Chapter Six #2
Warenne smiled and pulled the empty chair towards him, sitting. “It has been an honor,” he said. “Besides, if my wife was traveling away from me with some strange earl for company, I should hope he would be just as polite.”
Isobeau’s smile warmed. “You are married, then?”
He nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “We have been married three years. My wife bore twin girls two years ago and is currently pregnant with our third child. I am praying it is a boy because two little girls have been a chaotic and rather noisy experience.”
Isobeau laughed softly. “And you think a boy will not be?”
He shrugged. “I am willing to hope. It will be a boy, after all.”
Isobeau shook her head at his optimism, grinning. “Then I wish you luck,” she said. “And your wife? What does she think? Does she hope for a son, also?”
Warenne nodded. “My hopes are her hopes,” he said rather imperiously, laughing when he saw the look on her face. He sobered. “I jest. Whatever my wife wishes is my wish also. She wishes for a healthy son; therefore, I do as well.”
Isobeau wished for the same thing, knowing that Titus’ wish would have been her own.
At that moment, she wished more than anything that she was sitting with Titus, reveling in the joy of their impending child.
It occurred to her that she never had the chance to tell him, fainting as she did the moment she saw his sunken, green face.
It had been so ridiculous of her to do that.
Sadness swept her and tears stung her eyes, thinking that instead of rejoicing over a baby, Titus was lying cold and dead in a hard, oak box.
It just wasn’t fair. Distracted with thoughts of her husband, she forced herself to answer the earl.
“I am sure a healthy son will be born to the House of de Winter,” she said, trying not to sound too sad or disinterested. “You must return home soon so you do not miss the birth.”
Warenne nodded, thinking on his wife, the lovely Madeleine Summerlin de Winter, when they both caught sight of Atticus as the man suddenly appeared at the far end of the room.
He emerged from the kitchen into the smoke-filled chamber followed closely by two serving wenches bearing trays of food and drink.
Warenne rose to his feet as Atticus approached.
“Ah,” he said with approval as he noted all of the food. “A feast fit for a very hungry lady.”
Atticus immediately noticed that the table Isobeau was sitting at was far too small for four people, as there would soon be when Kenton returned.
Since there was only a lone man sitting at a much bigger table nearby, Atticus swapped out tables with the man and presented a larger and more appropriate table for their party.
When the tables were finally situated and the food was set out, Warenne begged a momentary leave.
“I will return shortly,” he told Atticus. “I must see to my horse and Lady de Wolfe’s horse. They are outside in this icy weather and must be tended to.”
Atticus shook his head. “I will do it,” he said. “Sit and enjoy your meal.”
Warenne waved him off. “You have not spoken with Lady de Wolfe all day,” he insisted. “Sit and eat. I will tend to the animals and return as soon as I can.”
Before Atticus could further protest, Warenne was already across the room and out the door. With a heavy sigh, one at the man’s swift disappearance, Atticus sat in the chair the man had vacated.
“It is not appropriate that an earl should tend to his own horse much less tend to yours,” he said, eyeing Isobeau as he began to cut into a large loaf of cream-colored bread. “He should have let me do it.”
Isobeau was watching him as he cut the bread and placed a thick slice in front of her; she still wasn’t over thoughts of Titus and the son he didn’t know about. “He seems like a very kind man,” she said. “He has been great company today.”
Atticus moved on from the loaf of bread and began to cut hunks of meat from a boiled beef bone. “Thetford and I have been friends for many years,” he said. “We fostered together, years ago. He is a good man.”
“Did he foster with Titus, too?”
“Aye.”
Isobeau thought’s lingered on Atticus and Warenne and Titus, all of them fostering together, sharing adventures together.
Then she thought again of her husband lying cold and alone in a strange stable, without any companionship now whatsoever.
It was wrong that a man so loved was now so alone in death.
She gazed at the food he was putting on her trencher without much enthusiasm.
“Where did everyone go?” she asked. “The wagon and Titus and my things. Where did they go?”
Atticus pointed in the general direction of the street with his knife. “We saw a livery at the southern edge of town,” he replied. “Kenton has taken them there. He will have the men bring your trunks here, although I cannot see a need for all seven.”
There was disapproval in his tone. Uncomfortable and sad, and with an aching back, Isobeau was increasingly aware that she needed to relieve herself, as they’d not stopped since leaving Alnwick that morning.
More than that, she now knew where Titus was.
She had to go to him, to tell him of their child and to make sure he wasn’t alone.
It wasn’t fair that he didn’t know what everyone else did and it certainly wasn’t fair that he was alone.
Eyeing Atticus, Isobeau knew he wouldn’t let her go to him.
He would make excuses to keep her from him, or worse, he would tell her that it was not her right.
Therefore, she had to get away from Atticus if only for a precious few minutes.
As Atticus continued to dole out food, she stood up.
“Do you know where the privy is?” she asked.
Atticus stood up as well, knife still in hand. “I do not,” he said. “But I will find out.”
Isobeau waved him off; she was already moving away from the table. “I will ask one of the wenches.”
Atticus wasn’t so apt to let her go alone; he followed. “You will not travel by yourself, madam,” he told her. “I will escort you.”
Isobeau came to an irritated halt and faced him. “There are some things that women need to do in private,” she said. “This is one of those things. I am sure the privy is out back and there are plenty of people about, so nothing will happen. I will scream if I need you.”
Atticus wasn’t swayed by the clipped tone. “I will escort you.”
He took her by the arm but she pulled from his grasp and charged on ahead, asking directions to the privy from the first serving wench she came across.
The woman pointed to the rear yard where there were animals and other implements used to run a tavern.
Isobeau headed for the back door with Atticus on her heels but before she crossed into the cold, muddy yard beyond, she turned to him and held a hand out.
“Please,” she said quietly but firmly. “I will tend to this alone. I ask that you return to the table and eat your meal. I promise I will yell if I need you.”
Atticus was unhappy but he wasn’t accustomed to not granting a lady’s wishes.
He looked around the yard outside, only seeing animals milling about, and a shack with a trench dug beneath it that dumped out into a stream that ran behind the tavern.
He even went so far as to go out into the yard and throw open the door to the privy only to be greeted by a horrifically smelling hole in the ground with a hollowed-out stool poised over it.
Satisfied there were no dangers lurking about, he went back into the tavern.
“Go on,” he told her. “But if you are not back in two minutes, I will come looking for you.”
Isobeau didn’t reply. She slipped out into the dark, muddy yard and ran for the privy, slamming the door.
It didn’t take long for her to relieve herself, and use a nearby bucket of water to wash with, but when she was ready to leave, she barely opened the privy door to see if Atticus was still standing at the back door of the tavern.
She didn’t see him but she knew there was every possibility he was lurking about, waiting for her.
But she didn’t want to go back into the tavern, not at the moment.
She wanted to find Titus and tell him what she had not had the opportunity to tell him, what her fainting spell yesterday had prevented.
She wanted to spend a moment with him. A brief moment was all she wanted, a last moment with her husband before they put him in the ground forever.
In the darkness, she dashed out of the yard gate and into the street beyond.
*
Warenne returned to the tavern to find the entire structure in chaos.
People were running from the building as if the devil himself were inside, demanding their souls, and the closer he came, the more he could hear yelling and banging about.
Curious, and on guard, he unsheathed the sword at his side, the sword of his forefathers, Lespada.
The ancient blade glimmered wickedly in the weak light as he stepped into the tavern, expecting a fight.
The first thing he saw was an empty room.
Chairs were tipped over, meals half-eaten, and ale was spilled out over the floor.
The dogs who usually congregated by the hearth were happy as larks as they wandered around the room, eating off vacated tables.
Cautiously moving further into the common room, Warenne could see three serving wenches clustered in the back of the room near the kitchens as the tavern keeper hovered near them, evidently fearful of someone Warenne couldn’t quite see.
There was a great deal of banging and crashing going on just out of his line of sight, back in the kitchens.
As Warenne approached, on guard, Atticus suddenly appeared, sword in hand and a large pitcher of something liquid in the other.
He hurled the pitcher across the room, smashing it against the wall on the other side and spraying wine everywhere.