WOLFESWORD
A Medieval Romance
By Kathryn Le Veque
De Wolfe Pack Generations
© Copyright 2020 by Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
Kindle Edition
Text by Kathryn Le Veque
Cover by Kim Killion
Edited by Scott Moreland
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Author’s Notes
Welcome to Cassius’ story!
We first met Cassius in WolfeHeart, as the second-eldest son of Patrick de Wolfe and the younger brother of Markus de Wolfe. I never really intended to give Cassius his own story, but I liked him so much in WolfeHeart, I thought – why not?
So now, we have Cassius a few years after WolfeHeart, and he’s becoming something of a rock star purely based on his looks. To put it mildly, he’s a comely lad. To put it not so mildly, imagine if Henry Cavill and Tom Welling had a baby. Yes, Cassius is that gorgeous.
And all of England’s women know it.
Surprisingly, Cassius is not full of himself about it. Not too full, anyway. He’s more interested in his career at this point in his life because he’s the king’s Lord Protector, a highly prestigious post. Sure, he loves women and doesn’t shy away from one who interests him, but they’re secondary to his ambition at this point in his life.
Enter Dacia of Doncaster.
Dacia, you’ll find, is an interesting character. She’s a beautiful girl and more than a match for Cassius in that department, except for one thing – she’s got a fairly heavy dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Since clear, pale skin was a prized beauty attribute to a Medieval woman, freckles are worse than pimples. She might as well have scars all over her face because freckles were about the worst physical trait one could have. Freckles were definitely a trait for the red-haired, Celtic crowd and not so frowned upon in their culture, but for the Norman-ancestry, Anglo-Saxon women, freckles were a problem.
We’re in the early fourteenth century at this point and about a hundred years before witches were burned in earnest. But even so, witchcraft was a terrifying thing and women with moles or freckles were considered by some to be marked by the devil.
And that’s what we’re dealing with – lots of freckles.
This book also deals with something interesting that I’ve had in other books, but I’m revisiting it again – Medieval medicine. There is something called “Rotten Tea” I’ve used in several books and it actually does exist. It’s the forerunner of penicillin and there are recipes for it on the internet (like, on survivalist websites). So, can you make penicillin? You can. But it’s uncontrolled and dicey. Not really recommended unless you’re in an apocalypse and have no other choice.
But in Medieval times, they really didn’t have a choice, especially if you’re going to lose a limb or die of an infection, so Rotten Tea was a thing. So was a formula called “Bald’s potion” that called for wine, garlic, onions, and bile salts – literally, salts produced from the human liver. How do you get bile salts in Medieval times? From corpses. These days, they are artificially manufactured, but not in the 14th century. Medieval medicine makes for interesting reading.
Also of note – remember that the grandsons of William de Wolfe have the de Wolfe standard tattoo somewhere on their torsos, but in Medieval times, tattoos were referred to as a stigmata – it’s the closest word I can come to that means tattoo, so when you see that word, that’s what we’re referring to.
And one final thing – Magnus the Law-Mender, Cassius’ grandfather and Patrick “Atty” de Wolfe’s father-in-law, really did exist. He was a great king of Norway, known for restoring law and order to his country. Hence, the nickname “Law-Mender”. However, he died about twenty years before this story is set, but I really like Magnus and what he brings to the House of de Wolfe, so I have taken the liberty of expanding his lifespan just a little. We need the pushy Norwegian king who demands to name all of his grandsons and great-grandsons.
Now, with all that said, the usual pronunciation guide:
• The heroine’s name is the interesting part here. I’ve heard it pronounced three ways – DAY-cee-uh, DAY-sha, and DAH-cee-uh. For our purposes, we’re going with DAH-cee-uh.
• Cassius – basically, Cash-us
• Amata – Uh-MAH-tuh
I hope you enjoy this truly romantic tale – it has some very, very sweet moments and Cassius is a very charismatic hero. That is something we really didn’t see from him in his brother’s tale, but here, it comes out fully. He has quickly become one of my favorites!
Happy Reading!
Hugs,
De Wolfe Pack Generations
The grandsons of William de Wolfe are referred to as “The de Wolfe Cubs”. There are more than forty of them, both biological and adopted, and each young man is sworn to his powerful and rich legacy. When each grandson comes of age and is knighted, he tattoos the de Wolfe standard onto some part of his body. It is a rite of passage and it is that mark that links these young men together more than blood.
More than brotherhood.
It is the de Wolfe birthright.
The de Wolfe Pack standard is meant to be worn with honor, with pride, and with resilience, for there is no more recognizable standard in Medieval England. To shame the Pack is to have the tattoo removed, never to be regained.
This is their world.
Welcome to the Cub Generation.
De Wolfe Motto: Fortis in arduis
Strength in times of trouble
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Author’s Notes
De Wolfe Pack Generations
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Afterword
The par
ents, children, and grandchildren of de Wolfe
Holdings and Titles of the House of de Wolfe and close allies as of 1300 A.D.
Kathryn Le Veque Novels
About Kathryn Le Veque
PROLOGUE
Spring, 1303 A.D.
Hagg Crag
Six miles northwest of Doncaster
“You have seen the fortress?”
“I have. And it will cost you more to take it.”
There was a pause. In a small, cluttered solar that smelled of urine and dog feces, a man with bad teeth and even worse hair was facing off against a well-dressed, well-armed man of Flemish origins.
It was a business meeting.
The man from Flanders wore a yellow tunic with a black lion, the claws bloodied and a big, red tongue lashing out from the mouth. His standard was recognizable to most warlords in England, France, and Scotland because it was his calling card. It was a walking advertisement.
Marcil Clabecq advertised his services through that distinguishable standard.
But those services were pricey.
That was something Catesby Hagg was discovering. He’d already paid the man twenty pounds sterling to bring him and his eighty-one man army from Flanders to the inlet in Grimsby. From Grimsby, they’d taken the land route to Doncaster, which is where they found themselves now. Even if he didn’t hire this small army of some of the best fighters in the world, it had still cost him plenty to bring them to England.
Now, they wanted more.
He felt as if they were trying to fleece him.
“How much more?” Catesby asked, trying not to sound annoyed in the face of a man who was paid to kill people. “I told you that Edenthorpe Castle was a substantial bastion. That was never kept from you, so you knew when you came what you would be facing. I fail to see why it is going to cost me more for you to do the job I want you to do.”
Marcil Clabecq could hear the frustration in the man’s voice. But he could also hear his desperation. “Because you failed to mention just how big Edenthorpe was,” he said in his thick Flemish accent. “My men have seen the place and tell me it is massive. There are enormous walls and massive earthworks, which make it more difficult to breach. You also failed to mention that Doncaster has more than a thousand men inside that castle.”
Catesby eyed him. “Who told you that?”
Marcil snorted. A tall man with shoulder-length black hair, a trim mustache and beard, and black eyes that were as black as his mercenary soul, he had been a soldier for hire for many years. So had his father. The Lords of Clabecq were quite rich and well-known mercenaries, hired by barons and kings alike.
Marcil saw great potential in this particular job.
“My men were in Doncaster for several days before we went to the castle,” he said, moving to the sideboard that contained a rock crystal decanter of wine and fine crystal cups. “They asked questions and received answers. It is necessary in my line of work to know exactly what I am dealing with.”
Catesby was a little miffed that Marcil had gone off on his own fact-finding exhibition. “And what are you dealing with?”
Marcil poured himself some wine, ruby-red liquid trickling out of the decanter. “I am dealing with a spoiled lord,” he said pointedly. “I am dealing with a man who was not completely truthful when he summoned me. You want me to destroy Edenthorpe Castle but I am telling you now that it will be impossible with only eighty-one men and a big army inside her walls. Therefore, I must be clever about this.”
“What do you mean?”
Marcil drank the wine, smacking his lips to savor the tart flavor. “You have stated that the Duke of Doncaster is not a great warlord.”
Catesby shook his head. “He does not go to war constantly if that’s what you mean,” he said. “Edenthorpe is quite peaceful.”
“Good. That makes my job easier.”
“Then you will accept the terms?”
“Explain them again to me so there is no mistake.”
Catesby had gone from frustrated to eager. “If you manage to capture Edenthorpe, we will split her spoils,” he said. “I will get the fortress and I will split her wealth with you.”
“I will have first pick.”
“Very well,” Catesby said, somewhat unhappily. “But Doncaster has a granddaughter. She belongs to me. I have a son, you know. He will make an excellent Duke of Doncaster.”
Marcil cocked an eyebrow, a smile on his lips. “Ah,” he said. “So there is more behind this than a land dispute. You want something more.”
Catesby nodded without regret. “I want Doncaster and Edenthorpe,” he said. “When I marry my son to the heiress, the land dispute becomes null. All of it shall be mine.”
Marcil thought on those words for a few moments before downing the entire glass of wine and setting the cup back on the table.
“Then I must make plans,” he said. “I will need to inspect the castle myself and see what I am truly up against.”
Catesby looked at him warily. “You cannot simply walk up to the castle,” he said. “There are guards everywhere. They will want to know why you are there.”
But Marcil waved him off. “Do not worry so much,” he said. “There are other ways of inspecting the castle.”
“What ways?”
Marcil grinned, revealing yellowed teeth in a gesture that was innately evil. “There are ways,” he said evasively. “That is why I have come, n’est pas?”
He was gone before Catesby could question him any further, out of the solar and into the yard of the small fortress where his well-dressed, well-fed mercenaries waited. Catesby made his way to the window overlooking the bailey, watching Marcil speak with his men.
He was starting to think he’d made a deal with the devil.
In truth, he had.
Hell was coming.
CHAPTER ONE
There were people everywhere.
In the midst of a bright spring day, upon the cusp of noon, Cassius de Wolfe and his men had entered the outskirts of the village of Doncaster and proceeded into a crowd of people, the mass of which Cassius had not seen outside of London.
But it wasn’t just any crowd.
It was a very happy crowd.
It didn’t take very long for Cassius to figure out that there was some kind of festival going on, for the women had flowers in their hair and the men were drinking from big, wooden cups overflowing with cheap and frothy ale. Children ran about, chasing one another, with garlands hanging around their necks. Even the dogs had flower collars.
It was a joyful place.
Intrigued, Cassius and his men continued towards the center of town.
“What in the world do you suppose is going on?”
The question came from Sir Rhori du Bois, a massive knight with black hair and blazing blue eyes. He was part of the du Bois-de Lohr family, his father being one Macsen du Bois, son of Maddoc, and his great-great-grandfather had been the Earl of Canterbury, David de Lohr. Rhori had the du Bois looks but the de Lohr personality, all fire and brilliance. The product of two great bloodlines, his prowess in battle was unmatched.
Cassius shook his head to the man’s question.
“I do not know,” he said, eyeing a group of wild boys running in their direction. “A feast some kind, clearly. Or a festival. Or mayhap even an execution because you know how quickly those can turn into a festive occasion. Especially if the man to be executed is hated enough.”
Rhori grunted in disapproval. “Entertainment.”
“Exactly.”
The third knight in their group was bringing up the rear and happened to be in the path of the wild boys. The children zipped past Cassius and Rhori, but when they came to the third knight, they began throwing something at each other. It could have been pebbles because a couple pinged the warhorse, who swung his big head unhappily. The big, ugly dog who followed Cassius around barked when the children ran by. One of the objects landed in the knight’s black hair and stuck.
Cassius and Rhori watched him curiously.
“Something is in your hair, Bose,” Cassius pointed out the obvious.
Sir Bose de Shera wasn’t one to get worked up about anything, not even children throwing projectiles into his hair. He was calm and cool like his legendary grandfather, Bose de Moray, and he reached up to pluck whatever it was out of his hair. He looked at it, sniffed it, and promptly popped it into his mouth.
Cassius and Rhori recoiled in disgust.
“Bose,” Cassius scolded. “How many times have I told you not to put things in your mouth when you do not know where they have come from? For Christ’s sake, you’re like a child who sits in the dirt and shoves pebbles in his mouth.”
Bose was chewing on whatever it was. “It is a sweet,” he said. “Cinnamon and honey, I think. It is delicious.”
Cassius stared at him for a long moment before breaking down into snorts. Rhori simply shook his head.
“God,” he muttered. “The man puts anything in his mouth.”
“Of course I do,” Bose said seductively. “Ask the ladies.”
Cassius’ laughter grew. The rapport between Rhori, a serious knight, and Bose, a sometimes irreverent one, was truly hilarious at times. It could also be grating and they were known to throw punches at each other from time to time. But the two were utterly devoted to one another and would kill for each other, so most of the grumbling was for show. Even the fist fights turned into hugs, and Cassius had been listening to all of it for the past three years, ever since he took command of the king’s personal guard.
The king’s Lord Protector.
Cassius de Wolfe was from the great northern House of de Wolfe, a massive family that had all started with one man, William de Wolfe, a knight called the greatest of his generation. He’d served at Northwood Castle, an enormous fortress along the Scottish border, until the king had awarded him his own lands and title for meritorious service.
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