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

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “You are a priest,” she said irritably. “You cannot refuse to aid us. Open the door or I will start screaming. That will rouse everyone in town and they will wonder what you are doing to a woman that is causing her to scream. Is that what you want?”

  As Blayth looked at her, shocked and amused, the small panel jerked shut and, suddenly, the door was being unbolted from within. When it lurched open, they found themselves looking at a small man with a care-worn face, wrapped in heavy woolen robes.

  “A lady with a tongue of fire,” he said unhappily, looking at Asmara. “Who are you, girl?”

  Blayth pushed into the small structure before Asmara could answer. He shoved the man out of the way, pulling Asmara along with him, and they found themselves in a two-room hut, dark and cold. The man, regaining his balance after being pushed aside, scurried after the pair.

  “See here,” he said angrily. “What’s wanting?”

  Blayth found a chair in the darkness and pushed Asmara down onto it. “I told you,” he said. “My lady has been injured in an attack. I would like hot water and wine if you have it, and bandages. I swear to you that we mean you no harm, but I must tend her wound.”

  The man appeared quite put out. He frowned at the pair and prepared to order them out, but then he realized that would be futile. They were inside now, and it was clear that they intended to remain, so he had little choice. Angered, he shut the door and threw the bolt. Then he pointed to the hearth with just a few burning embers in it.

  “Well?” he said. “If you want hot water, then put fuel on the fire. It’ll not burn all by itself.”

  Grumbling to himself, the man went into the second room, pushing back heavy curtains that covered the doorway, and disappeared inside. Asmara looked up at Blayth, who wriggled his eyebrows in silent commentary of the irritated man, before turning for the hearth. He found the kindling right away, as it was scattered by the hearth, and he carefully placed it on the low-burning coals, blowing on it until the blaze began to take off. By the time the man returned from the other room, a decent fire was beginning to roar.

  “Water is outside,” the man told Blayth snappishly. “Bucket is next to the door.”

  As Blayth stood up from the fire, the man lit two fat tapers and a soft golden glow began to fill the room. Now that there was some illumination, Blayth could see that the room was packed to the ceiling with items – pots, clothing, broken pieces of furniture, and more. It took Blayth a moment to realize that among the clutter, he saw shields – English shields – as well as pieces of armor, satchels, saddlebags, and in one corner he saw a stack of weapons. Pikes, poles, and broadswords. He most definitely saw an array of English broadswords, more than likely worth a fortune, wedged into a corner and suffering from neglect.

  It was an astonishing sight and he very nearly forgot about the water, but Asmara groaned when she shifted on the chair and leaned on the table that was next to her, so he quickly went about his tasks.

  But those broadswords had his attention.

  As Blayth ran out, Asmara tried to find a comfortable position leaning against the table but it was nearly impossible. Her left shoulder and entire arm were aching painfully, and she kept her hand over the wound area simply because she was afraid to ease the pressure. It seemed to feel better when her hand was firmly against it. She didn’t know how badly she’d been hit, but she knew it hurt a great deal.

  As the fire in the hearth began to burn brightly and the tapers lit up the chamber, Asmara began to see what Blayth had seen. More clutter and possessions and weapons than she’d ever seen outside of an armory; there were several big shields stacked up, partially covered by what looked to be tunics or banners, and the broadswords in the corner glistened weakly in the light. The sight was almost enough to distract her from her pain.

  “What is this place?” she asked the man, who was fumbling with something over by another table. “Why do you have all of these… these things?”

  The man didn’t answer her directly. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “They are mine,” he said. “Tell me your name.”

  Asmara hesitated. “Morwenna,” she said, giving him the name of her mother because it was the first thing that came to mind. “Who are you?”

  “I am Jestin.”

  “Are you the priest here?”

  He nodded. “Aye,” he said. “Who is your man?”

  Asmara didn’t want to give Blayth’s name away, either. “James,” she said, wincing as she spoke because it was also the first name that came to mind, and probably not the best name to give. In order to head off any further questions, she pushed forth with an explanation. “We were traveling north to… to see his family and we were attacked.”

  Jestin had things in his hands as he headed over to the fire and pulled forth one of the iron arms that were used for hanging pots over the flame. He had a small pot in his hand and hung it on the arm, but Asmara noticed that he was also holding a small sack of some kind. There was already something in the pot, but she couldn’t see what it was, and she watched curiously as he sprinkled something from the little sack into the pot. Using a stick leaning on the wall next to the hearth, he stirred whatever was in the pot.

  Asmara couldn’t help but notice that the man really didn’t have much to say. He seemed very annoyed with their intrusion, but that couldn’t be helped. Unsure of what more to say to him, her attention inevitably returned to the beautiful broadswords pushed into the corner. Dusty, and dulled with neglect, there was no mistaking their beauty.

  “Did someone give those for safekeeping?” she asked. “Those weapons, I mean.”

  Jestin was over at his table, his back turned to her as he ripped up material. Asmara could hear him tearing at it.

  “You might say that,” he said. “Tell me why you were attacked.”

  He was deliberately changing the subject, the second time she’d asked a question about all of the things he had stacked up in the corners, and the second time he avoided giving her an answer. Asmara was coming to think he simply didn’t want to speak of it, and the truth of the matter was that she and Blayth had barged in on the man, and threatened him, so she didn’t blame him for not being friendly.

  But she really didn’t care. As long as they had some shelter, and she was able to tend her wound, that was all that mattered. They’d be gone in the morning, anyway, and their whole visit would have been forgotten.

  “I do not know why we were attacked,” she said after a moment. “An arrow hit me. That is all you need be concerned with.”

  Jestin glanced over his shoulder again, his dark eyes appraising her, but Asmara looked away, gazing into the fire. Much as he didn’t want to speak on his massive collection, she didn’t want to discuss why she’d been hit with an arrow, so silence seemed best at this point.

  They’d come to a stalemate.

  The entry door burst open and Blayth appeared, lugging a big bucket of icy water from the well. He headed straight to the hearth, taking a knee beside it and looking at all of the cluttered mess around the hearth until he came to an iron pot that was sitting off to one side.

  He pulled it forth, peered inside of it, and then took the hem of his tunic to wipe it clean, again and again. When he was satisfied that it was clean enough, he poured the water into it and set it upon the coals.

  “I am sorry I took so long,” he said, “but I took a few moments to tend to the horses. While the water is warming, I should take a look at your shoulder. Does it hurt very much?”

  Asmara looked up at him and he could see the answer to his question in her eyes, even though he knew she would never admit it.

  “Nay,” she lied. “Not very much.”

  He didn’t contradict her. The Dragon Princess was strong in so many ways, and he would not diminish that strength, but he watched her grimace as he moved her hand away from the wound. Then he began peeling back the fabric of her tunic, getting a look at a puncture wound that was just below her left collarbone. She turned her head
away as he bent lower to get a good look.

  “It does not look as if it is too terribly deep,” he said, “but it needs to be cleaned out.”

  Gingerly, he pulled out a piece of fabric from the surface of the wound, part of her tunic that was torn off when the arrow pierced her. As he looked closer, he realized there was another head close to his and he looked to see their host standing next to him, also peering curiously at the wound. He could feel the man’s hot breath on his neck as he scrutinized the wound quite closely.

  “We will need the wine to wash the wound clean,” the man finally said. “I have brought all that I have. We will also need to stitch it closed. I have is sewing kit.”

  Blayth didn’t like the fact that the man was so close to Asmara, but he tolerated it for the moment. “I agree,” he said. “What is your name?”

  “Jestin,” Asmara said; her head was turned and her eyes were closed because she didn’t want to see the gaping hole in her shoulder. “This is Father Jestin. I have introduced us as Morwenna and James.”

  Blayth looked at her rather curiously for a moment, realizing she had given the priest fake names. Still, he understood why; she didn’t want to involve the priest in their troubles and she didn’t want the man to be able to give their true names if Morys and other Welshmen came looking for them. That seemed dangerous. Therefore, he kept that in mind as he watched the priest scrutinize Asmara’s wound.

  The man who could help them… or very well condemn them.

  But he didn’t seem like he was in the mood to condemn. In fact, after his initial irritation at their intrusion, he’d settled down dramatically. Now, he seemed very interested in Asmara’s wound.

  “I have something to help her,” he finally said, rushing off to another cluttered corner of the chamber. “I read a treatise on Arabic potions and it had the knowledge of a healing mixture that keeps away fever and disease. A rotten brew, it is called. I have made it before.”

  Blayth didn’t like the sound of that. “Rotten?” he repeated. “And it is supposed to help?”

  Jestin nodded eagerly. “Aye,” he said. “It cures all ailments, or at least most of them. I have given some to the people of the village who were in need and the results are miraculous.”

  Blayth was leery but, at this point, he was willing to allow it. He and Asmara had a long journey ahead of them and he didn’t want her suffering or ill along the way. He couldn’t bear it if something happened to this brave woman because of him.

  As Jestin fussed over in the corner by the light of a single taper, Blayth turned to Asmara as she sat, still leaning against the old table. He felt extremely guilty about what had happened and, in truth, he hadn’t really thought about it until now. He’d kept the visions of Morys’ actions pushed aside because the more important task had been to reach safety. But now, he had time to think about it. They were safe for the time being, Asmara was about to be tended, and he struggled not to let the guilt of it all consume him.

  “You were very brave, cariad,” he finally said, kneeling down beside her. “It is strange… I am not accustomed to anyone fighting my own battles, but that is what you have done. You stood up to Morys in my defense and I am both awed and grateful. But please know how sorry I am that it ended with an arrow in your shoulder.”

  Asmara turned to look at him, feeling the warmth from the man. There was so much warmth between them now that it was present every time they looked at each other, in their expressions as well as in their touch. She could see in his expression how grateful he was and she put her hand up, cupping his bearded jaw.

  “I would do it a thousand times over,” she murmured. “He was trying to turn the men against you and I would not let him do that.”

  He put his hand over hers, turning to kiss her palm sweetly. “You are my champion,” he said softly. Then, he eyed the priest over in the corner. “What did you tell him?”

  Asmara turned as well, her gaze falling on the man who was busily doing something. “Not much,” she whispered so the priest couldn’t hear. “I did not want to give him our real names for fear that Morys might be tracking us.”

  Blayth thought back to the moment he saw Asmara’s arrow hit Morys in the neck. “I do not think that will be possible,” he muttered. “Your aim was true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I believe you killed him. If the arrow did not, then we certainly did when we fled and trampled him.”

  Her eyes widened. “I… I did not see,” she said. “The arrow was in my shoulder and that was all I was concerned with. I did not see what happened after it hit me.”

  He kissed her hand again. “He would have killed us,” he said. “I have no doubt. What you did, you did to protect our lives. There is no dishonor or shame in that.”

  Asmara thought on the moment she was hit with Morys’ arrow, the moment that her own arrow was accidentally released. She really hadn’t been aiming at the time, but if she hit her uncle, she realized that she did not regret it. Blayth was right; Morys would have killed them both.

  “I never thought I would see him do such a thing,” she said truthfully. “I do not understand why he would… wait… that is not true. I do understand. Morys has always been selfish and deceitful. My own father will not speak ill of his brother, but I do not have such restraint. He was going to kill you to keep you from leaving him.”

  “I know.”

  “I would not have believed it had I not seen it for myself.”

  Blayth simply nodded, thinking on Morys and how the man had been both a blessing and a curse to him. “It occurred to me that he started seeing me as a possession,” he muttered. “He saved my life. Therefore, it was his view that I should belong to him. I suppose I have always seen that in him, but never more so when you and I were coming to know one another. He did not like that my attention was somewhere other than on his goals.”

  Asmara could see some regret in his expression. “The only decent thing my uncle ever did was save your life,” she said. “But even then, it wasn’t with altruistic intentions. Still… for the fact that he did save your life, I cannot hate him completely. But for what he tried to do tonight – I can never forgive him.”

  Blayth simply kissed her hand again, catching sight of Jestin as the man came away from his table and moved in their direction. Blayth stood up, Asmara’s hand still in his, protectively, as he looked curiously at the things the man was carrying with him.

  “What do you have?” he asked.

  Jestin had quite a few items which he began sitting down on the table – an empty wooden cup, a half-full wooden cup, a wad of linen rags that he’d torn up for bandages, an earthenware bottle of wine, a slender iron bar that was several inches in length, and a sewing kit with needle and thread. All of these things ended up on the table beside Asmara as Jestin went to the pot he’d put above the flames, which was now beginning to steam. Removing the pot, he carefully poured the milky contents into the empty cup he’d brought with him.

  “Now,” he said, handing Blayth the cup. “Have your woman drink this. Quickly, now – she must drink it all.”

  Blayth eyed the cup. “What is it?”

  “Something for the pain.”

  Blayth continued to eye the cup. After a moment, he looked up at the priest. “Tell me what is in it. I will not give her an unknown potion.”

  Jestin glanced at him. “Poppy,” he said, his annoyance returning. “There is poppy in the goat’s milk. Make her drink it. It will take away her pain.”

  Blayth still didn’t like it. He extended the cup back to him.

  “Take a sip from it,” he growled. “Prove to me that there is no poison in it.”

  Jestin sighed sharply, took the cup, and promptly took a sip. Then he shoved it back at Blayth.

  “You came to me for help,” he said. “If you did not want it, then I can just as easily sit by and do nothing.”

  He had a point. Trust didn’t come naturally to Blayth, but he had little choice because he n
eeded the help. Moderately convinced that the priest wasn’t out to harm Asmara, he turned and gave her the cup.

  “Drink this down,” he said, putting it in her right hand. “He says it will help your pain.”

  Asmara had been watching the entire exchange, including the moment when Blayth forced the priest to drink the goat’s milk potion. She was very touched by the way Blayth was watching out for her and she took the cup and drained it. The milk was warm and lovely, but she could taste something in it, something bitter. Licking her lips, she handed him back the cup.

  “Why should he have poppy on hand?” she whispered. “Is he a physic also?”

  “When the town’s folk need help, they come to me,” the priest said. He’d heard her question. “Either they need my prayers or my potions. Surely that is why you were sent to me, isn’t it?”

  Blayth shook his head. “We were not sent to you.”

  That seemed to surprise Jestin. “You weren’t?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then… you simply found me?”

  Blayth nodded. “There is no tavern in the village and with the lady being injured, this was the most logical place to come.”

  Jestin’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. “Then God must have been speaking to you,” he said. “He has brought you here, to me, because He knew I could help the lady.”

  Blayth wasn’t so sure why that seemed like such a miracle that they should have come to the church in their hour of need, so he didn’t reply. He was simply glad that Asmara was receiving care.

  In fact, for a man who had reluctantly admitted them into his residence, the priest had moved past that annoyance and was taking charge of Asmara’s care. He seemed very confident about it. After ensuring she drank the milk with the poppy in it, he approached her with a small dagger and tore away the tunic around the wound.

  “Ah,” he said as he inspected the puncture. “It is not too deep, but it must be cleaned. Be still, lady, and this will go quickly.”