WolfeStrike (de Wolfe Pack Generations Book 2) Page 13

  “If you wish,” she said. “As I said, I was planning on returning very soon. Mayhap even next week.”

  “Then you must come in the next few days. Tell your father that I insist.”

  Something about the way he said it left no room for debate. Isalyn realized that her heart was pounding against her ribs again but, this time, it wasn’t because she was afraid.

  It was because of the way Tor was looking at her.

  Would she come in the next few days?

  She was going to come as fast as she could.

  “I will,” she said. “Thank you for your kindness. My father and I would be honored to sup with you.”

  “Fraser, too?”

  She passed a glance at the knight. “Fraser, too.”

  The corners of Tor’s eyes crinkled, a smile playing on his lips. “Good,” he said. “I shall expect you shortly.”

  Isalyn simply nodded, trying not to look as if this invitation of all invitations she had ever had pleased her beyond reason. She pretended it was nothing to get excited over even though her palms were sweating and she felt very much like smiling. She’d never felt so giddy. Instead, she tried to play it off as if it were nothing of importance.

  “Twenty miles to the north, you said?” she said.

  He nodded, pointing to a road that broke off from the main avenue and headed north. “Follow that road,” he said. “It will twist and turn a little, but stay on it and follow it to the end. You will see Blackpool Castle.”

  Isalyn dipped her head graciously. “I am looking forward to it,” she said. “And thank you again for… for everything, my lord. You have gone above and beyond with regards to my safety and I am grateful.”

  Tor dipped his head in response, his eyes glimmering at her for a moment longer before mounting his horse. That hairy, stocky, muscular beast that he loved like a brother. With a nod at Fraser, Tor directed Enbarr towards the road north. Isalyn watched him until he disappeared from sight.

  “My lady?” Fraser said. “Lady Isalyn?”

  He was trying to get her attention and Isalyn realized that he’d caught her staring at Tor. Slightly embarrassed, she turned to him to see that he was already mounted on his horse. He held out a hand to her to help her mount behind him, but she shook her head.

  “My palfrey is at the livery,” she said. “I will fetch her.”

  She did, quickly, with Fraser trailing behind her, but all the while, she was thinking of the next time she saw Tor.

  She picked up the pace.

  It was going to be sooner than he realized.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He could see it in the distance.

  The approach to Blackpool Castle, as he had told Isalyn, was literally at the end of a road. It could be seen for miles because the topography in this area wasn’t as hilly as it was in some parts of Northumberland. It was flat moors with an occasional rise now and then. Therefore, there was a wide field of vision and the great bastion of Blackpool Castle was easily seen.

  That did not mean that it was vulnerable however. Quite the contrary. Castles along the Scottish Marches all tended to be built the same way – heavily fortified, with massively thick stone walls, stubby and compact, as if they were burrowing down into the earth to gain a foothold against the Scots.

  Carlisle Castle was a perfect example of a fortress looking as if it were hunkering down, preparing to take an onslaught. But then there were castles like Northwood and Questing and Berwick, that were massive places, soaring above the land with four and five-storied keeps, or in the case of Questing, sitting atop a big hill. Breaching it was impossible because an attacking army had to mountain climb in order to get to it, and once they reached it, the walls were twenty feet high.

  It was a great deterrent against attack.

  Blackpool was much in the same vein as the rest of these Marcher castles. It wasn’t sitting atop a big hill and it didn’t have a soaring keep, but it was built from the beige sandstone that was so common to the area, reinforced by gray granite. It had an enormous curtain wall that was eighteen feet high, being twenty feet thick in some places. Having been built by William Rufus, it also used an ancient man-made structure to its advantage: the wall across the northern part of England built by the ancient Romans.

  At this section of the old wall, it was still several feet tall and had what they called a gatehouse, or a mile house, built into it. It was essentially a fortified gatehouse. When William Rufus had built Blackpool, he’d used this ancient wall to protect his fortress by adding on to it and making it encircle his new garrison. Therefore, an army had to pass through the ancient Roman gatehouse before it could even arrive at the fortress itself. All of that protection was exactly why Scott de Wolfe had purchased the property.

  It was a sight to behold.

  And it belonged to Tor for the most part even though, technically, it belonged to the Earl of Warenton. Scott had given it over to his second son to command and Tor had taken to it immediately. He had reinforced the fortress by having his army dig a moat around the eighteen-foot walls, something that had to be carefully engineered so the walls wouldn’t collapse, but Tor was brilliant that way. His army had dug out the moat in a little under six months and the massive walls were as steady as they ever were. The moat was fed by a small river called the Black River, hence the name of the fortress.

  Blackpool Castle had become one of the more formidable castles in Northumberland.

  Tor derived great satisfaction from the sight as he and Enbarr trotted down the road, drawing closer to the outer ancient wall. Already, he could see movement in the outer gatehouse and as he rode up to the thick, squat gatehouse, his men were more than happy to open the heavy iron gates. He passed through, greeting his men, as he continued on to the second, and main, gatehouse.

  This gatehouse was thick and impenetrable, two stories tall, with a platform on top of it so the gate guards had easy access to unruly visitors. It was a simple thing to position archers atop the gatehouse for just that purpose but, in this case, the double portcullises were lifted, admitting Tor into the courtyard beyond.

  There was only one courtyard at Blackpool, but it was a big one. Surrounded by those tall walls, it was well-protected. In addition to a three-storied keep, there were separate living apartments built by the former owner, a separate great hall, kitchens, and a stable yard tucked into one corner. In the vast space between the fortress and the ancient Roman walls, there was a larger stable and a vast garden to supply the fortress with fresh produce.

  “Welcome home!”

  Tor turned to see his second in command approaching. Christian Hage was his cousin, the youngest son of his aunt, Katheryn, and her husband, Alec. Christian was named for two dead uncles, a brother to his grandfather and then also brother to his father. Both men had lost their lives in battle. Katheryn and Alec thought long and hard before naming their last child after two dead men because that particular name seemed to be cursed within the Hage family. But they finally decided that curses could be broken and the dead uncles needed to be honored.

  So far, this Christian Hage hadn’t seen any trouble.

  Though young at twenty years and five, he was mature and seasoned beyond his years, as all Hage knights were. He had his grandfather’s size, with enormous shoulders and a muscular body, but he had his mother’s honey-colored hair and emerald eyes. There was no shortage of female admirers for Christian Hage.

  “Greetings,” Tor said as he reined Enbarr to a halt. “How is my fortress?”

  “Well,” Christian said. “And its commander?”

  “Well.”

  The smile on Christian’s face faded. “I heard about de Featherstone,” he said. “You should know that Uncle Blayth and Isabella are here.”

  Tor looked at him in shock. “Here?” he repeated. “What on earth are they doing here?”

  Christian sighed heavily. “All I could get out of Uncle Blayth is that he wanted to talk to you,” he said. Then, he lowered his voice. “R
onan told him that you killed Steffan.”

  Tor wasn’t intimidated. “Because he tried to kill Alexander,” he said. “I was defending my half-brother.”

  Christian held up a hand to ease him. “I know,” he said. “I heard everything. Ronan is here, too. I think he came so his father wouldn’t be too angry.”

  Tor’s eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “Angry for what?” he said, incredulous. “He blames me for this fiasco? He should thank me. The things I have heard about Steffan de Featherstone since that time are unsavory at best. Even his father apologized for the man’s behavior. Where is Uncle Blayth?”

  “In the apartments,” Christian said. “But he has probably heard the sentries. Mayhap you should go to him before he hunts you down.”

  Tor rolled his eyes, but the point was taken. He removed his saddlebags before Enbarr was led away and handed them off to Christian.

  “Put those in my chamber, if you will,” he said. “I will find our loving uncle and discover what kind words of praise he has for me.”

  It was a sarcastic remark, one that had Christian grinning as he headed off to do Tor’s bidding. Only Tor wasn’t grinning.

  He was bracing himself for what was to come.

  The apartments of Blackpool were built into the northwest corner of the bailey, a two-storied building that had four rooms on each floor. The keep was large and powerfully built, but it only had one giant chamber on each floor and the previous lord of Blackpool had twelve children. He needed somewhere to put them all.

  The chambers were comfortable and well-built, and whenever there were visitors at Blackpool they were always housed in the nice, cozy chambers of the apartments. Tor had the apartment block in his sights as Ronan spilled from the entry.

  Tor wasn’t so sure he wanted to speak with Ronan if the man had blamed him for Steffan’s death. His cousin was going to have to do some fast talking.

  “Tor!” Ronan called out, heading in his direction. “How did it go with Gilbert de Featherstone? You told him about his son?”

  Tor came to a halt. “I have a better question,” he said. “What did you tell your father, Ronan? Why is he here?”

  Ronan tried not to look too guilty or apologetic. “He asked,” he said. “I wasn’t the only one who told him the truth. Alec told him, too, and…”

  “Tor!”

  They both turned to the apartment entry in time to see a lovely young woman emerge holding the hand of a big, battle-scarred man. The young woman was waving at Tor happily, finally letting go of the man and rushing to Tor for a hug.

  “Bella,” Tor said, kissing her on the cheek. “It is a nice surprise to see you, lass.”

  Isabella Anne de Wolfe was genuinely a sweet girl who looked exactly like her grandmother, Jordan, had in her youth. With big green eyes and a sweet smile, she was a beauty. She also looked a lot happier than Tor had expected given she’d just lost her fiancé.

  “Father wanted to talk to you about Steffan,” Isabella said, holding Tor’s hand. “We heard what happened, that he fought to escape the de Wolfe pack. Ronan said he tried to kill Alexander.”

  “That’s enough, Bella.” Blayth de Wolfe was close enough to hear the conversation. “I will speak with Tor alone. You and Ronan go somewhere else and make yourselves useful.”

  Isabella frowned at her father. “Doing what?”

  “I don’t care what. Play in the mud for all I care. Throw rocks at each other. Just go away.”

  Isabella’s frown deepened. “Father, this discussion concerns me. I wish to stay.”

  Blayth didn’t say a word. He simply pointed to the keep, silently directing her to leave, and Ronan took her by the arm and dragged her away. But it wasn’t without resistance and Isabella struggled and complained the entire time, at least until they were out of earshot. She just didn’t think she needed to leave and was quite angry about it.

  Blayth shook his head.

  “She’s worse than her mother ever was,” he muttered. “She acts just like her grandmother, Jemma, at times. God help us.”

  Tor smiled faintly as he looked at his uncle. Born James de Wolfe, twin of Katheryn, he was blond, bright, powerful, and handsome. He had been a fine tribute to the House of de Wolfe until he died. At least, that had been the belief for five long years. James and the rest of the de Wolfe knights had gone into Wales and been in an ambush where James had been struck down.

  Because of the dangerous conditions, he’d been left behind, felled by a morning star that had caved in the left side of his helm. William de Wolfe had been forced to leave his boy behind with the strict belief that he had left a body, but the truth was that James had been alive.

  Saved by a Welsh warlord, James had been strong enough to overcome a horrific head injury, but the cost was the loss of his memory. He had been healed by the Welsh with no memory of who he was and the Welsh called him the Welsh word for “wolf” because it seemed to be the only word James could remember. Blaidd, or phonetically pronounced Blithe or Blayth, became his name. James de Wolfe had transformed into a scarred, rugged Welsh warrior who had returned to his family purely by chance.

  But that had been twenty years ago. He’d come home a different man in many ways, but the heart of him was still a de Wolfe. His memory had gradually come back but it had taken many years. There were still things he didn’t remember, and he’d married in Wales because he didn’t remember that he already had a wife, but it had all worked out in the end. His first wife and Isabella’s mother, Rose Hage, had remarried to good man named Owen le Mon who served at Castle Questing while Blayth commanded Roxburgh Castle.

  The dynamics had been a little strange, that was true. It wasn’t often a man came back from the dead and found himself with two wives. But Blayth’s Welsh wife, Asmara, and Rose had gotten on splendidly from the beginning and there had been nothing strained. Ronan and Isabella, children of James and Rose, had been raised lovingly by two sets of parents for the most part. They called Owen “Papa” and Blayth “Father”, and in the case of Isabella’s reluctant fiancé, Owen had deferred to Blayth completely.

  And that was where they were at this moment. Tor could see that Blayth was in full angry-father mode simply by looking at him.

  “So,” Tor said quietly. “You want to know why I killed Steffan.”

  Blayth looked at him, folding his big arms over his chest. “I know why you killed him,” he said in his deliberate speech, the result of his head injury. “I cannot say that I blame you, lad, but surely there had to be another way. Did you have to kill him?”

  Tor shook his head. “Nay, there was not another way,” he said firmly. “You know how it is in battle, Uncle Blayth. You know that you only have a split-second to make a decision, and that was all the time I had. It was either Steffan or Alexander, and I was not going to watch Steffan kill my half-brother. I am sorry if you are angry with me for it, but that is the truth. I would kill any man who tried to harm my younger half-brothers.”

  Blayth sighed faintly. “I understand, I suppose,” he said. “But Steffan… damn the man…”

  Tor could hear the distress in his tone. “Honestly, Uncle Blayth,” he said with some passion. “Do you really want a man like Steffan married to your daughter? He ran from her, for Christ’s sake. And you were going to force him to return and marry her? Do you really wish that for your daughter?”

  Blayth eyed him unhappily. “He made her a promise.”

  “And he broke it,” Tor said flatly. “I would not want that kind of man for my daughter. That was a complete and utter show of Steffan’s true colors – a coward and a liar. In fact, when I took his body home, his father apologized for his son. Gilbert de Featherstone was greatly distressed at Steffan’s behavior. It seems that his son has been a ne’er-do-well all his life, arrogant and ambitious. Not even the man’s own father showed any great regard for him. And you still want him for your daughter?”

  Blayth cast Tor a long look before rolling his eyes and averting his gaze. “I do not,�
�� he said. “But I wanted the privilege of punishing him myself.”

  Tor’s eyes twinkled with mirth when he realized exactly why Blayth was angry. “Is that what this is all about?”

  Blayth grunted dejectedly and Tor burst into soft laughter. Then, Tor put a big arm around his uncle’s neck and kissed the side of his scarred head.

  “I love you very much, Uncle Blayth,” he said. “You have the same thoughts as all the rest of us.”

  “Inflicting pain on those who offend our women?”

  Tor continued to snort. “Exactly.”

  “He deserved everything I could do to him.”

  “He did. But I must say… Isabella does not seem too upset about all of this.”

  Blayth shook his head. “She is not,” he said. “She and Matha had a long, detailed conversation on the day that Steffan fled. Matha convinced her that she doesn’t want such a man because he would only bring her heartache. Isabella agreed. Truthfully, she seems most relieved about it now.”

  Matha was what the de Wolfe grandchildren called Jordan de Wolfe, wife of William. She was still alive, though extremely elderly, and was the matriarch of a great and powerful family. Her word was law, no matter how powerful her sons were, and she was deeply loved by all. In truth, Tor wasn’t surprised to hear that his grandmother had been involved in Isabella’s change of heart.

  In fact, he was glad for it.

  “There seems to be a history of men being punished for wronging the women of our family,” he said. “I recall a story about Poppy and Uncle Alec. He was sweet on Aunt Katheryn before they started courting and although she was sweet on him, she evidently would not give him any indication. Do you recall this story?”

  Blayth was smiling reluctantly. “I do not believe so,” he said. “One of the many things I do not remember from long ago. What happened?”