Chapter Twenty #2
And the knights knew it. Scott, Troy, Blayth, Thomas, and their siblings had all grown up with Uncle Paris.
Two of them had married into the de Norville family, so Paris truly was their kin.
Much like William, Paris was far too old to be riding to battle, but it was something that was part of their very fabric.
Old knights couldn’t shirk their duties and age didn’t matter.
But it did.
No one was quite sure how to convince the elderly knights to remain behind.
“Your presence here is revered, Uncle Paris,” Thomas finally said, trying to be diplomatic. “You know we cannot go into battle without you.”
Paris puffed up, feeling appreciated. “As long as you know that,” he said. “Now, what would you have from Northwood’s army?”
Thomas glanced at John, who simply shrugged.
There was no getting around Paris’s thinking he was in charge.
“Northwood will form the center of the army, of course,” Thomas said.
“But I need you to speak with my father so that a strategy will be worked out. Meanwhile, the other knights will prepare the army while we wait for your direction. Will you do this?”
Of course Paris would. He was being asked to direct a battle and he would do just that.
As he headed over toward William, Thomas began waving at the knights, silently commanding them to hurry outside while the old men conferred.
That way, the elderly knights were out of the way and the real work with the army could begin.
With a purpose, the men headed outside.
As William and Paris began to talk strategy, Thomas took Blayth outside with him and the other de Wolfe knights to begin forming their ranks.
That left Scott and Troy alone, standing near the table where William and Paris were sitting.
The hall, so full of knights in armor not moments before, was now oddly still and silent.
It was a painful, fragile silence.
“I’m going to return to Gar for a while,” Scott told his brother quietly. “Will you come with me?”
Troy had been staring at the entry door, watching his sons as they filtered out with the rest of the knights. He heard his brother’s question and it shook his composure a little.
“Andreas is not taking this well,” he muttered. “Neither are Reed and Corey. You know that Corey nearly lost his infant son recently.”
“I know.”
“He cannot take much more of this grief.”
Scott’s gaze fixed on his twin brother. They were separated by minutes in the birthing order and couldn’t possibly have been more different, but when it came to the love of family, they were the same.
They had shared much heartache together.
“He can,” Scott murmured. “He will if it comes to it. And so will you. You and I know better than anyone that life goes on.”
Troy looked at him. “Not if Gar dies,” he said. “I have decided that if he dies, I will go with him.”
Scott frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
Scott did. He also knew that Troy wasn’t being overdramatic. He meant it. “You would do that to Rhos?” he asked softly. “You would do it to your children? And how do you think Gar would feel about that? For him to be the cause of his father’s death?”
Troy’s jaw was twitching furiously and as Scott watched, tears sprang to the man’s eyes.
“I suffered the loss of two children before,” Troy said hoarsely.
“Little girls who’d not yet lived their lives.
But to suffer the loss of a son… a young man who had finally found happiness in life…
I do not think I can take it. I cannot accept it.
I do not want to be left behind to pick up the pieces that he will leave when he goes. I cannot do it again.”
Scott could hear the pain in his voice. He put a gentle arm around his brother’s shoulders, trying to comfort him.
“And I have lost a son,” he whispered. “I lost Andrew when he was young, just as you lost Arista and Acacia. Could I stand to lose Tor or Will? Of course I would not want to weather that. No parent does. But you must think of what you would leave behind. You have other sons who would know you took your own life. What message would that send to them? That their father was not brave enough to face death? How do you think that would make them feel, losing Gar and then losing you?”
Troy’s head was down as he wiped at his eyes. “I know,” he muttered. “I know, but I cannot stand the thought of losing Gar. It will destroy me.”
“He’s not dead yet,” Scott said. “Mother and Rhoswyn have been pouring rotten tea into his mouth every chance they get. If anything can heal him, that can. It will. You must have faith.”
“That is something I have little of these days.”
Scott knew that, but he didn’t say so. Troy’s faith had always been tenuous, at best, so it was difficult for him to lean into it. He gave his brother a final squeeze before dropping his arm from his shoulders.
“Come with me,” he said, pulling at him. “Let us go see to your son.”
Troy simply nodded, dumbly, for lack of a better reply. He let Scott escort him from the hall to the stairwell that led up to the master’s chambers. As the two of them headed up the steps, William and Paris watched them go.
The older men hadn’t heard the conversation, but they didn’t have to. It was enough to see Troy’s tears and Scott’s gesture of comfort. Sometimes being a parent was particularly painful and it was something all the men lived in fear of.
Losing a son in battle.
It was the great horror they hoped they never had to face.
“How badly off is Gar?” Paris asked softly.
William rubbed his one good eye wearily. “Bad,” he muttered. “Very bad.”
“Should I see to him?”
It was well known that Paris was an excellent healer. He had been since his youth. William stopped rubbing his eye and looked at him.
“I thought you were marching with the army?” he said.
Paris shrugged. “They do not want me,” he said. “I know they do not want me, so I go. The more they don’t want me, the more I go. But seeing to Gar would give me an excuse not to go.”
William stared at him a moment before breaking down into soft laughter. “You are a conceited devil,” he said. “Would I rather have you see to my grandson than ride to battle? Of course I would. But I did not want to ask.”
Paris smiled faintly. “You know you can always ask me anything,” he said. “Whether or not I do it is another matter.”
“You have been that way your entire life.”
“Would you have me any other way?”
William shook his head and stood up. “I would not,” he said. “At least you are predictable in that way. Now, let us see to Gar. It gives me comfort knowing you will help him if you can.”
Paris stood up beside him, wearily. “I will always help if I can,” he said. “But I am sincerely sorry this happened to Gar. I like him, William. He’s a good lad.”
William was trying not to let his sadness overwhelm him. “He is,” he said. “But his wife… You’ve not met her yet, Paris. She has been incredibly good for him. Her brother was killed when the Scots breached the castle and now with Gar wounded, she has a very heavy burden to bear.”
Paris could see the pain in William’s expression. Paris may have many qualities, but a lack of empathy wasn’t among them. He was surprisingly compassionate even if he didn’t show it.
But he would show it now.
“Then let me see if I can help ease it,” he said quietly. “Take me to her.”
William nodded, heading toward the stairwell that led to the upper floors with Paris on his heels. His wife and Scott were competent healers, but Paris had knowledge that ran deep. William could only pray it was deep enough to spare Gar because he couldn’t stomach the alternative.
God help them, he hoped it was a tragedy they would all live through.
*
He looked like he was sleeping.
Sitting in a chair next to the bed she and Gar shared, Mattie could only stare at the man who, she was told, was stable for the time being.
But that could change. The fever he’d had since yesterday was moderate, but fevers were never a good thing, especially when it came to an injury.
Mattie didn’t know much about injuries, only what she’d seen after the Scots had rushed the gatehouse, but she knew that the injury Gar had suffered was worse than anything she’d seen to date.
She knew it was bad.
When they’d first brought him up to the chamber, she’d tried to help, but her shock had gotten the better of her and, had Jordan not forced her to sit down, she probably would have made a fool of herself and fainted right onto the floor.
Instead, she sat in a chair like a weakling, watching people who knew what they were doing tend to her injured husband, who was coming in and out of consciousness at that point.
He came out long enough to extend a hand to Mattie and assure her that all would be well, but those were the last words she’d heard from him.
He’d been silent for almost three days.
Three days that started with Jordan and Scott inspecting the biggest, most horrific gash that Mattie had ever seen.
She could only look at it for a couple of seconds before her gag reflex kicked in and she had to look away or risk getting sick.
She was terribly embarrassed at her reaction, but the truth was that she’d never seen so much blood on a human being in her life.
Suddenly, Cù fola took on a whole new meaning.
Blood wolf.
Someone had bloodied the Wolfe.
Between Scott and Jordan, they managed to cleanse the wound with wine before stitching it tightly with what turned out to be fifty-five sutures. Mattie had heard them say so. Fifty-five sutures in Gar’s trim torso. Once the cleaning and stitching was done, she had, indeed, vomited.
She simply couldn’t help it.