The Lion of the North (6 page)

The smile faded from Warenne’s face. “Do not worry over me,” he said. “Le Bec and I will do what needs to be done. Your most important task is to tend Lady de Wolfe. She will need your comfort.”

Atticus closed his eyes, briefly, as if dreading what was to come. “Did I tell you that Titus asked me to marry the woman?” he said, looking to the shocked faces around him. “On his deathbed, he told me he could not bear it if his wife married another man. He made me promise to marry her and take care of her. I am not entirely sure how the woman will react to such a thing. I am not entirely sure how to tell her.”

Warenne, with a young wife of his own, wasn’t unsympathetic to the sensitivity of women, especially in a situation such as this.

“Be honest,” he told him quietly. “This is a trying situation and anything you tell the woman is bound to shake her under the circumstances, so it is best if you are simply honest with her. Tell her everything and allow her to become accustomed to her new future. You may as well get it all over with at once.”

Atticus nodded with some resignation, knowing that de Winter was more than likely correct. There was no use in delaying the inevitable. As he opened his mouth to reply, he was cut short by a great wailing coming from the big, brown-stoned keep of Alnwick.

All three knights turned to see Lady Percy, her women, and her children exiting from the keep, being directed towards the wagon that contained the earl’s body. The wailing was coming from Lady Percy’s women as they wept over the death of the earl. Atticus watched the group as they made their way over to the wagon, now positioned against the inner wall along with several other wagons bearing bodies.

“Kenton,” he said, his jaw flexing unhappily. “Make sure they do not disturb my brother’s body in their grief. Take Titus somewhere quiet and safe. I am sure Lady de Wolfe will want to view her husband without an audience of Lady Percy’s foolish women about.”

Kenton nodded. He was already on the move. As Warenne directed his horse over to the left side of the ward, towards the stables where his men were gathering, Atticus headed for the keep in search of Lady de Wolfe.

The wailing in the courtyard irritated him greatly. Truth be told, it grated on his already brittle composure and he tried to block it out as he mounted the retractable steps to the keep. Alnwick was an enormous complex of walls, two baileys, outbuildings, stables, and a keep that was more a series of buildings than one solid structure. Atticus entered through the main entry, emerging into the cool and dark entry that smelled heavily of smoke.

From the chaos of the bailey, it was oddly still in the keep. There was a hall directly in front of him, one that serviced the family at meal time when they weren’t feasting with guests, and Atticus could see servants milling about in the dim expanse of the hall. He entered the two-storied room, stopped the first servant he came to and asked where Lady de Wolfe was. The servant couldn’t tell him but he found someone who could. According to a kitchen servant, she had just come from Lady de Wolfe, who was huddled in her chambers.

With heavy steps, Atticus made his way to the third floor of the building, heading down a corridor that took him to the north side of the complex. This was where visitors were usually housed, where he intended to put de Winter, and he headed for the door at the end of the corridor that had belonged to his brother.
Had.
Atticus braced himself as he approached the big, oak panel set within a dogtooth arched doorway.

He lifted a fist, hesitating a moment, before knocking softly on the door. Receiving no immediate response, he knocked again, louder. This time, a woman on the other side shouted at him.

“Go away,” she bellowed.

Atticus cleared his throat softly. “It is Atticus, Lady de Wolfe,” he said. “Will you please admit me?”

There was no answer at first, but then the door flew open and Isobeau was standing in front of him, her lovely face pale and her cheeks wet with tears. Atticus gazed back at her, feeling the physical impact of her expression as strongly as if she had slapped him. There was terrific sadness there. Before Atticus could speak, however, Isobeau broke down.

“What happened?” she demanded, half-sobbing and half-yelling. “What happened to my husband?”

Atticus thought he had been braced well enough against the onslaught of her grief but evidently he wasn’t. He could feel himself starting to crack in the face of her crying.

Crying for Titus
.

“He was killed, Lady de Wolfe,” he said as evenly as he could. “I am sorry you had to hear it from le Bec. I have come to speak of the circumstances if you wish to hear them.”

She looked at him, open-mouthed, as if he had just said something outrageous. “Circumstances?” she repeated. “I suppose that it does not matter what the circumstances are. He is dead, is he not? You were there; why did you not protect him?”

Now she was delivering verbal punches to his gut, firing the same questions he had been asking himself for six days. He struggled not to match her emotion and he certainly struggled not to show it. He felt as if he were defending himself to his brother’s new wife, a woman he barely knew. She barely knew him as well, otherwise, how else could she accuse him of neglect when it came to Titus? Anyone who knew him, and knew of his bond with Titus, would not have asked such a thing.

“We were separated at the time his death came about,” he told her as calmly as he could, hoping an explanation might ease her. “My lady, I loved my brother deeply. I hope you know that if I had been given any control or knowledge of what was happening to him, I would have most certainly done everything I could to help him. I would have died if it meant saving him. Do not think for one moment you are the only one feeling pain over his death because, for certain, you are not.”

There was a reprimand in his words, something bitter lashing out of him unexpectedly to push her back, just a bit. She had hurt him, accused him, and now he was striking back. Surely the woman could not accuse him of not being willing to help his brother; damn her for suggesting it.

His rebuke worked. Feeling the verbal slap of his words, Isobeau’s anger eased but her sense of sorrow did not. She fixed on Atticus, her hand to her chest as if to keep her heart from shattering into a million slivers of anguish.

“But he is dead,” she whispered, her gaze upon him imploring. “How could such a thing happen? You were there… other men were there… surely someone could have saved him?”

Atticus’ expression tightened. “Had someone loyal been there, I’m sure they would have.”

There was great regret in that statement but Isobeau was ignorant to it. She was only focused on her own pain and sorrow. But she labored to push aside her grief, coming to realize that she was all but accusing Titus’ brother of failing to prevent the man’s death. She was so muddled with distress that she didn’t know what she was saying. It all seemed jumbled up in her heart and mind, for she was unable to make any sense of it.

“I…I am sorry,” she said after a moment, moving away from the door so the man could enter. “I know you would not have… I should not have said such a thing. Forgive me.”

Atticus came into the room, hesitantly, as she moved away from the door and went to sit next to the hearth. She had a small, damp kerchief clutched in her fingers, holding it to her nose as she sniffled. Although Atticus closed the door behind him, he didn’t make any attempt to move further into the room. He simply stood by the door, eyeing his brother’s grieving wife and wondering what to say to her. She was displaying every emotion he was feeling but was too composed to let himself go. He almost envied her lack of restraint where her grief was concerned. He wished he could let himself go, too.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he told her evenly. “You have every right to feel sad and angry. I feel sad and angry, too. It is I who must ask your forgiveness. I should have been the one to tell you about Titus. I am sorry it had to be le Bec.”

Sniffling into her wadded kerchief, Isobeau shook her head. “It does not matter who told me,” she said, sobbing quietly. “The end result is the same. I have been informed of my husband’s death.”

Atticus watched her a moment; his guard had been up upon entering the room but he could feel himself easing as he came to understand that Isobeau was mourning Titus just as he was. Whether or not he was openly sobbing like she was, they still had that grief in common. That horrific bond of anguish connected them. At the moment, he wasn’t even sure what to say to her so he just started talking. Unfortunately, he gave forth all of the warmth one would when discussing the weather or planning a battle. He came across as unfeeling, cold, and without tact.

“I was with Titus before he died,” he told her. “His last words were of you, my lady. He asked that I marry you because he said he could not stand it if another man became your husband, so I agreed to his request. We will be taking Titus back to Wolfe’s Lair for burial next to my mother and as soon as he is buried, I will marry you because I do not feel comfortable doing it whilst he is still above ground. There is something inherently disrespectful about that.”

By this time, Isobeau was looking at him with shock. She had stopped sobbing, now staring open-mouthed at Atticus.

“He… he asked you to marry me?” she repeated, aghast. “But… this is of no offense towards you, Sir Atticus, but I do not wish to marry you. I have just lost my husband and already I must consider remarriage? I will not!”

Atticus was actually offended although he tried not to be. He should have been relieved, for it would have made an easy excuse not to marry the woman. She didn’t want him and he didn’t want her. In truth, he wasn’t sure what he had expected from her, but a straight denial hadn’t been a possibility. A man of considerable pride, her refusal was enough to put a nick in the wall of his composure, enough of a nick to weaken him. His jaw ticked as his stinging reply was formed.

“What you want is of no concern,” he said, his voice hard. “You will do as Titus asked and so will I, regardless of my personal feelings. My brother asked me to take care of you and I promised him I would. Why should this bother you so much? You act as if you have been married to my brother for years rather than months. Two months ago, you did not even know the man so I find your tears at his passing insulting to say the very least. I have been with my brother for all thirty-three years of my life and if anyone has a right to tears, it is I, so spare me your fabricated grief. You did not know my brother as I did and therefore have no right to act as if your grief is stronger than mine.”

He spouted nasty words, words that shocked and upset Isobeau so much that she visibly flinched when he was finished. Still seated in the chair by the hearth, she could see that he was truly serious. He meant what he said. Isobeau had barely had a few words with the man prior to this moment so to see his bitterness, his pure hardness, was truly something to behold. But in that bitterness she saw the depths of his grief; something flickering in the green eyes told her that he was feeling much more than his stiff demeanor let on. But that feeling did not excuse his rudeness.

“Mayhap I only knew him for a few weeks at most, but in those weeks, I became quite fond of him,” she said, her voice trembling from anger and hurt. “He was kind and he was affectionate. I mourn for a wonderful life cut short with a man I was quite fond of and I will not let you take that away from me. How dare you even try, Atticus de Wolfe! How dare you try to diminish what I am feeling! How would you even know? You do not know me at all!”

Atticus remained cool. “I am not attempting to take anything away from you,” he said. “I am stating quite clearly that you have no right to mourn someone you only knew a matter of days before he left for war.”

Isobeau couldn’t believe what she was hearing from the man’s mouth. Was it possible he was so cold? His words were devastating. But was it even possible that he was correct? Did she even have a right to mourn a man she had barely known before he left her to go to war? Not only had he upset her, but now he confused her. Agitated, overwhelmed, she growled at him.

“Get out of this room and leave me alone,” she said.

With that, she turned her back on him, facing the hearth that was smoldering gently. She didn’t want to speak with him anymore, nasty man that he was. She wanted him away from her so that she could clear her mind and mourn her husband in private. She was trying not to hate Titus’ brother at the moment and found his presence agitating. She kept waiting for him to leave, hoping he would, but he simply stood there and didn’t make a sound. Now, his refusal to leave was coming to infuriate her.

“I said get out,” she told him. “I will not tell you again.”

She heard his joints pop as he shifted position on those big, muscular legs. “And if I do not?”

“If you linger any longer, you will find out.”

Isobeau heard him snort and she jerked her head around, startled at the sound, to see that he was smiling. It was a thin and ironic smile, but he was smiling nonetheless. Her eyes narrowed dangerously but before she could explode at him, Atticus turned and put his hand on the door latch.

“I believe you,” he said, lifting the latch. “But know this; this will be the one and only time I will allow you to give me orders. This is your chamber, therefore, I will obey. But I will be back so you had better prepare yourself for that event.”

Isobeau glared him for a long, tense moment before turning away. “I am not sure why you would,” she said. “I do not want to see you.”

Atticus lifted a dark eyebrow. “Be that as it may, you have no choice,” he said. “I would assume you want to see your husband and I would assume you want to accompany him back to Wolfe’s Lair for burial. Unfortunately for both of us, we will be seeing a good deal of each other. You may as well resign yourself to it.”

Isobeau didn’t want to resign herself to anything that had to do with this man. “I would assume my husband’s body is here at Alnwick,” she said, her tone cold. “Where is he?”

“He is safe.”