“A very long time,” William said. “My father knew Henry when he was a boy. In fact, my father knew Henry’s father, John, as well as Richard the Lionheart.”
“That was a long time ago,” War said. “My own father was a knight for Henry, but he served John for a short time. When he was young.”
“Who is your father?”
“Edmund Herringthorpe.”
“Where is his home?”
“Suffolk.”
“Is that where you were born?”
“Aye, though my mother was from Northumberland.”
William glanced at him. “Oh?” he said. “What is her family name?”
“William!”
The shout caught his attention. William could see Kieran coming in his direction rather quickly, moving swiftly through the rain. There were so many bonfires going on around them, hissing and smoking and crackling in the rain, that Kieran was fully illuminated as he closed in.
William went out to meet him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Kieran turned around and began walking back the way he came. “De Whitton,” he said. “Christian and Alec were on watch when the man had his food brought to him.”
William wasn’t sure where this was leading, but he didn’t like the sound of it already. “And?”
“And the man took the knife he was given for his food, stabbed Christian with it, and then turned it on himself,” Kieran said, sounding strained and unhappy. “It happened quickly, William. Too quickly. We had no idea that de Whitton intended to harm himself.”
William could only feel disappointment and shock as he and Kieran and War ended up at the tent where they’d been housing de Whitton. Christian, tall and blond with his father’s dark eyes,was in the process of wrapping a bloody wound on his left forearm as de Whitton lay on the ground, a knife in his throat.
It was a damned bloody mess all the way around.
“Christ,” William muttered, seeing the carnage. “Did he say anything to you, Christian?”
Christian paused in his bandaging, so much so that his father went to take over. “Aye,” he said in his soft, deep voice. “He asked me to forgive him and then he stabbed me, throwing me off guard so I could not stop him from stabbing himself.”
William’s jaw began to tick faintly. “I see,” he said. “Nothing more?”
“Nothing more, Uncle William.”
The room fell silent for a moment as War stepped forward, crouching down a few feet away from de Whitton’s body, inspecting the scene.
“I do not understand,” he said, bewildered. “The man had been told he would not lose his property if he went to Henry and pleaded for forgiveness. The worst that would have happened is that he came away with a fine. He was not going to be hurt or imprisoned. Why do this?”
William’s gaze moved from de Whitton to War, who seemed both baffled and disgusted by the whole thing.
“His dignity would not allow it,” he said quietly. “I have seen this before. He told us what we wanted to hear and then waited until he had a weapon, in this case a knife for his meal, before ending his life.”
“He has been planning this all along,” Kieran said, tying off his son’s bandage.
“Exactly,” William agreed. “I should have seen it. The hysterical tears, the lack of courage to surrender… he would rather die than surrender.”
“Why?” War looked up at him. “His pride?”
William shrugged. “Not really,” he said. “It has more to do with ideals, not arrogance. I suspect had de Whitton found the strength not to kill himself, he might have made it to London, begged forgiveness from Henry, but then resume some underground movement against the king to carry on de Montfort’s work.”
