Brides of Scotland: Four full length Novels by Kathryn Le Veque (29)

Rule Water Castle (known as Wolfe’s Lair)

Solomon de Wolfe was a very big man with a great, hairy beard and hands the size of trenchers. He had been dark haired back in his youth but age and ill health had seen his hair turn completely white while his beard was an odd shade of grayish-yellow. He knew the strange color was because his beard was dirty but he didn’t care. He took great pride in telling the women of the local village that he ran a bit of hot water through his beard after a long day and made soup out of whatever bits of crumb and meat scraps were caught there. He loved to see the look of disgust on their faces. Much like his sons, Solomon had a wicked sense of humor.

Rule Water Castle hadn’t been called by its proper name in decades, ever since the de Wolfe family from nearby Castle Questing had annexed the former Scottish garrison for the de Wolfe barony of Killham. Everyone in Northern England and Southern Scotland knew the place as Wolfe’s Lair these days, an extremely fortified fortress that had a very odd look to it.

Much like infamous Hermitage Castle about a half-day’s ride south, seat of the terrible de Soulis family, Rule Water Castle was built in much the same design. It was square, box-shaped, and four stories tall. The walls of the keep were also the exterior walls of the fortress, as it had no fortification walls at all. It did, however, have a moat that was fed by a nearby stream, a wide and muck-filled ditch that was at least ten feet wide, probably more in places, and had a retractable wooden bridge that crossed it.

The impression of Wolfe’s Lair was one of intimidation. It sat on a flat plain, with rolling hills in the distance, and could been seen for miles. With its sheer, dark walls, it had the look of dread and danger about it. The entrance to the fortress was also much like Hermitage Castle in that it was a Norman arch, two stories tall, and had two enormous gates that had been forged from the strongest iron. These gates were thick, vastly heavy, and impossible to breach once closed.

The great gates protected the interior of the fortress, which included a hollowed-out bailey in the center. The stables, trades, great hall, small chapel, and kitchens were all on the lower level whilst the second level contained sleeping quarters for the soldiers. The third level contained living and sleeping accommodations for the family and the fourth floor was mostly the wall walk, a flat roof over the third floor that spanned the perimeter of the fortress.

Solomon ran Wolfe’s Lair like his own personal kingdom. He was a firm man, fair and decisive, and he never backed away from a fight. He had peace with his neighbors for the most part but he wouldn’t hesitate to send his garrison out if there was trouble. He had one hundred and twenty-seven men under his command, all of them loyal and seasoned, and Solomon enjoyed his life at Wolfe’s Lair for the most part but he found in his later years that his thoughts weren’t so much on war any longer as they were on women. There were a few wenches about he would chase and pinch, but that was as far as it went. The last woman he bedded had been his wife, twenty-eight years ago. He wanted that particular coupling to be his last memory of the act. He still missed Rosalie, very much.

Therefore, it was a peaceful kingdom that Solomon ruled and this spring day dawned cold and clear, like any normal day. The guards changed shifts upon the wall walk and at the front gates as Solomon rose and broke his fast with hard cheese and warmed-over stew from the previous meal. He hadn’t slept well the night before and his wild hair was wilder, and his beard even more unkempt than usual. A good deal of Wolfe’s Lair’s function had to do with herds and herds of wooly sheep and as Solomon slurped up his stew, he was coming to think that it was time to assess his older herd, the one that was kept off to the north, to see if it was time to take them into town to discuss selling the wool to the local wool merchant.

But those thoughts of business as usual were interrupted by the sentries on the walls, taking up a cry of an approaching party. Solomon heard the cries but it didn’t deter him from his food until a soldier entered and informed him that a wagon and several riders were approaching. He waved the soldier off and proceeded to finish his meal until the same soldier returned and informed him that his son, Atticus, had been sighted. That was enough to get Solomon onto his feet.

“Great Bloody Christ!” he exclaimed. “My sons have come home? Did you see them?”

The soldier was an older man who had served Solomon for many years. He knew how much the old man missed his sons, for it was something Solomon spoke of frequently.

“I saw Sir Atticus, my lord,” he grinned. “I did not notice Titus but there are other riders. I am sure he is among them.”

Solomon flew into a frenzy. “My clothes!” he bellowed as he raced to a pile of clothing that was over against the wall. He began picking articles of clothing up, inspecting them, sniffing them, and then tossing them aside. “I must dress to see my sons. What is this? God, this stinks. And so does that. In fact, everything about me smells awful. Where is my soap?”

He was bellowing and the servants who tended the rooms and the hearths on that level began to race around, trying to find Solomon clothing that didn’t smell too badly. Solomon wasn’t the cleanest man in the world and a couple of minutes of sifting through tunics and torn breeches had them discovering at least one pair that wasn’t ripped or stained. Solomon, wearing a worn sleeping robe at this point, pulled his breeches up, struggling to secure them as an old male servant, so old he could hardly move about well, tried to pull the sleeping robe off in order to help Solomon on with his tunic. The elderly servant pulled too hard, Solomon lost his balance, and fell onto his hip.

Angry, Solomon howled as he fastened his breeches and grabbed for the tunic the old servant was trying to give him. He pulled it over his head, rolled heavily to his feet, and began to make his way down to the courtyard with the elderly servant following after him, helping him dress in a fur-lined cloak. By the time Solomon began to descend the stairs into the central courtyard, the great gates of Wolfe’s Lair were open and the party was entering the bailey. The first person Solomon recognized was his beloved second son, Atticus.

“Atticus!” he bellowed, waving his arms furiously. “Atticus, you have come home!”

Weary from four days of travel under terrible conditions, Atticus was unshaven and pale as he smiled weakly at his wild-looking father. Riding at the head of the party, he dismounted about the time his father came off the stairs. Arms reaching out to Atticus, Solomon ran as he hadn’t run in years. He ran right to Atticus and threw his arms around him.

“My son,” he breathed with satisfaction, feeling his brawny son alive and warm in his arms. “I have missed you every day since we last saw one another. How long has it been? At least two years.”

Atticus was being squeezed to death by a smelly bear of a man with whiskers like thistles against his cheek. “It has been one year, ten months, and two days,” he grunted. “I have missed you, too, Papa. How is your health? Have you been well?”

Solomon let go of Atticus long enough to cup his son’s face between his two big hands, inspecting him, reacquainting himself with features that looked much as he had at that age.

“I am well enough,” he said. “My joints are worse and some days I cannot walk, but I have good days and for that I am grateful. There is a physic in Hawick who comes and visits me every month. He gives me potions to drink in the hope that something will help, but so far, there is little relief.”

Atticus nodded, not surprised to hear that his father’s swollen, aching joint condition was not improving. It was the curse of the de Wolfe family and in Solomon’s case had been getting steadily worse for years. He reached out and tugged gently on the wild and wooly beard his father was sporting.

“You look like a wild man,” he said. “When was the last time you bathed and shaved?”

Solomon chuckled, embarrassed. “There is no one to bathe and shave for,” he said. “Why should I?”

Atticus cocked an eyebrow. “Because you may have visitors you want to impress,” he said. “Do you think it will please me to have people spread rumors about my father who lives like an animal?”

Solomon was still grinning sheepishly. “I do not live like an animal,” he said. “I only look like one. But enough about me; let us speak on the reason for your visit. Why did you not send word ahead? I could have been ready for you.”

Some of Atticus’ good mood fled as Solomon inquired on the reasons for his visit. “I have come home for many reasons, not the least of which is to introduce someone important to you,” he said quietly. “Now you are going to be embarrassed, looking like a barbarian who sleeps with the sheep.”

Solomon’s eyes widened and he smoothed at his white hair, trying to tame it, which was an impossible task. “Who did you bring?” he demanded. “And where is Titus? Why is he not greeting me?”

Atticus struggled not to tip his father off, to give him a clue as to the dreadful nature behind their visit. He wanted to tell his father about Titus in private but he wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to. Solomon de Wolfe was a very sharp man and Atticus knew he had to come out with the truth, and quickly, or it would make matters worse. Solomon would grow suspicious and cause a scene. Moreover, it wasn’t fair to put Solomon off, not even to take him to a private location to deliver the news. His father was, if nothing else, a loud and passionate man, and he did not like to be treated as if he were too weak to handle the truth. Atticus had seen that before. Therefore, he braced himself.

“Papa,” he said quietly. “There is a great deal to tell you. We did not come simply to visit. I came to bring Titus home.”

Solomon’s brow furrowed. “Bring Titus home?” he repeated, puzzled. “What do you mean? Where is the man?”

Atticus had spent the past four days trying to figure how, exactly, to tell his father that Titus had been killed. He thought he had a fairly good speech planned but the moment he looked into his father’s confused face, he forget everything he was going to say. Suddenly, he was five years old again and looking at his father as a child would. God, he didn’t want to tell him. He wished he didn’t have to. The pangs of grief began anew and he reached out, grasping his father by the arms.

“There was a very bad battle two weeks ago in a place called Towton,” he said as calmly as he could. “It was Henry’s forces against Edward’s. We lost the battle, Papa, and we lost Titus in the fight. I have brought him home for burial, next to Mother.”

It was a simple but straight-forward explanation. Solomon’s reaction wasn’t delayed; he understood the gist of Atticus’ words instantly and had Atticus not been holding on to him, he would have surely collapsed. As it was, Atticus was having a difficult time holding on to his father who had suddenly seemed to lose every bone in his body. The man began to fold.

“Nay,” Solomon breathed. “Not Titus. Not my boy.”

Atticus nodded, trying to keep his father from collapsing completely. “It is true,” he said, tears stinging his eyes at the sight of his father’s grief. “I am so terribly sorry, Papa.”

Solomon was bent over, holding on to Atticus as if the man could save him from the agony that was pulling him down to the cold, muddy ground.

“It is not possible,” Solomon gasped. “Titus was strong… he was too strong for this. How could this happen?”

Atticus wasn’t going to tell him that part of the truth. Perhaps later when he was calm, but not now. The knowledge that Titus had been murdered by men he was supposed to trust would have driven Solomon over the edge of sanity.

“Things like this happen in war,” he said, holding his father tightly. “Titus was a warrior, the very best, but even the best can be felled. We are but mortal men, after all.”

Solomon heard Atticus’ words, mingling with the physical pain that was gripping his entire body. He could hardly think or move, images of his eldest son filling his brain.

“Titus,” he murmured, closing his eyes as the tears streamed. “My beautiful boy. I cannot believe he is gone. Is it true, Atticus? Is it really true?”

Atticus nodded. “He is here, in the wagon. Would you like to see him?”

The idea of seeing Titus oddly fortified him. Solomon somehow found his legs as Atticus virtually propped him up. The old man’s face was pale, his hazel eyes wide with grief, but he nodded his head to Atticus’ question.

“Take me to him,” he begged, saliva dribbling from his mouth. “Take me to my son.”

Atticus had a firm grip on his father as he led him back towards the wagon. As he moved, Atticus caught a glimpse of Isobeau astride her leggy mare; she was watching the entire scene with tears in her eyes. When their eyes met, Isobeau closed her eyes and turned her head away because she knew they were going to open Titus’ coffin and she did not wish to see her husband’s corpse. The last time she had seen it, days ago, had been bad enough. She most definitely didn’t want to see it now but she understood Solomon’s desire to see his dead son. He had to reconcile himself with the man’s death, no matter how unpleasant the reality was to be.

Atticus felt for Isobeau’s sorrow, grief they had all be living with for days, now new and fresh as Solomon was informed of Titus’ passing. As Atticus brushed past her, holding on to his father, he managed to brush her foot with his hand in a comforting gesture. When he opened the lid to the coffin and presented his father with Titus’ two-week-old corpse, he stood back as Solomon burst into low, mournful sobs. He couldn’t even watch; it was simply too painful. Stepping away to allow his father to grieve, he ended up standing next to Isobeau.

Up on the wagon bed, Solomon wasn’t prepared for what faced him. Titus didn’t much look like he remembered him, healthy and strong; instead, the man was an odd color of purplish-green with sunken features. Reaching into the wooden box, he touched his son’s face, weeping, begging him to wake up and speak to him. When Titus didn’t obey, Solomon practically climbed into the coffin, collected Titus into his arms, and clutched the man against his chest.

Atticus could no longer look away at that point. His father had Titus half-lifted out of the coffin, sobbing over him, and Isobeau was gasping softly at the horror of it. She’d turned her head slightly at one point to see what Solomon was doing, as she could only hear his sobs, and she had been greeted with her husband’s limp body being pulled out of the coffin by his father. Horrified, she quickly turned away, gasping at the grisly and tragic nature of what was going on. It was incredibly sorrowful, on so many levels, the grief of a father who had outlived his son.

“Atticus,” Warenne had walked up behind Atticus and was now whispering in the man’s ear. “Let me take Isobeau inside. She does not need to see this.”

Atticus, tears in his eyes and a vice around his heart, nodded faintly. “Third floor,” he told him. “Ask the servants where to put her. Then you will return to me, please. I am not entirely sure I will be able to handle my father alone.”

Warenne nodded, turning to motion to Kenton, who was at the rear of the party. When he caught Kenton’s attention, he pointed to Atticus and Kenton understood. Warenne wanted the man to remain with Atticus in case the man needed assistance. As Kenton dismounted and made his way to Atticus, Warenne turned to Isobeau.

“Come along, my lady,” he said, all but pulling her off the mare. As she slid down into his arms, he set her to her feet. “Let us go inside where it is warm and you may rest.”

Weeping softly as she still lingered over the sight of her dead husband being held by his father, Isobeau kept her head down and her eyes averted as Warenne took her towards the flight of stairs that Solomon had come from. It was a flight of narrow stone steps that went up to the third floor, the family apartments, and Warenne stopped the first servant he came to in order to explain his business and seek shelter for Isobeau. The servant quickly took them down a narrow corridor, with thin window that overlooked the courtyard, until they came to a chamber situated at the north side of the fortress.

The servant opened the door, allowing Warenne and Isobeau entrance. The room was surprisingly well lit, with small, narrow windows facing both north and east that provided an ample amount of light into the otherwise very dark chamber. But it was as cold as sin, with a black hearth, and Warenne immediately ordered that a fire be lit.

Isobeau, weary and distressed, wandered into the low-ceilinged chamber and sat at a table that had three sturdy-looking chairs. But that was practically the only furniture in the room other than a narrow bedframe with no mattress on it. Warenne, still standing by the door, was studying the chamber with a critical expression. When the servant who had shown them to the room returned with kindling for the fire, Warenne began barking orders.

“This chamber is a disgrace,” he said. “You would truly think to put Titus de Wolfe’s wife here? There is no bed, nothing of comfort. Lady de Wolfe requires a bigger bed and a fine mattress stuffed with fresh straw. Where are the rest of the house servants? They must be brought here immediately. I have tasks for them to carry out.”

The poor servant was rather harried with Warenne barking at him and he struggled to light the fire and call out to other servants he knew to be nearby. The very old man who was Solomon’s Chamberlain came to help but Warenne took one look at the feeble, old man and told him to go find stronger servants. The elderly servant did, and soon there were three men and two women hovering in the corridor, waiting for orders from the man who had introduced himself as the Earl of Thetford. When Warenne saw the crowd in the corridor, he took charge.

“You,” he said, pointing to a toothless woman with dark hair and oily skin. “You will assist Lady de Wolfe in whatever she needs. I want a bath sent up to her and food, immediately. And, you –,” he pointed to the round woman with rosy cheeks standing next to the toothless servant, “– will make sure that a mattress, free of vermin, is stuffed with fresh straw and delivered to Lady de Wolfe along with clean linens, pillows, and anything else that will make her comfortable. Is this clear? Excellent. Now go about your business.”

The women scattered but the men were still standing there and Warenne pointed to them. “You heard what I told them,” he said. “Lady de Wolfe requires a bath and a bigger bed with a fresh mattress, so get on with it. Bring it as quickly as you can.”

The men fled after the women and Warenne could hear hissing and scuffling going on as they hurried to carry out his orders. Meanwhile, the servant who had originally shown them the room was making progress on a fire in the hearth as Warenne turned in Isobeau’s direction, seeing the woman seated at a table, her elbow on the tabletop and her head resting on her propped-up hand. He made his way to her.

“You should have all the comforts that Wolfe’s Lair can provide,” he told her. “Will you be all right while I return to Atticus? He is concerned over his father and asked me to return to him as soon as I settled you.”

Exhausted, Isobeau waved him off. “I will be well on my own,” she told him. “Thank you for assisting me. In fact, thank you for being such a comforting travel companion. Your presence has been much appreciated.”

Warenne smiled faintly, giving her a gracious bow, before quitting the chamber. Isobeau’s attention lingered on the door after he was gone, her weary mind reflecting on the scene down in the bailey. She was trying to forget what she saw, how Solomon cradled Titus’ decaying remains, and how tragic it all had been. She was so very weary of reliving the grief every day, like a scab that was constantly being torn off to reveal new and fresh blood. She was bleeding fresh blood for Titus every day, still. After her farewells in that dark livery in Rothsburg, she was more at peace with Titus’ passing but not nearly as resigned to it as she would have liked. Still, she missed him.

Odd, it seemed, because she had been separated from Titus more than she had actually spent time with him. The truth was that they’d only spent a couple of weeks together before he’d gone to war, so having him gone, passed on, and not around her on a daily basis was the norm in her life. She was used to him being gone. Even so, as she’d told Atticus, she would not forget him. She couldn’t.

The fire in the hearth began to blaze quite brightly and the old servant fed it more wood, creating a rather bold blaze that began to heat up the cold room quite adequately. Once the fire was snapping, the old servant left the room and closed the door softly behind him, leaving Isobeau alone in a darkened, strange room in a castle where her husband had grown up. She wasn’t the most comfortable she had ever been but at least she wasn’t on horseback any longer. Her lower back was still aching and she’d had cramping in her legs and back since they’d left Alnwick, and she was exhausted to the bone, so even as she sat at the old, scrubbed table, she lay her head down on the tabletop just to rest for a moment.

She was asleep before she realized it but when she woke up to extreme cramping a short time later, there was blood everywhere.

*

“How is your father?” Warenne asked Atticus. “Any better?”

Warenne had found Atticus, Kenton, and Solomon inside Wolfe’s Lair’s small chapel that was built into the west side of the fortress. It was a long, skinny chamber with an altar at the far end covered in a fine silk cloth, and several burial vaults built into the walls of the chapel as well as sunk into the floor. The families that had inhabited the fortress prior to the de Wolfes had several family members buried in the vault, now joined by five de Wolfe members including Solomon’s wife. Soon, Titus would join them.

“I am not entirely sure,” Atticus said, his eyes on his father, who was still laying across Titus’ coffin near the altar of the chapel. “It was all I could do to get him to put Titus back in his coffin and close the lid. I am afraid if we do not bury my brother tonight that my father might try to pull him out of his coffin again.”

Warenne peered through the dimly lit chapel, seeing Solomon as the man knelt next to the coffin, his upper torso splayed across it. “Have you sent for a priest?” he asked.

Atticus nodded. “I had Kenton take care of it,” he said. “He sent two men riding for Hawick. It is about an hour away on a swift horse so I imagine we will see a priest by this afternoon. At least, I hope so.”

“Indeed.”

Atticus’ gaze lingered on his father a moment longer before turning to Warenne. “Where is Isobeau?” he asked. “How is she?”

Warenne threw a thumb in the general direction of the courtyard, just outside the door. “She is in a chamber having a bath and food brought to her,” he said. “You should see to her shortly, Atticus, just to make sure she is well. I am not entirely sure how well she digested your father pulling Titus out of his coffin, so mayhap you should see to her comfort. I can watch over your father until you return.”

Atticus nodded but his gaze moved to his father, who was now speaking to the coffin, to Titus, much as Atticus and Isobeau had done those days past. It seemed like an eternity ago when they had bonded in that cold livery, coming to terms with the course their lives had taken. The next three days traveling to Wolfe’s Lair had been quiet between them for the most part; they had barely spoken but it wasn’t intentional. There simply hadn’t been the time or much of an opportunity. Atticus had been focused on moving them as quickly as possible to his ancestral home and Isobeau had simply followed along, uncomplaining and quiet.

Therefore, Atticus was coming to think that he should, indeed, see to Isobeau simply to make sure she was well enough. He didn’t want her to think he was neglecting her. Now that they were at their destination, there was time enough to rest and focus on the next step in their lives, including his pursuit of de la Londe and de Troiu. He had not yet discussed that with Isobeau on a level that might see her joining him, as Warenne had suggested. Over the past few days, he had grown accustomed to the idea of taking her with him; more than that, he was quite certain Warenne would not let him leave her behind.

“Very well,” he said. “I will see to her for a moment. Where is she?”

Warenne motioned to the north side of the fortress. “On the third level,” he said. “She is on the north side.”

Atticus knew the labyrinth of rooms at Wolfe’s Lair and had a good idea where Isobeau had been settled. “Thank you,” he said, eyeing his father one last time. “My father knows you and you know him. Do what you can for him while I am away but whatever you do, don’t let him take Titus out of the coffin again. I am afraid my father may unwittingly damage the body in his grief and then he would wallow in that guilt for the rest of his life.”

Warenne nodded, keeping an eye on Solomon as Atticus headed out of the chapel. Out in the yard where a very cold wind was whipping through the grounds, Atticus came across Kenton, who was disbanding the escort party and having Isobeau’s capcases removed from the wagon. Just as Atticus passed by, Kenton called out to him.

“Atticus,” he said. “Shall I have Lady de Wolfe’s capcases sent up to her or would you have me wait?”

Atticus paused, eyeing the collection of very nice cases that Titus had purchased for his new wife.

“Have them sent up now,” he said. “I will take one or two with me, for I am going to see her now.”

As he bent over to test the weight of the cases, finally selecting two that weren’t too heavy, Kenton reached down and collected the heaviest one.

“I will go with you,” he said. “It will give us a chance to discuss plans for the next few days.”

Atticus eyed Kenton, now holding the biggest and heaviest case. “Come on, then,” he said. “Since you must show off your Herculean strength, let us make sure your display does not to go waste.”

Kenton’s lips twitched with a smile. “Then you admit I am stronger than you.”

“I admit that you think you are.”

Kenton fought off a bigger grin. “I am the one with the bigger case.”

“That is because I am smarter than you are. I took the lighter cases so I would not break my back,” Atticus pointed out. “Good Christ, how many cases does one woman need?”

Kenton, now following Atticus up the narrow stone steps, glanced over his shoulder to count the cases that had remained behind. “At least seven.”

Atticus pursed his lips irritably at the glib reply, stomping up the steps. “When we leave this place, I will make sure she travels much lighter,” he said. “I will not be lugging around seven capcases all over England.”

They had reached the second level and mounted the steps for the third. “Then we are not going after de la Londe and de Troiu?” Kenton asked.

Atticus nodded. “We are indeed,” he said. “But Lady de Wolfe is coming with us. It… it is her vengeance as much as it is mine, I suppose. Titus was her husband as well as my brother. Thetford seems to think it is important that I take her and allow her a measure of vengeance also.”

They had reached the third floor and it took Atticus a moment to realize that Kenton had not responded. He turned to look at the man only to notice that Kenton seemed lost in thought. When Kenton saw that Atticus was looking at him, he merely shrugged.

“If it is your wish that she accompany us, then she shall,” he said.

Atticus came to a halt, peering at the man strangely. “You do not think she should go with us, do you?”

Kenton averted his gaze. “It does not matter what I think,” he said. “You have deemed that she should go and she shall.”

Atticus still wasn’t moving forward, shifting the weight of the cases on his broad shoulders. “That is not an answer to my question,” he said. “Why do you think she should not go?”

Kenton grunted. He didn’t want to give his opinion because Atticus had enough opinions with Thetford criticizing his every move. At least, that’s what Kenton thought. He’d seen Warenne and how he’d given Atticus his opinion on the situation at every turn. Kenton respected Thetford a great deal but he’d seen how the man had tried to order Atticus about even on personal decisions and Kenton didn’t like that in the least. He scratched his head.

“I am not entirely sure it is relevant,” he said. “Can we get moving? This case is getting heavy.”

Atticus blocked the corridor and wouldn’t move. “That is your misfortune for picking the heaviest case,” he said. “You will tell me what you think of all of this, Kenton. You and I have known each other a long time and you were particularly close with Titus. I cannot imagine any of this is easy on you, either.”

“It does not matter.”

“It matters a great deal to me. Speak.”

Up until that point, Kenton had kept his gaze averted but when Atticus commanded him to spill forth his opinion, he looked the man squarely in the face.

“Do you really want to know what I think about all of this?” he asked, his eyes alight with emotion. “I was with Titus right before de Troiu and de la Londe approached him. Titus and I had been discussing positioning the right flank and I remember seeing de Troiu and de la Londe in the distance, heading in our direction. But I moved on to carry out Titus’ orders. Had I stayed, then those two bastards would not have done what they did to him. I blame myself that I was not there to help Titus fend them off. Therefore, I have personal stake in all of this, too. You are entitled to vengeance for your brother’s sake because he was, in fact, your brother; mayhap Lady de Wolfe is entitled to vengeance, too, because he was her husband. But I am entitled also because I was the last one to see him whole and healthy. This guilt that I feel has been eating away at me since the day Titus died.”

Atticus signed heavily. “Kenton, it was not your fault,” he said. “There was no way you could have known their intentions.”

Kenton was struggling to remain stoic and stone-faced. “I realize that,” he said. “But the fact remains that had I stayed, I could have prevented this. Therefore, when you face de Troiu and de la Londe, it will be with me by your side. Do not ask me to remain with Lady de Wolfe and protect her; I want revenge, too, Atticus. That is why I am here, why I did not remain behind at Alnwick to command the troops. I came for the same reason you came – to seek vengeance.”

Atticus gazed into the eyes of the man he felt a closeness to. If there was a third de Wolfe brother, then it was Kenton. Beastly big, handsome, intelligent, and loyal to a fault. Atticus understood the man’s position very well. He understood the guilt because he had that particular guilt, too. I should have been there to help Titus. Aye, he understood all too well.

Patting the man on the side of the head, Atticus shifted the weight of his cases once again and continued down the corridor with Kenton in tow. Now that things were finally spoken, there was an understanding between them. This vendetta Atticus harbored was not one of single-minded necessity; it would seem there was yet one more person determined to obtain justice for Titus. More people wanted a hand in punishing de la Londe and de Troiu and Atticus realized that he was pleased at Kenton’s attitude. One more person to share the bond of revenge with, in righting a terrible wrong done against Titus. Aye, Atticus wasn’t displeased in the least. He was coming to understand that Titus hadn’t only touched his life; the man had touched many lives. Many felt pain at his passing.

They neared the north side of the fortress where there were four chambers, including Solomon’s master chamber. The corridor was low-ceilinged and dark, and Atticus threw open the first door he came to only to be met with a dark and cold chamber. Continuing on, he came to the next door in succession and opened that one, too, but no Lady de Wolfe. Moving further down the corridor, they came to the chamber that was next to his father’s chamber, a chamber that had once belonged to Atticus’ mother. Knocking softly on the door, he waited for a response.

There was no voice that bade him to enter but he did hear something fall over, perhaps furniture of some kind. It sounded like wood falling. He rapped again.

“Lady de Wolfe?” he called. “Isobeau? May we enter? We have your cases.”

Still, no distinctive reply. But then he heard a gasp, and perhaps even a groan. Puzzled, Atticus lifted the latch and pushed the door open.

Isobeau was standing beside a small table in the room next to a toppled chair. Her fur cloak was across the table and she was clad in the pale blue traveling dress she had worn since leaving Alnwick. But Atticus immediately noticed that she had blood-stained hands and he dropped her two cases just inside the door, rushing to her side.

“What happened?” he demanded with concern. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Isobeau looked up at him, extremely pale and distressed. “I… I am not sure,” she said. “There is blood.”

He could see her hands but he didn’t see any blood on her body other than the hands. “Where?” he asked, growing increasingly apprehensive. “Where did the blood come from?”

It was then that she turned around and he saw it on the back of her dress. There was a big, dark, red stain right on her bottom and smears against the fabric where she had tried to pull her dress around to look at the mess. Atticus’ heart sank.

“Good Christ,” he hissed, putting his hands on her because she seemed to be weaving about unsteadily. He turned to Kenton, who was standing back by the door. “Find a physic immediately. Lady de Wolfe has injured herself badly.”

Kenton fled. He hadn’t really seen what Atticus had seen but it didn’t matter. What concerned him was that Atticus’ voice seemed to be tinged with fear Kenton had never heard from the man. It was alarming. As the big knight dashed off, Atticus began bellowing for servants. There was still no bed, and no food, or anything else of comfort, and Atticus snarled at the elderly servant who appeared, demanding a mattress for Lady de Wolfe. The old man explained that they were stuffing a fresh one for Lady de Wolfe, per Thetford’s orders, but Atticus bellowed at them to produce one immediately. When the fearful servant made it clear he could not comply, Atticus swung Isobeau into his arms and charged out of the chamber, straight into his father’s room next door.

Solomon’s chamber was a smelly, dirty mess, but at least it had a bed she could lay upon. Atticus ordered the elderly servant to strip his father’s bed and find something clean to lay atop it so Lady de Wolfe could have a relatively unsoiled surface upon which to lie. The only thing that was even remotely clean in Solomon’s pigsty of a chamber was an oiled cloak used to guard against the rain. It was a very big cloak, relatively clean, and the old servant laid it over the lumpy old mattress used by Solomon as Atticus deposited Isobeau gently atop it.

Isobeau’s eyes were closed, her face ghostly pale, as Atticus stood over her. He needed to at least make an attempt to stop the bleeding but he knew, in his heart of hearts, that there was nothing to be done. He suspected the bleeding was coming from her womb because of the location of the stain and he further suspected he was witnessing the death of his brother’s child. Horrendous, horrific guilt swept him.

“My lady?” he leaned over her, whispering. “Are you in pain?”

Isobeau’s eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him with her great eyes, dark as a hot summer sky. They seemed oddly bright within her ashen face.

“I am not any longer,” she said softly. “I was, but it went away.”

Atticus was feeling increasingly terrible about the circumstances, realizing the woman had been in great discomfort but had not mentioned it to him. Perhaps she didn’t think she should. For whatever reason, she had kept her agony to herself and hadn’t complained. He hadn’t noticed anything odd about her because he had been too preoccupied with his own troubles. He sighed heavily, distress on his features.

“How long were you in pain, Isobeau?” he asked her, unable to keep the sorrow from his voice. “Why did you not tell me?”

Isobeau’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before closing her eyes, turning her head away. “It was not terrible pain,” she murmured. “My back ached all during our journey from Alnwick but I assumed it was the fact that I was on a horse from sunrise to sunset. It was nothing odd. But then… right after the earl brought me to rest, I had terrible pains in my stomach and then there was blood. I do not feel much pain anymore.”

Atticus didn’t know what else to say. He was utterly devastated, now because he had failed to protect Titus’ child. He had forced Isobeau into a difficult trip, knowing her delicate condition, and now he was seeing the results of his bad decision. He should have left her at Alnwick but he knew, in the same breath, that leaving her behind had never been an option.

The loss of the child was one more shattering incident in a string of days that had seen many such things. For a man who had known only success and fortune in his life, the series of setbacks had left him reeling. He felt as if he were no longer on solid ground, a very bad sensation when he planned to face off against the two skilled knights who had murdered his brother. He felt unsteady and unsure. But perhaps there was more to life than this vengeance he harbored; he was starting to see that there was. There was his father, his friends, and even Isobeau… but he would not go back on his vow. He had a promise to fulfill and he would see it through or die trying. There was no alternative.

Thoughts of vengeance faded, however, as he gazed down at Isobeau’s face. She was his priority at the moment and he was rather chagrinned that it had taken a health scare of this magnitude for him to realize that. For days, the woman had essentially been an afterthought. His priorities, his focus, had been elsewhere. But that situation was something he intended to change.

There was nothing more he could do until the physic arrived, so he pulled up a chair next to the bed where Isobeau lay dozing. He felt so utterly helpless and sad. Isobeau’s hand, limp and lifeless, was lingering by the end of the bed. Atticus stared at it for some time before reaching out to gently collect it. Perhaps it was to comfort her, or perhaps it was even to comfort himself. For whatever the reason, Atticus sat there, holding her hand, for the rest of the morning until a tall, skinny man with a satchel in his hand arrived under Kenton’s escort.

Atticus jumped up when the man entered the chamber, describing what the lady’s issue was. After checking the man to make sure he had no weapons on his body, and even rummaging through the satchel he was carrying to see what was inside, Atticus allowed the man access to Isobeau. When the physic went to work, Atticus moved away from the bed, standing over near the chamber door. He wanted to afford Isobeau some privacy. When the physic helped her to sit up so he could remove her clothing, he left the room completely.

Standing in the corridor outside his father’s room, the very room he had been born in those years ago, he thought it was a rather fitting place for Titus’ son to know his end. So much life and death had happened in that chamber. Feeling depressed and hollow, he stood against the wall, just next to the door, straining to catch wind of what was going on inside. He couldn’t hear any sounds at all. Kenton was standing across from him, next to a small lancet window that allowed ventilation and light into the corridor, and he turned his attention to the man.

“Where did you find the physic?” Atticus asked.

Kenton drew in a long, deep breath, the sign of an exhausted man. “In Hawick,” he said. “He is the same physic that tends your father. The man’s wife and mother are following behind in a wagon; they should be here shortly. I thought you might feel more comfortable with womenfolk to tend Lady de Wolfe because, God knows, there are only men at this place.”

Atticus appreciated the foresight. “Indeed,” he replied. “Thank you for your consideration of Lady de Wolfe’s needs.”

Kenton eyed him. “What is the matter with her?”

Atticus looked up at him, an expression of sorrow on his face. He wasn’t sure how to delicately phrase the issue so he simply came out with the truth.

“I suspect the lady is no longer with child,” he said quietly, lowering his gaze.

Kenton simply nodded, averting his eyes and looking at his boots much as Atticus was. “If that is true, then I am very sorry for you,” he said quietly. “But I am sorrier for Lady de Wolfe. First Titus, now her child.”

Atticus sighed heavily, reflecting on what Isobeau was being forced to endure. “I promised my brother I would take care of her,” he said. “I do not seem to be doing a very good job of it.”

Kenton glanced at him. “You did not cause this,” he said. “Whatever has happened is the Will of God. You must have faith that everything happens as it should, and in the end, everything is as it should be.”

Atticus grunted. “I am not particularly fond of God’s Will at the moment,” he said. “So much has happened that I feel as if I am sliding into a pit and have yet to see the bottom. I pray our misfortunes end at some point and we hit bottom. I should like to come up again.”

Kenton understood. “You shall,” he said. “Sometimes it takes a bottomless pit for us to appreciate the view from the top. In any case, Lady de Wolfe will be in good hands. There is nothing more you can do for her. In fact, I would suggest you return to the chapel and relieve Thetford of the duty of watching over your father. They have been there all morning.”

Atticus knew that. He didn’t particularly want to leave Isobeau, as he was anxious for news of her condition, but he knew at some point he was going to have to see to his father.

“Has the priest arrived for the burial mass?” he asked.

Kenton nodded. “I saw him when I returned with the physic.”

Atticus processed the information. “Then with the priest here, we would do well to bury Titus right away,” he said. “I will speak with my father about it. In fact, I will insist. Meanwhile, you will remain here in case the physic needs anything. Send word to me as soon as the physic finishes his examination. I would like to know of Lady de Wolfe’s condition.”

Kenton waved him off and Atticus headed down the low-ceilinged corridor en route to Wolfe’s Lair’s small chapel and his father. Kenton watched the man go; he swore he could see a cloud of doom and sorrow hanging over Atticus, a very unusual thing, indeed. As Atticus had said, much misfortune had befallen them since that terrible day on the battlefield of Towton.

The Lion of the North, a mighty and fearsome man, was suffering through some damnable luck at the moment. But Kenton knew, as did everyone else who knew Atticus de Wolfe, that a spell of bad fortune could not cripple The Lion.

If anything, he would emerge stronger than before. It was just a hunch Kenton had.