The Lion of the North by Kathryn Le Veque Page B

small taper upon the table where she sat. As he entered the chamber, for the door was not locked, he could see pieces of parchment scattered all over the table and some pieces on the floor. Scraps of discarded writings were everywhere.
    Tertius remembered that before they had left for Towton, Titus had indulged his new wife’s passion for writing music and he had purchased quite a bit of expensive parchment from the parchmenter in the village outside of the castle walls. The man, who was quite skilled at transforming animal skin into a writing surface, had given Titus a deal on imperfect parchment that was difficult for him to sell. Therefore, Isobeau had more parchment than she probably knew what to do with but, knowing his sister, she would find a way to use it. Isobeau was industrious and busy that way.
    “Izzy?” Tertius asked hesitantly as he came into the room. “Duckling, what are you doing?”
    Isobeau didn’t even look up from what she was doing. She was furiously scribbling something on an uneven piece of parchment by the dim light of the taper and her fingertips were stained black.
    “I am glad you have returned safe, Tertius,” she said, sounding oddly detached. “Titus is dead, you know.”
    Tertius paused next to her table, gazing down at his sister’s blond head. He sensed something very strange about her and it concerned him. “I know,” he said, his tone dull with grief. “What are you doing, Isobeau?”
    She dipped her quill into the inkwell, tapped off the excess ink, and continued writing. Tertius could see that she was scribbling chords as well as words.
    “I am writing a song,” she said. “I will sing it for Titus’ funeral. He loved my singing, you know. I think he would like it if I sang at his burial.”
    Tertius understood a bit more now. He knew his sister well enough to know that she was a strong woman and, at the moment, she was trying to be very strong. She was also expressing her grief perhaps the best way she knew how and that was to put it into song. Since she had been a little girl, she had put everything into song. Reaching out, he picked up a piece of parchment that was next to her hand, one that had evidently been tossed aside. He held it up to the light to see what words were contained upon the carefully treated hide.
    “T he colors of darkness shadow my world ,” he murmured, reading the dark and smeared letters. “ The memory of you now blurred with sorrow. Iz, are you certain this is something you want to sing at your husband’s funeral mass? I am not entirely sure this is appropriate.”
    Isobeau came to a halt, looking up at him with confusion and some unhappiness. “It is what I am feeling, Tertius,” she said. “Why is it not appropriate?”
    Tertius was a bit more restrained than his passionate and young sister. He had seen much in life as a warring knight whereas she had led a relatively sheltered one as a fine lady in an excellent house. Although the de Sheras were still great battle lords, their home of Isenhall Castle had been spared anything major for the past twenty years. Therefore, all Isobeau had known was peace.
    With a sigh, he reached out to take an ink-stained hand and pulled her off her stool, away from the table and towards the hearth. Isobeau went with him, reluctantly, and he set her down in a cushioned chair while he took the other, sitting wearily against the silk pillows. His pale, shadowed face studied her against the firelight from the hearth.
    “I am so sorry about Titus,” he said softly. “I know you were very fond of him as he was of you. Any mention of your name would set him to grinning, you know. He was anxious to return home to you. I am so very sorry he was not able to, at least not alive.”
    Isobeau’s composure, a fragile thing, began to crack. She shook her head and looked away from her brother. “Please… do not speak of him, not now,” she begged softly. “I have spent the past several hours attempting not to fall