DarkWolfe: Sons of de Wolfe (de Wolfe Pack Book 5)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Give me your oath, Kevin,” he said.

  Kevin frowned unhappily until his father elbowed him in the ribs. Only then did he answer. “Very well,” he said. “You have it.”

  William wasn’t sure if he believed the man, but he had the courtesy not to dispute him, at least not openly. With that matter settled more or less, there was still more on William’s mind. He looked to Troy.

  “Go and don your protection,” he instructed. As his son turned and headed back into the enclosure of Monteviot, William looked to Patrick. “Get all of your army back into the gates and make sure the gates are secured. I expect Troy to be the victor in this and I would not be surprised if Keith went back on his word and launched his army at us. Make sure Monteviot is as prepared for an assault as it can be. Paris, you and Patrick will be in command for now. My focus will be on Troy until this combat is over.”

  The group broke up and began to move swiftly, as William turned his attention back to Keith. The man was still standing near his horse and was seemingly interested in what was going on with the English. The knights were yelling commands, moving the men who lingered outside the gates back into the bailey. William approached him cautiously.

  “We accept your challenge,” he said. “Your best warrior against my best warrior. Although I have many warriors that are excellent, I have selected my son, Troy. He will be in command of Monteviot for the near future so you should know what kind of man he is. He will fight your warrior and he will win.”

  Keith couldn’t say that he was all that glad to hear it. Troy de Wolfe was an enormous man, and if William de Wolfe was selecting him to fight above all of the other magnificent knights he had at his disposal, then it meant that Troy was the best of the best. The thought of Rhoswyn going against such a beast of a man unsettled him greatly, but he couldn’t turn back now.

  “Very well,” Keith said, confidence in his voice that he did not feel. “Bring him forth. Let us get on with it.”

  William’s gaze lingered on him and Keith was afraid that the man might have heard his hesitation. But Keith kept his expression neutral and William finally turned away, heading for the gates where everyone was cramming back into the fortress. When he was out of earshot, Keith turned to Rhoswyn.

  “Did ye hear that?” he asked quietly. “Ye have tae fight the big man that was standin’ next tae de Wolfe. That is his son, Troy.”

  Rhoswyn had, indeed, seen the man. In fact, she had seen and heard everything that was said in spite of being several feet back from where the conversation was taking place. But she wasn’t intimidated in the least. Such was her level of confidence in not only her abilities, but in the pride of an English knight. She’d been planning her assault since last night and she knew exactly what she was going to do. Her plan was going to work.

  She had no doubt.

  “Have no fear, Pa,” she said quietly. “He will fold when the time is right.”

  “And if he doesna?”

  Rhoswyn’s gaze was on the English as they were herded back into the keep. “Then I will fight him.”

  Keith sighed sharply. “He is twice yer size and twice yer strength, lass. Dunna be foolish.”

  Rhoswyn’s focus moved to her father. She could see how worried he was. Perhaps there was something wrong with her in that she was not worried in the least, but she truly didn’t believe there was anything to be concerned over. To entertain otherwise would cause her to doubt herself, and doubt could be deadly.

  She wasn’t in the habit of doubting her abilities.

  “There are other ways tae win a fight than brute strength,” she said. “De Wolfe canna outsmart me. I will win.”

  She sounded very confident and Keith didn’t want to damage that confidence. But the truth was that he was frightened for her; frightened that the de Wolfe son would simply look at a female warrior as another Scot, another target, and he would take his hatred out on her.

  Soon enough, they would find out.

  Keith realized that he was very much dreading that moment.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The clouds from the north that had been visible at dawn, black and angry, had moved south and were now gathering overhead as Troy stood out in front of the closed gates of Monteviot, securing a glove as his father stood next to him. Thunder rolled and big splashes of rain came down now and again, spattering in the dirt at their feet. Along with that thunder came the pangs of apprehension and anticipation.

  The air was full of it.

  “I will not give you any final advice for this because you do not need it,” William said quietly. “But know that if you are disabled in any way, I have archers on the walls. They will take out your opponent before he can land a death blow.”

  Troy tugged at the leather strap, tightening his left gauntlet just a bit. “And then what?”

  “Then we must face Red Keith and his thousand men.”

  Troy looked at his father, lifting an eyebrow at the irony of that statement. “You are in Scotland, after all,” he said. “They do not want us here.”

  “That is their misfortune.”

  Troy grinned as he finished with the strap. “Have no fear,” he said. “I will not be disabled. And this should not take long.”

  That was arrogant Troy talking. Fortunately, he was rarely wrong and William didn’t expect this to be one of those occurrences. But he wasn’t taking any chances; he had the archers positioned but he also had something else up his sleeve. Help from the heavens, as it were. As he stood with his son, Audric emerged from the closed gates and headed in their direction. When Troy glanced up and saw the priest, he frowned.

  “What does he want?” he demanded.

  William cleared his throat softly. “I sent for him.”

  “Why?”

  “To say a prayer.”

  Troy rolled his eyes, grossly unhappy and impatient, as Audric came to stand next to him. Then he proceeded to ignore the priest by fussing with his other glove. William cocked an eyebrow at his disrespectful son as he addressed Audric.

  “I realize that you are a Scots priest, but you are a man of God over all, so your prayers should be good for English as well as for Scots,” he said. “I would be grateful if you could bless my son before this event.”

  Before Audric could speak, Troy held out a hand. “I do not need prayers from a Scots,” he declared. “Besides, he could curse me. Do you really think the man is going to give me his blessing?”

  William frowned. “If I thought he was going to curse you, do you really think I would ask him to say a prayer?”

  Troy gave his father a long look. “You have become very pious in your old age, Papa. I do not need a witch cursing me in Gaelic. You could say a prayer over me and it will do just as well.”

  William sighed heavily at his foolish son. “I say a prayer over you every day,” he said. “Prayer for strength not to throttle you.”

  Troy thought that was rather funny. He turned away from the priest and his father, snorting, as he finished with his glove. He eyed Keith and the warrior the man had brought with him, a warrior still astride a rather handsome black horse. Finished fussing with the glove, he collected his shield, propped on the ground against some rocks.

  “Well?” he boomed to Keith. “Let us get on with this.”

  William and Audric looked to Keith, who immediately turned to the warrior beside him. As they watched, the warrior slid off the horse and removed a targe, or round wooden shield, from the back of the beast. The warrior moved gracefully, long-legged and bogged down with tunics and mail that was not Scottish-borne. He was not big by any means, certainly not as muscular or bulky as the English knights, which was surprising considering that Scots could be bred for size. Some of the biggest warriors William had ever seen were Scottish.

  Of all the warriors to choose, Keith had chosen a lithe man of little bulk, but heavily dressed and protected. The helm on his head was decidedly English, of an older style, and the broadsword, from what he could see, was not Sc
ottish, either. It was English, too. William was starting to wonder if the warrior wasn’t English-trained as well. It was all quite curious.

  Little did he know that a curious situation was about to take a shocking turn.

  *

  Across the clearing, Rhoswyn was fully aware that the English were inspecting her.

  She could feel their eyes upon her, touching her like unseen fingers, probing curiously. Her skin was crawling because of it. She’d truthfully never been this close to the English before. She had the advantage of watching her father interact with de Wolfe and his son, and when the son had emerged dressed in full battle protection, massive and weighty stuff that fit his big body perfectly. In truth, she’d taken a good look at the man when her father had been speaking to him and, as far as the English went, he was quite handsome.

  He was darker, though – his hair was like coal, his skin tanned. He didn’t look as if he belonged in a land of pale-skinned people. From what she could see of him, he had dark, serious brows and a square jaw covered with the beginnings of a beard. But it was the shape of him that had initially caught her attention – big neck, broad shoulders, massive arms and chest, and a trim torso. She could see it quite clearly in what he’d been wearing before – a simple tunic and breeches – but now that he was covered in mail and protection, his size was mammoth. It hardly seemed real that a man that size could actually exist.

  And this was the man she was to fight.

  “Rhosie,” her father spoke, capturing her attention. He even reached out to grasp her arm, preventing her from moving any closer to de Wolfe. “Tell me what ye intend tae do.”

  Rhoswyn had been so focused on the English knight that the sound of her father’s voice startled her.

  “Lift me weapon and then reveal meself,” she said quietly. “And then I relay the terms.”

  Keith didn’t want her dictating anything; that would be his moment to ensure the security and future of his clan and he didn’t want her overeagerness to ruin that. “Nay, lass,” he said firmly. “I’m still yer pa. Ye will let me dictate terms.”

  “But…!”

  “Nay,” he cut her off. “’Twould look weak for a woman tae do it. ’Tis the clan chief who will make the terms for their surrender. Do ye understand me?”

  Rhoswyn did. She wasn’t happy about it, but she understood. In truth, if she were to do it, the English might not even take her seriously so it would be best for the humiliating terms to come from her father. No one would dispute a dictum coming from Red Keith Kerr.

  “As ye say,” she said reluctantly.

  “Promise me ye’ll not speak a word of terms, lass. Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  “I’ll speak the terms and ye’ll not contradict or question me, either. Ye’ll not say a word. Swear this tae me.”

  “I told ye I would.”

  Keith nodded, hoping she meant to hold to that vow. If she didn’t, it could ruin everything. But he patted her on the shoulder in a show of confidence in what she was about to do.

  “Good,” he said. “Then get on with it.”

  Rhoswyn gave her father a brief nod before turning her full focus to the English knight about twenty feet away from her. Was she nervous? Perhaps a little. But she was also quite determined. Now, it was time for her to shine.

  It was going to be a short fight.

  Taking a deep breath, Rhoswyn lifted her sword and began to stalk the English knight. But he saw her coming, immediately, and went into a defensive position. As they faced off, an odd stillness settled as men began shuffling around to get a better position to watch the fight. In the bailey of Monteviot, soldiers were even taking bets on how long it would take Troy de Wolfe to defeat the Scotsman. They had men on the walls, watching the unfolding battle, preparing to give them a report.

  Everyone was waiting with great anticipation, wondering just how much blood would be spilled and by whom. Even Patrick and James watched from the open gate with some apprehension, watching their older brother square off and prepare to charge. They could see his body coil. But the Scotsman was being crafty; he was hanging back, waiting for Troy to make the first move. It was smart of him, and Troy didn’t disappoint. He charged forward but the Scotsman quickly lowered his sword in a clear gesture of submission or surrender. Puzzled, Troy came to a halt.

  And what happened next was something men would speak of for years to come.

  As Troy came to a halt, the Scotsman suddenly pulled off his helm. Or, more correctly, her helm. Braided hair, long and mussed, spilled out of the helm as she faced Troy without any fear. In fact, she marched up on him, getting in his face and making sure he understood it was a woman that he was preparing to fight.

  But it was a distraction tactic and it worked. Troy was surprised enough that Rhoswyn was able to get the immediate advantage. As his face twisted with astonishment, and perhaps even outrage, she was close enough to lift a knee and ram it right into his groin.

  Troy was wearing mail chausses, or mail trousers to protect his legs and groin area, but because the uniform of a knight was made so the men could easily ride their horses, the manhood of a knight was perhaps the least protected. He wore a split tunic, and a split mail coat, so once she lifted a knee into his groin, as hard as she could, she made contact and Troy staggered.

  The element of surprise was his undoing.

  It was a good hit. Startled by the move, and facing debilitating pain, Troy moved to lift his sword but Rhoswyn smashed her wooden shield right into his chest, sending him off balance. Another strike to the face and he ended up on his back. Rhoswyn pounced. In no time at all, she had a small dagger pressed into the side of his face.

  The fight was over before it ever began.

  “Dunna move, Sassenach,” she said in her deep, silky voice. “Surrender or I’ll drive me dirk through yer face.”

  Troy could hardly believe it. He looked at the woman; God help him, he never saw this coming. Not even in his wildest dreams did he see it coming. But here he was, flat on his back, with a dirk tip poking him in the left cheek. Gazing up at the woman, he had no doubt she meant her threat. Scots women were rough and barbaric; he’d seen enough of what they could do in the aftermath of a battle to know just how brutal they were. He could easily see this woman cutting up the dead for the gold they wore or the rings they had on their fingers. She had that look.

  And he knew he was sunk.

  Slowly, he took a breath, settling down to think through the situation. He had two options at that moment; he could throw her off of him and brutalize her, but he wasn’t in the habit of brutalizing women. Not even Scots. Or, he could capitulate. And he knew that if he did anything other than surrender, it would be viewed as dishonorable. But, damnation, he was angry now. So very angry.

  He knew he’d lost, and with it went Monteviot.

  “So Red Keith lets a woman do his fighting, does he?” he rumbled. “I should be surprised but I suppose I am not. Only a coward and a weakling would dress a woman as a warrior and then hide behind her trickery. It is the only way he could win the battle.”

  The woman’s features rippled with rage. “I can fight ye, English,” she hissed. “I dunna hide behind trickery.”

  “You used dishonorable tactics to get me into this position.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Ye froze. ’Tis yer own stupidity that caused ye tae lose. Now, do ye surrender or must I use me dirk on ye?”

  Troy eyed her. In spite of his anger, he could see that she was, in truth, quite lovely. Why, in God’s name, he should be considering her comely appearance at this moment was beyond him. All he knew was that the woman was quite pretty with her auburn hair and big brown eyes. He’d never seen a Scot that was so lovely other than his own mother and aunts and cousins.

  But this lass… she was quite astonishing.

  “If you feel the need to use then dirk, then I cannot stop you,” he said. “But know this; it may go through my cheek and it may injure me, but before you can
do any serious damage, I will have my arm around your neck and snap it. If I must defend myself against you, then I will defend myself to the death. Do you understand what will happen now?”

  To her credit, the woman didn’t cower. She looked as if she were considering her options. “I understand,” she said, “but do ye? Since I have won our battle, ’tis I who will tell ye what will happen now – and ye will surrender to it.”

  “I will not surrender to someone who tricked me.”

  “I dinna trick ye,” she said again, calmly. “And either way, ye’re on yer back. What will yer men say if ye try tae fight me once I’ve put ye tae the ground?”

  Quick as a flash, Troy brought up a hand and smacked her in the side of the head, knocking her off him and onto the dirt. He flipped over and threw himself on top of her, pinning her as the dirk in her hand went flying. But the woman would not be easily pinned; she was a fighter. She got a hand free and poked a long finger into Troy’s left eye, causing the man to falter.

  In spite of his stinging eye, Troy still held her tightly, at least tightly enough that she couldn’t get away from him completely. When she balled a fist and tried to club him, he simply grabbed her by the hair. She didn’t scream even though he held it very tightly, effectively subduing her. Blinking his poked eye to clear his vision, Troy rose to his knees with his left hand wrapped up in his opponent’s hair.

  “Stop,” he commanded softly. “You are only hurting yourself.”

  Grunting unhappily, she still tried to pull away from him. “Let me go,” she demanded. “I won. I beat ye fairly!”

  As Troy tried to clear his vision, he could see a shadow approach and he looked up to see his father. William’s expression was grim.

  “Let her go,” he said quietly. “Go on, Troy, release her.”

  Troy wasn’t so sure. “If I do, she will collect that dirk and try to ram it into me.”