Page 6 of Wolfehound
Kevin laughed softly. “I will admit that I had a hand in it,” he said. “But it was James who put straw or kindling in the bootsof unsuspecting soldiers and lit it on fire. He did it to old Ranulf once and nearly burned the man’s foot off.”
The memory had Paris and Kieran snorting because Ranulf Kluge was an old knight they’d all served with years ago. He had been rough and gruff, but for some reason, the young de Wolfe, Hage, and de Norville sons targeted him for many of their antics. It had been great fun to see who could make the old knight roar with anger.
“Ranulf caught him and tied him to a post in the stable overnight,” William said. “You have no idea how difficult it was for me to keep his mother from not only freeing her son, but from unleashing on Ranulf.”
“You had to lock her in the chamber,” Paris muttered, a twinkle in his eye. “I know this because you tossed the key out of the window to me.”
“And she tried to climb out of that window,” William reminded him, and they both laughed. “I had to sit on her most of the night. She was livid.”
“’Tis never good to rile the Scots,” Paris said, referring to the fact that William’s wife, Jordan, was Scottish. “Their blood boils over faster than most.”
“True,” William said. “We would all know that, considering we all married women with Scots blood. But Kieran has it the worst—I might have been able to keep Jordan contained, but Jemma was the one who released James around midnight and then went on the hunt for Ranulf.”
Kieran closed his eyes, shaking his head in resignation at his unruly wife’s behavior. “You should have never told her what happened, Kevin,” he said to his son. “That was your fault. You told your mother what Ranulf did to James and she made it her personal mission to release the lad. After she did so, she then lay in wait for Ranulf, and when he was unaware, she knocked himdown and whacked the soles of his feet with a club. The man could not walk for a week.”
Kevin chuckled at the memory of his mother, the most aggressive Scot in the bunch, going after a knight twice her size to punish him for what he’d done to her cousin’s son. In fact, Paris’ wife, Caladora, was also a cousin to Jordan and Jemma. That made them all kin and very protective of one another. Even one another’s children. That was how Jemma saw it, anyway, when she beat the soles of Ranulf’s feet and broke one of his toes in the process. But that was the beauty of family—they defended one another. They grieved for one another.
But no one grieved more deeply than a parent.
As much as the memory of James and Kevin was a much-needed moment of relief among the churning waters of war and mourning, it also brought about its own pain. When the laughter died down, the pain returned, and every time William looked at Kevin, he could feel grief anew because the man reminded him so much of James. It brought joy and it brought pain.
Grief was ironic that way.
“Jemma was the only person who ever got the upper hand with Ranulf,” William said after a moment, his good mood fading. “But in answer to your question, Kevin, Iamweary. Very weary. But you more than anyone understand that I cannot rest now. There are things I must do.”
The mood abruptly went from the warmth of fond memories to the cold reality at hand. William wouldn’t let the ambience veer too far away from the situation, his loss, and the brutal truths of war. They would try and he’d inevitably bring them back around again, but his latest statement had their concern. Given the wars were now essentially over, at least for the time being, the focus was shifting. They were the victors, and to the victors went the spoils of war. In this case, the prisoners.
And that was troubling.
“Whatmust you do, William?” Kieran asked. “Kevin, go about your duties. I will speak with William alone.”
Kevin didn’t argue. He knew the situation for what it was, and when his father used that tone, it was time to clear out. Silently, he departed, heading over to the encampment, as Kieran moved his horse up on William’s other side. Now, the man was flanked by Paris and Kieran and they weren’t going to let him do anything he might regret. At the culmination of months of battle, this was a fragile moment for them all.
“William, I realize you have a good many conflicting feelings at this moment, but I hope you know that you can share those with us,” Kieran said quietly. “We loved James, too. Every sword stroke, every Welsh death, has had his name on it since that day at Llandeilo. Mayhap if you were to speak of this moment and what it means to you, it might make us all feel… more at peace.”
William looked at him. “I will never be at peace,” he said. “What peace do you speak of, Kieran? You still have your sons. I have lost one of mine. Thereisno peace.”
“I do not have all of my sons,” Kieran said in a low voice. “If anyone understands your grief, I do.”
That was true. Kieran had lost his second-eldest son, Christian, in the Levant only a few short years earlier. The tall, blond Hage son who had been so loved had followed his duty and set out to the king’s call, but it had been a call that cost him his life. William was fully aware that Kieran hadn’t yet recovered from that, only the man was more in control of himself when it came to his grief.
William simply wasn’t.
“I do not mean to diminish yours, Kieran,” he said in a show of compassion. “We all miss Christian. But he did not die in your arms as James died in mine. You did not hold your son as he breathed his last, helpless to do anything at all. You cannot know how that eats at me.”
Kieran’s jaw flexed faintly. “Nay, I did not hold him,” he said. “I was not there at all. My son died alone, without me by his side, and I did not find out until almost a year later. Just because I was not there at the moment of his death does not mean I did not feel it as much as you feel James’.”
William sighed sharply. “Christian did not die in a bloody Welsh ambush, but in war,” he said with some passion. “He chose to be there, Kieran. He knew what the risks were.”
“And James did not know what the risks were when he came to Wales with an army to do battle against the Welsh princes?”
Paris intervened before the argument could grow out of control. “William, far be it from me to tell you how to feel, because I understand and approve of your rage against the Welsh,” he said. “You know I do and so does Kieran. But comparing his death to Christian’s is beneath you. Your grief is no greater than Kieran’s. It is simply fresher.”
William knew that. Deep down, he did. As he hung his head, Paris leaned into him and lowered his voice.
“I have killed in James’ name and have taken delight in it,” he continued. “But we are not your enemy, and for the past six months, you have been treating us as if we are, as if we have no stake in this situation whatsoever, and that flies in the face of a friendship we have had for over fifty years. Do you think so little of us that you would discount the fact that I was James’ godfather and Kieran’s daughter was married to him? Do you think we do not have feelings in this matter, too?”
Paris had never treated William the way Kieran did. Kieran was usually calmer, with more patience, but Paris was brutally honest and not one to shy away from an argument—but in a delicate situation like this, sometimes his manner wasn’t overly welcome. In fact, Kieran held his breath as William processed what Paris had said.
