She had to save him.
Following the knights as they followed Atticus and de la Londe around the corner of the keep and towards a walled-in garden, it looked to her as if de la Londe had the advantage.Atticus, with his bleeding head, seemed to be backing off a bit and taking a beating because of it. She couldn’t watch de la Londe beat him into the ground and with that thought, the thought of Atticus’ imminent death, everything else in her mind became a blur.
She had to save him!
De la Londe had his back to her now as he slashed down upon Atticus, driving him off-balance. Isobeau looked around for a weapon of some kind, anything to injure the man with and give Atticus the advantage, but there wasn’t anything strong enough or sharp enough in her line of sight to complete the job. Her desperate gaze darted about until she came across a dagger shoved into a sheath on a belt that draped around Kenton’s hips.
A dagger!
Now, she knew what she had to do. Rushing at Kenton, Isobeau snatched the dagger before the man even realized she had it. De la Londe’s back was still to her as she burst through the crowd of knights watching the battle and threw herself at de la Londe’s backside. Lifting the dagger, she plunged it squarely into the back of the man’s neck. As de la Londe screamed and went down, she withdrew the dagger and stabbed him twice more, feeling him collapse beneath her and experiencing a very odd satisfaction as he folded. Words, words she couldn’t even control, came hurling out at the dying man beneath her.
“For Titus, I hope you feel all of the anguish that he felt at your hand,” she hissed into his ear. “For the grief and agony you caused me, let my voice be the last one you hear in this world and know that I hope you spend eternity in hell as Satan’s handmaiden. And for Atticus, know that he will feel the ultimate satisfaction in your death. But hear me now; as you lay dying, know that it wasn’t a knight who killed you.It was a woman.”
It was the ultimate insult to the felled man. She may have whispered more to him after that but she could not be sure.Someone was lifting her up and carrying her away, and the last she saw of Simon de la Londe was when a circle of knights surrounded him, watching him die in agony. It was the last memory Isobeau had of that event, of the moment when all that was controlled and fearful within her snapped enough so that she killed the man who was hurting Atticus. De la Londe’s death, her own sense of vengeance against the man, was the last thing she remembered.
When her senses finally returned, the first face she saw was Atticus’.
He kissed her. And then he wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ionian scale in C– The Ending
And now the tale has ended,
And now the love has come.
The Lion and his lady,
Now, at last, are one.
—Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.
The night wassoothing and surprisingly balmy. Night birds were calling to each other over the treetops and the moon, high and bright in the sky, cast silver light over the landscape. There was a sense of tranquility and peace, something Atticus hadn’t felt in months. Years, even. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d known such utter stillness and calm, as if nothing was amiss in the world.
It was a feeling he knew he could grow accustomed to.
“Atticus?”
A soft voice pulled him away from the lancet window and his view of the countryside. He turned to see Isobeau gazing up at him from her position in the big, comfortable bed. He smiled as he went to her, sitting on the bed beside her.
“How do you feel?” he asked quietly. “You slept a long time.”
Isobeau smiled faintly. “Sleepy,” she said. “How long was I asleep?”
Atticus stroked her blond head. “All day,” he told her. “Do you remember that I brought you up here after the events in the bailey?”
Isobeau nodded, the smile fading from her lips as she recalled the dagger and the death that she had inflicted.She had killed a man.It was the first thing that came to mind but, strangely enough, she wasn’t sorry in the least. She did what she’d had to do. She hoped Atticus would see it that way.
“I do,” she murmured. “Are you angry with me for what I did? I… I want to say something before you berate me. I want to say that I understand now why you killed du Reims as you did. Atticus, I saw you in the bailey with blood on you and it seemed to me that de la Londe might actually best you. I could not stand by and watch that. I had to protect you. Can you understand that? I realize this was an honorable fight and I ruined it, but I do not regret it. You are alive and that is all that matters to me. Now, if you must still berate me, go ahead.”
Atticus listened to her somewhat rambling speech. He could see she was upset, nervous even, and it softened his heart. He stroked her head again. “No one has ever cared for me as much as you do,” he told her. “In answer to your question, I am not angry. Vengeance was your right as much as it was mine.”
Isobeau, vastly relieved that he was not upset with her, shook her head. “I suppose there was some vengeance to it,” she admitted. “When I drove the dagger into him, I imagined that it was Titus doing it. Perhaps I was an instrument for Titus’ spirit in a sense. But more than that, I was protectingyou. It had less to do with Titus and much more to do with you.”
Atticus leaned down, kissing her on the forehead. He was deeply touched. “You are a strong and remarkable woman, Lady de Wolfe,” he said. “I am honored to be your husband. I am honored that you would care so much for me that you would kill for me.”
Isobeau reached up and put her hands on his face, her fingers in his dark hair. There was so much emotion swirling in her heart that it was difficult to grasp a single coherent thought. All she knew was what she felt for him… that she loved him. Aye, that was all she knew.
