Brides of Scotland: Four full length Novels by Kathryn Le Veque (28)

The first day of travel had been marred by melting snow, muddy roads, and great, brisk winds that blew off the sea several miles to the east. It kicked up the mud and puddled water, spraying it up onto their legs as the party from Alnwick made their way towards the borders between England and Scotland and Wolfe’s Lair.

Isobeau had heard of Wolfe’s Lair enough from Titus, the compact castle along the borders that had belonged to the de Wolfe family for over one hundred years. Castle Questing, the main seat of the de Wolfes, was further to the north and Wolfe’s Lair, whose real name was Rule Water Castle, was actually a garrison that had held a long stretch of the borders for many years. Solomon de Wolfe, the younger brother of the seated Baron Killham and current occupant of Castle Questing, had been a fierce fighter in his younger years. Much like Atticus, the younger brother had earned himself something of a reputation over the older brother.

Of course, Isobeau had heard all of this from Titus. It had been clear from the first day they’d met that Titus adored his younger brother. Never did Isobeau sense any brotherly rivalry. With Titus, it had always been respect and adoration when speaking of Atticus. He seemed quite proud that his younger brother had earned himself such a reputation at a young age which, Isobeau had discovered, had started several years ago when Atticus had fought for the Duke of Somerset in Normandy. The very strong, very skilled young knight had made a name for himself fighting the French but when he returned home and swore allegiance to Northumberland, where his brother served, his reputation as a fierce warrior gained footing. He was a de Wolfe, after all, and the de Wolfes were known to be fierce fighters against the Scots but, in Atticus’ case, his reputation also extended to the Yorkists and the civil wars that wracked the country.

On the first day of travel, in fact, the Earl of Thetford was more than happy to tell Isobeau all he knew about Atticus and the origins of the man’s reputation as The Lion of the North. Isobeau listened politely as the earl told her how fabulous and heroic Atticus was but she eventually began to suspect that Atticus must have put the earl up to it. Perhaps the man was trying to make Atticus more appealing to her, as a future husband, but the truth was that he didn’t have to make Atticus attractive at all. Isobeau’s opinion of him was already favorable for the most part.

She could see him at the head of their small group, riding a big, heavy-boned, black warmblood that had belonged to the previous Earl of Northumberland. Since Atticus’ charger died at Towton, Lady Percy had given Atticus the horse with her blessing. As Thetford prattled on about some battle a few years before where Atticus had been particularly brilliant, Isobeau’s mind wandered to the parting at Alnwick earlier that day and how stoic Lady Percy had been. Her women, ladies-in-waiting who were rather flighty and silly, had wept openly but Lady Percy had been a paragon of strength. Her life had changed forever yet she had still been gracious and resigned. Isobeau had admired that the day before, in the hall with the wounded, and she had admired it more that morning. She, too, wanted to be a lady like that someday.

Her farewells to Tertius that morning had been of the hugging variety when her brother had brought forth her precious mare from the stables, the one Titus had given her. Although Tertius had expressed regret at not being able to accompany her to Wolfe’s Lair, Isobeau knew it wasn’t exactly the truth. She was quite certain that Tertius, who had always looked at Atticus as a rival, was thrilled that he was finally in charge of Northumberland’s army whilst Atticus was off conducting his own business. Tertius liked power and he liked control, although not in an evil sense. He simply liked to be in charge and he viewed anyone else who liked to be in charge, or who was in charge, as competition. Under any circumstances, he always felt himself the best man for the job.

Therefore, she hugged her brother farewell and proceeded to follow Atticus, the Earl of Thetford, Kenton le Bec, ten Thetford men-at-arms, and a wagon bearing her capcases and husband’s coffin out of Alnwick. Thetford’s army followed them out, heading south and being led by the earl’s three big knights, men that she’d heard Atticus call Trouble, More Trouble, and Lucifer’s Brother. Thetford had laughed at that whilst the three knights had departed on the road south without knowing what Atticus had called them. But Thetford had laughed uproariously and even Kenton, perpetually stone-faced, had cracked a smile.

As they travelled down the road now beneath pewter skies, Isobeau’s gaze lingered on her husband’s brother at the head of the column as Thetford chatted about a particular incident at some bridge where Atticus had held off a charge of hundreds of men with only a few dozen soldiers. In all, Isobeau was coming to see that Atticus was something of a mythical god when it came to warfare. She only wished he had been omnipotent enough to save his brother when the man had needed it. She was certain Atticus had wished that also.

Because they had gotten off to a late start that morning, they traveled until well after sunset in order to make up for lost time. The weather, although mostly clear, remained cold and windy but Isobeau was very warm in her heavy cloak and gloves. The traveling hadn’t bothered her at all until the latter part of the day when her lower back began to ache. She spent the next two hours trying to stretch it out as they plodded along. Furthermore, they were delayed at least three times when the wagon became stuck in a rut or a mud puddle, and everyone would rush to push it out. The roads were truly atrocious because of the mud and melting snow, so their progress had been slow.

They reached the fairly large village of Rothsburg later in the night, one that had a tavern right in the middle of the town that seemed to be the busiest place on earth. As their party rode up wearily, stopping in front of the tavern, Atticus went inside to secure lodgings while Kenton took the men-at-arms and the wagon to the livery they’d seen on the edge of town as they’d entered. As Atticus disappeared into the tavern with the poorly painted sign over the door proclaiming the Crown and Gull Inn, Thetford went to help Isobeau from her mare.

She gratefully accepted his help, sliding into his arms as he lowered her to the ground. But the ground was muddy, and smelled of piss, and she quickly gathered her skirts so they wouldn’t drag in the rancid mud. Thetford, seeing that she was desperately trying to preserve her clothing, lifted the back of her fine cloak so it would remain unsoiled.

“Shall we go inside, Lady de Wolfe?” he asked her.

Isobeau was eager to get out of the cold and mud. She followed Thetford into the front door of the inn, smacked in the face by the musty, smelly warmth of the common room. It was very crowded, and loud, and the hearth billowed smoke into the room where it gathered near the ceiling in a blue haze.

Atticus was nowhere to be seen once they entered the establishment so Thetford took Isobeau politely by the arm and found a tiny table crowded next to the corner of the front window for her. They soon realized why it was empty, because there was a terrible frigid draft from the window, but Isobeau was so glad to be sitting on something that wasn’t moving that she waved Thetford off when he offered to find her another table. In fact, Isobeau didn’t find the table bad at all. It was away from the bustle of the room and she found that inviting.

“This is quite acceptable, truly, my lord,” she told him. “In fact, if I stuff my gloves into the hole in the window, the draft will be gone.”

The earl smiled at a woman who would not complain about an uncomfortable table. “As you say, Lady de Wolfe,” he said. “But it would be no trouble to find you another table.”

Again, Isobeau shook her head. “I am quite comfortable, my lord.”

Thetford didn’t argue with her. He looked around for another chair, snatching one from the table next to them that wasn’t being used. He put it next to hers but did not sit; instead, he was looking around to see if he could locate Atticus.

“Will you please do me a favor, Lady de Wolfe?” he asked as his gaze sought out the knight.

Isobeau looked up from pulling off her gloves. “Anything, my lord.”

He glanced at her. “I would be honored if you would call me Warenne,” he said. “We have traveled an entire day together, after all. I believe we know each other well enough to not be so formal.”

Isobeau offered a weak smile. “Of course,” she said. “I would be honored. You may address me as Isobeau if you choose.”

Warenne dipped his head graciously. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, his attention soon turning to the room. “I am sure Atticus is securing food and drink for you. Is there anything else I can do to see to your comfort?”

Isobeau shook her head, covering her mouth to stifle a yawn.” Nay,” she said. “Thank you very much, however. You have been most kind since we left Alnwick.”

Warenne smiled and pulled the empty chair towards him, sitting. “It has been an honor,” he said. “Besides, if my wife was traveling away from me with some strange earl for company, I should hope he would be just as polite.”

Isobeau’s smile warmed. “You are married, then?”

He nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “We have been married three years. My wife bore twin girls two years ago and is currently pregnant with our third child. I am praying it is a boy because two little girls have been a chaotic and rather noisy experience.”

Isobeau laughed softly. “And you think a boy will not be?”

He shrugged. “I am willing to hope. It will be a boy, after all.”

Isobeau shook her head at his optimism, grinning. “Then I wish you luck,” she said. “And your wife? What does she think? Does she hope for a son, also?”

Warenne nodded. “My hopes are her hopes,” he said rather imperiously, laughing when he saw the look on her face. He sobered. “I jest. Whatever my wife wishes is my wish also. She wishes for a healthy son; therefore, I do as well.”

Isobeau wished for the same thing, knowing that Titus’ wish would have been her own. At that moment, she wished more than anything that she was sitting with Titus, reveling in the joy of their impending child. It occurred to her that she never had the chance to tell him, fainting as she did the moment she saw his sunken, green face. It had been so ridiculous of her to do that. Sadness swept her and tears stung her eyes, thinking that instead of rejoicing over a baby, Titus was lying cold and dead in a hard, oak box. It just wasn’t fair. Distracted with thoughts of her husband, she forced herself to answer the earl.

“I am sure a healthy son will be born to the House of de Winter,” she said, trying not to sound too sad or disinterested. “You must return home soon so you do not miss the birth.”

Warenne nodded, thinking on his wife, the lovely Madeleine Summerlin de Winter, when they both caught sight of Atticus as the man suddenly appeared at the far end of the room. He emerged from the kitchen into the smoke-filled chamber followed closely by two serving wenches bearing trays of food and drink. Warenne rose to his feet as Atticus approached.

“Ah,” he said with approval as he noted all of the food. “A feast fit for a very hungry lady.”

Atticus immediately noticed that the table Isobeau was sitting at was far too small for four people, as there would soon be when Kenton returned. Since there was only a lone man sitting at a much bigger table nearby, Atticus swapped out tables with the man and presented a larger and more appropriate table for their party. When the tables were finally situated and the food was set out, Warenne begged a momentary leave.

“I will return shortly,” he told Atticus. “I must see to my horse and Lady de Wolfe’s horse. They are outside in this icy weather and must be tended to.”

Atticus shook his head. “I will do it,” he said. “Sit and enjoy your meal.”

Warenne waved him off. “You have not spoken with Lady de Wolfe all day,” he insisted. “Sit and eat. I will tend to the animals and return as soon as I can.”

Before Atticus could further protest, Warenne was already across the room and out the door. With a heavy sigh, one at the man’s swift disappearance, Atticus sat in the chair the man had vacated.

“It is not appropriate that an earl should tend to his own horse much less tend to yours,” he said, eyeing Isobeau as he began to cut into a large loaf of cream-colored bread. “He should have let me do it.”

Isobeau was watching him as he cut the bread and placed a thick slice in front of her; she still wasn’t over thoughts of Titus and the son he didn’t know about. “He seems like a very kind man,” she said. “He has been great company today.”

Atticus moved on from the loaf of bread and began to cut hunks of meat from a boiled beef bone. “Thetford and I have been friends for many years,” he said. “We fostered together, years ago. He is a good man.”

“Did he foster with Titus, too?”

“Aye.”

Isobeau thought’s lingered on Atticus and Warenne and Titus, all of them fostering together, sharing adventures together. Then she thought again of her husband lying cold and alone in a strange stable, without any companionship now whatsoever. It was wrong that a man so loved was now so alone in death. She gazed at the food he was putting on her trencher without much enthusiasm.

“Where did everyone go?” she asked. “The wagon and Titus and my things. Where did they go?”

Atticus pointed in the general direction of the street with his knife. “We saw a livery at the southern edge of town,” he replied. “Kenton has taken them there. He will have the men bring your trunks here, although I cannot see a need for all seven.”

There was disapproval in his tone. Uncomfortable and sad, and with an aching back, Isobeau was increasingly aware that she needed to relieve herself, as they’d not stopped since leaving Alnwick that morning. More than that, she now knew where Titus was. She had to go to him, to tell him of their child and to make sure he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t fair that he didn’t know what everyone else did and it certainly wasn’t fair that he was alone. Eyeing Atticus, Isobeau knew he wouldn’t let her go to him. He would make excuses to keep her from him, or worse, he would tell her that it was not her right. Therefore, she had to get away from Atticus if only for a precious few minutes. As Atticus continued to dole out food, she stood up.

“Do you know where the privy is?” she asked.

Atticus stood up as well, knife still in hand. “I do not,” he said. “But I will find out.”

Isobeau waved him off; she was already moving away from the table. “I will ask one of the wenches.”

Atticus wasn’t so apt to let her go alone; he followed. “You will not travel by yourself, madam,” he told her. “I will escort you.”

Isobeau came to an irritated halt and faced him. “There are some things that women need to do in private,” she said. “This is one of those things. I am sure the privy is out back and there are plenty of people about, so nothing will happen. I will scream if I need you.”

Atticus wasn’t swayed by the clipped tone. “I will escort you.”

He took her by the arm but she pulled from his grasp and charged on ahead, asking directions to the privy from the first serving wench she came across. The woman pointed to the rear yard where there were animals and other implements used to run a tavern. Isobeau headed for the back door with Atticus on her heels but before she crossed into the cold, muddy yard beyond, she turned to him and held a hand out.

“Please,” she said quietly but firmly. “I will tend to this alone. I ask that you return to the table and eat your meal. I promise I will yell if I need you.”

Atticus was unhappy but he wasn’t accustomed to not granting a lady’s wishes. He looked around the yard outside, only seeing animals milling about, and a shack with a trench dug beneath it that dumped out into a stream that ran behind the tavern. He even went so far as to go out into the yard and throw open the door to the privy only to be greeted by a horrifically smelling hole in the ground with a hollowed-out stool poised over it. Satisfied there were no dangers lurking about, he went back into the tavern.

“Go on,” he told her. “But if you are not back in two minutes, I will come looking for you.”

Isobeau didn’t reply. She slipped out into the dark, muddy yard and ran for the privy, slamming the door. It didn’t take long for her to relieve herself, and use a nearby bucket of water to wash with, but when she was ready to leave, she barely opened the privy door to see if Atticus was still standing at the back door of the tavern. She didn’t see him but she knew there was every possibility he was lurking about, waiting for her.

But she didn’t want to go back into the tavern, not at the moment. She wanted to find Titus and tell him what she had not had the opportunity to tell him, what her fainting spell yesterday had prevented. She wanted to spend a moment with him. A brief moment was all she wanted, a last moment with her husband before they put him in the ground forever.

In the darkness, she dashed out of the yard gate and into the street beyond.

*

Warenne returned to the tavern to find the entire structure in chaos.

People were running from the building as if the devil himself were inside, demanding their souls, and the closer he came, the more he could hear yelling and banging about. Curious, and on guard, he unsheathed the sword at his side, the sword of his forefathers, Lespada. The ancient blade glimmered wickedly in the weak light as he stepped into the tavern, expecting a fight.

The first thing he saw was an empty room. Chairs were tipped over, meals half-eaten, and ale was spilled out over the floor. The dogs who usually congregated by the hearth were happy as larks as they wandered around the room, eating off vacated tables. Cautiously moving further into the common room, Warenne could see three serving wenches clustered in the back of the room near the kitchens as the tavern keeper hovered near them, evidently fearful of someone Warenne couldn’t quite see.

There was a great deal of banging and crashing going on just out of his line of sight, back in the kitchens. As Warenne approached, on guard, Atticus suddenly appeared, sword in hand and a large pitcher of something liquid in the other. He hurled the pitcher across the room, smashing it against the wall on the other side and spraying wine everywhere.

“Do you understand that the next thing I throw across this room will be you?” Atticus bellowed. “If you do not tell me where she is, you will not have a tavern left when I am finished. Is that in any way unclear?”

Shocked, Warenne rushed forward. “Atticus!” he gasped. “What has happened? What are you doing?”

Atticus glanced at Warenne but his gaze quickly returned to the tavern keeper and the three wenches, who were, by now, huddled and weeping.

“Lady de Wolfe went to the privy a short time ago,” he said, his eyes riveted to the employees of the tavern. “She never made it back inside the tavern. I checked the yard and the privy myself before she went in, and it was clear of danger, but she has somehow disappeared. I would wager to say that these people know who has taken her and if they do not tell me, I will crack a skull against a wall as easily as cracking that pitcher of wine.”

Warenne sheathed Lespada immediately. “I know where she is,” he said, reaching out to pull Atticus away from the thoroughly terrified people. “I just saw her. Come with me, Atticus, and leave these poor people alone.”

Atticus looked at Warenne, shocked. “You just saw her?” he demanded. “Where in the hell is she?”

Warenne tugged on him. “With me,” he ordered quietly. As he yanked Atticus along, he spoke loudly to the tavern keeper. “I will pay for the damages. It is a misunderstanding. Please make sure our rooms are prepared, as we will return shortly.”

Puzzled, enraged, Atticus allowed Warenne to drag him out of the tavern but the moment they hit the muddy road outside, Atticus pulled Warenne to a halt.

“Where is she?” he asked, insistent. “The last I saw her was back in the tavern yard.”

Warenne reached out and grabbed him again, pulling him along. “She is at the stable where the wagon is housed,” he said quietly. “I was there bedding the horses down when she came in. She did not see me as she made her way to the wagon where Titus is. I was going to announce my presence to her but she climbed onto the wagon, sat on the coffin, and began to weep. The poor girl… I simply could not announce myself and embarrass her, so I slipped out through the rear and came to find you.”

Atticus looked at the man at first with puzzlement but then with great relief. But that relief was quickly replaced by anger.

“She should not have run away,” he said. “I thought she knew better than to run off. If she wanted to see Titus, why did she not ask me?”

“How did she know where Titus was?”

Atticus lifted his eyebrows at the foolish answer he was about to give. “She asked me earlier.”

Warenne gave Atticus a long look. “You did not take her?”

“Nay. She did not ask.”

Warenne sighed. “Atticus, forgive me, but it seems to me as if you have been incredibly selfish with regard to Titus,” he said. “You treat that woman as if she has no rights to your brother at all. You said that Titus loved her. Do you think he would appreciate the fact that you have treated his wife with such disregard?”

Atticus was trying not to feel guilty as they crossed the last of the muddy road and ended up on mashed, frozen grass. The livery was in the near distance with the de Wolfe escort party milling around the livery yard near a cooking fire.

“I have not treated her with disregard,” Atticus said, feeling as if he were defending himself. “I have been polite when the situation called for it.”

Warenne sighed, shaking his head. “She was your brother’s wife,” he said, sounding disgusted. “You told me you may have seen a flicker of what your brother loved in her yet you continue to treat her poorly. I am ashamed of you, Atticus. This poor woman felt she had to slip away to see her husband because you would not take her to him. Is that truly what kind of a man you are? I would never have guessed it but your actions have thus far proven otherwise.”

They had entered the livery yard by now and Atticus was feeling fairly well disgusted with himself, too. Hearing his behavior through Warenne’s eyes made him think that perhaps he’d not been as benevolent and kind to Isobeau as he thought he’d been. Perhaps he had been selfish with his brother and hadn’t even realized it. But he knew it wasn’t because he had disdain for Isobeau; in fact, just the opposite. When he realized she was missing, he’d experienced fear such as he’d never known. He was still feeling the fear.

Through the small ventilation window of the livery he could just see the top of Isobeau’s blond head; she was still up in the wagon. He couldn’t hear her and she didn’t seem to be moving around, but the sight of her was enough to make him realize what an idiot he’d been. Maybe he really had treated her poorly because he didn’t feel as if she had a claim on grief for Titus. He was wrong; he knew he was wrong. Heart full of sorrow, he turned to Warenne.

“I never meant to treat her poorly,” he said quietly. “Mayhap… mayhap in a sense you are correct. I was being selfish with Titus, as if I am the only one who has claim to grieve for him. She does, too. I could see how enamored she and Titus were when he was alive. Mayhap… mayhap there is some jealousy there as well, that it was no longer simply me and Titus anymore. Isobeau was introduced into our lives and for the first time in his life, Titus was focus on something other than our common goals. It was terrible of me, I know. So what do I do?”

Warenne wasn’t really angry at Atticus; he simply wanted the man to think about Isobeau and stop thinking about himself. He patted Atticus on the side of the head.

“Go in to that livery and apologize to her,” Warenne said quietly. “Apologize for being selfish and terrible. Marry the woman tonight and make her happy as Titus wanted you to. If you truly want to honor your brother’s memory, that is what you will do.”

Atticus nodded, resigned. “I will,” he muttered. “She wants to go with me when I seek out de la Londe and de Troiu, too. She accused me of being selfish about that, too. She said I acted as if I were the only one allowed vengeance in Titus’ death.”

Warenne shrugged. “You do act that way,” he replied. “But fortunately, I did not listen to you. I will say this, however – just as you are allowed your vengeance, so is Isobeau. She has as much right to vengeance as you do. More, even. She was Titus’ wife.”

“Then you believe I should take her with me?”

Warenne lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully, perhaps indecisively. “I think you should consider it,” he said. “She may resent you otherwise, for the rest of your life. I do not think you want that, do you?”

Atticus shook his head. “Nay,” he confirmed. His gaze moved to the livery again; Isobeau’s head had disappeared in the window. “But a quest for vengeance is no place for a woman. She may be hurt, or worse. Moreover, she is with child – Titus’ child. How can I risk her and the child like that?”

Warenne shook his head. “Believe it or not, there are midwives all over England who can deliver a child when the time comes,” he said sarcastically. Then, he grasped Atticus by the arm, his gaze intense. “She will not be hurt. Kenton and I will be there to aid you. We will also protect her. Stop treating his woman as if she does not matter, Atticus; she mattered to Titus a great deal. She has every right to mourn for him and she has every right to seek vengeance regardless of the fact that she is with child. I admire her strength for wanting to do so and you should, too.”

Atticus knew he was correct. About everything, he was correct. No more protests, no more excuses. With a sigh, he turned away from Warenne and headed towards the livery.

“As you say,” he said, sounding weary. “I will see if I can undo what I have done.”

With Atticus in the lead, Warenne followed. The stable yard was mucky and slippery as they made their way to the wide entry door. Just as they reached it, Atticus came to a sudden halt and when Warenne opened his mouth to ask him why, Atticus shushed him. He gestured to the interior of the livery where there was some whispering and weeping going on. Not wanting to intrude, Atticus peered around the side of the entry door to hear better of what was happening inside that cold, dark structure.

“… and then she threw me!” Isobeau was saying, giggling. “Do not feel bad for it; I know you gave me the horse but it was my fault for not holding on tightly enough. She had been corralled in the barn since the big snow back in February, right after you left, and she was quite happy to be out. She was very frisky. I am riding her even now as we head to Wolfe’s Lair. I am quite excited to meet your father, you know; I just wish… well, it does not matter. You are going home, Titus. Atticus is making sure of it. He is making sure of everything. He will punish those men who killed you. I only hope he does it with your sword… I do not know where it is but I shall ask Atticus. I am sure he knows. I hope he kills those men with your sword and that he then, in turn, passes your sword to our son. It would be such a great honor for our son to carry your sword. And that’s another thing; what are we to name him? Tertius says I must name him a Roman name or my father will disown me.”

She set off giggling again, stroking the lid of the casket lovingly as Atticus and Warenne watched. Isobeau was no longer sitting on the casket, she now knelt beside it. Her hands were all over it, touching it, speaking to Titus inside. As they watched, it looked as if she thought to lift the lid so she could look at Titus once more but she stopped herself. Defeated, she laid her forehead against the edge of the coffin lid.

She lifted her head. “I miss you so much,” she whispered, her tone now very serious in contrast from the giggling that had been going on earlier. “I can still hear your voice and I can still see your smile as you waved farewell to me those months ago. You told me you loved me and I was too foolish to say it in return. I should have; God knows, I should have. Titus, I swear that if I had known you would not return to me, I would have never let you go. I would have found some way to keep you at Alnwick. It is not fair that we did not have a chance at a life together; it is not fair at all. And your brother… he says that you asked him to marry me and to take care of me. I am sure it was a noble thought, my love, but I must tell you that your brother wants nothing to do with me. I am afraid you have doomed us both to a sad and unhappy life with one another. It is therefore my intention to tell him that I release him from your request. Surely you did not mean to make him so miserable, Titus. It was selfish of you to ask. I know you do not want me to marry anyone else and I swear that I shan’t. When we reach Wolfe’s Lair, I will find the nearest church and tell the priest of my situation and beg that he admit me to the nearest convent. I will become a bride of Christ. I would rather do that than marry anyone else.”

With that, she trailed off and laid her head back on the coffin lid, simply laying there and perhaps dreaming of a life that would never be. Atticus, filled with sorrow and regret, turned to look at Warenne, who was gazing back at him with equal sorrow. They had both heard what Isobeau had said, now knowing what was in the lady’s heart. It was tragic to say the least.

“That is not what Titus wanted,” Warenne whispered. “You must speak with her, Atticus, now.”

Atticus didn’t hesitate. He went straight into the livery, leaving Warenne outside, and approached the wagon where Isobeau lay with the top part of her body across the coffin lid. She didn’t hear him enter so he cleared his throat softly as he approached simply to warn her that she was no longer alone.

Isobeau’s head shot up when she heard him, her eyes big on him. There was guilt and fear across her features as Atticus came to stand next to the wagon bed. For a moment, neither of them spoke; they simply stared at one another. Isobeau kept waiting for the man to explode at her but, so far, he’d given no indication he planned to. His expression was surprisingly calm, considering she had run off and lied to him. Maybe he was so calm because he was beyond fury and had terrible things planned for her punishment. Nervously, she cleared her throat.

“Sir Atticus,” she stammered. “I… I did not mean to cause you any undue concern by leaving the tavern, but I felt compelled to….”

Atticus put up a hand, cutting her off. “You need not explain,” he said quietly. “I am not angry. In fact, it seems as if I owe you a wide measure of apology, my lady. It occurred to me when you felt compelled to steal away to come and see my brother that I have not been very kind to you. For you to have to feel as if the only way to see Titus was to escape me, I have been a terrible man indeed.”

Isobeau blinked, surprised by his reaction. “I… I simply wanted a few minutes alone with him,” she said. “When you gave me the opportunity to see him back at Alnwick, I fainted. I have not spoken to my husband at all and I wanted to tell him of the child. And of other things. I think I told him everything that has happened at Alnwick since he left. I thought he would want to know.”

She was tearing up by the time she finished, lowering her head and sniffling so he could not see her watery eyes. But Atticus knew she was weeping; he was coming to feel worse and worse about the way he’d treated her, especially after hearing what she had told Titus. There had been such joy in her words at first, and finally such sorrow. Was he really such a monster? Warenne had warned him of his behavior and now the words from Isobeau had suggested the same thing. Maybe he had been as selfish as they’d accused him of being. With a heavy sigh, he scratched his scalp wearily and sat on the edge of the wagon bed.

“He would want to know,” he agreed with her, having difficulty looking the woman in the eye. “My lady, if I have been selfish and rude and terrible, then I apologize. I begged your forgiveness once but it seems as if I have not amended my ways. That will end, now. You do, indeed, have the right to grieve my brother and you do, indeed, have a right to your own sense of vengeance towards those who caused his death. I promised my brother I would marry you and I shall, and I hope to make as excellent a husband as Titus did. I shall endeavor to do so. I pray that you will accept my proposal of marriage and know that the man you have seen over the past two days is not indicative of the man I am. Grief can do odd things to one’s soul. I am sorry you bore the brunt of it.”

By this time, Isobeau was listening to him quite seriously, wiping tears from her eyes. “I do not know what to say, in truth,” she said. “I told you that I do not want another husband. Titus should not have expected, nor have asked, us to wed.”

Atticus grunted, leaning forward on the wagon. “I thought so, too,” he said. “But then I tried to look at it from Titus’ perspective. Actually, someone else made me look at it from Titus’ perspective – if I had a wife I loved very much, it would be my first priority to ensure she was well taken care of. If the roles had been reversed, I am sure I would have begged Titus the same thing.”

Isobeau regarded him carefully. There was some indecision in her expression now, as if she hadn’t thought on Titus’ standpoint until this moment. After a pause of deliberation, of reflection, her gaze moved to the coffin she was leaning against.

“He should not have asked you such things,” she said quietly. “Sir Atticus, I release you from your vow to Titus. I know you do not wish to marry me and I do not wish to have another husband, so it is my intention to commit myself to a convent near to the place where Titus is buried. That way, I can visit him sometimes.”

Atticus already knew of her plan considering he had overheard her earlier, so he had already planned out his reply. He was careful yet truthful.

“My lady, if you commit yourself to a convent, it would not be in your best interest or in the child’s best interest,” he said. “As soon as the baby is born, it will be taken away from you and turned over to a family to foster. Did you think you would be able to keep your son with you? They will not allow it in the convent.”

She frowned. “Surely they would not separate a mother from her child.”

He shrugged. “You would not be a mother,” he said. “You would be a bride of Christ. Brides do not have babies.”

Evidently, the thought of being separated from her child had not occurred to her and she was visibly distressed. “I will not let them take my child,” she said flatly. “I would kill them if they tried.”

He looked at her; she had such a delicate face with a little upturned nose, wide eyes, and beautifully arched brows. More than that, she had lips that were ripe and lush, inviting a man’s lust. She was quite a ravishing creature, as he’d always noticed, but perhaps now he was noticing just a little more. She was an invariably strong woman, unafraid to stand up to him and unafraid to speak her mind.

So many pieces of a puzzle were coming together as he looked at her, disjointed pieces of the Isobeau puzzle that had been orbiting in his mind, things he realized about her but had never pulled together as a whole picture. He remembered the first time he ever saw her, telling his brother what a fortunate man he was to have such a beautiful bride. But after the wedding, he hadn’t spent any amount of time around Isobeau because Titus occupied all of her time, as he should have. But in the past two days, they had been thrown together in unpleasant circumstances that would have destroyed a lesser woman. Isobeau had stood strong through it all. As a result, Atticus was coming to think she was fairly extraordinary.

Come to know what Titus liked so well about the woman, Warenne had said. More and more, Atticus could see it. He was finally coming to understand her, one piece at a time.

“As would I, my lady,” he said quietly. “No one would take your child from you, my brother’s child, and live to tell the tale, so it is my suggestion that you forget about the convent and marry me instead. If you do not, I fear I am in for something quite terrible. You would actually be doing me quite a favor.”

Isobeau was still frowning as thoughts of baby-stealing nuns filled her mind. “Why?” she asked. “Whatever is the matter?”

Atticus averted his gaze, leaning against his brother’s coffin and picking at the imperfections of the wood.

“I have… well, it is quite embarrassing to admit it, but I have women that follow me about,” he said seriously, although he wasn’t serious in the least. “Do you have any idea what a prize I would be to any woman? Not only am I a de Wolfe, but I have earned a reputation for myself as a warrior above men. I have some wealth, of course, but every father with an eligible daughter from Newcastle to Hastings is clamoring after me, demanding I wed their daughters. And what daughters! Fat, short, skinny, tall, in all varieties and shapes. The Earl of Dorcester, for instance, has two daughters and has demanded I pick one. The man has promised me half of Dorset if I do but in order to obtain such wealth, I have to choose between a woman with a mustache and her sister with no neck and a bald spot on her head. What am I to do?”

Isobeau forgot about baby-stealing nuns and was grinning at Atticus’ distress. He was, in fact, pretending to be quite upset, but Isobeau sensed that he was mostly acting for her benefit. It was quite humorous, actually, because she had no idea that the man had such a personality. She had only seen him serious or angry, or both, so this comical side was unexpected. It was also attractive. She clucked sadly.

“That is truly a shame, Sir Atticus,” she said with feigned concern. “I would think in such a case, you may want to take the woman with the mustache. She can always shave it off. Mayhap she would not be so bad if she did.”

Atticus rolled his eyes, leaning his head against Titus’ coffin in mock misery. He hoped his brother was hearing him because they had shared many a laugh over the same subjects, mostly Titus teasing him about the women that really did follow him around. With his striking dark looks and chiseled features, Atticus had more than his share of female admirers.

“Mayhap,” he said, his voice muffled because he was leaning against his arm. “She is not unattractive in a way. If only her eyes focused in the same direction, she would be nearly pleasant to look at.”

Isobeau put a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles. “She is cross-eyed?”

“That is putting it kindly.”

Isobeau couldn’t help the laughter now. She put a hand on the coffin lid and leaned into it. “Titus?” she asked. “Do you hear your brother? He is attempting to coerce me into marriage with tales of cross-eyed maids!”

Atticus’ grin broke through and he put his mouth against the coffin lid. “You will confirm whatever I tell her, do you hear?” he told his brother. “Tell her it is true! Tell her of the daughter of the Lord Mayor of Manchester and how the woman sent me gifts for three solid months. Tell her how I had to hide when the woman and her father showed up at Alnwick seeking to negotiate a marriage contract. Tell her how Percy had to entertain them for the night and then he tried to beat me afterwards because they were both terrible creatures with terrible manners. He blamed me for them setting foot in his beloved Alnwick.”

Isobeau was giggling uncontrollably. “Lord Henry did not beat you.”

Atticus nodded firmly. “He most certainly tried,” he said. “He even threw a chicken bone at me. He was furious that I had brought those obnoxious people down upon him.”

Isobeau was laughing so much that she was struggling to catch her breath. “It was not your fault,” she said. “It was not as if you invited them.”

Atticus pointed a finger at her. “I did not,” he agreed, “but if you do not agree to marry me, I can only look forward to more of the same humiliation. Until and unless I have a wife, these ravenous females will never stop in their quest to acquire me as a prized husband. Therefore, my lady, I beg you… please consider my marriage proposal. It would make Titus happy and it would save me from a lifetime of shame.”

For the past several moments, Isobeau had been swept up in Atticus’ charm. She had no idea the man possessed such charisma, for he was a gifted and animated storyteller when he put his mind to it. If only this man, this charming and witty man, could be the man she saw from now on and not the bitter and nasty one. It was enough to give her hope that perhaps they could settle into a comfortable relationship with pleasant conversation such as they were having now. She was still torn, still indecisive, but that resistance was barely holding on. Her gaze lingered on the top of the coffin, thinking of the man inside, knowing that she, indeed, wanted to make him happy. And Atticus had a pledge to fulfill.

With a sigh, one of resignation, she finally nodded her head.

“Very well,” she said. “If that is truly your wish, I will consent. I suppose you need someone to beat all of those women away from you.”

Atticus smiled, one of genuine joy. “You are most gracious, my lady,” he said. “But please know that your role in the marriage would be one of honor. I would never expect you to chase foolish women away. I would put you upon a pedestal whilst you watch me do it.”

It was a kind thing to say, as if he meant she simply wouldn’t be an excuse or a bit of baggage he happened to be tied to. But along with her consent, Isobeau was coming to feel as if a part of her life unfulfilled were slipping away from her, something she wasn’t ready to let go. She put her hand on the coffin lid again, realizing she was fighting off tears. Visions of Titus and the last time she saw him alive filled her head.

“You do not need to put me on a pedestal,” she said softly, stroking the coffin lid. “Sweet Jesus, this is all happening so quickly. The past few months of my life have been like a dream, so fast and fleeting. I married Titus and came to adore the man and just as quickly he was gone. Now I find myself pledged to you… Atticus, I do not want to forget Titus. I do not want to look back on this time of my life and think I only imagined it. Titus is worth remembering.”

The smile was gone from Atticus’ face. He, too, put his hand on the coffin lid, feeling the pangs of grief clutch at him. All humor aside, it was a horrible thing that had united them.

“He is worth that and more,” he said hoarsely, realizing he had a lump in his throat at her words. “I will tell you something I have not told anyone. As Titus lay dying, he told me how proud he was to be my brother. I… I never got to tell him how proud I was to have been his brother. I realize I am the one who has earned the moniker; The Lion of the North they call me. I am a prideful man, my lady. I would bask in the adoration of others whilst Titus would stand in my shadow and applaud me just as others were. He never once showed any jealousy or envy. He was the first one to praise me. He was the rock upon which I stood to show my bravery and receive my accolades. But my rock is gone now and I am not entirely sure how I am supposed to go on.”

He looked at Isobeau then, tears in his eyes. But she was far ahead of him in that regard; tears were streaming down her face as she felt his pain, deeply, for the very first time. Reaching out, she put a gentle hand on his arm.

“I miss him dreadfully,” she whispered, fighting off a sob. “I know we were together for such a short time but in that time, I saw such perfection in him. I wanted to know him as my rock just as you knew him as yours, but that will never come to pass. I envy you your time with him, Atticus. Mayhap… mayhap someday you will tell me of the Titus you knew. Mayhap you will tell my child of his father, as you knew him. I hope you will.”

Atticus averted his gaze, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill down his face. He sniffled loudly, struggling to compose himself.

“Of course I will,” he said quietly. “I will tell my nephew how his father used to steal coinage from the knights he squired for and how, when caught, he was once put in the stocks for two days. I will also tell him how Titus risked his life to save a young page whose horse became stuck in a quagmire of mud and Titus slithered across the mud to secure a rope to the horse’s saddle so we could pull them both free. Titus was both hero and devil, my lady. He was the greatest man I have ever known.”

Isobeau wiped at her eyes, smiling faintly at Atticus as the man gazed upon Titus’ coffin. In the weak light of the livery, illuminated only by the cooking fire directly outside in the yard, there was something very private and personal about the moment, sharing their common grief and coming to terms with it. Isobeau stroked the coffin one last time.

“I am at peace now,” she said softly. “I have told Titus everything I wanted to say and I have a measure of peace. Thank you for giving me these few private moments with him and for not becoming angry that I ran from you.”

Atticus touched the coffin lid one last time as well, giving it a pat, before pushing himself away from the wagon. “I was not angry that you ran from me,” he said. “But I will admit that when I realized you were gone, I may have upended the tavern a bit. Just a little.”

She looked at him, cocking an eyebrow. “A little?”

He shrugged, averting his gaze. “A lot.”

Isobeau thought on that. “I see,” she said. “Can I assume they will not welcome us back now and that we will be sleeping in the livery along with the animals?”

He cast her a long glance, his eyes twinkling. “Would that upset you?”

She threw up her hands. “Of course not,” she said mockingly. “Why sleep in a warm tavern when I can just as easily sleep in a freezing livery stable amongst the pigs? ’Tis every woman’s dream, I say. Thank God for Atticus and his ability to provide me with luxuries.”

Atticus gave her a half-grin, holding out a hand to her. She was still up on the wagon bed and she took his hand as he carefully helped her off. Her hand was soft and warm in his big, rough palm. He rather liked the feel of it there.

“I am not entirely sure they will not welcome us,” he said. “If they do not, I can always upend the tavern again. I will get you a warm bed one way or another, my lady.”

She looked at him, drolly. “Perfect.”

Atticus laughed softly at the wry expression on her face. As he led her from the livery, he was coming to think that Isobeau’s choice to run from the tavern that night had evidently been something of a fortuitous happenstance. It had given them a chance to speak, to be honest with one another, and to bond just a bit more over their common grief.

Come to see what Titus saw in the woman. Those words kept echoing in Atticus’ head, words of wisdom that had helped him come to understand the aura and mindset of Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe. What he saw, he was coming to appreciate. He hoped that they would have a warm and civil relationship towards one another in the coming years but he seriously wondered if he would ever stop viewing her as Titus’ wife and come to see her as his own. It was a thought he had.

He further wondered if Isobeau would ever stop seeing him as her dead husband’s brother and start viewing him as her husband.

Only time would tell.