Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Isobeau stopped inspecting the heavy garment and craned her neck back to look at her trunks, over against the wall. “My things are here now,” she said. “I can change into something that belongs to me.”

  Atticus put a hand up to prevent her from climbing off the bed in her weakened state in the hunt for familiar clothing. “Mayhap you should wait,” he said. “You should rest and I am sure my mother would not mind you wearing one of her dressing gowns. When you are feeling better, I will have hot water brought to you so that you may bathe and dress properly if you wish.”

  Isobeau gazed up at him, smiling gratefully. “I would appreciate that,” she said. “I actually feel much better than I did when I awoke. Whatever the physic gave me to help me sleep must be wearing off.”

  He eyed her, as if he wasn’t convinced. “Surely you do not feel completely well,” he said. “You were… that is to say, you were very sick. It seemed that you lost a good deal of blood.”

  He was trying to be delicate about it and Isobeau chuckled. “I am weary, that is true,” she said. “But I feel better. I could eat something, I think.”

  Atticus was pleased to hear that. She also seemed to have some color back into her pale cheeks, which was encouraging. He felt like saying something warm to her, something almost silly and sweet, but he refrained. The woman had just been through a terrible emotional and physical event, and any foolish romantic notions he might be entertaining were sorely out of place. All he knew was that he was content to be with her and vastly relieved she was feeling better. More relieved than he realized. As he gazed at Isobeau’s blond head, watching her as she inspected the embroidery on the coverlet, he heard a voice in the chamber door behind him.

  “Is everything well with my lady?” Warenne said as he entered the chamber, his gaze moving between Atticus and Isobeau. “When you ran off with the servant, Atticus, we feared the worst.”

  Atticus turned to his friend. “She is well enough,” he said, gesturing at Isobeau who was now smiling up at Warenne. “Ask her yourself.”

  Isobeau nodded her head before Warenne could speak. “I am much better, thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your concern.”

  Warenne knew what had happened with the loss of the baby; they all knew, all but Solomon, who wasn’t even aware that his dead son’s wife was at Wolfe’s Lair. The time for introductions would come soon enough but it would have to wait until the man overcame his initial grief and madness. Warenne had never quite seen such grief from a father over the death of a son. He was glad to have left the chapel in search of Atticus, leaving Kenton behind to watch over the bereaved Solomon. There was something inherently heartbreaking and depressing about watching the man suffer. Moreover, there was a reason why he had come in search of Atticus and he hastened to come to the point.

  “I am glad to hear that, my lady,” he said, feeling that it would be unseemly of him to mention the loss of the child. Perhaps some things were better left unspoken. Therefore, his gaze shifted to Atticus. “I came to tell you that your father has agreed to bury Titus this very night. I would suggest we go about it before he changes his mind.”

  Atticus grew seriously. “Saints be praised,” he replied. “Is the priest prepared?”

  “Prepared and waiting,” Warenne responded. “He did not want to commence with anything without you.”

  Atticus nodded swiftly and was about to follow Warenne from the chamber when he suddenly came to a halt, turning to look at Isobeau. She was gazing back at him, her eyes wide in her pale face. The color had gone from her cheeks again and he could see the emotion in her eyes. He could see the return of her sorrow.

  “Isobeau, I am sorry…,” he began, stopped, and started again as he grasped for words. “I know you do not feel well, but I am afraid we must take this opportunity to bury Titus. He must be put in the ground as soon as possible and if my father is willing at this moment, then we must do it.”

  Isobeau waved him off as she began to climb off the bed, very weakly. “He should have been buried days ago,” she said. “He should have been buried before I saw him back at Alnwick. If you will give me a few minutes, I will dress and go with you.”

  “But….”

  Isobeau cut him off with a deliberate look. “I will go,” she repeated, more firmly. “You will not bury my husband without me and he must be buried; therefore, I must go. Give me a few minutes and I will be ready.”

  Atticus didn’t have the heart to argue with her. The woman deserved to be at her husband’s burial. She deserved to say her final farewells.

  “As you wish,” he said softly. “Do you require any assistance? Should I send one of the servants in to help you?”

  Isobeau nodded as she found her feet and unsteadily began to make her way across the floor towards her trunks.

  “Please,” she said. “And hurry. I am sure your father will not wait.”

  Atticus glanced at Warenne, who simply shrugged; they both knew that they could not, in good conscience, deny the woman the right to attend her husband’s funeral no matter how weak she was. Therefore, Warenne quit the chamber, calling for the servants, as Atticus stood near the door, watching Isobeau as she struggled to pull out a couple of her smaller trunks.

  Quickly, he moved across the room and helped her, gently pushing her aside as he pulled out her trunks, all of them, and threw open the lids so she could get to the items she needed. He didn’t even think about the fact that she had seven of them, a number he had complained about. To scold her again didn’t even cross his mind. He had just finished opening the last trunk when the servant with the oily skin entered and rushed to help Isobeau as the woman began to pull things out of her trunks. She was moving as quickly as she could in spite of her weakened state; Atticus could see that. He returned to the chamber door.

  “I will be waiting in the corridor when you are ready,” he told her. “You need not rush. Do not strain yourself.”

  Isobeau turned to look at him and he could see that she was trying hard to be brave for what she was about to face. The finality of the burial was coming to weigh on both of them, the final farewell to Titus de Wolfe. It was a mood that now hung heavy in the air.

  “I will only be a few minutes,” she told him again. “I will be ready soon.”

  Atticus didn’t reply. He simply left the chamber and shut the door, affording her some privacy. He waited in the low-ceilinged corridor for her but the truth was that he hadn’t waited an over-amount of time; she was swift in her dress as she said she would be, but all the while as he waited in the corridor, Atticus found himself asking his brother for guidance. He’d never missed it so much as he did at that moment.

  I am so sorry about your son, Titus, he found himself saying. Please know that if it had been within my power, I would have given my life if it would have saved his. But there was nothing to fight and no sacrifice I could have made that would have saved him. Please forgive me for what has happened.

  He knew, wherever Titus was, that the man had already forgiven him but that didn’t lessen his guilt. Moreover, there was something more he was starting to feel guilty about when it came to Isobeau.

  Would it be wrong of me to want to marry your wife now because I found something in her that you must have liked? Because, I am certain, I’ve found it….

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ionian scale in C – Lyrics to May God Keep You

  May God’s good grace be upon you:

  May He grant you the strength to stand tall.

  May God keep you embraced to his bosom:

  Until we meet again in this life or within his Holy Hall.

  Never have I adored as much as I do now:

  Never have I seen such light.

  Never have I know such serenity.

  Never have I cherished such a knight.

  —Iseobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.

  Titus’ burial in the small chapel of Wolfe’s Lair had been a somber and intimate affair. The crypt behind the altar that Rosalie de Wolfe w
as buried in contained another one next to her, meant for Solomon, but Solomon chose to put Titus there instead. Therefore, Titus was laid to rest next to his mother and infant sister in the great, stone de Wolfe vault. The entire mass had reeked of the scent of fresh rushes, dirt, and decay, making it a rather odd and somewhat nauseating experience.

  Isobeau had remained surprisingly stoic through the mass as the tiny priest had intoned the burial service. Dressed in a dark blue surcoat and matching cloak of heavy, blue wool, she sat upon a small stool that Atticus had brought for her. She was calm and sedate.

  The real issue had been Solomon. He had no idea who the strange woman was entering the chapel on Atticus’ arm and when Atticus introduced Isobeau as Titus’ widow, Solomon wasn’t sure if he should shun the woman or embrace her. They could all read his indecision in his expression. He knew of Titus’ marriage, of course, but he’d not been able to travel to the ceremony down near Coventry. Now he was finally meeting Titus’ de Shera bride and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. It was nearly too much for him to comprehend and, overwhelmed, he’d simply greeted the woman and walked away.

  So the service had been conducted with Solomon quietly weeping over the crypt where his wife and daughter and eldest son lay and everyone else stood near the altar. Isobeau hadn’t listened to the priest at all; her attention was on Solomon as the man mourned his family. She very much wanted to stand next to the crypt, too, and whisper final farewells to Titus, but she felt that by doing so she would be intruding on Solomon’s grief. Not even Atticus was standing near the crypt, perhaps to leave his father alone to grieve. Therefore, with an aching heart, she allowed Solomon to grieve alone as well.

  As the priest droned on, Isobeau found her thoughts wandering to the last time she had seen Titus. It had been a cloudy day, cold and windy, and she had stood upon the steps of Alnwick’s keep, watching the army assemble in the inner bailey. Titus and Atticus had been walking among the men, issuing orders and making sure everything was prepared for departure.

  Whereas Titus would offer a kind word or even a smile to the men, Atticus would remain serious and stern. And the way he walked; he stalked. He stalked like a predator, like a lion would. As she remembered that day, it occurred to her that there was perhaps one more reason Atticus was called The Lion of the North. The man stalked like one. That had not occurred to her before. Glancing at Atticus as he stood, head bowed in prayer, she was coming to think there were many things about the man that were mysterious and deep.

  “My lady,” the priest said, but Isobeau was still looking at Atticus. “Lady de Wolfe?”

  Isobeau hadn’t realized the tiny priest was speaking to her until he addressed her a second time. By that time, everyone had turned to look at her, including Atticus, and she was hugely embarrassed that she had been caught daydreaming. She smiled weakly at the priest.

  “Sirrah?” she answered.

  The priest gestured in the direction of Titus’ crypt. “It is my understanding that you wish to sing a lament for your husband,” he said. “Now would be the time.”

  Isobeau hesitated; what she wanted to sing for Titus wasn’t a lament. It was a love song she had written for him the night before he departed but had been too embarrassed to sing it for him. Now she was singing it at his funeral and there was particular irony in that. Now he would only be able to hear it after his death. She wondered if he would have liked it.

  It was difficult not to feel some measure of guilt because she should have sung the song for the man when he left. Perhaps it would have comforted him. Rising from the stool, and the least bit embarrassed that everyone would now hear the song she’d meant for Titus alone, she swallowed her embarrassment and went to stand next to his crypt. She ignored Solomon, partly because the man was ignoring her. But she mostly ignored him because her focus was on Titus, as it should be. She had words to sing to him, words that would send him off into the afterlife. Laying her hand on the cold, stone crypt, she lifted her crystal-clear soprano into a magnificent acapella song.

  “May God’s good grace be upon you;

  May He grant you the strength to stand tall.

  May God keep you embraced to His bosom;

  Until we meet again in this life or within His Holy Hall.

  Never have I adored as much as I do now;

  Never have I seen such light.

  Never have I known such serenity.

  Never have I cherished such a knight.

  May God keep you and protect you, my dearest Titus.”

  When she was finished, one could have heard a pin drop. Even Solomon had stopped weeping, staring at his dead son’s wife in astonishment. Isobeau leaned forward, kissed the stone, and quietly made her way back to her stool. The entire time, she kept her head down and her gaze averted, as if she didn’t want to see the expressions facing her. Somehow it was easier to pretend that only Titus had heard the song if she didn’t see the other faces just yet.

  But she had cast something of a spell, a spell that was fragile and haunting and beautiful all at the same time. Solomon felt that spell the most, surprisingly. He followed the subdued young woman from the crypt.

  “My lady,” Solomon said, awe in his voice. “The song you sang… it was beautiful. I have not heard it before.”

  Isobeau forced a smile at the man. “That is because I wrote it for Titus,” she said. “It was meant only for him.”

  Solomon seemed to approve; his entire mood seemed to change. “You have given me comfort.”

  Isobeau touched him reassuringly on the arm. “I am glad, my lord,” she said. “I… I hope we all have great comfort now.”

  Solomon seemed rather interested in her now, now that she had sung so beautifully for his son. He had been in his own world for so long that it was strange to see him so lucid and curious. As Warenne paid the priest for his services, Solomon reached out and took Isobeau’s hand.

  “I am sorry that I have been such a terrible host since your arrival,” he said. “I pray you can forgive a grieving old man. But you are grieving too, are you not? This cannot be an easy thing for you.”

  Isobeau glanced at Atticus, who was paying attention to the conversation closely. He seemed quite interested in his father’s sudden turn-about behavior. She returned her focus to Solomon.

  “It is not,” she said. “And I am sorry that you and I had to meet under such circumstances. I am sorry that you could not come to our wedding. Those were much happier times.”

  Solomon continued to hold her hand, his old, yellowed eyes inspecting her from the top of her long, blond head to the bottom of her dark surcoat. As if just seeing her through new eyes, because he essentially was, he thought she was an exquisite creature.

  “I do not travel these days,” he told her. “As much as I wanted to go to Coventry, my old bones would not have withstood the travel. I, too, am very sorry I was unable to attend your marriage to Titus. It was heartbreaking for me.”

  Atticus stepped in before his father could go on another emotional tangent about missing Titus’ wedding, which was more than likely about to happen. Atticus knew his father well. “Do not fret, Papa,” he said. “You will be able to attend my marriage. We will be married right here at Wolfe’s Lair.”

  Solomon looked at his youngest son with surprise. “What is this?” he demanded. “A marriage, you say? What marriage?”

  Atticus tried to be calm and reasonable in his delivery; he hadn’t yet had the chance to tell his father of Titus’ request to him and he was categorically uncertain as to how the man would react. Solomon tended to react first and think later. He honestly wasn’t sure how the man would take the news.

  “When Titus lay dying, he made a request of me,” he said quietly. “He asked me to marry Isobeau and that is what I intend to do. He wanted her taken care of. He said he could not stand it if she was to marry another.”

  Surprisingly, Solomon didn’t react overly. He actually appeared thoughtful. His gaze moved between Atticus and Isobeau as
he pondered Atticus’ statement. Then, he scratched his yellowed, graying beard.

  “I can understand his concern,” he said. “I would want my wife taken care of, too.”

  Atticus was quite surprised that he hadn’t met with any resistance. “Then you approve?”

  Solomon shrugged. “It is what Titus wanted.”

  Evidently, it was as simple as that. Atticus tried not to let his astonishment show at his father’s easy acceptance of what could be construed as an odd, if not marginally distasteful, situation. Marrying his dead brother’s wife. Oddly enough, Solomon had accepted the request far more easily than Atticus had at first.

  “Do we have your blessing, Papa?” he asked. “Obviously, I have Titus’. It would mean a great deal to have yours.”

  Solomon looked between Atticus and Isobeau. Mostly, he was looking at Isobeau. “My lady?” he asked her. “I would like to know how you feel about marrying Atticus. Are your affections so easily transferred?”

  It could have been construed as an insult, but Isobeau viewed it as an honest question from a grieving father who was in a very strange position. He’d just lost one son and now his surviving son was about to marry the dead son’s wife. She did, however, think it odd that the man asked her opinion. She was chattel and nothing more, so she wondered why he even cared to know. After a moment, she shook her head.

  “They are not, my lord,” she replied. “Atticus has not asked for my affection. Only my hand.”

  Solomon was satisfied with her frank reply. His gaze lingered on her a moment. “Did you love my Titus?”

  Isobeau lifted her eyebrows, smiling faintly. “Everyone loved your Titus,” she said. “He was a great man.”

  Solomon pondered her answer, thinking on her and Atticus and Titus. Titus had something Atticus didn’t, and that was emotion. He had a tender heart; too tender. Atticus had well learned to control his emotion but Titus never had. Solomon suspected that was what made the man so endearing to others and especially his wife. But Atticus… he was the perfect warrior. No emotion, only duty.