The Lion of the North (44 page)

De Troiu, regaining consciousness, tried to crawl behind Kenton for some protection, but Kenton kicked the man aside and threw the sword at his feet. Kenton then tossed the other sword at de la Londe and it landed in the dirt a few inches away from him. As Kenton moved away from the center of battle, de la Londe grabbed at the sword and clutched it defensively. His face, now bruised and bloodied, was fixed on Atticus.

“A dying man will say anything!” he bellowed desperately. “You will not even hear the truth of the matter? Then you murder two innocent men!”

Atticus resisted the urge to charge them again. They were such blatant liars that it sickened him. Still, he managed to pause and collect himself as best he was able.

“The truth is that you murdered my brother for refusing to side with Edward,” he said. “That is the only truth. If you speak any more lies against my brother, I will cut your tongue out.”

De la Londe cut short his reply, knowing that Atticus would do it. The man always carried out his threats. He therefore knew his life was at an end and he knew there was nothing more he could do to save himself except, perhaps, defer the blame. Maybe it would ease Atticus’ anger; maybe it would compel him to be merciful. Maybe he could lie and cheat and worm his way out of this predicament altogether, for now, he was out to save himself. He didn’t want to die.

“It was Declan,” he finally said, pointing to de Troiu. “He was the one who stabbed Titus first. He brought about the first blow. It was not me. I would have ridden from Titus without killing him, but de Troiu struck first!”

De Troiu, still on the dirt a few feet away from de la Londe, looked to his comrade in horror. “You
bastard
!” he hissed. “It was
you
who provoked him!”

De la Londe was now in the losing game of Casting Blame. He and de Troiu were no longer united as the truth began to spill forth. In an effort to deflect the accusation, he turned to Atticus.

“Look at my face!” de la Londe jabbed a finger at the healing gash across the side of his face. “Titus did that! He moved against me first! De Troiu was only defending me!”

De Troiu, realizing that de la Londe was utterly out for himself, moved to plead his case to Atticus. “Norfolk offered Titus the manse at Westwick,” he said. “He offered him productive lands and a title, but Titus refused. He knew we had already sworn fealty to Norfolk and he viewed us as the enemy. With God as my witness, Atticus, it was Titus who moved first. He slashed de la Londe’s face. I was able to get in the next blow. Up until that moment, we had not drawn our weapons. It was Titus who drew first.”

Atticus listened, unmoved. “Because you were traitors,” he said simply. “He had every right to move against you and subdue you.”

“And we had every right to defend ourselves!”

Atticus held up Titus’ broadsword. “Just as you have every right to defend yourselves now,” he said. “Get up and face me. I will not tell you again.”

It was an order. But de Troiu knew, as did de la Londe, that the moment they picked up the swords, Atticus would kill them. It would be an honorable killing. In that respect, they weren’t going to make it easy for him. Atticus de Wolfe was a man whose reputation was built on honor. Killing an unarmed man would be most dishonorable. With that in mind, de Troiu shook his head.

“Nay,” he said, rising to his knees and refusing to collect the sword. “If you are going to kill me, then do it. I’ll not pick up a weapon and pretend to give you a fight. We both know that there is no fight. Therefore, if you are going to kill me, then kill me unarmed.”

Atticus knew what the man was attempting to do; an honorable knight would not fight an unarmed knight. But this was an extraordinary case; this was a punishment for a crime, not an honorable fight in the least. Giving de Troiu and de la Londe weapons to defend themselves was purely a courtesy. Given that Atticus was seeking vengeance against two murderers, there were no rules in this hunt. It was the hunter against the prey. The prey refused to arm itself.

Therefore, Atticus didn’t hesitate to act. No sooner had the words left de Troiu’s mouth than Atticus marched up on the man and shoved Titus’ broadsword straight into de Troiu’s sternum.

It was a shocking and brutal move. The first blood had been drawn as de Troiu collapsed into the dirt, bleeding out from a pierced heart. After that, bedlam reigned. De la Londe, seeing that Atticus had killed de Troiu without hesitation, grabbed the broadsword at his feet and swung it at Atticus, who was fairly close to him. The blade caught Atticus in the hip and, being that Atticus was quite typically not wearing armor, immediately drew copious amounts of blood.

In an instant, the battle to the death had finally begun.

Injured, Atticus turned on de la Londe and attacked the man. It was nearly even odds considering de la Londe had been beaten and battered, and his head was unsteady, but the swordfight that commenced was truly one to behold. It was a vicious battle across the compound as Atticus, bleeding profusely from a very large gash to his left hip, went after de la Londe with a vengeance.

Sparks flew into the air as blade met with blade, and men who had once been allies now tried desperately to kill one another. Upon the steps of Wellesbourne’s keep, Isobeau was watching in fascination and horror as the knights around her, now witnessing a rather brutal and powerful battle, analyzed every movement of the fight. They could see already that Atticus was having some difficulty in moving with his usual grace because the gash to his hip was severe. Muscles had been cut. But the man didn’t back off in any form. He was The Lion of the North, after all, and he had a reputation for skill and power. Now, he had a reputation for unwavering determination as well, even with the serious wound.

As all of the knights witnessing the event would later attest, the battle between Atticus de Wolfe and his brother’s killer had truly been something to behold. It was a great battle that would be spoken of and passed down from generation to generation, for centuries to come.

It would cement The Lion’s reputation for good.

Being that both men were excellent knights, however, it was a battle that went on longer than it should have. With Atticus’ injury and de la Londe’s bruising, the fierceness of the fight was a testimony to their individual strengths. De la Londe was clearly up to the task, but so was Atticus. In the course of their battle, the men fought their way over to the stables and they spent several long and terrifying minutes chasing each other through the yard, leaping over water troughs or dodging fences. At one point, Atticus nearly cut de la Londe’s head off when the man barely ducked a slice that came in over the top of a fence post.

The knights watching the fight followed it as it moved from the stables to the kitchen yard. They were so involved in the battle that they had all but forgotten about Isobeau as the woman watched the fight with utter horror. It was a surreal performance of battle and skill by Atticus, weakened only by the wound to his hip, but it was clear that the wound was slowing him down. On and on they went, fighting their way into the kitchen yard, when de la Londe took hold of a long garden tool and hurled it at Atticus’ head.

Atticus ducked the flying tool but the iron end of it still clipped him on the head, drawing blood. The sight of Atticus’ blood on his head was all Isobeau needed to slide into full-blown panic; terrified her husband was going to be killed by the same man who had killed his brother, she could no longer stand by and observe. She had to do something. She understood now the depths of Atticus’ angst at his inability to protect his brother, for now that she saw her husband bleeding and battling, it was as if something inside her snapped.

Snapped….

She would do anything to protect her husband, her love and her life, and she simply couldn’t stand by and watch de la Londe defeat Atticus. Defeat would mean his death. This was something she could not allow. She could not bury another husband and she certainly couldn’t bury Atticus.

She had to save him.

Following the knights as they followed Atticus and de la Londe around the corner of the keep and towards a walled-in garden, it looked to her as if de la Londe had the advantage. Atticus, with his bleeding head, seemed to be backing off a bit and taking a beating because of it. She couldn’t watch de la Londe beat him into the ground and with that thought, the thought of Atticus’ imminent death, everything else in her mind became a blur.

She had to save him!

De la Londe had his back to her now as he slashed down upon Atticus, driving him off-balance. Isobeau looked around for a weapon of some kind, anything to injure the man with and give Atticus the advantage, but there wasn’t anything strong enough or sharp enough in her line of sight to complete the job. Her desperate gaze darted about until she came across a dagger shoved into a sheath on a belt that draped around Kenton’s hips.

A dagger!

Now, she knew what she had to do. Rushing at Kenton, Isobeau snatched the dagger before the man even realized she had it. De la Londe’s back was still to her as she burst through the crowd of knights watching the battle and threw herself at de la Londe’s backside. Lifting the dagger, she plunged it squarely into the back of the man’s neck. As de la Londe screamed and went down, she withdrew the dagger and stabbed him twice more, feeling him collapse beneath her and experiencing a very odd satisfaction as he folded. Words, words she couldn’t even control, came hurling out at the dying man beneath her.

“For Titus, I hope you feel all of the anguish that he felt at your hand,” she hissed into his ear. “For the grief and agony you caused me, let my voice be the last one you hear in this world and know that I hope you spend eternity in hell as Satan’s handmaiden. And for Atticus, know that he will feel the ultimate satisfaction in your death. But hear me now; as you lay dying, know that it wasn’t a knight who killed you.
It was a woman
.”

It was the ultimate insult to the felled man. She may have whispered more to him after that but she could not be sure. Someone was lifting her up and carrying her away, and the last she saw of Simon de la Londe was when a circle of knights surrounded him, watching him die in agony. It was the last memory Isobeau had of that event, of the moment when all that was controlled and fearful within her snapped enough so that she killed the man who was hurting Atticus. De la Londe’s death, her own sense of vengeance against the man, was the last thing she remembered.

When her senses finally returned, the first face she saw was Atticus’.

He kissed her. And then he wept.

T
he night was
soothing and surprisingly balmy. Night birds were calling to each other over the treetops and the moon, high and bright in the sky, cast silver light over the landscape. There was a sense of tranquility and peace, something Atticus hadn’t felt in months. Years, even. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d known such utter stillness and calm, as if nothing was amiss in the world.

It was a feeling he knew he could grow accustomed to.

“Atticus?”

A soft voice pulled him away from the lancet window and his view of the countryside. He turned to see Isobeau gazing up at him from her position in the big, comfortable bed. He smiled as he went to her, sitting on the bed beside her.

“How do you feel?” he asked quietly. “You slept a long time.”

Isobeau smiled faintly. “Sleepy,” she said. “How long was I asleep?”

Atticus stroked her blond head. “All day,” he told her. “Do you remember that I brought you up here after the events in the bailey?”

Isobeau nodded, the smile fading from her lips as she recalled the dagger and the death that she had inflicted.
She had killed a man.
It was the first thing that came to mind but, strangely enough, she wasn’t sorry in the least. She did what she’d had to do. She hoped Atticus would see it that way.

“I do,” she murmured. “Are you angry with me for what I did? I… I want to say something before you berate me. I want to say that I understand now why you killed du Reims as you did. Atticus, I saw you in the bailey with blood on you and it seemed to me that de la Londe might actually best you. I could not stand by and watch that. I had to protect you. Can you understand that? I realize this was an honorable fight and I ruined it, but I do not regret it. You are alive and that is all that matters to me. Now, if you must still berate me, go ahead.”

Atticus listened to her somewhat rambling speech. He could see she was upset, nervous even, and it softened his heart. He stroked her head again. “No one has ever cared for me as much as you do,” he told her. “In answer to your question, I am not angry. Vengeance was your right as much as it was mine.”

Isobeau, vastly relieved that he was not upset with her, shook her head. “I suppose there was some vengeance to it,” she admitted. “When I drove the dagger into him, I imagined that it was Titus doing it. Perhaps I was an instrument for Titus’ spirit in a sense. But more than that, I was protecting
you
. It had less to do with Titus and much more to do with you.”

Atticus leaned down, kissing her on the forehead. He was deeply touched. “You are a strong and remarkable woman, Lady de Wolfe,” he said. “I am honored to be your husband. I am honored that you would care so much for me that you would kill for me.”

Isobeau reached up and put her hands on his face, her fingers in his dark hair. There was so much emotion swirling in her heart that it was difficult to grasp a single coherent thought. All she knew was what she felt for him… that she loved him. Aye, that was all she knew.

“I love you, Atticus,” she finally whispered. “It was difficult to understand what, exactly, I felt for you all of this time, fearful that what I was feeling somehow overshadowed my relationship with Titus. I told you all of this before… what I feel for you has nothing to do with Titus and everything to do with you. To men, you are The Lion of the North, the fiercest and most cunning knight in all of Northumbria, but to me, you are my sweet and beautiful husband and I shall love you until I die.”