Chapter Four #4
War nodded, blinking rapidly as the alcohol in his empty belly began to spread some warmth. “Aye,” he said. “I spoke to the eldest two – Scott and Troy – but only briefly. One of his sons is a head taller than I am. A mountain of a man. And the fourth one… he was blond. He fought ferociously.”
“They are your half-brothers,” Edmund said quietly, pointing out what War probably hadn’t realized yet. “If they are anything like their father, then I am certain they are good men.”
War closed his eyes, feeling the wine warm his belly. A belly that was in turmoil at the moment.
“I… I must think on all of this,” he finally said, turning away from the table and looking at his father. “You cannot expect me to accept everything immediately. I must have time to… think.”
Edmund wasn’t without sympathy. “I understand,” he said. “But I want you to look in my big chest. That one, over there.”
He lifted a hand to point to an enormous wooden chest against the wall, painted with stags and the Herringthorpe crest. Dutifully, and wearily, War went to it and opened the lid.
“Near the bottom, against the right side,” Edmund continued. “There is a box down there. It is bound with red ribbon. Do you see it?”
War’s mind was frazzled. He was shuffling through the chest woodenly, looking for a box with a red ribbon until he finally spied it. He removed it carefully.
“Bring it here,” Edmund said.
War returned to his father, putting the box on the old man’s lap.
Edmund removed the ribbon and opened the heavy lid.
War should have been curious about the contents but he wasn’t.
He was so damned overwhelmed with everything he’d been told that he couldn’t spare the energy for whatever Edmund was doing.
He simply stood there, wrapped up in his own thoughts, thinking of that living legend he’d spent time with back at Thropton, a man he’d grown to admire, when Edmund finally spoke.
“Here it is,” he said, pulling forth a yellowed and brittle piece of parchment. “Your mother wanted you to give this to de Wolfe should you ever tell him what I have told you.”
Distracted from his thoughts, War looked at the man, almost recoiling from him, as he held up the carefully folded parchment.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A missive to William de Wolfe telling him of the son he never knew,” Edmund said, extending it to War. “Take it. It is up to you whether or not you tell the man what you know. But if you do, give him this. Your mother wanted you to.”
War’s gaze moved from Edmund’s face to the object in his hand. Slowly, he lifted his hand and accepted the parchment, seeing that it was sealed with his mother’s personal crest. But the red wax was very old and brittle.
He simply stared at it.
“And she never thought to tell me any of this herself?” he said, bewildered. “As important as all of this is, she never thought to tell me herself?”
Edmund was prepared for the question. “I suppose she was ashamed,” he said.
“’Tis a very personal thing to discuss and she simply couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Mayhap she did not wish to see disappointment in your eyes.
Disappointment in her. I really do not know the reason, War, but she couldn’t tell you. She asked me to do it and I have.”
War digested that, thinking on his father, his mother, and William de Wolfe. It seemed positively surreal, but he also realized that his shock was wearing off. What replaced it was something sorrowful and mystifying.
“Papa, I appreciate that you have told me this,” he said after a moment. “I appreciate that you feel that this is something important to me but, at the moment, I do not want to speak on it any longer. Not until I have had a chance to truly think it through.”
Edmund understood. “You wanted to know,” he said quietly. “I told you. What you do with the information is your business from this point forward, but now you know.”
War nodded faintly. “Aye,” he said. “I know now. But beyond this initial conversation, I do not want to spare it any thought because I do not want our last moments together to be filled with talk of an old family secret. I do not want our last moments together to be focused on William de Wolfe. I want to focus on you. On us. I do not know what I am going to do without you when you are gone and that is all I want to think about.”
Edmund smiled faintly. “You will do what you were born to do, War,” he said. “My passing will not change your destiny. I have done my job. I have ensured you had the finest training and the most affection I could offer. You are my shining star, lad. Nothing will ever change that.”
War looked at him. Really looked at him.
To realize that he wasn’t the man’s son by blood was almost more painful and shocking than realizing he was someone else’s bastard.
He felt as if he were grieving the loss of something he never even had, something that was an illusion.
It was difficult for him to put it into words but he didn’t want to burden Edmund with it.
The man was dying.
He could tell just by looking at him. His lips were an odd shade of purple, his skin pale, but the words he spoke were those of beauty and family and love.
War hadn’t wept since he’d been a child but, at the moment, he felt very much like weeping.
He honestly didn’t know what he was going to do without Edmund.
He sat down next to the bed again.
“I am comforted,” he said, though it wasn’t the truth.
“What can I say to you that will make this moment meaningful? I am afraid to leave this room for fear you will die while I am off doing something mundane, yet I do not know what to say to you that will be meaningful, something I will look back upon and be satisfied that I told you everything I needed to tell you. I suppose I could start by saying that my gratitude towards you is endless. Endless and deep. Without you, I do not know if I would be where I am today. How does one find the words to express something like that?”
Edmund’s eyes glimmered dully. “You just did.”
“Everything I am is because of you, Papa.”
Edmund reached out to squeeze his hand. “Nay, lad,” he said. “The brilliance was already there. You achieved everything through hard work and study and practice. Do not diminish what you have done. I was simply there to guide you.”
War was looking at Edmund’s hand as it held his gloved one. He hadn’t even taken his gloves off, not throughout the entire conversation. Gently, he disengaged his hand and yanked his gauntlets off, tossing them to the ground. When he reclaimed Edmund’s hand, it was with both of his.
Flesh to flesh.
The tears began to come.
“Will you do something for me, Papa?” he asked tightly.
Edmund could see how hard he was trying to hold back his emotions. “What do you wish, my son?”
War blinked and tears fell onto their hands as they gripped one another. “You just did it.”
“What did I do?”
“You called me your son.”
“You are, War. I told you that will never change.”
“I suppose I just needed to hear it again.”
Edmund gripped his hand tightly. “Shall I say it again?”
War shook his head, tears spilling over down his cheeks as he quickly moved to wipe them away. “Nay,” he said. “But there is something else you can do for me.”
“What is that?”
War sniffled, wiping at his eyes. “When I was a small boy, you used to tell me a story about a whale and a sea sprite,” he said. “Do you remember the tale?”
Edmund chuckled softly. “Of course I do,” he said. “I had hoped to tell it to your children.”
“Would you tell it to me again?”
It was a sweet and poignant moment, from father to son.
Edmund could hear four-year-old War asking for stories in that deeply rumbled request, but it didn’t matter.
His son was asking for a story and no matter how breathless he felt, he was honored to deliver.
Thoughts of death and battles and bastard children were gone for the moment as Edmund began the tale of the whale and the mermaid and the pirates who chased them to try and steal their gold.
War had never spent a better moment in his life.
When Edmund finally slept, War openly wept.