Atticus nodded. “I do,” he said. “When I was very young. Odd how I’d forgotten that until this moment. Those were some of my better childhood memories.”
Solomon was still inspecting the clavichord as if reacquainting himself with it. “Mayhap your wife would like to have it, Atticus,” he said. “I would be pleased knowing that she would play it and love it as much as your mother did. As it is, it is simply sitting here rotting.”
Atticus looked at Isobeau’s jubilant face; he could see how thrilled she was at the offer. “That is very kind, Papa,” he said.“Mayhap when we have settled somewhere, we will have a place for it.”
Solomon turned to look at him, concern and curiosity on his face. “You will not live here?” he asked. “I thought you would return to Wolfe’s Lair, Atticus. I will not live forever. When I pass, you must take your rightful place here. With Titus gone, there is only you to carry on Wolfe’s Lair.”
Isobeau looked at Atticus, who seemed genuinely torn. “You will not pass for a very long time,” he told his father. “And we have all the time in the world to speak of this when I return from Wellesbourne Castle.”
Solomon was puzzled. “Why must you go to Wellesbourne Castle?”
Gazing at his father, it occurred to Atticus that he never told Solomon how Titus had died. He hadn’t consciously withheld the information but with all that had happened, and the grief his father had been going through, there simply hadn’t been the opportunity to give the man the details.
Perhaps there was a part of him that didn’t want to upset his father more than he already was about Titus; the man was dead. How he died was another matter altogether. When Atticus had brought Titus home, he’d merely told his father that they’d lost Titus at Towton. He never said how. Now, he had to tell him how his beloved oldest son met his doom.
It was only fair to Solomon that he know everything.
“Papa, there is something I’ve not told you in all of this,” he said, trying to be gentle about it. “When I brought Titus home, I told you that he had been killed at Towton and that was the truth. But I did not tell you how his death came about. I suppose I simply did not want to burden you with it, not whilst you were grieving so terribly. But I find that I must tell you now. It is the reason why I must go to Wellesbourne Castle.”
Solomon looked at his son warily, wanting to know yet not wanting to know. Did it matter? To Solomon, it did. He wanted to know his son’s final moments.
“Tell me how he died, Atticus,” he said quietly.
Atticus nodded, lifting his eyebrows with some resignation and sadness of what he was about to say. “Two Northumberland knights betrayed and murdered Titus,” he said. “These men had secretly sworn allegiance to Norfolk and when they approached Titus and proposed swearing fealty to Edward, Titus refused and they killed him for his refusal. Now those two knights are at Wellesbourne Castle, in the vault, and I must go there and punish them on behalf of my brother. I swore to Titus that I would avenge him and that is exactly what I intend to do. I will kill those who killed my brother.”
By the time he was finished, Solomon was looking at Atticus with big, horrified eyes. He didn’t say anything right away, unusual for the usually vocal man, as he simply sat and digested what he’d been told. His shock, his sorrow, was obvious.
“Murdered,” he finally muttered. “Murdered by men he trusted.”
“Aye.”
Solomon’s features washed with incredible pain but he fought it; it was pain he’d already suffered through but now with the knowledge of how Titus had died, the pain threatened anew. The angst, so recently eased, was back with a vengeance.
“Great Bloody Jesus,” he hissed after a moment. “I wish I could go with you. Damn these rotten joints that I cannot even exact justice for my own son!”
He pounded on his big leg as Atticus and Isobeau watched with concern, afraid that the latest information would send the man spiraling downward again. Solomon pounded, and he even groaned, but his head came back up and he looked to Atticuswith eyes alight with revenge. Atticus had never seen such hatred in the man’s eyes, ever. It was a shocking moment.
“Punish them, Atticus,” Solomon hissed. “For me, for Titus, you will punish them and ensure every pain they feel, every agony they experience, has Titus’ name on it. They killed my son and they must be made to suffer.”
Atticus could see how agitated his father was and he put his hands out, clutching the man’s big shoulders in a reassuring manner. “You know I will,” he said softly, seriously. “I will make them pay with every last breath they possess. They will not get off easily, I swear it. Do you believe me?”
Solomon was nodding his head furiously, his bushy hair waving about. There were tears in his eyes, now trickling onto his face. “I do,” he gasped. “You are The Lion of the North. That reputation was given to you at a young age but never has it meant as much as it does now. You were given that title for this one moment, Atticus– to avenge your brother against those who betrayed him. Let The Lion roar, boy.Let him roar!”
Atticus held on to his father, comforting the man, so very sorry that he was deeply upset all over again. Perhaps he should have told his father the circumstances surrounding Titus’ death earlier, but it did not matter now. Solomon knew that his beloved son had been betrayed and his pain was again fresh. As Atticus put his arm around his father’s shoulders, soothingly, he looked over to see how Isobeau was reacting to everything. He worried for her, too.
But Isobeau seemed remarkably composed. She was still standing near the clavichord and when she saw that Atticus was looking at her, she smiled faintly. It was a reassuring gesture, one of faith and trust, and a gesture not lost on Atticus. It fortified him. Quietly, she made her way over to him.
“Is it true?” she asked softly. “De la Londe and de Troiu are truly at Wellesbourne Castle?”
Atticus nodded, reaching out a hand to her. She took it immediately and he held her hand fast, caressing her flesh with his big fingers. “Aye,” he said. “It is a miraculous series of events that have brought us to this place in time and I will tell you the entire story on our journey to Warwickshire, but for now, if you still intend to go with me, you must pack quickly and you must pack lightly. We leave within the hour.”
Isobeau nodded and fled the chamber, heading back to her room and to her possessions there. She wanted very much to go with Atticus, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that she simply didn’t want to be separated from him. She wanted to be with him every moment and she wanted to share this experience with him. It was a vital part of their bonding, of their marriage in general. With de la Londe and de Troiu gone, there would be closure on Titus and a new beginning for them. They both needed that closure, that justice, and that satisfaction.
Atticus could hear Isobeau in her chamber next door, evidently destroying the place as she went to pack for her journey. Things were banging about and something fell. Solomon, distracted from his grief by the banging, looked up as if concerned for the woman but Atticus merely grinned.
“I hope she does not hurt herself in her attempt to pack,” he jested, attempting to lighten the mood for his father somewhat. “It sounds as if she is tearing down the very walls.”
In spite of himself, Solomon smiled weakly. “Women are flighty that way,” he said, putting a meaty hand on his son’s broad shoulder. He seemed more composed than he had been moments earlier. “Are you sure these men are at Wellesbourne, Atticus? Are you positive?”
