The Lion of the North (41 page)

“Sir Solomon,” she said. “Please come in. ’Tis good to see that you are well this morning.”

Solomon entered the chamber hesitantly, lingering near the door even when he came in. The last woman he’d seen in this chamber had been his wife and it was difficult not to relive those memories. Therefore, he remained near the door, refusing to delve deeper into the reflections of Rosalie de Wolfe. At least, for the moment.

“I heard your music, my lady,” he said after a moment “I have not heard music within these walls since… well, it has been a very long time. You play beautifully.”

Isobeau was flattered. “I have always composed music,” she said. “Since I was very young it has been my favored diversion. Do you sing, Sir Solomon?”

He snorted. “Not in a way that anyone likes to hear,” he said. “But you sing beautifully. I have heard you.”

Isobeau smiled, placing her fingers on the strings. “Would you like to hear my newest song?”

Solomon nodded. “I would,” he said. “It has been many years since there has been joy at Wolfe’s Lair. I… I would like to feel joy again.”

Isobeau strummed the strings softly, creating a gentle halo of music that rose up to fill the very room. “Did your wife play music, Sir Solomon?”

Solomon’s gaze turned distant as he thought of the fair Rosalie. Now, he could no longer avoid her memories but he found that in discussing her, there wasn’t the pain there used to be. Odd how that was. He felt warmth more than anything.

“She did, in fact,” he said. “My wife had a clavichord that she would play quite often. I had one brought to her all the way from Italy and she loved it. Those were wonderful days when her music would ring throughout the fortress.”

Isobeau’s smile grew as she continued to strum her harp. “Do you still have the instrument?”

Solomon nodded. “It is in my chamber.”

“Will you show it to me?”

Solomon almost seemed embarrassed to do so but he motioned for Isobeau to follow him and, together, they made their way into his smelly, cluttered chamber. Isobeau paused by the door, remembering this chamber from her first few days at Wolfe’s Lair. It did not bring good memories for her. So she remained by the door as Solomon went over to a darkened corner near his wardrobe and pulled a drape of some kind off of a square object. Beneath it was revealed a small clavichord.

Even from her position by the door, Isobeau could see that the instrument was beautifully painted, dingy with age, but the lure of the clavichord brought Isobeau into the room and she went to it, admiring the beautiful craftsmanship of the piece. It wasn’t very large, perhaps only two feet across, and there was a lovely seascape scene painted on the cover.

When she lifted the cover, however, the true beauty of the piece was revealed; inside the cover, an intricate scene was painted that seemed to depict ships at sea and sirens calling to them from shore. The keyboard was ebony and ivory, beautifully made, and Isobeau was in awe. Instinctively, she put her hands on the keys, as she had taken music lessons as a child and was quite proficient at several musical instruments, and she brought forth the first chords the clavichord had played in decades.

The clavichord was out of tune but not too terribly. Isobeau tightened a couple of the nuts that held taut the catgut strings and she played the chord again. It sounded much better. With a smile at Solomon, she began to play a song.

An old hymn filled the stale air of Solomon’s chamber, music and beauty such as it hadn’t heard in years. Solomon was torn between Isobeau playing Rosalie’s clavichord, for only Rosalie had ever played it, and the beauty of bringing the instrument back to life again. The joy of his wife’s instrument once again playing music won out and he stood there, eyes moist, as Isobeau touched Rosalie’s beloved keys and sang
Veni Sanctus Spiritus,
a very old church hymn. After the hell of the past several days, of Titus’ death and the siege of Wolfe’s Lair, to hear that unexpected beauty brought the old man to tears as if reminding him that there was still some goodness and glory left in the world.

But the hymn eventually ended and Isobeau, ever the musician, moved to tighten two more strings that she felt were slightly out of tune. As she was tightening up the last one, with Solomon hovering over her and very curious as to what she was doing, they heard a voice in the doorway.

“I thought I heard music,” Atticus said, noting the clavichord that his wife was bent over. “I had no idea you still had Mother’s instrument. I’ve not heard that thing played in years.”

Isobeau smiled at the sight of her husband, feeling her heart race simply at the sound of his voice. “Your father was kind enough to let me play it,” she said. “It is a beautiful instrument.”

Atticus stepped into the room, eyes only for Isobeau. There mere sight of her lightened his heart in ways he could not begin to describe. “And you play it beautifully,” he told her. “I could hear you all the way outside.”

Solomon ran his hands over the old clavichord. “Your mother adored this instrument,” he said. “Do you remember, Atticus? Do you remember that she would play it for you?”

Atticus nodded. “I do,” he said. “When I was very young. Odd how I’d forgotten that until this moment. Those were some of my better childhood memories.”

Solomon was still inspecting the clavichord as if reacquainting himself with it. “Mayhap your wife would like to have it, Atticus,” he said. “I would be pleased knowing that she would play it and love it as much as your mother did. As it is, it is simply sitting here rotting.”

Atticus looked at Isobeau’s jubilant face; he could see how thrilled she was at the offer. “That is very kind, Papa,” he said. “Mayhap when we have settled somewhere, we will have a place for it.”

Solomon turned to look at him, concern and curiosity on his face. “You will not live here?” he asked. “I thought you would return to Wolfe’s Lair, Atticus. I will not live forever. When I pass, you must take your rightful place here. With Titus gone, there is only you to carry on Wolfe’s Lair.”

Isobeau looked at Atticus, who seemed genuinely torn. “You will not pass for a very long time,” he told his father. “And we have all the time in the world to speak of this when I return from Wellesbourne Castle.”

Solomon was puzzled. “Why must you go to Wellesbourne Castle?”

Gazing at his father, it occurred to Atticus that he never told Solomon how Titus had died. He hadn’t consciously withheld the information but with all that had happened, and the grief his father had been going through, there simply hadn’t been the opportunity to give the man the details.

Perhaps there was a part of him that didn’t want to upset his father more than he already was about Titus; the man was dead. How he died was another matter altogether. When Atticus had brought Titus home, he’d merely told his father that they’d lost Titus at Towton. He never said how. Now, he had to tell him how his beloved oldest son met his doom.

It was only fair to Solomon that he know everything.

“Papa, there is something I’ve not told you in all of this,” he said, trying to be gentle about it. “When I brought Titus home, I told you that he had been killed at Towton and that was the truth. But I did not tell you how his death came about. I suppose I simply did not want to burden you with it, not whilst you were grieving so terribly. But I find that I must tell you now. It is the reason why I must go to Wellesbourne Castle.”

Solomon looked at his son warily, wanting to know yet not wanting to know. Did it matter? To Solomon, it did. He wanted to know his son’s final moments.

“Tell me how he died, Atticus,” he said quietly.

Atticus nodded, lifting his eyebrows with some resignation and sadness of what he was about to say. “Two Northumberland knights betrayed and murdered Titus,” he said. “These men had secretly sworn allegiance to Norfolk and when they approached Titus and proposed swearing fealty to Edward, Titus refused and they killed him for his refusal. Now those two knights are at Wellesbourne Castle, in the vault, and I must go there and punish them on behalf of my brother. I swore to Titus that I would avenge him and that is exactly what I intend to do. I will kill those who killed my brother.”

By the time he was finished, Solomon was looking at Atticus with big, horrified eyes. He didn’t say anything right away, unusual for the usually vocal man, as he simply sat and digested what he’d been told. His shock, his sorrow, was obvious.

“Murdered,” he finally muttered. “Murdered by men he trusted.”

“Aye.”

Solomon’s features washed with incredible pain but he fought it; it was pain he’d already suffered through but now with the knowledge of how Titus had died, the pain threatened anew. The angst, so recently eased, was back with a vengeance.

“Great Bloody Jesus,” he hissed after a moment. “I wish I could go with you. Damn these rotten joints that I cannot even exact justice for my own son!”

He pounded on his big leg as Atticus and Isobeau watched with concern, afraid that the latest information would send the man spiraling downward again. Solomon pounded, and he even groaned, but his head came back up and he looked to Atticus with eyes alight with revenge. Atticus had never seen such hatred in the man’s eyes, ever. It was a shocking moment.

“Punish them, Atticus,” Solomon hissed. “For me, for Titus, you will punish them and ensure every pain they feel, every agony they experience, has Titus’ name on it. They killed my son and they must be made to suffer.”

Atticus could see how agitated his father was and he put his hands out, clutching the man’s big shoulders in a reassuring manner. “You know I will,” he said softly, seriously. “I will make them pay with every last breath they possess. They will not get off easily, I swear it. Do you believe me?”

Solomon was nodding his head furiously, his bushy hair waving about. There were tears in his eyes, now trickling onto his face. “I do,” he gasped. “You are The Lion of the North. That reputation was given to you at a young age but never has it meant as much as it does now. You were given that title for this one moment, Atticus – to avenge your brother against those who betrayed him. Let The Lion roar, boy.
Let him roar!
”

Atticus held on to his father, comforting the man, so very sorry that he was deeply upset all over again. Perhaps he should have told his father the circumstances surrounding Titus’ death earlier, but it did not matter now. Solomon knew that his beloved son had been betrayed and his pain was again fresh. As Atticus put his arm around his father’s shoulders, soothingly, he looked over to see how Isobeau was reacting to everything. He worried for her, too.

But Isobeau seemed remarkably composed. She was still standing near the clavichord and when she saw that Atticus was looking at her, she smiled faintly. It was a reassuring gesture, one of faith and trust, and a gesture not lost on Atticus. It fortified him. Quietly, she made her way over to him.

“Is it true?” she asked softly. “De la Londe and de Troiu are truly at Wellesbourne Castle?”

Atticus nodded, reaching out a hand to her. She took it immediately and he held her hand fast, caressing her flesh with his big fingers. “Aye,” he said. “It is a miraculous series of events that have brought us to this place in time and I will tell you the entire story on our journey to Warwickshire, but for now, if you still intend to go with me, you must pack quickly and you must pack lightly. We leave within the hour.”

Isobeau nodded and fled the chamber, heading back to her room and to her possessions there. She wanted very much to go with Atticus, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that she simply didn’t want to be separated from him. She wanted to be with him every moment and she wanted to share this experience with him. It was a vital part of their bonding, of their marriage in general. With de la Londe and de Troiu gone, there would be closure on Titus and a new beginning for them. They both needed that closure, that justice, and that satisfaction.

Atticus could hear Isobeau in her chamber next door, evidently destroying the place as she went to pack for her journey. Things were banging about and something fell. Solomon, distracted from his grief by the banging, looked up as if concerned for the woman but Atticus merely grinned.

“I hope she does not hurt herself in her attempt to pack,” he jested, attempting to lighten the mood for his father somewhat. “It sounds as if she is tearing down the very walls.”

In spite of himself, Solomon smiled weakly. “Women are flighty that way,” he said, putting a meaty hand on his son’s broad shoulder. He seemed more composed than he had been moments earlier. “Are you sure these men are at Wellesbourne, Atticus? Are you positive?”

Atticus nodded unhappily. “Evidently there is a good deal to the lengths they would go to sway men to Edward’s cause,” he said. “They went there to inform Andrew Wellesbourne that his son, Adam, had sworn fealty to Edward in the hopes of gaining Andrew’s vow. Lord Andrew, suspecting betrayal and deceit, threw them in the vault and sent a knight to Alnwick to discover the truth of the matter. Of course it wasn’t true, so now de la Londe and de Troiu are still in Wellesbourne’s vault.”

Solomon sighed faintly, pondering the situation before sitting heavily on the end of his lumpy, smelly bed. It was clear that he was deep in thought.

“It is fortuitous, then,” he said. “As if God has had a hand in helping you find these men and punish them.”

“I think so.”

Solomon lingered on the two knights who had murdered his son. “Tell me,” he said after a moment. “You were with Titus when he died, were you not?”

“Aye.”

“Did he suffer greatly in the end?”

Atticus was reluctant to say anything about Titus’ final moments. “Does it matter?” he asked softly.

Solomon shrugged, suddenly feeling quite weary and old. He rubbed at his knees, thinking yet again how he cursed them because he could not easily travel.

“I want to know what those men did to him,” he finally said. “Did he suffer greatly?”

Atticus was glad Isobeau wasn’t in the room. He found that he couldn’t deny his father’s request but he didn’t particularly want her to hear his answer. Did he suffer greatly? If Atticus had a son who had been killed by others, he would have wanted to know the same thing. He would want to know what his son felt at the end of his life, if he was in pain or at peace. Perhaps it was something only warriors would understand, and Atticus understood his father’s request well.