WolfeStrike (de Wolfe Pack Generations Book 2) Read online

  It seemed like a large family, indeed. Isalyn’s gaze trailed over to the second knight in their escort, riding silently as she and Tor chattered away.

  “And you, Sir Nat?” she said politely. “You are part of this enormous family?”

  Caught off-guard by the question, Nat was certain the pair had forgotten about him. He’d barely said two words to the woman that Tor seemed to be quite interested in, so her question surprised him.

  He was certain that he was a ghost as far as they were concerned.

  “I am,” he said. “My mother is a cousin of Tor’s grandmother.”

  Isalyn’s brow furrowed. “But you cannot be much older than he is.”

  Nat grinned. “I am the youngest of six children,” he said. “Tor is the second eldest of the de Wolfe siblings. We were born ten years apart.”

  Isalyn looked between them. “I would not have guessed that,” she said. “Are you married, Sir Nat?”

  He nodded. “I am.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Seven.”

  Isalyn blinked. “God’s Bones,” she said. “Everyone has big families but me. It is only my brother and me. I think my parents must have been lazy.”

  Nat chuckled. Even Tor smiled. “Or brilliant,” he said. “Mayhap they knew that the more children they have, the more trouble there will be.”

  “You think so, do you?”

  “Ask my father. He’ll tell you. I’ve got three younger half-brothers who can bring about a world of trouble.”

  The way he said it made her laugh. He had a humorous way about him at times, she noticed. Isalyn was thinking on how handsome he looked when he smiled, but the wind suddenly shifted and she caught a whiff of something rotten.

  Her nose wrinkled.

  “What’s that smell?” she asked.

  Tor struggled not to react to the question. He knew exactly what it was because the wind was now blowing northwest, which took that putrid smell from the back at of his horse straight at her. Over on Tor’s left, Nat coughed loudly, endeavoring to cover up a guffaw.

  “I thought I smelled that, too,” Tor said innocently. “It smells as if it is coming off the fields. Rancid water from the rains, I suppose.”

  Isalyn pinched her nose shut, looking off towards the west, into the great fields. “God’s Bones,” she muttered. “It smells positively rotten.”

  “It does.”

  Suddenly, Isalyn was spurring her little palfrey forward, trotting past Tor and moving quickly down the road and away from the terrible smell that was blowing off the fields. She still had her nose pinched shut as she kicked her little horse into a canter.

  As she ran by, Tor glanced at Nat, who shrugged his big shoulders, and spurred his horse forward as well. With both Nat and Isalyn trotting on ahead, Tor was left behind. He was the one carting the rotting corpse on the saddle behind him and he didn’t want to jolt it around in case something decided to fall off. It wouldn’t do for a putrid arm or hand or head to come rolling out of the horse blanket and fall to the road. Therefore, he picked up the pace as much as he could without jerking the body around and followed Nat and the lady towards the distant manse.

  As they drew close, the wind shifted again and dark, puffy clouds began to blow in from the west. In this section of England, that was usually the direction that the weather came from, blowing off of the Solway Firth. The smell of rain was in the air and the very land around them begin to smell damp, signaling oncoming rain. Tor arrived at the manse just as Isalyn and Nat were crossing the bridge that led to the gatehouse.

  Tor took a moment to look over the great house of Featherstone. It was much bigger than he had imagined for so remote a country house. It was built from the gray granite stone that was so prevalent to the area, the kind that turned mossy and green with age. While the front of the manse was built from stone, he noticed that the second floor was built from wattle and daub. He could see great crossbeams built into the walls, an architecture that was very common in England.

  The gatehouse itself was three stories, but the rest of the house only seemed to be two. Surrounding this enormous house was a moat and as Tor directed Enbarr over the stone bridge, he looked down into a moat that was murky and full of green growth. For a country manse, it was an extraordinarily wide moat, meaning that no one could easily cross it. In fact, it was more of a lake than a moat with the odd feature being the permanent stone bridge that crossed it and led to the gatehouse.

  A permanent stone bridge was not a wise safety feature, but it led to the gatehouse that had as many safety features on it as any military castle. The three-story gatehouse was protected by not only two enormous iron gates, but as he passed through it, he could see that it also had two portcullises as well. Anyone who could get across that stone bridge would face a monumental task of breaching the iron gates and iron grates.

  A monumental task, indeed.

  Now that he had seen it, Tor was quite impressed by the size and the architecture. Once through the gatehouse, they emerged into a large yard that contained a couple of trade shacks, a small stable, and a small stable yard. It had all of the function of a castle but on a smaller scale, and Tor was so busy looking around that he failed to see Gilbert de Featherstone emerge from one of the many doorways.

  “Isalyn!” the man called, looking concerned with his daughter in the presence of two unfamiliar knights. “Is everything well? You foolish lass, I’ve sent Fraser out looking for you. Where did you go?”

  Isalyn looked at her father, who didn’t look at all like the sickly man she’d seen when she had first come to Featherstone two weeks ago. In fact, he looked better than he ever had and she was coming to think that his illness had been faked purely to lure her back to Featherstone. He stood tall enough, his cheeks with color, his red hair blowing in the wind. The more she looked at him, the less patience she felt.

  “Greetings, Father,” she said evenly. “I went into Haltwhistle. Where did you think I had gone?”

  By Gilbert’s expression, it was clear that he wasn’t sure how to react to her. He was torn between being glad to see her and being angry that she had left in the first place. His gaze moved nervously to the knights, confused by their appearance. Isalyn’s defiant attitude wasn’t helping.

  “You have my thanks for escorting my daughter home,” he said to Tor, who happened to be closer. “I am Gilbert de Featherstone. You are welcome in my home.”

  Tor eyed the man before removing his helm. “I am Tor de Wolfe,” he said, gesturing to Nat. “This is my cousin, Nat Hage. Finding your daughter in town was a coincidence, I assure you. We were passing through because we were on our way to Featherstone. We have business with you, my lord. Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”

  Gilbert looked rather confused by, and perhaps wary of, the request, but he nodded quickly. “Of course,” he said. “Come inside. I fear it is to rain soon, so permit me to show you my hospitality. Let us take comfort in my hall.”

  Enbarr was tethered next to a trough, shoving his face into the water and alternately drinking water and blowing bubbles, but when a stable servant came to take the horse, Tor quietly snapped at the man and told him to leave the horse alone. He didn’t like anybody touching his horse but, more than that, he had a body strapped to the saddle and he didn’t want the servants getting wise to it.

  The servant backed away.

  Tor and Nat followed Gilbert through a door that led to a wide, curving stone staircase. The steps were long and flat, and they followed the man up the flight until they reached what was a small foyer. The foyer opened up into a large hall that spanned the entire front of the manse, from one end to the other, including the gatehouse. There were two wells in the middle of the chamber where the portcullises would sit when they were raised, as they were now. It was like having two big grates in the middle of the chamber, which made it quite strange, but the hall was big enough that it really didn’t matter.

  In fact, Tor was surprised at how
grand the hall was. There was an enormous hearth made from cut stone, with angels and demons carved into it in an elaborate artistic fashion. Tor was quite fascinated with it but he was distracted when Gilbert led them to a large table at the end of the hall, indicating the chairs for them to sit upon.

  Tor and Nat made their way over to the dais where Gilbert was already taking a seat. It was clear that he seemed to think this was a social call, unprepared for what was to come. Already, Tor and Nat were looking for the exits in case they had to flee. Tor had originally told Nat to wait outside of the manse in case they took Tor hostage in their grief, but with Lady Isalyn as their escort to Featherstone, Nat couldn’t have very well refused to go inside because it would have looked strange.

  The lady might have suspected that something was wrong.

  Therefore, Nat took a seat near Tor in one of the heavy, oak chairs that lined the table. They were of the finest quality, as was the table, and Tor was coming to see just how much wealth the House of de Featherstone had. Not only was the furniture some of the finest he’d ever seen, but instead of rushes on the floor, there were expensive hides. The walls contained exquisite tapestries, clearly of the finest quality, and the long lancet windows were covered with expensive oilcloth.

  There were other things, too, that lent credence to the theory of de Featherstone wealth. The wall over the hearth contained shields that Tor did not recognize. He thought they might have been Germanic or Spanish because they were unrecognizable to him and he recognized almost every standard in England. If he had seen it, he would have remembered it. He had a memory that never failed, so the heraldry on the wall was curious. In fact, he pointed to them simply to be polite.

  “Interesting standards, my lord,” he said. “I do not recognize them.”

  Gilbert sent servants running for food and drink. “Nor would you unless you had fought battles outside of England,” he said. “In my travels, I have purchased many pieces for my collection. Call it a hobby, I suppose, but all of those shields are from every province I have ever visited. Do you see the one on the very top?”

  “The white and red?”

  “Aye,” Gilbert said. “That belongs to the Duke of Vilnius. I was his guest for a night.”

  Tor was impressed. “That is at the ends of the earth, some would say,” he said. “You are a well-traveled man.”

  Gilbert shrugged. “More than most,” he said. “My father was also well-traveled and knew many people in many places. But you did not come here to speak of travel, I am sure. You said you had business with me. How may I be of service, de Wolfe?”

  The moment was upon them. Tor wanted to be concise and to the point, but that was before Isalyn appeared. He was preparing to speak when she joined them at the table, bringing expensive pewter cups with her and setting them down in front of her father and in front of the guests. But instead of leaving, she lingered to listen to what was about to be said and Tor hesitated.

  Although it should not have mattered to him, he didn’t want her to hear what he had to say. Perhaps he was trying to protect her, or perhaps he just didn’t want her thinking poorly of him. He wasn’t certain. As he fumbled for the right words, suitable for a lady’s ear, Gilbert turned to his daughter and frowned.

  “This does not concern you,” he said. “Go to the kitchens or to your chamber. I will summon you when I want you.”

  Given all that Tor had heard from Isalyn at the Crown and Sword and also on their journey south, he knew that kind of demand would not sit well with her and he was right. Her face turned red and her jaw flexed but, to her credit, she didn’t snap back. Tor watched her as she quit the hall, embarrassed by the way her father had treated her. He had to admit that he felt rather badly for her.

  Once she was gone, Gilbert returned his attention to Tor.

  “You were saying?” he said.

  Tor sat forward, his arms resting on the table and his hands folded, feeling infinitely more comfortable now that Isalyn was out of the chamber. Something about her presence was distracting, but not entirely in a bad way. Quite the opposite.

  “I have come about your son, my lord,” he said.

  Gilbert sighed heavily. “What has he done now?”

  “Did you know that he entered into a betrothal with Isabella de Wolfe, daughter of my uncle, Blayth?”

  Gilbert’s features rippled with confusion. “A betrothal?” he repeated with surprise. “I knew nothing of this. When did this happen?”

  Tor looked at Nat. Given that he was the jilted bride’s uncle, he might know more, so he silently encouraged the man to answer.

  Nat complied.

  “Six months ago,” he said. “The wedding was to be held last week, but your son ran out on Isabella after compromising her.”

  Gilbert visibly blanched. He tried to keep the expression of horror off his face, but he wasn’t doing a very good job. “Oh… God,” he muttered, wiping a hand over his face. “I… I do not know what to say. Has he gone back to de Royans? I shall send for him immediately. This will not go unpunished, I assure you.”

  “He did not go back to de Royans,” Tor said. “We tracked him to Newcastle and found him in a tavern with several other de Royans knights. My lord, I will be to the point – when we confronted your son, he fought. He refused to return to Isabella and he tried to kill my half-brother, a son of the Earl of Warenton. He did not survive this attempt, my lord. Your son was killed while resisting men who were there to force him to keep his word.”

  Gilbert’s mouth popped open and his eyes widened, the news of his son’s death sinking in. When it seemed to hit him, all at once, he moaned a little and slumped back in his chair, gripping the arms until his fingers turned white.

  “He… he’s dead?” he finally said in an oddly strangled voice. “Steffan is dead?”

  Tor nodded. “It was his choice, my lord,” he said. “He could have gone quietly and fulfilled his vow. Instead, he chose to fight.”

  Gilbert stared at him a moment before lowering his gaze. The white-knuckled hand moved to his heart as if to hold in the pain that was threatening to explode.

  “Oh, God,” he muttered. “Oh, God, oh… God. Tell me my son did not dishonor himself this way.”

  Tor couldn’t help but feel some pity for the man, who was obviously shaken. “I wish I could, my lord,” he said. “I have many witnesses who can attest otherwise.”

  Gilbert put a hand over his face, sobbing softly once or twice before drawing in a deep breath, trying to compose himself.

  “That is not necessary,” he said hoarsely. “I do not doubt your word. The reputation of the House of de Wolfe is beyond contestation. But I do not understand any of this. I have not seen my son in over a year. It has been a very long time. If you please… can you tell me the story again? I must hear it again. He was betrothed to a de Wolfe lady?”

  Tor looked at Nat again to do the explaining. Tor’s seat of Blackpool was on the fringes of the de Wolfe empire property, so he wasn’t always privy to the things that were happening at its heart. Given that Nat served at Northwood Castle, he knew more.

  And he’d seen more.

  Nat didn’t hesitate to tell him.

  “Your son seemed to spend a good deal of time away from Netherghyll Castle,” he said. “My lord, I will tell you what I have heard and what I have seen, and then mayhap you can understand why we were so displeased with your son. Rumor had it that there was a woman in Berwick that had Steffan’s attention, so he was a frequent visitor to the city. That is where he saw my niece, Isabella, and he made the decision to pursue her. He began showing up at Castle Questing, seat of the de Wolfe empire, asking to speak to Isabella. Her father, who is my uncle also, was unimpressed with your son and his reputation, but Isabella was quite fond of him. The more he denied your son, the more Isabella wanted to see him. You can imagine how these things go, my lord. I have three daughters myself. When they want something, it is difficult for a father not to comply.”

  Gilbert nod
ded, wiping at his eyes. “I understand,” he said quietly. “Please continue.”

  “Isabella was enamored with him,” Nat said. “Servants saw them in the garden in a compromised position and that made its way back to her father. The fact that they were betrothed was the only thing that kept her father from killing your son. You do realize that Blayth de Wolfe is one of the most fearsome warriors in the north, do you not?”

  Gilbert nodded weakly. He was quite pale, the shock of his son’s death sinking deep now. “I know of him,” he said. “He did not kill my son, yet my son is dead.”

  “That is because he ran away on the day of the wedding,” Nat said. “He was a coward, my lord. As Tor told you, we tracked him to Newcastle. When he was confronted, instead of admitting his wrongs, he fought with us. He was killed when he tried to kill a young squire.”

  Gilbert looked at him in disbelief. “A squire?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Not even a knight?”

  “Nay, my lord.”

  Gilbert grunted, closing his eyes to the shame if it all. At this point, wine and food was being brought forth and Gilbert grabbed at the nearest pitcher, pouring himself an overflowing cup and drinking nearly the entire contents. Tor took only the drink while Nat took food as well, as he hadn’t been treated to a fine meal earlier in the day. Tor had been so taken with Isalyn during their meal together, he had totally forgotten his promise of food for Nat. As they watched de Featherstone reconcile himself to his son’s cowardly death, a heavily armed knight entered the hall.

  Both Tor and Nat stopped what they were doing, watching the incoming knight with suspicion. That was normal when heavily armed men faced one another, and were strangers to each other, but Gilbert lifted a hand.

  “Be at ease,” he told Tor and Nat. “This is Fraser le Kerque, a knight who serves me. He is my only knight, but he commands the small army of men who protect me and my goods. Fraser, this is Sir Tor de Wolfe and Sir Nat Hage.”

  Fraser was just nearing the table as Gilbert made the introductions. He was a big man, handsome, with a square jaw, black hair, and pale blue eyes. He looked at Tor and Nat with a good deal of concern, clearly curious as to why they were here.