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

by Kathryn Le Veque

  With a chuckle, he winked at the effigy and headed out of the vault, following the path of his wife and mother as they headed back to the great hall where the de Bocage brothers, Case and Corbin, who had come all the way to Castle Questing with their father from Northwood Castle, were trying to engage some of the older knights in an arm wrestling competition and being summarily beaten by Kieran, the strongest man in the realm. Troy could hear the shouting and laughing even as he quit the chapel.

  All was well in the world again, with family and friends, and as he crossed the bailey, he imagined that somewhere, in the bright sunshine and rolling hills of a heaven that wasn’t far off, Helene was smiling and laughing, too. She was happy and at peace, and so was he. When his very large son finally made his way into the world four months later, both Troy and Rhoswyn took the baby to visit Helene when he was old enough to travel, but they also brought a very special guest with them –

  Troy’s eldest son, Andreas.

  Returned from fostering at his father’s request, Andreas was a gentle boy who immediately took to his new stepmother, and she to him. The journey to Castle Questing to visit Helene’s grave was part of the familial bonding and healing for them all. Perhaps some would have thought that morbid to introduce their new baby to the long-dead wife, but neither Troy nor Rhoswyn thought so in the least.

  After all, it was to Helene that they owed their very happiness, and it was with great joy that Troy introduced Gareth de Wolfe to Helene and the girls. Andreas was right by his father’s side when he did so. Be joyful, Helene had told him, and he was.

  Wildly so.

  The darkest de Wolfe was dark no more.

  * THE END *

  Children of Troy and Rhoswyn

  Gareth

  Corey

  Reed

  Tavin

  Tristan

  Elsbeth

  Madeleine

  De Wolfe Pack Series:

  The Wolfe

  Serpent

  Scorpion

  The Lion of the North

  Walls of Babylon

  Dark Destroyer

  Nighthawk

  Warwolfe

  ShadowWolfe

  DarkWolfe

  About Kathryn Le Veque

  Medieval Just Got Real.

  KATHRYN LE VEQUE is a USA TODAY Bestselling author, an Amazon All-Star author, and a #1 bestselling, award-winning, multi-published author in Medieval Historical Romance and Historical Fiction. She has been featured in the NEW YORK TIMES and on USA TODAY’s HEA blog. In March 2015, Kathryn was the featured cover story for the March issue of InD’Tale Magazine, the premier Indie author magazine. She was also a quadruple nominee (a record!) for the prestigious RONE awards for 2015.

  Kathryn’s Medieval Romance novels have been called ‘detailed’, ‘highly romantic’, and ‘character-rich’. She crafts great adventures of love, battles, passion, and romance in the High Middle Ages. More than that, she writes for both women AND men – an unusual crossover for a romance author – and Kathryn has many male readers who enjoy her stories because of the male perspective, the action, and the adventure.

  On October 29, 2015, Amazon launched Kathryn’s Kindle Worlds Fan Fiction site WORLD OF DE WOLFE PACK. Please visit Kindle Worlds for Kathryn Le Veque’s World of de Wolfe Pack and find many action-packed adventures written by some of the top authors in their genre using Kathryn’s characters from the de Wolfe Pack series. As Kindle World’s FIRST Historical Romance fan fiction world, Kathryn Le Veque’s World of de Wolfe Pack will contain all of the great story-telling you have come to expect.

  Kathryn loves to hear from her readers. Please find Kathryn on Facebook at Kathryn Le Veque, Author, or join her on Twitter @kathrynleveque, and don’t forget to visit her website and sign up for her blog at www.kathrynleveque.com.

  Kathryn Le Veque on Amazon

  Bonus Chapters from ShadowWolfe, Book 4 in the de Wolfe Pack Series

  (Hero is Scott de Wolfe, twin brother of Troy de Wolfe)

  *

  CHAPTER TWO

  Four months later

  They stood in a great cluster on the rise of a gentle, green hill, the sun behind them setting low in the red sky. Their black silhouettes were strong against the muted dusk, men clad in armor and seated on magnificent warhorses. Somewhere, a night bird sang softly upon the damp evening breeze, giving the twilight a gentle feel though the warriors on the hill told of a different story. There was a strained anticipation this night, as thick as the summer humidity, as the knights gazed upon the fertile valley below.

  “You are quite sure they know of our arrival?” one knight mumbled. He sounded confused. “They do not look prepared in the least.”

  The question was directed at a knight lodged slightly forward from the rest. He sat atop his great chestnut charger, his gaze perhaps more focused than the others. “Indeed, they are quite aware.” He was a big knight, with blue eyes and skin that had been pocked by eruptions in his youth. Even though there was a gentleness to his manner, and a soft voice that was low and deep, he was not the sort of man one would care to tangle with. He, perhaps more than any of them, could be quite formidable when aroused. “Fear not, my brave comrades. I sent word ahead myself. Castle Canaan is, indeed, expecting us.”

  “But you recall what du Rennic’s knights said, Stewart,” another knight said to him; the knight was a long-limbed man with luscious auburn hair concealed beneath his helm. “They threatened our lives if they ever saw us again and I, for one, do not feel like entering the enemy’s den this night.”

  Sir Stewart Longbow shook his blonde head patiently. “They were merely expressing their anguish at du Rennic’s passing, Milo. You know as well as I that the threats were empty. Moreover, they have no choice. Our liege has been ordered to assume control of Castle Canaan and that is exactly what we shall do.” He sighed faintly, perhaps with a measure of trepidation. “Castle Canaan is without her illustrious lord. She is vulnerable in every aspect. To have her without du Rennic at the helm is to leave the entire Fawcett Vale vulnerable because Canaan controls the road from Carlisle to Kendal. She is far too valuable to leave alone and well they know it.”

  Sir Milo Auclair scratched his dirty hair beneath the helm. He wasn’t going to argue with Stewart, for the man was supremely wise and calm in matters as complex as this one threatened to become. But all of the knights were understandably wary. Since Nathaniel du Rennic’s death back in December, the lord’s men had made no bones about their grief and fury. And this evening, in what should have been a simple matter of being welcomed into an ally’s stronghold, threatened to start up another war altogether.

  They were being kept outside, waiting like beggars.

  The knights of Scott de Wolfe’s stable were lost to their own thoughts, anticipating the battle to come. They wouldn’t turn away and they wouldn’t be kept waiting. Frankly, they didn’t like the idea of a fight simply to gain entry. Stewart started to say something to them, words of encouragement or reproach perhaps, but his attention was diverted by a vision in his periphery. The knights, sensing his distraction, turned their full focus to the sound and sight of pounding hooves.

  There wasn’t one man there who did not feel a distinct twinge of pride and, perhaps, consternation. A shadow, outlined by the setting sun, came down from a higher rise where it had been perched among a cluster of oak trees. The charger itself was larger than anything known to man; a Belgian steed of such enormous strength and temper that the beast had not one bit in its mouth, but two for maximum control. Its hooves alone were the size of a man’s head as they pounded the sweet English earth. Silver in color, its mane and tail had been shortened to bristly nubs to make it less vulnerable to attack in the heat of battle. And each man would swear, when the horse looked at them, that there was blood in its eye.

  It was a horse bred to kill.

  But the horse was nothing in comparison to the master astride it. A man this size would have to have a massive horse in order to suppor
t both his mass and weight in full armor. A sword as long as a woman was tall hung down his left leg, the hilt set with semi-precious stones, and the hand that rested upon it was the size of a small boulder. Effortlessly, he rode the Belgian stallion, the menacing horse as gentle as a kitten under its master’s guidance, for everything about the man reeked of intimidation and power. Wickedly, his armor gleamed red in the setting sun as he approached the assemblage of knights and the men. They focused on him as if they were eager and adoring children, awaiting his words.

  “I see no welcoming party from Castle Canaan, Stewart,” the massive knight rumbled. His voice was so low that his words came out a growl. “Is it possible that they did not receive your missive?”

  Stewart did not seem intimidated by the man in the least. He was quite calm when he spoke. “Possible, my lord, but doubtful. They are simply being obstinate, I fear.”

  Scott de Wolfe’s helmed head turned in the direction of the enormous castle, surrounded by a moat fed by a stream that was, in truth, a small lake. It would be no small feat to breach her. Castle Canaan was a magnificent fortress built to withstand a siege and de Wolfe did not relish the thought of having to burn it to the ground should du Rennic’s men prove difficult. He was only here on the king’s orders, after all. It wasn’t as if he had a choice in this, either. A massive mailed hand came up and raised the three-point visor as if to gain a better, unobstructed view.

  “The drawbridge in the southern gatehouse is down but the portcullis is in place,” he observed. “What of the northern gatehouse?”

  “It is sealed tightly, my lord. The bridge is not down.”

  “Then this is a paradox, wouldn’t you say?”

  He was addressing Stewart, as was usual. Although his men greatly respected him, it was not a habit for him to address them personally. All communications usually came through Longbow. It has always been thus, very formal and with strict protocol.

  “They are inviting us, yet not inviting us,” Stewart responded. “We may cross their bridge, but we may not enter the castle.”

  Scott’s hazel eyes were deep and intense. They had a way of shielding his true thoughts, a talent that worked well in his profession. But his granite-jawed face was anything but unreadable; he always looked hard no matter what he was feeling and had ever since that dark day two years ago when he’d lost half of his family to tragedy. The de Wolfe before the loss was a completely different man from the de Wolfe after it. These days, he was a dark, cold, and unfeeling man. Still, he was not insensitive to the grief of du Rennic’s men but he wouldn’t let them turn his army away.

  He’d come with a purpose.

  Scott lowered his visor. His men, watching every move their liege made, also lowered any visors that were raised and prepared to move forward. They always mimicked his movements, out of fear or out of obedience it was difficult to determine; de Wolfe never gave an order twice and, sometimes, he never even gave the initial order. He somehow expected his men to read his mind, which they had fortunately become quite adept at doing. He was a man who led by actions far more than by words.

  “Then we shall accept their invitation to cross their drawbridge,” he growled. “Tell the men to prepare for a skirmish should du Rennic’s men attempt anything stupid. Only the knights will mount the bridge. Tell the bulk of the army to encircle the shores of the moat and position the archers. They shall await my orders. If Canaan does not open her gates, then I will let the arrows fly.”

  Stewart nodded, motioning for Milo to give the word to the army. When Milo thundered off, Stewart turned to de Wolfe and engaged him in a tactical conversation and the three remaining knights, who had thus far remained silent, turned to one other. Huddled in a small group behind the more powerful players, they were the junior members of de Wolfe’s knight corps.

  “You know du Rennic’s men, Jean,” the knight on the left said to the knight in the middle. “You have fought closely with a few of them, have you not? Do you really believe they will resist?”

  Sir Jean-Pierre du Bois shook his head sadly, his dark brown eyes focused on the distant gray-stoned fortress. He was young and from a good Norman family that was old friends of the House of de Wolfe. “’Tis hard to say,” he said. “They are good men and extremely loyal to him. His death affected them tremendously.”

  The man to his right snorted rudely, a big, burly knight with unruly dark hair that tended to remind one of a nest for birds. “They would be fools,” Sir Stanley Moncrief rumbled. “De Wolfe will tear the fortress down around their ears and leave their carcasses for the birds.”

  The first knight who had spoken felt the back of his neck tingle. It always tingled when there was a fight in the air and Sir Raymond Montgomery didn’t like the sensation one bit.

  “They cannot blame de Wolfe for du Rennic’s death,” he said. “They’re fighting men; they know better than anyone of the perils of battle.”

  Moncrief shook his head again. He scratched his torso, chasing the fleas in his woolen undergarments even deeper into his skin. “But du Rennic did not die in battle,” he mumbled what they already knew. “He was assassinated.”

  Jean-Pierre nodded sadly. “And they believe de Wolfe is responsible.”

  “He is not responsible,” Moncrief insisted. “There was nothing he could do about it.”

  Jean Pierre nodded his head again in agreement as he noticed that Scott and Stewart had concluded their conversation and Auclair was returning to the group. The army was preparing to mobilize and there was a sense of determination in the air, the kind of conviction that was always present before a battle.

  “Nay, he is not responsible,” he said quietly, gathering his reins. “But they know that the arrow du Rennic took was meant for de Wolfe himself. In a sense, that makes him responsible more than most.”

  “Du Rennic happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Stanley hissed, lowering his voice as Milo came near. “De Wolfe had nothing to do with that.”

  The conversation died as the army moved forward. The sun continued to set, casting the landscape of Cumbria into a cluster of shadows and torches and a fortress preparing for a siege.

  *

  “Christ, here he comes. Now what?”

  It was an expectant question. Five men stood in the dark tunnel leading from the portcullis to the bailey, a thick-walled corridor carved into the massive walls of Castle Canaan. Smoke was heavy in the air, the result of sooty torches burning in the passage. Soldiers stood about, waiting for orders, as a legion of troops filled the ramparts above. The smell of a battle was in the air as de Wolfe’s army approached from the west.

  The knight who asked the question faced the four men surrounding him, all of the men dressed to the hilt in armor and weapons. Their faces were lined with fatigue, their battle-hardened expressions piercing. It was obvious that a decision had to be made, but none seemed willing to make it.

  “Well?” the knight demanded again. “What are we going to do? Do we stand against de Wolfe or do we let him in?”

  A tall, muscular knight with well-coifed dark hair crossed his thick arms. Sir Kristoph Barclay was older than his comrades, moderately intelligent, and soft spoken. But he was a true follower rather than a leader. He didn’t want the responsibility of making a bad decision.

  “It’s your choice, Jeremy,” he said. “As our lady’s brother, I would say it falls upon you and your father to make the decision. And we will abide by any choice you make.”

  Sir Jeremy Huntley glanced at the man by his side. Sir Gordon Huntley was an older version of his son, somewhat folded by age but nonetheless possessing the same indomitable strength and will. The two men gazed at each other with the same-colored eyes, a deep blue, and it was not difficult to read their thoughts. Jeremy, a strikingly handsome man with thick dark hair and enormously wide shoulders, cocked an eyebrow at his father.

  “Well?” he asked. “What do you say, Da?”

  Gordon was a wise man. He could outfight or outfox
any man alive, even in his advanced years, and was greatly respected for his abilities. So great were his engineering skills that he had built the catapults and the special, double-strung crossbows used by the army of Castle Canaan and copied by nearly half of the troops in Northern England. Which was why Jeremy, as hot-tempered as he could be, was unwilling to make an arbitrary decision without his father’s approval. The man was supremely intelligent.

  Gordon scratched his white beard, then his crotch as he fumbled for a reply. “You are all well aware of my opinion on this,” he mumbled. “I’ve never made any secret of it.”

  Jeremy glanced sidelong at the others. “We know, Da. But the time has come for decisions.”

  Gordon shook his head. “We made quite a few threats against de Wolfe.”

  The knights nodded and grumbled, but there was no clear reply. Gordon continued. “Scott de Wolfe is a great warrior from a fine family. He is the son of William de Wolfe, for Christ’s sake. If Nathaniel knew how we had shown such disrespect to de Wolfe after his death, he would not be at all pleased.”

  A young knight with tightly-curled blonde hair tried to present a brave front. “Lord Nathaniel took the arrow meant for de Wolfe,” he very nearly shouted. “Had we…”

  “Had we shown ourselves as honorable knights, we would not be in this predicament now,” Gordon shot back, cutting off the young man’s tirade. He gestured with an upraised hand. “Do you realize the embarrassment we have shown ourselves by denouncing de Wolfe and then showing him such inhospitable behavior at his arrival? The man is our liege. More than that, he is part of the House of de Wolfe and a favorite of the king. We cannot fight him. We cannot deny him his right to claim Castle Canaan.”

  Jeremy scratched his head, a half-ashamed gesture, and held up his hand to the curly-haired knight so the lad could not argue. “Enough, George. My father is right. We’ve all known this from the beginning.” He grunted and shook his head. “We have all acted stupidly. Even so, our anger is not appeased.”