Brides of Scotland: Four full length Novels by Kathryn Le Veque (23)

~ The Long Farewell ~

March 30, 1461 A.D.

The Towton battlefield aftermath

The battle, more than most, had been brutal to a fault. Even though it was March, there had been a heavy snowfall most of the day, adding to the misery of a battle that had seen seventy thousand participants fighting for the houses of Lancaster and York, in the culmination of battles upon battles with seemingly no end. Yet this battle had an end. It was almost over; decisively over. The smell of victory was almost as heavy as the smell of death.

The big knight plowed his way through the slushy, bloody snow, mingled with mud that gave it a brick-red appearance. There were bodies everywhere of the dead and dying, and he found himself stumbling over men who were breathing their last and calling to gods or wives or mothers. Still, he ignored them, singularly focused at the moment. He had been summoned.

A bone-weary foot soldier had called him to Northumberland’s tent. His liege, the Earl of Northumberland, was part of the contingent of the defeated in a battle that had virtually wiped out the House of Lancaster. The Yorkists were now in control and Edward IV had taken the throne from Henry. It was almost too surreal to believe, in any case. But the big knight with the worn, dented armor and circled, dark eyes that hadn’t seen sleep in two days didn’t care about any of that at the moment. If what the foot soldier had told him was true, he would soon be facing his own particular brand of grief.

His charger had fallen in the first few hours of the battle so he crossed the snowy, bloody field on foot. As he mounted a small rise and struggled not to slip in the bloody sludge, a wounded knight in heavy armor suddenly rose from the dead, emitting a strangled growl as he charged with his broadsword leveled. The big knight lifted his weapon, a massive blade forged in Rouen with the de Wolfe family crest on the hilt, and engaged the wounded knight in a nasty sword flight that, when the blade was knocked from his weary and frozen hand, turned into a fist fight.

It was a short and brutal fight as the big knight threw several punches to the head of the wounded knight, driving the man to his knees and finally back to the ground. Even then, the big knight didn’t stop; he took the wounded knight’s own weapon from him and shoved it through his neck.

Grunting with effort, exhaustion, and perhaps despair, the big knight collected his fallen sword and continued across the frozen moor, slipping in the coagulated blood, heading for the collection of tents on the southwest side of the field where Northumberland’s encampment was lodged. By the time he reached the tents, his breath was coming in big, great, foggy puffs. Against the sunset and the snow, he looked like a primal beast making its way through the mists of time. It was a surreal and mystic vision.

It was a sad and defeated encampment. Where there had been hope only yesterday, now there was the start of trappings of defeat. The snow had attached to the fabric of the tents, soaking them and causing them to sag, much like the sagging spirits of the men they sheltered. The big knight headed straight for the largest tent, half of it collapsed under the weight of the melting snow.

The tent belonged to his liege, the Earl of Northumberland, who had been killed along with thousands of others that day. Now, Henry Percy’s advisors were in charge because there was no one else. Northumberland still had over a thousand men that were still mobile; that was only a guess because the death rate was so high that no one could even guess how many men Northumberland had really lost that day. The big knight ignored the beaten, defeated soldiers standing around the entrance, men who looked at him with sorrow and perhaps some fear. Eyes watched the knight as he disappeared into the sagging tent.

It was warm and stale inside in spite of the condition of the tent, smelling of shite. A brazier was glowing –hot with burning dung and peat, offering a small measure of warmth against the freezing temperatures. But it was dark inside the tent and all the big knight could see were silhouettes of men, phantoms in the darkness, and his eyes sought out those he recognized. As he struggled to adjust to the dim light, a man suddenly appeared in front of him, blocking his path.

“Atticus,” the man said, relief in his voice. “Thank God you have come. What have you been told?”

Sir Atticus de Wolfe was trying very hard to keep his composure. “My brother has been injured,” he said. “Where is he?”

Warenne de Winter, Earl of Thetford and one of the defeated of the Battle of Towton, gazed steadily at the knight known as The Lion of the North. Atticus had been given that name for very good reason; Atticus was a de Wolfe and all of the de Wolfe knights were legendary in Northumbria. It all began with The Wolfe himself, William de Wolfe, and now that male line had culminated in perhaps the fiercest and most cunning knight of all. Much like his ancestor, Atticus was the stuff legends were made of. Men both revered and feared him.

But he also had a fierce temper and had been known to tear men apart with his bare hands. Warenne had seen confirmation of that particular talent himself. It was therefore imperative that he keep Atticus calm in the face of what was to come. If he didn’t, there was no telling what de Wolfe would do. Warenne dreaded that specific thought.

“He is resting,” Warenne said softly, putting his hands on Atticus’ broad chest to prevent the man from moving forward for the moment. “I must speak with you before you talk to him, Atticus. You must listen to me. Will you do this?”

Atticus was looking around the tent, spying his brother’s legs about ten feet away from him. Titus was lying down and there were men around him, enough so that Atticus couldn’t see his brother from the knees up. Seeing his brother in a prone position did nothing to ease his anxiety and he looked at Warenne imploringly.

“What happened to him?” Atticus asked. Begged. “I was told he was injured.”

Warenne sighed heavily; a younger man bearing the great de Winter name, he was muscular and handsome with dark hair and dark eyes. He was a respected commander and ally of Northumberland, and a close friend of the de Wolfe brothers. He knew how hard Titus’ mortal injury would be on Atticus and with that in mind, thought carefully on his reply.

“You will listen to me carefully, Atticus,” he said quietly. “I will tell you what I know but you must vow to remain calm. Your fury will not help your brother. Is that clear?”

Atticus’ eyes narrowed, briefly, as if struggling to process what the earl was telling him. “Fury?” he repeated, bewildered. “What in the hell happened?”

“Your vow, Atticus. You will remain calm.”

Now he was frustrated. Atticus nodded impatiently. “You have it,” he said. “What happened to my brother? Tell me now.”

Warenne drew in a deep, pensive breath. “Titus tells me that he was summoned by de la Londe and de Troiu,” he said, keeping his voice low. “This was just after sunrise. He was approached by these two Northumberland knights, men you have fought with time and time again. He did not think anything strange of it. Atticus, did you see your brother at all today?”

Atticus thought a moment. “I did not,” he confessed. “But I saw him before sunrise and he said nothing about de la Londe and de Troiu. I did, however, see those knights after sunrise in the heat of battle. De la Londe looked to have a serious wound to his face. Why? What do they have to do with this?”

Warenne’s jaw ticked faintly, so very sorry for what he was about to say. “They are traitors,” he said simply. “Although they are Northumberland knights, and men well paid with a history of service to Northumberland, they have evidently been in negotiations with John de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. De Mowbray promised them money and lands if they would swear fealty to him and help turn the tides of this battle. Evidently, de Mowbray asked them to recruit men from Northumberland’s stable of knights. They did not approach you with this offer, then?”

Atticus was stunned. He had served with de la Londe and de Troiu for four years. They were good knights and he trusted them, so this news was quite shocking.

“They did not,” he said, clearly surprised. “Are you sure of this?”

“I am.”

Atticus shook his head, baffled. “I would not believe them capable of treason.”

Warenne rubbed his eyes wearily. “Neither did Titus,” he said. “De la Londe and de Troiu approached your brother with de Mowbray’s proposition. When Titus refused, they tried to kill him to silence him so he could not tell others what they had offered him. That is the story your brother told me. I cannot find de la Londe or de Troiu to confirm this, but there is no reason why your brother would lie. He is mortally wounded, Atticus. He will not survive the night. Sit with him and tell him of your love for him. This will be your last chance to speak with him in this life.”

Atticus stared at the earl. For several long, painful moments, he simply stared, as if unsure how to react. Disbelief swept his features followed closely by anguish in its most raw form. Atticus’ face, usually so expressionless, was now flooding with emotions he could not control. Titus… dying. Dear God, was it possible? Was the man he admired most in this life soon to leave him? He finally hung his head, reaching out to grasp Warenne as if struggling to hold on to something, anything, to keep him from falling to the ground. Warenne, in turn, held the man’s arms tightly.

“It is not true, Ren,” Atticus hissed. “This cannot be true.”

Warenne could feel the man’s anguish as it flowed through his body, entering Warenne’s at the point of contact and flooding him with grief. His heart hurt so badly that he could hardly stand it.

“It is true,” Warenne murmured. “I am so very sorry, Atticus. I love your brother very much. I feel as if I am losing my own brother.”

Atticus was holding Warenne with a death grip, staring at the ground. He realized that tears were finding their way to the surface and he blinked rapidly, chasing them away. Nay, he could not show emotion now, not when the Northumberland advisors were standing about, watching him for his reaction. They had already lost their liege today and were brittle enough without watching Atticus de Wolfe lose his composure. The Lion of the North was beyond the pull of emotion, always in control of himself. He was a rock when all else around him was crumbling.

Except now; Titus, his beloved older brother, was dying. Dying. Dear God, was it even possible?

Atticus let go of Warenne and turned in the direction of Titus. He pushed through a pair of advisors, men he knew, but said nothing to them. He was focused on his brother, intensely focused on fighting off an emotional breakdown. As he came upon the man, supine on Warenne’s personal cot, he could see that Titus’ naked torso was wrapped tightly with bloodied bandages as the earl’s personal surgeon bent over him, inspecting something on Titus’ chest.

Reality hit him, causing his knees to weaken. Titus was pale and pasty, the look of a man who was standing in the shadow of death. Atticus stared at the bloodied wrappings a moment, feeling his heart shatter. A million pieces of pain exploded into his body, causing his limbs to ache and his knees to weaken further. Physical pain manifested. When he managed to tear his eyes away from the bloody linen and look at Titus’ face, he could see that Titus was looking at him with those hazel eyes he knew so well. When their gazes met, Titus smiled grimly.

“You are here,” he sighed weakly. “Praise the saints that you are alive. I had feared otherwise.”

The surgeon moved away and Atticus’ knees gave way as he knelt down next to his brother, taking the man’s hand and holding it tightly. The moment he gripped the man’s warm flesh, the tears very nearly returned. Titus was warm and alive in his hand. According to Warenne, that was not to be for much longer. He could hardly grasp the concept.

“There is no Yorkist in England that can topple me,” he said, his voice tight. He was trying to make the moment light but failing. His smile faded. “What happened, Titus? Ren said something about de la Londe and de Troiu trying to kill you.”

Titus de Wolfe gazed steadily at his younger brother by two years, a man he had helped raise when their mother had died those years ago. They were so very close, the two of them, and he knew his passing would be very hard on Atticus. It had been just the two of them for so long that he could only imagine how he would feel if the situation were reversed and he was the one about to lose his brother. He knew he would feel incredibly alone. But even that description couldn’t begin to scratch the surface of the true loneliness and abandonment he would feel. He would be lost. With that in mind, he squeezed his brother’s hand as tightly as he could, feeling his flesh one last time, something to be remembered in the afterlife.

“They have turned,” Titus said softly. “Norfolk has promised them riches if they would serve him and recruit others to serve for him. They approached me and I refused, so they tried to kill me so I could not warn others. Do not trust them, Atticus. De Mowbray will want you most of all. You must not let them approach you and you must not trust them. Do you understand me?”

Atticus nodded in agreement, with deep regret, as Titus confirmed the information he’d been told. He sighed heavily. “I still cannot believe it,” he said. “But the fact remains that they tried to kill you for refusing their offer. This I cannot abide. I will seek them out and I will punish them, Titus. Make no mistake; this will not go unanswered.”

Titus shook his head. “Not now,” he rasped, swallowing hard because he was beginning to have trouble breathing. His legs were strangely numb as well and he knew that his time was very limited. There was much he had to say before the veil of eternal darkness claimed him. “I have something much more important for you to do now, Atticus. You must take care of my wife. That is the only thing of import.”

Atticus wouldn’t be easily swayed from thoughts of vengeance. “You do not have to even ask,” he said. “You know I will take care of her regardless. But de la Londe and de Troiu….”

“Listen to me,” Titus cut him off as forcefully as he could. “Isobeau… I realize we have not been married very long, but in that time… in that time I have grown quite fond of her. She is a warm and wonderful and beautiful woman, Atticus. It is imperative that she remarry a man who is worthy of her.”

Atticus was still lingering on de la Londe and de Troiu. “Of course I will select a man worthy of her,” he assured him. “You do not even have to ask, Brother. I will make sure she is well taken care of by someone who will treat her with respect and kindness.”

“I meant you, Atticus.”

Atticus’ eyebrows lifted in surprise and astonishment. “Me?” he repeated. “You want me to marry your wife?”

Titus squeezed his hand, although the gesture was weaker than it had been only moments earlier. It was clear his life was fading. “You are the only man I trust,” he whispered. “Atticus, she is all to me. These past two months that she has been my wife have been the two most wonderful months of my life. I know you will be kind to her and that you will respect her. It is most important that you marry her, Atticus. I… I could not bear it if another man were to have her.”

Atticus tried to keep the look of horror off his face. “Titus, I… I cannot marry,” he said. “Not her, not anyone. You know this. You know my mind and future is not focused on a wife. There is the battle in support of Henry, now more important than ever as Edward takes the throne.”

Titus would not be put off. “You must marry her.”

“And you would have her widowed twice if anything happens?” Atticus hissed. “I will not stop fighting if I marry her, Titus. She will be secondary to my vocation.”

Titus looked at him; really looked at him. Tears began to stream from his eyes and down his temples. “Please,” he begged, a tight whisper. “Isobeau is the most important thing in the world to me. Please marry her and be kind to her. I will trust you, Atticus. You must do this for me.”

Titus’ tears poked holes in Atticus’ resistance. In fact, it destroyed his resistance altogether. He was shocked to see the tears, the emotion, coming from Titus, who had perhaps been one of the strongest and most emotionless people he knew. But in this brief conversation, he could see one thing clearly; Titus’ new wife was much more entrenched in her husband’s heart than Atticus could have ever guessed. He was, frankly, astonished. He never suspected Titus capable of such emotion. Squeezing his brother’s fingers again, he placed a big hand on the man’s forehead.

“As you wish,” he said, giving in without another word of argument. “I will… marry her and take care of her. You needn’t worry. Isobeau will be well tended.”

Titus closed his eyes, emitting a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he whispered sincerely. “I can die in peace knowing she is taken care of. Bless you, Atticus. And for the years of being my brother and sharing a bond with me that few men know, I thank you. I love you very much.”

Now, the tears were returning to Atticus’ eyes, but this time he could not stop them. Is this really the end? He thought. Is this really the last time I will ever speak with my brother?

“And I love you,” he whispered tightly for the lump in his throat. “You are my older brother, Titus. I have always worshiped you. I am not sure how I am going to go on without your guidance and your wisdom.”

Titus opened his eyes, although it was a struggle. The peculiar numbness in his legs had now reached his chest. It was difficult to breathe.

“But you will,” he ordered. “You will go on and you will do great things. You are The Lion of the North, a man so fierce that your reputation borders on myth. You are the greatest de Wolfe of all. Know that I am proud, Atticus… so very proud that you are my brother. It… it has been an honor….”

He faded off. Atticus didn’t try to stop the tears now; they streamed down his cheeks as he bent over his brother. “Titus?” he asked hoarsely. “Titus, can you hear me?”

There was no response. Northumberland’s personal surgeon, who had been standing behind Atticus during the exchange, moved around Atticus and put his fingers on Titus’ neck. After a moment, he lifted both eyelids and peered into the glazed eyes. Then, he looked at Atticus and shook his head.

“He is gone, my lord,” he said quietly.

Atticus released his grip on Titus, his hands flying to his head as if to hold back the explosion of grief that was building.

“Nay,” he breathed. “He is not gone. Not yet.”

The surgeon nodded his head again, glancing over at Warenne, who had also been watching the exchange. There was great concern on Warenne’s features as Atticus went into denial.

“I am afraid he is,” the surgeon said, putting himself between Atticus and his dead brother. “I will make sure your brother is properly cleaned and prepared for the return home. I will take care of him, my lord, I swear it. Mayhap you should go with Thetford now. Go with him, Sir Atticus. There is nothing more you can do for your brother.”

Atticus stared at the man, his hands still on his head, as if hardly understanding what he was being told. His gaze moved back to Titus, who was pale and still upon the pallet. In fact, he seemed rather peaceful. Atticus pushed the surgeon aside and put his hands on his brother.

“But he is still warm,” he insisted.

He knew it was a stupid thing to say even as he said it. The surgeon shook his head again, motioning to Warenne, who quickly came forward.

“He is dead, my lord,” the surgeon said again, removing Atticus’ hand and gently pushing the knight towards Warenne. “Please go with the earl now. I will take good care of your brother.”

Atticus’ first instinct was to resist, to deny what he had been told, but he knew deep in his heart that the surgeon was correct. Titus was truly dead. Atticus had seen far too much death in his lifetime and should have been conditioned to it, but he found when it came to Titus that he was not. He wasn’t conditioned at all. Still, he had to maintain control. He couldn’t let others see him in an emotional state. With every ounce of willpower he possessed, he steeled himself against the reality of Titus’ demise. The truth was that he was numb.

Quickly, he wiped any remaining tears from his face and stood up even as the earl came to him and tried to help him. Atticus shook the man off, though not unkindly.

“I will take him back to the Lair,” he said, sounding hollow and matter-of-fact. Greif had him reeling. “He will be buried there with our mother.”

Warenne was watching Atticus closely, with great regret. He could see that the man was off-balance, stunned. “Of course, Atticus,” he agreed softly. “Shall I send a messenger to Wolfe’s Lair to inform Solomon de Wolfe of his son’s passing?”

Atticus didn’t respond for a moment, seemingly lost in his own world of grief and turmoil. He was trying very hard to think clearly, to plan what needed to be done. Anything to stave off the sorrow of Titus’ death. At the moment, he was pretending it never happened. He was ignoring it, hoping the anguish of it would leave him alone, at least for a while. Stay strong!

“Nay,” he said. “I will inform my father personally when I deliver Titus home. For now, my first task will be to return to Alnwick Castle to inform my brother’s wife, Lady de Wolfe, of her husband’s passing. I can make it to Alnwick in four or five days, but I will need a good mount. I lost my horse in battle this morning.”

Warenne put a hand on him, stopping him from charging right out of the tent and jumping on the nearest horse to ride to Alnwick Castle. “Wait, Atticus,” he said. “With our defeat, Northumberland’s army must all return to Alnwick immediately and reinforce her against an onslaught by Edward’s forces. I realize you want to return at this moment, but look around you; with Henry Percy dead, Northumberland is in need of leadership. With Titus gone, that unfortunately falls to you. You need to secure the men and organize them for their return to Alnwick where you may then inform Lady de Wolfe of her husband’s passing.”

Atticus looked at Warenne, his expression torn between Titus’ death and the immediate plans for Northumberland’s survival. With their defeat at Towton, everything was in question now. That is, everything but one particular point.

“There are other Northumberland knights to assist with that,” he said, his jaw flexing. “There is le Bec, Wellesbourne, and both de Russe knights. There is even Lady de Wolfe’s brother. There are at least five excellent knights to organize the men to return home, but for me, there are things I must do.”

Warenne didn’t like the rather deadly look in the man’s eye. “I have not seen Lady de Wolfe’s brother for hours,” he said. “Le Bec, Wellesbourne, and both de Russe knights are already out assessing the damage. You are needed very badly, Atticus. You must organize the breakdown of Northumberland’s encampment and make sure the wounded are separated for the return home. You must also ensure that the earl himself makes it back to Alnwick and to his family. We have a new Earl of Northumberland now, you know. A twelve-year-old lad must now helm a mighty empire.”

Atticus’ hazel eyes were riveted to Warenne, the deadly gleam evident. He didn’t seem swayed by the fact that a child was now his liege. “I cannot help, Ren,” he said. “You will forgive me, but there are things I must now do that do not include Northumberland’s future.”

Atticus had never disobeyed an order in his life so his answer surprised Warenne. Technically, he wasn’t Atticus’ liege but he was his superior. Atticus was bound to obey him. But, then again, men suffering the pangs of grief could behave oddly.

“Atticus, please,” Warenne begged quietly. “You will have all the time you need to tend to the things you must do but for the next few hours, will you please take charge of Northumberland’s troops and move them away from this place? You cannot walk away when you are needed most.”

Atticus’ expression hardened. “I must find de la Londe and de Troiu,” he said, his tone a growl. “There is no negotiation on this. I must find these men and I must kill them.”

Warenne knew that; he’d known the moment Atticus had entered his tent and had been told of the treachery against his brother that Atticus would seek out those who had betrayed Titus. He also knew there was no way he could stop him; more than love or passion, vengeance was perhaps the strongest emotion of all. It could move mountains or dam rivers. Once it was in a man’s veins, it was not easily removed until the vengeance itself was sated. That was the only antidote. Warenne sighed faintly.

“Atticus, you must listen to me or your father will lose two sons,” he said, his voice low. “You must return to Alnwick so that you may inform Lady de Wolfe of her husband’s passing. You must also inform all of Alnwick that there is a new earl. In fact, I will go with you to accomplish this. Henry was my friend, you know. I will then send men with you to escort Titus back to Wolfe’s Lair for burial. Those are the things that must be done first. After that, you will be free to seek out de Troiu and de la Londe to do what must be done. All I ask is that you not act rashly or without great consideration to the situation. A man who acts without thought in a hazardous situation is as good as dead and right now, you are prepared to run off and get yourself killed. Do you think de Troiu and de la Londe will simply throw aside their swords and allow you to kill them? Of course they will not. They are seasoned men, just as you are. They will defend themselves against you and if they have the chance, they will kill you. I cannot bear to lose yet another friend. Please, Atticus… think.”

Atticus was glaring at Warenne by the time the man finished but Warenne also realized that it wasn’t so much of a glare as it was an expression of extreme grief and disappointment. There was great pain reflecting in Atticus’ eyes because he knew Warenne, a wise and just man even at his young age of thirty-three years, was correct. Atticus had to be smarter than those he sought to kill, which meant he had to be methodical in their extermination. Running off blindly to challenge them would more than likely not work. His sense of revenge, that age-old hatred that was filling his heart, would have to wait for the moment.

But its time would come.

“I will not stop,” Atticus finally said. “I will never stop until de Troiu and de la Londe are dead.”

“I know.”

“Then understand this has nothing to do with Norfolk seeking to turn Northumberland knights into traitors and everything to do with justice for my brother.”

“Killing them will not bring Titus back.”

“Mayhap not. But they will be punished for what they did. I cannot let their deed go unanswered.”

Warenne was coming to think that he’d already lost Atticus; the man was singularly focused on revenge. Not that he blamed him. There were shadows of revenge in his heart, too, cast there by a day of defeat and sorrow. He’d seen his mighty army humbled, his men killed, friends killed, and his cause badly damaged. The battle at Towton had been a disaster all the way around. He cleared his throat softly.

“When you do kill them,” he whispered, “twist the sword just a bit more for my sake, so that I may fulfill my sense of vengeance as well. Titus did not deserve what they did to him.”

For the first time, Atticus could see that Warenne, too, held the same sense of punishment that he did. It was as close to revenge as the even-tempered earl could come and Atticus finally felt as if the man understood somewhat. That moment of clarity helped Atticus a great deal. It made him much more willing to obey Warenne’s immediate commands.

“Nay, he did not,” Atticus finally said, hanging his head because he could no longer look the man in the eye. His sense of grief was now threatening to overwhelm his sense of rage. Stay strong! God help him, he was trying. “That being said, I will pull the men together. I will ride to Alnwick with the army. I will return Titus home. But after that, I go on the hunt for de Troiu and de la Londe.”

“I know.”

Atticus drew in a long, deep breath, struggling to focus on the tasks that lay ahead. He struggled to push aside his grief for the moment, clearing his mind. “You say that you have seen le Bec, Wellesbourne, and both de Russe knights,” he said. “I must go in search of Tertius. Let us pray that Lady de Wolfe has not lost her brother in addition to her husband this day.”

Vastly relieved that Atticus seemed to be calming, Warenne nodded his head. “Find de Shera,” he said. “As I said, I have not seen him in hours. The last I saw of the man, he was to the north near Cock Burn. You may want to start there.”

Atticus nodded, thinking of Tertius de Shera, a knight who was also his friend. In fact, he was close with all of Northumberland’s knights. Three of them were cousins, all grandsons of the great Richmond le Bec – Sir Kenton le Bec was the son of Richmond’s eldest son, while Sir Adam Wellesbourne had married Kenton’s cousin, Audrey, the daughter of Richmond’s youngest daughter and the mighty Bastian de Russe. Lastly, Sir Alec le Bec was the son of Richmond’s second son, Gannon. All three of these knights were related, as were the de Wolfe brothers and Tertius de Shera because Titus had married Tertius’ sister. Warenne had a close-knit stable of knights because of these family ties and he liked it that way. Men who were linked by blood were sometimes more loyal and bonded than others.

But it was a bond that had been shattered this day between Atticus and Titus. Already, Atticus felt lost and alone because he’d never been without his brother. Finally acknowledging Warenne’s command, he couldn’t help but glance at his brother as he prepared to quit the tent. He shouldn’t have done it because one glance at Titus’ ashen face fractured the weak composure. He broke away from Warenne and returned to his brother’s corpse, dropping to his knees beside the man and pulling him into his arms.

No one had expected that sudden move; one moment, Atticus was speaking with Warenne and the next, he was on his knees, clutching Titus against him. The surgeon, who had been cleaning the man up, was very nearly pushed out of the way as Atticus held his brother for the very last time. It was a deeply poignant and sorrowful moment, one of finality.

Atticus couldn’t leave without bidding his farewell to Titus in his own way. He loved his brother deeply and holding the man’s cooling body against him somehow made everything more real; life and death and the sense of vengeance that was starting to eat away at Atticus’ soul. Already, it was like a cancer, threatening to consume him. Hugging Titus against him, he whispered in the man’s ear.

“I swear that you shall be avenged,” he pledged. “As I live and breathe, I shall punish those who have done this to you. It will be my all for living, the force that drives me. I swear your death shall not be in vain. You will be well remembered, Titus. But those who did this to you will pay.”

With a final kiss to Titus’ cooling cheek, he lay his brother back down and very nearly ran from the tent. Only outside, in the freezing weather and the blanket of white across the ground, did he let the tears fall unashamedly.

For Titus, he finally wept.