Brides of Scotland: Four full length Novels by Kathryn Le Veque (30)

Wellesbourne Castle

Warwickshire

Wellesbourne Castle was a little over seven miles south of Warwick Castle, seat of the Earl of Warwick, and the history between Warwick and Wellesbourne had always been one of allied harmony until the last few years. With Warwick allied with Henry one day and Edward the next, that allegiance had been put to the test. Andrew Wellesbourne remained a staunch supporter of the true king of England, one of the more powerful barons in Henry’s arsenal.

It was well known in military circles that the Wellesbourne army was eleven hundred of the best trained and best supplied men in all of England. They were usually the strike force, put out front in the event of a battle because they were usually very successful in surviving, and then countering, an enemy assault. They had not been at Towton because four months prior, they had seen major action in another massive battle at Wakefield in Yorkshire that had seriously weakened the Wellesbourne lines.

Andrew had been given permission to return his army home to regroup and he was in the process of doing just that. He’d lost almost three hundred men at Wakefield and through recruiting in the neighboring shires, he had managed to reclaim those numbers and more. Now, Andrew had new recruits that were seeing serious training every day. When Simon de la Londe and Declan de Troiu rode through the gatehouse of Wellesbourne in friendship, Andrew had no reason to think their visit was anything other than a welcomed social call.

Wellesbourne was a congenial man with dark hair and dark eyes, features his son Adam had inherited. He was an old knight, but still quite powerful and spry even at his advanced age, and was still very active upon the field of battle. Andrew Wellesbourne took no issue with being in the middle of a fight. In fact, he welcomed it. Therefore, as the evening feast commenced, Andrew shared his table with de la Londe and de Troiu as an associate and fellow knight, not as a man who had once held a sword.

It was a companionable meal that started out with the dreadful news of Towton. Andrew had heard pieces of news as told to him by travelers who had been to the north, or who had heard of the defeat from others, so it was something of a shock to hear the truth from de la Londe and de Troiu. It was even more of a shock to hear of Henry Percy’s death and of Titus de Wolfe’s death. Andrew had particular trouble swallowing that one; he knew Titus and considered the man a friend. Based on the information from Towton, the pleasant evening meal turned into a depressing and serious affair.

But that was what de la Londe had planned all along. In fact, he’d had days to plan on what, precisely, he was going to tell Wellesbourne to ensure he had the man’s attention when he brought up the subject of swearing fealty to Edward and the best thing he could come up with was to try and gain the man’s sympathy. If he believed Adam had already turned to Edward, if there was some way to build up knightly angst against his own allies, then there might be a chance. De la Londe proceeded carefully.

“As you can imagine, my lord, the entire country is in upheaval after the battle at Towton,” he said seriously. “I have never seen so many dead. Someone said at least twenty thousand men and animals. And look at the wound to my face – that should tell you how brutal the fighting was.”

Andrew drew in a long, pensive breath, closing his eyes briefly as if to ward off the horror. When he opened his eyes again, it was to the badly damaged face of de la Londe. “Unfathomable,” he muttered. “And Henry Percy with them.”

De la Londe nodded. “Northumberland, Andrew Trollope, and others,” he said. “Lancaster is all but defeated. We have heard that Henry has fled into Scotland where he will more than likely remain. Henry is finished and Edward now takes the throne. If, for no other reason, I am glad to make that statement because it means the death and destruction is over. Mayhap men’s lives will be spared now that the dominant king has emerged.”

Andrew was watching him from across the table, over the glow of the flickering tapers. “The battles will never be over so long as a usurper sits upon the throne of England.”

De la Londe could see, in that moment, that convincing Wellesbourne to join Edward’s cause was not going to be a simple thing. Not that he believed it would be, but he had hoped the gloom and doom of the defeat at Towton might give Wellesbourne pause to think. De la Londe sipped at his wine.

“I suppose you have to think about it from the point of view for the good of England,” he said, smacking his lips at the tart taste. “Henry is quite mad. We know he is quite mad. Because he is mad, his wife, Margaret rules for him. That means, essentially, a French whore rules England. That does not sit well with me or many other men. Edward, at least, is not mad and he does not have his French wife ruling in his stead. He is skilled, an excellent warrior, and possesses a keen mind. Those are all attributes of a man I would wish to have sitting upon the throne of England.”

Andrew should have sensed something was afoot but he did not; he simply viewed de la Londe’s statement as his opinion. He shrugged his big shoulders.

“Possibly,” he said. “But the fact remains that he is not the rightful king.”

De la Londe cocked an eyebrow to make a point. “Edward has a very strong claim to the throne. More than that, he has more support than Henry does. It is only a matter of time before Henry, and his supporters, are completely wiped out.”

Andrew considered that for a moment. More than that, he was now starting to suspect something. He wasn’t sure yet, but it was clear that de la Londe was advocating Edward for the sake of the argument. Calmly, he poured himself more wine.

“Is that what you truly believe, Simon?” he asked.

De la Londe nodded, glancing at de Troiu, who hadn’t imbibed any alcohol the entire meal. De Troiu’s mind was still quite clear and when he caught de la Londe’s expression, he spoke up.

“Towton was a disaster,” he said. “So many dead, including Titus de Wolfe. It was a horrible scene. There are not many Lancastrian supporters left and there is a great deal of talk among those who remain about ending these wars and throwing their support behind Edward. Now with Northumberland gone, his ranks of knights are discussing what is to be done now. There is now a twelve-year-old boy at the helm of Northumberland’s armies and the lad is not a military leader like his father was. It has caused the Northumberland knights to rethink their loyalties, including Adam.”

Andrew’s head came up and his dark eyes focused intensely on de Troiu. “My son?” he questioned. “What has Adam said?”

De Troiu cast de la Londe a long look, a purposeful move, as if to imply he did not want to tell Andrew the truth. It was an obvious gesture that only made Andrew more suspicious of their motives.

“Like the others, he is considering supporting Edward,” de Troiu said softly. “He has sent us here to ask you to consider the same.”

Andrew sat back in his chair, surprised. “He has?” he asked. “Why did he not come personally?”

De la Londe spoke, an off the cuff answer because he had not expected Andrew’s question, nor had he expected de Troiu’s suggestion that Adam had asked them to approach his father on a change in loyalties. That was not how he and de Troiu had originally discussed approaching the subject and he silently cursed de Troiu for changing the rules of the game mid-stream. Now, they were forced to come up with believable answers in a hurry.

“Because he was injured at Towton,” de la Londe lied. “He cannot travel. He asked us to come in his stead.”

Andrew looked stricken. “Why did you not tell me he was injured when you first arrived?”

De la Londe shook his head. “It is not a terrible injury,” he assured the old man. “But it is best that he not travel for a time. The physic wants him to rest. We are all considering swearing fealty to Edward’s cause, Andrew. In fact, Declan and I have already sworn fealty to him. Adam and the others will soon follow. We need you with us, Andrew. As it is, you support a mad king who has very little support. If you attend battle for him again, you will be terribly overwhelmed. I do not want to see you slaughtered if I can help it and neither does your son.”

Andrew simply sat there, digesting everything he’d been told. His son had been injured, the king’s supporters had been defeated at Towton, and now knights that he had known and fought with for years were telling him that, out of necessity, their loyalties were shifting. That in of itself held warning for Andrew; he had accepted these knights into his home as allies. Now, they were telling him that it might not be the case. If they were not allies, they were enemies. He was very concerned with enemies in his home.

The more he thought about it, the more it disturbed him. Why did they not tell him of Adam right away? Why wait until the end? The manner in which the news was delivered suggested that de la Londe and de Troiu were trying to play on Andrew’s sympathies. In fact, the entire conversation seemed to be designed to play on his sympathies. Death, destruction, and a mad king… as Andrew pondered all of these factors, he realized that he was becoming enraged. Quite enraged. How dare these men come to Wellesbourne under the flag of friendship, only to inform him that they were, in fact, traitors to Henry? Was anything they had told him even true?

Andrew Wellesbourne was many things but he was not a fool. He was a warrior and warriors knew what needed to be done. With that in mind, he began to carefully lay his trap.

“Then I suppose I must consider it,” he finally said, regarding his cup. “It sounds as if Henry’s cause is dying.”

De Troiu nodded, relieved that Wellesbourne wasn’t up in arms over the course the conversation had taken. He had suspected resistance, anger at the very least, but Andrew seemed to be seriously pondering their offer. Perhaps their coercion had worked, after all.

“After Towton, there is not much hope,” he replied. “I suppose it is good that you were not there. You may have known serious casualties among your own men.”

Andrew pretended to contemplate that statement when, in fact, he was contemplating much more that had nothing to do with switching loyalties to Henry. He glanced up, seeing two men-at-arms at the door to the great hall of Wellesbourne but he knew there were more armed men about, including his two knights, Juston de Royans and Jasper de Llion. De Royans and de Llion had been part of the meal at the onset but had soon left to complete their duties for the night. It was rather unfortunate, for Andrew wished the knights had remained to hear what de Troiu and de la Londe had to say. But they would hear it soon enough.

“You could be right,” Andrew said, peering into the wine pitcher and pretending it was empty when it was really about a quarter full. “It is certainly something I shall think about, especially if Adam is so inclined. Let me summon a servant to fetch more wine and we shall continue this line of conversation. I am also interested to know how badly my son was injured.”

He stood up, taking the wine pitcher with him. As he headed for the entry, presumably to summon a kitchen servant when the hall seemed to have several of them lingering about, de la Londe turned his head slightly in de Troiu’s direction.

“Why did you tell him Adam had asked us to demand his change in loyalty?” he hissed, covering it up by lifting a cup to his mouth. “He will want to send word to Adam. What then?”

De Troiu pushed a piece of candied fruit into his mouth. “Hopefully by that time it will not matter,” he muttered. “Hopefully Norfolk will have extracted complete loyalty from Wellesbourne and the matter will be settled. You know that Norfolk will want to come and visit Andrew if the man shows any interest in Edward’s cause.”

De la Londe sighed heavily with doubt, and took a couple of big gulps of wine. Then he looked around the great hall of Wellesbourne, a two-storied monstrosity with a minstrel gallery above.

“Have you thought about what you are going to do when these wars are over?” he asked quietly, his mind wandering to something other than war. “My family is originally from Rouen. I’ve no desire to return there. Norfolk promised Titus lands in Westwick but since Titus cannot accept, mayhap he will give them to me. I would be happy to settle in Norfolk.”

De Troiu shrugged. “My family is from Northumberland,” he said. “I was born at Deauxville Mount Castle. It will be mine when my father dies.”

De la Londe glanced at him. “Then you have no need for the wealth Norfolk can provide.”

“I will take anything he gives me.”

De la Londe snorted into his cup. Further conversation was cut short, however, when Andrew reappeared and took his seat on the opposite side of the table. When de la Londe and de Troiu looked at him, expectantly, he grinned.

“I am having some of my private wine brought up from the vaults,” he said. “It is wine I only share on special occasions and I would assume this is one of those times. Now, tell me more about my son. What has happened to him?”

De la Londe and de Troiu looked at each other, each man expecting the other to reply since neither of them really had an idea what to say, but de Troiu made it clear he had no intention of answering. He wasn’t the one who had told Wellesbourne his son had been injured. That being the case, de la Londe had no choice but to speak.

“An archer strike,” he said in a vague description. “There were thousands of Edward’s archers that day. The physic expects him to fully recover.”

That answer seemed to satisfy Andrew for the most part. “I see,” he said. “I will have to tell his wife. Audrey is here at Wellesbourne, you know. She is pregnant with their third child.”

De la Londe nodded; he had caught a glimpse of the woman when they had arrived, a lovely blond with a big belly. “He has two older boys, does he not?”

Andrew nodded. “Matthew is ten and fostering at Kenilworth along with his brother, Mark, who his eight,” he said. “Matthew will be a great knight. He is bright and big and cunning. I am not entirely sure about Mark yet, but time will tell.”

De la Londe and de Troiu simply nodded. De la Londe drained the last of his wine whilst de Troiu found interest in the candied fruits on the table. Andrew watched both men with a hawk-like stare, his dark gaze moving between the pair, knowing what was coming for them. With the excuse of having more wine brought from the storage vaults, he’d sent a servant running for de Royans and de Llion. He soon expected his knights in the hall, heavily armed, and he was counting the seconds with great anticipation. De la Londe and de Troiu had declared themselves to be enemies. He would treat them as such. But he had to trap them before they could make the first move against him.

“You have not yet wed, have you, Simon?” Andrew asked, making conversation until help arrived. “I seem to remember hearing you had a contract marriage. Or mayhap it was someone else; I cannot recall.”

De la Londe shook his head. “It was not me,” he said. “That was Titus. He married a de Shera.”

Andrew was impressed. “The Lords of Thunder,” he murmured. “The family is old and distinguished. They are related to the hereditary kings of Anglesey as well as the House of de Wolfe, if I recall correctly. So Titus married a cousin?”

De la Londe shrugged. “A very distant one, I think,” he said. “Truthfully, I do not know much about the de Wolfes and the de Sheras. Titus’ wife, the former Isobeau de Shera, seems pleasant enough. She is quite beautiful.”

Andrew thought on the widowed young wife. “Tragic,” he said. It was then that he noticed de Royans and de Llion appear in the entry, fully armed. Since de la Londe and de Troiu had their backs to the hall entrance, they could not see what Andrew saw. Therefore, he sought to keep their attention. “Now, tell me more about your opinion of Henry’s future following Towton. You are proposing that I make a very big decision. I would have all of the information necessary to make the best decision possible.”

De la Londe spoke up, encouraged that the man was asking such questions and completely oblivious to the threat stalking up behind him. “You must understand the scope of the support that Edward had at Towton,” he said. “Warwick was there, no less. It would seem to me that if Warwick is supporting Edward, then the man must be worth that measure of respect.”

Andrew lifted an eyebrow, his focus on the two men in front of him even though he could see de Royans and de Llion coming up behind them in his periphery. He didn’t want to tip them off. “Indeed,” he said. “But let us be frank; all Warwick wants is power and he will support the king most likely to give it to him.”

De la Londe opened his mouth to reply but was cut short when de Royans brought the hilt of his broadsword down on the back of de la Londe’s skull. De Troiu had no time to react at all before de Llion was smashing him against the back of the skull, too. Both men fell in a heap to the ground, wallowing at the feet of the knights who had just disabled them. Victorious, Andrew leapt to his feet.

“Excellent,” he hissed, moving around the table to get a better look at his unconscious victims. “The vile bastards.”

Juston de Royans, a big man with blond hair, peered curiously at Andrew. “What has happened, my lord?” he asked, concerned. “We received your message to incapacitate these men at all costs. What goes on in here? Did they threaten you?”

Andrew frowned at de la Londe, who was trying very hard to wake up. He kicked the man in the head to still him. “Lying bastards,” he said. “They came here under the guise of friendship and fed me lies. More than that, they have declared their support for Edward. Put them both in the vault and make sure they are secure. Consider them enemies, is that clear?”

De Royans and de Llion were rather surprised at the news, looking down at their victims as they splayed across the dirt floor. More men-at-arms were now entering the hall, pulling de la Londe and de Troiu off the ground. De Llion went with the prisoners to secure them in the vault but de Royans remained behind. He was still quite confused.

“Support for Edward?” de Royans repeated, astonished. “I do not understand. They are Northumberland knights.”

Andrew nodded, disgust in his manner. “I know,” he said. “But there is something afoot in Northumberland’s world, something terrible, and I will know the truth of it. I must send word to Adam immediately about these two traitors and find out what is really going on. De la Londe tried to tell me that everyone in the north is swearing fealty to Edward but I know that is not true. It cannot be. Send me the fastest messenger we have, someone who is not afraid of rough travel. This will be a perilous journey but it must be done.”

“I will go, my lord,” de Royans said. “I can make it there quickly. I will see for myself what is happening in Northumberland and report back to you.”

Andrew considered the offer. “I do not like sending one of my two remaining knights to the north, but I suppose it makes the most sense,” he said. “You are strong and courageous, and can make the journey with little trouble. Very well, Juston; you will go. Ride to Alnwick and find out what in the name of Christ is going on up there. If you can, bring Adam home. I am not entirely sure I want him with Northumberland any longer. Tell my son that I want him to come home.”

De Royans was just as confused as his liege was about the entire situation; Andrew was speaking of things that didn’t seem possible, but if Andrew Wellesbourne said there was trouble afoot in Northumberland’s world, then Juston believed him.

As Andrew followed his men out of the hall, following the prisoners with the intention of making sure, with his own eyes, that they were locked away, de Royans headed to the knight’s quarters to begin collecting his possessions. It would be a long and difficult journey to the north, one he didn’t relish. But, as Wellesbourne had said, strange dealings were afoot and the truth must be uncovered.

There was betrayal in the air.

*

Wolfe’s Lair

Dream of angels, my sweet, as they rock you softly to sleep…

Isobeau had been repeating those lyrics in her mind, over and over, a song she had written for the child she no longer carried. No one had to tell her that she was no longer pregnant; she knew.

Half-asleep, she struggled to wake up. The physic had given her something to drink that would make her sleep; whatever it was affected her greatly. Her eyes lids felt as if they weighed as much as a full-grown horse because try as she might, she could hardly lift them. Her eyes kept rolling back into her head. But she fought it, the lethargy, and pushed herself over onto her left side.

“M’lady?” came a thin, frightened-sounding female voice. “M’lady, you shouldn’t move. Lie still.”

Isobeau struggled to open at least one eye and it worked, somewhat. She found herself looking at a young woman with missing teeth and oily skin. The servant hovered near the end of the bed, the chamber illuminated by the fire in the hearth, so all Isobeau could really see was the woman’s shadowed face. Isobeau licked her dry lips.

“How long have I been asleep?” she murmured.

The servant woman twisted her hands nervously. “A long time, m’lady,” she said. “The sun has just set. M’lady, you shouldn’t move around!”

Isobeau ignored the woman, struggling to clear the cobwebs, trying to recall her last coherent memory. She remembered the cramping of course, and the blood, and the physic who had forced her to drink the potion that put her to sleep. After that, she remembered nothing.

“Where is the physic?” she asked. “What did he do to me?”

The servant woman fled to the door, jerking it open and calling for someone named Piney or Pliney. Isobeau really didn’t know. She tried to look around, for she had no idea where she was and she didn’t recognize the chamber. But she noticed one thing right away; it smelled terrible and she was laying on an oiled cloth. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, either. As she struggled to prop herself up on an elbow, the tall and skinny physic entered the chamber. He had hands that looked like skinny skeletal bones and wisps of white hair around his pointed head. When he saw that Isobeau was trying to sit up, he rushed to her and gently, but firmly, pushed her back down again.

“Nay, my lady,” he said politely. “You will remain down. You must rest now.”

Isobeau was on her back, gazing up at the man. He still had his hands on her and she didn’t like it. “Remove your hands,” she commanded. “Who are you?”

The physic took his hands away. “I am Pliney,” he said. “I am Sir Solomon’s physic.”

Isobeau eyed the man, or tried to. She still felt as if her eyelids were extremely heavy. “What did you give me?” she said. “I cannot seem to keep my eyes open.”

The physic nodded. “That is the drug,” he said. “I gave you a potion of poppy. It will take away your pain and allow you to sleep. You need a good deal of rest, my lady. Your body must recover.”

Isobeau thought on that a moment, coming to realize what he meant. She’d known it the moment it happened, the moment she had awakened. But she needed to hear it from the physic.

“I am no longer with child,” she whispered. It was not a question.

The physic shook his head. “Nay, my lady.”

Isobeau sighed heavily, fighting off the tears. “Was…,” she began, stopped, and started again. “Was there anything left of the child? Was… was he very big?”

The physic shook his head. “We stripped you of your clothing, my lady,” he said, watching Isobeau as she realized she was in an article of clothing that did not belong to her. “I inspected everything that was on the dress and there was nothing I could see. You must have been very early in your pregnancy.”

Isobeau nodded, gazing up at the ceiling and thinking that her son was now with his father in heaven. “No more than six or seven weeks at the very most,” she said. “It was not very advanced.”

The physic suspected as much. “Then it is God’s Will that this should happen, my lady,” he said. “You must trust in the Lord that he knows what is best.”

His words inflamed her. “Best?” she repeated, raising her voice and trying to push herself off the bed. “How is the death of my child for the best? I have only just lost my husband and now my child? I have lost my entire family, you fool. How can this be for the best?”

The physic was used to dealing with the high emotions of illness or loss, or at least he thought he was. He had yet to come across anyone with Isobeau’s fire. “I am not God; therefore, I would not know,” he said. “Now your son will not have to grow up without his father. That is a blessing.”

Isobeau was utterly outraged. “Get out,” she spat. “Get out before I throw you out. You are a barbaric, foolish idiot and I want you away from me!”

The physic backed up but he did not leave. “My lady, you must calm yourself,” he said. “You must not get excited.”

Groggy and weak, Isobeau rolled onto her side. There was a table next to the bed with a dirty wooden cup on it, a knife, and part of a shriveled apple. She lashed out a hand and grabbed the first thing she could, which happened to be the knife. She hurled it at the physic, barely missing the man. Rather than remain in the room if the lady was starting to throw weapons, the physic quickly vacated along with the toothless servant. Isobeau threw the cup at them just for good measure. When the door slammed, she collapsed back on the uncomfortable bed and cried.

The tears were cleansing and comforting. Isobeau cried tears for the child, tears for Titus. She comforted herself with the knowledge that their son was with his father now and the two of them had each other. The physic had been right about that particular point and she was at peace with the idea. But she herself had no one. She’d never felt more alone in her life.

Head aching, and feeling unsteady, she forced herself from the bed, wiping at her eyes. She didn’t want to lie on the smelly bed any longer; she wasn’t sure where she wanted to go or what she wanted to do, but she wanted to find Atticus. Somehow, all roads pointed to him in her mind, as nearly the only familiar person in her world, and she wanted to find him. She knew he wasn’t far away, for he never seemed to be far away. As she staggered to her feet with the intention of leaving the chamber to hunt for Atticus, the door suddenly flew open.

“Isobeau!” Atticus gasped, rushing to her and grabbing her before she could fall on the ground. “Jesus Ch… you must return to bed immediately.”

He sounded harried, concerned. He very carefully swung her into his arms and took her back to the smelly, oil-cloth covered bed, but the moment he attempted to lay her down, she balked.

“Nay,” she gasped, putting her hand down to prevent him from laying her on the mattress. “Please… I would rather lie on the floor than that bed. It smells and is horribly uncomfortable.”

Atticus, who had just run up three flights of stairs when a panicked servant told him that Lady de Wolfe was having a fit, looked down at his father’s horrible bed and knew that she was correct. He had simply wanted to lay the woman down somewhere to calm her down. He still wasn’t over his fright at the news of her fit and, with his heart still pounding against his ribs, he stood straight with her in his arms and turned for the door.

“I believe they are nearly finished with your chamber,” he told her. “I’ll take you there. We did not move you there sooner because the physic told us that you should not be moved at all.”

Exhausted, and feeling a good deal of comfort in Atticus’ arms, she laid her head against his big shoulder. “That physic is a fool,” she uttered. “I do not want that man near me again. Will you make sure of it?”

Atticus took her out into the corridor, careful not to bang her head against the stone walls. “If that is your wish,” he said. “But why? What did he do?”

She sighed, feeling quite calm now that Atticus was with her. It was both surprising and amazing that the sensation of being held in his arms should soothe her soul and her fears so much. She’d never known anything like it, ever. Somehow, she knew that she was safe and that everything would be all right as long as Atticus held her. He gave her peace.

“He told me that the loss of the child was God’s Will and that I should be grateful,” she murmured. “I do not want him near me again. If I see him again, I may have to kill him.”

Atticus fought off a grin because he could hear humor in her weak tone. “I see,” he said. “Well, I shall make sure if it, then. I should not want you to be forced to kill.”

She nodded, or at least attempted to. “It would be messy, for I have never done such a thing,” she said. “I would have to guess on the best way to kill a man. His brains would be in one place and his heart would be in another.”

He laughed softly. “That sounds quite messy, indeed,” he said. “I shall make sure he is kept away. Are you feeling better, then?”

Isobeau put her arms up around his neck, pulling herself closer to him, a gesture that was not lost on Atticus. She was warm and soft in all of the right places as far as he could tell. It was a rather enticing position he found himself in with her but he quickly chased those thoughts away. He was both embarrassed and intrigued by them.

“I am very tired,” Isobeau said softly. “The physic gave me something to drink and it has made me very sleepy. It was probably poison, whatever it is.”

They entered the chamber Isobeau had originally been put in, but now it was much different from the sparse chamber it had been before – servants had brought in a larger bed and a new mattress set upon it, now being sewn shut by an older, female servant. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, several sheep hides on the floor for warmth, and all seven of her trunks had been stacked neatly in a corner. There was also a pile of what looked like linen on the table and the elderly male servant who serviced Solomon’s chamber was going through the linen, inspecting it and sniffing it. It was clear he was looking for clean things to put on the mattress.

When the servants heard Atticus and Isobeau enter, the old woman with the big, bone needle in her hand looked to them rather anxiously.

“M’lord,” she said, her heavy Scots burr evident. “We hadna the straw nor grass tae stuff the mattress with. We must have that for the livestock. Instead, we stuffed it with wool from the spring sheer. ’Tis quite comfortable.”

Atticus didn’t put Isobeau down yet. He eyed the mattress. “That should do nicely,” he said, looking over at the old man standing by the table. “What are those? Clean linens?”

The old man nodded. “These belonged to your mother, Sir Atticus,” he said. He had been with Solomon many years and knew the family well. “They have been stored away. Lord Solomon does not know I have brought them out. I fear he will be angry. He does not like his wife’s things touched.”

Atticus thought of his father, still in the chapel with Titus. The priest from Hawick was there, and Warenne and Kenton were in the chapel, too. In fact, they had been in the process of trying to convince Solomon that Titus should be buried this night when the panicked servant had come for Atticus. He had wanted to hold the burial off until Isobeau was strong enough to attend but he had no idea when that would be and Titus could no longer wait to be put into the ground. Therefore, there had been a strong movement underway between him and Warenne to convince Solomon to bury Titus this night. That was still the plan as long as Atticus had anything to say about it.

Atticus thought of his father and how broken he was over Titus’ death. The man never had recovered from the death of Rosalie, as indicated by the elderly servant. Atticus honestly wasn’t sure if his father would ever recover from Titus’ death. Atticus wasn’t so sure he would, either.

“I know,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “But I do not think he would mind it if Lady de Wolfe used Mother’s things since there is nothing else of feminine comfort to provide. Hurry and prepare the bed, now. There is no time to waste.”

The old man began scurrying, grabbing the clean linens and rushing towards the bed where the female servant had just finished stitching the mattress shut. Between the two of them, they managed to adequately make the bed up with old but clean linens and even two old, silk pillows that had belonged to Atticus’ mother. By the time they were finished, it looked rather inviting.

Isobeau, meanwhile, watched all of it from Atticus’ arms. She was not really sleepy now as much as she was simply weak and exhausted. Her head was still against his shoulder as she watched the servant woman smooth out the faded coverlet that was beautifully embroidered but creased in places where it had been stored for years, folded up.

“Your mother had beautiful things,” she said softly. “What a lovely silk coverlet.”

Atticus’ gaze lingered on it. “I remember that coverlet,” he said. “She slept in this room because my father snored so badly she could not sleep otherwise. That coverlet used to cover her bed and I can remember, as a child, laying upon it as she would sing to me.”

Isobeau’s head came up and she looked at him. “Your mother sang?”

He met her gaze, thinking she was far too close. Her lush, pillowy lips were too inviting and he found himself chasing off thoughts of interest once again.

“She did,” he said. “She had a lovely voice, as I recall.”

“What did she sing?”

He shrugged. “Songs for children,” he said. “I seem to remember a fairy song. Something about dilly, dilly. I remember telling her to sing the Dilly song.”

Isobeau grinned. “I know that song.”

“You do?”

She nodded, lifting her sweet soprano with the lyrics:

“Dilly, dilly, lady fairy, how shall you fly? Long to the day as slumber grows nigh;

On gossamer wings, you touch the stars.

On the wings of angels, you steal our hearts.

Come touch my heart, O fairy dove,

And take me from the world above.”

By the time she finished, Atticus was looking at her in shock. “Where did you learn to sing like that?” he demanded softly.

Isobeau smiled, averting her eyes modestly. “Didn’t Titus tell you that I sang?”

“He never mentioned it.”

“I write songs, too.”

Atticus smiled faintly, impressed. “I would like to hear one of your songs.”

Isobeau was rather coy about it, shrugging with modesty. “I am sure you will soon,” she said, her smile fading. “I… I wrote several songs for Titus while he was away and I was hoping to sing one of them at his burial. Do you think the priests will allow it?”

Atticus nodded, his gaze lingering on her. “I will make sure of it,” he said quietly. “I am sure my brother would be very touched.”

The servants finished with the bed at that point and gestured to Atticus to lay the lady upon the faded silk coverlet. Atticus gently set Isobeau down on top of the bed with linens that used to belong to his mother, thinking it was especially appropriate for Isobeau to sleep upon the same linens that had touched his mother’s skin. He knew his mother would have been pleased with finally having a daughter. She had wanted one badly, so much so that she had died giving birth to one. Rosalie and her infant daughter had been buried together, in fact, but it was something that hadn’t been mentioned since her passing. It was too painful for Solomon to hear.

As Atticus lingered over thoughts of his mother and coverlets and infant daughters, Isobeau was inspecting Rosalie’s fine bed covering; she ran her hand over faded silk that had once been red. Now it was an uneven shade of pink. But her interest soon shifted from the coverlet to what she was wearing; it was oversized and unfamiliar. Somehow, she had been stripped of her bloodied traveling clothes. We stripped you of your clothing, the physic had said. She didn’t even remember changing. She lifted her arms, inspecting the garment.

“Who does this belong to?” she asked. “I do not seem to recall putting it on.”

Atticus eyed the linen gown. “I am not entirely sure,” he said, “but your clothes were ruined and the servants came up with something. I would suspect they raided more of my mother’s things for something to dress you in.”

Isobeau stopped inspecting the heavy garment and craned her neck back to look at her trunks, over against the wall. “My things are here now,” she said. “I can change into something that belongs to me.”

Atticus put a hand up to prevent her from climbing off the bed in her weakened state in the hunt for familiar clothing. “Mayhap you should wait,” he said. “You should rest and I am sure my mother would not mind you wearing one of her dressing gowns. When you are feeling better, I will have hot water brought to you so that you may bathe and dress properly if you wish.”

Isobeau gazed up at him, smiling gratefully. “I would appreciate that,” she said. “I actually feel much better than I did when I awoke. Whatever the physic gave me to help me sleep must be wearing off.”

He eyed her, as if he wasn’t convinced. “Surely you do not feel completely well,” he said. “You were… that is to say, you were very sick. It seemed that you lost a good deal of blood.”

He was trying to be delicate about it and Isobeau chuckled. “I am weary, that is true,” she said. “But I feel better. I could eat something, I think.”

Atticus was pleased to hear that. She also seemed to have some color back into her pale cheeks, which was encouraging. He felt like saying something warm to her, something almost silly and sweet, but he refrained. The woman had just been through a terrible emotional and physical event, and any foolish romantic notions he might be entertaining were sorely out of place. All he knew was that he was content to be with her and vastly relieved she was feeling better. More relieved than he realized. As he gazed at Isobeau’s blond head, watching her as she inspected the embroidery on the coverlet, he heard a voice in the chamber door behind him.

“Is everything well with my lady?” Warenne said as he entered the chamber, his gaze moving between Atticus and Isobeau. “When you ran off with the servant, Atticus, we feared the worst.”

Atticus turned to his friend. “She is well enough,” he said, gesturing at Isobeau who was now smiling up at Warenne. “Ask her yourself.”

Isobeau nodded her head before Warenne could speak. “I am much better, thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your concern.”

Warenne knew what had happened with the loss of the baby; they all knew, all but Solomon, who wasn’t even aware that his dead son’s wife was at Wolfe’s Lair. The time for introductions would come soon enough but it would have to wait until the man overcame his initial grief and madness. Warenne had never quite seen such grief from a father over the death of a son. He was glad to have left the chapel in search of Atticus, leaving Kenton behind to watch over the bereaved Solomon. There was something inherently heartbreaking and depressing about watching the man suffer. Moreover, there was a reason why he had come in search of Atticus and he hastened to come to the point.

“I am glad to hear that, my lady,” he said, feeling that it would be unseemly of him to mention the loss of the child. Perhaps some things were better left unspoken. Therefore, his gaze shifted to Atticus. “I came to tell you that your father has agreed to bury Titus this very night. I would suggest we go about it before he changes his mind.”

Atticus grew seriously. “Saints be praised,” he replied. “Is the priest prepared?”

“Prepared and waiting,” Warenne responded. “He did not want to commence with anything without you.”

Atticus nodded swiftly and was about to follow Warenne from the chamber when he suddenly came to a halt, turning to look at Isobeau. She was gazing back at him, her eyes wide in her pale face. The color had gone from her cheeks again and he could see the emotion in her eyes. He could see the return of her sorrow.

“Isobeau, I am sorry…,” he began, stopped, and started again as he grasped for words. “I know you do not feel well, but I am afraid we must take this opportunity to bury Titus. He must be put in the ground as soon as possible and if my father is willing at this moment, then we must do it.”

Isobeau waved him off as she began to climb off the bed, very weakly. “He should have been buried days ago,” she said. “He should have been buried before I saw him back at Alnwick. If you will give me a few minutes, I will dress and go with you.”

“But….”

Isobeau cut him off with a deliberate look. “I will go,” she repeated, more firmly. “You will not bury my husband without me and he must be buried; therefore, I must go. Give me a few minutes and I will be ready.”

Atticus didn’t have the heart to argue with her. The woman deserved to be at her husband’s burial. She deserved to say her final farewells.

“As you wish,” he said softly. “Do you require any assistance? Should I send one of the servants in to help you?”

Isobeau nodded as she found her feet and unsteadily began to make her way across the floor towards her trunks.

“Please,” she said. “And hurry. I am sure your father will not wait.”

Atticus glanced at Warenne, who simply shrugged; they both knew that they could not, in good conscience, deny the woman the right to attend her husband’s funeral no matter how weak she was. Therefore, Warenne quit the chamber, calling for the servants, as Atticus stood near the door, watching Isobeau as she struggled to pull out a couple of her smaller trunks.

Quickly, he moved across the room and helped her, gently pushing her aside as he pulled out her trunks, all of them, and threw open the lids so she could get to the items she needed. He didn’t even think about the fact that she had seven of them, a number he had complained about. To scold her again didn’t even cross his mind. He had just finished opening the last trunk when the servant with the oily skin entered and rushed to help Isobeau as the woman began to pull things out of her trunks. She was moving as quickly as she could in spite of her weakened state; Atticus could see that. He returned to the chamber door.

“I will be waiting in the corridor when you are ready,” he told her. “You need not rush. Do not strain yourself.”

Isobeau turned to look at him and he could see that she was trying hard to be brave for what she was about to face. The finality of the burial was coming to weigh on both of them, the final farewell to Titus de Wolfe. It was a mood that now hung heavy in the air.

“I will only be a few minutes,” she told him again. “I will be ready soon.”

Atticus didn’t reply. He simply left the chamber and shut the door, affording her some privacy. He waited in the low-ceilinged corridor for her but the truth was that he hadn’t waited an over-amount of time; she was swift in her dress as she said she would be, but all the while as he waited in the corridor, Atticus found himself asking his brother for guidance. He’d never missed it so much as he did at that moment.

I am so sorry about your son, Titus, he found himself saying. Please know that if it had been within my power, I would have given my life if it would have saved his. But there was nothing to fight and no sacrifice I could have made that would have saved him. Please forgive me for what has happened.

He knew, wherever Titus was, that the man had already forgiven him but that didn’t lessen his guilt. Moreover, there was something more he was starting to feel guilty about when it came to Isobeau.

Would it be wrong of me to want to marry your wife now because I found something in her that you must have liked? Because, I am certain, I’ve found it….