Chapter Fifteen
“Where have you been?” William asked. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Jordan was in the chamber they shared, high above the bailey of Castle Questing.
In fact, their chamber had windows that faced the bailey and the north, so she knew exactly when the army had arrived.
When William found her, she was sitting in the window seat of one of those windows, gazing off into the night.
Her husband’s words didn’t change that.
“And so ye’ve found me,” she said.
Dirty and exhausted, William stepped into the chamber. “What are you doing here?” he said. “We returned twenty minutes ago and I’ve got several wounded that need attention.”
“I’ll get tae them in due time,” Jordan said steadily. “Is Jemma in the hall?”
“Aye,” William answered.
“Then they are well tended for now.”
Puzzled by his wife’s behavior, William stepped further into the chamber. “What’s wrong with you? Are you ill?”
Jordan drew in a long, pensive breath. “I’m not ill,” she said. “I’ve simply been… thinking.”
“What about?”
Jordan looked up at the sky. It seemed unusually clear tonight. “Did ye know a lass named Jane?”
William had been in the process of irritably removing his hauberk but his wife’s question brought him pause. It was an extremely odd question about something, or someone, quite specific and he wondered why.
He proceeded carefully.
“Jane?” he repeated. “Is there a family name?”
“I’m sure there is, but I dunna know it,” Jordan said. “She is related to Herringthorpe.”
That brought a measure of shock to William. “Jane Herringthorpe is War’s mother,” he said evenly. “I knew her long ago as Jane de Percy. Is that the Jane you mean?”
“I suppose it is,” Jordan said. “How well did ye know her?”
William shrugged. “Well enough,” he said. “De Longley and her father were allies while I served de Longley. Why do you ask? What is this about?”
Jordan leaned back against the cold stone wall. “Did ye know she bore ye a son?”
William froze, his hauberk half-off his head. Suddenly, he could feel something bubbling in his chest, something he couldn’t define, but something that felt like… fear? Shock? Astonishment? He wasn’t sure what, exactly, he felt only that her question filled him with horror.
“What in the world are you talking about?” he said, yanking the hauberk off and letting it fall to the ground. “Jordan, what is wrong with you? Why do you ask me that question?”
Jordan finally looked at him. For the first time, she held up what looked like a large, folded piece of vellum, hanging open. William could see it in the weak light.
“Because this is a letter tae ye from a woman named Jane who married Edmund Herringthorpe,” she said softly.
“I was with the servants when they were cleaning Sir War’s chamber and his bags were accidentally knocked over.
When I was putting everything back in, this letter was on the floor and it was open.
I was putting it back intae his bag when I saw yer name on it.
I was naturally curious, so I read it. This letter is from Jane addressed tae ye, telling ye that she was pregnant when her father denied yer request tae marry her. ”
William had gone cold. It wasn’t that he was particularly shocked by the news.
In fact, it was confirmation of what they’d all been speculating.
What had his blood running cold was the tone of his wife’s voice and the expression on her face.
He’d told Kieran that something like this wouldn’t upset her, or at least she’d be forgiving, but now he was wondering if that was entirely true.
It never occurred to him that she wouldn’t be.
Jordan, his everything for living, the very blood that pumped through his veins.
No man had ever loved a woman more. No man had ever been more dependent upon a woman than he was with her.
He thought he knew her as well as he knew himself but he quickly reconsidered that.
Perhaps it had been foolhardy to think so.
He could be rather calm about it because it was his mistake, but to Jordan…
it was evidence that her husband, one she believed perfect, had indeed made a big mistake.
It meant something different to her than to him. Clearly.
His pulse began to race.
“It is War, isn’t it?” he asked hoarsely.
Jordan’s answer was to extend the letter to him.
Stiffly, he went to her, taking the letter from her, but his gaze never left her face.
She was looking at him, those enormous green eyes he knew so well, and it was beginning to make him ill that he couldn’t read her emotions in the depths. A wall had gone up.
Tearing his gaze away from her, he read the letter.
My Dearest Willaume,
I’ve tried to write this letter to you a thousand times and a thousand times, I burned it when I was finished. But this letter, I’ve not burned, my dearest love. You must know what happened when you left me that cold November day last year.
Our days and nights of passion took root and even as my father denied our marriage, your son grew in my belly.
I told my father, hoping he would change his mind and allow us to marry, but he became enraged.
He wrote to his old friend, Edmund Herringthorpe, and told the man he would make him very rich if he agreed to marry me immediately.
Since Edmund had a good name but no money, he did.
Your son was not born a bastard, but the son of a good and kind man my father tricked into marrying me.
Even as I write this letter, I am watching your son sleep in his cradle by the fire.
He looks like you, my dearest love. He has your hair, your eyes.
I look at him and I see you, and I am content.
If I could not have you as my husband, then at least I can have your son.
I regret to say that he shall be raised as a Herringthorpe, but Edmund loves him very much and will be good to him.
You can rest assured that your son will be properly educated, but it is with sorrow that I tell you he will know nothing of his de Wolfe roots.
Out of respect to Edmund while he is still alive, I will not tell him.
It is my wish that our son, Warwick, know of his true heritage upon my death, or upon the death of Edmund, and it is my wish that Warwick be given this letter to give to you as explanation of who, and what, he is.
He is your son, my beloved, the proud first son of Willaume de Wolfe.
I am so sorry we could not raise him together, but I hope you are not angry with me for not telling you sooner.
I am sure you understand that I could not risk it.
Pray, be good to our son. Treat him fairly.
That is all I can ask.
All my love,
Jane
It had her seal on the bottom of it.
William read it twice. When he was finished, he drew in a long, heavy breath, lowering the letter in his hand and processing the contents. He was feeling very old, very weary, and very despondent. Still seated near the window, Jordan spoke softly.
“Ye dinna know?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nay,” he said hoarsely.
“But when we fought at Thropton, Paris and Kieran commented on how much Herringthorpe looked like me. I laughed it off as ridiculous. But when he appeared at Castle Questing, he mentioned that his mother had been Jane de Percy and quite possibly his birth happened after Jane and I… well, after we had our affair. The more I looked at him, the more I wondered.”
“Now ye know.”
“Indeed, I do.”
Silence settled between them and William’s anxiety began to rise. He didn’t like the tension between them. He never liked it when they fought and he would always move heaven and earth to soothe her, but this was different. Far different than meaningless arguments they’d had in the past.
This was something soul-shattering.
“What are you thinking, Jordan?” he finally asked softly. “Have I damaged something between us with a youthful indiscretion?”
Jordan pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as the night breeze wafted in through the window, lifting tendrils of her blonde hair.
“I’m not sure,” she said after a moment. “I know ye had a life before me. I dunna fault ye that. But something is bothering me.”
“What is it?”
She sighed faintly, venturing back into the cobwebs of her memory. “When we first met, do ye recall me asking ye if there had been someone special before me?”
William thought on her question as he moved to the chair next to the window where she was sitting. He lowered himself onto it, wearily, as he tried to figure out what, exactly, she was speaking of.
“I seem to,” he said. “It was a long time ago, Jordan.”
“What do ye recall?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Is there a specific instance you are referring to?”
“We were in bed together.”
“That happened every day.”
“That is true,” she said. “But there was a moment when we spoke of the women before me. Ye told me ye only loved yer liege’s wife which, at the time, was me.”
He nodded slowly as the vague memory returned to him. “I remember,” he said. “You asked me of the women I’d had before you.”
“Go on.”
“What more would you have me say?”
She turned and looked at him, then. “Ye told me that there hadna been anyone before me,” she said. “That ye hadna given yer love tae anyone else but me. But clearly, that was not the truth.”
He sighed with great regret. “It was the truth,” he said. “I swear to you upon my oath that it was. Jane… I did not want to marry her. She wanted to marry me.”
“But ye had a child with her, English.”
English. That was the nickname she’d called him since the day she’d met him, a term of endearment that was like music to his ears.
But at the moment, all he could hear in it was her hurt and confusion and it tore at him like nothing he’d ever known before.
He could hear in her voice that, somehow, he’d hurt her.
He felt like the most horrible man in the world.