The Lion of the North (5 page)

With pale blond hair and green eyes, Isobeau was all shades of lovely. He had also discovered that his new bride was also very sweet and rather animated, with a wicked sense of humor, but she was also very quick to temper. She didn’t have much of a calm demeanor, something blamed on her ancestor, the great Thunder Warrior Maximus de Shera. Family legend had it that he was quick to temper as well. But along with the ancestral temper, Isobeau also had the brilliant de Shera mind. She never forgot anything and she could read, write, and do math sums in her head. Those particular traits that would have shocked some men impressed him greatly.

Titus and Isobeau had spent the two weeks following their wedding coming to know one another, spending nearly every waking moment together, until the Earl of Northumberland mobilized his army and took it south, into Yorkshire, to intercept troops loyal to Edward. Isobeau didn’t pay much attention to war although, as a de Shera, she should have. She was much more interested in her horses, her cats, and in the songs she wrote. She loved music and would play her harp to accompany herself as she sang, a talent that had seriously enraptured Titus. But her husband’s departure with the earl’s army made her more aware of the battle for the English throne than she wanted to be. She hated to see him go.

So she focused on the things she loved in his absence and mostly on the music she liked to write. Since Isobeau had been a child, she had a great love of music and having been taught to write at a young age, she was able to put the words and music in her head down to parchment. Her father’s solar had been covered with pieces of parchment or vellum that she had scribbled songs upon. There was more of Isobeau’s writing in Calpurnius’ chamber than there was of his, but Calpurnius had loved it. His wife had died when his children, Tertius and Isobeau, were very young, so for a very long time it had only been the three of them. His children were his life until Isobeau’s marriage to Titus de Wolfe had changed that.

But not too terribly much. She was still her father’s daughter, now with a husband she had grown quite fond of. Her song writing had increased with the event of a new husband who had soon departed after their wedding, and she learned to pass the days of his absence by creating music for Titus. They were sweet songs, perhaps a bit naïve and adoring, alluding to their life together and a future she was looking forward to. She was particularly fond of one called
The Heart Awakens
because it said everything that she was feeling. She couldn’t wait to sing her songs for Titus, accompanying herself on the harp her father had brought all the way from Italy, and she hoped that Titus would understand what had transpired in her heart during his absence. She hoped he felt the same. She also couldn’t wait to tell him of the child she was carrying.

Smiling at the thought of her baby, she put a hand to her still-flat belly. She was fairly certain of the pregnancy, as her menses had stopped, and Lady Percy’s personal physician had confirmed it.
A son
. She was positive that she was carrying a de Wolfe son, one who would be a great knight just as his father and his uncle, the man who was called The Lion of the North, were. Thoughts briefly shifted to Atticus de Wolfe, a new brother she’s barely said just a few words to because he was always so busy with Northumberland’s business, but she hoped the great knight would take the time to help train his new nephew. She was certain that with Titus’ request that he would. Therefore, her son would be trained by the finest.

Somewhere in her daydreams of Titus and their child, Isobeau had lain down upon the cool grass, gazing up at the bright blue sky as her mind wandered. Her horse’s lead was still in her hand but the horse had stopped running circles and was now grazing next to her. She finally sat up and looked around, wondering how she had ended up on the ground. Thoughts of her husband often did that. On days like this, with peace across the bucolic countryside, it was hard to believe there was a war going on. She was anxious for Titus’ safety and anxious for him to return so that they could get on with the rest of their lives.

“Isobeau!”

Isobeau turned in the direction of her shouted name, shading her eyes from the sun. She could see three girls approaching; the older girl carried a toddler in her arms while the third girl, her age somewhere between the other two, waved her arms wildly and ran in Isobeau’s direction.

“Is-o-
BEAU
!” the child shouted.

Isobeau grinned at the three Percy women, daughters of the earl and his wife, Eleanor. Margaret, the eldest at fifteen, had taken to Isobeau right away because she had recently lost her older sister to marriage. The next daughter, Eleanor, or Ella as they called her, was the blond six-year-old with a wild streak in her, whilst the baby, Elizabeth, was sweet and affectionate. How Isobeau loved tending Elizabeth; she hoped for a daughter such as her someday. After her mighty son, of course.

“Greetings, Ella!” she waved at the small child as the girl ran to her. Eleanor plopped in her lap and Isobeau hugged the child. “Where have you been?”

Eleanor wrapped her small arms around Isobeau’s neck and squeezed enthusiastically. “With Mam,” she said. “Mam says you must come inside, Is. She says to hurry.”

Eleanor always called her “Is”, but it came out of the child’s mouth sounding like “Eees”. By this time, Margaret was upon her, rocking baby Elizabeth on her hip. Isobeau looked to the older Percy girl curiously. “What is the matter?” she asked Margaret. “Why must I come inside the gates?”

Margaret was a rather morose girl without a lick of personality. She seemed perpetually depressed, perpetually bored. “You cannot see the road from here,” she said. “A rider came about a half hour ago and told my mother than my father’s army was returning home. That is why Mother says you must come inside now.”

Isobeau set Eleanor on her feet and quickly stood up, brushing off her dress of dirt and grass. “How exciting,” she said happily. “I have just been sitting here wondering when they would come home and now they are finally here!”

Isobeau’s heart was racing as she thought of Titus returning and she wanted to make herself presentable before he saw her. Her long hair was a mess and there was grass all over her skirt. She began scurrying back to the great, walled fortress of Alnwick, pulling her horse along as the three young women ran along behind her.

“My mother says the army is just north of Felton and should be here within the hour,” Margaret said. She always called Lady Percy “My mother”, even when she was addressing her directly. It wasn’t simply “Mother”; it was “My mother” in all things. “My mother said that the messenger told her that the most recent battle was a terrible loss.”

Isobeau looked at Margaret with concern. “What does that mean?”

Margaret caught up to her, rushing along beside her with little Elizabeth bouncing vigorously with every step Margaret took.

“I am not sure,” she said. “My mother sent my brother and two soldiers out to meet the incoming army and see to my father’s return. Papa will be here soon and all will be well then.”

Margaret seemed confident but Isobeau wasn’t so sure. She couldn’t shake the sense of concern she felt.
The battle was a terrible loss.
Loss of what? Territory? Men? Knights? Suddenly, her apprehension for Titus’ safety took on a new dimension. She was very anxious to see him. Something inside her, a little voice in her head, told her to get back to the castle quickly. There was no time to waste.

Picking up the pace, she made haste for the hulking fortress of Alnwick Castle.

“She knows, Atticus.”
Sir Kenton le Bec, part of the advance party that reached Alnwick before the bulk of the army, met Atticus at the great gatehouse of Alnwick. “She was with Lady Percy when we told the woman of the earl’s demise. Lady de Wolfe asked me a direct question about Titus’ health and I could not lie to her. I hope you understand that.”

Atticus looked at his very tall, muscular friend. Kenton le Bec was perhaps the best knight he’d ever known next to Titus and he trusted the man implicitly. Still, he felt some frustration at the admission even though he did, in fact, understand. As the remains of Northumberland’s army trickled in through the open gates, Atticus removed his helm and wiped at his sweating forehead with the back of his hand.

“I understand,” he grunted. Then, he shook his head as if exasperated. “I should have ridden ahead to tell her. I should have gone with you.”

Kenton put a big hand on Atticus’ shoulder. “You were where you were most needed,” he said quietly. “You rode next to Titus’ body the entire way home. I do not blame you for not wanting to leave his side. There is no shame in that.”

Atticus eyed Kenton. “Except that I left you to inform Lady Percy of her husband’s passing,” he said, “and my brother’s wife along with her. That should have come from me.”

Kenton could see that Atticus was angry at himself for things beyond his control. The man had spent the past six days in almost complete silence, riding beside his brother’s body as it was transported along with the earl on the same wagon bed. The men lay side by side, wrapped tightly in canvas from a small tent the men had cut in half to use as burial shrouds for them. Northumberland’s surgeon had cut bushels of fresh rosemary to pack around the bodies to cover the stench, but on the sixth day after their deaths, nothing could adequately cover the smell of decay.

Even now, as the wagon bearing their bodies entered the inner ward of Alnwick, they could smell that sweet-pungent stench of death. Unfortunately, there were several other wagons bearing the dead that they had been able to gather from the slaughter at Towton, so the very air around them smelled of putrefaction. It was as if they were bringing death back to Alnwick as it followed them home from Towton.

Kenton, the most stoic and professional of all knights, watched Atticus’ expression as the wagon bearing his brother’s body moved past him. He could see the grief in the man’s eyes even if his weary face remained expressionless. Kenton was hurting, too; they all were. And they were all equally furious with the news that two of their own had turned on Titus. Though it was not their right, all of Northumberland’s remaining knights had that same sense of vengeance that Atticus had. Treacherous knights, men they had trusted, were an insult and a danger to them all.

But that was something they could not focus on at the moment; they had an earl to bury, friends to bury, and a castle to secure. Vengeance would have to come at another time, as Warenne had stressed the entire ride back to Alnwick. Since de Winter’s base was in Norfolk and not far from the Duke of Norfolk’s seat, de Winter and his thrashed army had returned to Alnwick with the Northumberland army in the hopes of healing the injured and recuperating somewhat before making the long trek home. Moreover, it was clear that de Winter was very concerned for Atticus. They all were.

With that in mind, Kenton moved to take over Atticus’ duties and let the man deal with his brother’s wife. He addressed Atticus’ last statement.

“Then go to Lady de Wolfe now,” Kenton said quietly. “She was quite broken up the last time I saw her.”

Atticus didn’t look particularly enthusiastic about it as he glanced at the big, brown-stoned keep of Alnwick that had been there since the days of William the Conqueror. It was old and solid, the seat of Northumberland for centuries. It had been home to him for years but now all he felt was emptiness when he looked at it; too many memories of Titus within those old walls. He took a deep, sorrowful breath.

“I will go,” he said. “Did you tell her about Tertius also?”

Kenton nodded. “She asked,” he replied. “I told her that her brother is well.”

Atticus lifted his eyebrows to that statement, sorrow in his action. Her brother was alive, yet his was not. He realized that there was some bitterness towards her because of it. “I have not seen Tertius since we entered Alnwick,” he said, looking around. “If you see the man, tell him to go to his sister. Mayhap he can bring her some comfort.”

Kenton merely nodded. As Atticus put his helm on the saddle of the young, big-boned warhorse that had belonged to the earl, de Winter rode up in to their midst, bringing up the rear of the army astride his vibrant, red rouncey. As the horse threw its head around, spraying foam from its mouth, Warenne flipped up the visor on his helm and looked at Atticus and Kenton.

“That is the last of the army,” he said. “Thank you again for letting us seek shelter here while we tend the wounded, Atticus. We shall try not to be terrible guests.”

Atticus smiled weakly. “I would put you to work mucking the stables to pay for your keep,” he teased his friend. “But since you are allergic to horse shite, I suppose I will spare you.”

Kenton had a lazy half-grin on his face at the young earl’s expense as Warenne laughed outright. “Put me in the kitchens, then,” he said. “See if you do not find horse shite in your stew someday. That will teach you to make a slave out of me.”

Kenton chuckled and even Atticus snorted. “Unfortunately, I believe you,” he said. Then, he glanced at the gates of Alnwick as the chains tightened up as men began to close it. “Kenton will show you where your men will bed down. I will put you in the keep, however. You will enjoy all of the hospitality that Alnwick has to offer, but for now, I must see to my brother’s wife. I will seek you out later.”