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  With heavy steps, Atticus made his way to the third floor of the building, heading down a corridor that took him to the north side of the complex. This was where visitors were usually housed, where he intended to put de Winter, and he headed for the door at the end of the corridor that had belonged to his brother. Had. Atticus braced himself as he approached the big, oak panel set within a dogtooth arched doorway.

  He lifted a fist, hesitating a moment, before knocking softly on the door. Receiving no immediate response, he knocked again, louder. This time, a woman on the other side shouted at him.

  “Go away,” she bellowed.

  Atticus cleared his throat softly. “It is Atticus, Lady de Wolfe,” he said. “Will you please admit me?”

  There was no answer at first, but then the door flew open and Isobeau was standing in front of him, her lovely face pale and her cheeks wet with tears. Atticus gazed back at her, feeling the physical impact of her expression as strongly as if she had slapped him. There was terrific sadness there. Before Atticus could speak, however, Isobeau broke down.

  “What happened?” she demanded, half-sobbing and half-yelling. “What happened to my husband?”

  Atticus thought he had been braced well enough against the onslaught of her grief but evidently he wasn’t. He could feel himself starting to crack in the face of her crying.

  Crying for Titus.

  “He was killed, Lady de Wolfe,” he said as evenly as he could. “I am sorry you had to hear it from le Bec. I have come to speak of the circumstances if you wish to hear them.”

  She looked at him, open-mouthed, as if he had just said something outrageous. “Circumstances?” she repeated. “I suppose that it does not matter what the circumstances are. He is dead, is he not? You were there; why did you not protect him?”

  Now she was delivering verbal punches to his gut, firing the same questions he had been asking himself for six days. He struggled not to match her emotion and he certainly struggled not to show it. He felt as if he were defending himself to his brother’s new wife, a woman he barely knew. She barely knew him as well, otherwise, how else could she accuse him of neglect when it came to Titus? Anyone who knew him, and knew of his bond with Titus, would not have asked such a thing.

  “We were separated at the time his death came about,” he told her as calmly as he could, hoping an explanation might ease her. “My lady, I loved my brother deeply. I hope you know that if I had been given any control or knowledge of what was happening to him, I would have most certainly done everything I could to help him. I would have died if it meant saving him. Do not think for one moment you are the only one feeling pain over his death because, for certain, you are not.”

  There was a reprimand in his words, something bitter lashing out of him unexpectedly to push her back, just a bit. She had hurt him, accused him, and now he was striking back. Surely the woman could not accuse him of not being willing to help his brother; damn her for suggesting it.

  His rebuke worked. Feeling the verbal slap of his words, Isobeau’s anger eased but her sense of sorrow did not. She fixed on Atticus, her hand to her chest as if to keep her heart from shattering into a million slivers of anguish.

  “But he is dead,” she whispered, her gaze upon him imploring. “How could such a thing happen? You were there… other men were there… surely someone could have saved him?”

  Atticus’ expression tightened. “Had someone loyal been there, I’m sure they would have.”

  There was great regret in that statement but Isobeau was ignorant to it. She was only focused on her own pain and sorrow. But she labored to push aside her grief, coming to realize that she was all but accusing Titus’ brother of failing to prevent the man’s death. She was so muddled with distress that she didn’t know what she was saying. It all seemed jumbled up in her heart and mind, for she was unable to make any sense of it.

  “I…I am sorry,” she said after a moment, moving away from the door so the man could enter. “I know you would not have… I should not have said such a thing. Forgive me.”

  Atticus came into the room, hesitantly, as she moved away from the door and went to sit next to the hearth. She had a small, damp kerchief clutched in her fingers, holding it to her nose as she sniffled. Although Atticus closed the door behind him, he didn’t make any attempt to move further into the room. He simply stood by the door, eyeing his brother’s grieving wife and wondering what to say to her. She was displaying every emotion he was feeling but was too composed to let himself go. He almost envied her lack of restraint where her grief was concerned. He wished he could let himself go, too.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” he told her evenly. “You have every right to feel sad and angry. I feel sad and angry, too. It is I who must ask your forgiveness. I should have been the one to tell you about Titus. I am sorry it had to be le Bec.”

  Sniffling into her wadded kerchief, Isobeau shook her head. “It does not matter who told me,” she said, sobbing quietly. “The end result is the same. I have been informed of my husband’s death.”

  Atticus watched her a moment; his guard had been up upon entering the room but he could feel himself easing as he came to understand that Isobeau was mourning Titus just as he was. Whether or not he was openly sobbing like she was, they still had that grief in common. That horrific bond of anguish connected them. At the moment, he wasn’t even sure what to say to her so he just started talking. Unfortunately, he gave forth all of the warmth one would when discussing the weather or planning a battle. He came across as unfeeling, cold, and without tact.

  “I was with Titus before he died,” he told her. “His last words were of you, my lady. He asked that I marry you because he said he could not stand it if another man became your husband, so I agreed to his request. We will be taking Titus back to Wolfe’s Lair for burial next to my mother and as soon as he is buried, I will marry you because I do not feel comfortable doing it whilst he is still above ground. There is something inherently disrespectful about that.”

  By this time, Isobeau was looking at him with shock. She had stopped sobbing, now staring open-mouthed at Atticus.

  “He… he asked you to marry me?” she repeated, aghast. “But… this is of no offense towards you, Sir Atticus, but I do not wish to marry you. I have just lost my husband and already I must consider remarriage? I will not!”

  Atticus was actually offended although he tried not to be. He should have been relieved, for it would have made an easy excuse not to marry the woman. She didn’t want him and he didn’t want her. In truth, he wasn’t sure what he had expected from her, but a straight denial hadn’t been a possibility. A man of considerable pride, her refusal was enough to put a nick in the wall of his composure, enough of a nick to weaken him. His jaw ticked as his stinging reply was formed.

  “What you want is of no concern,” he said, his voice hard. “You will do as Titus asked and so will I, regardless of my personal feelings. My brother asked me to take care of you and I promised him I would. Why should this bother you so much? You act as if you have been married to my brother for years rather than months. Two months ago, you did not even know the man so I find your tears at his passing insulting to say the very least. I have been with my brother for all thirty-three years of my life and if anyone has a right to tears, it is I, so spare me your fabricated grief. You did not know my brother as I did and therefore have no right to act as if your grief is stronger than mine.”

  He spouted nasty words, words that shocked and upset Isobeau so much that she visibly flinched when he was finished. Still seated in the chair by the hearth, she could see that he was truly serious. He meant what he said. Isobeau had barely had a few words with the man prior to this moment so to see his bitterness, his pure hardness, was truly something to behold. But in that bitterness she saw the depths of his grief; something flickering in the green eyes told her that he was feeling much more than his stiff demeanor let on. But that feeling did not excuse his rudeness.

  “Mayhap I o
nly knew him for a few weeks at most, but in those weeks, I became quite fond of him,” she said, her voice trembling from anger and hurt. “He was kind and he was affectionate. I mourn for a wonderful life cut short with a man I was quite fond of and I will not let you take that away from me. How dare you even try, Atticus de Wolfe! How dare you try to diminish what I am feeling! How would you even know? You do not know me at all!”

  Atticus remained cool. “I am not attempting to take anything away from you,” he said. “I am stating quite clearly that you have no right to mourn someone you only knew a matter of days before he left for war.”

  Isobeau couldn’t believe what she was hearing from the man’s mouth. Was it possible he was so cold? His words were devastating. But was it even possible that he was correct? Did she even have a right to mourn a man she had barely known before he left her to go to war? Not only had he upset her, but now he confused her. Agitated, overwhelmed, she growled at him.

  “Get out of this room and leave me alone,” she said.

  With that, she turned her back on him, facing the hearth that was smoldering gently. She didn’t want to speak with him anymore, nasty man that he was. She wanted him away from her so that she could clear her mind and mourn her husband in private. She was trying not to hate Titus’ brother at the moment and found his presence agitating. She kept waiting for him to leave, hoping he would, but he simply stood there and didn’t make a sound. Now, his refusal to leave was coming to infuriate her.

  “I said get out,” she told him. “I will not tell you again.”

  She heard his joints pop as he shifted position on those big, muscular legs. “And if I do not?”

  “If you linger any longer, you will find out.”

  Isobeau heard him snort and she jerked her head around, startled at the sound, to see that he was smiling. It was a thin and ironic smile, but he was smiling nonetheless. Her eyes narrowed dangerously but before she could explode at him, Atticus turned and put his hand on the door latch.

  “I believe you,” he said, lifting the latch. “But know this; this will be the one and only time I will allow you to give me orders. This is your chamber, therefore, I will obey. But I will be back so you had better prepare yourself for that event.”

  Isobeau glared him for a long, tense moment before turning away. “I am not sure why you would,” she said. “I do not want to see you.”

  Atticus lifted a dark eyebrow. “Be that as it may, you have no choice,” he said. “I would assume you want to see your husband and I would assume you want to accompany him back to Wolfe’s Lair for burial. Unfortunately for both of us, we will be seeing a good deal of each other. You may as well resign yourself to it.”

  Isobeau didn’t want to resign herself to anything that had to do with this man. “I would assume my husband’s body is here at Alnwick,” she said, her tone cold. “Where is he?”

  “He is safe.”

  “That was not the question.”

  Atticus’ piercing eyes lingered on the woman who was not afraid of his manner, his attitude, or of him in general. She is strong, this one. He sensed strength in her. Odd he’d never noticed before but, then again, he’d spent little time around her. “It is the only answer I can give you, as I do not know where my men have put him.”

  “You will take me to him when you know.”

  Atticus nodded slowly. “I will.”

  Isobeau didn’t answer him, mostly because there was nothing more to say. Their encounter had been harsh and painful, making a bad situation worse. Without replying, she returned her attention to the hearth, hoping he would take the hint and simply leave. This time, he did.

  When she was positive he had left, the tears returned with a vengeance.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ionian scale in Bb – Lyrics to The Sorrow Within

  The colors of darkness shadow my world,

  The memory of you now blurred with sorrow.

  Would that I could hold you again I my arms,

  But such things are shades of a ghostly past.

  —Iseobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.

  Tertius wasn’t surprised to find his sister’s chamber dark but for a fire in the hearth and a small taper upon the table where she sat. As he entered the chamber, for the door was not locked, he could see pieces of parchment scattered all over the table and some pieces on the floor. Scraps of discarded writings were everywhere.

  Tertius remembered that before they had left for Towton, Titus had indulged his new wife’s passion for writing music and he had purchased quite a bit of expensive parchment from the parchmenter in the village outside of the castle walls. The man, who was quite skilled at transforming animal skin into a writing surface, had given Titus a deal on imperfect parchment that was difficult for him to sell. Therefore, Isobeau had more parchment than she probably knew what to do with but, knowing his sister, she would find a way to use it. Isobeau was industrious and busy that way.

  “Izzy?” Tertius asked hesitantly as he came into the room. “Duckling, what are you doing?”

  Isobeau didn’t even look up from what she was doing. She was furiously scribbling something on an uneven piece of parchment by the dim light of the taper and her fingertips were stained black.

  “I am glad you have returned safe, Tertius,” she said, sounding oddly detached. “Titus is dead, you know.”

  Tertius paused next to her table, gazing down at his sister’s blond head. He sensed something very strange about her and it concerned him. “I know,” he said, his tone dull with grief. “What are you doing, Isobeau?”

  She dipped her quill into the inkwell, tapped off the excess ink, and continued writing. Tertius could see that she was scribbling chords as well as words.

  “I am writing a song,” she said. “I will sing it for Titus’ funeral. He loved my singing, you know. I think he would like it if I sang at his burial.”

  Tertius understood a bit more now. He knew his sister well enough to know that she was a strong woman and, at the moment, she was trying to be very strong. She was also expressing her grief perhaps the best way she knew how and that was to put it into song. Since she had been a little girl, she had put everything into song. Reaching out, he picked up a piece of parchment that was next to her hand, one that had evidently been tossed aside. He held it up to the light to see what words were contained upon the carefully treated hide.

  “The colors of darkness shadow my world,” he murmured, reading the dark and smeared letters. “The memory of you now blurred with sorrow. Iz, are you certain this is something you want to sing at your husband’s funeral mass? I am not entirely sure this is appropriate.”

  Isobeau came to a halt, looking up at him with confusion and some unhappiness. “It is what I am feeling, Tertius,” she said. “Why is it not appropriate?”

  Tertius was a bit more restrained than his passionate and young sister. He had seen much in life as a warring knight whereas she had led a relatively sheltered one as a fine lady in an excellent house. Although the de Sheras were still great battle lords, their home of Isenhall Castle had been spared anything major for the past twenty years. Therefore, all Isobeau had known was peace.

  With a sigh, he reached out to take an ink-stained hand and pulled her off her stool, away from the table and towards the hearth. Isobeau went with him, reluctantly, and he set her down in a cushioned chair while he took the other, sitting wearily against the silk pillows. His pale, shadowed face studied her against the firelight from the hearth.

  “I am so sorry about Titus,” he said softly. “I know you were very fond of him as he was of you. Any mention of your name would set him to grinning, you know. He was anxious to return home to you. I am so very sorry he was not able to, at least not alive.”

  Isobeau’s composure, a fragile thing, began to crack. She shook her head and looked away from her brother. “Please… do not speak of him, not now,” she begged softly. “I have spent the past several hours attempting not to fall to pieces so I took to writi
ng a song to Titus instead to distract myself. Atticus said that I had no right to feel grief for a man I had only known a matter of weeks. He said that he found my tears at Titus’ passing insulting, so I have stayed to my rooms in order to write a song to Titus to express how I feel. But… but I am not strong enough to speak of him so please don’t.”

  Tertius’ expression tightened. “Atticus told you that?”

  Isobeau nodded. “He did,” she said, marginally agitated in her restless movements, as if she didn’t know what to do with her hands or body. Everything about her was on edge. “He came to tell me that upon his deathbed, Titus asked him to marry me and take care of me. I sent Atticus away; I do not want to marry the man. I cannot think on such things right now.”

  Tertius knew his sister could be temperamental and even sharp at times; Atticus could be the same way. He could only imagine how a conversation must have gone between them regarding the volatile subject of Titus’ death. He cocked his head curiously. “You told Atticus that you did not wish to marry him?”

  “I did.”

  “How did he react?”

  She shrugged, averting her gaze. “He was unpleasant and bitter,” she said. “Tertius, after we return to Wolfe’s Lair to bury Titus, will you please take me home? I want to return to Isenhall. I do not want to stay here in the north any longer. I do not like it here. Without Titus, there is no reason to remain.”

  Tertius scratched his head, thinking on his sister’s request and realizing that he was somewhat irritated with it. In fact, he was quite irritated with it. “Are you truly so selfish, Iz?” he asked her. “Look around you. Northumberland’s army has been badly defeated in a battle that turned decidedly against the king. Henry Percy was killed alongside Titus, and alongside thousands of other men, and all you can think of is returning home to Isenhall because you do not wish to remain here any longer. More than that, you have blatantly refused a marriage proposal from Atticus de Wolfe. Do you understand that his brother made that request of him? With his dying breath, Titus asked his brother to take care of you and you have refused that request? What on earth is the matter with you that you would be so selfish and short-sighted?”