Brides of Scotland: Four full length Novels by Kathryn Le Veque (36)

Wolfe’s Lair

It was dawn as Atticus stood at the lancet window overlooking the western expanse of the moor that surrounded his family’s ancient fortress. The past day or two had seen temperatures warm significantly and the ice that formed on the ground overnight was quickly gone by mid-morning. In fact, temperatures had warmed quite rapidly, suggesting that spring was, in fact, on its way. It would have been wonderful traveling weather if, in fact, he had been able to travel. But those plans were temporarily on hold.

He turned to look at Isobeau, sleeping soundly in his mother’s bed. The remains of the child are poisoning her, the physic had said. That was the cause of the fever. Evidently, when Isobeau had bled out her dead baby not everything had been evacuated, and the physic was forced to take steps that would help heal Isobeau’s womb. He put some kind of a potion into her, rinsing her out, and made her ingest something else that would allegedly help her heal. Colt’s Foot, he’d said. It all seemed mysterious and magic.

That had taken place yesterday. Even though Isobeau had remained brave through the entire process, it had been exhausting and painful and traumatic. After the procedures, she had fallen into a dead sleep and had remained that way for nearly twelve hours; Atticus knew because he’d never left her side, as he’d promised. The truth was that he didn’t want to leave her. This woman he’d married, the one he was becoming so wildly attracted to, was quickly consuming his focus as if nothing else existed. He had a mission to complete, justice for his brother, but at that moment, those plans were on hold. He never thought he’d see the day when a woman would cause him to put aside a strong sense of duty. Perhaps a strong sense of affection, or more, was even more powerful than that. The truth was that he wasn’t all that upset about it.

Turning away from the window and the breaking dawn, he made his way over to the bed, standing over it to gaze upon the woman he married. There was some color back in her face and she didn’t look nearly as sick as she had. He was grateful. That foolish physic his father employed was skilled even if he was difficult to deal with.

Thoughts of his father then came upon him and he pondered his father’s general mood and health over the past day or two. Solomon was still heavily grieving Titus and had taken to his bed for most of the day and night. He had been oddly quiet, too, which was strange for the usually very vocal man. Atticus was thinking on looking in on his father when there was a soft knock on the door. Quietly, Atticus went to answer it.

Kenton was standing in the corridor, his stubbled face grim. “Trouble, Atticus.”

Atticus’ eyebrows lifted. “What trouble?” he asked almost reluctantly. “The last time you were here with news, Norfolk’s knights were on our doorstep. What now?”

Kenton gave him an expression that was droll and intense at the same time. It was an odd mixture. “Call me the bearer of bad tidings, then,” he said. “You told Summerlin not to return, did you not?”

Atticus’ brow furrowed. “He’s back?”

“Back with Norfolk’s army.”

Now Atticus was stunned. “He’s back with the army?”

Kenton nodded. “You told him that you would kill du Reims if he returned,” he said. “Evidently, the man does not care about his comrade.”

Atticus’ features hardened, outrage in his eyes. “Surely you jest, Kenton. This is not funny at all.”

Kenton shook his head, the irony of the situation not lost on him. “I do not have a sense of humor; therefore, I do not jest,” he replied. “Summerlin is back with his army and they are preparing to mount an offensive against Wolfe’s Lair.”

Atticus’ outrage turned to pure rage. “Then he will learn the hard way that I do not make threats I do not intend to carry out,” he said. “Summerlin and his men are in for a brutal time of it.”

Kenton understood. A threat, once given, could not be rescinded or Atticus would look like a weakling. “Much is his misfortune, then,” was all he could say.

Atticus’ mind was already whirling with the burden of command. Norfolk’s army was here. His instincts took charge, the training that had been part of his life since a very early age, and he stepped out into the corridor and softly shut the door behind him. The scent of battle was already filling the air and he inhaled of it deeply; he fed off of it. He was in his element with it. The Lion was born for battle.

“Then we prepare,” he said as he began to head towards the inner ward and, subsequently, the gatehouse. He wanted to see what was coming. “Are the men mobilizing?”

Kenton nodded. He was extremely efficient, already anticipating what needed to happen. “They are,” he said. “Warenne has not left yet, you know. He ended up staying the night because it was late by the time he was fully prepared to depart. He is already positioning the men upon the walls.”

“And my father?”

“I have not yet seen him.”

They were now descending the steps that would lead down to the inner ward, which was alive with men and animals. Soldiers were moving all of the animals and supplies they could into the stables because of the sod roof. If Norfolk decided to send flaming projectiles over the wall, at least the roof would not burn and protect those beneath. Atticus passed a practiced eye over the commotion, assessing it, understanding the progress in an instant. Already, much had been done.

“Leave my father in peace for now,” he said. “I will go and speak to him after I have fully assessed the situation. At the moment, I need to see the approach and positioning of Norfolk’s army.”

Kenton gestured to Atticus’ torso. “You should dress for battle first in case they decide to employ the archers. Knowing Norfolk, they will be his initial assault.”

Atticus eyed him. “You know that always comes last with me,” he said. “The restriction of armor makes me feel less than agile.”

Kenton shook his head. He had been fighting with Atticus for many years and he knew that. He didn’t agree with it, but he knew the man’s position. “You are the only knight I know who feels encumbered by protection,” he said. “Someday that is going to cost you. You would fight naked if you could, Atticus.”

Atticus grinned. “If I thought I could get away with it, I would,” he said. “I move much better when I am not covered by great hunks of metal.”

“You are an odd creature.”

Atticus laughed softly as they made their way up the wall to the gatehouse where he could better see the approach of Norfolk’s army. The moment he was in position to gain a view of the eastern moors, he could see the army in the distance, lined up on the crest between Wolfe’s Lair and the small valley that spread out before it.

In the light of dawn, Atticus studied the distant cluster of men and animals. There were trees in the distance, somewhat marring a clear view of the army, but he could see easily enough of it. They were moving forward at a slow pace. He pointed to the incoming tide of men.

“I see at least two siege engines,” he said. “They will have little trouble rolling those to the wall of the castle but they will not be high enough.”

“So they will bring in ladders,” Kenton said. “Ultimately, that is what they will use to try and mount the walls.”

Atticus agreed. “That is true, but they will have to be very tall ladders to reach the top, and ladders that tall are unstable,” he said. His gaze lingered on the distant army a moment longer before turning away. “I will inform my father of what is happening and then I intend to pay a visit to du Reims. The man and I must speak.”

Kenton watched him as he headed down the narrow stairs that led up from the ward. “Do you truly intend to kill him and toss him over the wall?”

“That is what he and I will speak of.”

Kenton didn’t press him and he didn’t offer his opinion. Atticus had a better sense of knightly chivalry and honor than most, but all of this was tied into Titus’ death so he wasn’t entirely sure just how restrained, or how fair, Atticus would be in his judgement. Du Reims was a man who couldn’t really fight back should Atticus go after him and it would be unlike Atticus to go to battle against a man who couldn’t defend himself. He would consider that dishonorable. Still, the situation was different these days. Kenton would keep an eye on Atticus and how he dealt with du Reims because he didn’t want the man to do anything that he would later regret.

Atticus, now at the bottom of the steps, wasn’t oblivious to Kenton’s thoughts. They were close and understood each other well. He knew Kenton didn’t approve of the possible execution of du Reims and, deep down, Atticus wasn’t entirely comfortable with it either. There was the little matter of honor with him, honor that would prevent him from outright murdering a disabled knight. Still, he couldn’t let Summerlin’s defiance go unanswered and they all knew it. Just how he dealt with that defiance would define this battle in particular. He was halfway across the inner ward when he heard Kenton’s bellow.

“Incoming!”

Atticus dashed for the safety of the nearest shelter, which happened to be the stables. He had no sooner entered the smelly, dark confines when a series of arrows pelted the inner ward. Two men who had been scrambling for shelter had been hit but those were the only injuries. As Atticus emerged from the stable, looking at all of the arrows, he realized it could have been much worse, him included. Now he thought that perhaps he should don his armor before he did anything else. With the armory across the ward, he began running.

“Collect these arrows for our own use!” he yelled to the men around him, who began to scramble. “Take them up to the archers on our walls!”

Men were rushing everywhere, collecting the arrows that had been shot at them, as Atticus reached the other side of the bailey. There was a small tower in the southeast corner of Wolfe’s Lair’s curtain wall, and he immediately began donning his mail. He had stored it on a frame in the armory, a frame that held his hauberk as well as his plate armor and heavily padded tunic he wore underneath. A soldier who happened to be near the armory came to help him and between the two of them, they managed to get his armor on completely.

Now, fully protected, he continued on to inform his father and also Isobeau of what they would be facing. He was no sooner out of the armory when Kenton yelled again and a second round of arrows rained down from the sky. Atticus was moving up the exposed staircase that led to the upper floors when a shaft caught him in the back of his thigh.

Angered, and hardly aware of any pain, Atticus ripped the arrow free and tossed it aside for the men collecting arrows to retrieve. At the moment, he had more important things on his mind, but most importantly, furious that Summerlin should attack Wolfe’s Lair after he’d spared the man’s life and told him to go home. Evidently, his mercy had been betrayed.

He would not make the mistake a second time.

*

Isobeau had not been part of a siege before. Isenhall, her home, had been mostly peaceful her entire life so the event of an actual battle was something shocking. Shocking and eye-opening. It was an entirely new experience altogether.

Earlier that day, Atticus had come to tell her, dressed in full armor, that Wolfe’s Lair was under attack. Awoken from a deep sleep but feeling infinitely better than she had from the day before, she’d listened to his information with some horror. Norfolk had come back. Atticus had instructed her to have servants bring supplies to her room and then barricade herself behind the sturdy, oak door until he came for her, and she did just that at first. The two female servants at Wolfe’s Lair had brought supplies to her chamber and then had remained with her behind the barricaded door until sometime later in the day when a male servant came knocking on her door wanting to know if she had any needle and thread with her.

It seemed that there were several wounded in the hall, men who had been hit with arrows, and the physic from Hawick was running out of catgut. He needed thread and, as Isobeau questioned him through the closed door, it sounded as if he needed help as well. More wounded were coming in by the minute because Norfolk had taken to slinging things like spikey tree trunks and other damaging objects over the wall with a small ox-drawn trebuchet they’d brought with them. Part of the stable had collapsed from something heavy slung over the walls and some of the animals were injured. Panicked, thinking it might have been her mare, Isobeau collected her precious sewing kit and dashed out of the chamber with the female servants in tow.

What she saw shocked her to the bone. The inner ward of Wolfe’s Lair had been pummeled with tree trunks and other large chunks of trees that had been hurled over the walls. Arrows littered the muddy ground. She could see de Wolfe men lining the wall walk, watching Norfolk’s activity below, but they weren’t doing much more than watching at this point. Norfolk was expending all of the energy. Isobeau didn’t see Atticus, which was probably a good thing. With everyone’s attention focused outside of the wall, Isobeau was able to move about rather freely.

Her first stop was the stable to check on her mare. The animal was quite snug and quite safe, crammed into a stall along with three goats and a small work pony. The horse seemed quite happy with the company. Satisfied her pet was safe, Isobeau proceeded across the inner ward to the great hall on the other side, entering the slender, long structure.

Immediately, she was confronted by several wounded men. They were all positioned over near the hearth, which was burning low and smoky, a haze of blue hovering near the ceiling. But it was warm and moderately comfortable, as Isobeau made her way deeper into the hall in search of the physic to offer her assistance. The men she passed, men who were lying on the ground, seemed to be fairly injured. One man still had an arrow sticking out of him while yet another man had the arrow out of his neck but was bleeding a great deal.

It was a daunting and intimidating sight. Isobeau began to rethink her offer to help, for she truly didn’t know if she would be of any use, when the physic caught sight of her and immediately put her to work. The first man she was assigned to was the one with the profusely bleeding neck. Sickened by the sight of so much blood, Isobeau threaded her needle with the fine, silk thread her father had bought for her in Coventry and went to work.

As the afternoon progressed and she stitched up man after man, the task seemed to become a bit easier. After the first three or four patients, she began to get a bit of practice and was more at ease with it. This was her second experience helping wounded, but the experience back at Alnwick had been very different from this one. These men were freshly injured and freshly in pain. She wanted very much to help them and ease their anguish but she figured out early on that she was a bit squeamish when it came to plunging a needle into a man’s flesh. The first time she did it with the man with the neck wound, she had put several tiny stitches into his skin when it probably only needed four or five stitches total. He had a big cluster of white stitches in his neck that looked strangely like flower petals.

But she soldiered on, gaining experience, remembering Lady Percy at Alnwick and how stoic and calm the woman had been. She tried to be that way, too. Nearing sunset, all of the men were tended, all fourteen of them, and another man was brought in that the physic from Hawick tended personally. At that point, the only aid needed was seeing to the comfort of the wounded so Isobeau wandered among them, encouraging them to be brave from the pain or giving them some water to drink. When she came to an older man lying away from the fire, off by himself, he seemed to be quite miserable from the arrow wound to his gut. He was shivering and sweating, and Isobeau knew enough about illnesses and wounds to know that the man had a fever. Kneeling next to him, she put a gentle hand on his arm.

“Sirrah?” she asked softly. “Would you like some water?”

The old man, eyes closed, stirred at the sound of her voice. Slowly, he turned his head in her direction and the wrinkled eyelids lifted. He stared at her a moment, blinking.

“Who are ye, lady?” he rasped.

Isobeau smiled faintly. “I am Lady de Wolfe,” she replied. “I am Sir Atticus’ wife.”

A ripple of surprise moved across the old soldier’s face. “The Lion?”

“Aye.”

The old lips creased into a distant smile. “I knew him as a boy, m’lady,” he said. “We are proud of him, we are. He has grown into a fine and famous man.”

Isobeau continued to smile at the old soldier, unsure what to say to that. She wanted to agree, to perhaps heap praise upon Atticus for his reputation only, but she was embarrassed to do so, embarrassed that she was so willing to praise him after having been his wife for little more than two days. As if she had any right to be proud. But the kiss between them the day before, that heated gesture of liquid fire, was still enough to make her heart race every time she thought of it. Titus’ kisses had been soft and warm and comfortable; being kissed by Atticus was like being burned by the sun.

“We are all very proud of him, of course,” she said, lifting the wooden cup from the bucket of water she had next to her. “Would you like some water?”

The old man shook his head. “Nay,” he said, raspy. “My time is drawing to a close. I was lying here dreaming of the times when I was a young man. I was thinking on me mum and pa. They died when I was young, ye know. I will see them again soon.”

Isobeau sobered. “You mustn’t speak like that,” she said. “You will get well again. Lord Solomon’s physic is very skilled. He will make sure of it.”

The old soldier cast her a long glance. “Do ye sing, m’lady?”

Isobeau nodded. “I do.”

“Will ye sing something for me?”

Isobeau nodded eagerly this time. “Of course I will,” she said. “What do you wish to hear?”

“Old Rose the Whore.”

Isobeau’s eyes widened in shock. “I do not know any such song,” she said stiffly. “Even if I did, I would not sing it. What else would you have me sing?”

The old soldier was giggling at her offended manner. “Do you know Tilly Nodden?”

Isobeau eyed him suspiciously. “You only want me to sing unseemly songs.”

The old man put a hand on her arm. “That is all I know, my lady,” he said. “I am a soldier and know a soldier’s life. Do ye know Tilly Nodden?”

Isobeau frowned. “Well,” she said reluctantly, “I have heard it a few times. My father had soldiers that would sing it.”

The old soldier’s eyes twinkled in the dim light. “It is a happy song,” he said. “Would ye please sing it for me?”

Isobeau was very hesitant. “I cannot sing some of the verses,” she insisted. “I will not.”

“Then sing the chorus. Let me sing it with ye.”

Isobeau opened her mouth to try to refuse him yet again because the chorus had some very dirty phrases in it when a deep, smooth voice interrupted.

“That is not an appropriate song for a lady to sing. Choose another song.”

Isobeau looked up to see where the voice had come from and noticed, tucked back against the wall, a big man laying upon a pallet. He was actually sitting up, his back against the wall, and both of his legs below the knees were tightly wrapped. Because of the dimness in the hall, she couldn’t really see his face but it began to occur to her who the man was. The knight Atticus cut down. She wasn’t particularly frightened, but she was wary.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said rather firmly. “I can make my own denials.”

“You have not done a very good job.”

She eyed the man in the shadows with some irritation. “I am trying to be polite with a wounded man.”

“That is true, my lady, but he is taking advantage of your good heart by trying to coerce you into singing a bawdy song.”

The knight was probably right. Frowning, and unhappy that she had very nearly sang that bawdy tavern song that spoke of a cross-dressing whore, she stood up and collected her bucket with water, making her way over to the knight in the darkness.

Isobeau could see the man’s face better now. He was handsome, square-jawed, with black eyes and long hair that tumbled in waves to his shoulders. He was handsome in a barbaric sort of way and she eyed him curiously.

“You are the knight that my husband cut down,” she said. “What is your name?”

The knight dipped his head politely. “I am Sir Alrik du Reims,” he said. “You may call me Rik. No one calls me Alrik except my wife when she is cross with me. When she uses my full name, it is time to run and hide.”

His humor softened Isobeau somewhat and she fought off a grin. “You are married, then?”

He nodded. “Indeed I am,” he said. “I have a wife and three small daughters.”

Isobeau knelt a foot or so away from him, scooping some water from her bucket and extending the cup to him. “Where do they live?”

Du Reims took the cup gratefully and drank. “At Arundel Castle,” he said, smacking his lips. “My wife is actually from Sussex. I met her whilst stationed at Arundel.”

Isobeau took back the empty cup. “Have you been away from them a long time?”

Du Reims’ black eyes took on a distant cast. “It seems like ages,” he said. “It has only been a few months, but it seems like ages.”

There was such longing in his voice that it tugged at Isobeau’s heart. She couldn’t help it. She lowered her gaze, putting the cup back into the bucket. “I understand,” she said. “It is terrible that this war should separate and destroy families. It seems that… forgive me. I meant to say that I will pray for your wife and your children’s good health while you are away, even if you are my husband’s enemy.”

Du Reims leaned back against the wall, eyeing the extremely luscious Lady de Wolfe. He was not surprised to see that Atticus de Wolfe had such a beautiful wife; a man of such reputation was worthy of such a woman. But it also occurred to him that, in Lady de Wolfe, he saw the woman who would save his life.

Du Reims was no fool. He knew that Summerlin had returned with the army to lay siege to Wolfe’s Lair. He had expected it, in fact, and up until Lady de Wolfe presented herself, he was resigned to the fact that this would be his last day on earth. He knew that at some point, Atticus would come to the hall and kill him just as he had promised. Du Reims was in no position to really defend himself, as he could not walk, so he had spent the better part of the day attempting to figure out how he could save himself. Now, he knew. He had to do what was necessary in order to exact his freedom and it was unfortunate that Lady de Wolfe was now part of that plan.

“Thank you for your prayers, my lady,” he said. “May… may I have more water before you leave?”

Isobeau complied. Dipping the cup in the water, she approached du Reims and extended the full cup. He lifted his hand to her but instead of taking the cup, he snatched her by the wrist. The water went flying as Isobeau was yanked onto the man’s lap. She screamed, and tried to pull away, but before she realized it, she was seated upon his lap and his big arm was across her neck in an extremely dangerous position. His lips were against her ear.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he begged softly. “But your husband intends to kill me and I apologize that I must use you to negotiate for my life. I wish to see my wife and children again and you will be the means by which I accomplish that.”

Terrified, Isobeau struggled and yelped as the servants in the hall realized she was in a very precarious position. Someone bolted from the great hall, running no doubt for Atticus.

“Please calm yourself,” du Reims said quietly but evenly. “I will not hurt you, I swear it, but your husband must believe that I will. I want to go home and you must help me.”

Isobeau was angry as well as terrified. She tried to pull the knight’s arm away from her neck, which was an impossible feat.

“You will never make it out of here alive,” she said, verging on tears. “My husband will see to that!”

Du Reims was quite calm as she squirmed on his lap. “Mayhap,” he muttered. “But this is a chance I must take. I am very sorry to involve you in it.”

Isobeau was trying very hard not to cry, for she was genuinely terrified. “I gave you water,” she said angrily. “I tried to give you some comfort and this is that thanks I get? You are a beast!”

Du Reims sighed. “I am sure you have every reason to believe that,” he said. “But the truth is that I am an excellent knight and an excellent husband. My wife’s name is Catrina and her family is from Cornwall. She is a d’Vant. I have three daughters. Charlotte is five years of age and very bright. Cassandra is four years of age and she wants very much to be like her older sister. She is a joy. My baby is Annabelle and she has seen two years. Annabelle was born with crippled legs but you have never seen a sweeter nor smarter child. I think it is Annabelle that I miss the most. She loves to sing songs to me, songs she makes up herself. They do not make much sense because she cannot speak very well, but they are the most beautiful songs I have ever heard.”

By this time, Isobeau had stopped struggling. She was hearing of the knight’s family, coming to understand why he would make such a desperate move as to take a hostage. He had children, including a crippled one, and she could tell by the tone of his voice that he loved them very much. As frightened as she was, she also found herself being sympathetic to the knight’s plight. He was fearful, too – fearful he would never see his family again. But the fact remained that he had her in a very bad position. All he had to do was squeeze and her neck would be snapped.

“As much as you do not want to die, I do not want to die, either,” she said, her lower lip trembling out of fear. “I only married Atticus yesterday. Before that, I was his brother’s wife. I lost my husband at that terrible place called Towton and my life is in turmoil much as yours is. I do not understand war and pain and suffering and why men who want to be king would throw this country into turmoil in order to rule. So many men have died yet there is no definitive king upon the throne. I do not like any of this and I do not want to die for a cause I do not understand.”

Du Reims could feel the seeds of doubt and sympathy sprouting; doubt in what he was doing, sympathy for Titus de Wolfe’s widow. But he was determined to go home and Lady de Wolfe was an integral part of that plan. If Atticus was going to threaten him, then he had to play hard and dirty as well, starting with Lady de Wolfe.

“No one does, my lady,” he said quietly. “You are correct. There is much turmoil right now. Men are uncivilized to each other all in the name of Edward or Henry. Before this, I was friends with many of the knights I now fight against. It is very difficult to fight against your friends.”

Isobeau could feel his grip on her relax but she didn’t try to bolt, for she knew he would only tighten up. Her only hope was to try and talk him out of whatever terrible deed he wanted to use her for. Perhaps if she could speak with the man and they could understand one another, he might see that holding her hostage to ensure his release was not the way to go about things. She had to try.

“Did… did you know Atticus before these wars?” she asked.

Du Reims shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I knew him by reputation only. My life is in the south and the de Wolfes rule the north. I have never had the opportunity to know much about the north of England except in these wars.”

Isobeau thought quickly on what more she could say to him, anything to force him to speak so that they could understand one another. She had to make the man feel badly enough for what he was doing to her that he would let her go.

“Atticus and his brother grew up here, in the north,” she said. “They fostered at Kenilworth, however. Did you foster in the south, too?”

Du Reims shifted behind her and his enormous arm, the one across her neck, eased. “I did,” he said. “Okehampton Castle. My father is the Earl of East Anglia and Okehampton is an ally. At least, they used to be but like most of us in this war, friends one moment can be enemies the next.”

She sighed faintly. “I am not your enemy, Sir Knight.”

“My name is Rik.”

“And my name is Lady de Wolfe. I do not want to die. Please do not kill me.”

Isobeau heard the knight sigh. “I do not want to die, either,” he murmured. “I want to see my children grow up. I want to see their children born. I love my wife and children, my lady… I want to see them again and your husband has threatened to prevent that.”

Isobeau could feel the sorrow in his tone; there was great sadness there and great longing. She truly felt a good deal of compassion for the man but she wondered, after this action, if Atticus would allow him to leave unassailed. She doubted it. The man had laid his hands upon her and, by that action alone, forfeited his life. The fact was that they both knew it. Therefore, his desperation was fed.

As she opened her mouth to reply, the big door to the hall opened and men were filtering in. She couldn’t see who they were simply because the light behind them made them silhouettes, men with weapons and armor outlined in the backlighting. But she knew, instinctively, that one of them was Atticus and as the men drew close, all three of them, she could see Atticus, Kenton, and Warenne on the approach. Kenton seemed to hang back, to fan out behind them, but Atticus and Warenne approached boldly.

Isobeau looked into Atticus’ face, hope and relief and joy in her expression, but Atticus was focused solely on du Reims. He had yet to even look at her. Without a word, he marched up on them, seated on the ground against the wall of the great hall, and lashed out a massive boot, kicking du Reims in his damaged legs. The pain must have been horrendous because du Reims groaned, more than likely biting off a scream, and instinctively let go of Isobeau with his left hand, reaching down for his injured legs as if to hold them fast against Atticus’ assault.

But his inability to control his reaction to pain and Atticus’ advantage of a surprise attack had devastating consequences for du Reims. The moment he loosened his grip on Isobeau, Atticus reached down and yanked her forward, trying to break du Reims’ grip on her. In the same motion, he thrust a nasty-looking dagger straight into du Reims’ neck, plunging it so deep that it came out the other side. The man’s main artery was cut as well as his windpipe. Dying, he fell over onto his side as Atticus pulled Isobeau completely free.

“Atticus, no!” Isobeau screamed. “Sweet Jesus, no!”

Atticus didn’t even look at her. Warenne was beside her now, holding her fast, because it seemed to him that she was trying to run to du Reims to somehow help the man. But he was beyond help. Without thought or sympathy or regrets, Atticus removed the dagger in du Reims’ neck and plunged it again into his chest. With the heart of the big knight punctured, death was immediate.

The only sound now was that of Isobeau’s shocked weeping. She stood in Warenne’s grip, her hand over her mouth as she looked with horror upon du Reims’ dead body. It had happened so fast that she was still struggling to process it all. But it was then, and only then, that Atticus seemed to notice her. He looked her over closely, his gaze intense and still deadly.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked.

Isobeau looked at him, tears spilling over. “You did not have to kill him,” she wept. “He only wanted to go home to his wife and children.”

Atticus had absolutely no sympathy, not one ounce of pity or guilt for what he had done. In fact, Isobeau’s tears seemed to irritate him.

“And so he will not,” he said coldly. “He signed his death warrant the moment he touched you. What are you doing in the hall, anyway? I told you to stay to your chamber.”

Isobeau couldn’t stop the tears; they kept coming and coming. “I came to help,” she wept. “I came to help the physic tend the wounded. I was giving the knight water when he grabbed me. He… he only wanted to go home, Atticus. You did not have to kill him.”

Atticus’ gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before turning to Kenton, who was gazing down at du Reims’ bloodied body.

“Take him up to the wall,” he told Kenton. “Throw him over the side. They will see that Atticus de Wolfe keeps his word.”

Without hesitation, Kenton reached down to haul du Reims up. Isobeau, unable to watch, took off running. She heard Atticus call her name but she ignored him, bolting from the hall and running for the steps that led to the upper floor. But she didn’t make it to the stairs before coming to a halt and vomiting into the mud in the middle of the bailey. Overwrought, she wiped at her mouth and continued her trek towards the stairs but before she could reach them, someone grabbed her arm.

Startled, she turned to see Atticus. When she saw who it was, she yanked her arm away from him, brutally, and stumbled back, falling onto the first step behind her.

“Do not touch me,” she hissed. “Leave me alone!”

Atticus’ expression remained emotionless, following her as she attempted to crawl up the steps to get away from him. “I will not leave you alone,” he said. “Do you not understand what happened in there, Isobeau? I saved your life.”

She was climbing up the stairs on all fours, struggling to get away from him. She was nearly hysterical at that point, laboring to control her breathing. She simply couldn’t wipe the image of the dead knight from her memory, a man who had spoken so lovingly of his children. It was heartbreaking in more ways than one.

“Catrina,” she gasped. “His wife’s name is Catrina. He has three daughters – Charlotte, Cassandra, and Annabelle. Annabelle is crippled. You did to them what de la Londe and de Troiu did to me. You took their husband and father away, and you did not have to do it. You murdered him!”

She was shouting at him by the time she was finished and Atticus’ emotionless façade was starting to crack. He was starting to understand what had her so upset, the taking of a man from his wife and children. She put it in context that both of them could understand; you did to them what de la Londe and de Troiu did to me! Aye, he understood that very well. But she didn’t see the other side of it, the warring side, the side of honor where a man threatening another man’s wife would guarantee that man’s death. She understood none of what was in Atticus’ heart.

“I was protecting you,” he said, struggling not to let the emotion she was exhibiting bleed out onto him. Infect him. “Du Reims had nothing to lose; he was going to kill you. I had a choice to make between sparing his life and saving yours. Did you truly think I would let the man kill you?”

Halfway up the steps to the upper level, Isobeau came to a halt. She dry heaved as nothing was coming up. She refused to look at Atticus, standing on the step below her.

“He would not have killed me,” she breathed, feeling ill and overwhelmed. “He was frightened, Atticus. All he wanted to do was see his wife and children again and you took him away from them. Now they will face the same grief that you and I have faced over Titus’ death but mayhap that means nothing to you. Mayhap life in general means nothing to you. Is that the kind of man you are? Do you treat all life so callously?”

Atticus simply stood there, trying not to feel wounded by her words. Each one of them was like a dagger, impaling him, drawing blood. His heart began to hurt in a way he never knew it could ache. All of it was swirling around him, causing him pain and turmoil. He didn’t know what to say because, God help him, she made some sense. He didn’t like that she made sense.

“Go to your chamber and bolt it,” he told her, his voice oddly hollow and raspy. “You will not come out until I tell you to, not even to help the wounded. Is that clear?”

Isobeau pushed herself off the stair, rising unsteadily to her feet. “But your men are suffering,” she said, wiping at her tear-stained cheeks. “I can help them. Even if you are cruel and unfeeling, I am not.”

He was deeply hurt by her words when they should not have bothered him at all. He’d heard worse. But coming from her lovely lips, her words stung. He wasn’t used to being stung by someone he cared for and lashed out at her.

“Your desire to help men and disobey my orders is what got another man killed,” he snapped, watching her turn sharply to him, utter distress on her face. God, he couldn’t look at her. Her distress was eating away at him. He turned away and headed down the steps. “If there is anyone to blame, then blame yourself. Now, go to your chamber and stay there. If I have to tell you again, I will lock you in the vault until all of this is over.”

Isobeau didn’t say anything more, watching the man as he headed down the steps and into the muddy, bloody bailey. He was heading for the wall, back to his warring ways. Isobeau watched him as he walked, realizing he wasn’t stalking as he usually did. His movements seemed to be labored, as if he were exhausted or as if… as if there were things on his mind. Perhaps guilt at killing a man he didn’t need to kill.

She wondered.

What kind of man have I married?

Someone who killed for her without hesitation. Although she was still devastated by du Reims’ death, shaken by the brutality of it, there was a part of her that was glad Atticus was willing to kill for her. Without hesitation, knowing she was in danger, he had done precisely that. He was following his instincts, instincts that had him protecting her above all else. His wife. Perhaps she shouldn’t have become so angry with him. He was only doing what he had been trained to do.

With a heavy heart, she headed up the stairs and made way to her chamber.

The siege continued into the night and on into the next day.