WolfeStrike (de Wolfe Pack Generations Book 2) Page 11

  “And your mother?”

  Tor shook his head. “My mother also,” he said. “The grandparents I speak of are my father’s parents. My mother, however, was a strong and forceful woman. She did as she pleased no matter what my father said. Unfortunately, it cost her in the end.”

  Fraser looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

  Tor could see the stable servants bringing out Enbarr and Fraser’s long-legged stallion through the mist. “She wanted to go on a visit after heavy rains and my father tried to discourage her,” he said. “She decided to go regardless of his advice and her carriage was lost in a river. She drowned alongside my younger brother and younger sister, an aunt, and two cousins. It took my father years to come to terms with what had happened. He once said he wished he had forbidden her to go on that day. Not that it would have mattered; she probably would have gone, anyway.”

  Fraser’s expression of curiosity turned to one of sympathy. “That is a terrible story,” he said. “I am sorry for you.”

  Tor nodded politely. “Thank you, but it was a long time ago,” he said. “I think my point was that strong women often run into trouble because they do not know what is good for them, so I will help you look for Lady Isalyn on my way home. I have to go through Haltwhistle, anyway.”

  “What about your cousin, Nat?”

  Tor grunted. “He drank too much last night,” he said. “He is sleeping it off, still. He will head back to Castle Questing when he feels better, so we do not travel in the same direction.”

  “Questing is quite far north.”

  “About eighty miles. It will take him a few days at the very least.”

  The horses were brought around and the knights mounted up, heading out into the cold, misty dawn. Yesterday’s rainstorm had turned the road into a swamp, so they mostly traveled on the shoulder because there were some massive puddles to avoid.

  The ride was silent for the first several minutes. Tor was thinking ahead to the Crown and Sword, wondering if that was where Isalyn had gone, when Fraser broke into his thoughts.

  “My lord, I must say something, if you will indulge me,” he said.

  Tor looked at him curiously. “Speak.”

  “I must apologize for Steffan’s actions,” Fraser said hesitantly, as if he weren’t sure he should speak on such a matter. “If Lord Gilbert has not, I will. Steffan was a complicated and difficult man. He has caused his father much grief, so do not judge the entire family by Steffan. He is not representative of Gilbert.”

  Tor glanced at him. “Lord de Featherstone is not being judged, at least not by my family,” he said. “You needn’t worry.”

  “Thank you, my lord. May I tell Gilbert that?”

  Tor nodded, but his gaze lingered on the black-haired, blue-eyed knight who seemed proper and professional. He had since the beginning of their association and Tor was growing curious about him. It seemed to him like such a knight should be serving in a big house with a big army, not serving a wealthy merchant. There was a definite division of class there.

  “What is your story, le Kerque?” he asked. “Not to be nosy, but you seem far more loyal to Gilbert than his own son. Steffan was a knight and did not even serve his father.”

  Fraser nodded. “I know,” he said, somewhat quietly. “Steffan did not wish to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a merchant, so Gilbert paid Lord de Shera of The Paladin near Chester to train Steffan as a knight. He went to foster there at twelve years of age, very old for that kind of training, but he learned quickly.”

  Tor’s eyebrows lifted. “The Paladin?” he repeated. “That is a prestigious castle and the House of de Shera is very powerful. So that’s where Steffan trained?”

  “He did.”

  “How did you come to serve Gilbert?”

  Fraser smiled wryly. “My family is an old one,” he said. “Once, we were wealthy, but now all we have is our good name. The fortune was gone long ago. My father used it to obtain a position for me in the House of de Winter. I trained at Norfolk Castle and my reputation is without compare, but I have a fortune to build. When my father dies, I will inherit Welton Castle, but only the property and the title of Lord Faldingworth. There is nothing else – no money, no wealth to speak of. Therefore, I serve the lord who pays me the most.”

  “De Featherstone?”

  Fraser nodded. “He is quite wealthy. The money he pays is better than most.”

  Tor couldn’t fault the man for doing what he had to do. “Do you see much action?”

  Fraser gave him a long look before snorting. “With de Featherstone?” He shook his head. “I’ve been with him for a few years and have yet to see a serious battle. I drill the small contingent he has constantly so our skills stay sharp, but I will be truthful. I wish I was back with de Winter or served some other great house, like de Wolfe. I miss the camaraderie of other knights and I miss the smell of battle. I miss doing what I was born to do. With de Featherstone… there is little action. I am a guard dog and little more.”

  “You are going to grow weary of that after a while.”

  “I already have. But I need the money.”

  Tor could understand that and he felt rather sorry for the man. But in the same breath, he respected him for doing as he must. Each knight had a story and that was Fraser’s.

  From that point on, the rest of the ride into town was silent. As they drew near Haltwhistle, the road grew more crowded as they began to blend with the farmers coming in off the fields, bringing in their produce to sell. The mist had lifted a little more by this time and patches of bright sunlight were streaming through the soupy mess, revealing a busy village. As they entered the outskirts of town, Tor paused.

  “I am going to inspect a couple of places,” he said, pointing. “You check the stables. Yesterday, I happened to know she had some interest in a man selling horses there, so she may have gone back there.”

  He refrained from mentioning the wild Arabian and Fraser nodded. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  Tor looked towards the east end of the village. “There is a tavern over there I am going to check.”

  “The Crown and Sword?”

  “Aye,” Tor said. “I swear I have never eaten so much in my life.”

  Fraser snorted. “That place will make a glutton out of you.”

  Tor grinned. “If she is not there, I will make my way down the avenue and see if I spy her. I would suggest you do the same if you do not find her in the stables. Sweep until the end of the avenue heading west and I will meet you right here when I am finished.”

  It seemed like a good enough plan. Fraser nodded as he headed off towards the livery and Tor turned in the opposite direction, heading for the Crown and Sword.

  The tavern seemed like as good a place to start as any. He really didn’t know where else Isalyn could go this early in the morning, but the entire town seemed to be open for business at this early hour.

  If she was here, she could be anywhere.

  The Crown and Sword was empty at this hour, at least of diners, but there were a few people sleeping on tables and in the corners. Isalyn was not among them, so Tor headed down the street, planning to check in every stall he could find.

  As Tor had noted yesterday, Haltwhistle was a surprisingly busy village, but not so surprising considering it was the largest village on the road between Newcastle upon Tyne and Carlisle. Leading Enbarr behind him, Tor came to a row of stalls whose sole business was precious metals. There were heavily armed guards all around, and they eyed him suspiciously. Unwilling to be seen as a threat, he stayed clear of them as he moved down the avenue.

  Across the street were more stalls that seemed to have a good deal of wool. Raw wool, woven wool, and woolen thread, and they were advertising the fact that they could dye the wool whatever color one might wish. Two men stood out in front of one of the stalls, calling to women passing by, promising that they could dye thread the color of the sky or the color of their eyes. They seemed to be v
ery enthusiastic, pulling in customers for their colored wool.

  But still, no Isalyn.

  Further down the street came an area that had more to do with the heavy wool trade in the region – beaters, sorters, and washers of wool were spread out in an organized fashion, overseen by managers, and there was a good deal of business going on. At this time of year, sheep were being brought to market, as he’d observed yesterday. He had his own sheep at Blackpool to take to market, but last year he took them into Carlisle. He thought that this time, he might bring them here because they clearly had a heavy wool trade industry. Thoughts of bringing his sheep down here were interrupted, however, by what he thought might have been a cry.

  A scream.

  Tor paused, ears cocked. There were crowds around him, so he thought he might be hearing things until he heard it again.

  He’d heard that scream before.

  Yesterday.

  He was on the move.

  The day had started out as a good one.

  Isalyn had awoken before dawn, rising in a chamber that was already warm because the servants had stoked the hearth in the wee hours while she’d been sleeping. Her father always made sure that she was well-tended when she visited, which meant the room was warm, fragrant, and richly appointed in all aspects.

  As the daughter of a merchant, luxury was a given, and that was readily apparent at Featherstone. Covering the wooden floor were fluffy hides and expensive woolen carpets that had been imported from points east. Because her father had many suppliers all over the known world, and supply trains that traveled all over the continent, they often had exotic items from the Holy Land and even further east.

  Things from the lands of the pagan gods.

  One of those items was beneath her feet at that very moment, a rug from Baghdad. It was elaborate and beautiful, magnificent in every aspect. Featherstone had at least four of those rugs that she knew of, including two in her father’s bedchamber and one of them hanging on the wall in the great hall. When she walked the floors of Featherstone, her feet never touched the floor because of all the rugs and hides.

  Her father always insisted on that.

  She was thankful for the floor coverings this morning because it had dawned cold and misty. She made her way over to the hearth to see that a thoughtful servant had put a pot of water over the flame to heat and it was already steaming. Hissing with the cold, Isalyn removed her sleeping shift and washed with the hot water and a soft, white bar of soap that smelled like flowers. She was quick and vigorous in her grooming because today was going to be a busy day.

  She had things to attend to.

  It seemed to be a rather strange deviation from her usual routine because her thoughts this morning were not of returning to London. As long as she had been at Featherstone, she had awoken every morning thinking that this was going to be the last day at her father’s manse. She very much wanted to return home and she had made no secret of that, so nearly every day since her arrival, she had thought that this particular day would be her last.

  It hadn’t worked out that way.

  This morning, her thoughts lingered on Tor and not her return trip home. After the distasteful shock of her brother’s death yesterday, she and Tor had retreated to the great hall for the remainder of the day and into the night. It was clear that he was trying to be kind to her because of what had happened and, truth be told, she was going to let him. Tor de Wolfe was beginning to grow on her, just a little, and she was starting to appreciate his company.

  Provincial knight or not.

  In fact, she had come to see that he was no backwards knight. He watched her with a gaze so intense that surely it could have driven nails through stone. He missed nothing, remembered things she said from yesterday to the last detail, and generally seemed to be one of the smarter men she’d ever met.

  Their conversation in the hall had been a continuation of their other conversation from the tavern in Haltwhistle. That conversation at the Crown and Sword had been a little stiff and perhaps even a little uncertain given the circumstances, but the continuing conversation in the great hall had been anything but stiff and uncertain. Tor was becoming more comfortable with her, so the conversation had been more animated.

  And that’s when Isalyn figured out just how smart he really was.

  Even so, she realized that she had done most of the talking while he had done most of the listening, but it seemed to her that he’d had a smile on his face the entire time. That enormous, handsome, rural knight had her attention and she had no idea why. She wasn’t even really sure if she liked him. Well… that was a lie.

  She did like him.

  That was why she traveled to Haltwhistle on this misty morning. She had departed Featherstone just as the sun rose and headed north to the village. Suspecting that she would never see Tor de Wolfe again after this day, there was something inside of her that wanted the man to remember her. Perhaps it was feminine vanity and nothing more. It wasn’t often that she met a man she could converse so easily with and who was so attentive when listening to her speak of her silly hobbies or independent opinions, but Tor had done both of those things. He had listened to her spout off and he had never said a word to the contrary.

  That took a special man.

  Therefore, she was determined to get something for that special man that she had seen in town the day before. There was a metalworker near the eastern end of town who specialized in unique things. He was more than a blacksmith because not only did he fashion beautiful weapons, but he also fashioned other objects made out of steel, including women’s hair pins, combs, and she even saw a pair of beautiful metal bracelets on display. But the one thing that had had her attention was a lovely steel dagger with a dog’s head on it. Set within the dog’s head, as it was a profile of a dog, was one big sapphire blue eye. She thought the weapon had been rather strong and unique, much like Tor de Wolfe.

  When Isalyn reached the town, it had just been coming alive with farmers from the fields and other people who were there to do business. The metalworker’s stall was towards the eastern end and she made her way down the avenue through the cold, dark morning, plodding along a street and being lured by the smells of the bakers who were churning out their bread for the day.

  Isalyn was so used to traveling by herself and never having any trouble that she wasn’t particularly watching her surroundings. She was usually so good at staying unobtrusive and out of sight that she became accustomed to focusing on her destination and not the world around her. It seemed strange that she had never had any trouble in all the time she had traveled alone, it was the truth. Therefore, she functioned under a false sense of security, as her father had told her.

  She thought he worried like old women.

  Even when she had traveled north from London to Featherstone, it had to been with Fraser and a few of her father’s men because Gilbert had sent Fraser to London to summon his daughter. Had her father not sent an escort, she would not have hired one. She saw nothing wrong with traveling alone at a time when even men did not frequently travel alone, so she was a unique soul, indeed.

  And a bothersome one, according to her father.

  But Isalyn didn’t care what he thought.

  In a few days, she’d be heading back to London, probably to never see him again. Therefore, as she neared the metalworker’s stall, she didn’t notice three soldiers who were also approaching the stall. She was hunting for the dog’s head dagger and didn’t see the three men as they looked her over, elbowing one another. She was looking at daggers and they were looking at her.

  Her lack of observation was going to be her grave mistake.

  “What’s a sweet young miss doing all alone this morning?”

  A burly soldier with a big scar on his cheek had sidled up beside Isalyn without her even noticing. Startled, she looked at the man, who was too close for comfort, and started to move away. But in doing so, she bumped into one of his companions, who was on the other side of her and lookin
g at her rather lasciviously.

  Startled anew, she backed up but the third soldier was right behind her. Frightened and enraged, she threw her elbows out and began kicking and shoving.

  “Back away,” she barked. “How dare you stand so close to me. I do not recall inviting you to do so. Get back!”

  She said it so viciously that they instinctively did as they were told, but their obedience was brief. The man with the scar on his cheek frowned.

  “You have no cause to behave like that, girl,” he said. “We were only saying good morning.”

  Isalyn’s heart was thumping against her ribs. She knew, just by looking at them, that they were up to no good. She struggled not to let her fear get the better of her.

  “I do not know you and I do not wish to speak with you, so go spew your morning salutations on someone else,” she said. “Go away.”

  They didn’t move, but they didn’t advance, either. “You’re an uppity little chit, aren’t you?” the man with the scar asked. “You need to be more mannerly. When someone wants to be nice to you, it is polite to be nice in return.”

  Isalyn had a choice at that moment – continue to bark at them or simply turn away and hope they got the message. She was afraid that if she continued being combative, they might grow angry with her, so she turned her back on them and moved to another side of the stall. Her decision was to ignore them.

  They followed.

  “You’re all alone,” Scar-Face said. “Don’t you need protection? We’re willing to give it for a price. Always for a price.”

  The men snickered lewdly, but Isalyn continued to ignore them, moving away even as the trio followed. They followed her all the way around the stall until she came back to where she had started.

  By this time, the metalworker and his apprentice were watching and when the trio passed close to where they happened to be standing, the metalworker held out an iron rod, putting it between the soldiers and Isalyn. When they looked at the man in outrage, he cocked a bushy, dark eyebrow.