WolfeSword: de Wolfe Pack Generations Read online

  “Marks on the flesh do not make her a witch.”

  Amata wasn’t pleased that he wasn’t listening to her. She wagged a finger at him. “Do not say that you were not warned,” she said. “Whatever your business is with the duke, you should not stay at Edenthorpe. You must come to my father’s home for lodgings. He will be more than happy to have you and I would be honored to entertain you.”

  At that point, it was all he could do not to roll his eyes at her. “Thank you for the offer, but I will remain at Edenthorpe,” he said, moving around her and continuing towards Bose and Rhori. “Good day to you, Lady Amata.”

  “But –”

  “Du Bois!” Cassius bellowed, drowning her out. “De Shera! We ride to Edenthorpe!”

  He had all but forgotten about Amata. He didn’t even notice when she stopped running after him. He was focused on his knights and as Amata stood there and watched, Cassius and his men ran off towards the livery where they’d left their horses and the dog. The duke was expecting them and they wouldn’t keep the man waiting.

  But Amata didn’t see it that way. She saw a deliciously handsome knight getting away from her, but he wasn’t going to get far.

  She wasn’t going to let him get away.

  Her father was somewhere in the crowd and she headed off to find him. She would tell him of the gorgeous de Wolfe knight and make sure her father sent word to Doncaster, inviting the man to their home to sup. As a cousin of Doncaster, it would be rude to refuse. One way or another, she wanted de Wolfe to come to Silverdale.

  To her.

  Amata was convinced she had just met her future husband.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “What do you think of this shade, my lady?”

  The question had come from an older woman, her neck and head tightly wimpled in white, wearing the brown broadcloth garments of a servant as she held up a piece of wet fabric that she had been stirring in a stone cauldron. The woman she was addressing had just come down the stone steps that led into this den of activity. As weak sunlight streamed in through a series of small, barred windows, the woman on the steps peered closely at the fabric without touching it.

  “A lovely shade of yellow,” she said. “Well done, Edie.”

  The older woman carefully put the cloth back in the stone vat and continued to stir carefully. “Onion skins and as much saffron as we could spare, mixed with the alum,” she said. “It makes a beautiful color.”

  She wasn’t looking at the young woman, now bending over the vat to inspect the color of the water. If she happened to look up, she would see what she had always seen – a petite lass with a womanly shape, big breasts, and eyes of the purest and palest blue. They were almost unnatural in their magnificent beauty. But she would also see a face full of tiny spots. Some called them witch’s marks, some called them sun spots, and some even called them freckles.

  Whatever they were, they were that by which Dacia of Doncaster was defined.

  It was a pity, too. Dacia, under any other circumstances, would have been one of the most sought-after women in all of England because she was the sole heiress to a vast and rich dukedom. Unfortunately, the fates had not been kind to her, and just after her first birthday, a sea of freckles began to appear on the bridge of her nose and cheeks.

  That had only been the beginning.

  Her nursemaid had kept her covered up and out of the sun but, still, the freckles kept coming. By the time she was five years old, they covered her nose, her cheeks, and down her neck. Since Dacia’s parents had died when she had been very young, the only person to tend to her had been her nursemaid, who had been convinced that the devil was trying to mark her charge.

  As a child, she’d had a few friends and had been allowed to interact somewhat normally with allies and children her own age. But as she grew, the freckles darkened and the comments began to come. When the rumors and whispers started, and the children grew cruel, the withdrawal from normal life came.

  Dacia of Doncaster retreated from the social circles.

  As a result of this stringent and paranoid upbringing, Dacia had never been sent away to foster. She had been kept at Edenthorpe Castle, considered a safe haven, because of her zealously religious nursemaid. Even on her deathbed, the old woman was still convinced that the devil had been trying to mark her beloved Dacia and made her promise to always keep her face covered.

  All Dacia had ever known was to hide those marks from the world.

  Oddly enough, however, she grew into a thoughtful, intelligent, and well-educated young woman who was determined to do good in the world. She had a genuine desire to help the less fortunate, possibly because she knew what it was like to be an outcast. There was no lingering hint of the strangeness her nursemaid had imprinted upon her other than the fact that she rarely left Edenthorpe and when she did, she was covered from head to toe in veils to disguise the heavy dusting of freckles.

  Marks of the devil, the old woman had called them.

  Unfortunately for Dacia, she had to live with that stigma.

  Even so, she didn’t let it weigh upon her as heavily as it could have. She had gotten used to hiding her face from the world, which now was uncovered in a rare moment. The woman stirring the dye happened to look up, right into Dacia’s face as the woman bent over the vat. She thought that, perhaps, the freckles had faded with age. They didn’t seem as dark as they used to be and, at a distance, one couldn’t really tell she had them. But at close range, they were clear.

  A pity, too. Dacia had an exquisite face of lush lips, well-shaped nose, and those magnificent blue eyes, but the scattering of freckles marred that picture.

  The woman stirring the dye tried not to feel pity for the lonely young heiress. When her days should be filled with parties and her nights with handsome suitors, she’d never attended a party in her life, nor had she ever known a suitor.

  No one should have to be so lonely.

  “This will make for a beautiful garment, my lady,” the old woman said. “It was kind of you to have it made for Lady Amata’s day of birth. It will go well with her pale hair.”

  Dacia Mathilde Violette de Ferrar de Ryes grinned as she watched the woman stir the material. “She is my cousin as well as my friend,” she said simply. “Oh, I know you do not like her, Edie, but I do look forward to her visits.”

  Old Edie lifted an eyebrow as she continued stirring. “She comes here to gawk at your grandfather’s knights, pick over your jewelry, and steal your clothing,” she said with disapproval. “You should not be so generous with her. She takes but she never gives.”

  “She gives me her companionship when she visits. That is worth a great deal to me.”

  Edie shut her mouth after that. She was just thinking on how lonely her mistress was except for occasional visits by her greedy and silly cousin, Amata de Branton, who came to visit regularly even though she was petty, gossipy, and bordered on thieving. She also had a tendency to mimic what the nurse had told Dacia, criticizing her face, insisting that her cousin remained covered at all times. It was Edie’s opinion that it was out of jealousy and not concern, as Dacia chose to believe.

  Edie had never liked Amata.

  For good reason.

  “She’ll be very grateful for your gift, my lady,” Edie said evenly. “You are a kind and generous soul, lamb.”

  Dacia looked up from the vat, smiling at the old servant. “As are you,” she said. “Edie, I know you mean well about Amata… and do not think I am so blind to what she really is… but she is my cousin and I do crave her companionship. It is better than the alternative.”

  Edie simply nodded. It was that lonely girl speaking again and she had nothing to say to the contrary. “What of her sister?” she said. “Why not have Sabine visit? She used to come quite a bit.”

  Dacia shrugged. “Sabine is bound for the cloister,” she said. “Amata says she spends all of her time praying. She has no time to visit me any longer.”

  Pity, Edie thought. Younger sister Sabine h
ad been the kind one. Still, she wouldn’t dwell on it. “And when shall we expect Lady Amata’s next visit?” she said. “It has been a while since the last one.”

  Dacia returned her focus to the dye vat. “Soon, I hope,” she said. “Her father was ill, but he is better now, so she should return soon. I hope so. I have missed her.”

  Edie glanced up at her. “Mayhap you should ask your grandfather to make it so that Lady Amata stays on longer this time,” she said. “She could become your companion, your lady-in-waiting. You are to be a duchess someday and all duchesses need ladies.”

  Dacia shrugged. “Possibly,” she said. “But becoming a duchess is a long time off yet.”

  “Not as long as you think,” Edie reminded her quietly. “Your grandfather is old, my lady. You must prepare for the event of his passing. You must be prepared to take your rightful place.”

  Dacia knew that. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought on it before, but she didn’t like to think of the day her grandfather would pass away. He was really all she had as far as immediate family went. Even Amata was really a distant cousin. But Edie was right. When her grandfather was gone, she would become the duchess of a great empire. Having her cousin for a lady-in-waiting wasn’t a bad idea.

  And she would have a permanent friend.

  “Mayhap,” she said. “I will think on it.”

  “If not a lady-in-waiting, why not a maid?”

  Dacia waved her off. “Amata? A maid?” She shook her head. “She would sooner throw herself from the battlements than become a maid. Besides… I have more maids than I need, to be perfectly truthful. They do everything but eat and breathe for me. Sometimes I wish…”

  She trailed off and Edie looked at her. “What, lamb?”

  Dacia stood up from the vat. “Sometimes I wish they would all go away and leave me alone,” she said. “It’s strange, Edie… I feel so alone sometimes, but I am never really alone. I am always surrounded by people. God’s Bones, when I hear myself say that, I sound like a madwoman.”

  Edie grinned. “You sound like someone who has great responsibilities and many people to help you with them,” she said. “That is why you have so many women, my lady. They are all there to serve you.”

  Dacia nodded her head, but it was clear that Edie didn’t understand what she was saying. As much as the old woman loved her, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  She was a bird in a gilded cage and no one seemed to understand that.

  “That is true,” she said, but she didn’t want to continue along a subject that was both frustrating and sometimes painful. With a sigh, she turned for the door. “Grandfather should be returning soon from the festival. I hope he has brought me something from it.”

  “You should have gone with him,” Edie said. “There is dancing and food and merriment. It would have been fun.”

  Dacia was climbing back up the stone steps that led out into the bailey. “Not me,” she said. “You know I do not attend those festivals. They are not for me.”

  Edie looked up from her dye vat, a hint of pity in her expression. “But… what happened was so long ago. Surely you could try again. You might enjoy yourself.”

  Dacia was at the top of the stairs, pausing to look down at her most faithful servant. “Nay,” she said softly, firmly. “I am not meant for those gatherings, nor merriment, nor gaiety. Men want to see who they are dancing with or talking to, and you know that I cannot… well, it is not for me. I learned my lesson the first time I went and a young man yanked off my veil. It will not happen again.”

  Sadly, Edie remembered the incident. A very young Dacia, who had just made that awkward transition from childhood to womanhood, wanted very much to attend the very festival that was going on in the village that day – the Lords of Misrule. She had worn her customary veil, but a naughty fool had pulled it from her face and she’d run home, embarrassed, vowing never to attend another festival again.

  Edie wasn’t entirely sure that her revealed face had caused a ruckus, because the duke told a slightly different story about the incident, but Dacia was convinced that every person in the village looked upon her and was horrified, so she kept away from anything that had to do with festivals or feasts or celebrations. She went to mass regularly with the duke, but that was the only thing she ever did that involved groups of people.

  Dacia of Doncaster had relegated herself to a solitary existence.

  But… Edie didn’t argue with her or try to change her mind. It would do no good. As Dacia left the tower, Edie simply smiled and waved her on. It was never productive to convince her that perhaps the marks on her face weren’t as bad as her old nurse had convinced her of.

  The old nurse had left an imprint that could not be erased, leaving a ruined young woman in her wake.

  It was a surprisingly mild spring day as far as spring days went.

  Sometimes this far north, even the springtime could be cold and wet. It was rare when there was a bright and crisp day that had a hint of warmth to it, as today did. As Dacia stepped out into the bailey, a veritable hive of activity at this time of day, she shielded her eyes from the sun and looked up into the blue, blue sky.

  It was difficult not to look into the beautiful day and not feel some depression.

  Remorse.

  Edie had brought up the festival and Dacia had brushed it off, as she always did. But the truth was that it meant more to her than that. She suspected that Edie knew that, but something in Dacia couldn’t let the woman know that it hurt more than she let on. Dacia wasn’t one to complain, nor had she ever been. She was stoic and accepted things as they were.

  But still…

  As a child, she would go with her grandfather and enjoy the silliness and the entertainment of a festival that had been going on for decades. Even back then, she would cover her face at the insistence of her nurse. She remembered sitting on her grandfather’s knee and eating off of his trencher as minstrels sang and dancers danced. It had been something that she and her grandfather had shared together, and those opportunities were few and far between. The older she became, the more distant and absentminded her grandfather became, and it was increasingly difficult to hold a conversation with him.

  He usually seemed to be busy with his own interests.

  But not always. After the evening meal, sometimes, they would play games together, like Queek or Draughts. Her grandfather had taught her to play both of those games as a child and it was something they enjoyed together. Lately, however, she was beating him quite regularly and his male pride was having difficulty accepting that. Therefore, they didn’t play either as often as they used to.

  Dacia couldn’t help but notice the older she became, the more her grandfather seemed to withdraw. In fact, she almost went into town with him this morning to attend the festival simply so she could spend time with him, but her experiences of the past would not let her go. Vincent de Ryes went alone, the benevolent Duke of Doncaster, so beloved by his vassals.

  And beloved by his only granddaughter.

  In fact, Dacia was eager for him to return so he could tell her all about the festival. She had busied herself around the castle all day long, passing the time until he would return. The older he became, the less his stamina, so she expected him home shortly because she knew he was about at his limit given how long he’d already been gone.

  Glancing up to the sky again, she shielded her eyes from the sun, realizing that it was rather warm and bright for her not to be wearing a veil against the sunlight. Her old nurse had been fanatical about covering her face because the sunlight seemed to create more freckles on her face as well as darkening the ones that were already there, so it had become habit to cover up in the sun.

  Unfortunately, she’d left her veils in her chamber because she wasn’t really in the habit of wearing them when she was within the walls of Edenthorpe. Everyone knew her and she didn’t feel particularly self-conscious around the people she’d grown up with, but she usually stayed away from the gatehouse wh
ere visitors arrived or farmers came through on their way to the kitchen yard.

  The bailey of Edenthorpe was so vast that she could easily move about freely near the keep and near the kitchens without having to worry about seeing strangers who would notice a girl with a heavy dusting are freckles over her nose and cheeks. Although she did manage the kitchens and the keep quite efficiently, she let the cook do the buying from the farmers who came to peddle their wares. She didn’t involve herself in that mundane contact, and the truth was that she kept out of sight as much as possible.

  It was simply a habit.

  But sometimes, her curiosity and need for freedom got the better of her.

  Like today. It was beautiful, and she knew that most everyone would be in Doncaster at the festival. No chance of being seen unexpectedly. There were times when she wandered away from Edenthorpe, down to the River Don that ran alongside. It wasn’t a fast-flowing river – mostly, it was a shade of greenish-blue, meandering through heavily forested trees with riverbanks of thick, wet grass. In the summertime, flowers would sprout all around and Dacia spent a good deal of time collecting those blooms for perfumes and salves.

  On this day, as she waited for her grandfather to return from Doncaster, something about that slow-moving river was calling to her.

  She didn’t think it would hurt to answer.

  Just for a few minutes.

  The postern gate was open as it usually was during the daytime, but it was almost as heavily guarded as the gatehouse. That had only been normal as of late – her grandfather had been having trouble with a neighbor, a minor baron named Catesby Hagg of Hagg Crag, who was convinced Doncaster had claimed land that belonged to him. The land in dispute had a mine on it that quarried fine, white rocks in much demand for building in the area. There was money to be made and no one had cared a lick about that strip of land until her grandfather’s men had discovered the rock and had begun to mine it.