“The right leg is not as bad as the left,” he told him. “The right one was only partially severed but the left one has been badly cut. The physic is attempting to straighten out the tendon by stitching it together with catgut. He is not entirely sure I will ever be able to walk properly.”
Atticus felt absolutely no guilt even though he had been the one to inflict life-changing injuries upon the man. His gaze lingered on the physic as he man wrapped up the leg before his attention drifted to the room, the roof, the chamber in general.
“Since you cannot run off, I will have you moved to a more private and comfortable chamber,” he said. Then, his focus returned to du Reims. “You understand that you are my hostage, insurance against anything Norfolk may attempt.”
Du Reims nodded his head, resigned. “I understand,” he said. “But I can tell you that my presence at Wolfe’s Lair will not hold off Norfolk. We have our specific orders to gain your fealty or lay siege if you refuse. Summerlin will see these orders through.”
“Then you will die.”
“That is always a risk in this vocation.”
Atticus had to admit that he was mildly impressed with du Reims’ logical assessment of his situation. There was no fear there, no pleading, only acceptance. That respect opened the door for a measure of guilt at what he’d done to the man, or rather what he’d had to do to the man, but Atticus fought it off. There was no room for guilt in his profession.
Without responding or reacting, he turned away from du Reims and quit the hall, heading for Isobeau’s chamber to see if she was ready to travel as she said she would be. Thoughts of du Reims were pushed aside as he crossed the cold bailey, now illuminated with the soft strains of morning, as his mind began to turn towards thoughts of Isobeau.
It seemed as if his mind was always very quick to think of Isobeau, no matter what situation he was in. As he mounted the steps to the upper floor, he couldn’t help but think of his reaction to her when he touched her earlier. Her hand in his had been exhilarating beyond words, flames of passion and lust licking at him like he’d never experienced. Even to think on it now made his heart race and he was eager to see her again, to perhaps touch her hand again, or even more. Was it wrong that he wanted to kiss her, to taste this woman he had married? He was nearly to the top of the steps on the third level, wrapped up in thoughts of Isobeau, when Warenne suddenly appeared.
“Good Christ,” Atticus hissed, putting his hand over his heart as he fell back against the door jamb. “You startled me.”
Warenne smiled weakly. “That is not a statement you make often.”
Atticus shook his head. “Not at all,” he said. Gazing into Warenne’s drawn expression, he sobered. “I am sorry for what I had to do to Summerlin earlier, Ren. I know that he is your wife’s brother but the man all but threatened Wolfe’s Lair and I had to assert my dominance. I hope you understand that.”
Warenne waved him off. “Of course I understand,” he said. “But Shaun’s appearance meant much more to me than it did to you.”
Atticus nodded, seeing the distress in Warenne’s eyes. “I realize that,” he said. “What did he say to you, Ren? Is there anything I can do?”
Warenne shook his head. “You know that I am related to Norfolk, of course,” he muttered, raking his fingers through his dark hair. “He is a distant cousin on my father’s side. My wife’s family, the House of Summerlin, is sworn to him now. That was not the case only a year ago, but according to Shaun, it is the case now. He told me that my wife has left Thetford and returned to the home of her father to live under his roof.”
Concerned, Atticus put his hand on Warenne’s shoulder. “I am sorry to hear that, my friend,” he said sincerely. “What will you do?”
Warenne lifted his eyebrows in resignation. “I must return home immediately,” he said. “I… I have been thinking, Atticus. Mayhap I have not been a good husband, after all. I have spent my time fighting wars for Henry when mayhap the real war I should have been fighting is the one at home. I should have fought to keep my wife. If what Shaun said is true, and I have no reason to doubt him, then Madeleine is back with her father who is now a supporter of Edward. I am not entirely sure how to get her back.”
Atticus’ brow furrowed. “She is your wife,” he said firmly. “She must come back to you. It is her duty.”
Warenne smiled weakly. “You do not understand women, do you?” he asked. “Do you think it will make her happy to return to a husband who is at odds with her family? She will be miserable returning to me, knowing that I will be going to battle against her brother and father. I do not want my wife miserable, Atticus.”
Atticus could see where the conversation was heading. He had a horrifying suspicion of exactly what Warenne was driving at. “Then what?” he asked, torn between disgust and sorrow. “Do you swear fealty to Edward?”
Warenne sighed heavily. “It may be my only choice.”
Atticus dropped his hand from the man’s shoulder. “So you compromise your beliefs to make your wife happy?”
Warenne gave him a pointed look. “You have a wife now,” he said. “Ask yourself that same question when you become fond of the woman. Judge me not, my friend, for you will find the same answer that I have.”
Atticus didn’t contest him, mostly because what Warenne said gave him pause.Ask yourself that same question when you become fond of the woman.God help him, he was already fond of her. But would he change loyalties in order to please her? Of that, he was not so certain. Confused, he turned away from Warenne but he didn’t leave. He simply lingered a few feet away, pondering the situation Warenne found himself in. The truth was that he understood it, or at least he was coming to, and that scared him.
“I do not judge you,” he finally said. “You told me once that I should come to know what Titus liked so well about Isobeau. In order to fulfill my promise to my brother and in order to make the marriage work, you told me that was what I had to do.”
Warenne was looking at him in the dim light of the entryway. “And you told me that you found it.”
Atticus nodded faintly, drawing in a deep and pensive breath. “Aye,” he muttered. “I found it. I am fond of her. In fact, I believe it is more than that but I cannot be certain. She is a duty, a promise to my brother, and nothing more… isn’t she?”
Warenne went to him, now the one to put his hand on Atticus’ shoulder. “If you are asking that question, then I suspect you are feeling much more for her than you will admit.”
Atticus let out a deep, pent-up sigh, as if all of his control suddenly left him. He slouched against the doorway. “It is not right,” he hissed. “Ren, this is the woman my brother loved. I feel as if I am debasing his memory if I allow myself to entertain thoughts about the woman that are more than simple duty. I am attracted to her and hating myself for it.”
Warenne squeezed his shoulder. “You should not,” he said quietly. “Look at it this way, Atticus; Titus is dead. He is never coming back. You must make a life with Isobeau, as your wife, and not as your dead brother’s widow. She is your wife now and she belongs to you. You are not debasing Titus’ memory by feeling attraction or even love for the woman. Don’t you think that is what he would want? Don’t you believe he would be very happy if he knew the two of you loved one another and were happy together? Why should you feel guilt for that?”
