Never have I know such serenity.
Never have I cherished such a knight.
—Iseobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.
Titus’ burial inthe small chapel of Wolfe’s Lair had been a somber and intimate affair. The crypt behind the altar that Rosalie de Wolfe was buried in contained another one next to her, meant for Solomon, but Solomon chose to put Titus there instead. Therefore, Titus was laid to rest next to his mother and infant sister in the great, stone de Wolfe vault. The entire mass had reeked of the scent of fresh rushes, dirt, and decay, making it a rather odd and somewhat nauseating experience.
Isobeau had remained surprisingly stoic through the mass as the tiny priest had intoned the burial service. Dressed in a dark blue surcoat and matching cloak of heavy, blue wool, shesat upon a small stool that Atticus had brought for her. She was calm and sedate.
The real issue had been Solomon. He had no idea who the strange woman was entering the chapel on Atticus’ arm and when Atticus introduced Isobeau as Titus’ widow, Solomon wasn’t sure if he should shun the woman or embrace her. They could all read his indecision in his expression. He knew of Titus’ marriage, of course, but he’d not been able to travel to the ceremony down near Coventry. Now he was finally meeting Titus’ de Shera bride and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. It was nearly too much for him to comprehend and, overwhelmed, he’d simply greeted the woman and walked away.
So the service had been conducted with Solomon quietly weeping over the crypt where his wife and daughter and eldest son lay and everyone else stood near the altar. Isobeau hadn’t listened to the priest at all; her attention was on Solomon as the man mourned his family. She very much wanted to stand next to the crypt, too, and whisper final farewells to Titus, but she felt that by doing so she would be intruding on Solomon’s grief. Not even Atticus was standing near the crypt, perhaps to leave his father alone to grieve. Therefore, with an aching heart, she allowed Solomon to grieve alone as well.
As the priest droned on, Isobeau found her thoughts wandering to the last time she had seen Titus. It had been a cloudy day, cold and windy, and she had stood upon the steps of Alnwick’s keep, watching the army assemble in the inner bailey. Titus and Atticus had been walking among the men, issuing orders and making sure everything was prepared for departure.
Whereas Titus would offer a kind word or even a smile to the men, Atticus would remain serious and stern. And the way he walked;he stalked. He stalked like a predator, like a lion would. As she remembered that day, it occurred to her that there was perhaps one more reason Atticus was called The Lion of theNorth. The man stalked like one. That had not occurred to her before. Glancing at Atticus as he stood, head bowed in prayer, she was coming to think there were many things about the man that were mysterious and deep.
“My lady,” the priest said, but Isobeau was still looking at Atticus. “Lady de Wolfe?”
Isobeau hadn’t realized the tiny priest was speaking to her until he addressed her a second time. By that time, everyone had turned to look at her, including Atticus, and she was hugely embarrassed that she had been caught daydreaming. She smiled weakly at the priest.
“Sirrah?” she answered.
The priest gestured in the direction of Titus’ crypt. “It is my understanding that you wish to sing a lament for your husband,” he said. “Now would be the time.”
Isobeau hesitated; what she wanted to sing for Titus wasn’t a lament. It was a love song she had written for him the night before he departed but had been too embarrassed to sing it for him. Now she was singing it at his funeral and there was particular irony in that. Now he would only be able to hear it after his death. She wondered if he would have liked it.
It was difficult not to feel some measure of guilt because she should have sung the song for the man when he left. Perhaps it would have comforted him. Rising from the stool, and the least bit embarrassed that everyone would now hear the song she’d meant for Titus alone, she swallowed her embarrassment and went to stand next to his crypt. She ignored Solomon, partly because the man was ignoring her. But she mostly ignored him because her focus was on Titus, as it should be. She had words to sing to him, words that would send him off into the afterlife. Laying her hand on the cold, stone crypt, she lifted her crystal-clear soprano into a magnificent acapella song.
“May God’s good grace be upon you;
May He grant you the strength to stand tall.
May God keep you embraced to His bosom;
Until we meet again in this life or within His Holy Hall.
Never have I adored as much as I do now;
Never have I seen such light.
Never have I known such serenity.
Never have I cherished such a knight.
May God keep you and protect you, my dearest Titus.”
When she was finished, one could have heard a pin drop. Even Solomon had stopped weeping, staring at his dead son’s wife in astonishment. Isobeau leaned forward, kissed the stone, and quietly made her way back to her stool. The entire time, she kept her head down and her gaze averted, as if she didn’t want to see the expressions facing her. Somehow it was easier to pretend that only Titus had heard the song if she didn’t see the other faces just yet.
But she had cast something of a spell, a spell that was fragile and haunting and beautiful all at the same time. Solomon felt that spell the most, surprisingly. He followed the subdued young woman from the crypt.
“My lady,” Solomon said, awe in his voice. “The song you sang… it was beautiful. I have not heard it before.”
Isobeau forced a smile at the man. “That is because I wrote it for Titus,” she said. “It was meant only for him.”
Solomon seemed to approve; his entire mood seemed to change. “You have given me comfort.”
Isobeau touched him reassuringly on the arm. “I am glad, my lord,” she said. “I… I hope we all have great comfort now.”
