Men who could be so cold and deadly in battle, but men who could celebrate and show their joy in life more than anyone War had ever seen. When those three got together in a relaxed or joyous situation, happy chaos ensued.
It all started with a song.
There once was an old whore named Rose,
With a wart on the end of her nose.
When her legs she would spread,
And men lost their heads,
The smell would knock everyone dead!
The corner of the great hall of Bamburgh that had heard the song burst into loud, lewd laughter. Men were cheering and drinking, drinking and cheering, and War was in the middle of it as James and Christian dragged him onto the table where they were all standing. They began shouting for everyone to quiet down, throwing things at those who didn’t shut their lips fast enough, as James drunkenly put his arm around War’s broad shoulders.
Finally, the crowd quieted down.
“Here before you stands a bridegroom,” James said. Then, he pinched War’s chin affectionately. “Look at this man’s face. Does he not look handsome?”
The crowd cheered.
“Does he not look happy?”
More cheering.
“Then shut yer yaps because the man has something tae say!”
He spoke the last sentence in an exaggerated Scottish accent, like his mother and aunt would say. The cheers grew to enormous proportions and food and bones were being thrown at him, at Christian, and at Apollo, who threw them back. Apollo even leapt off a table and began punching some fool who had hit him in the mouth with a chicken bone.
At War and Annaleigh’s wedding feast, they’d served chicken.
It was Annaleigh’s favorite.
“Shut up, all of you!” War boomed. “If my wife cannot hear what I have to say, I will slay every one of you and take great pleasure in your suffering. Do you comprehend me?”
He was met with laughter, but the room dutifully subdued. War put his arm around James’ shoulder just as James was embracing him, a gesture of the camaraderie that War had developed with his allies. He began pointing to the men around him.
“You,” he said, pointing to Christian. “I love you. And you, Apollo. I love you, also.”
Christian and Apollo put their hands over their hearts in thanks, a gesture of reciprocation. But War wasn’t finished yet.
“To Alexei and Monty, my faithful men, I love you both,” he said, loudly so the room could hear him. “I even love Anthony d’Vant, who lost out to me for Annie’s affections. He was an honorable loser and a worthy opponent. To Lord Kilham and Sir Kieran, I love them as if they were my very own kin. To Sir Paris… well, I’ve tried to love you and I am trying still, but you would sorely test God’s love, so I’m not entirely sure how I shall endure, but I shall try. You command a mighty army and I want to love you.”
William, Kieran, and Paris were standing over by the dais, cups of fine wine in hand, wine provided by the House of de Wolfe on behalf of the bride. William and Kieran looked at Paris, laughing at the man because he really had been a thorn in War’s side for the past several months because he kept insisting that there was nothing about Bamburgh that Northwood didn’t do better. It was a good-natured rivalry that bordered on slander at times, but that was the way bonds were built sometimes– by one man being an arse and another man letting him know just how big of an arse he was.
Such was War and Paris’ relationship.
But Paris wouldn’t be publicly called out so. He pointed at War and shouted. “You will love me more than all of these dolts by the time I am finished with you,” he said. “And Northwood is still superior to Bamburgh!”
The room rolled with laughter and War balled a fist at him, indicating what he thought of that statement. But War soon held his hand up to the crowd, begging for silence, and the room quieted down.
“To the House of de Wolfe, to whom I owe everything,” he said. “My love and gratitude to Scott and Troy, to Patrick and even little Eddie and Tommy. It has been my privilege to know you all. Thank you for being so welcoming and for introducing me to my bride.”
Seated at the dais, Scott and Troy, sitting with their wives, as well as Patrick, waved at War, who waved back. In the past six months, War had built tremendous bonds with the older de Wolfe brothers given they were commanding castles and outposts near Bamburgh. It was true that, by blood, they really were War’s brothers, but that was a secret that was maintained to this day.
And it always would.
“But most of all,” War said, looking at Annaleigh on the dais, seated between Jordan and Ian. “But the very most of all I reserve for my wife, my beautiful Annaleigh. My darling, sweet Annie. May nothing but happiness ever enter our lives, sweet angel. May nothing but love fill our hearts. And may nothing but the goodness of faith and loyalty ever fill our home. To my beloved bride, I drink this toast.”
