The man wasdying.
Isobeau knew this because the surgeon told her so, but it still didn’t prepare her for the actual experience. He was a young soldier and had only been in the service of Northumberland for a few months, following in the footsteps of his father and uncle. He was so very young, barely seventeen years of age, but one of the Yorkist arrows had pierced his torso, tore through his gut, and emerged on the other side. But the young man was strong; he had lived longer than he should have. At the moment, he had a raging fever and his innards were filled with poison. It was only a matter of time.
There was nothing to do for the young man, a lad barely having reached maturity, so she sat next to him and held his hand as he spoke of the mother he loved and the little sisters he missed. They lived in town but because of the fighting that had gone on lately, his father had sent them into the countrywith relatives. The young man didn’t know where and his father, whom he had served with at Towton, had been killed. Therefore, all he could do was remember his mother and sisters, and tell Isobeau a story about a pet goat that didn’t much like him and used to chase him around the yard.
Isobeau had never been exposed to anything like this. She had lived a happy and protected life at Isenhall, so the realities of battle were quite shocking. It was baptism by fire in the worst possible sense, dealing with death on a nasty and brutal level. The great hall was filled with the dying and the wounded, and the smell alone was enough to shake her already weak constitution. It smelled like rotting limbs and old, congealed blood.
The surgeon, the very same man who had tended Titus in his last hours, was exhausted and harried. He’d been working for almost a week straight with little sleep, ever since the battle, but he was still determined to help all of the men he could. Watching him in action bolstered Isobeau’s courage; she admired the old man for his perseverance and it helped her to persevere as well.
Something that bolstered her even more was to see Lady Percy in the hall attending the men. The woman had just lost her husband as well, yet she had put her stark grief aside, knowing it was her duty to help the wounded. Their eyes met, once, across the smoky room and Lady Percy forced a tremulous smile at Isobeau, who smiled in return. But Lady Percy quickly returned to an older man who had lost a limb, a man who was crying out in pain. Isobeau admired Lady Percy greatly as she ignored her own anguish to help others. Isobeau vowed, to the best of her ability, to do the same. But surrounded by the wounded and dying as she was, it took a great deal to bolster her courage and not run screaming from the room.
“M… m’lady?” the young man spoke softly to her.
Distracted from her thoughts, Isobeau smiled down at him. “Aye, Gilles?” she replied. “Is there something I can get for you? Water, mayhap?”
The young man shook his head. “Nay, m’lady,” he said, hesitantly, because it was difficult to speak. “I was hoping… my sisters and mother cannot read, m’lady, but I was hoping you could tell them that my last thoughts were of them. Tell them that my father died bravely and that I died bravely, too. I think it will make them feel better to know that.”
Isobeau gazed down into his pale, stubbled face and realized she was fighting off tears. It was so very tragic to see the young man before her cut down before he had ever truly begun to live. She squeezed his hand and nodded. “Of course I will,” she assured him gently. “What are their names? I must find them and give them the news.”
“Hartha,” the young man said. “My mother his Hartha. My sisters are Joi and Desmelda.”
“Hartha, Joi, and Desmelda,” Isobeau repeated. “I will not forget.”
“Swear it?”
“Of course I do. I never forget a name, so I shall remember their names and find them all. I will even give them some coins to help them. Would that please you?”
The young man smiled gratefully. “Indeed, m’lady,” he said, haltingly. His smile faded. “It… is difficult to speak, m’lady. I… would rest now. Just for a while.”
Isobeau could sense that the young man’s life was draining away. He was much weaker than he had been only minutes earlier. Saddened, she squeezed his hand once more. “Please rest,” she told him softly. “Conserve your strength. If you like, I can sing to you. Would that make you feel better?”
The young man could only smile at this point and he did, faintly, and Isobeau took it for permission to sing. She thoughtquickly on a song, any song that might distract him from his pain. Settling on one she had written for Titus’ return because it was the only one she could recall quickly, she sang softly, for his ears only.
“A bird sang sweetly to me, on a morning bright with rain;
Said the bird, so sweetly to me, lovers know no pain.
My heart, my joy, is bound to you, like a hero from ancient lore;
My heart, my joy, dream of the day when you will return to leave no more.”
It was such a gentle song, one Isobeau had so hoped to sing to Titus the day he returned. But instead, all she could do was sing it to a dying soldier who had been under her husband’s command. There was something incredibly ironic in that thought as she gazed down at the young man as he breathed his last breath. But there was a smile on his face, perhaps a smile at the tender song a young woman had sung to him that had helped transition him into the next world.
Perhaps Isobeau would never know why he was smiling but she felt as if, at the moment, she had done something kind and generous to help the young man. She had eased his suffering the best way she knew how. Her eyes filled with tears at the loss and the waste, and thoughts of Titus’ loss filled her mind as well. So much loss and death on this day and the tears, so close to the surface, had returned. The young man’s hand, in hers, released its hold and she knew that he was gone, so she carefully placed his hand upon his chest and made the sign of the cross over him.
“Go with God,” she murmured, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “O Lord; unto your hands I commit his spirit. Be merciful.”
Her work with the young man was finished but her gaze lingered on him, suddenly wishing she had sent him with a message for Titus. He would be seeing him in heaven, after all. As she prepared to leave the young man’s side, a quiet voice caught her from behind.
“It was kind of you to relieve his suffering as you did. I know this young soldier; he was a good fighter.”
Startled, Isobeau’s head jerked around and she found herself looking at Atticus standing a few feet away. He was still in heavy mail and pieces of armor, still in the dirty tunic he had probably been wearing for days. He appeared weary and worn but she had no sympathy. Considering their last meeting, her defenses immediately went up and she looked away to gather the bowl and rag that she had brought with her.
“He is far too young to have died in battle,” she said stiffly, motioning to the nearest servant to let the man know that the young soldier was dead and should be carried away. “He should be at home with his parents, dreaming of the young farm girl in the neighboring village. He should not be here with a hole in his chest.”
Atticus stepped aside as she pushed past him, presumably on to the next man she could help. “In a perfect world, he would still be at home tending to his family and farm,” he said. “But this is not a perfect world. He died valiantly for the king’s cause.”
Isobeau came to a halt and looked at him. “Is that what death is?” she asked. “Valiant? Is that how my husband died– valiantly? The result is still the same, Sir Atticus; he is dead and I am widowed at the young age of twenty-one years. I will have to raise his son alone when I had hoped for my child to have his father to guide him. That is what this war means to me, so do not paint a glorious picture of valiant death and expect me to accept it.”
