A Wolfe Among Dragons_Sons of de Wolfe Read online

  The students were looking around at each other until one boy, with a round face and shiny dark hair, raised his hand.

  “Is that the Dragon Tamer?” he asked.

  Mr. Nolwynn nodded vigorously. “Exactly. The man I speak of is a rather obscure Welsh hero and his story is told in a very old tale called ‘The Wolf and the Dragon Princess’,” he said. “He has been called the Dragon Tamer by some. Other names are the Ghost, the Beast, and I’ve even heard him called Lazarus.”

  “Why?” the young man asked.

  Mr. Nolwynn fixed on him. “Because local legend said he rose from the dead,” he said. “Let me tell you about the story of the wolf who fought amongst the dragons. It’s not a well-known legend, but it’s one that has appeared in a few historical documents. The man who wrote ‘The Wolf and the Dragon Princess’ is the Medieval priest this very museum was named after. Jestin y Dale, or Jestin of the Dale as he was called, was a collector of many things. His church is long gone now, although the foundations still survive, but he collected many things from battles local to the Ystrad Tywi, the very valley we live in. During Medieval times, there were a great many battles in this area and Father Jestin made a point of collecting what he could from them.”

  The same boy was holding his hand up, ignoring his friends who were poking at him and snorting.

  “Why did he collect the things left over from the battles?” he asked.

  Mr. Nolwynn pointed a finger at him. “That is an excellent question,” he said. “For safe keeping, perhaps. Or maybe he was just a hoarder.”

  The kids began to laugh at that, now a little more interested in what he was saying, and Mr. Nolwynn continued.

  “In any case,” he said, “Jestin collected so many things that the Church, who kept all of it, eventually gave it over to this very town where Jestin’s parish was, and it is the town that opened this museum. And Jestin’s writings are the only record we have of the wolf who lived among the dragons. There is a famous poem about him, also written by Jestin, called ‘A Night of Dragons’. Has anyone heard of it?”

  Another boy, with bright red hair, lifted his hand. “I’ve heard of it. My father has it on the wall of his office.”

  Mr. Nolwynn nodded eagerly. “It is a very old poem,” he said. “It means something different to everyone, I think. National pride or maybe even a metaphor for a second chance at life. Whatever the case, the story behind that famous old poem is the tale you will hear today, some of it told through Jestin’s words and some of it told through mine. I’m sure Jestin’s account is not complete because it doesn’t give us much background on the man, but I would like to believe that the truth of the matter is stranger than fiction.”

  Some of the kids began to pipe up, asking to hear the poem, and Mr. Nolwynn held up his hands to quiet them. When the room stilled, he fingered the rough woolen cloak he was wearing.

  “Heroes aren’t just the men you see in the movies or in books,” he said. “Heroes come in many shapes and sizes, men of great valor and bravery. Sometimes it’s a lifetime of heroic deeds, or sometimes it’s just one heroic moment in time, but all heroes have something in common – their moments of bravery make history. Maybe they do it with a sword, or a gun, or by saving a life, or even by wearing a woolen cloak like this one and doing what they believed was right because they believed strongly enough in their destiny – or their patriotism – to make a difference. In any era, all heroes are the same. They do what they have to do, because it is the right thing to do.”

  It was a powerful little speech, one that managed to quiet all of the kids down. Now, Mr. Nolwynn had their full attention as he recited the poem they’d been waiting for:

  “In the darkness, ’ere they came,

  Children of the night, known by name.

  A dragon’s call, so high the cost,

  A mournful cry, a son was lost.

  He died that night, the story told,

  But from the ashes, a warrior rose.

  A man of iron, of heart and soul,

  A man with a past no one could know.

  Joy and glee turned night to day,

  The Wolfe’s son has returned,

  With Dragons, they say.”

  When he was finished, the young people seemed very eager to hear more. And that was how Mr. Nolwynn had planned it.

  “Now,” he said quietly. “From that poem, we know that the Dragon Tamer was a great warrior, the son of someone named Wolfe. That’s not a Welsh name and scholars have speculated that he was English, or even Teutonic, but we may never know. What we do know is that he was part of Rhys ap Maredudd’s rebellion in 1287 AD, and that he led a great uprising in the south before disappearing completely. But we can find no documentation of his death, or even his birth, leading some scholars to believe that maybe such a man never even existed. But something tells me that he did, because Jestin said he did. And, as we all know, priests don’t lie.”

  That brought a chuckle from the group. The boy with the red hair was raising his hand again.

  “So if this Dragon Tamer had a story, what do you think it is?” he asked. “You must know what his life was like.”

  Mr. Nolwynn grinned, showing off his brand-new dentures. “I would imagine a very good adventure for him, for the brief time we assume he existed. I hope Jestin will forgive me for speculating on, but this is the way I believe his story goes. It all starts at the Battle of Llandeilo in the summer of 1282 AD…”

  PROLOGUE

  Llandeilo, Wales

  June, Year of our Lord 1282

  “Papa! You must let him go! We must retreat!”

  Sir Troy de Wolfe was screaming at his father. Coming from a man who did not scream, it was indicative of the horrific situation.

  The Welsh had been waiting for them.

  It had been such a stupid folly on the part of the English, something William de Wolfe, Troy’s father, had warned against. The English had been victorious in a battle that had seen them sack the Welsh stronghold of Carreg Cennen Castle. Edward I’s campaign against the Welsh had them in Southern Wales at this point in time, but William had warned the Earl of Gloucester, who was in charge of this particular movement, against proceeding so far into the country without adequate troops. Unfortunately, the arrogant earl wasn’t apt to listen to England’s greatest warrior, a man who had seen more battles than most.

  And that lapse of judgment had led William, his sons, and many other English knights right into an ambush.

  They were paying the price.

  “Papa!” This shout came from another son, Patrick. The largest de Wolfe son was holding off an attack of rabid Welsh warriors as William sat on the ground with his dying son in his arms. “Papa, we must flee! You must leave James!”

  But William was in a world of anguish as he held his child against him. The man had been struck in the head by a morning star, which had knocked him off his steed, while several Welsh rebels had swarmed over him and used his body like a pin cushion. William couldn’t even count the number of injuries on his boy; all he knew was that there was blood everywhere and the man was dying. Truth was, he was probably already dead, but William refused to admit it.

  He couldn’t admit it.

  Not James!

  “I will carry him,” he rasped. “I will carry him and he will be healed.”

  He shifted the body, trying to stand up even as his sons and several soldiers tried to protect England’s greatest knight who was, in fact, a very old man. That was the reality of it. William de Wolfe had no business being in battle at his age, but he was healthy enough and there was no reason for him not to except his advanced years.

  But at this moment, England’s greatest knight was very close to losing his life in an inglorious Welsh ambush.

  Scott de Wolfe, Troy’s twin and a fine healer in his own right, pushed his way out of the fighting to get to his father and dying brother. Tears stung his eyes as he looked down at James’ pale face, seeing the extent of the head wound and knowin
g that if his brother wasn’t already dead, he wasn’t long for this world. As a healer, he could be somewhat logical about it but, as a brother to James, he was devastated.

  But the problem wasn’t James as much as it was William – the man was so grief-stricken that he couldn’t even see his way to comprehend what was happening around him. All he could do was clutch James fiercely and weep openly over the man. My boy… my sweet baby boy, he said, over and over. But Scott could see what was going on around them. They had been ambushed and they were outmanned. If they did not leave Llandeilo at that moment then none of them were going to survive.

  “Papa,” he said as calmly as he could, putting his hands on James to try and pull him away from his father. “You must leave him. We cannot risk carrying James with us, as he will slow us down. He would understand. Do you hear me? We must make all due haste away from here.”

  But William shook his head, violently. “I cannot leave him,” he wept. “I will not leave my son behind.”

  Scott could see his brothers, Troy and Patrick, and several other cousins and family members struggling with the Welsh. So far, the ambush had been a massacre of English knights and unless Scott pulled his father out of harm’s way, it would claim even more of them. He yelled at his brother, Patrick.

  “Atty!” he boomed. “Help me or we all die!”

  Atty was the nickname for the biggest de Wolfe brother, Patrick, and Scott had summoned the man for a reason. William had a stable of very strong sons, but Patrick was the largest and the strongest. If he had any chance of separating his father from James, then he was going to need help and Patrick was probably the only one strong enough to do it. Physically, it was going to be a battle.

  But Patrick had his own problems. Because he was so big, the Welsh seemed to be determined to take him down, so he was fighting for his life even as Scott called to him. There was no way for him to break away.

  Yet, Scott’s call did not go unheeded. Two older knights, the oldest and dearest friends that William had, were also in the fray, fighting with their sons, trying desperately not to be killed. In the midst of the chaos, of the fighting and screaming and death, they heard Scott’s cry and they managed to disengage from the Welsh enough to stagger over to where William sat with his son in his arms.

  It was a shocking sight. Neither Kieran Hage nor Paris de Norville had realized James had been struck down because they’d been fighting off to the south and they’d missed the moment when James had been toppled off his horse and attacked. Paris was a great healing knight, a man who was trusted by everyone under William de Wolfe’s command, and he had been known to heal even the hopeless. He rushed up to William, trying to separate the man from his son.

  “William,” he said breathlessly. “Let me see him. Let me have him!”

  William was reluctant to release his son, even to the man he had trusted with his very life for many years. The bond between William and Paris went beyond blood but, at this moment, William couldn’t seem to trust anyone with his son’s body, not even Paris.

  “Uncle Paris!” Scott hissed. “James is gone. We must leave my brother here and flee!”

  Paris’ fair face was pinched with exertion, with fear, and now with rage at Scott’s words. He shoved the man away.

  “We will not leave James behind!” he barked. “And we do not know that he is dead!”

  With that, he yanked James from William and placed the man on the ground. What he saw shook him to the core; James had been hit so hard in the head that his helm was dented. There was blood and bits of blond hair and scalp everywhere, leaking from the helm and onto James’ mail. He also had several arrows sticking out of him, and a huge gash on his neck, making him look as if he’d taken a bath in his own blood, literally.

  A bloodbath.

  As Paris lifted his eyelids, trying to see if the pupils were reacting, he really couldn’t tell because it was so dark around them. The Welsh had struck at sunset, just before the English had reached the safe haven of Dinefwr Castle, and the fighting in the dusk had created mass confusion and panic.

  “Is he dead?” Scott demanded. “Uncle Paris – is he dead?”

  Paris looked at the man on the ground. He tried to remove the helm, but it was so dented that it was nearly impossible. He tried to feel for a pulse, but with all of the jostling going on around him and layers of clothing, he couldn’t seem to find one. He could only form an opinion based on his years of experience and with tears in his eyes, he nodded.

  “I believe he is,” he said quietly. “God, William… I am so very sorry.”

  William was already weeping, but with Paris’ confirmation, Scott couldn’t fight back the tears. His kind, gentle, and wildly humorous brother was dead. He couldn’t even stomach the news but, in the same breath, it didn’t change the situation as a whole.

  They had to get out of there.

  “Then we must leave him,” he said, reaching over to pull his father away from his brother’s corpse. “We cannot carry him. It will only slow us down and the Welsh would eat us alive. We must get out of here, Papa!”

  Paris was weeping, too, and over his shoulder, big and broad Kieran Hage gazed down on his daughter’s husband and felt as if he’d just lost his very own son. As Scott and Paris struggled to pull William away, Kieran fell to his knees beside James’ body and gathered the man into his arms as William had done. Now, they had another problem on their hands; William was separated from his son, but the father of James’ wife had taken his place.

  “Your children shall not forget you, I swear it,” Kieran whispered, tears popping from his eyes. “They will know how bravely their father met his death, and you shall live in their hearts every day. You shall be well remembered, my sweet James. Godspeed, lad, and know that you are loved.”

  With that, he struggled to pick James up and carry him, much as William had tried to do. By this time, the English were retreating, including Kieran’s own sons, Kevin and Alec. Kevin, who was James’ best friend, hadn’t seen him fall. So when he saw James in his father’s arms, panic and rage set in. He rushed to his father’s side, as did Alec and the rest of the de Wolfe brothers, now trying to herd the old men back to the horses that had been scattered in the ambush.

  “Oh… God!” Kevin erupted when he saw James’ body in his father’s arms. “God, not James. Please… not James!”

  It was a cry from the heart, and Kieran couldn’t even answer his son. He was devastated, struggling with the body even as Kevin tried to take it from him. But the Welsh were following, and Kevin was needed for the intense fighting that was taking place to cover their retreat. Scott and Troy were urging their father along, while Paris, his sons Apollo and Hector, and Patrick were fighting off the Welsh who very badly wanted to get their hands on the Saesneg. They’d already claimed a few English knights and their bloodlust was fed.

  They wanted more.

  It was utter chaos and somewhere in the retreat, Kieran stumbled and dropped James onto the ground. But the Welsh were right up behind them and he wasn’t able to reclaim the body. It was his life or James’ corpse, and Kieran’s sons were dragging him along so that he couldn’t retrieve James. They were all fighting for their lives, all scrambling to leave that dark, green-covered valley without succumbing to the Welsh.

  Somehow, the English found their horses and were able to reclaim them. Even after William mounted his steed, he tried to go back for James, but it was to no avail. The Welsh had his son, and they were stripping him of everything of value. When William saw that the Welsh had put James de Wolfe’s tunic onto a stick and were waving it high like a victory banner, horror and grief consumed him. But he also knew that there was no chance for him to recover his son’s body.

  The Welsh were fed by victory, and he had to leave in order to save himself.

  On that day, William de Wolfe lost a piece of himself in Wales, never to be recovered again.

  PART ONE

  RISE OF A LEGEND

  CHAPTER ONE

>   August, Year of our Lord 1287

  Carmarthen Castle, Wales

  It was a gathering among gatherings, a most important meeting that could, and would, determine quite a bit in a world where the English held parts of Wales, while still other parts were ruled by various warlords.

  But this gathering was different.

  Carmarthen Castle was awash with Welshmen, rebels from the mountains, from the seaside, and everything in between. All of them were gathered for a most important conference. Patience, they didn’t have.

  But vengeance… they had enough to fill the ocean.

  The castle sat on a rocky outcropping above the River Towy, which meandered through the green and lush land on its way to the sea. Gulls flew this far inland, swooping over the river banks and diving for meals from the scraps left on the river banks by the fishermen.

  But in the village itself, tension could be felt because the roads and alleys were full of Welshmen from different tribes and ruling houses, all of them converging on the castle. There were many rivals and allies, even though every Welshman considered every other Welshman a cymry, or fellow Welsh. There was a good deal of infighting and hostility among the factions but, in all cases, those hostilities were put aside when it came to the Saesneg.

  The English.

  And that was why they’d gathered at Carmarthen Castle, which had been through some rough times over the past century. For the past ten years, it had belonged to Howell ap Gruffydd, who had taken it from William Marshal the Younger, but Howell hadn’t done much to effect repairs the castle so badly needed, mostly because he didn’t want a repaired castle to fall back into English hands. The castle had been tossed back and forth between the Welsh and the English over the years but, at the moment, Howell had it. But there was no guarantee that would be the case next year, or even next month.

  It was, therefore, symbolic that this meeting take place at Carmarthen. And even as Welshmen flocked to the castle, men were wearing their long, woolen tunics and carrying the weapons that were traditional to Welsh warriors. These were men of mail and shields, teulu to great warlords, and always prepared for a fight. They employed effective fighting methods, and they were rabid in their love of their country.