Chapter Nineteen #3
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 you have 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.
That is why I am here, Simon. I have come for you. ”
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 saw it, 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.
As Isobeau observed from the steps, hands to her mouth, Atticus had managed to calm his rage somewhat but not completely. He was growing impatient as de la Londe and de Troiu continued to stagger from his beating. He didn’t want to wait any longer.
“Take the swords or I will gore you both at this very moment,” he commanded.
De Troiu, regaining consciousness, tried to crawl behind Kenton for some protection, but Kenton kicked the man aside and threw the sword at his feet.
Kenton then tossed the other sword at de la Londe and it landed in the dirt a few inches away from him.
As Kenton moved away from the center of battle, de la Londe grabbed at the sword and clutched it defensively.
His face, now bruised and bloodied, was fixed on Atticus.
“A dying man will say anything!” he bellowed desperately. “You will not even hear the truth of the matter? Then you murder two innocent men!”
Atticus resisted the urge to charge them again. They were such blatant liars that it sickened him. Still, he managed to pause and collect himself as best he was able.
“The truth is that you murdered my brother for refusing to side with Edward,” he said. “That is the only truth. If you speak any more lies against my brother, I will cut your tongue out.”
De la Londe cut short his reply, knowing that Atticus would do it.
The man always carried out his threats. He therefore knew his life was at an end and he knew there was nothing more he could do to save himself except, perhaps, defer the blame.
Maybe it would ease Atticus’ anger; maybe it would compel him to be merciful.
Maybe he could lie and cheat and worm his way out of this predicament altogether, for now, he was out to save himself. He didn’t want to die.
“It was Declan,” he finally said, pointing to de Troiu. “He was the one who stabbed Titus first. He brought about the first blow. It was not me. I would have ridden from Titus without killing him, but de Troiu struck first!”
De Troiu, still on the dirt a few feet away from de la Londe, looked to his comrade in horror. “You bastard!” he hissed. “It was you who provoked him!”
De la Londe was now in the losing game of Casting Blame. He and de Troiu were no longer united as the truth began to spill forth. In an effort to deflect the accusation, he turned to Atticus.
“Look at my face!” de la Londe jabbed a finger at the healing gash across the side of his face. “Titus did that! He moved against me first! De Troiu was only defending me!”