“Collect these arrows for our own use!” he yelled to the men around him, who began to scramble. “Take them up to the archers on our walls!”
Men were rushing everywhere, collecting the arrows that had been shot at them, as Atticus reached the other side of the bailey. There was a small tower in the southeast corner of Wolfe’s Lair’s curtain wall, and he immediately began donning his mail. He had stored it on a frame in the armory, a frame that held his hauberk as well as his plate armor and heavily padded tunic he wore underneath. A soldier who happened to be near the armory came to help him and between the two of them, they managed to get his armor on completely.
Now, fully protected, he continued on to inform his father and also Isobeau of what they would be facing. He was no sooner out of the armory when Kenton yelled again and a second round of arrows rained down from the sky. Atticus was moving up the exposed staircase that led to the upper floors when a shaft caught him in the back of his thigh.
Angered, and hardly aware of any pain, Atticus ripped the arrow free and tossed it aside for the men collecting arrows to retrieve. At the moment, he had more important things on his mind, but most importantly, furious that Summerlin should attack Wolfe’s Lair after he’d spared the man’s life and told him to go home. Evidently, his mercy had been betrayed.
He would not make the mistake a second time.
Isobeau had not been part of a siege before. Isenhall, her home, had been mostly peaceful her entire life so the event of an actual battle was something shocking. Shocking and eye-opening. It was an entirely new experience altogether.
Earlier that day, Atticus had come to tell her, dressed in full armor, that Wolfe’s Lair was under attack. Awoken from a deep sleep but feeling infinitely better than she had from the day before, she’d listened to his information with some horror. Norfolk had come back. Atticus had instructed her to have servants bring supplies to her room and then barricade herself behind the sturdy, oak door until he came for her, and she did just that at first. The two female servants at Wolfe’s Lair had brought supplies to her chamber and then had remained with her behind the barricaded door until sometime later in the day when a male servant came knocking on her door wanting to know if she had any needle and thread with her.
It seemed that there were several wounded in the hall, men who had been hit with arrows, and the physic from Hawick was running out of catgut. He needed thread and, as Isobeau questioned him through the closed door, it sounded as if he needed help as well. More wounded were coming in by the minute because Norfolk had taken to slinging things like spikey tree trunks and other damaging objects over the wall with a small ox-drawn trebuchet they’d brought with them. Part of the stable had collapsed from something heavy slung over the walls and some of the animals were injured. Panicked, thinking it might have been her mare, Isobeau collected her precious sewing kit and dashed out of the chamber with the female servants in tow.
What she saw shocked her to the bone. The inner ward of Wolfe’s Lair had been pummeled with tree trunks and other large chunks of trees that had been hurled over the walls. Arrows littered the muddy ground. She could see de Wolfe men lining the wall walk, watching Norfolk’s activity below, but they weren’t doing much more than watching at this point. Norfolk was expending all of the energy. Isobeau didn’t see Atticus, which was probably a good thing. With everyone’s attention focused outside of the wall, Isobeau was able to move about rather freely.
Her first stop was the stable to check on her mare. The animal was quite snug and quite safe, crammed into a stall along with three goats and a small work pony. The horse seemed quite happy with the company. Satisfied her pet was safe, Isobeau proceeded across the inner ward to the great hall on the other side, entering the slender, long structure.
Immediately, she was confronted by several wounded men. They were all positioned over near the hearth, which was burning low and smoky, a haze of blue hovering near the ceiling. But it was warm and moderately comfortable, as Isobeau made her way deeper into the hall in search of the physic to offer her assistance. The men she passed, men who were lying on the ground, seemed to be fairly injured. One man still had an arrow sticking out of him while yet another man had the arrow out of his neck but was bleeding a great deal.
It was a daunting and intimidating sight. Isobeau began to rethink her offer to help, for she truly didn’t know if she would be of any use, when the physic caught sight of her and immediately put her to work. The first man she was assigned to was the one with the profusely bleeding neck. Sickened by the sight of so much blood, Isobeau threaded her needle with the fine, silk thread her father had bought for her in Coventry and went to work.
As the afternoon progressed and she stitched up man after man, the task seemed to become a bit easier. After the first three or four patients, she began to get a bit of practice and was more at ease with it. This was her second experience helping wounded, but the experience back at Alnwick had been very different from this one. These men were freshly injured and freshly in pain. She wanted very much to help them and ease their anguish but she figured out early on that she was a bit squeamish when it came to plunging a needle into a man’s flesh. The first time she did it with the man with the neck wound, she had put several tiny stitches into his skin when it probably only needed four or five stitches total. He had a big cluster of white stitches in his neck that looked strangely like flower petals.
But she soldiered on, gaining experience, remembering Lady Percy at Alnwick and how stoic and calm the woman had been. She tried to be that way, too. Nearing sunset, all of the men were tended, all fourteen of them, and another man was brought in that the physic from Hawick tended personally. At that point, the only aid needed was seeing to the comfort of the wounded so Isobeau wandered among them, encouraging them to be brave from the pain or giving them some water to drink. When she came to an older man lying away from the fire, off by himself, he seemed to be quite miserable from the arrow wound to his gut. He was shivering and sweating, and Isobeau knew enough about illnesses and wounds to know that the man had a fever. Kneeling next to him, she put a gentle hand on his arm.
“Sirrah?” she asked softly. “Would you like some water?”
The old man, eyes closed, stirred at the sound of her voice. Slowly, he turned his head in her direction and the wrinkled eyelids lifted. He stared at her a moment, blinking.
“Who are ye, lady?” he rasped.
Isobeau smiled faintly. “I am Lady de Wolfe,” she replied. “I am Sir Atticus’ wife.”
A ripple of surprise moved across the old soldier’s face. “The Lion?”
“Aye.”
The old lips creased into a distant smile. “I knew him as a boy, m’lady,” he said. “We are proud of him, we are. He has grown into a fine and famous man.”
Isobeau continued to smile at the old soldier, unsure what to say to that. She wanted to agree, to perhaps heap praise upon Atticus for his reputation only, but she was embarrassed to do so, embarrassed that she was so willing to praise him after having been his wife for little more than two days. As if she had any right to be proud. But the kiss between them the day before, that heated gesture of liquid fire, was still enough to make her heart race every time she thought of it. Titus’ kisses had been soft and warm and comfortable; being kissed by Atticus was like being burned by the sun.
“We are all very proud of him, of course,” she said, lifting the wooden cup from the bucket of water she had next to her. “Would you like some water?”
The old man shook his head. “Nay,” he said, raspy. “My time is drawing to a close. I was lying here dreaming of the times when I was a young man. I was thinking on me mum and pa. They died when I was young, ye know. I will see them again soon.”
Isobeau sobered. “You mustn’t speak like that,” she said. “You will get well again. Lord Solomon’s physic is very skilled. He will make sure of it.”
The old soldier cast her a long glance. “Do ye sing, m’lady?”
&
nbsp; Isobeau nodded. “I do.”
“Will ye sing something for me?”
Isobeau nodded eagerly this time. “Of course I will,” she said. “What do you wish to hear?”
“Old Rose the Whore.”
Isobeau’s eyes widened in shock. “I do not know any such song,” she said stiffly. “Even if I did, I would not sing it. What else would you have me sing?”
The old soldier was giggling at her offended manner. “Do you know Tilly Nodden?”
Isobeau eyed him suspiciously. “You only want me to sing unseemly songs.”
The old man put a hand on her arm. “That is all I know, my lady,” he said. “I am a soldier and know a soldier’s life. Do ye know Tilly Nodden?”
Isobeau frowned. “Well,” she said reluctantly, “I have heard it a few times. My father had soldiers that would sing it.”
The old soldier’s eyes twinkled in the dim light. “It is a happy song,” he said. “Would ye please sing it for me?”
Isobeau was very hesitant. “I cannot sing some of the verses,” she insisted. “I will not.”
“Then sing the chorus. Let me sing it with ye.”
Isobeau opened her mouth to try to refuse him yet again because the chorus had some very dirty phrases in it when a deep, smooth voice interrupted.
“That is not an appropriate song for a lady to sing. Choose another song.”
Isobeau looked up to see where the voice had come from and noticed, tucked back against the wall, a big man laying upon a pallet. He was actually sitting up, his back against the wall, and both of his legs below the knees were tightly wrapped. Because of the dimness in the hall, she couldn’t really see his face but it began to occur to her who the man was. The knight Atticus cut down. She wasn’t particularly frightened, but she was wary.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said rather firmly. “I can make my own denials.”
“You have not done a very good job.”
She eyed the man in the shadows with some irritation. “I am trying to be polite with a wounded man.”
“That is true, my lady, but he is taking advantage of your good heart by trying to coerce you into singing a bawdy song.”
The knight was probably right. Frowning, and unhappy that she had very nearly sang that bawdy tavern song that spoke of a cross-dressing whore, she stood up and collected her bucket with water, making her way over to the knight in the darkness.
Isobeau could see the man’s face better now. He was handsome, square-jawed, with black eyes and long hair that tumbled in waves to his shoulders. He was handsome in a barbaric sort of way and she eyed him curiously.
“You are the knight that my husband cut down,” she said. “What is your name?”
The knight dipped his head politely. “I am Sir Alrik du Reims,” he said. “You may call me Rik. No one calls me Alrik except my wife when she is cross with me. When she uses my full name, it is time to run and hide.”
His humor softened Isobeau somewhat and she fought off a grin. “You are married, then?”
He nodded. “Indeed I am,” he said. “I have a wife and three small daughters.”
Isobeau knelt a foot or so away from him, scooping some water from her bucket and extending the cup to him. “Where do they live?”
Du Reims took the cup gratefully and drank. “At Arundel Castle,” he said, smacking his lips. “My wife is actually from Sussex. I met her whilst stationed at Arundel.”
Isobeau took back the empty cup. “Have you been away from them a long time?”
Du Reims’ black eyes took on a distant cast. “It seems like ages,” he said. “It has only been a few months, but it seems like ages.”
There was such longing in his voice that it tugged at Isobeau’s heart. She couldn’t help it. She lowered her gaze, putting the cup back into the bucket. “I understand,” she said. “It is terrible that this war should separate and destroy families. It seems that… forgive me. I meant to say that I will pray for your wife and your children’s good health while you are away, even if you are my husband’s enemy.”
Du Reims leaned back against the wall, eyeing the extremely luscious Lady de Wolfe. He was not surprised to see that Atticus de Wolfe had such a beautiful wife; a man of such reputation was worthy of such a woman. But it also occurred to him that, in Lady de Wolfe, he saw the woman who would save his life.
Du Reims was no fool. He knew that Summerlin had returned with the army to lay siege to Wolfe’s Lair. He had expected it, in fact, and up until Lady de Wolfe presented herself, he was resigned to the fact that this would be his last day on earth. He knew that at some point, Atticus would come to the hall and kill him just as he had promised. Du Reims was in no position to really defend himself, as he could not walk, so he had spent the better part of the day attempting to figure out how he could save himself. Now, he knew. He had to do what was necessary in order to exact his freedom and it was unfortunate that Lady de Wolfe was now part of that plan.
“Thank you for your prayers, my lady,” he said. “May… may I have more water before you leave?”
Isobeau complied. Dipping the cup in the water, she approached du Reims and extended the full cup. He lifted his hand to her but instead of taking the cup, he snatched her by the wrist. The water went flying as Isobeau was yanked onto the man’s lap. She screamed, and tried to pull away, but before she realized it, she was seated upon his lap and his big arm was across her neck in an extremely dangerous position. His lips were against her ear.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he begged softly. “But your husband intends to kill me and I apologize that I must use you to negotiate for my life. I wish to see my wife and children again and you will be the means by which I accomplish that.”
Terrified, Isobeau struggled and yelped as the servants in the hall realized she was in a very precarious position. Someone bolted from the great hall, running no doubt for Atticus.
“Please calm yourself,” du Reims said quietly but evenly. “I will not hurt you, I swear it, but your husband must believe that I will. I want to go home and you must help me.”
Isobeau was angry as well as terrified. She tried to pull the knight’s arm away from her neck, which was an impossible feat.
“You will never make it out of here alive,” she said, verging on tears. “My husband will see to that!”
Du Reims was quite calm as she squirmed on his lap. “Mayhap,” he muttered. “But this is a chance I must take. I am very sorry to involve you in it.”
Isobeau was trying very hard not to cry, for she was genuinely terrified. “I gave you water,” she said angrily. “I tried to give you some comfort and this is the thanks I get? You are a beast!”
Du Reims sighed. “I am sure you have every reason to believe that,” he said. “But the truth is that I am an excellent knight and an excellent husband. My wife’s name is Catrina and her family is from Cornwall. She is a d’Vant. I have three daughters. Charlotte is five years of age and very bright. Cassandra is four years of age and she wants very much to be like her older sister. She is a joy. My baby is Annabelle and she has seen two years. Annabelle was born with crippled legs but you have never seen a sweeter nor smarter child. I think it is Annabelle that I miss the most. She loves to sing songs to me, songs she makes up herself. They do not make much sense because she cannot speak very well, but they are the most beautiful songs I have ever heard.”
By this time, Isobeau had stopped struggling. She was hearing of the knight’s family, coming to understand why he would make such a desperate move as to take a hostage. He had children, including a crippled one, and she could tell by the tone of his voice that he loved them very much. As frightened as she was, she also found herself being sympathetic to the knight’s plight. He was fearful, too – fearful he would never see his family again. But the fact remained that he had her in a very bad position. All he had to do was squeeze and her neck would be snapped.
“As much as you do not want to die, I do not want to die, either,” she said, h
er lower lip trembling out of fear. “I only married Atticus yesterday. Before that, I was his brother’s wife. I lost my husband at that terrible place called Towton and my life is in turmoil much as yours is. I do not understand war and pain and suffering and why men who want to be king would throw this country into turmoil in order to rule. So many men have died yet there is no definitive king upon the throne. I do not like any of this and I do not want to die for a cause I do not understand.”
Du Reims could feel the seeds of doubt and sympathy sprouting; doubt in what he was doing, sympathy for Titus de Wolfe’s widow. But he was determined to go home and Lady de Wolfe was an integral part of that plan. If Atticus was going to threaten him, then he had to play hard and dirty as well, starting with Lady de Wolfe.
“No one does, my lady,” he said quietly. “You are correct. There is much turmoil right now. Men are uncivilized to each other all in the name of Edward or Henry. Before this, I was friends with many of the knights I now fight against. It is very difficult to fight against your friends.”
Isobeau could feel his grip on her relax but she didn’t try to bolt, for she knew he would only tighten up. Her only hope was to try and talk him out of whatever terrible deed he wanted to use her for. Perhaps if she could speak with the man and they could understand one another, he might see that holding her hostage to ensure his release was not the way to go about things. She had to try.
“Did… did you know Atticus before these wars?” she asked.
Du Reims shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I knew him by reputation only. My life is in the south and the de Wolfes rule the north. I have never had the opportunity to know much about the north of England except in these wars.”
Isobeau thought quickly on what more she could say to him, anything to force him to speak so that they could understand one another. She had to make the man feel badly enough for what he was doing to her that he would let her go.
Brides of the North Page 59
