Summerlin shook his head, itching at the stitches on his scalp. “The de Wolfes are already rich,” he muttered. “They do not need or want our paltry few coins.”
“But you can at least try!”
Ferris intervened again, putting himself between Archer-Phipps and Summerlin. “I will discuss it with Shaun,” he said. “You and Edmund go and prepare the men. We will depart before dawn for Wolfe’s Lair. Go, now; make sure everything is ready.”
It was a distraction tactic and they all knew it, especially Archer-Phipps. He eyed Summerlin, Ferris, and Summerlin again, his expression suggesting he didn’t believe they were really going to discuss du Reims’ release, before quitting the tent after Edmund. The truth was that he didn’t have to say a word because the mood of his movements, his countenance, said more than he ever could. He didn’t believe them. They were liars. Alrik du Reims was as good as dead. When he was gone, Ferris turned to Summerlin.
“There was truly nothing to be done, Shaun?” he asked. “De Mowbray will not be pleased to have lost du Reims. His father is the Earl of East Anglia and a longtime ally of Norfolk. Moreover, he is a good man. He is the best man among us if you ask me. Are you sure there was nothing to be done?”
Summerlin shook his head, rising from the stool he had been sitting on. He was weary, beaten, and truth be told, embarrassed about what had happened. A single man with a sword had gotten the better of him and another knight, a man he considered quite skilled. He grunted, unhappy and defeated.
“I have never seen a man move so fast,” he muttered. “One second we were speaking and in the next, du Reims was down and so was I. I have never personally fought against Atticus de Wolfe but it is clear to me why he has earned the reputation he has. I am ashamed to say that he bested me quickly. Thathas never happened before. As for du Reims, there was nothing more I could do. You know I would have exhausted all options if there had been any.”
Ferris pondered the situation seriously, drawing in a long and thoughtful breath. “I know de Wolfe by reputation only as well,” he said. “I have heard that he is ruthless and skilled, but never that he is barbaric and cruel. Mayhap there is a chance for du Reims. Mayhap we can appeal to de Wolfe’s honor not to kill the man.”
Summerlin snorted. “Talk of honor is what caused de Wolfe to strike,” he said, shaking his head reluctantly. “I do not believe I want to take that tactic again.”
“But we must dosomething.”
Summerlin nodded, mulling over the mystery and man that was Atticus de Wolfe. “We will,” he said. “Meanwhile, make sure the men are prepared. We depart for Wolfe’s Lair before dawn.”
Ferris quit the tent without another word, leaving Summerlin to ponder the course his mission had taken in silence. He was fearful to return to Norfolk to tell the man he was down one very good knight and without his objective of Atticus de Wolfe or Wolfe’s Lair. He knew Norfolk would not accept failure easily. He more than likely would never trust Summerlin again with anything of importance. Either way, Summerlin’s career as a knight might be over, at least in England.
He’d always hated France but he supposed he’d better change his mind. French lords were always looking for skilled English knights, even disgraced ones.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ionian scale in C– Lyrics to Hope
Hope dims but it does not die,
Hope remains when all else is gone.
Hope is fragile but it cannot be broken.
Hope is all I have now that I am alone.
—Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.
Wolfe’s Lair
It was dawnas Atticus stood at the lancet window overlooking the western expanse of the moor that surrounded his family’s ancient fortress. The past day or two had seen temperatures warm significantly and the ice that formed on the ground overnight was quickly gone by mid-morning. In fact, temperatures had warmed quite rapidly, suggesting that spring was, in fact, on its way. It would have been wonderful traveling weather if, in fact, he had been able to travel. But those plans were temporarily on hold.
He turned to look at Isobeau, sleeping soundly in his mother’s bed.The remains of the child are poisoning her, the physic had said. That was the cause of the fever. Evidently, when Isobeau had bled out her dead baby not everything had been evacuated, and the physic was forced to take steps that would help heal Isobeau’s womb. He put some kind of a potion into her, rinsing her out, and made her ingest something else thatwould allegedly help her heal.Colt’s Foot,he’d said. It all seemed mysterious and magic.
That had taken place yesterday. Even though Isobeau had remained brave through the entire process, it had been exhausting and painful and traumatic. After the procedures, she had fallen into a dead sleep and had remained that way for nearly twelve hours; Atticus knew because he’d never left her side, as he’d promised. The truth was that he didn’twantto leave her. This woman he’d married, the one he was becoming so wildly attracted to, was quickly consuming his focus as if nothing else existed. He had a mission to complete, justice for his brother, but at that moment, those plans were on hold. He never thought he’d see the day when a woman would cause him to put aside a strong sense of duty. Perhaps a strong sense of affection, or more, was even more powerful than that. The truth was that he wasn’t all that upset about it.
Turning away from the window and the breaking dawn, he made his way over to the bed, standing over it to gaze upon the woman he married. There was some color back in her face and she didn’t look nearly as sick as she had. He was grateful. That foolish physic his father employed was skilled even if he was difficult to deal with.
Thoughts of his father then came upon him and he pondered his father’s general mood and health over the past day or two. Solomon was still heavily grieving Titus and had taken to his bed for most of the day and night. He had been oddly quiet, too, which was strange for the usually very vocal man. Atticus was thinking on looking in on his father when there was a soft knock on the door. Quietly, Atticus went to answer it.
Kenton was standing in the corridor, his stubbled face grim. “Trouble, Atticus.”
Atticus’ eyebrows lifted. “What trouble?” he asked almost reluctantly. “The last time you were here with news, Norfolk’s knights were on our doorstep. What now?”
Kenton gave him an expression that was droll and intense at the same time. It was an odd mixture. “Call me the bearer of bad tidings, then,” he said. “You told Summerlin not to return, did you not?”
Atticus’ brow furrowed. “He’s back?”
