The Lion of the North (37 page)

Seven days.

It had been seven days since Isobeau and Atticus had spoken to one another. Seven long and miserable days of angst, confusion, isolation, and sorrow, at least for Isobeau. They had been some of the worst days of her life in a long line of terrible days that had seen her suffer through much heartache and sorrow for many different reasons. But this latest brush with anguish between her and Atticus was particularly sad. The hope she had built up for the marriage and future was in danger of being destroyed.

She had remained in her chamber as Atticus had ordered. She hadn’t moved from it. Therefore, it had become her prison as well as her refuge. She knew every line in the floorboards and every crack in the walls. She had packed and repacked her trunks several times. She had even taken to sweeping the floor and cleaning out the hearth simply to stave off boredom. The servants would bring word of the progress of the siege and it seemed that, for the past several days, things had been mostly calm with Norfolk’s army simply camping around Wolfe’s Lair and evidently rethinking their strategy. Atticus, she had been told, had rarely left the wall and had taken to sleeping in the gatehouse. The man was living and breathing the defenses of his ancestral home.

With the situation moderately calm, Isobeau’s frenzied pacing and frantic packing and re-packing her trunks had ceased. The swift, agitated movements had been in response to her great worry for the situation and, although she wouldn’t admit it, her fear for Atticus’ safety. His swift actions against Alrik du Reims seven days past seemed like a lifetime ago and she’d awoken for the past two mornings wondering if she’d merely dreamed it. It seemed surreal and distant, and all of the sorrow and rage and fear she’d felt towards Atticus because of it had faded from memory. All that was left was an empty, hollow shell.

She didn’t even know what her life was worth any longer or what it was meant to be. So much had happened since she’d been informed of Titus’ death on that cold day those weeks ago that it seemed as if she’d lived a hundred years in a very short amount of time. One thing she did know, however, was that she was alone and the incident with du Reims had more than likely ruined any hope of her and Atticus ever having a pleasant marriage. She was positive he hated her and she, in turn, wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about him. He was The Lion of the North, a knight who had gained a brutal reputation at a very early age. She’d seen evidence of that reputation quite clearly when he’d fought Norfolk’s two knights and then again when he’d saved her from du Reims. He was a man to be feared, a man of brutality.

He was also a man she was most fond of. God, she ached for him.

Miserable and confused, on this seventh day after the siege of Wolfe’s Lair had begun, she had arisen early to sweep her floor, make over her bed, and refold the scarves in one of her smaller capcases. The two serving women of Wolfe’s Lair had slept in her chamber also and they had been free to come and go, moving about their usual business and, as Isobeau had heard, helping with the wounded in the great hall. She’d also heard that Solomon de Wolfe had risen from his bed and was now making a nuisance out of himself as he tried to take command of the fortress from Atticus. In a sense, she was glad she was confined to her chambers so that she would not add to Atticus’ burden. Perhaps it was best that she had remained secluded and out of the way.

So she sat at her small table later in the day, having finished her monotonous chores, with the remnants of her meal around her, bits of cheese and a crust of bread. The oily-skinned serving wench had managed to find an egg beneath one of their frightened chickens and she had scrambled it for Isobeau, who had eaten it happily with bread that had been toasted. Her appetite was coming back after her brush with bad health and there was color in her cheeks once again. She looked entirely beautiful and delicious as she sat at the table and used some of the precious thread her father had bought for her on a sleeve she was embroidering on one of her shifts. It was something more to pass the time, something more to try and help her forget her troubles.

Working on the form of a dragonfly with pale blue silk thread, she was deep into her project when there was a soft rap on the door. Since it wasn’t locked because the female servants were coming and going, she bade the caller enter.

Warenne stepped into the chamber, smiling weakly when he saw Isobeau’s shocked expression. The sewing in her hands froze.

“My lord,” she said, rising from her chair. “Is everything well? Is… nothing has happened, has it?”

Warenne’s smile grew at the sight of her; he was pleased to see that she was anxious at his appearance and he swore that she was going to ask about Atticus before shifting to a generic question. It was simply a feeling he had. Moreover, it was a pleasure to simply look upon her and he knew the sight would have softened Atticus’ stubborn heart if he were only to see her, just for a moment, dressed in a dusky blue shade, her woolen dress was snug and clinging, emphasizing her utterly divine figure. In fact, Warenne had to make a conscious effort not to look at the beautiful, full breasts that were in his line of sight. He kept his focus on her face.

“Nothing has happened, Lady de Wolfe,” he replied. “I have simply come to see how you are faring. Have you been well?”

Isobeau nodded, feeling a distinct amount of disappointment that the earl had come to see to her well-being and not Atticus. It was difficult to keep her disappointment off her face.

“I am quite well,” she said, lowering her gaze and reclaiming her seat. She pretended to be disinterested in his appearance now. “And my husband? Is he well?”

“He is quite well.”

“Did he throw that knight over the wall?”

“He did it many days ago. But you were already aware of that.”

Isobeau could see that Warenne would defend Atticus’ actions. She wasn’t surprised. “What of the siege?” she asked, moving away from the events of the past. “Is it over?”

Warenne shook his head. “It is not,” he replied. “Norfolk backed off for a few days but we expect a siege in earnest tonight beneath the full moon. It will be quite dangerous for us, in fact.”

As he’d hoped, that seemed to jolt Isobeau. She stood up again, looking at him with great concern. “Is this true?” she said fearfully. “What will you do? How will we protect ourselves?”

Warenne shrugged. “We will simply take cover until it is over,” he said. “You will remain here, of course. It is the safest place for you. But Atticus… well, as you know, he is directing the defenses of Wolfe’s Lair and doing a marvelous job. He will be in the most danger because of his constant need to assess the situation. I am worried for him, actually.”

Isobeau was quite clearly seized with fear for Atticus. She put her fingers over her lips in a gesture of great concern. “Sweet Jesus,” she muttered. “He must take great care.”

Warenne was trying not to smile at her reaction to Atticus being in danger because it was plainly obvious that she cared a great deal about it. She cared a great deal about
him.

“I have tried to tell him but he will not listen to me,” Warenne said, completely manipulating her emotions. “Mayhap… mayhap if
you
tell him, my lady, he will listen.”

Isobeau seemed to back down somewhat. “He… he does not wish to hear it from me, I am sure,” she said, averting her gaze and moving over to the table that held her sewing kit. “We said quite enough to each other on the day du Reims was murdered. I am sure he does not wish to speak with me, but I thank you for coming to tell me of the situation. I will pray for everyone’s good health.”

Warenne would not be deterred. “We say many things in fear or anger that we do not mean,” he said, eyeing her. “I am sure that when you told him to go away and leave you that you did not mean it.”

She looked at him, then. “Did he tell you I said that?”

Warenne nodded. “Aye,” he replied. “That is why he did not come to see you himself. He is certain you never want to see him again.”

Isobeau’s gaze lingered on the man a moment before turning away, confusion and longing evident on her face. “I… I meant it at the time,” she said, unsure of what to say. “But… my lord, I simply do not understand why Atticus had to kill the knight. I am positive the man was not going to harm me. But Atticus killed another woman’s husband and after what happened with Titus… I am not sure I can forgive him for that. Already I feel that woman’s grief and it eats at me. I know how she feels. I wish Atticus had not killed the man.”

Warenne was careful in his reply but he was also honest. He prayed that Atticus would forgive him for what he was about to say. “Do you know what Atticus told me about it?” he said softly, watching her turn to him with interest. “He said that when he saw du Reims with his arm around your neck, it was as if something inside of him snapped. He could not prevent Titus’ death but he could prevent yours. My lady, you must understand that Titus’ death still affects Atticus, every moment of every day. He already lost someone he cared very deeply for in a situation where he was unable to protect him. He could not lose someone else he cared deeply for and not do anything about it. Does that make sense?”

Isobeau looked at him, stunned. Her eyes were wide and her hand went to her chest as if to ease the pounding of her heart, pounding at Warenne’s words. “He… cares deeply for me?”

Warenne nodded in a gesture that suggested what Atticus felt for her was much more than that. “Aye,” he whispered. “He does. Your anger with him over du Reims’ death is tearing him apart. Will you please see him, my lady? If you care anything about him, will you please see him and tell him that you at least understand why he did what he did? He could not lose you, too.”

Tears sprang to Isobeau’s eyes. Her limbs went warm and fluid and weak with the very idea that Atticus felt something for her. There was joy and jubilation in her heart more than she could control.

“Are you certain of this?” she whispered tightly.

Warenne’s smile returned. “I am,” he said. “Will you please see him?”

Isobeau nodded, so firmly that her hair came out of its careful braid and swung across her face. “I will,” she whispered fervently. “Tell him that I will see him. Tell him… tell him that I would welcome his visit when it is convenient.”

Warenne felt more relief than he could express. Moving to Isobeau, he took her hands and kissed them both before quitting the chamber in his quest to return to Atticus. Everything will be all right now, he told himself. Atticus would be happy, Isobeau would be happy, and soon this entire madness would be over so he could return to his wife and try to make amends with the woman. All would be as it should be.

The colors of sunset were deepening across the sky as Warenne took the steps down into the inner ward, yelling at some men near the stables to take cover, as they were expecting Norfolk’s attack at any second. In fact, Warenne was halfway across the ward when Norfolk let loose the first barrage of flaming projectiles, arrows that came sailing over the wall, raining a horrific and painful death upon the occupants of Wolfe’s Lair. There were so many of them that the sky lit up as if it were daylight, and those caught out in the open had nowhere to go.

This included Warenne. In the middle of the inner ward with no cover, he was an open target when the arrows rained down upon him. He tried to make it to the armory, which was closest, but he wasn’t fast enough to evade a heavy, fat-soaked arrow that hit him in the left eye and penetrated all the way to the back of his skull.

The Earl of Thetford was dead before he hit the ground.

T
he gates were
on fire.

Whatever oil or fat Summerlin was using, it burned very hot and very long, and after the first wave of flaming arrows, Summerlin and his men had managed to get up against the big iron and oak gates of Wolfe’s Lair and light the things on fire. A great pile of kindling and wood had been pushed up against the gates and ignited, and even now, a great, black cloud burned steadily into the brilliant night sky.

Atticus stood in front of the gates, watching them burn, as his men had a bucket brigade going, dousing the flames from their side. Wolfe’s Lair had two big wells that provided more than enough water to battle the blaze but the fat that Summerlin and his men had smeared on the gates would not be extinguished. It was those areas, with fat spread into the old and pitted wood, that were burning hotly. The smell was almost overpowering.

The truth was that Atticus was worried. The gates were reinforced with great strips of iron about an inch thick, like bars on a cage, so even if the wood burned away, the bars would remain. They would still be protected. But if the fire from the burning wood burned hot enough, the iron would soften and that would be a problem. Therefore, it was important to keep water on the fire to lessen the heat generated by the flames.

Atticus, therefore, not only directed the water on the gate, he participated as well. He tossed great buckets of icy water on the burning wood. Kenton was upon the wall walk, directing the soldier to dump burning rocks and earth onto the men below. It was a common enough tactic and they heated earth in great cauldrons in the bailey before taking them up to the wall in buckets or baskets or anything they could find, dumping them out onto the Norfolk men below. The scorching earth and pebbles and layers of sand would get into the cracks of men’s armor, seriously burning them. As Atticus manned the gate, Kenton rained hell from above.

Beneath the courageous façade, however, lay great sorrow and grief. Both men were struggling with the death of Warenne. Having been notified of the earl’s death and then subsequently seeing the man’s body in the inner ward had taken something out of Atticus’ soul. First Titus, and now Warenne… he was struggling not to think on the loss of those closest to him, focused on what he must do in order to protect Wolfe’s Lair. It would have been very easy to become disoriented by death, to let it claim his sound mind. He thanked God for Kenton, for the man was unbreakable and emotionless, a rock when Atticus felt like crumbling. When Atticus heard Kenton’s bellows over the commotion of the siege, it reinforced his courage. All was not lost and he was not alone.