Brides of the North

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Denial was the only thing he could do in that case because if they suspected he was responsible for Titus’ passing, the wrath of The Lion of the North would be upon him and he would be hunted for the rest of his life. Clearly, that was not an option – he didn’t want Atticus de Wolfe seeking vengeance against him. At the moment, for all de la Londe knew, no one had made the connection between him and Titus’ death. He wanted to keep it that way.

  He had to be the victim.

  “Let them come, then,” he muttered. “There is nothing I can do to prevent it. But know that all of this… everything I have told you was because I had to. It was not of my free will.”

  Andrew was puzzled by the statement but suspected it was just another lie in a long line of de la Londe lies. He was an old man and had seen much, and was suspicious of everything, especially knights who would try to turn him against his own son.

  “We shall see,” he said after a moment. “When my son arrives, you are free to tell him why your lies about my son were not of your free will.”

  “There is much more to the situation than merely your son.”

  “I would like to hear that, as well.”

  De la Londe fell silent, refusing to say any more. He would wait until Wellesbourne left before speaking to de Troiu, in the darkness, and pulling together their plan. Now that they knew Adam Wellesbourne and the knights of Northumberland would soon be upon Wellesbourne Castle, they had to pull together a common defense. They had to convince their former friends and allies that the bonds of loyalty between them were not broken and that their association with Norfolk had been at great personal peril. More lies, to be sure, but there was little alternative.

  They had to save themselves.

  In the darkness, they awaited the arrival of their fate.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ionian scale in C – Lyrics to Memories

  My eyes create a memory for my heart:

  My lips create a memory for my soul.

  A love that was never meant to be is stronger

  Thanks words can ever make it so.

  —Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.

  Wolfe’s Lair

  “When is the last time you spoke to her?”

  The softly uttered words came from Warenne. Atticus, trying to fix a long-shafted spear tip that seemed to be coming loose, heard the question and knew exactly who Warenne was speaking of but, in truth, he wasn’t ready to acknowledge it. Doing what he’d done as of late, he simply ignored the question.

  “Who?” he asked, then deliberately moved to change the subject. “Can you please have someone bring me more strips of leather? The smithy should have some. These spears are old but they are still serviceable. If Norfolk charges tonight, which all indications seem to be that we will have a second wave of their assault, then these spears will come in hand. So barbaric, though. I feel like a wild man pitching sharp sticks at my enemy.”

  Warenne was fully aware that Atticus didn’t wish to speak of his wife; he’d spent six days refusing to discuss or address the woman. Ever since Alrik du Reims’ lifeless body had been hurled over the massive stone walls, landing in a heap in front of his horrified comrades, Atticus had refused to even mention Isobeau’s name. If Warenne hadn’t known better, he would have sworn there was agony in Atticus’ eyes over the situation with his wife. Warenne knew that Lady de Wolfe had been distraught over Atticus’ killing of du Reims and he was fairly certain terrible words had been spoken between the two as a result, but so far, Atticus hadn’t said a word about it. He kept his mouth shut.

  But his manner was growing increasingly bitter and snappish as the days went on. He was professional and cool as always, and he had directed the defenses against Norfolk brilliantly, but as the days wore on, he seemed to grow more and more sullen. Warenne suspected it was because Atticus was greatly distressed over his wife. When he thought no one was looking, Atticus would glance back at the structure of Wolfe’s Lair in the direction of his mother’s former chamber where his wife now resided. He thought no one had noticed but Warenne had. Considering he was in anguish over what was happening with his own wife, Warenne well understood Atticus’ pain.

  But Atticus wouldn’t speak of it and Warenne didn’t press, not until this morning when Atticus had practically shoved his father aside when the old man got in his way. That was very unlike Atticus. Therefore, Warenne thought he’d better speak with Atticus and see if he could ease his mind, or at least help him reason through whatever he was feeling. For all of their sakes, it had to be done. The tension surrounding Atticus because of the siege, and because of issues with his wife, was growing to splitting proportions.

  “I will have someone fetch the smithy,” Warenne replied belatedly to Atticus’ question. “He will bring the leather to you. Now, answer my question; when is the last time you spoke to your wife?”

  Atticus didn’t look up from his task. “The day du Reims died.”

  “Why have you not spoken to her since?”

  “Because I have nothing to say.”

  “Not even to check on her well-being?”

  “The servants would tell me if anything was wrong.”

  Warenne was becoming less understanding with Atticus and more irritated. Foolishness always upset him and at this moment, he was under the opinion that Atticus was either being extremely cold or extremely foolish. Reaching out, he stilled the man’s hands as they wrapped a strip of leather around the wobbling spear tip.

  “Enough of this, Atticus,” he said, his voice low. “When I should be heading home to speak with my wife, whom I would move the sun and moon to be with, I am here, at Wolfe’s Lair, watching you ignore a woman you are clearly fond of. Do not give me that look; I’ve seen that cynicism before. I’ve seen that aloof manner before, too. I have watched you ignore Lady de Wolfe for the past six days and I am offended by it. I am deeply offended by it. You have an opportunity to be with your wife, to resolve whatever issues are between you two, yet you have soundly ignored her. I would give anything to be in your position with my wife only a few steps away from me, but I am not. I must remain in this God-forsaken fortress and look at your ugly face all day long. I am sick of it, do you hear? Now, stop acting like a foolish squire and go talk to the woman you married!”

  By the time he was finished, Warenne was rather animated, which was unusual for the usually-collected young earl. Had Atticus not been so surprised by his tirade he would have been offended by it. Or he would have laughed. As it was, he walked a fine line between defending himself and agreeing to Warenne’s demands.

  “It is not so simple,” he told him, speaking hesitantly. “She does not wish to speak with me.”

  “How do you know if you have not tried?”

  “She told me to stay away and leave her alone.”

  Warenne cooled somewhat. “So you are doing what you think she wants you to do?”

  “Of course. If she does not want me near her, I will comply.”

  Warenne let out a hiss and shook his head. “Do you know nothing about women?” he demanded. “She regretted what she said the moment it left her mouth. The longer you let this fester between you, the worse it will be.”

  Atticus averted his gaze, looking back to the unsteady spear tip. After a moment, he sighed heavily. “I do not wish to speak of this, Ren,” he said. “I cannot be distracted from what is going on outside of the walls. Whatever is happening with Lady de Wolfe will have to wait until this is over.”

  Warenne watched the man fidget with the spear. “It may be too late,” he said quietly, glancing off to the southwest, the direction he intended to travel home. “Trust me when I tell you that every day you delay may create damage that cannot be repaired. Unless, of course, she does not matter to you. Is it possible that you do not care what she thinks of you?”

  Atticus merely shrugged. “It does not matter.”

  “To you?”

  Atticus exhaled sharply and looked at him. “Why do you care?” he hissed, look
ing around to make sure no one heard their conversation. “I will not be distracted with talk of Lady de Wolfe. She believes me a murderer and wants nothing to do with me, so I have remained here on the wall, allowing her privacy in her chamber. That is the way of things, Ren. I would appreciate it if you would stop asking about it.”

  Warenne could see the pain in Atticus’ expression as he spoke of Isobeau, but it was pain that Atticus would never acknowledge. Either he didn’t truly recognize it or he was too proud to admit it. Therefore, Warenne backed off on his approach. He watched as Atticus returned to his spear, leaning against the stone wall behind him, noting that sunset wasn’t far off. The earl’s gaze was distant, reflective, as he gazed into the darkening sky.

  “The moon will be full this night,” he said casually, looking up to the surprisingly clear sky. “It will be as bright as day.”

  “I know.”

  Warenne glanced at him. “They will come tonight, you know,” he said. “If it were me, I would launch a night attack with flaming projectiles and flaming arrows. Have you noticed that they’ve been collecting animal fat for days now? They have it simmering over a big iron pot off towards the far east of the encampment.”

  Atticus nodded. “I know,” he said. “We have been soaking the roofs of the stables and outbuildings with water to ensure they do not burn.”

  Warenne looked at him. “What about men, Atticus?” he asked quietly. “Men burn.”

  “And the men will all remain inside, under cover, until the barrage is over,” he replied steadily. Then, he paused and looked at his friend. “What are you driving at, Ren? What are you thinking?”

  Warenne sighed faintly, looking off to the west and to the muted colors of sunset across the expanse of sky. “I am thinking that I should speak with my brother-in-law to see if we can resolve this,” he said. “They can hold out indefinitely and we cannot. Already supplies are running low. Would you have your wife starve to death in a fortress under siege?”

  Atticus wasn’t particularly agreeable to what he was saying. “We can manage with what we have for quite some time,” he said. “They’ll not starve us out any time soon.”

  Warenne shrugged. “Mayhap not,” he said. “But I want to go home and see my wife, and you have a task to see through. De la Londe and de Troiu are somewhere in this country and you must find them and make them atone for Titus’ murder. We do not have time to be wasting here on the borders while Norfolk’s knights lay siege. This needs to end.”

  Atticus stopped fussing with the spear and hung his head, thinking of his brother. He grunted ironically. “It all seems so long ago,” he muttered. “Titus’ death, my vow of vengeance. Nothing has gone as I have planned; not my determination to punish those bastards who killed my brother nor the marriage to Titus’ widow that seemed like a very bad idea from the start. Now I find myself holding off a siege and married to a woman who wants nothing to do with me. This is not how it was supposed to be.”

  Warenne watched him carefully. “And you want nothing to do with her?”

  It was a leading question. Atticus knew very well that it was a leading question, but his guard was down. He was feeling momentarily confused and vulnerable. After a moment, he shook his head.

  “I believe that is the problem,” he mumbled. “I… I cannot stop thinking about her. She is mine; she belongs to me. When I saw du Reims with his arm around her neck it was as if something inside of me snapped. I could not prevent Titus’ death but I could prevent hers. I do not regret what I did, not for one second, but she does not see it that way. She thinks I am a murderer. I suppose that I am.”

  Warenne could see the weakness in a man he never knew capable of such a thing. “You care for her,” he whispered. It was not a question.

  Atticus, his head hanging as he looked at his lap, nodded once. It was such a faint movement that Warenne barely saw it, but it was there. “Aye,” he murmured. “I do. I could not see her come to harm. I regret that she cannot understand that.”

  Warenne was thrilled to hear Atticus’ confession but it also emphasized to him that whatever distress was occurring between him and Lady de Wolfe had to be rectified. Atticus was too afraid or too stubborn to approach the woman and she was more than likely too hurt or too angry to do the same. But Warenne had seen how Lady de Wolfe looked at her new husband; he knew in his heart of hearts that she felt something for Atticus. It was a pity that neither one of them was brave enough to speak of it.

  Yet Warenne didn’t have that particular problem. He had the advantage of being removed from the situation somewhat. Still, thoughts of Lady de Wolfe were heavy on Atticus’ mind and it would be a true pity if something happened to Atticus in the coming siege and he had been unable to voice his thoughts to his wife. And poor Lady de Wolfe would have buried two husbands, never knowing how Atticus had felt about her. Warenne simply couldn’t stand by and watch that happen.

  Leaning forward, he kissed Atticus on the forehead and departed in silence, heading down the narrow stairs that led into the damaged inner ward, heading for the steps that led to the living levels of the fortress. If Atticus was going to be difficult about this, then the man needed help.

  Warenne, wishing it was his wife he was about to go and speak with, was more than happy to provide such help.

  Seven days.

  It had been seven days since Isobeau and Atticus had spoken to one another. Seven long and miserable days of angst, confusion, isolation, and sorrow, at least for Isobeau. They had been some of the worst days of her life in a long line of terrible days that had seen her suffer through much heartache and sorrow for many different reasons. But this latest brush with anguish between her and Atticus was particularly sad. The hope she had built up for the marriage and future was in danger of being destroyed.

  She had remained in her chamber as Atticus had ordered. She hadn’t moved from it. Therefore, it had become her prison as well as her refuge. She knew every line in the floorboards and every crack in the walls. She had packed and repacked her trunks several times. She had even taken to sweeping the floor and cleaning out the hearth simply to stave off boredom. The servants would bring word of the progress of the siege and it seemed that, for the past several days, things had been mostly calm with Norfolk’s army simply camping around Wolfe’s Lair and evidently rethinking their strategy. Atticus, she had been told, had rarely left the wall and had taken to sleeping in the gatehouse. The man was living and breathing the defenses of his ancestral home.

  With the situation moderately calm, Isobeau’s frenzied pacing and frantic packing and re-packing her trunks had ceased. The swift, agitated movements had been in response to her great worry for the situation and, although she wouldn’t admit it, her fear for Atticus’ safety. His swift actions against Alrik du Reims seven days past seemed like a lifetime ago and she’d awoken for the past two mornings wondering if she’d merely dreamed it. It seemed surreal and distant, and all of the sorrow and rage and fear she’d felt towards Atticus because of it had faded from memory. All that was left was an empty, hollow shell.

  She didn’t even know what her life was worth any longer or what it was meant to be. So much had happened since she’d been informed of Titus’ death on that cold day those weeks ago that it seemed as if she’d lived a hundred years in a very short amount of time. One thing she did know, however, was that she was alone and the incident with du Reims had more than likely ruined any hope of her and Atticus ever having a pleasant marriage. She was positive he hated her and she, in turn, wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about him. He was The Lion of the North, a knight who had gained a brutal reputation at a very early age. She’d seen evidence of that reputation quite clearly when he’d fought Norfolk’s two knights and then again when he’d saved her from du Reims. He was a man to be feared, a man of brutality.

  He was also a man she was most fond of. God, she ached for him.

  Miserable and confused, on this seventh day after the siege of Wolfe’s Lair had begun, she had a
risen early to sweep her floor, make over her bed, and refold the scarves in one of her smaller capcases. The two serving women of Wolfe’s Lair had slept in her chamber also and they had been free to come and go, moving about their usual business and, as Isobeau had heard, helping with the wounded in the great hall. She’d also heard that Solomon de Wolfe had risen from his bed and was now making a nuisance out of himself as he tried to take command of the fortress from Atticus. In a sense, she was glad she was confined to her chambers so that she would not add to Atticus’ burden. Perhaps it was best that she had remained secluded and out of the way.

  So she sat at her small table later in the day, having finished her monotonous chores, with the remnants of her meal around her, bits of cheese and a crust of bread. The oily-skinned serving wench had managed to find an egg beneath one of their frightened chickens and she had scrambled it for Isobeau, who had eaten it happily with bread that had been toasted. Her appetite was coming back after her brush with bad health and there was color in her cheeks once again. She looked entirely beautiful and delicious as she sat at the table and used some of the precious thread her father had bought for her on a sleeve she was embroidering on one of her shifts. It was something more to pass the time, something more to try and help her forget her troubles.

  Working on the form of a dragonfly with pale blue silk thread, she was deep into her project when there was a soft rap on the door. Since it wasn’t locked because the female servants were coming and going, she bade the caller enter.

  Warenne stepped into the chamber, smiling weakly when he saw Isobeau’s shocked expression. The sewing in her hands froze.

  “My lord,” she said, rising from her chair. “Is everything well? Is… nothing has happened, has it?”

  Warenne’s smile grew at the sight of her; he was pleased to see that she was anxious at his appearance and he swore that she was going to ask about Atticus before shifting to a generic question. It was simply a feeling he had. Moreover, it was a pleasure to simply look upon her and he knew the sight would have softened Atticus’ stubborn heart if he were only to see her, just for a moment, dressed in a dusky blue shade, her woolen dress was snug and clinging, emphasizing her utterly divine figure. In fact, Warenne had to make a conscious effort not to look at the beautiful, full breasts that were in his line of sight. He kept his focus on her face.