Vengeance was coming.
The Lion of the North was coming.
*
Isobeau was sittingat the table in her chamber, her small harp in hand, doing something she’d not done in ages; she was writing music again. Now that all was well between her and Atticus, and Wolfe’s Lair was at peace again, her heart was overflowing withsongs for her new husband and she’d even awoken that morning with one on her lips. She must have been singing it in her sleep because when she opened her eyes, Atticus was propped up on an elbow, smiling down at her. It had been the most wonderful thing in the world to wake up next to him. Although it was certainly no slight against Titus, she’d never known such jubilation as she did when gazing into Atticus’ handsome face. There was something magical about it.
She and Atticus had broken their fast together before dawn before he went out and about his duties, leaving Isobeau to dress leisurely. She’d had the oily-faced serving wench bring her warmed water and she proceeded to use her precious bar of white soap that smelled of lemon, washing herself as thoroughly as she could, before dressing in a linen gown the color of lilac.
The garment was long-sleeved, snug in the bodice, giving her a delicious silhouette. Braiding her long, blond hair and draping the braid over one shoulder, she had proceeded to remove her small harp from one of her larger capcases, pulled forth the box that contained the precious parchment that Titus had bought her, and the song writing for the day began. Once again, she was happy. It seemed as if she couldn’t remember the last time she was actually happy.
So she composed whilst Atticus was away conducting business. She must have been making some noise at it because she was almost finished with the song she’d been composing in her sleep when there was a soft rap on the chamber door. She bade the caller to enter and when the door swung open, Solomon was standing in the doorway. He smiled timidly as she smiled brightly.
“Sir Solomon,” she said. “Please come in. ’Tis good to see that you are well this morning.”
Solomon entered the chamber hesitantly, lingering near the door even when he came in. The last woman he’d seen in thischamber had been his wife and it was difficult not to relive those memories. Therefore, he remained near the door, refusing to delve deeper into the reflections of Rosalie de Wolfe. At least, for the moment.
“I heard your music, my lady,” he said after a moment “I have not heard music within these walls since… well, it has been a very long time. You play beautifully.”
Isobeau was flattered. “I have always composed music,” she said. “Since I was very young it has been my favored diversion. Do you sing, Sir Solomon?”
He snorted. “Not in a way that anyone likes to hear,” he said. “But you sing beautifully. I have heard you.”
Isobeau smiled, placing her fingers on the strings. “Would you like to hear my newest song?”
Solomon nodded. “I would,” he said. “It has been many years since there has been joy at Wolfe’s Lair. I… I would like to feel joy again.”
Isobeau strummed the strings softly, creating a gentle halo of music that rose up to fill the very room. “Did your wife play music, Sir Solomon?”
Solomon’s gaze turned distant as he thought of the fair Rosalie. Now, he could no longer avoid her memories but he found that in discussing her, there wasn’t the pain there used to be. Odd how that was. He felt warmth more than anything.
“She did, in fact,” he said. “My wife had a clavichord that she would play quite often. I had one brought to her all the way from Italy and she loved it. Those were wonderful days when her music would ring throughout the fortress.”
Isobeau’s smile grew as she continued to strum her harp. “Do you still have the instrument?”
Solomon nodded. “It is in my chamber.”
“Will you show it to me?”
Solomon almost seemed embarrassed to do so but he motioned for Isobeau to follow him and, together, they made their way into his smelly, cluttered chamber. Isobeau paused by the door, remembering this chamber from her first few days at Wolfe’s Lair. It did not bring good memories for her. So she remained by the door as Solomon went over to a darkened corner near his wardrobe and pulled a drape of some kind off of a square object. Beneath it was revealed a small clavichord.
Even from her position by the door, Isobeau could see that the instrument was beautifully painted, dingy with age, but the lure of the clavichord brought Isobeau into the room and she went to it, admiring the beautiful craftsmanship of the piece. It wasn’t very large, perhaps only two feet across, and there was a lovely seascape scene painted on the cover.
When she lifted the cover, however, the true beauty of the piece was revealed; inside the cover, an intricate scene was painted that seemed to depict ships at sea and sirens calling to them from shore. The keyboard was ebony and ivory, beautifully made, and Isobeau was in awe. Instinctively, she put her hands on the keys, as she had taken music lessons as a child and was quite proficient at several musical instruments, and she brought forth the first chords the clavichord had played in decades.
The clavichord was out of tune but not too terribly. Isobeau tightened a couple of the nuts that held taut the catgut strings and she played the chord again. It sounded much better. With a smile at Solomon, she began to play a song.
An old hymn filled the stale air of Solomon’s chamber, music and beauty such as it hadn’t heard in years. Solomon was torn between Isobeau playing Rosalie’s clavichord, for only Rosalie had ever played it, and the beauty of bringing the instrument back to life again. The joy of his wife’s instrument once again playing music won out and he stood there, eyes moist, as Isobeau touched Rosalie’s beloved keys and sangVeni SanctusSpiritus,a very old church hymn. After the hell of the past several days, of Titus’ death and the siege of Wolfe’s Lair, to hear that unexpected beauty brought the old man to tears as if reminding him that there was still some goodness and glory left in the world.
But the hymn eventually ended and Isobeau, ever the musician, moved to tighten two more strings that she felt were slightly out of tune. As she was tightening up the last one, with Solomon hovering over her and very curious as to what she was doing, they heard a voice in the doorway.
“I thought I heard music,” Atticus said, noting the clavichord that his wife was bent over. “I had no idea you still had Mother’s instrument. I’ve not heard that thing played in years.”
Isobeau smiled at the sight of her husband, feeling her heart race simply at the sound of his voice. “Your father was kind enough to let me play it,” she said. “It is a beautiful instrument.”
Atticus stepped into the room, eyes only for Isobeau. The mere sight of her lightened his heart in ways he could not begin to describe. “And you play it beautifully,” he told her. “I could hear you all the way outside.”
Solomon ran his hands over the old clavichord. “Your mother adored this instrument,” he said. “Do you remember, Atticus? Do you remember that she would play it for you?”
