The Lion of the North (32 page)

But he knew he couldn’t do that, not now. The last shards of control that he possessed brought him back to his senses, reminding him that she was ill and, for the first time in his life, he could not do as he pleased with a woman. He smiled weakly, apologetic that he had lost control, but that didn’t stop him from kissing her one last time, gently, before letting her go.

“I suppose now you know what it means to give me permission to kiss you,” he said, trying to make light of his powerful reaction.

Isobeau was back on the coverlet now, her heart beating so forcefully against her ribs that she was positive it was about to shoot out of her chest and fly across the room. She put a hand on her chest, subconsciously, as if to prevent such a thing.

“I suppose,” she agreed, breathless. “Next time I shall be prepared.”

His eyes glimmered at her. “I hope not,” he said. “I rather like it when you are not prepared.”

All Isobeau could do was grin; a silly, foolish, unrestrained grin. All Atticus could do was mirror her expression. But the physic arrived shortly thereafter and put a stop to all of the foolish grinning, yet the mood, the joy, lingered.

Perhaps there was to be more to this marriage, after all, than just a duty.

1.8 miles southeast of Wolfe’s Lair, near the village of Byrness

S
haun winced when
the barber-surgeon threw the last stitch into his scalp where Atticus had kicked him and nearly knocked him out cold. When he’d finally returned to the main army encampment, he realized he had a two-inch gash on his scalp that had been bleeding profusely. As he sat in his tent along with three knights, his senior commanders, and the barber-surgeon, all he could manage to feel was rage.

“I have no idea what he did to du Reims,” he told the host of concerned faces around him. “De Wolfe cut him from behind in the legs and the man could not walk, so he entirely severed his knees or cut the back of his legs in general. The last I saw, they were carrying Rik into Wolfe’s Lair because the man was unable to support himself. De Wolfe told me that if our army laid siege to the Lair, he would kill Rik and toss his dead body over the wall. I have no reason not to believe him.”

The three knights facing him were seasoned knights who had served the House of de Mowbray for quite some time. Two of them were a father and son, Sir Ferris Aston and his son, Edmund, and the third knight was a legacy knight with Norfolk, meaning his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had all served the House of de Mowbray. Sir Rafael Archer-Phipps was a big man with a crown of curly auburn hair and a rather nasty manner about him. Rik du Reims was his friend and he was greatly displeased with what Summerlin had told them.

“Bastard,” Rafael hissed. “I do not care if he is called The Lion of the North; Atticus de Wolfe has my ire for what he’s done to Rik. He cut him down!”

Summerlin tried to shake his head, made difficult by the barber-surgeon piercing his flesh. “Rik is not dead.”

Rafael was exasperated. “But he was badly injured,” he insisted. “Was there no way to save him? Did you have to leave him behind?”

Summerlin growled, unhappy at the question, unhappy at the barber-surgeon stabbing him in the scalp with a bone needle.

“Do you truly believe I would have left him behind if I’d had a choice?” he barked at Archer-Phipps. “Of course I had no choice. De Wolfe’s archers had taken out the soldiers I brought with me and there was no guarantee that he was not going to take me out as well. Someone had to return to tell you what had happened and that someone happened to be me.”

“We have orders to lay siege to the de Wolfe stronghold if they will not side with Edward,” Ferris Aston spoke softly. The father-figure of the group, he was usually the one the men listened to. “We cannot return to Arundel and tell de Mowbray that we did not carry out his orders because we feared for du Reims’ life. That is not an option.”

The knights knew that, an ominous knowledge of a colleague’s potential death hanging over their heads. No one wanted to send Alrik du Reims to his doom, but a worse option was returning to de Mowbray with the news that they had failed to carry out their orders. That would not be well met. Summerlin, eyeing Ferris as the barber-surgeon put the last stitch in his scalp, sighed heavily.

“Then Rik forfeits his life,” he said simply. “If we have to make a choice between Norfolk’s orders and du Reims’ life, we must choose fealty to our lord over the life of a knight. I, for one, do not want to be known as a commander who disobeys orders. If Norfolk dismisses me, I would never be able to serve another lord. I would have no honor.”

Archer-Phipps nearly exploded. “So you would not trade your honor for a man’s life?” he demanded. “You may as well sink the blade into his chest yourself!”

Ferris held up a hand to Archer-Phipps before the man went on a rampage. “Enough,” he said softly but firmly. “Do you think Shaun wants to do this? Of course he does not. But we do not have a choice. You know what Norfolk will do if we disobey him. Dismissal would be the least of the options. He has been known to flog men who disobey him, or worse, thrown them in the vault. There is no other option here and you know it; we must march on Wolfe’s Lair. We must claim her in the name of Edward. These are Norfolk’s orders and they will be obeyed.”

Archer-Phipps, red in the face, turned away in disgust and worry even though he knew Ferris was right. Ferris was always right. Agitated, he paced the tent for a few moments before coming to a halt. “Why can we not negotiate for du Reims’ release?”

Summerlin looked up at him. “With what?”

Archer-Phipps threw up his arms in exasperation. “I have coinage with me,” he said. “Mayhap if we pool our money, we can buy his release.”

Summerlin shook his head, itching at the stitches on his scalp. “The de Wolfes are already rich,” he muttered. “They do not need or want our paltry few coins.”

“But you can at least try!”

Ferris intervened again, putting himself between Archer-Phipps and Summerlin. “I will discuss it with Shaun,” he said. “You and Edmund go and prepare the men. We will depart before dawn for Wolfe’s Lair. Go, now; make sure everything is ready.”

It was a distraction tactic and they all knew it, especially Archer-Phipps. He eyed Summerlin, Ferris, and Summerlin again, his expression suggesting he didn’t believe they were really going to discuss du Reims’ release, before quitting the tent after Edmund. The truth was that he didn’t have to say a word because the mood of his movements, his countenance, said more than he ever could. He didn’t believe them. They were liars. Alrik du Reims was as good as dead. When he was gone, Ferris turned to Summerlin.

“There was truly nothing to be done, Shaun?” he asked. “De Mowbray will not be pleased to have lost du Reims. His father is the Earl of East Anglia and a longtime ally of Norfolk. Moreover, he is a good man. He is the best man among us if you ask me. Are you sure there was nothing to be done?”

Summerlin shook his head, rising from the stool he had been sitting on. He was weary, beaten, and truth be told, embarrassed about what had happened. A single man with a sword had gotten the better of him and another knight, a man he considered quite skilled. He grunted, unhappy and defeated.

“I have never seen a man move so fast,” he muttered. “One second we were speaking and in the next, du Reims was down and so was I. I have never personally fought against Atticus de Wolfe but it is clear to me why he has earned the reputation he has. I am ashamed to say that he bested me quickly. That has never happened before. As for du Reims, there was nothing more I could do. You know I would have exhausted all options if there had been any.”

Ferris pondered the situation seriously, drawing in a long and thoughtful breath. “I know de Wolfe by reputation only as well,” he said. “I have heard that he is ruthless and skilled, but never that he is barbaric and cruel. Mayhap there is a chance for du Reims. Mayhap we can appeal to de Wolfe’s honor not to kill the man.”

Summerlin snorted. “Talk of honor is what caused de Wolfe to strike,” he said, shaking his head reluctantly. “I do not believe I want to take that tactic again.”

“But we must do
something
.”

Summerlin nodded, mulling over the mystery and man that was Atticus de Wolfe. “We will,” he said. “Meanwhile, make sure the men are prepared. We depart for Wolfe’s Lair before dawn.”

Ferris quit the tent without another word, leaving Summerlin to ponder the course his mission had taken in silence. He was fearful to return to Norfolk to tell the man he was down one very good knight and without his objective of Atticus de Wolfe or Wolfe’s Lair. He knew Norfolk would not accept failure easily. He more than likely would never trust Summerlin again with anything of importance. Either way, Summerlin’s career as a knight might be over, at least in England.

He’d always hated France but he supposed he’d better change his mind. French lords were always looking for skilled English knights, even disgraced ones.

Wolfe’s Lair

I
t was dawn
as Atticus stood at the lancet window overlooking the western expanse of the moor that surrounded his family’s ancient fortress. The past day or two had seen temperatures warm significantly and the ice that formed on the ground overnight was quickly gone by mid-morning. In fact, temperatures had warmed quite rapidly, suggesting that spring was, in fact, on its way. It would have been wonderful traveling weather if, in fact, he had been able to travel. But those plans were temporarily on hold.

He turned to look at Isobeau, sleeping soundly in his mother’s bed.
The remains of the child are poisoning her
, the physic had said. That was the cause of the fever. Evidently, when Isobeau had bled out her dead baby not everything had been evacuated, and the physic was forced to take steps that would help heal Isobeau’s womb. He put some kind of a potion into her, rinsing her out, and made her ingest something else that would allegedly help her heal.
Colt’s Foot,
he’d said. It all seemed mysterious and magic.

That had taken place yesterday. Even though Isobeau had remained brave through the entire process, it had been exhausting and painful and traumatic. After the procedures, she had fallen into a dead sleep and had remained that way for nearly twelve hours; Atticus knew because he’d never left her side, as he’d promised. The truth was that he didn’t
want
to leave her. This woman he’d married, the one he was becoming so wildly attracted to, was quickly consuming his focus as if nothing else existed. He had a mission to complete, justice for his brother, but at that moment, those plans were on hold. He never thought he’d see the day when a woman would cause him to put aside a strong sense of duty. Perhaps a strong sense of affection, or more, was even more powerful than that. The truth was that he wasn’t all that upset about it.

Turning away from the window and the breaking dawn, he made his way over to the bed, standing over it to gaze upon the woman he married. There was some color back in her face and she didn’t look nearly as sick as she had. He was grateful. That foolish physic his father employed was skilled even if he was difficult to deal with.

Thoughts of his father then came upon him and he pondered his father’s general mood and health over the past day or two. Solomon was still heavily grieving Titus and had taken to his bed for most of the day and night. He had been oddly quiet, too, which was strange for the usually very vocal man. Atticus was thinking on looking in on his father when there was a soft knock on the door. Quietly, Atticus went to answer it.

Kenton was standing in the corridor, his stubbled face grim. “Trouble, Atticus.”

Atticus’ eyebrows lifted. “What trouble?” he asked almost reluctantly. “The last time you were here with news, Norfolk’s knights were on our doorstep. What now?”

Kenton gave him an expression that was droll and intense at the same time. It was an odd mixture. “Call me the bearer of bad tidings, then,” he said. “You told Summerlin not to return, did you not?”

Atticus’ brow furrowed. “He’s back?”

“Back with Norfolk’s army.”

Now Atticus was stunned. “He’s
back
with the army?”

Kenton nodded. “You told him that you would kill du Reims if he returned,” he said. “Evidently, the man does not care about his comrade.”

Atticus’ features hardened, outrage in his eyes. “Surely you jest, Kenton. This is not funny at all.”

Kenton shook his head, the irony of the situation not lost on him. “I do not have a sense of humor; therefore, I do not jest,” he replied. “Summerlin is back with his army and they are preparing to mount an offensive against Wolfe’s Lair.”

Atticus’ outrage turned to pure rage. “Then he will learn the hard way that I do not make threats I do not intend to carry out,” he said. “Summerlin and his men are in for a brutal time of it.”

Kenton understood. A threat, once given, could not be rescinded or Atticus would look like a weakling. “Much is his misfortune, then,” was all he could say.

Atticus’ mind was already whirling with the burden of command. Norfolk’s army was here. His instincts took charge, the training that had been part of his life since a very early age, and he stepped out into the corridor and softly shut the door behind him. The scent of battle was already filling the air and he inhaled of it deeply; he fed off of it. He was in his element with it. The Lion was born for battle.