close. Her lush, pillowy lips were too inviting and he found himself chasing off thoughts of interest once again.