Page 13 of Wolfehound
“What happened to your son?” he finally asked.
Carlton had to wipe the tears from his eyes. “We do not know,” he said. “He was only about three months of age, perfectly healthy as far as we knew. He was a happy baby, agood baby, but Fair Lydia put him to bed one night and in the morning, he was cold and stiff.”
William simply nodded, watching Fair Lydia hand the baby over to the older woman as they both wept over her. Carlton watched them, struggling not to get misty-eyed again, before turning his full attention to William.
“That woman is her mother,” he said softly. “You have lost a son, my lord, but I lost my son also. His name was Auston. All of my hopes and dreams were pinned to that child because Fair Lydia cannot have another. It almost killed her to have him and the physic told us that another child will be the death of her, so Auston’s death ended my legacy. I know you are here because of Llywelyn’s daughter. We all know you intend to seek vengeance against the Welsh who killed your son and I do not fault you for that, but much like my son’s death, I will tell you now that there is no one to blame. What happened to your son happened during the course of a battle and nothing more. He was a knight, and in battle, there is always the risk of death. That is the nature of the vocation. The babe in my wife’s arms did not cause your son’s death, so if you’ve come to take her, I will be obliged to prevent you. I hope you know that.”
It was quite a speech, delivered in a controlled but unmistakable manner. Carlton meant every word. William didn’t reply immediately. He kept his gaze on the women who were still weeping over the baby, perhaps pondering what Carlton had said. It was difficult to tell because William de Wolfe never gave a hint at his emotions or what he was thinking. Like a wolf, the creature he emulated, he was emotionless and calculating. On the outside, anyway.
But inside, it was quite different.
After discovering that the baby had been taken, William, Scott, Troy, and Patrick had ridden to Lincolnshire as fast as the horses would take them. They had left Paris and Kieran behindbecause William was too angry to deal with them, and he was unwilling to let them be a part of this action. That was indicative of his level of anger because they had always been part of any action he’d ever undertaken since they’d been squires together, but not this time. He felt betrayed.
He wanted to do this alone.
Truth be told, William had spent the first four days of the ride absolutely furious at his closest friends. The only way he discovered what they’d done was that some of his men had seen Carlton and Colm departing the encampment and news of that departure had made its way back to William. He had expressed bewilderment to Paris as to why the men had left, considering the battle was not completely finished and there was still work to do, but it was Paris who had confessed why Carlton had taken flight.
And that was why William had remained furious for four solid days, riding like a madman to make it to Folkingham Castle before Carlton did. He knew about the orders from Edward and he knew that Llywelyn’s infant child was to be placed at Sempringham Priory, so the news that Carlton was carrying out the king’s command did not come as a surprise to him. He already knew about those orders.
It was the one from Paris he had a problem with.
But Paris knew what they all knew—that Edward and William had been locked in some sort of strange power struggle since the waning days of Henry’s rule. There had always been competition between them and it was always something that William had tolerated because it mostly came from Edward. Everyone knew that Edward was envious of William and his reputation. There was no man in England with a greater reputation for fairness and noble behavior, and quite frankly, the man had the respect of more people than just about anyone. William de Wolfe could always be counted on to do the rightthing, something Edward had a fundamental problem with. William had the respect and love that any king would have longed for, and Edward was no exception, so the bad blood between them had been started by Edward.
And perhaps that was what this was all about.
William had never risen to Edward’s level of animosity, though the death of James had forced him into a position of looking for someone to blame. Deep down, William knew that it wasn’t rational to pin the blame on any individual. Carlton had been correct—James had been a knight, and inherent to that vocation, death was not only a constant risk, but it was expected. William had six sons and he cherished each and every one of them for their own virtues, and the pride he had in their accomplishments as men and as warriors was as vast as the heavens. He adored his sons. And the truth was that he had never expected one of them to die in battle, much less a disgraceful Welsh ambush. That simply had not been worthy of James and his level of talent. And perhaps that was William’s biggest problem…
He was not only grieved by it, but he was also insulted by it.
If James had to die, then he deserved a better death.
But the truth was that when death came for him, it didn’t take into consideration how much he was loved or the level of his talent. It didn’t take into consideration his family or his future. It simply came for him in the form of a morning star, one that had hit him on the right side of the head and smashed his helm and skull so badly that they couldn’t even get the helmet off him. The big English knight had been damaged by what was probably a lucky shot, but once he fell to the ground, dozens of Welsh had jumped on him and stabbed him with their dirty swords. By the time William had got to him, James was literally covered in blood.
And that was the image that was seared into William’s brain.
His bloodied, battered boy.
Of course he’d gone a little mad with it. Any father would have. So he had spent the past six months swearing vengeance upon the Welsh as if the entire race was responsible for his son’s death. If he’d stopped to think about it, he would have realized how foolish that was. So many people tried to tell him that. His dearest friends in the world, Paris and Kieran, had tried to tell him that, but he would not listen. He had been in a world of his own, a world where grief and rage ruled his very sanity. He had not been able to separate that level of anxiety from his normally calm and rational demeanor because he’d never had to face that kind of tragedy before.
But now, he did.
He had to face everything.
“Sit down, Carlton,” he finally said. “We will speak like allies, not enemies.”
Carlton wasn’t sure about that in the least, but he did as he was asked. As he did so, he could see his wife and her mother taking the infant over to the hearth, which was blazing at this hour, and begin to gently remove the child’s wet clothing. In the heat of the hearth, the baby was stripped and dried. Lovely, wholesome things were happening over by the hearth, and the more Carlton observed, the more he knew he had to put a stop to it.
“My lord, if you please, mayhap our conversation can wait,” he said. “I must separate my wife from that child if we have any hope of taking her to Sempringham on the morrow.”
William held up a hand. “Sit,” he commanded softly. “Having nine offspring of my own, I know something about women and children. You are not going to get that child away from her. You know that.”
Carlton sighed heavily. “The longer I let this go on, the more difficult it will be.”
There was some happy squealing going on over by the hearth, and they both looked over to see Fair Lydia’s mother holding the naked baby up in the air, drying her little bottom in the heat of the fire. The baby was grinning, a happy little thing.
“My youngest daughter is married to a Welshman,” William said. “He is one of the finest men I have ever known.”
Carlton looked at him. “Yet you fought his countrymen?”
