The Lion of the North (23 page)

“She did,” he said. “She had a lovely voice, as I recall.”

“What did she sing?”

He shrugged. “Songs for children,” he said. “I seem to remember a fairy song. Something about dilly, dilly. I remember telling her to sing the Dilly song.”

Isobeau grinned. “I know that song.”

“You do?”

She nodded, lifting her sweet soprano with the lyrics:

“Dilly, dilly, lady fairy, how shall you fly? Long to the day as slumber grows nigh;

On gossamer wings, you touch the stars.

On the wings of angels, you steal our hearts.

Come touch my heart, O fairy dove,

And take me from the world above.”

By the time she finished, Atticus was looking at her in shock. “Where did you learn to sing like that?” he demanded softly.

Isobeau smiled, averting her eyes modestly. “Didn’t Titus tell you that I sang?”

“He never mentioned it.”

“I write songs, too.”

Atticus smiled faintly, impressed. “I would like to hear one of your songs.”

Isobeau was rather coy about it, shrugging with modesty. “I am sure you will soon,” she said, her smile fading. “I… I wrote several songs for Titus while he was away and I was hoping to sing one of them at his burial. Do you think the priests will allow it?”

Atticus nodded, his gaze lingering on her. “I will make sure of it,” he said quietly. “I am sure my brother would be very touched.”

The servants finished with the bed at that point and gestured to Atticus to lay the lady upon the faded silk coverlet. Atticus gently set Isobeau down on top of the bed with linens that used to belong to his mother, thinking it was especially appropriate for Isobeau to sleep upon the same linens that had touched his mother’s skin. He knew his mother would have been pleased with finally having a daughter. She had wanted one badly, so much so that she had died giving birth to one. Rosalie and her infant daughter had been buried together, in fact, but it was something that hadn’t been mentioned since her passing. It was too painful for Solomon to hear.

As Atticus lingered over thoughts of his mother and coverlets and infant daughters, Isobeau was inspecting Rosalie’s fine bed covering; she ran her hand over faded silk that had once been red. Now it was an uneven shade of pink. But her interest soon shifted from the coverlet to what she was wearing; it was oversized and unfamiliar. Somehow, she had been stripped of her bloodied traveling clothes.
We stripped you of your clothing
, the physic had said. She didn’t even remember changing. She lifted her arms, inspecting the garment.

“Who does this belong to?” she asked. “I do not seem to recall putting it on.”

Atticus eyed the linen gown. “I am not entirely sure,” he said, “but your clothes were ruined and the servants came up with something. I would suspect they raided more of my mother’s things for something to dress you in.”

Isobeau stopped inspecting the heavy garment and craned her neck back to look at her trunks, over against the wall. “My things are here now,” she said. “I can change into something that belongs to me.”

Atticus put a hand up to prevent her from climbing off the bed in her weakened state in the hunt for familiar clothing. “Mayhap you should wait,” he said. “You should rest and I am sure my mother would not mind you wearing one of her dressing gowns. When you are feeling better, I will have hot water brought to you so that you may bathe and dress properly if you wish.”

Isobeau gazed up at him, smiling gratefully. “I would appreciate that,” she said. “I actually feel much better than I did when I awoke. Whatever the physic gave me to help me sleep must be wearing off.”

He eyed her, as if he wasn’t convinced. “Surely you do not feel completely well,” he said. “You were… that is to say, you were very sick. It seemed that you lost a good deal of blood.”

He was trying to be delicate about it and Isobeau chuckled. “I am weary, that is true,” she said. “But I feel better. I could eat something, I think.”

Atticus was pleased to hear that. She also seemed to have some color back into her pale cheeks, which was encouraging. He felt like saying something warm to her, something almost silly and sweet, but he refrained. The woman had just been through a terrible emotional and physical event, and any foolish romantic notions he might be entertaining were sorely out of place. All he knew was that he was content to be with her and vastly relieved she was feeling better. More relieved than he realized. As he gazed at Isobeau’s blond head, watching her as she inspected the embroidery on the coverlet, he heard a voice in the chamber door behind him.

“Is everything well with my lady?” Warenne said as he entered the chamber, his gaze moving between Atticus and Isobeau. “When you ran off with the servant, Atticus, we feared the worst.”

Atticus turned to his friend. “She is well enough,” he said, gesturing at Isobeau who was now smiling up at Warenne. “Ask her yourself.”

Isobeau nodded her head before Warenne could speak. “I am much better, thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your concern.”

Warenne knew what had happened with the loss of the baby; they all knew, all but Solomon, who wasn’t even aware that his dead son’s wife was at Wolfe’s Lair. The time for introductions would come soon enough but it would have to wait until the man overcame his initial grief and madness. Warenne had never quite seen such grief from a father over the death of a son. He was glad to have left the chapel in search of Atticus, leaving Kenton behind to watch over the bereaved Solomon. There was something inherently heartbreaking and depressing about watching the man suffer. Moreover, there was a reason why he had come in search of Atticus and he hastened to come to the point.

“I am glad to hear that, my lady,” he said, feeling that it would be unseemly of him to mention the loss of the child. Perhaps some things were better left unspoken. Therefore, his gaze shifted to Atticus. “I came to tell you that your father has agreed to bury Titus this very night. I would suggest we go about it before he changes his mind.”

Atticus grew seriously. “Saints be praised,” he replied. “Is the priest prepared?”

“Prepared and waiting,” Warenne responded. “He did not want to commence with anything without you.”

Atticus nodded swiftly and was about to follow Warenne from the chamber when he suddenly came to a halt, turning to look at Isobeau. She was gazing back at him, her eyes wide in her pale face. The color had gone from her cheeks again and he could see the emotion in her eyes. He could see the return of her sorrow.

“Isobeau, I am sorry…,” he began, stopped, and started again as he grasped for words. “I know you do not feel well, but I am afraid we must take this opportunity to bury Titus. He must be put in the ground as soon as possible and if my father is willing at this moment, then we must do it.”

Isobeau waved him off as she began to climb off the bed, very weakly. “He should have been buried days ago,” she said. “He should have been buried before I saw him back at Alnwick. If you will give me a few minutes, I will dress and go with you.”

“But….”

Isobeau cut him off with a deliberate look. “I will go,” she repeated, more firmly. “You will not bury my husband without me and he must be buried; therefore, I must go. Give me a few minutes and I will be ready.”

Atticus didn’t have the heart to argue with her. The woman deserved to be at her husband’s burial. She deserved to say her final farewells.

“As you wish,” he said softly. “Do you require any assistance? Should I send one of the servants in to help you?”

Isobeau nodded as she found her feet and unsteadily began to make her way across the floor towards her trunks.

“Please,” she said. “And hurry. I am sure your father will not wait.”

Atticus glanced at Warenne, who simply shrugged; they both knew that they could not, in good conscience, deny the woman the right to attend her husband’s funeral no matter how weak she was. Therefore, Warenne quit the chamber, calling for the servants, as Atticus stood near the door, watching Isobeau as she struggled to pull out a couple of her smaller trunks.

Quickly, he moved across the room and helped her, gently pushing her aside as he pulled out her trunks, all of them, and threw open the lids so she could get to the items she needed. He didn’t even think about the fact that she had seven of them, a number he had complained about. To scold her again didn’t even cross his mind. He had just finished opening the last trunk when the servant with the oily skin entered and rushed to help Isobeau as the woman began to pull things out of her trunks. She was moving as quickly as she could in spite of her weakened state; Atticus could see that. He returned to the chamber door.

“I will be waiting in the corridor when you are ready,” he told her. “You need not rush. Do not strain yourself.”

Isobeau turned to look at him and he could see that she was trying hard to be brave for what she was about to face. The finality of the burial was coming to weigh on both of them, the final farewell to Titus de Wolfe. It was a mood that now hung heavy in the air.

“I will only be a few minutes,” she told him again. “I will be ready soon.”

Atticus didn’t reply. He simply left the chamber and shut the door, affording her some privacy. He waited in the low-ceilinged corridor for her but the truth was that he hadn’t waited an over-amount of time; she was swift in her dress as she said she would be, but all the while as he waited in the corridor, Atticus found himself asking his brother for guidance. He’d never missed it so much as he did at that moment.

I am so sorry about your son, Titus,
he found himself saying.
Please know that if it had been within my power, I would have given my life if it would have saved his. But there was nothing to fight and no sacrifice I could have made that would have saved him. Please forgive me for what has happened.

He knew, wherever Titus was, that the man had already forgiven him but that didn’t lessen his guilt. Moreover, there was something more he was starting to feel guilty about when it came to Isobeau.

Would it be wrong of me to want to marry your wife now because I found something in her that you must have liked? Because, I am certain, I’ve found it….

T
itus’ burial in
the small chapel of Wolfe’s Lair had been a somber and intimate affair. The crypt behind the altar that Rosalie de Wolfe was buried in contained another one next to her, meant for Solomon, but Solomon chose to put Titus there instead. Therefore, Titus was laid to rest next to his mother and infant sister in the great, stone de Wolfe vault. The entire mass had reeked of the scent of fresh rushes, dirt, and decay, making it a rather odd and somewhat nauseating experience.

Isobeau had remained surprisingly stoic through the mass as the tiny priest had intoned the burial service. Dressed in a dark blue surcoat and matching cloak of heavy, blue wool, she sat upon a small stool that Atticus had brought for her. She was calm and sedate.

The real issue had been Solomon. He had no idea who the strange woman was entering the chapel on Atticus’ arm and when Atticus introduced Isobeau as Titus’ widow, Solomon wasn’t sure if he should shun the woman or embrace her. They could all read his indecision in his expression. He knew of Titus’ marriage, of course, but he’d not been able to travel to the ceremony down near Coventry. Now he was finally meeting Titus’ de Shera bride and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. It was nearly too much for him to comprehend and, overwhelmed, he’d simply greeted the woman and walked away.

So the service had been conducted with Solomon quietly weeping over the crypt where his wife and daughter and eldest son lay and everyone else stood near the altar. Isobeau hadn’t listened to the priest at all; her attention was on Solomon as the man mourned his family. She very much wanted to stand next to the crypt, too, and whisper final farewells to Titus, but she felt that by doing so she would be intruding on Solomon’s grief. Not even Atticus was standing near the crypt, perhaps to leave his father alone to grieve. Therefore, with an aching heart, she allowed Solomon to grieve alone as well.

As the priest droned on, Isobeau found her thoughts wandering to the last time she had seen Titus. It had been a cloudy day, cold and windy, and she had stood upon the steps of Alnwick’s keep, watching the army assemble in the inner bailey. Titus and Atticus had been walking among the men, issuing orders and making sure everything was prepared for departure.

Whereas Titus would offer a kind word or even a smile to the men, Atticus would remain serious and stern. And the way he walked;
he stalked
. He stalked like a predator, like a lion would. As she remembered that day, it occurred to her that there was perhaps one more reason Atticus was called The Lion of the North. The man stalked like one. That had not occurred to her before. Glancing at Atticus as he stood, head bowed in prayer, she was coming to think there were many things about the man that were mysterious and deep.

“My lady,” the priest said, but Isobeau was still looking at Atticus. “Lady de Wolfe?”

Isobeau hadn’t realized the tiny priest was speaking to her until he addressed her a second time. By that time, everyone had turned to look at her, including Atticus, and she was hugely embarrassed that she had been caught daydreaming. She smiled weakly at the priest.

“Sirrah?” she answered.

The priest gestured in the direction of Titus’ crypt. “It is my understanding that you wish to sing a lament for your husband,” he said. “Now would be the time.”