Atticus sighed heavily, reflecting on what Isobeau was being forced to endure. “I promised my brother I would take care of her,” he said. “I do not seem to be doing a very good job of it.”
Kenton glanced at him. “You did not cause this,” he said. “Whatever has happened is the Will of God. You must have faith that everything happens as it should, and in the end, everything is as it should be.”
Atticus grunted. “I am not particularly fond of God’s Will at the moment,” he said. “So much has happened that I feel as if I am sliding into a pit and have yet to see the bottom. I pray our misfortunes end at some point and we hit bottom. I should like to come up again.”
Kenton understood. “You shall,” he said. “Sometimes it takes a bottomless pit for us to appreciate the view from the top. In any case, Lady de Wolfe will be in good hands. There is nothing more you can do for her. In fact, I would suggest you return to the chapel and relieve Thetford of the duty of watching over your father. They have been there all morning.”
Atticus knew that. He didn’t particularly want to leave Isobeau, as he was anxious for news of her condition, but he knew at some point he was going to have to see to his father.
“Has the priest arrived for the burial mass?” he asked.
Kenton nodded. “I saw him when I returned with the physic.”
Atticus processed the information. “Then with the priest here, we would do well to bury Titus right away,” he said. “I will speak with my father about it. In fact, I will insist. Meanwhile, you will remain here in case the physic needs anything. Send word to me as soon as the physic finishes his examination. I would like to know of Lady de Wolfe’s condition.”
Kenton waved him off and Atticus headed down the low-ceilinged corridor en route to Wolfe’s Lair’s small chapel and his father. Kenton watched the man go; he swore he could see a cloud of doom and sorrow hanging over Atticus, a very unusual thing, indeed. As Atticus had said, much misfortune had befallen them since that terrible day on the battlefield of Towton.
The Lion of the North, a mighty and fearsome man, was suffering through some damnable luck at the moment. But Kenton knew, as did everyone else who knew Atticus de Wolfe, that a spell of bad fortune could not cripple The Lion.
If anything, he would emerge stronger than before. It was just a hunch Kenton had.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ionian scale in C– Lyrics to Light
Of all of the brightness the sunshine brings,
Your face is the only light I see.
In the sky, I can clearly see,
Your loving eyes gazing back at me.
—Iseobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.
Wellesbourne Castle
Warwickshire
Wellesbourne Castle wasa little over seven miles south of Warwick Castle, seat of the Earl of Warwick, and the history between Warwick and Wellesbourne had always been one of allied harmony until the last few years. With Warwick allied with Henry one day and Edward the next, that allegiance had been put to the test. Andrew Wellesbourne remained a staunch supporter of the true king of England, one of the more powerful barons in Henry’s arsenal.
It was well known in military circles that the Wellesbourne army was eleven hundred of the best trained and best supplied men in all of England. They were usually the strike force, put out front in the event of a battle because they were usually very successful in surviving, and then countering, an enemy assault. They had not been at Towton because four months prior, theyhad seen major action in another massive battle at Wakefield in Yorkshire that had seriously weakened the Wellesbourne lines.
Andrew had been given permission to return his army home to regroup and he was in the process of doing just that. He’d lost almost three hundred men at Wakefield and through recruiting in the neighboring shires, he had managed to reclaim those numbers and more. Now, Andrew had new recruits that were seeing serious training every day. When Simon de la Londe and Declan de Troiu rode through the gatehouse of Wellesbourne in friendship, Andrew had no reason to think their visit was anything other than a welcomed social call.
Wellesbourne was a congenial man with dark hair and dark eyes, features his son Adam had inherited. He was an old knight, but still quite powerful and spry even at his advanced age, and was still very active upon the field of battle. Andrew Wellesbourne took no issue with being in the middle of a fight. In fact, he welcomed it. Therefore, as the evening feast commenced, Andrew shared his table with de la Londe and de Troiu as an associate and fellow knight, not as a man who had once held a sword.
It was a companionable meal that started out with the dreadful news of Towton. Andrew had heard pieces of news as told to him by travelers who had been to the north, or who had heard of the defeat from others, so it was something of a shock to hear the truth from de la Londe and de Troiu. It was even more of a shock to hear of Henry Percy’s death and of Titus de Wolfe’s death. Andrew had particular trouble swallowing that one; he knew Titus and considered the man a friend. Based on the information from Towton, the pleasant evening meal turned into a depressing and serious affair.
But that was what de la Londe had planned all along. In fact, he’d had days to plan on what, precisely, he was going to tell Wellesbourne to ensure he had the man’s attention whenhe brought up the subject of swearing fealty to Edward and the best thing he could come up with was to try and gain the man’s sympathy. If he believed Adam had already turned to Edward, if there was some way to build up knightly angst against his own allies, then there might be a chance. De la Londe proceeded carefully.
“As you can imagine, my lord, the entire country is in upheaval after the battle at Towton,” he said seriously. “I have never seen so many dead. Someone said at least twenty thousand men and animals. And look at the wound to my face– that should tell you how brutal the fighting was.”
Andrew drew in a long, pensive breath, closing his eyes briefly as if to ward off the horror. When he opened his eyes again, it was to the badly damaged face of de la Londe. “Unfathomable,” he muttered. “And Henry Percy with them.”
De la Londe nodded. “Northumberland, Andrew Trollope, and others,” he said. “Lancaster is all but defeated. We have heard that Henry has fled into Scotland where he will more than likely remain. Henry is finished and Edward now takes the throne. If, for no other reason, I am glad to make that statement because it means the death and destruction is over. Mayhap men’s lives will be spared now that the dominant king has emerged.”
Andrew was watching him from across the table, over the glow of the flickering tapers. “The battles will never be over so long as a usurper sits upon the throne of England.”
