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“Thomas told me he was coming to Northwood to visit,” he said. “That is why I came here after leaving Kyloe. When I came through the gatehouse, I was greeted by Deinwald’s son, Edric. He said that everyone has gone into Kelso for a fair and tournament.”

Paris nodded. “They have,” he said. “I remained here, of course, and Edric chose to remain behind. Deinwald went with his grandsons.”

William snorted. “Grandsons,” he muttered. “And I even have great-grandchildren. Scott is a grandfather with Will’s children through his wife, Lily de Lohr, and his second son, Thomas, has also married and is expecting a child.”

Paris grinned. “Your father, a close and dear friend of Christopher de Lohr those years ago, would have been delighted to see the two families joined,” he said. “Will has a son, doesn’t he?”

“Two.”

Paris nodded his approval. “They shall be the greatest knights England has ever seen with de Wolfe and de Lohr blood.”

William fell silent a moment, his thoughts turning from Thomas to the vast legacy he had. “Children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren,” he muttered. “It is enough to make a man believe that he shall live forever.”

Paris wriggled his eyebrows in agreement.

“And you shall,” he said. “So shall I. Do you know how I know this? Look at Kieran’s children.

Alec and Kevin and Nathaniel are just like him, and Kevin now is the Duke of Dorset.

His own son is named Kieran, which means Kieran Hage, in time, will become the next Duke of Dorset.

Kieran the Old is in every inch of that boy, so I’m told.

That is not simply immortality, William– it is legend. ”

William smiled faintly, thinking on the grandchildren he shared with Kieran. “Edward and Axel already have Kieran’s size, but they have too much of Jemma in them,” he said. “Only the youngest, Christoph, has Kieran’s manners. Eddie and Axel are aggressive and fearless.”

Paris cocked an eyebrow. “They have too much of the banshee in them.”

“You had better stop calling her that. She’s not beyond taking a fist to you.”

Paris grinned. He and Jemma Hage, Kieran’s wife, had shared a love/hate relationship from the moment they met, decades ago when she was a tiny, fiery Scotswoman and he was an arrogant young knight.

Truth be told, he still missed harassing her on a regular basis, but in the times they were together these days, the old spark of aggravation was there.

It made reunions rather fun until she took a stick to him.

“She would die of a broken heart if I stopped pestering her,” Paris said. “She looks forward to it as much as I do.”

William couldn’t help but grin, but that gesture soon faded as he thought of Jemma, alone now that Kieran was gone. The woman still lived at Castle Questing since her husband’s death, making herself useful, but the light had gone out of her.

“She has changed since Kieran’s passing,” he said quietly. “She is not the same. Something in her died right along with him.”

All jesting aside, Paris knew that. He’d seen it in her, too. “I know,” he said. “She loved him, William. We all did.”

William nodded faintly, thinking on Kieran.

“I miss him greatly,” he whispered. “I held him in my arms as he breathed his last and I will say this; it was a privilege. It was a privilege to be with him as he took his last breath. I was speaking to him of the battle near Whiteadder Water when someone cut the garter of the mail of his left leg. Do you remember that? The mail slid down and took his breeches with it, and suddenly, Kieran is fighting with his bare arse exposed. I laughed so hard I nearly got myself killed because I was not paying attention to my opponent.”

Paris was grinning. “I remember,” he said.

“It was even more humorous because once the fighting stopped, he refused to pull up his breeches. He left his backside hanging out and made it back to the encampment that way. Then he went to the Scots prisoners and made them all look at his bare buttocks to punish them for what their kinsmen did.”

William was starting to laugh, as he always did when they discussed the battle at Whiteadder Water.

Anyone who had been there those years ago, fighting in the skirmish against the Scots, remembered that battle with humor because it was the beginning of the infamous Helm of Shame.

William began to howl and Paris right along with him.

“And so came the Helm of Shame,” William said, wiping the tears from his eye. “Do you remember what Kieran did that moment when it all began?”

Paris was giggling like a fool. “I do,” he said. “But I know that Michael put him up to it. Those two were merciless in their pranks.”

It felt so good to laugh. William had spent so much of the past several days being depressed and troubled that to laugh over Kieran’s antics after Whiteadder was cathartic.

“As Kieran was walking around, holding up his breeches in the front so his manhood was at least covered, he comes across Corin de Fortlage, a younger knight who pulled out of the battle early,” William said, starting to cry again because he was laughing so hard.

“He was so angry that Corin pulled back early that he pushed the man to the ground and sat on his head with his bare buttocks. He called it the Helm of Shame and told Corin if he ever left the field of battle early again, he would punish him with the Helm of Shame again. Corin was always the last man to leave the field of battle after that.”

They burst into a new fit of giggles, reliving memories that were so precious to them.

The Helm of Shame was legendary amongst the de Wolfe armies and it was something that Kieran had done more than once.

If a young knight displeased him, they were threatened with the Helm of Shame.

Humor, brotherhood, and battle had a special meaning to old knights.

They’d known so much death and pain that to relive the better moments somehow took the sting of horror away.

“Corin was the last man from the field until the last battle he ever fought,” Paris said, wiping his eyes of tears as he sobered. “It was difficult to lose Corin when we did. He was just starting to become an excellent knight.”

William, too, sobered, remembering the young, blond knight who fought so fiercely but could be lazy at times. “How long has it been now?” he asked. “At least thirty years since we lost him?”

Paris nodded. “Almost exactly thirty years now,” he said, sobering dramatically.

He sighed heavily, looking to his oldest and dearest friend.

“Are we really so old, William? Look at all of the men who have gone before us– Corin, Ranulf, Kieran and more. Ranulf was the first, as I recall, but he was old even back when he was training us as young knights. His death from old age was not surprising. But still… I do miss the man. He was gruff and hard as only Ranulf could be.”

William smiled as he thought on the knight who had been well into his fifth decade when William and Paris and Kieran were in their prime. It was a moment of reflection on men who had passed on before them, keeping their memories alive by speaking their names. Wistfully, he smiled.

“I think the point I was making is that the Helm of Shame battle was the last thing Kieran ever heard in this life,” he said, thinking on that moment of loss and still feeling as if it had happened only yesterday.

“I hope that when my time comes, I will hear you in one ear and my wife in the other. She can speak of her love for me and you can speak of our days of glory.”

But Paris shook his head. “You do not want to hear my voice in your ear,” he said. “You only want to hear Jordan, for the two of you have shared a love that most men only dream of. It is only right that she should be the last thing you ever hear.”

William forced a smile. “I hope so,” he said quietly.

“But I want you to know something, Paris. You and I have been friends for almost seventy years. Aye, it has been that long, and there is no man on earth, save Kieran, that I would rather go through this life with. You have been a thorn in my side, and a pain in my neck at times, but a more loyal and true friend has never existed. If I never again have the chance to tell you that, then I am telling you now. Much as it was a privilege to be with Kieran as he drew his last, know that it has been my greatest privilege to call you my friend, and we will continue to be friends in the next life. The bond we have between us does not end with death.”

Paris reached out, grasping William’s hand that was on the tabletop. They held on to one another for a moment, tightly, reaffirming ties that had always been there and would forever be intact. It was a rare moment of emotion between them.

“Nay, it does not end,” Paris said, uncharacteristically emotional. “It will never end with us. Other than my wife, you are the one person in this world who understands me and I am a difficult man to understand. I know that.”

William smiled faintly. “Caladora was a saint.”

Paris’ blue eyes took on a distant and sorrowful reflection.

“It is strange, William,” he said. “I lost Caladora last year, but to me, it does not seem as if she is gone. It is as if she is only in another chamber, or out with the chickens, or in the kitchens. I feel as if all I have to do is turn a corner and there she’ll be.

She is a ghost that is with me always, but it brings me comfort.

I do not know if that makes sense, but that is how I feel. ”

William squeezed his hand. “It makes sense,” he said softly.

“I believe she is with you. She was always so worried about you, so attentive, and I do not think she has left you. I do not think she can. I think that when you die, she will be standing right next to your bedside to take your hand and lead you into eternity.”