De la Londe had no idea how far they actually staggered until de Royans and de Llion stopped shoving. At that point, de la Londe was able to see a little bit but he kept his eyes shaded. He saw dirt and he could see the legs of men standing around him. Off to his left was the gatehouse; he recognized the old iron portcullis. There were more soldiers standing over there, lookingat him. Still blinking rapidly, he tried to lift his eyes to see more of what was surrounding him.
The first face he saw was that of Atticus de Wolfe.
Suddenly, de la Londe wasn’t so blind. He found himself gazing at Atticus with astonishment, his mouth gaping as he beheld the stubble-bearded vision of a knight he knew very well. But in that split second of recognition, he knew why Atticus was here; at least, he thought he did. He knew that Andrew Wellesbourne had sent word to Alnwick to try and straighten out the lies that he had been told, so the truth was that de la Londe wasn’t surprised to see Atticus.
In fact, he was prepared. Armed with the fabricated story he’d had a great deal of time to concoct in the black depths of Wellesbourne’s vault, de la Londe reached out an arm in Atticus’ direction.
“Atticus,” he breathed. “Thank God you have come. You can help straighten out the misunderstanding with Wellesbourne.”
Atticus gazed steadily at the two men who murdered his brother. It was a defining moment for him, one wrought with emotion, and he was rather proud that he hadn’t charged them and cut both of their heads off. That was his first instinct when he had seen them emerging from the vault, crippled by the bright sunlight in their faces. He had wanted nothing more than to rush them and cut them to shreds. But he didn’t; his composure held, although it was fragile. But the sound of de la Londe’s voice threatened to shatter it.
“There is no misunderstanding,” Atticus said steadily. “In fact, everything is perfectly clear. You know exactly why I am here.”
De la Londe rubbed at his eyes, struggling to focus on Atticus with his still-weak eyes. “You have come to vouch for me, of course,” he said. “I am a Northumberland knight, a man youhave fought with for many years. And where is Titus? Is he here?”
Atticus’ expression was darkening even though he was struggling desperately to remain calm. Still, something inside him, that terrible need to right a wrong, to make men suffer in payment for all of the suffering Titus had endured, begged to be released.So much hate.
Atticus felt so much hate that it began to control him. He couldn’t stop it. Now, the time for vengeance was upon him and it was hate, and oddly enough love for his brother, that would see this through. Both of them seemed to be intertwined within him, feeding his soul. Slowly, he made his way towards the two men standing together near the gatehouse.
“I want you both to look at something,” he said, holding up a heavy and well-made broadsword. “Do you recognize this?”
De la Londe blinked as he looked at the weapon. “A broadsword, of course,” he said. “Why do you ask? Atticus, what is happening here? Why are Declan and I standing here like animals? Take us inside and feed us. We have been treated terribly since our arrival.”
That was enough to snap Atticus, at least slightly. A massive fist lashed out and struck de la Londe in the jaw, sending the man reeling. When de Troiu, shocked by the sudden violence, threw up his hands to protect his head, Atticus lashed out a big boot and caught the man in the belly. De Troiu collapsed in the dirt.
Atticus stood over the writhing pair, resisting the urge to kick and punch them until there was nothing but bloody bits left. As de la Londe wallowed on the ground, Atticus put the tip of the broadsword under the man’s chin, forcing his head up. Their eyes met and nothing short of hell could be seen in Atticus’ tumultuous orbs.
There was death there.
“The more you speak your foolish lies, the more painful your death will be,” Atticus snarled. “Whatever fabrications you have decided to tell me, be aware that I know the truth. This broadsword at your throat is my brother’s, the one he used to defend himself with when you and de Troiu murdered him. It will now be the instrument used to send you to your death.Thatis why I am here, Simon. I have come foryou.”
Simon seemed to lose some of his confidence. He squinted up at Atticus, rubbing his jaw and struggling not to let his fear show.He knows!He thought in a panic.That is impossible! How could the man know when they made sure to kill Titus? Dead men do not speak!
“Who told you such lies?” he demanded weakly. “Titus is dead, you say?”
Atticus, infuriated, lashed out another foot and caught de la Londe in the face. When de Troiu attempted to crawl away, out of the line of fire, Atticus grabbed him by the hair and threw him to the ground.
“Both of you will listen to me and listen well,” he growled, watching the blood pour from de la Londe’s nose. “When you kill a man, it is imperative you finish the deed so that he cannot tell others what happened. Fortunately, your inept skills against my brother allowed him to live for a short while and tell us what you had done before he mercifully passed on. I know that it was you two who approached my brother and demanded his oath to Edward. I know that when he refused, you gored him. I am here today because I swore to Titus I would avenge his death and that is exactly what I intend to do. Is this in any way unclear?”
De la Londe was looking up at Atticus with baleful eyes. His expression, pleading and innocent moments earlier, had now turned dark and murky. He bared his teeth, menacingly, giving one last attempt to deny his crimes and save his life. As he sawit, he had nothing to lose. He knew his life was now measured in minutes and he had to make every attempt to extend it.
“He lied,” de la Londe hissed. “Titus lied!”
Atticus snapped. He threw Titus’ broadsword aside and pounced on de la Londe, using his fists to beat the man within an inch of his life. De la Londe fought back although he was mostly trying to defend himself as Atticus mercilessly pounded the man in the face and around his head and shoulders. Every blow had Titus’ name on it, every drop of blood vindication for his death. When de Troiu, close enough so that he was on the receiving end of a couple of brutal punches, attempted to crawl away, Atticus grabbed the man by the hair again and beat him in the neck and on the side of the head hard enough to daze him. As de Troiu hovered above unconsciousness, Atticus pushed himself off of de la Londe and went to retrieve Titus’ sword.
“Give them weapons,” Atticus snapped to Kenton and Adam, who were holding two broadswords. “Give them the weapons, I say! Let us be done with this now!”
Atticus was agitated, feeding off of battle and off of his sense of vengeance. Kenton, ever cool, took the broadsword from Adam and, with two in his hands, approached de la Londe and de Troiu. He kicked de Troiu to try and rouse the man.
“Get up,” he rumbled. “If you want to at least have a fighting chance, then you had better get up and defend yourselves. Otherwise, Atticus will make short work of you.”
The tension in the air was unbelievable, a splitting mood of anguish and hatred and grief, and all of it radiating from Atticus. They all felt it, most especially Isobeau; standing on the top step of the keep and well away from the fighting, as she had promised Atticus, she nonetheless had a full view of what was going on. There were tears in her eyes as she watched, tears for Atticus and tears for the grief and agony for Titus that were surfacing once again. The pain was returning, fresh as if it had never left.
But this was what Atticus had been waiting for since the day of Titus’ death, the opportunity to avenge the man he loved so dearly. As brutal as it was, it was also healing. Isobeau knew that. The pain, fresh again, would be eased. Today, the healing would truly begin for Atticus and as difficult as it was to watch, it was also therapeutic.
For both of them.
They both needed the closure.
