The Lion of the North (33 page)

“Then we prepare,” he said as he began to head towards the inner ward and, subsequently, the gatehouse. He wanted to see what was coming. “Are the men mobilizing?”

Kenton nodded. He was extremely efficient, already anticipating what needed to happen. “They are,” he said. “Warenne has not left yet, you know. He ended up staying the night because it was late by the time he was fully prepared to depart. He is already positioning the men upon the walls.”

“And my father?”

“I have not yet seen him.”

They were now descending the steps that would lead down to the inner ward, which was alive with men and animals. Soldiers were moving all of the animals and supplies they could into the stables because of the sod roof. If Norfolk decided to send flaming projectiles over the wall, at least the roof would not burn and protect those beneath. Atticus passed a practiced eye over the commotion, assessing it, understanding the progress in an instant. Already, much had been done.

“Leave my father in peace for now,” he said. “I will go and speak to him after I have fully assessed the situation. At the moment, I need to see the approach and positioning of Norfolk’s army.”

Kenton gestured to Atticus’ torso. “You should dress for battle first in case they decide to employ the archers. Knowing Norfolk, they will be his initial assault.”

Atticus eyed him. “You know that always comes last with me,” he said. “The restriction of armor makes me feel less than agile.”

Kenton shook his head. He had been fighting with Atticus for many years and he knew that. He didn’t agree with it, but he knew the man’s position. “You are the only knight I know who feels encumbered by protection,” he said. “Someday that is going to cost you. You would fight naked if you could, Atticus.”

Atticus grinned. “If I thought I could get away with it, I would,” he said. “I move much better when I am not covered by great hunks of metal.”

“You are an odd creature.”

Atticus laughed softly as they made their way up the wall to the gatehouse where he could better see the approach of Norfolk’s army. The moment he was in position to gain a view of the eastern moors, he could see the army in the distance, lined up on the crest between Wolfe’s Lair and the small valley that spread out before it.

In the light of dawn, Atticus studied the distant cluster of men and animals. There were trees in the distance, somewhat marring a clear view of the army, but he could see easily enough of it. They were moving forward at a slow pace. He pointed to the incoming tide of men.

“I see at least two siege engines,” he said. “They will have little trouble rolling those to the wall of the castle but they will not be high enough.”

“So they will bring in ladders,” Kenton said. “Ultimately, that is what they will use to try and mount the walls.”

Atticus agreed. “That is true, but they will have to be very tall ladders to reach the top, and ladders that tall are unstable,” he said. His gaze lingered on the distant army a moment longer before turning away. “I will inform my father of what is happening and then I intend to pay a visit to du Reims. The man and I must speak.”

Kenton watched him as he headed down the narrow stairs that led up from the ward. “Do you truly intend to kill him and toss him over the wall?”

“That is what he and I will speak of.”

Kenton didn’t press him and he didn’t offer his opinion. Atticus had a better sense of knightly chivalry and honor than most, but all of this was tied into Titus’ death so he wasn’t entirely sure just how restrained, or how fair, Atticus would be in his judgement. Du Reims was a man who couldn’t really fight back should Atticus go after him and it would be unlike Atticus to go to battle against a man who couldn’t defend himself. He would consider that dishonorable. Still, the situation was different these days. Kenton would keep an eye on Atticus and how he dealt with du Reims because he didn’t want the man to do anything that he would later regret.

Atticus, now at the bottom of the steps, wasn’t oblivious to Kenton’s thoughts. They were close and understood each other well. He knew Kenton didn’t approve of the possible execution of du Reims and, deep down, Atticus wasn’t entirely comfortable with it either. There was the little matter of honor with him, honor that would prevent him from outright murdering a disabled knight. Still, he couldn’t let Summerlin’s defiance go unanswered and they all knew it. Just how he dealt with that defiance would define this battle in particular. He was halfway across the inner ward when he heard Kenton’s bellow.

“Incoming!”

Atticus dashed for the safety of the nearest shelter, which happened to be the stables. He had no sooner entered the smelly, dark confines when a series of arrows pelted the inner ward. Two men who had been scrambling for shelter had been hit but those were the only injuries. As Atticus emerged from the stable, looking at all of the arrows, he realized it could have been much worse, him included. Now he thought that perhaps he should don his armor before he did anything else. With the armory across the ward, he began running.

“Collect these arrows for our own use!” he yelled to the men around him, who began to scramble. “Take them up to the archers on our walls!”

Men were rushing everywhere, collecting the arrows that had been shot at them, as Atticus reached the other side of the bailey. There was a small tower in the southeast corner of Wolfe’s Lair’s curtain wall, and he immediately began donning his mail. He had stored it on a frame in the armory, a frame that held his hauberk as well as his plate armor and heavily padded tunic he wore underneath. A soldier who happened to be near the armory came to help him and between the two of them, they managed to get his armor on completely.

Now, fully protected, he continued on to inform his father and also Isobeau of what they would be facing. He was no sooner out of the armory when Kenton yelled again and a second round of arrows rained down from the sky. Atticus was moving up the exposed staircase that led to the upper floors when a shaft caught him in the back of his thigh.

Angered, and hardly aware of any pain, Atticus ripped the arrow free and tossed it aside for the men collecting arrows to retrieve. At the moment, he had more important things on his mind, but most importantly, furious that Summerlin should attack Wolfe’s Lair after he’d spared the man’s life and told him to go home. Evidently, his mercy had been betrayed.

He would not make the mistake a second time.

Isobeau had not
been part of a siege before. Isenhall, her home, had been mostly peaceful her entire life so the event of an actual battle was something shocking. Shocking and eye-opening. It was an entirely new experience altogether.

Earlier that day, Atticus had come to tell her, dressed in full armor, that Wolfe’s Lair was under attack. Awoken from a deep sleep but feeling infinitely better than she had from the day before, she’d listened to his information with some horror.
Norfolk had come back.
Atticus had instructed her to have servants bring supplies to her room and then barricade herself behind the sturdy, oak door until he came for her, and she did just that at first. The two female servants at Wolfe’s Lair had brought supplies to her chamber and then had remained with her behind the barricaded door until sometime later in the day when a male servant came knocking on her door wanting to know if she had any needle and thread with her.

It seemed that there were several wounded in the hall, men who had been hit with arrows, and the physic from Hawick was running out of catgut. He needed thread and, as Isobeau questioned him through the closed door, it sounded as if he needed help as well. More wounded were coming in by the minute because Norfolk had taken to slinging things like spikey tree trunks and other damaging objects over the wall with a small ox-drawn trebuchet they’d brought with them. Part of the stable had collapsed from something heavy slung over the walls and some of the animals were injured. Panicked, thinking it might have been her mare, Isobeau collected her precious sewing kit and dashed out of the chamber with the female servants in tow.

What she saw shocked her to the bone. The inner ward of Wolfe’s Lair had been pummeled with tree trunks and other large chunks of trees that had been hurled over the walls. Arrows littered the muddy ground. She could see de Wolfe men lining the wall walk, watching Norfolk’s activity below, but they weren’t doing much more than watching at this point. Norfolk was expending all of the energy. Isobeau didn’t see Atticus, which was probably a good thing. With everyone’s attention focused outside of the wall, Isobeau was able to move about rather freely.

Her first stop was the stable to check on her mare. The animal was quite snug and quite safe, crammed into a stall along with three goats and a small work pony. The horse seemed quite happy with the company. Satisfied her pet was safe, Isobeau proceeded across the inner ward to the great hall on the other side, entering the slender, long structure.

Immediately, she was confronted by several wounded men. They were all positioned over near the hearth, which was burning low and smoky, a haze of blue hovering near the ceiling. But it was warm and moderately comfortable, as Isobeau made her way deeper into the hall in search of the physic to offer her assistance. The men she passed, men who were lying on the ground, seemed to be fairly injured. One man still had an arrow sticking out of him while yet another man had the arrow out of his neck but was bleeding a great deal.

It was a daunting and intimidating sight. Isobeau began to rethink her offer to help, for she truly didn’t know if she would be of any use, when the physic caught sight of her and immediately put her to work. The first man she was assigned to was the one with the profusely bleeding neck. Sickened by the sight of so much blood, Isobeau threaded her needle with the fine, silk thread her father had bought for her in Coventry and went to work.

As the afternoon progressed and she stitched up man after man, the task seemed to become a bit easier. After the first three or four patients, she began to get a bit of practice and was more at ease with it. This was her second experience helping wounded, but the experience back at Alnwick had been very different from this one. These men were freshly injured and freshly in pain. She wanted very much to help them and ease their anguish but she figured out early on that she was a bit squeamish when it came to plunging a needle into a man’s flesh. The first time she did it with the man with the neck wound, she had put several tiny stitches into his skin when it probably only needed four or five stitches total. He had a big cluster of white stitches in his neck that looked strangely like flower petals.

But she soldiered on, gaining experience, remembering Lady Percy at Alnwick and how stoic and calm the woman had been. She tried to be that way, too. Nearing sunset, all of the men were tended, all fourteen of them, and another man was brought in that the physic from Hawick tended personally. At that point, the only aid needed was seeing to the comfort of the wounded so Isobeau wandered among them, encouraging them to be brave from the pain or giving them some water to drink. When she came to an older man lying away from the fire, off by himself, he seemed to be quite miserable from the arrow wound to his gut. He was shivering and sweating, and Isobeau knew enough about illnesses and wounds to know that the man had a fever. Kneeling next to him, she put a gentle hand on his arm.

“Sirrah?” she asked softly. “Would you like some water?”

The old man, eyes closed, stirred at the sound of her voice. Slowly, he turned his head in her direction and the wrinkled eyelids lifted. He stared at her a moment, blinking.

“Who are ye, lady?” he rasped.

Isobeau smiled faintly. “I am Lady de Wolfe,” she replied. “I am Sir Atticus’ wife.”

A ripple of surprise moved across the old soldier’s face. “The Lion?”

“Aye.”

The old lips creased into a distant smile. “I knew him as a boy, m’lady,” he said. “We are proud of him, we are. He has grown into a fine and famous man.”

Isobeau continued to smile at the old soldier, unsure what to say to that. She wanted to agree, to perhaps heap praise upon Atticus for his reputation only, but she was embarrassed to do so, embarrassed that she was so willing to praise him after having been his wife for little more than two days. As if she had any right to be proud. But the kiss between them the day before, that heated gesture of liquid fire, was still enough to make her heart race every time she thought of it. Titus’ kisses had been soft and warm and comfortable; being kissed by Atticus was like being burned by the sun.

“We are all very proud of him, of course,” she said, lifting the wooden cup from the bucket of water she had next to her. “Would you like some water?”

The old man shook his head. “Nay,” he said, raspy. “My time is drawing to a close. I was lying here dreaming of the times when I was a young man. I was thinking on me mum and pa. They died when I was young, ye know. I will see them again soon.”

Isobeau sobered. “You mustn’t speak like that,” she said. “You will get well again. Lord Solomon’s physic is very skilled. He will make sure of it.”