Chapter Twenty-One #2
Something told him that this was the very Scotsman he’d been waiting for.
He stepped back into his tent to wait.
In a short amount of time, Scott and Troy stepped through, followed by Blayth and Thomas. They faced William as he poured himself a measure of wine before sitting heavily on a cushioned chair. But even that hurt his old body and he winced, trying to get comfortable.
“What’s wrong, Papa?” Scott asked. “Are you in pain?”
William shrugged. “At my age, always,” he said, making light of it. He gazed at the four enormous men facing him, fondness glimmering in his eye. “I miss seeing Atty and Edward with you.”
Atty, or Patrick de Wolfe, was the Earl of Berwick, commander of Berwick Castle, and Edward was an advisor to the king who spent most of his time in London.
Patrick was between Scott, Troy, and Blayth in the birth order, the biggest de Wolfe brother who was hell on the field of battle.
To the family, he was the gentle giant, but to the enemy, he was the knight no one wanted to face.
Edward was a capable knight, but he was, and always had been, the family diplomat.
“Sadly, there was not enough time to wait for Atty to join us all the way from Berwick,” Scott said. “We did send him word on our actions, however. He knows what has happened. And Edward is in London.”
“He does not usually ride to battle,” William said. “He fights more difficult battles, I think. Political intrigue is always the most difficult battle.”
“True,” Scott said. Then, he gestured toward the tent opening. “We’ve brought you a gift, Papa.”
“What?”
“Ean Maxwell.”
William’s eye lit up. “You found him!”
“Aye,” Scott said. “He tried to evade us dressed as a woman, but he was betrayed by one of his own men. He is not particularly happy right now, but we knew you would want to see him.”
William was out of his seat. “See him, aye,” he muttered. “And tell him how unhappy I am about what he’s done. Bring him in.”
Scott nodded to Thomas, who was standing near the tent flap. Thomas stepped out and when he stepped back in, he had a squirming captive in his grip. It was a surprisingly young man with dirty, dark hair and a bloodied face.
Thomas shoved the man down to his knees before William.
“Murtairean Sassenach!” the man yelled. “Marbhaidh mi thu ma gheibh mi cothrom!”
English murderers! I will kill you if I get the chance!
Given that he was married to a woman who fluently spoke the language, and William had been dealing with Scots for more decades than he cared to admit, he knew exactly what the man had said.
So did his sons, who looked less than pleased.
In fact, Thomas slapped the captive on the back of the head, hard enough for the man to face-plant into the ground.
Then, Thomas reached down and yanked him up by the hair.
“Speak more respectfully to the Earl of Warenton,” Thomas hissed.
Now, it was making some sense as to why the young man had a bloodied face. He couldn’t control his mouth and had received the appropriate warnings. William watched him squirm.
“You are Arduil Maxwell’s son?” he asked.
The young man looked at him, pure hate in his eyes. “Aye.”
“Then you are Ean.”
Ean’s response was to spit in William’s direction, which brought a kick to the kidneys from Troy. As Ean went down in agony, William watched him without an inkling of compassion.
“You have been creating havoc,” he said. “You should have realized your defeat when we took your women and children, but still, you tried to fight. Now, your clan is destroyed and you are my prisoner. I will, mayhap, not be so inclined to show mercy, young Ean.”
Ean was gasping as the pain in his back started to subside a little. “That is of no consequence tae me,” he breathed. “Ye’re a Sassenach bastard and I’ll fight ye until I die.”
“That will not come for a long time yet.”
Strangely, that brought Ean pause. He lifted his head, looking at William. “What do ye mean by that?” he said. “Kill me! I demand it!”
William shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “Why would I make you a martyr to your people?”
Ean struggled to sit up. “Ye Sassenach dog,” he said, spittle flying from his lips. “Just kill me! Hang my body from a pole! Are ye a coward tae not destroy yer enemy?”
Thomas raised a hand again and Troy lifted his big boot, but William stopped them.
He was looking at this young, arrogant Scotsman, seeing him for what he was—a frightened child who had taken on a man’s game only to lose.
But he wasn’t a fool—he knew what the value of his death would be for his men.
William had already stated it—executing Ean would make him a martyr, which was what he wanted.
William wasn’t going to give it to him.
No matter how much he wanted to.
“I’ve heard that you told your allies that your young daughter was a captive at Gleann na Fola,” he said, almost casually.
“That was how you were trying to solicit their help for your attack on the fortress. Although it wasn’t true, I can tell you what will be true now.
There will, indeed, be a member of your family held captive by the House of de Wolfe because you are going to be my captive.
I’m going to put you in the bowels of Castle Questing and let you rot.
No martyrdom, no victory, no legend to your people.
Just four cold walls and a lifetime of darkness.
That is the price you pay for attacking a de Wolfe.
And I will be certain to tell your allies how you cried all the way to your cell, like the child you are. ”
With that, he flicked his hand at Thomas and Blayth, who lifted Ean to his feet.
The young man began to curse and spit and kick, so much so that Thomas had to throw him into a choke hold as they carried him out.
William listed to the screaming fade from a man who hadn’t gotten what he wanted.
It had been William de Wolfe who emerged the ultimate victor.
Though William would never know the man named Gordie who had nearly turned the tides, and he would never know what, exactly, happened with the rush on the gatehouse to ensure Gordie could complete his task, none of that mattered because, in the end, the House of de Wolfe was triumphant.
And that was why William had come to Westerkirk.
To ensure everything happened the way he wanted it to.
“Well done, Papa,” Scott said, breaking into his thoughts. “Making that man a martyr to the Scots would have had lasting consequences.”
William looked at his eldest. “I knew Arduil,” he said. “Troy, I think he was an ally of Red Keith at one point, was he not?”
Troy nodded. “He was,” he said. “But not in the last years of his life. The man lived like a hermit. When Ean took control of the clan, we thought that might change, but it did not. Ean did not want allies with English relatives.”
William snorted at the irony of that. “On the border, one can hardly avoid such a thing,” he said. “Speaking of Red Keith, where is he? I’ve not seen him to thank him.”
Troy scratched his head wearily. “The man may be willing to help us, but socializing with us is another matter,” he said. “He’s still a Scot, not a traitor, as he so eloquently put it to me.”
William grinned. “He’s an old man, set in his ways,” he said. “I remember when we laid siege to Monteviot Tower, where you first met Rhos. Now, that was a battle.”
That had Troy grinning, looking at Scott, who smirked and rolled his eyes. “The same battle where we saw naked Scots arses, and piss poured on young knights who challenged the Scots,” Troy said. “Aye, that was a battle. It was a good day.”
William continued to grin, thinking back on that particular battle, seemingly so long ago. “All of us were there,” he said in quiet reflection. “I think that is one of the last battles I can remember that had everyone of us in attendance. De Wolfe, de Norville, Hage. There were many.”
Troy nodded. “Old knights from Northwood were there, also.”
William’s smile faded. “I will admit that a battle march has never seemed the same without Paris and Kieran,” he said. “I do not mean they were any better, of course, just… different.”
Scott went to his father and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “If Kieran were here, he would tell you that your time for battle marches is over,” he said. “I do not know how we are going to explain your injured hand to Mama, but we had better think of something. She is going to be furious.”
William looked at his hand, tightly wrapped. “I know,” he sighed. “I will come up with an explanation. I always do.”
Scott patted his shoulder before moving for the tent flap alongside Troy. “Try to get some sleep, Papa,” he said. “We have everything under control. You needn’t worry.”
“I never do.”
With that, the men quit the tent, heading out into the encampment to go about their duties.
William put his head back, against the back of the chair, but he was too achy for sleep.
He stood up from the chair, wearily, and walked to the tent opening.
He watched his sons fade into the encampment, which was starting to settle in for the night.
Yet another encampment on yet another battle march.
William wasn’t sure why he was feeling nostalgic, but he was.
He suddenly missed Kieran very much. Kieran Hage had been in innumerable battles with him and William had always drawn comfort from the fact that he knew Kieran was fighting beside him.
The man could swing a sword better than anyone, stronger than any man alive, and wiser than God himself.
He felt Kieran’s presence strongly tonight.