Brides of Scotland: Four full length Novels by Kathryn Le Veque (41)

Just north of Wellesbourne Castle

Mid-May

Isobeau was not hard pressed to admit that her backside was numb from the fifteen days of travel she had endured following Atticus from the extreme north of England to the area of mid-England she was much more familiar with.

Her mare had been extremely durable and easy to ride for the length of their trip south so it wasn’t the mare’s fault that her bum was both achy and numb. Still, she wanted nothing more than to dismount the horse and walk or even run, anything to ease up the pressure on her bum. Sometimes she tried rubbing it but she was surrounded by knights who, she had discovered, would watch her do it with great interest, so she stopped. They seemed to like it too much. Suffering in silence, she rode mile after mile with a sore arse.

While the knights were watching her, however, Isobeau was watching Atticus. The past several days of travel had been very good for the two of them in spite of the seriousness of their journey, and Isobeau had come to know a man who was very funny, very bright, and very quick to move no matter what the reasons or situation. He was brave beyond measure, unafraid of anything, and she gained new appreciation for the man she had married. The trip south with his comrades-in-arms had been an experience for her, witnessing the bonding of brothers-at-arms in a way she’d never had the opportunity to know. They would die for each other but they weren’t beyond a vicious joke or two. She found that out fairly early on.

Traveling through the town of Morecambe, they had lodged for the night in an inn that had no separate sleeping chambers, only a big dormitory on the second floor. Atticus had been rather perturbed about that, not having a private room for his wife, so he sat and brooded about it for the majority of the evening whilst Alec, Maxim, and Kenton had gone in search of another inn that had more suitable arrangements. But there were none to be found, at least not locally, so the men had returned after their unsuccessful venture and throughout the course of the evening, the younger knights had proceeded to become fairly drunk. Especially Maxim.

The young knight was chasing serving wenches about in spite of Atticus admonishing the man, so when he jumped up yet again to go chase after a wench he’d been trying to snag most of the night, Atticus and Kenton took his chair, loosened one of the legs, and put the chair back where Maxim had originally left it. Maxim returned, drunk and upset at yet another unsuccessful hunt, sat down heavily, and the chair promptly collapsed.

Unfortunately, Maxim hit his head on the table behind them and knocked himself unconscious in the fall, and Kenton had hauled the man up and taken him to the dormitory where he slept off his drunkenness with great snoring choruses. Even though Atticus and Kenton had giggled about the broken chair leg, it would seem that Maxim had the last laugh when he snored heavily all night. Isobeau, wrapped snug in her bed next to her husband, had silently laughed at her husband for a joke that didn’t work out for him. When Atticus realized she was laughing at him, he’d tickled her until she screamed for reprieve. Snoring, tickling and all, it had been one of the better nights of her life.

The journey south had seen great bonding between Isobeau and Atticus, and even though their purpose in traveling south was a serious one, Isobeau was grateful for the time she was able to spend with Atticus, time that saw them draw closer. The only trouble was that he had not touched her in the husbandly sense because they hadn’t been given any real time alone.

The trip south had seen them either camp in the open or seek shelter in taverns where they’d always had to share a room with Kenton or another knight. They’d shared a few stolen moments of very heated and lusty kisses, moments away from the others, but it hadn’t been nearly enough for a husband to be intimate with a wife. It had been both a frustrating and titillating problem, something Isobeau knew was eating away at Atticus. Having been married before, she knew when a man was aroused and Atticus seemed to be aroused around her quite often. She giggled while he groaned miserably.

But she pushed those carnal thoughts aside, knowing that the time would come at some point when he would claim his husbandly rights and eagerly awaiting that day. But this trip, this journey south, was for a singular purpose and on the morning of the fifteenth day, she had awoken alone in the bed she had shared with Atticus.

Lifting her head to look about, she noticed that the pallet against the wall was also vacant where it had once held Kenton. Both men were gone but in their wake they had left her a bowl of lukewarm water and a great hunk of cream-colored bread with a hard brown crust.

Isobeau had wolfed down the bread, washed in the water, and prepared for the coming day. In a durable traveling dress of brown wool that was heavy and comfortable, she had ridden behind Atticus for most of the day, refraining from rubbing her bum, and that was where she currently found herself. She was so concerned with finding a comfortable position on the saddle that when a distant castle came into view and Adam and de Royans suddenly spurred their horses forward, she was nearly pitched off her mare when the animal danced about excitedly.

Wellesbourne Castle had been sighted.

Isobeau could see it now on the horizon, a white-stoned castle that rose above the gently rolling, green hills of Warwickshire. Nestled near the River Dene, Wellesbourne Castle was a very tall but somewhat compact structure. As they drew closer, Isobeau drank in the sight of the fortress with its soaring walls the color of pearl. Great blocks of nearly white granite comprised the walls and, once inside the curtain wall, also comprised the keep. There were stables and trades off to the left in a surprisingly roomy bailey, knight’s quarters and other apartments to the right as they were built against the wall, and in front of her was a keep in the shape of a quatrefoil at least four stories high. It was an impressive sight to say the least.

As Isobeau gawked at the sheer height of Wellesbourne Castle’s keep, Atticus dismounted his beast and made his way over to his wife. He lifted his arms to her but she didn’t see him, still gazing up at the top of the keep. Atticus grinned.

“I promise to take you to the very top so you can see the views of the countryside,” he said. “But you must get off your horse first. Surely your backside must be sore.”

Jolted from her observations, Isobeau smiled as she slid down into his warm, wonderful embrace.

“It is,” she said. “How did you know?”

“How do you think we all knew?”

He snorted as he said it and Isobeau flushed with embarrassment as she rubbed at her bum. “Well, it hurts.”

He stopped laughing and kissed her forehead. Even when her feet touched the muddy ground, Atticus kept her in his grasp. His gaze upon her was warm.

“Not to worry, sweetling, although you provided quite a titillating show for Maxim and Alec,” he said, watching her make a menacing face at him. He grinned. “It will be a relief to sleep in a chamber of our own tonight, away from those frisky young knights. As much as I love and respect my men, if I have to hear Maxim snore one more time or be woken up by Alec fighting unseen assassins in his sleep, the top of my head will surely blow off from sheer frustration.”

Isobeau laughed. “Kenton is the only one who does not make any noise when he sleeps,” she said. “Many times I thought he was dead asleep but if I so much as breathed, he was instantly awake and ready to do battle.”

Atticus was forced to agree. “Such are the instincts of a trained knight,” he said, turning for the big keep with its wide stone steps when he heard voices.

The first thing he saw was Andrew Wellesbourne, greeting Kenton loudly, and right behind him he saw Adam hugging his blond-haired wife with great care. The woman was quite pregnant and Adam was trying to be very careful with her in his zeal.

Maxim and Alec were standing with Jasper de Llion, the big Wellesbourne knight having opened the gates for the party to enter. Atticus knew all of the Wellesbourne knights, including de Llion, because he had fought many battles with them and he realized he was rather proud to introduce Isobeau to them. It was the first time in his life, he realized, that he would take pride in someone other than himself. Even though their visit to Wellesbourne was grave, there were some joyous factors to it and Isobeau was one.

“Come, wife,” he said. “Let us greet our host. I have a great deal of gratitude to express.”

Isobeau took his arm as he led her between horses, heading for the keep where everyone was gathering. They could see Andrew and Juston in deep conversation. Isobeau leaned in to Atticus, speaking quietly.

“Those men, Atticus,” she said, grasping for words. She couldn’t even really bring herself to speak their names any longer. “Those men who killed Titus – now that we have finally arrived, will you see them this very moment? Or will you wait?”

Atticus had been asking himself that same question for fifteen days. Would he take immediately to his task? Or would he wait, planning his attack, making sure that when he faced them that he had a plan so that he was guaranteed ultimate victory? The truth was that he saw no reason to wait. The sooner he finished with what he must do, the sooner he and Isobeau would be able to move on with their lives. For Titus’ sake, he didn’t want to wait. Titus deserved justice and he wanted de la Londe and de Troiu dead before sunset, which was fast on the approach. Nay, he didn’t want to wait at all.

“I will greet Lord Andrew and then see to my task,” he told her. “You will retreat inside with Lady Wellesbourne. I will come to you when it is finished.”

Isobeau came to a halt and he along with her. When he turned to look at her, curious as to why she had stopped, he could see the unhappiness in her expression.

“Nay, Atticus,” she said firmly. “You said this would be vengeance for us both. I will be present when you administer justice to these men.”

“Nay, you will not.”

“It is my right to see this ended just as much as it is yours!”

Now he was the one frowning. “You may see their bodies when I am finished,” he said. “Why should you want to see the actual punishment?”

She looked at him as if he were daft. “Why wouldn’t I? I have come a very long way, too, and it was not to be shut up in a keep whilst you face life and death against men who killed Titus. Moreover, I want to be here… with you… whilst you administer justice. I want you to know that I am here to support you in everything you do.”

Atticus didn’t want to enter into a confrontation with her, not now. If she felt so strongly about it, then he would not deny her. But she had to know that what she was about to see what going to be very brutal. In fact, he thought to scare her a bit so that she might decide on her own to retreat inside until it was over.

“Very well,” he said, although it was clear he was unhappy about it. “If you choose to watch, then know this will be a fierce event. These men will die, right in front of you, and not in pleasant ways. Are you willing to watch that?”

She was unmoved by his attempt to frighten her. “I hope they suffer tenfold any pain that Titus felt,” she said, her voice tight with emotion. “I hope they feel his pain and beg for your mercy to end it. For what they did, they deserve nothing less.”

Atticus was a bit taken aback at her passion when she spoke of the suffering of men. He could see that she meant every word. Before he could respond, however, Andrew Wellesbourne came upon them, reaching out to grasp Atticus in the joy of greeting.

“Atticus,” he said, great satisfaction in his voice. “You have come. Adam and Juston just explained everything to me, why you have come and what de la Londe and de Troiu mean to you. So they killed Titus, did they? Somehow, I am not surprised. They told me that Titus was killed at Towton but they did not say how, the bastards. Now I know. They are traitors at the dirtiest and most unsavory level. I am deeply sorry for the loss of your brother, Atticus. My heart grieves for him.”

Atticus greeted Adam’s father fondly. “As does mine,” he said, turning to indicate Isobeau. “Meet my wife, Lady Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe. She has accompanied me from Wolfe’s Lair. Isobeau was born and raised at Isenhall, which is not far from here. Surely you know her father.”

Andrew turned his attention to her, surprise and pleasure registering on his face. “My lady,” he said. “Of course I know your father, Calpurnius. He is a friend and ally. I remember you, too, but it has been years since I last saw you.”

Isobeau smiled at the man, looking rather chagrined. “I am sorry to say that I do not remember you, my lord,” she said. “I was a foolish child and remember little from my childhood. Pray forgive me.”

Andrew laughed. “I am a forgettable old fool,” he said, looking between Atticus and Isobeau. “But please come inside and allow me to show you some Wellesbourne hospitality. You must surely be exhausted from your journey.”

Atticus shook his head. “I will not sample Wellesbourne hospitality until my reason for coming here is complete,” he said quietly. “Where are de la Londe and de Troiu?”

Andrew wasn’t surprised that Atticus would not relax until the men who had killed his brother were appropriately punished. He was a knight, and he understood the heart of a knight. Therefore, he understood Atticus’ position very well.

“In the vault,” he said. “I have held them in that hellish, black hole since the day they arrived here last month. I have seen them twice since then and they knew that I had sent word to Alnwick to discover the truth of the madness they were trying to tell me. Imagine my son swearing fealty to Edward. I knew it was a lie! But now I have been told that their presence in my vault means much more to you, Atticus. I am privileged to deliver them to you so you may exact justice for Titus’ death.”

Atticus thought on that a moment. He looked around the bailey of Wellesbourne; it was cluttered with men, and a few animals over by the stables, but there was a great open area right in front of the gatehouse where their horses were gathered after having just arrived. The area in front of the gatehouse was open, with soft earth, and it was easily viewed from both the keep and the wall. He must have paused in thought too long because Isobeau nudged him gently.

“Atticus?” she said. “What are you thinking?”

Atticus’ gaze lingered on the soft earth near the gatehouse. “I am thinking that I will wait no longer to seek justice for my brother,” he said, turning to Andrew. “Bring de la Londe and de Troiu to me, my lord. I will wait for them here.”

Andrew looked at the man, trying to gauge his mood and also what he intended to do. “You want me to simply bring them out to you?”

Atticus nodded. “Aye.”

Andrew looked to Isobeau for a moment as if she could clarify the demand, but she seemed as puzzled as he did. He returned his attention to Atticus. “And what will you do?”

Atticus’ expression was serious, deadly. “What needs to be done,” he said. “Have weapons standing by so that they might defend themselves. This will be finished now, my lord. I have come a very long way and I will wait no longer. For my brother, I will dispense justice as quickly and as painfully as possible.”

The Lion of the North had spoken. Andrew simply nodded, glancing somewhat ominously at Isobeau as he walked away, but Isobeau had no discernable reaction to her husband’s words. It was clear that she agreed with him.

As Andrew moved, he gathered Adam, Jasper, and Juston, relaying Atticus’ orders. They appeared a bit surprised but nonetheless resigned as Juston and Jasper headed to the vault on Andrew’s heels but Adam remained behind. Kenton made a point of asking Adam where his father and de Royans were heading and when Adam told him, Kenton understood. He gathered Maxim and Alec, and together, the four knights moved to Atticus’ side.

Already, it would begin. There would be no delays, no pleasantries, no relaxation for those who had traveled so far. Atticus had come with a purpose and that purpose would begin.

The time for reckoning was swiftly approaching.

*

The light was blinding. He couldn’t see. His eyes, from weeks in darkness, couldn’t tolerate the sunlight at all. As de la Londe emerged from the black vaults of Wellesbourne and out into the daylight, he had his hands over his eyes because he couldn’t see in the least. Next to him, de Troiu was actually folded over, eyes closed and head down. De Royans and de Llion had brought them up from the vault, roughly, shoving them up the moss-covered steps until they reached the blinding white light at the top.

De la Londe was fairly certain that the brightness had burned holes in his eyes as he blinked rapidly, covering his eyes, struggling to acclimate. De Royans and de Llion were still shoving him, out into the dirt of the bailey, and both he and de Troiu were staggering blindly.

De la Londe had no idea how far they actually staggered until de Royans and de Llion stopped shoving. At that point, de la Londe was able to see a little bit but he kept his eyes shaded. He saw dirt and he could see the legs of men standing around him. Off to his left was the gatehouse; he recognized the old iron portcullis. There were more soldiers standing over there, looking at him. Still blinking rapidly, he tried to lift his eyes to see more of what was surrounding him.

The first face he saw was that of Atticus de Wolfe.

Suddenly, de la Londe wasn’t so blind. He found himself gazing at Atticus with astonishment, his mouth gaping as he beheld the stubble-bearded vision of a knight he knew very well. But in that split second of recognition, he knew why Atticus was here; at least, he thought he did. He knew that Andrew Wellesbourne had sent word to Alnwick to try and straighten out the lies that he had been told, so the truth was that de la Londe wasn’t surprised to see Atticus.

In fact, he was prepared. Armed with the fabricated story he’d had a great deal of time to concoct in the black depths of Wellesbourne’s vault, de la Londe reached out an arm in Atticus’ direction.

“Atticus,” he breathed. “Thank God you have come. You can help straighten out the misunderstanding with Wellesbourne.”

Atticus gazed steadily at the two men who murdered his brother. It was a defining moment for him, one wrought with emotion, and he was rather proud that he hadn’t charged them and cut both of their heads off. That was his first instinct when he had seen them emerging from the vault, crippled by the bright sunlight in their faces. He had wanted nothing more than to rush them and cut them to shreds. But he didn’t; his composure held, although it was fragile. But the sound of de la Londe’s voice threatened to shatter it.

“There is no misunderstanding,” Atticus said steadily. “In fact, everything is perfectly clear. You know exactly why I am here.”

De la Londe rubbed at his eyes, struggling to focus on Atticus with his still-weak eyes. “You have come to vouch for me, of course,” he said. “I am a Northumberland knight, a man you have fought with for many years. And where is Titus? Is he here?”

Atticus’ expression was darkening even though he was struggling desperately to remain calm. Still, something inside him, that terrible need to right a wrong, to make men suffer in payment for all of the suffering Titus had endured, begged to be released. So much hate.

Atticus felt so much hate that it began to control him. He couldn’t stop it. Now, the time for vengeance was upon him and it was hate, and oddly enough love for his brother, that would see this through. Both of them seemed to be intertwined within him, feeding his soul. Slowly, he made his way towards the two men standing together near the gatehouse.

“I want you both to look at something,” he said, holding up a heavy and well-made broadsword. “Do you recognize this?”

De la Londe blinked as he looked at the weapon. “A broadsword, of course,” he said. “Why do you ask? Atticus, what is happening here? Why are Declan and I standing here like animals? Take us inside and feed us. We have been treated terribly since our arrival.”

That was enough to snap Atticus, at least slightly. A massive fist lashed out and struck de la Londe in the jaw, sending the man reeling. When de Troiu, shocked by the sudden violence, threw up his hands to protect his head, Atticus lashed out a big boot and caught the man in the belly. De Troiu collapsed in the dirt.

Atticus stood over the writhing pair, resisting the urge to kick and punch them until there was nothing but bloody bits left. As de la Londe wallowed on the ground, Atticus put the tip of the broadsword under the man’s chin, forcing his head up. Their eyes met and nothing short of hell could be seen in Atticus’ tumultuous orbs.

There was death there.

“The more you speak your foolish lies, the more painful your death will be,” Atticus snarled. “Whatever fabrications you have decided to tell me, be aware that I know the truth. This broadsword at your throat is my brother’s, the one he used to defend himself with when you and de Troiu murdered him. It will now be the instrument used to send you to your death. That is why I am here, Simon. I have come for you.”

Simon seemed to lose some of his confidence. He squinted up at Atticus, rubbing his jaw and struggling not to let his fear show. He knows! He thought in a panic. That is impossible! How could the man know when they made sure to kill Titus? Dead men do not speak!

“Who told you such lies?” he demanded weakly. “Titus is dead, you say?”

Atticus, infuriated, lashed out another foot and caught de la Londe in the face. When de Troiu attempted to crawl away, out of the line of fire, Atticus grabbed him by the hair and threw him to the ground.

“Both of you will listen to me and listen well,” he growled, watching the blood pour from de la Londe’s nose. “When you kill a man, it is imperative you finish the deed so that he cannot tell others what happened. Fortunately, your inept skills against my brother allowed him to live for a short while and tell us what you had done before he mercifully passed on. I know that it was you two who approached my brother and demanded his oath to Edward. I know that when he refused, you gored him. I am here today because I swore to Titus I would avenge his death and that is exactly what I intend to do. Is this in any way unclear?”

De la Londe was looking up at Atticus with baleful eyes. His expression, pleading and innocent moments earlier, had now turned dark and murky. He barred his teeth, menacingly, giving one last attempt to deny his crimes and save his life. As he saw it, he had nothing to lose. He knew his life was now measured in minutes and he had to make every attempt to extend it.

“He lied,” de la Londe hissed. “Titus lied!”

Atticus snapped. He threw Titus’ broadsword aside and pounced on de la Londe, using his fists to beat the man within an inch of his life. De la Londe fought back although he was mostly trying to defend himself as Atticus mercilessly pounded the man in the face and around his head and shoulders. Every blow had Titus’ name on it, every drop of blood vindication for his death. When de Troiu, close enough so that he was on the receiving end of a couple of brutal punches, attempted to crawl away, Atticus grabbed the man by the hair again and beat him in the neck and on the side of the head hard enough to daze him. As de Troiu hovered above unconsciousness, Atticus pushed himself off of de la Londe and went to retrieve Titus’ sword.

“Give them weapons,” Atticus snapped to Kenton and Adam, who were holding two broadswords. “Give them the weapons, I say! Let us be done with this now!”

Atticus was agitated, feeding off of battle and off of his sense of vengeance. Kenton, ever cool, took the broadsword from Adam and, with two in his hands, approached de la Londe and de Troiu. He kicked de Troiu to try and rouse the man.

“Get up,” he rumbled. “If you want to at least have a fighting chance, then you had better get up and defend yourselves. Otherwise, Atticus will make short work of you.”

The tension in the air was unbelievable, a splitting mood of anguish and hatred and grief, and all of it radiating from Atticus. They all felt it, most especially Isobeau; standing on the top step of the keep and well away from the fighting, as she had promised Atticus, she nonetheless had a full view of what was going on. There were tears in her eyes as she watched, tears for Atticus and tears for the grief and agony for Titus that were surfacing once again. The pain was returning, fresh as if it had never left.

But this was what Atticus had been waiting for since the day of Titus’ death, the opportunity to avenge the man he loved so dearly. As brutal as it was, it was also healing. Isobeau knew that. The pain, fresh again, would be eased. Today, the healing would truly begin for Atticus and as difficult as it was to watch, it was also therapeutic.

For both of them.

They both needed the closure.

As Isobeau observed from the steps, hands to her mouth, Atticus had managed to calm his rage somewhat but not completely. He was growing impatient as de la Londe and de Troiu continued to stagger from his beating. He didn’t want to wait any longer.

“Take the swords or I will gore you both at this very moment,” he commanded.

De Troiu, regaining consciousness, tried to crawl behind Kenton for some protection, but Kenton kicked the man aside and threw the sword at his feet. Kenton then tossed the other sword at de la Londe and it landed in the dirt a few inches away from him. As Kenton moved away from the center of battle, de la Londe grabbed at the sword and clutched it defensively. His face, now bruised and bloodied, was fixed on Atticus.

“A dying man will say anything!” he bellowed desperately. “You will not even hear the truth of the matter? Then you murder two innocent men!”

Atticus resisted the urge to charge them again. They were such blatant liars that it sickened him. Still, he managed to pause and collect himself as best he was able.

“The truth is that you murdered my brother for refusing to side with Edward,” he said. “That is the only truth. If you speak any more lies against my brother, I will cut your tongue out.”

De la Londe cut short his reply, knowing that Atticus would do it. The man always carried out his threats. He therefore knew his life was at an end and he knew there was nothing more he could do to save himself except, perhaps, defer the blame. Maybe it would ease Atticus’ anger; maybe it would compel him to be merciful. Maybe he could lie and cheat and worm his way out of this predicament altogether, for now, he was out to save himself. He didn’t want to die.

“It was Declan,” he finally said, pointing to de Troiu. “He was the one who stabbed Titus first. He brought about the first blow. It was not me. I would have ridden from Titus without killing him, but de Troiu struck first!”

De Troiu, still on the dirt a few feet away from de la Londe, looked to his comrade in horror. “You bastard!” he hissed. “It was you who provoked him!”

De la Londe was now in the losing game of Casting Blame. He and de Troiu were no longer united as the truth began to spill forth. In an effort to deflect the accusation, he turned to Atticus.

“Look at my face!” de la Londe jabbed a finger at the healing gash across the side of his face. “Titus did that! He moved against me first! De Troiu was only defending me!”

De Troiu, realizing that de la Londe was utterly out for himself, moved to plead his case to Atticus. “Norfolk offered Titus the manse at Westwick,” he said. “He offered him productive lands and a title, but Titus refused. He knew we had already sworn fealty to Norfolk and he viewed us as the enemy. With God as my witness, Atticus, it was Titus who moved first. He slashed de la Londe’s face. I was able to get in the next blow. Up until that moment, we had not drawn our weapons. It was Titus who drew first.”

Atticus listened, unmoved. “Because you were traitors,” he said simply. “He had every right to move against you and subdue you.”

“And we had every right to defend ourselves!”

Atticus held up Titus’ broadsword. “Just as you have every right to defend yourselves now,” he said. “Get up and face me. I will not tell you again.”

It was an order. But de Troiu knew, as did de la Londe, that the moment they picked up the swords, Atticus would kill them. It would be an honorable killing. In that respect, they weren’t going to make it easy for him. Atticus de Wolfe was a man whose reputation was built on honor. Killing an unarmed man would be most dishonorable. With that in mind, de Troiu shook his head.

“Nay,” he said, rising to his knees and refusing to collect the sword. “If you are going to kill me, then do it. I’ll not pick up a weapon and pretend to give you a fight. We both know that there is no fight. Therefore, if you are going to kill me, then kill me unarmed.”

Atticus knew what the man was attempting to do; an honorable knight would not fight an unarmed knight. But this was an extraordinary case; this was a punishment for a crime, not an honorable fight in the least. Giving de Troiu and de la Londe weapons to defend themselves was purely a courtesy. Given that Atticus was seeking vengeance against two murderers, there were no rules in this hunt. It was the hunter against the prey. The prey refused to arm itself.

Therefore, Atticus didn’t hesitate to act. No sooner had the words left de Troiu’s mouth than Atticus marched up on the man and shoved Titus’ broadsword straight into de Troiu’s sternum.

It was a shocking and brutal move. The first blood had been drawn as de Troiu collapsed into the dirt, bleeding out from a pierced heart. After that, bedlam reigned. De la Londe, seeing that Atticus had killed de Troiu without hesitation, grabbed the broadsword at his feet and swung it at Atticus, who was fairly close to him. The blade caught Atticus in the hip and, being that Atticus was quite typically not wearing armor, immediately drew copious amounts of blood.

In an instant, the battle to the death had finally begun.

Injured, Atticus turned on de la Londe and attacked the man. It was nearly even odds considering de la Londe had been beaten and battered, and his head was unsteady, but the swordfight that commenced was truly one to behold. It was a vicious battle across the compound as Atticus, bleeding profusely from a very large gash to his left hip, went after de la Londe with a vengeance.

Sparks flew into the air as blade met with blade, and men who had once been allies now tried desperately to kill one another. Upon the steps of Wellesbourne’s keep, Isobeau was watching in fascination and horror as the knights around her, now witnessing a rather brutal and powerful battle, analyzed every movement of the fight. They could see already that Atticus was having some difficulty in moving with his usual grace because the gash to his hip was severe. Muscles had been cut. But the man didn’t back off in any form. He was The Lion of the North, after all, and he had a reputation for skill and power. Now, he had a reputation for unwavering determination as well, even with the serious wound.

As all of the knights witnessing the event would later attest, the battle between Atticus de Wolfe and his brother’s killer had truly been something to behold. It was a great battle that would be spoken of and passed down from generation to generation, for centuries to come.

It would cement The Lion’s reputation for good.

Being that both men were excellent knights, however, it was a battle that went on longer than it should have. With Atticus’ injury and de la Londe’s bruising, the fierceness of the fight was a testimony to their individual strengths. De la Londe was clearly up to the task, but so was Atticus. In the course of their battle, the men fought their way over to the stables and they spent several long and terrifying minutes chasing each other through the yard, leaping over water troughs or dodging fences. At one point, Atticus nearly cut de la Londe’s head off when the man barely ducked a slice that came in over the top of a fence post.

The knights watching the fight followed it as it moved from the stables to the kitchen yard. They were so involved in the battle that they had all but forgotten about Isobeau as the woman watched the fight with utter horror. It was a surreal performance of battle and skill by Atticus, weakened only by the wound to his hip, but it was clear that the wound was slowing him down. On and on they went, fighting their way into the kitchen yard, when de la Londe took hold of a long garden tool and hurled it at Atticus’ head.

Atticus ducked the flying tool but the iron end of it still clipped him on the head, drawing blood. The sight of Atticus’ blood on his head was all Isobeau needed to slide into full-blown panic; terrified her husband was going to be killed by the same man who had killed his brother, she could no longer stand by and observe. She had to do something. She understood now the depths of Atticus’ angst at his inability to protect his brother, for now that she saw her husband bleeding and battling, it was as if something inside her snapped.

Snapped….

She would do anything to protect her husband, her love and her life, and she simply couldn’t stand by and watch de la Londe defeat Atticus. Defeat would mean his death. This was something she could not allow. She could not bury another husband and she certainly couldn’t bury Atticus.

She had to save him.

Following the knights as they followed Atticus and de la Londe around the corner of the keep and towards a walled-in garden, it looked to her as if de la Londe had the advantage. Atticus, with his bleeding head, seemed to be backing off a bit and taking a beating because of it. She couldn’t watch de la Londe beat him into the ground and with that thought, the thought of Atticus’ imminent death, everything else in her mind became a blur.

She had to save him!

De la Londe had his back to her now as he slashed down upon Atticus, driving him off-balance. Isobeau looked around for a weapon of some kind, anything to injure the man with and give Atticus the advantage, but there wasn’t anything strong enough or sharp enough in her line of sight to complete the job. Her desperate gaze darted about until she came across a dagger shoved into a sheath on a belt that draped around Kenton’s hips.

A dagger!

Now, she knew what she had to do. Rushing at Kenton, Isobeau snatched the dagger before the man even realized she had it. De la Londe’s back was still to her as she burst through the crowd of knights watching the battle and threw herself at de la Londe’s backside. Lifting the dagger, she plunged it squarely into the back of the man’s neck. As de la Londe screamed and went down, she withdrew the dagger and stabbed him twice more, feeling him collapse beneath her and experiencing a very odd satisfaction as he folded. Words, words she couldn’t even control, came hurling out at the dying man beneath her.

“For Titus, I hope you feel all of the anguish that he felt at your hand,” she hissed into his ear. “For the grief and agony you caused me, let my voice be the last one you hear in this world and know that I hope you spend eternity in hell as Satan’s handmaiden. And for Atticus, know that he will feel the ultimate satisfaction in your death. But hear me now; as you lay dying, know that it wasn’t a knight who killed you. It was a woman.”

It was the ultimate insult to the felled man. She may have whispered more to him after that but she could not be sure. Someone was lifting her up and carrying her away, and the last she saw of Simon de la Londe was when a circle of knights surrounded him, watching him die in agony. It was the last memory Isobeau had of that event, of the moment when all that was controlled and fearful within her snapped enough so that she killed the man who was hurting Atticus. De la Londe’s death, her own sense of vengeance against the man, was the last thing she remembered.

When her senses finally returned, the first face she saw was Atticus’.

He kissed her. And then he wept.