Brides of Scotland: Four full length Novels by Kathryn Le Veque (24)

Alnwick Castle

April 04, 1461 A.D.

The weather had been fickle, petulant, and quite mad.

At least, that is how she looked at it, but at the moment it was behaving itself. From the snows that had fallen at the end of March to the very spring-like weather they were currently experiencing, it was enough to make one’s head swim. The earth, now warmed by the weak sun that had decided to emerge from behind the veil of winter, was becoming alive with blooms and blossoms and little creatures that liked to dart about the fields. Even the bugs were celebrating, swarming and dancing upon the newly green earth. It was, in truth, delightful.

Lady de Wolfe, know personally as Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe, was experiencing the first real freedom from heavy winter cloaks and scratchy woolen garments in months. The day was a bit cool but certainly nothing like it had been. She was dressed in a gown of linen, lavender in color, with long sleeves and a snug bodice. The shift underneath was the softest wool possible, giving her some warmth against the cool breezes, but for the most part she relished in the weak sunlight as she stood in a field northeast of Alnwick’s walls close to the River Aln, running her horse in circles with a lead and giving the big mare some exercise. Having been cooped up in a stall for weeks on end, the big, white mare was nearly as stir-crazy as her mistress was. As Isobeau held on to the lead and let the horse run in circles around her, she laughed as the animal literally kicked up her heels. The horse was happy, too. For the moment, all was well in the world.

Her husband had given her the horse as a wedding gift. She smiled as she thought of Titus, perhaps the most handsome and powerful knight in all the realm. He was very kind and very funny at times, and she was quite fond of him even though theirs had been a contract marriage.

Isobeau’s father, Calpurnius de Shera, had contracted with his friend Solomon de Wolfe many years ago when Titus had been fifteen years of age and Isobeau had been two. At the time, it had seemed like quite an age difference but when they were finally married when Isobeau turned twenty-one years (because her father could not stand to part with her any sooner), their difference in ages was nothing at all. Titus, who had been initially reluctant to the marriage, had forgotten any resistance when he’d set eyes upon his stunningly beautiful bride. He took back every nasty thing he’d ever said about his father, her father, and the union in general. He had been smitten with her from the start.

With pale blond hair and green eyes, Isobeau was all shades of lovely. He had also discovered that his new bride was also very sweet and rather animated, with a wicked sense of humor, but she was also very quick to temper. She didn’t have much of a calm demeanor, something blamed on her ancestor, the great Thunder Warrior Maximus de Shera. Family legend had it that he was quick to temper as well. But along with the ancestral temper, Isobeau also had the brilliant de Shera mind. She never forgot anything and she could read, write, and do math sums in her head. Those particular traits that would have shocked some men impressed him greatly.

Titus and Isobeau had spent the two weeks following their wedding coming to know one another, spending nearly every waking moment together, until the Earl of Northumberland mobilized his army and took it south, into Yorkshire, to intercept troops loyal to Edward. Isobeau didn’t pay much attention to war although, as a de Shera, she should have. She was much more interested in her horses, her cats, and in the songs she wrote. She loved music and would play her harp to accompany herself as she sang, a talent that had seriously enraptured Titus. But her husband’s departure with the earl’s army made her more aware of the battle for the English throne than she wanted to be. She hated to see him go.

So she focused on the things she loved in his absence and mostly on the music she liked to write. Since Isobeau had been a child, she had a great love of music and having been taught to write at a young age, she was able to put the words and music in her head down to parchment. Her father’s solar had been covered with pieces of parchment or vellum that she had scribbled songs upon. There was more of Isobeau’s writing in Calpurnius’ chamber than there was of his, but Calpurnius had loved it. His wife had died when his children, Tertius and Isobeau, were very young, so for a very long time it had only been the three of them. His children were his life until Isobeau’s marriage to Titus de Wolfe had changed that.

But not too terribly much. She was still her father’s daughter, now with a husband she had grown quite fond of. Her song writing had increased with the event of a new husband who had soon departed after their wedding, and she learned to pass the days of his absence by creating music for Titus. They were sweet songs, perhaps a bit naïve and adoring, alluding to their life together and a future she was looking forward to. She was particularly fond of one called The Heart Awakens because it said everything that she was feeling. She couldn’t wait to sing her songs for Titus, accompanying herself on the harp her father had brought all the way from Italy, and she hoped that Titus would understand what had transpired in her heart during his absence. She hoped he felt the same. She also couldn’t wait to tell him of the child she was carrying.

Smiling at the thought of her baby, she put a hand to her still-flat belly. She was fairly certain of the pregnancy, as her menses had stopped, and Lady Percy’s personal physician had confirmed it. A son. She was positive that she was carrying a de Wolfe son, one who would be a great knight just as his father and his uncle, the man who was called The Lion of the North, were. Thoughts briefly shifted to Atticus de Wolfe, a new brother she’s barely said just a few words to because he was always so busy with Northumberland’s business, but she hoped the great knight would take the time to help train his new nephew. She was certain that with Titus’ request that he would. Therefore, her son would be trained by the finest.

Somewhere in her daydreams of Titus and their child, Isobeau had lain down upon the cool grass, gazing up at the bright blue sky as her mind wandered. Her horse’s lead was still in her hand but the horse had stopped running circles and was now grazing next to her. She finally sat up and looked around, wondering how she had ended up on the ground. Thoughts of her husband often did that. On days like this, with peace across the bucolic countryside, it was hard to believe there was a war going on. She was anxious for Titus’ safety and anxious for him to return so that they could get on with the rest of their lives.

“Isobeau!”

Isobeau turned in the direction of her shouted name, shading her eyes from the sun. She could see three girls approaching; the older girl carried a toddler in her arms while the third girl, her age somewhere between the other two, waved her arms wildly and ran in Isobeau’s direction.

“Is-o-BEAU!” the child shouted.

Isobeau grinned at the three Percy women, daughters of the earl and his wife, Eleanor. Margaret, the eldest at fifteen, had taken to Isobeau right away because she had recently lost her older sister to marriage. The next daughter, Eleanor, or Ella as they called her, was the blond six-year-old with a wild streak in her, whilst the baby, Elizabeth, was sweet and affectionate. How Isobeau loved tending Elizabeth; she hoped for a daughter such as her someday. After her mighty son, of course.

“Greetings, Ella!” she waved at the small child as the girl ran to her. Eleanor plopped in her lap and Isobeau hugged the child. “Where have you been?”

Eleanor wrapped her small arms around Isobeau’s neck and squeezed enthusiastically. “With Mam,” she said. “Mam says you must come inside, Is. She says to hurry.”

Eleanor always called her “Is”, but it came out of the child’s mouth sounding like “Eees”. By this time, Margaret was upon her, rocking baby Elizabeth on her hip. Isobeau looked to the older Percy girl curiously. “What is the matter?” she asked Margaret. “Why must I come inside the gates?”

Margaret was a rather morose girl without a lick of personality. She seemed perpetually depressed, perpetually bored. “You cannot see the road from here,” she said. “A rider came about a half hour ago and told my mother than my father’s army was returning home. That is why Mother says you must come inside now.”

Isobeau set Eleanor on her feet and quickly stood up, brushing off her dress of dirt and grass. “How exciting,” she said happily. “I have just been sitting here wondering when they would come home and now they are finally here!”

Isobeau’s heart was racing as she thought of Titus returning and she wanted to make herself presentable before he saw her. Her long hair was a mess and there was grass all over her skirt. She began scurrying back to the great, walled fortress of Alnwick, pulling her horse along as the three young women ran along behind her.

“My mother says the army is just north of Felton and should be here within the hour,” Margaret said. She always called Lady Percy “My mother”, even when she was addressing her directly. It wasn’t simply “Mother”; it was “My mother” in all things. “My mother said that the messenger told her that the most recent battle was a terrible loss.”

Isobeau looked at Margaret with concern. “What does that mean?”

Margaret caught up to her, rushing along beside her with little Elizabeth bouncing vigorously with every step Margaret took.

“I am not sure,” she said. “My mother sent my brother and two soldiers out to meet the incoming army and see to my father’s return. Papa will be here soon and all will be well then.”

Margaret seemed confident but Isobeau wasn’t so sure. She couldn’t shake the sense of concern she felt. The battle was a terrible loss. Loss of what? Territory? Men? Knights? Suddenly, her apprehension for Titus’ safety took on a new dimension. She was very anxious to see him. Something inside her, a little voice in her head, told her to get back to the castle quickly. There was no time to waste.

Picking up the pace, she made haste for the hulking fortress of Alnwick Castle.

*

“She knows, Atticus.” Sir Kenton le Bec, part of the advance party that reached Alnwick before the bulk of the army, met Atticus at the great gatehouse of Alnwick. “She was with Lady Percy when we told the woman of the earl’s demise. Lady de Wolfe asked me a direct question about Titus’ health and I could not lie to her. I hope you understand that.”

Atticus looked at his very tall, muscular friend. Kenton le Bec was perhaps the best knight he’d ever known next to Titus and he trusted the man implicitly. Still, he felt some frustration at the admission even though he did, in fact, understand. As the remains of Northumberland’s army trickled in through the open gates, Atticus removed his helm and wiped at his sweating forehead with the back of his hand.

“I understand,” he grunted. Then, he shook his head as if exasperated. “I should have ridden ahead to tell her. I should have gone with you.”

Kenton put a big hand on Atticus’ shoulder. “You were where you were most needed,” he said quietly. “You rode next to Titus’ body the entire way home. I do not blame you for not wanting to leave his side. There is no shame in that.”

Atticus eyed Kenton. “Except that I left you to inform Lady Percy of her husband’s passing,” he said, “and my brother’s wife along with her. That should have come from me.”

Kenton could see that Atticus was angry at himself for things beyond his control. The man had spent the past six days in almost complete silence, riding beside his brother’s body as it was transported along with the earl on the same wagon bed. The men lay side by side, wrapped tightly in canvas from a small tent the men had cut in half to use as burial shrouds for them. Northumberland’s surgeon had cut bushels of fresh rosemary to pack around the bodies to cover the stench, but on the sixth day after their deaths, nothing could adequately cover the smell of decay.

Even now, as the wagon bearing their bodies entered the inner ward of Alnwick, they could smell that sweet-pungent stench of death. Unfortunately, there were several other wagons bearing the dead that they had been able to gather from the slaughter at Towton, so the very air around them smelled of putrefaction. It was as if they were bringing death back to Alnwick as it followed them home from Towton.

Kenton, the most stoic and professional of all knights, watched Atticus’ expression as the wagon bearing his brother’s body moved past him. He could see the grief in the man’s eyes even if his weary face remained expressionless. Kenton was hurting, too; they all were. And they were all equally furious with the news that two of their own had turned on Titus. Though it was not their right, all of Northumberland’s remaining knights had that same sense of vengeance that Atticus had. Treacherous knights, men they had trusted, were an insult and a danger to them all.

But that was something they could not focus on at the moment; they had an earl to bury, friends to bury, and a castle to secure. Vengeance would have to come at another time, as Warenne had stressed the entire ride back to Alnwick. Since de Winter’s base was in Norfolk and not far from the Duke of Norfolk’s seat, de Winter and his thrashed army had returned to Alnwick with the Northumberland army in the hopes of healing the injured and recuperating somewhat before making the long trek home. Moreover, it was clear that de Winter was very concerned for Atticus. They all were.

With that in mind, Kenton moved to take over Atticus’ duties and let the man deal with his brother’s wife. He addressed Atticus’ last statement.

“Then go to Lady de Wolfe now,” Kenton said quietly. “She was quite broken up the last time I saw her.”

Atticus didn’t look particularly enthusiastic about it as he glanced at the big, brown-stoned keep of Alnwick that had been there since the days of William the Conqueror. It was old and solid, the seat of Northumberland for centuries. It had been home to him for years but now all he felt was emptiness when he looked at it; too many memories of Titus within those old walls. He took a deep, sorrowful breath.

“I will go,” he said. “Did you tell her about Tertius also?”

Kenton nodded. “She asked,” he replied. “I told her that her brother is well.”

Atticus lifted his eyebrows to that statement, sorrow in his action. Her brother was alive, yet his was not. He realized that there was some bitterness towards her because of it. “I have not seen Tertius since we entered Alnwick,” he said, looking around. “If you see the man, tell him to go to his sister. Mayhap he can bring her some comfort.”

Kenton merely nodded. As Atticus put his helm on the saddle of the young, big-boned warhorse that had belonged to the earl, de Winter rode up in to their midst, bringing up the rear of the army astride his vibrant, red rouncey. As the horse threw its head around, spraying foam from its mouth, Warenne flipped up the visor on his helm and looked at Atticus and Kenton.

“That is the last of the army,” he said. “Thank you again for letting us seek shelter here while we tend the wounded, Atticus. We shall try not to be terrible guests.”

Atticus smiled weakly. “I would put you to work mucking the stables to pay for your keep,” he teased his friend. “But since you are allergic to horse shite, I suppose I will spare you.”

Kenton had a lazy half-grin on his face at the young earl’s expense as Warenne laughed outright. “Put me in the kitchens, then,” he said. “See if you do not find horse shite in your stew someday. That will teach you to make a slave out of me.”

Kenton chuckled and even Atticus snorted. “Unfortunately, I believe you,” he said. Then, he glanced at the gates of Alnwick as the chains tightened up as men began to close it. “Kenton will show you where your men will bed down. I will put you in the keep, however. You will enjoy all of the hospitality that Alnwick has to offer, but for now, I must see to my brother’s wife. I will seek you out later.”

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.”

“That was not the question.”

Atticus’ piercing eyes lingered on the woman who was not afraid of his manner, his attitude, or of him in general. She is strong, this one. He sensed strength in her. Odd he’d never noticed before but, then again, he’d spent little time around her. “It is the only answer I can give you, as I do not know where my men have put him.”

“You will take me to him when you know.”

Atticus nodded slowly. “I will.”

Isobeau didn’t answer him, mostly because there was nothing more to say. Their encounter had been harsh and painful, making a bad situation worse. Without replying, she returned her attention to the hearth, hoping he would take the hint and simply leave. This time, he did.

When she was positive he had left, the tears returned with a vengeance.