The Saint--World of de Worlk Pack

by Cathy MacRae

  Text copyright ©2016 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Kathryn Le Veque. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  THE SAINT

  World of de Wolfe Pack

  By Cathy MacRae

  www.cathymacraeauthor.com

  DEDICATION

  For my mother,

  One of the strongest women I know.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  MORE BOOKS BY CATHY MACRAE

  THE SAINT

  Following in the footsteps of his uncle, the famous Lord William de Wolfe, Geoffrey de Wylde was counted among the greatest knights England had ever known. Revered for his justness and strict adherence to the chivalric code, he was known as The Saint.

  Fleeing the unwanted attentions of her late husband's brother, Marsaili de Ville runs headlong into the path of The Saint. She wants nothing more than to reach the safety of her family's home in Scotland before Edmund de Ville’s henchmen capture her, but Geoffrey de Wylde insists on becoming her protector, slowing her flight and putting her unknowingly at risk.

  As her past catches up with her, Marsaili will find more than a safe haven in The Saint’s arms. And Geoffrey de Wylde will discover his code does not tell him what to do with a woman who has been accused of murder, yet has captured his heart.

  Medieval Glossary:

  (A few words I found particularly interesting ~ Cathy)

  Bluttering – blurting out (words)

  Butter-teeth – top front incisors

  Fadoodle – something foolish; nonsense

  Fairhead – beauty

  Spit-frog – a short sword (perhaps less impressive in size than a battle sword? Of a size to ‘spit’—or spear—a frog?)

  Wallydraigle – a slovenly, worthless woman

  Wench – a woman (this was not viewed as a derogatory term in this era)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Northern England, 1235 AD

  The shrill sound of a woman’s voice intruded on his thoughts. The woman did not seem to be weeping—and for that he was eternally grateful—but she obviously was not getting her way. And it appeared until she was appeased, he, Lord Geoffrey de Wylde, newly made baron of Galewood, was not going to get his way.

  He sincerely hoped his knights could settle the issue. The winter wind’s cold bite did not encourage him to step from the questionable comfort of his conveyance, but time was slipping past. He should have been away from the inn at least an hour ago.

  He drummed his fingertips impatiently on his thigh.

  Moments passed. His back had scarcely rested against the thickly padded seat of his covered conveyance when a firm tap registered on the painted doors.

  “Yes.” He sighed heavily, stifling the bitter word he wouldn’t have dreamed of uttering during the past year.

  The door cracked open and a wizened face appeared. Sparse gray hair danced in the wind about the weathered head, and worry rounded pale blue eyes.

  “M’lord,” the man began with a nervous glance over his shoulder.

  “Put your cap back on, Wythevede,” Geoffrey murmured. “I will not have you catching your death over a caterwauling woman.”

  Wythevede quickly jammed his thick, knitted cap over his thinning pate and cleared his throat. “M’lord, the female is blocking the way out of the yard.” He drew himself up. “De Bretteby and de Ellerton weren’t no help.”

  Geoffrey raised an eyebrow, partly at his driver’s familiar use of his knights’ names, partly at the thought the two battle-hardened men found themselves unable to manage a single woman long enough for his cart to make its less-than-timely departure. Reaching for the silver-handled cane resting against the corner between the seat and the wall, he rose to his feet, hiding a grimace as his right leg took its share of his weight.

  Wythevede wrung his hands. “M’lord, perhaps I could try again . . . .”

  Anger darted through Geoffrey at the implication he was less than capable of attending matters, though to be certain, he did not wish to confront a woman who was currently defying his two guards. He let the irritation pass, saving it for the moments ahead.

  Bracing against the cane, he lowered himself from the conveyance, taking care not to jar his leg as he reached the ground. He took in the scene before him, ignoring the complaining stab of pain in his thigh as it reminded him his old injury did not care for cold weather.

  Voices fell to a low murmur then died away as stable boys caught sight of him. Geoffrey let them look their fill, squaring his shoulders beneath the flap of his heavy black wool cape. He drew his lips into a habitual scowl and settled his gaze on the mud-bespattered young woman causing the ruckus.

  Copper-red hair jutted from what may have once been a tight braid, though it must have been combed and plaited hours if not days earlier. She spun toward him, following the others’ sudden stare in his direction, and her cheeks pinked slightly under his intense scrutiny. Clear blue eyes widened and she teetered slightly before bracing herself against the shoulder of the horse beside her. The animal shifted his feet and tossed his head, neighing in distress.

  Geoffrey glanced at the injured beast, noting the trembling foreleg and the hoof the horse was reluctant to let touch the ground. Then snapped his gaze back to the young woman as she snatched up her skirts and hurried in his direction.

  “I need another horse,” she stated, her voice taut and matter-of-fact. She waved a hand at the heavily-muscled man standing in the doorway of the stable. “He says he has none. I marked at least three inside this disreputable pile of rubble, and whilst the beasts may not carry me far, they certainly will make it to the next village.”

  Geoffrey surveyed the woman, his first inclination to dismiss her out of hand as a troublesome chit warring with his innate desire to right the wrong being done.

  He shifted his gaze to the stable master who’d provided such good care to his own team of horses the night before. The man crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

  “They aren’t mine to offer,” he declared, casting a withering look at the woman pleading her case. “Leastwise, not to the likes of her,” he muttered.

  The woman rounded on him. “Because I dinnae arrive here in a gilded box, dangling from the arm of a wealthy lord?” Her words dripped scorn. “Because ye believe a woman doesnae deserve the same courtesies as a man?” She raised a slender arm, flicking fingers at him in dismissal.

  “What say you, milord?” she queried Geoffrey. “Am I of less importance because my legs hide beneath a skirt?”

  He disregarded the soft cadence of her speech as memories of the life he’d recently left jumped to the forefront of his mind. “Nay,” he said. “’Tis not rig
ht to deny a person something that is within your power to give, simply because she is female.” He hid a twitch of his lips at the woman’s startled look and fought the urge to smile. This was a simple case of right and wrong.

  “If she has coin to pay for the rental, give her the horse of her choice.” He checked the stable master’s protest with a glare, the scowl more familiar to the muscles of his face than the smile had been.

  “Move milady’s horse and clear the path. I am already late.” Dismissing the tableau in the yard, he turned and mounted the steps into the cart as large, wet snowflakes swirled through the air and matted against the fabric of his cloak. Giving his two soldiers-at-arms a disgruntled look that promised a reckoning from them later, he slipped into the conveyance.

  He sank into the cushioned seat and thumped his cane on the floor. Wythevede scurried up the steps with a freshly heated stone wrapped in a flannel cloth and placed it beneath the fur draped over Geoffrey’s lap. Twice the old man caught his breath as though to speak, but Geoffrey warned him off with a look. Taking the hint, the wizened man departed, closing the door behind him.

  Gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain in his leg, Geoffrey shifted the stone a bit closer. After a moment, he relaxed, settling deeper into the padded comfort.

  He fought the urge to open the panel at the window as he waited for his driver to move the horses forward. Each stamp of a hoof and shake of their shaggy bodies jarred the cart, adding to his growing discomfort. Looking forward to hours cooped up in his ‘gilded box’ was no more pleasurable than hours astride a saddle, which was where he longed to be. He pushed aside his frustration with the wound in his leg that still had not healed after a year of treatment by eminent physicians, and stared despondently at the empty seat before him.

  With a mighty jerk, indicative of the length of time they’d remained stationery as the wooden wheels broke free of the accumulated snow and ice, the conveyance lurched forward. Geoffrey snared the edge of the panel with the tip of his cane and lowered it a few inches, disappointed to see nothing more than an empty yard, the mud and muck rapidly disappearing beneath a growing mantle of white.

  * * *

  Lady Marsaili de Ville wiped her trembling hands on her grimy skirts, hating the feel of days-old mud and grit ground into the fabric. She also hated feeling cold, hunted and exhausted, though she’d endure the cold and exhaustion over the sure knowledge of what would happen to her if her late husband’s conniving brother caught up with her.

  “I’ll take the bay,” she stated, lifting a haughty brow at the stable master.

  The man swore aloud, apparently sufficiently cowed by the nobleman who’d come to her assistance to give her the horse, but not liking the situation one damn bit. With a jerk of his head, he sent a stable boy scurrying into the stable, returning moments later with the animal in question.

  “You’ll have to use yer own saddle,” the stable master informed her bluntly. “I’ll not put my good tack on the beast knowing how you’ll abuse it.” He nodded pointedly to the mud-caked saddle on Marsaili’s horse.

  “Fair enough,” she replied, striding forward to remove the saddle herself. It was the cursed weather, not ill-use that covered the horse and tack, but she wasn’t about to argue the point.

  An elderly man hobbled to her side and patted the edge of her cloak. “M’lady, could we not give yer beast a chance to heal?” He glanced at the sky now billowing with snowflakes, stark white against the grey clouds.

  Marsaili jerked the strap securing the saddle, battling tears of frustration as her fingers slipped on the damp leather. She clawed angrily at the stubborn knot, refusing to give in to the horror her life had become.

  “We have no time, Hew. Ye know what will happen if Edmund finds us.” She snatched her hand back, biting down on a finger. Pulling the digit from her mouth, she eyed the nail critically.

  “Damn! Stubborn thing! I broke a nail.” Giving her hand a shake, she attacked the saddle girth with renewed vigor, ignoring the frigid air that crept into every seam of her clothing, deadening skin and enthusiasm alike.

  With heady triumph, she at last pulled the girth free. Hew sidled closer and helped her pull the weighty saddle from her tired mount’s back and set it atop the bay.

  “’Tis not fit weather for man nor beast, if’n ye dinnae mind my saying so.” Hew gave a long-suffering sniff. Straightening the stirrup leather, he eyed his mistress.

  Marsaili laid a palm on his sleeve. “Ye dinnae have to come further. Ye are right about the weather, and mayhap a respite here overnight may show clear skies tomorrow.”

  Hew’s face creased with relief. “I’ll see if the innkeeper has a spare room for ye, then. And a warm meal wouldnae go amiss, either.” He gave the horse a pat and shuffled across the yard toward the welcoming glow of the inn.

  Marsaili ducked her head. She hated misleading faithful Hew. She shied from calling it lying, though there was scarcely a difference between agreeing with him then leaving on her own as soon as he was out of sight, and arguing the fact she dare not linger. It had been wrong to allow Hew to accompany her this far to begin with, but he and his wife, Flore, had been with her since her birth, and though Flore lay dead many miles south and nearly a year gone, Hew maintained his position of self-proclaimed body guard and chief worrier in her life. But his old bones needed rest and warmth much more than hers did, and if she wanted to grow old, she must keep moving.

  “I’d fancy a rare spring day, myself,” she told the horse. It flicked an ear and pawed the earth, sending up chunks of packed snow from beneath its hoof. Marsaili eyed the ground in the yard, surprised to find little trace of mud or stone beneath the gathering snow.

  She bit a chapped lip and tightened her cloak about her, pulling at the strings. Retrieving a pair of fur-lined leather gloves from the small bag at her side, she slipped them over stiff fingers.

  “We’d best be away before Hew comes looking for us. In this weather, he willnae follow us. He’ll be praying we’ll come to our senses and return.” She peered at the path leading from the inn to the road some distance away. A vague dip in the snow indicated where the trail lay, with no indication of what hid beneath the cold white surface.

  No, I won’t be coming back. A chill skittered down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the man who almost certainly hunted her even in the worsening storm.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The cart stuttered to a halt. Geoffrey relaxed his death-grip on the sides of the conveyance and blew out a sigh of relief.

  Thank the Lord for small favors! I swear I’d rather walk than spend one more moment in this torture chamber.

  He grabbed his cane and stretched toward the door which opened magically to a man covered in white.

  “Good Lord, Wythevede!” Geoffrey exclaimed, noting the snow crusted to the man’s cloak and the blast of frigid air that leapt inside the conveyance. “Is it that bad outside?”

  The man’s eyes watered and crystals sparkled on the tips of his lashes as he blinked. The tip of his nose glowed bright red, but a fine line of blue about his lips alarmed Geoffrey. He scooted aside and motioned for the man to climb into the meager warmth of the cart. Wythevede gave him a startled look and shook his head.

  “Thank ye kindly, M’lord, but ’tis not my place. However, the men have secured a small hut with a shed of sorts for the horses.” He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Though the place looks as if it hasn’t been lived in for years and is certainly not worthy of you, M’lord.”

  Geoffrey ignored the man’s pandering. He was becoming accustomed to it and so far it had gained him excellent lodgings at inns along their journey, and cost him nothing more than the occasional quelling glance. Which he hardly needed to practice and rarely noticed when he used it.

  “Beggars cannot be choosers, Wythevede,” he chided gently. “I am thankful we have shelter and are not forced to wait the storm out in the open.” He again gathered his cane to his side and hea
ved himself to his feet, stooping low to clear the door’s opening. Biting air licked eagerly at his skin as he exited the cart, and he gripped the cart’s frame, careful not to slip on the icy ground as his feet sought purchase. He shrugged his cape close to his neck, denying access to the dancing flakes of snow and ice that obscured much of the surroundings.

  “I had no intention of traveling if the weather turned this bad,” he commented, the wind whisking his words away from the often rather deaf ears of his driver. Wythevede hunched beneath his wool coat without any sign he’d heard Lord de Wylde. He trudged to the head of the team where he grasped the lead horse’s bridle and led the pair into a ramshackle building not far from the cottage.

  A heavily cloaked man stepped through the doorway and gave Geoffrey a nod. “There was a supply of wood already in the house and Walter has started a fire to warm you, Saint.” He gave Geoffrey a quick survey. “Is there anything you need other than your bag from the cart?”

  Geoffrey stifled the twinge of annoyance of having his oldest friend see the need to care for him like an invalid. Though he had done so once before—for several months—and it was difficult to fault Simon for his continued diligence and care. He forced a slight smile.

  “See that Wythevede doesn’t freeze solid out here. His lips are turning an interesting shade of blue.”

  Simon gave a short nod and trudged through the snow to the shed. Geoffrey leaned heavily on his cane as he made his way cautiously up the walkway. The door swung easily open at his touch and he was relieved to feel the feeble heat from the tiny hearth as he stepped inside.

  “Have a care for the draft,” Walter barked, not sparing Geoffrey a look over his shoulder from where he knelt before the hearth, coddling the small flame. “A small sneeze would put out the fire. The wood is dry but so old it is crumbling rather than burning.” He sat back on his heels, dusting his hands on his thighs. “That should do until I can search out something better. Mayhap the furniture can be appropriated. Seems the best use for the lot.”