The Lion of the North (20 page)

Solomon’s chamber was a smelly, dirty mess, but at least it had a bed she could lay upon. Atticus ordered the elderly servant to strip his father’s bed and find something clean to lay atop it so Lady de Wolfe could have a relatively unsoiled surface upon which to lie. The only thing that was even remotely clean in Solomon’s pigsty of a chamber was an oiled cloak used to guard against the rain. It was a very big cloak, relatively clean, and the old servant laid it over the lumpy old mattress used by Solomon as Atticus deposited Isobeau gently atop it.

Isobeau’s eyes were closed, her face ghostly pale, as Atticus stood over her. He needed to at least make an attempt to stop the bleeding but he knew, in his heart of hearts, that there was nothing to be done. He suspected the bleeding was coming from her womb because of the location of the stain and he further suspected he was witnessing the death of his brother’s child. Horrendous, horrific guilt swept him.

“My lady?” he leaned over her, whispering. “Are you in pain?”

Isobeau’s eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him with her great eyes, dark as a hot summer sky. They seemed oddly bright within her ashen face.

“I am not any longer,” she said softly. “I was, but it went away.”

Atticus was feeling increasingly terrible about the circumstances, realizing the woman had been in great discomfort but had not mentioned it to him. Perhaps she didn’t think she should. For whatever reason, she had kept her agony to herself and hadn’t complained. He hadn’t noticed anything odd about her because he had been too preoccupied with his own troubles. He sighed heavily, distress on his features.

“How long were you in pain, Isobeau?” he asked her, unable to keep the sorrow from his voice. “Why did you not tell me?”

Isobeau’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before closing her eyes, turning her head away. “It was not terrible pain,” she murmured. “My back ached all during our journey from Alnwick but I assumed it was the fact that I was on a horse from sunrise to sunset. It was nothing odd. But then… right after the earl brought me to rest, I had terrible pains in my stomach and then there was blood. I do not feel much pain anymore.”

Atticus didn’t know what else to say. He was utterly devastated, now because he had failed to protect Titus’ child. He had forced Isobeau into a difficult trip, knowing her delicate condition, and now he was seeing the results of his bad decision. He should have left her at Alnwick but he knew, in the same breath, that leaving her behind had never been an option.

The loss of the child was one more shattering incident in a string of days that had seen many such things. For a man who had known only success and fortune in his life, the series of setbacks had left him reeling. He felt as if he were no longer on solid ground, a very bad sensation when he planned to face off against the two skilled knights who had murdered his brother. He felt unsteady and unsure. But perhaps there was more to life than this vengeance he harbored; he was starting to see that there was. There was his father, his friends, and even Isobeau… but he would not go back on his vow. He had a promise to fulfill and he would see it through or die trying. There was no alternative.

Thoughts of vengeance faded, however, as he gazed down at Isobeau’s face. She was his priority at the moment and he was rather chagrinned that it had taken a health scare of this magnitude for him to realize that. For days, the woman had essentially been an afterthought. His priorities, his focus, had been elsewhere. But that situation was something he intended to change.

There was nothing more he could do until the physic arrived, so he pulled up a chair next to the bed where Isobeau lay dozing. He felt so utterly helpless and sad. Isobeau’s hand, limp and lifeless, was lingering by the end of the bed. Atticus stared at it for some time before reaching out to gently collect it. Perhaps it was to comfort her, or perhaps it was even to comfort himself. For whatever the reason, Atticus sat there, holding her hand, for the rest of the morning until a tall, skinny man with a satchel in his hand arrived under Kenton’s escort.

Atticus jumped up when the man entered the chamber, describing what the lady’s issue was. After checking the man to make sure he had no weapons on his body, and even rummaging through the satchel he was carrying to see what was inside, Atticus allowed the man access to Isobeau. When the physic went to work, Atticus moved away from the bed, standing over near the chamber door. He wanted to afford Isobeau some privacy. When the physic helped her to sit up so he could remove her clothing, he left the room completely.

Standing in the corridor outside his father’s room, the very room he had been born in those years ago, he thought it was a rather fitting place for Titus’ son to know his end. So much life and death had happened in that chamber. Feeling depressed and hollow, he stood against the wall, just next to the door, straining to catch wind of what was going on inside. He couldn’t hear any sounds at all. Kenton was standing across from him, next to a small lancet window that allowed ventilation and light into the corridor, and he turned his attention to the man.

“Where did you find the physic?” Atticus asked.

Kenton drew in a long, deep breath, the sign of an exhausted man. “In Hawick,” he said. “He is the same physic that tends your father. The man’s wife and mother are following behind in a wagon; they should be here shortly. I thought you might feel more comfortable with womenfolk to tend Lady de Wolfe because, God knows, there are only men at this place.”

Atticus appreciated the foresight. “Indeed,” he replied. “Thank you for your consideration of Lady de Wolfe’s needs.”

Kenton eyed him. “What is the matter with her?”

Atticus looked up at him, an expression of sorrow on his face. He wasn’t sure how to delicately phrase the issue so he simply came out with the truth.

“I suspect the lady is no longer with child,” he said quietly, lowering his gaze.

Kenton simply nodded, averting his eyes and looking at his boots much as Atticus was. “If that is true, then I am very sorry for you,” he said quietly. “But I am sorrier for Lady de Wolfe. First Titus, now her child.”

Atticus sighed heavily, reflecting on what Isobeau was being forced to endure. “I promised my brother I would take care of her,” he said. “I do not seem to be doing a very good job of it.”

Kenton glanced at him. “You did not cause this,” he said. “Whatever has happened is the Will of God. You must have faith that everything happens as it should, and in the end, everything is as it should be.”

Atticus grunted. “I am not particularly fond of God’s Will at the moment,” he said. “So much has happened that I feel as if I am sliding into a pit and have yet to see the bottom. I pray our misfortunes end at some point and we hit bottom. I should like to come up again.”

Kenton understood. “You shall,” he said. “Sometimes it takes a bottomless pit for us to appreciate the view from the top. In any case, Lady de Wolfe will be in good hands. There is nothing more you can do for her. In fact, I would suggest you return to the chapel and relieve Thetford of the duty of watching over your father. They have been there all morning.”

Atticus knew that. He didn’t particularly want to leave Isobeau, as he was anxious for news of her condition, but he knew at some point he was going to have to see to his father.

“Has the priest arrived for the burial mass?” he asked.

Kenton nodded. “I saw him when I returned with the physic.”

Atticus processed the information. “Then with the priest here, we would do well to bury Titus right away,” he said. “I will speak with my father about it. In fact, I will insist. Meanwhile, you will remain here in case the physic needs anything. Send word to me as soon as the physic finishes his examination. I would like to know of Lady de Wolfe’s condition.”

Kenton waved him off and Atticus headed down the low-ceilinged corridor en route to Wolfe’s Lair’s small chapel and his father. Kenton watched the man go; he swore he could see a cloud of doom and sorrow hanging over Atticus, a very unusual thing, indeed. As Atticus had said, much misfortune had befallen them since that terrible day on the battlefield of Towton.

The Lion of the North, a mighty and fearsome man, was suffering through some damnable luck at the moment. But Kenton knew, as did everyone else who knew Atticus de Wolfe, that a spell of bad fortune could not cripple The Lion.

If anything, he would emerge stronger than before. It was just a hunch Kenton had.

Wellesbourne Castle

Warwickshire

W
ellesbourne Castle was
a little over seven miles south of Warwick Castle, seat of the Earl of Warwick, and the history between Warwick and Wellesbourne had always been one of allied harmony until the last few years. With Warwick allied with Henry one day and Edward the next, that allegiance had been put to the test. Andrew Wellesbourne remained a staunch supporter of the true king of England, one of the more powerful barons in Henry’s arsenal.

It was well known in military circles that the Wellesbourne army was eleven hundred of the best trained and best supplied men in all of England. They were usually the strike force, put out front in the event of a battle because they were usually very successful in surviving, and then countering, an enemy assault. They had not been at Towton because four months prior, they had seen major action in another massive battle at Wakefield in Yorkshire that had seriously weakened the Wellesbourne lines.

Andrew had been given permission to return his army home to regroup and he was in the process of doing just that. He’d lost almost three hundred men at Wakefield and through recruiting in the neighboring shires, he had managed to reclaim those numbers and more. Now, Andrew had new recruits that were seeing serious training every day. When Simon de la Londe and Declan de Troiu rode through the gatehouse of Wellesbourne in friendship, Andrew had no reason to think their visit was anything other than a welcomed social call.

Wellesbourne was a congenial man with dark hair and dark eyes, features his son Adam had inherited. He was an old knight, but still quite powerful and spry even at his advanced age, and was still very active upon the field of battle. Andrew Wellesbourne took no issue with being in the middle of a fight. In fact, he welcomed it. Therefore, as the evening feast commenced, Andrew shared his table with de la Londe and de Troiu as an associate and fellow knight, not as a man who had once held a sword.

It was a companionable meal that started out with the dreadful news of Towton. Andrew had heard pieces of news as told to him by travelers who had been to the north, or who had heard of the defeat from others, so it was something of a shock to hear the truth from de la Londe and de Troiu. It was even more of a shock to hear of Henry Percy’s death and of Titus de Wolfe’s death. Andrew had particular trouble swallowing that one; he knew Titus and considered the man a friend. Based on the information from Towton, the pleasant evening meal turned into a depressing and serious affair.

But that was what de la Londe had planned all along. In fact, he’d had days to plan on what, precisely, he was going to tell Wellesbourne to ensure he had the man’s attention when he brought up the subject of swearing fealty to Edward and the best thing he could come up with was to try and gain the man’s sympathy. If he believed Adam had already turned to Edward, if there was some way to build up knightly angst against his own allies, then there might be a chance. De la Londe proceeded carefully.

“As you can imagine, my lord, the entire country is in upheaval after the battle at Towton,” he said seriously. “I have never seen so many dead. Someone said at least twenty thousand men and animals. And look at the wound to my face – that should tell you how brutal the fighting was.”

Andrew drew in a long, pensive breath, closing his eyes briefly as if to ward off the horror. When he opened his eyes again, it was to the badly damaged face of de la Londe. “Unfathomable,” he muttered. “And Henry Percy with them.”

De la Londe nodded. “Northumberland, Andrew Trollope, and others,” he said. “Lancaster is all but defeated. We have heard that Henry has fled into Scotland where he will more than likely remain. Henry is finished and Edward now takes the throne. If, for no other reason, I am glad to make that statement because it means the death and destruction is over. Mayhap men’s lives will be spared now that the dominant king has emerged.”

Andrew was watching him from across the table, over the glow of the flickering tapers. “The battles will never be over so long as a usurper sits upon the throne of England.”

De la Londe could see, in that moment, that convincing Wellesbourne to join Edward’s cause was not going to be a simple thing. Not that he believed it would be, but he had hoped the gloom and doom of the defeat at Towton might give Wellesbourne pause to think. De la Londe sipped at his wine.

“I suppose you have to think about it from the point of view for the good of England,” he said, smacking his lips at the tart taste. “Henry is quite mad. We know he is quite mad. Because he is mad, his wife, Margaret rules for him. That means, essentially, a French whore rules England. That does not sit well with me or many other men. Edward, at least, is not mad and he does not have his French wife ruling in his stead. He is skilled, an excellent warrior, and possesses a keen mind. Those are all attributes of a man I would wish to have sitting upon the throne of England.”

Andrew should have sensed something was afoot but he did not; he simply viewed de la Londe’s statement as his opinion. He shrugged his big shoulders.

“Possibly,” he said. “But the fact remains that he is not the rightful king.”

De la Londe cocked an eyebrow to make a point. “Edward has a very strong claim to the throne. More than that, he has more support than Henry does. It is only a matter of time before Henry, and his supporters, are completely wiped out.”