The Lion of the North by Kathryn Le Veque

whom he had served with at Towton, had been killed. Therefore, all he could do was remember his mother and sisters, and tell Isobeau a story about a pet goat that didn’t much like him and used to chase him around the yard.
    Isobeau had never been exposed to anything like this. She had lived a happy and protected life at Isenhall, so the realities of battle were quite shocking. It was baptism by fire in the worst possible sense, dealing with death on a nasty and brutal level. The great hall was filled with the dying and the wounded, and the smell alone was enough to shake her already weak constitution. It smelled like rotting limbs and old, congealed blood.
    The surgeon, the very same man who had tended Titus in his last hours, was exhausted and harried. He’d been working for almost a week straight with little sleep, ever since the battle, but he was still determined to help all of the men he could. Watching him in action bolstered Isobeau’s courage; she admired the old man for his perseverance and it helped her to persevere as well.
    Something that bolstered her even more was to see Lady Percy in the hall attending the men. The woman had just lost her husband as well, yet she had put her stark grief aside, knowing it was her duty to help the wounded. Their eyes met, once, across the smoky room and Lady Percy forced a tremulous smile at Isobeau, who smiled in return. But Lady Percy quickly returned to an older man who had lost a limb, a man who was crying out in pain. Isobeau admired Lady Percy greatly as she ignored her own anguish to help others. Isobeau vowed, to the best of her ability, to do the same. But surrounded by the wounded and dying as she was, it took a great deal to bolster her courage and not run screaming from the room.
    “M… m’lady?” the young man spoke softly to her.
    Distracted from her thoughts, Isobeau smiled down at him. “Aye, Gilles?” she replied. “Is there something I can get for you? Water, mayhap?”
    The young man shook his head. “Nay, m’lady,” he said, hesitantly, because it was difficult to speak. “I was hoping… my sisters and mother cannot read, m’lady, but I was hoping you could tell them that my last thoughts were of them. Tell them that my father died bravely and that I died bravely, too. I think it will make them feel better to know that.”
    Isobeau gazed down into his pale, stubbled face and realized she was fighting off tears. It was so very tragic to see the young man before her cut down before he had ever truly begun to live. She squeezed his hand and nodded. “Of course I will,” she assured him gently. “What are their names? I must find them and give them the news.”
    “Hartha,” the young man said. “My mother his Hartha. My sisters are Joi and Desmelda.”
    “Hartha, Joi, and Desmelda,” Isobeau repeated. “I will not forget.”
    “Swear it?”
    “Of course I do. I never forget a name, so I shall remember their names and find them all. I will even give them some coins to help them. Would that please you?”
    The young man smiled gratefully. “Indeed, m’lady,” he said, haltingly. His smile faded. “It… is difficult to speak, m’lady. I… would rest now. Just for a while.”
    Isobeau could sense that the young man’s life was draining away. He was much weaker than he had been only minutes earlier. Saddened, she squeezed his hand once more. “Please rest,” she told him softly. “Conserve your strength. If you like, I can sing to you. Would that make you feel better?”
    The young man could only smile at this point and he did, faintly, and Isobeau took it for permission to sing. She thought quickly on a song, any song that might distract him from his pain. Settling on one she had written for Titus’ return because it was the only one she could recall quickly, she sang softly, for his ears only.
    “ A bird sang sweetly to me, on a morning bright with rain;
    Said the bird, so sweetly to me, lovers know no pain.
    My heart, my joy,