The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe
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Well, my readers loved him, and I was repeatedly asked why I’d killed him off. We had Scott, Troy, Patrick, and then no James. So, I set about doing what only I, as the author, can do. I brought James back from the dead.
Lazarus, rise!
Now, understand that much like William, I, too, have a son named James, and it is true that I modeled William’s son after my own, never thinking I’d have to write about him, but here I am. That means this book is especially emotional for me because when I see James de Wolfe, I see my own son. The opening scene was done with tears. Way too close to home.
The Welsh culture and country features strongly in this novel, so a few things to note – much like the Scots and the Irish did, the Welsh also has a particular way they did surnames – for example, sons had their father’s name as a surname (Angus, the son of Fadden, would be named Angus MacFadden), and with the Welsh, it was male/female specific. For example: Evan, the son of Rhodri, would be Evan ap Rhodri, while the daughter, Morgan, would be Morgan ferch Rhodri. “Ferch” means daughter or girl, as does “merch”. Kind of like the English language has several names for a female, so do the Welsh.
Also, I’m going to give you, dear Reader, a pronunciation key because Welsh names can really be tough. In Welsh, the dd is a th sound, and the double ll sound is even weirder – a sound we don’t have in English. The best way I can describe it is if you put your tongue just behind your upper front teeth and blow. Air hisses out from either side of your tongue, but that’s how to pronounce the double ll sound. So, I’ve kept some of the spellings phonetic for the English-speaking reader. It’s easier if you know the phonetic sound:
Blaidd – Blayth is the phonetic spelling.
Fairynne – FAIR-in (not Fairy-anne!)
Merch/Ferch – daughter in Welsh
Ie – this means “yes” in Welsh, but for the ease of the reader, I have changed the spelling to Aye (which is more familiar).
Teulu – (pronounced ty-loo) literally meaning “family”. These were the warlord’s bodyguards/personal warriors.
Llandeilo – Pronounced with that odd “hissing tongue” noise for the double lls – so it’s essentially “hissing noise-an-day-low”
I think the one thing you’re going to discover about this story is that it’s not simple. It’s several different factions, for different reasons, and their stories intertwine. Pay attention to the timelines, because some things happen concurrently, and then some things happen days or weeks later. But rest assured, it all makes sense and, in the end, you will come to realize that a great many people had a stake in James in this very complex and emotional tale. Although it is a stand-alone, it has much more impact if you’ve read “The Wolfe”, especially since the older knights of William de Wolfe and Kieran Hage figure in this book.
Bring tissues and enjoy!
The next generation Wolfe Pack
William and Jordan Scott de Wolfe
Scott (married to Lady Athena de Norville, issue) Second wife: Avrielle
Troy (married to Lady Helene de Norville, has issue) Second wife: Rhoswyn
Patrick (married to Lady Brighton de Favereux, has issue)
James – Killed in Wales June 1282 (married to Lady Rose Hage, has issue). Second wife (as Blayth the Strong): Asmara ferch Cader
Katheryn (James’ twin) Married Sir Alec Hage, has issue
Evelyn (married to Sir Hector de Norville, has issue)
Baby de Wolfe – died same day. Christened Madeleine.
Edward (married to Lady Cassiopeia de Norville, has issue)
Thomas
Penelope (married to Bhrodi de Shera, has issue)
Kieran and Jemma Scott Hage
Mary Alys (adopted) married, with issue
Baby Hage, died same day. Christened Bridget.
Alec (married to Lady Katheryn de Wolfe, has issue)
Christian (died Holy Land 1269 A.D.) no issue
Moira (married to Sir Apollo de Norville, has issue)
Kevin (married to Annavieve de Ferrers, has issue)
Rose (widow of Sir James de Wolfe, has issue). Second husband: Gethin de Lara, grandson of Sean de Lara
Nathaniel
Paris and Caladora Scott de Norville
Hector (married to Lady Evelyn de Wolfe, has issue)
Apollo (married to Lady Moira Hage, has issue)
Helene (married to Sir Troy de Wolfe, has issue)
Athena (married to Sir Scott de Wolfe, has issue)
Adonis
Cassiopeia (married to Sir Edward de Wolfe, has issue)
A Night of Dragons
13th c. poem ~ by Fr. Jestin y Dale
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.
James could match any of his brothers’ prowesses in a fight, but he had something more that they didn’t – compassion for the enemy, a deep compassion that, at times, had turned him into a brooding and moody man. James felt more deeply than most, was more patient than Job himself, and would much rather negotiate his way out of a fight than quickly draw arms. They were such wonderful qualities and William adored his boy for them. He had a soft spot for James and his wise, gentle ways…
~ A description of James de Wolfe, from “A Joyous de Wolfe Christmas”
PREFACE
St. Jestin’s National History Museum
Llandovery, Wales
Present Day
It was the Children’s Hour.
The small museum of St. Jestin’s was a tribute to the national history of Wales, but it was mostly a tribute to the spirit and legends based in Welsh folklore. It was a very popular tourist destination because of the Medieval and Dark Ages relics, and it even had some Roman relics that held a good deal of fascination for the folks who came to visit on lazy days, either to get out of the rain or to bring the children for something to do. There was an entire children’s area to the museum where Mr. Nolwynn, a local historian known to walk down the streets of Llandovery in historic costumes, would tell stories of heroes or events long ago past.
But he always put the Nolwynn spin on things.
This week, it was stories of Llywelyn the Last and of the near cult-like status the man had earned following his death in 1282 AD. Mr. Nolwynn wore replica tunics worn by Llywelyn and men like him, and he told stories of the battles, bringing weapons modeled after those from the era that he’d made himself. They weren’t sharp, and the kids could touch them and get excited about their own history and heroes. Mr. Nolwynn’s Children’s Hour drew families from all across southern Wales.
Today, he had an entire class from the local preparatory school on a field trip to the museum. They were well-behaved for the most part, although they were a little noisy at times. The boys wanted to see the weapons and the girls were mostly bored because the relics didn’t interest them much. Mr. Nolwynn had walked them through the Medieval section of the museum on their way to the “story veranda”, so it was called, but he could see that he was losing about half of his audience. These were young adults, around thirteen years of age, so they were easily distracted and easily bored.
But he had a plan.
The story veranda was full of costumes and fake weapons and models of castles that he’d built himself. He even brought in Lego castles so there was something the younger kids could touch and play with, and he made a tiny dragon flag, the national flag of Wales, to fly on the battlements of the Lego castle. As the group of young people and teachers entered the story veranda, he had them all sit on the floor while he went to a cabinet and opened it up.
Pushing aside the cutouts, he pulled forth an old woolen cloak that smelled of mothballs. He swung it around his slender shoulders, knocking his glasses sideways as he did so. As he straightened up his glasses, he turned to the fidgety group on the floor.
“This will be an exciting time for you,” he told them. “Today is the anniversary of the Battle of Gwendraith Castle. It happened on this day in the year twelve hundred and eighty-seven. It isn’t far from us. Have any of you been there?”
The students looked around at each other. One or two raised their hands as the teachers tried to shush those who were giggling. Old Mr. Nolwynn continued.
“There was a very important battle at Gwendraith Castle in the Welsh quest for independence against Edward, who wanted our country for his own.” He could see that his words weren’t having any impact on the teenagers, so he decided to go for the dramatics. “Did you know that a wolf fought that battle? Have any of you heard of him?”
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 d
ying 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 knowing 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.