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?”
Att
icus 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 bared 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 mercile
ssly 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.
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