The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Therefore, when Chris received the men who watched the Welsh Marches for him, it was in secret for the most part. Chris’ captain, a powerful knight by the name of Augustus de Shera, had admitted the spies and brought them in through the postern gate, sneaking them in through the kitchens and into Chris’ solar.

  It was there that Chris was told a great and troubling tale of a new Welsh rebellion, and the conversation with his two spies went on for more than an hour as he made sure to get every piece of information out of them. When he was certain they could tell him no more, he sent them to the kitchens to find something to eat and settled down in his chair as Augustus closed the solar door. Only then did the knight speak.

  “I suppose I should not be surprised to hear that there is rebellion in the wind,” he said. “But I am concerned to hear of the rise of a bastard of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd.”

  Chris drew in a long, thoughtful breath. A big man in size and stature, he looked very much like his grandsire with his shaggy blond hair and reddish-blond beard. His leather chair creaked as he sat back in it, gathering his thoughts.

  “Gwendraith, Idole, and Llandarog Castles,” he said slowly. “I know of these places. They are near Carmarthen Castle. In fact, as I recall, they guard some of the major roads leading to and from Pembroke Castle.”

  Augustus nodded. Much as Chris had a great family legacy, so did Augustus. His father was Maximus de Shera, one of three brothers known as the Lords of Thunder. Back in the days of Simon de Montfort, the de Shera brothers were legendary, now having bred several legendary sons. Augustus had his father’s size and temper, a big man who was deadly with a sword. He’d served Chris for six years, and Chris depended heavily on his strength and insight.

  “They were all garrisons of Pembroke Castle before this happened,” Augustus said. “They are also very close to Carmarthen Castle, which is held by the Welsh.”

  “And Dinefwr Castle,” Chris said. “Do not forget that one. That also secures a major road into the north of Wales and it also belongs to the Welsh these days.”

  Augustus scratched his dark head. “If I was to guess about this, I would say that the Welsh are looking to cut off Pembroke from the rest of the Marcher lordships.”

  “It is certainly possible.”

  “Divide and conquer, mayhap?”

  Chris shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, but it looks like that to me, too,” he said. “If they manage to starve out Pembroke which, in any case, they cannot do because the garrison can always receive supplies by the sea, but still – they can cut off all land access, and that will make it very difficult for de Valence. It could be a prelude to creating quite a problem for the Marcher lords in the south, including me.”

  Augustus folded his big arms across his chest. “We have had peace for some time,” he said. “I should not like to find ourselves in battle mode again if the Welsh are truly rebelling. And what of this bastard son? Blayth the Strong? I’ve never even heard that name before.”

  Chris shook his head. “Nor have I,” he said. “But I know who might have – your cousin and mine, Bhrodi.”

  Augustus knew that name would come up. Bhrodi de Shera was Augustus’ close cousin by blood, the eldest son of his father’s brother, and just a year older than Augustus himself. Bhrodi was another Welsh-English hybrid, perhaps one of the most powerful lords in both Wales and England because not only had he inherited the Earldom of Coventry from his father, but he’d inherited the Kingdom of Anglesey through his mother’s father. He was a prince among the Welsh, and he’d married very well for himself – the youngest daughter of England’s greatest knight, William de Wolfe.

  Therefore, Bhrodi was many things to many people, including an ally to the House of de Lohr because there were more family relations there in that his father’s mother had been a de Lohr. She’d been the youngest daughter of Christopher de Lohr, the Lion’s Claw, so the House of de Shera and the House of de Lohr were deeply intertwined. It made Augustus a cousin to Chris also, and the relationship between both families was a cultivated and mutually beneficial one.

  “It is possible that Bhrodi knows about the man,” Augustus said after a moment. “But if he doesn’t, then he certainly should, although you know the northern Welsh princes are somewhat removed from southern Wales. They are the ones who have historically stirred up the trouble.”

  Chris turned to look at him. “Then it makes sense that this bastard of Llywelyn’s should be stirring up trouble,” he said. “In any case, our spies seem to believe the Welsh are following this man. Tales of Blayth the Strong are spreading. He’s already managed to capture three castles and tie up major roads, and if we are not vigilant, Blayth and his followers may push our way. We must send word to Bhrodi and find out what he knows of this. We may need his help.”

  Augustus wasn’t hugely keen on the idea. “In most of the battles between the Welsh and Edward, Bhrodi has managed to stay clear of them,” he said. “He has been involved, at times, but the only reason Edward leaves him alone is because he married a de Wolfe. Even Edward will not violate that treaty and risk alienating William de Wolfe. That would be a very bad thing, indeed.”

  Chris knew that. “I am not asking Bhrodi to get involved,” he said. “At least, not yet. But I would like to know what he knows so we can prepare. If this Blayth intends to invade my lands, I want to know all I can about him.”

  Augustus couldn’t disagree. The idea of trouble in the Marches again was not a pleasant thought. “Very well,” he said. “I will prepare a rider if you wish to scribe the message. If the weather remains good and the rider is able to cover several miles a day, he should be able to deliver it in four or five days.”

  “On your way, then. There is no time to waste.”

  Augustus was about to go about his business when the solar door rattled. Then, there was a loud and obnoxious knock. Augustus had bolted the panel for privacy because the de Lohr sons seemed to have no respect for their father’s personal space, so he cast a long look at Chris and watched the man roll his eyes.

  “Open it,” he said, flicking his wrist.

  Fighting off a smile, Augustus went to the door and unbolted it, pulling the panel open only to find Morgen, Rees, and Dru de Lohr standing outside. The three older brothers were fair and blond, a distinct de Lohr trait, and wasted no time pushing into the room. They frowned at Augustus before turning their displeasure on their father.

  “Are you whispering behind locked doors now, Father?” Morgen demanded. “What goes on in here?”

  Chris lifted an eyebrow at his nosy son. “That is for me to know,” he said. “If I wanted you to be part of it, I would have invited you.”

  Morgen pointed to Augustus. “So he gets to stay?”

  Chris rolled his eyes again. “You act as if the man is not your best friend in the world.”

  Morgan frowned at Augustus even though his father’s statement was true. “Not when he gets to have a private council with you and I do not.”

  “Stop complaining, Morgen. You and your brothers will sit down and shut your mouths. I will tell you everything, but I do not appreciate your tone.”

  Morgen was usually the calmer one and he was rather embarrassed to realized he’d come across rather whiny about the whole thing. His brother, Rees, had seen Augustus usher in the two spies and had immediately run to his brothers to tell them what he’d seen. The fact that his father had not invited him to what was evidently a secretive meeting had offended Morgen deeply, and the three brothers had been watching the solar door for the better part of an hour.

  However, they knew better than to interrupt their father. They weren’t so offended that they were ridiculously bold in what was clearly a private matter. But they watched the two men leave their father’s solar and head for the kitchens, and then waited an appropriate amount of time to enter their father’s solar, only to discover that the door was locked.

  Still, he wasn’t so disrespectful to his father that he didn’t realize that
everything the man said was true – had he wanted him present, he would have sent for him. With an exasperated sigh, Morgen plopped down in one of his father’s fine leather chairs.

  “Well?” he asked. “Why the secrecy? What is happening?”

  “We were discussing a wife for you,” Augustus said, taunting the man on a sore subject. Like most young knights, Morgen did not feel he was ready for a wife, something his father poked him about mercilessly. “Were we not discussing such a thing, my lord? That woman from the tavern in the village.”

  Chris was on to Augustus’ game. “Aye. That one. The one with the bulbous breasts and missing teeth.”

  “Aye, that one.”

  “Wait!” Morgan practically shouted. “That is not funny!”

  Augustus was trying very hard not to grin. “Good Christ, Morg,” he said. “She owns the place. Think of the money!”

  Chris nodded his head seriously. “Forget the money, lad. Think of the whores.”

  Morgan looked at his father with his mouth hanging open. “I am going to tell Mother you said that.”

  Chris broke down into gasps of laughter, as did Augustus. “No need,” Chris said. “We were not really speaking of a wife for you, although it is something that is increasingly on my mind even if it is not on yours. We were speaking on information we have just received, news on a rising rebellion in Wales. It is possible we may have trouble in the future.”

  Morgen calmed dramatically. All thoughts of a missing-tooth wife faded at the expression of concern on his father’s face. “Is it that bad?”

  Chris shrugged. “It could be,” he said. “We are sending a missive to your cousin, Bhrodi, to see what the man knows.”

  “May I take it to him, Father?” Rees asked. “I have a new horse that is very fast. I should like to give him his head and see just how fast and far he can go.”

  Chris looked to his second eldest. “If you would like to,” he said. “If you are confident that your mount will not be exhausted after a day or two.”

  Rees nodded eagerly. “He will not be,” he said, quickly moving for the door. “I shall go and prepare him now.”

  As Rees rushed out, Chris opened the painted wooden box that contained vellum. His quill and ink were nearby and he pulled them closer as he thought on what he would say to Bhrodi.

  “What of this rebellion, Father?” Morgen asked. “What have you been told?”

  Chris paused, quill in hand, and looked at his son. “There are rumors that a bastard of Llywelyn the Last is rallying the Welsh to his side,” he said. “A man named Blayth the Strong. Three castles have already fallen to this rebellion and it is possible there will be more.”

  Morgen’s brow furrowed with concern. “Blayth the Strong,” he repeated. “I’ve not heard of him.”

  “Nor have I.”

  “Doesn’t the word blayth mean wolf in the Welsh tongue?”

  “It does, indeed.”

  “Then there is a new Welsh prince rising?”

  Chris’ expression darkened as he pondered the rise of a new Welsh prince. “Nay, lad,” he muttered. “There is a storm rising and we must be prepared.”

  Rees departed Lioncross Abbey on his long-legged stallion within the hour, heading for northern Wales.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Gwendraith Castle

  Wales

  Her father had no idea she had come.

  Asmara rode astride her frisky stallion, gazing up at Gwendraith Castle as she neared the bottom of the hill that it was perched upon. As far as Cader was concerned, she was still at Llandarog, going about her boring duties and generally being occupied as a commander of men who were now in charge of Llandarog Castle.

  But that was far from the case.

  Four long weeks and she was ready to scream. Cader and his men were quite happy holding fast to the castle, eating their daily meals, going about their duties, and any number of utterly unexciting and dull tasks. Fairynne had been sent home, back to their mother in their small village of Talley, but Cader had kept Asmara with him. She’d earned the right to stay as far as he was concerned, but remaining at Llandarog was the last thing Asmara wanted to do.

  She wanted to go to Gwendraith.

  Therefore, on a sunny, autumn afternoon when her father was out with some of his men, hunting in the countryside, Asmara had slipped out of Llandarog and headed northeast towards Gwendraith. The weather was surprisingly calm, as the terrible rains they’d suffered had been gone for over a week, so the roads were passable, and the ride north had been a pleasant one. Asmara had given the horse its head, and it had glided with swift and sure hooves.

  Truly, it had been foolish leaving Llandarog, but something was drawing her to Gwendraith. Someone was drawing her there. She’d tried to pretend as if he were of no concern to her and that she simply wanted to go where the action was but, increasingly, she knew that wasn’t the truth.

  She couldn’t get Blayth out of her mind.

  She’d missed him. What a fool she was! She hardly knew the man but, still, she’d missed him. No man had ever intrigued her like the big, scarred warrior, and she didn’t want to remain at Llandarog, dying of boredom, while Blayth was at Gwendraith and living an exciting life. How exciting, she didn’t know, but she intended to find out. She wanted to be where he was.

  She was most definitely a fool.

  The ride to Gwendraith went without incident and she arrived in the late afternoon. Having never been to Gwendraith, she didn’t know what to expect, and what she found was a big castle on a hill overlooking a small village and the green, green Welsh landscape below. A small river carved a blue ribbon at the base of it, drifting out into the valley beyond.

  A road led up the rocky hill and she passed a few stone huts and herds of puffy sheep being tended by shepherds bearing nasty-looking crossbows. She thought she recognized them, some of the trossodol that her mother had referred to, the mercenary-like criminals who followed Morys. She didn’t remember seeing some of them in the battle for Llandarog but now, they were at Gwendraith. Undoubtedly, they’d come from Brecfa. But she turned her attention away from them and to the road that led to a big gatehouse, with twin towers on either side. Once she was through the gatehouse, a massive lower bailey opened up that covered nearly the entire hilltop.

  The bailey was full of outbuildings and men, and she continued up the road which now led to the keep at the top of the slope. Although the curtain wall and exterior defenses were grand, there wasn’t much to protect the inner ward, so it explained how easily the Welsh were able to overtake the castle. There was simply a gate to protect the inner ward, so once the army came over the walls and through the main gatehouse, there wasn’t much to stop them from taking the keep.

  It was an interesting flaw in an otherwise magnificent castle. Given the vastness of the outer ward, the inner ward was quite small. In fact, it was more of a courtyard in the center of a keep, which was built up around it. A servant, a Welshman with an accent so thick that she could barely understand him, indicated for Asmara to follow him into the keep. Dismounting her horse, she collected her satchel and complied.

  Upon entering the foyer, Asmara was surprised to see that she was in a big chamber that was two stories tall. To her left was an enormous, arched door that opened up into what she thought might be the great hall simply for its size, but to the right was another doorway with heavy iron bars attached to it that led into what was evidently the lord’s chambers and more. It was a rather low-ceilinged doorway that led into dark passages beyond.

  The servant took her into the hall, which had a floor made of stone. That was rare, when most halls on the ground level had dirt floors. Asmara sat down at a very big table, propped up by stones on one side because it was missing a leg, as the servant rushed off to find her something to drink and eat.

  She found herself looking around the hall of Gwendraith, impressed with the sheer size of the place. Behind her, several very tall lancet windows emitted some light and ventilatio
n into the room, and above her head was a minstrel’s gallery. Most Welsh castles didn’t have that feature, which led her to believe that, at some point, the Normans built this hall. The size of it and the details had their mark all over it.

  Even though Asmara was weary from her travels, she couldn’t seem to sit still. She stood up and wandered over to the hearth, a massive thing that was taller than she was. It had been cleaned of the ashes, ready to burn tonight as the hall filled with Welshmen. She touched the stones around it and noted the iron fire back that, when hot, would project even more heat into the room. As she stood there and fingered the stone, she didn’t hear someone enter the hall behind her.

  It was Blayth.

  In truth, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He had been in the outer bailey, preparing to enter the forebuilding that led down to the vault, when he saw her ride in. At first, he thought that he might have been seeing things, but the long-legged woman with the long, dark hair rode past him, at a distance, and he knew there couldn’t be two like her in the entire world. Asmara ferch Cader was making an appearance and Blayth dropped what he was doing to follow her trail into the inner ward.

  For a man who never gave women much thought, he’d given Asmara a good deal of it. She’d impressed him greatly with her skill the night Llandarog was captured, and as man with a warrior’s heart, he was coming to appreciate a woman with the same. He still didn’t believe women belonged in battle, but Asmara wasn’t just any woman. She was quite different, as he’d seen, and when he’d departed Llandarog last month to come to Gwendraith, he was genuinely sorry to have left her behind. The little minx had grown on him and instead of letting her memory fade during his time at Gwendraith, it had only seemed to grow stronger.

  He wasn’t hard-pressed to admit that he was glad to see her.