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.”
Brides of the North Page 47
