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THE BIG BAD DE WOLFE
BARBARA DEVLIN
TITLES BY BARBARA DEVLIN
BRETHREN OF THE COAST SERIES
Loving Lieutenant Douglas: A Brethren of the Coast Prequel
Enter the Brethren
My Lady, the Spy
The Most Unlikely Lady
One-Knight Stand
Captain of Her Heart
The Lucky One
Love with an Improper Stranger
To Catch a Fallen Spy
BRETHREN ORIGINS
Arucard
Demetrius
PIRATES OF THE COAST
The Black Morass
KATHRYN LE VEQUE’S KINDLE WORLD OF DE WOLFE PACK
Lone Wolfe
The Big Bad De Wolfe
DEDICATION
As with Lone Wolfe, my first contribution to Kathryn Le Veque’s Kindle World of De Wolfe Pack, I can’t possibly dedicate this book to anyone other than my dear friend Kathryn. I could say all manner of things, heap all sorts of praise, and gush, but I believe I will simply say I love Kat.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE BIG BAD DE WOLFE
TITLES BY BARBARA DEVLIN
DEDICATION
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
EPILOGUE
ABOUT BARBARA DEVLIN
_________________
CHAPTER ONE
London
June 17
The Year of Our Lord, 1497
A bloody business, war knew no limits, as the mortal distinctions of rank, privilege, and power meant naught in the heat of battle, and death struck with indiscriminate and arbitrary abandon. Beneath a clear blue sky, the Cornish soldiers approached, and enemies clashed. It was in the center of the action that Arsenius Titus De Wolfe, sitting tall atop his destrier, charged an unfortunate foe.
A lancer like his father, a legendary warrior and one of the fiercest knights in the kingdom, Arsenius leveled his weapon and heeled the flanks of his mighty stallion, and he caught his adversary in the cuirass, which knocked the rebel to the ground. In truth, theirs was not a fair fight, as His Majesty’s troops exceeded the opposition in numbers, skill, and armaments.
After King Henry VII penalized the Stanneries, in relation to a conflict regarding tin-mining regulations, and levied a tax to pay for the costs associated with the war against the Scots, for which the Cornish assumed a disproportionate share given the border incursions did not impact Cornwall, tempers flared and an uprising was born. What no one expected was that some fifteen thousand combatants would band together and march, for all intents and purposes, unopposed from Taunton to the King’s threshold at the Deptford Strand Bridge.
Thither would be hell to pay for that.
But his immediate concern focused on the forward assault up the middle, under the command of Lord Daubeney, as two other royal compliments directed by Lords Suffolk, Oxford, and Essex flanked either side, and Arsenius waved to his armiger. “Follow me.”
Just then, a hulking figure of a knight advanced in Arsenius’s wake, and he flicked the reins of his destrier and set a blazing pace, with the impressive soldier, which harkened a comparison to one of Alaric’s Visigoth mercenaries who brought the Roman Empire to its knees, bringing up the rear. Given so many enemy combatants lacked a horse, he dropped his lance, slid from the saddle, and drew his sword. Likewise, the huge fighter halted his steed, leaped to the ground, and unsheathed two lightweight blades forged of Damascus steel.
“Must you always make such a grand entrance?” Arsenius snickered. “As you appear better suited for the stage, cousin.”
“You are one to talk.” Titus De Wolfe, son of Atticus, the Lion of the North and the patriarch of the estimable family descended of the great William De Wolfe, and Isobeau, adopted a defensive posture. “And why do you not bare your face, as that alone would scare off half of them?”
“Are we not the witty sort? And your lady declared otherwise when I rode her this morrow.” As was their way, Arsenius turned on his cousin, more a brother in light of their years, and back-to-back, they confronted the enemy hoard. “How many would you estimate?”
“Perchance, two to three hundred souls in our immediate vicinity. Hardly seems fair.” Wearing the signature De Wolfe ailette attached to his pauldron, in much the same fashion as Arsenius, Titus nudged Arsenius’s shoulder. “Are you ready?”
“Aye.” In anticipation of the fight, Arsenius bent at the knees. “Let us play, cousin.”
And so it began. Moving as a single entity, given they stood at equal height; Arsenius and Titus launched a brutal offensive against their foes, more farmers than professional soldiers. Each manifested an imposing adversary on his own merit, but combined the larger-than-life relatives presented an infallible example of human prowess no opponent could challenge with any semblance of hope for success. When Arsenius moved right, his brash relation veered left in a savage but precise dance of death that spared no rebel, and one by one the enemy fell to the devastating De Wolfe duo.
Joined at the hip for as long as he could remember, Arsenius and Titus were evenly matched in every way, excepting their technique. Trained in Cypress, where he served alongside le Dauphin, Titus executed a singular, lethal style he mastered in tutelage by the Turks, whereas Arsenius deployed the traditional botta-in-tempo and coup de main, but the result was the same as they ravaged the Cornish troops.
Beneath a brilliant golden blanket, as the sun continued its journey across the sky, body after body hit the ground with a thud until the Cornish signaled their surrender. By dusk, countless casualties littered the landscape, and Arsenius doffed his bassinet and rubbed his eyes.
“This was no battle.” He choked on the familiar stench of damp earth mixed with blood, sweat, and tears of the injured and the dying. “It was a massacre.”
“I agree.” After yanking off his helm, Titus wiped his forehead and spat. “Thither is no honor in such foul work.”
“Sirs Arsenius and Titus, His Majesty summons you.” The armiger peered toward the verge. “The King bade you appear with haste.”
“Now what have you done?” Arsenius chucked Titus’s chin.
“I have been with you the entire time.” With a snort of unveiled disgust, Titus shifted his weight. “How do you know the fault is mine?”
“Past experience.” Shaking his head, Arsenius sifted through brief recollections of their shared history. “Were you not the one who seduced the Queen’s favored consort on Shrove Tuesday, no less, which almost landed us a date with His Majesty’s executioner?”
“You neglect to mention Lady Margaret, in the heat of passion, confessed a nefarious plot to overthrow the Crown, for which you and I were later knighted. How did the King put it?” Narrowing his stare, Titus snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes. We are most right and true men in dedicated service to England, and who am I to argue the Sovereign’s assessment?”
Arsenius reflected on her sword-wielding, curse-spitting spouse and grimaced. �
�And when it came to Lady Margaret, you were quite dedicated to service.”
With a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, Titus winked and climbed into the saddle of his destrier. “Indeed, I was, as I pursued her for months, but you are one to talk, after your bare-arsed jaunt through the royal stables, whither Lord Tabarant caught you grinding his wife’s corn.”
“That was a momentary lapse in judgment for which I have endeavored to atone.” Yet Arsenius savored the recollection, and despite his best attempts, he yielded to mirth as he reclaimed his steed. “Who knew that old, gotch-gutted, cream-faced loon could run so fast?”
“Well, in all fairness, you had your breeches and chausses gathered about your knees, which slowed your escape.” Slapping his thighs, Titus howled with laughter. “That was a sight I shall never forget, and I must say I feared for your future heirs, when you fled through the topiary garden with the thorny hedgerows.”
“Cousin, believe me, I scared myself.” Wincing, he revisited the vicious wounds in odd places, which he could not quite explain to the physic, and tried but failed to erase the painful memory from his brain, as he returned to his saddle. “Yet we always manage to survive, because we support each other in our adventures.”
“And just what manner of adventure do you have in mind?” As they galloped toward the royal tent, Titus cast a glance at Arsenius. “Ah, but I know you too well. What is her name?”
“Does it matter?” He shrugged, as his stallion soared up the hillside. “What say we celebrate our victory with some of our favorite ale and fare?”
“Blonde, brown, raven, or redhead?” Titus urged his mount faster. “Or does it matter?”
“One should never rush such an important decision.” The King’s guards stood at attention, as Arsenius and Titus neared. “But I believe I shall let Fate make that decision for me.”
“Ah, a gambling man.” Mid-chuckle, Titus sobered. “Look yonder. Your father awaits.”
“That is not good.” Arsenius peered at his sire and waved as he slowed his destrier. “Papa, we bested the rebels and won the battle.”
“I would not be too sure about that.” The elder Titus frowned. “Come to my tent, as we have much to discuss.”
Just then, the King shouted at some unknown, unfortunate soul. “We are not pleased that several thousand rebels marched to our doorstep, unimpeded, and we would have blood in recompense.”
“Hurry.” Father flicked his fingers, and Arsenius led his horse to the back of the line. “Step inside my temporary accommodation, as I require privacy.”
“What is wrong?” Curious, Arsenius glanced at his cousin, who arched a brow. “We successfully defended London against the Cornish attackers. Why is the Crown angry?”
“Do you really need me to answer that question?” On a table, Father rolled up a map, tossed it aside, grabbed a chair, and sat. “I suggest you take your ease, my son, as what I have to say will, no doubt, shock you.”
“Aye, sir.” For as long as Arsenius could remember, when Father used the general reference, storm clouds loomed on the horizon. “Am I in trouble?”
“That is putting it mildly.” Father rolled his eyes. “And when your mother finds out what happened, my neck will be in peril.”
“I do not understand.” Glancing at the younger Titus, who shrugged, Arsenius revisited the events of the day; sifting through his actions in search of an unintended err to explain his sire’s gloomy demeanor and avoid a date with the executioner. “If I offended His Majesty, in any way, I will apologize.”
“You mistake my meaning.” With a sigh, Father bent, opened his trunk, and retrieved a bottle, and Arsenius realized the situation was grave if it drove his sire to drink. “Given your heroic performance on the battlefield, in defense of the realm, the Crown has bestowed upon you an earldom and a prosperous seigneury in Cornwall.”
“What of my deeds, which were equally courageous?” Titus inquired. “Is my sacrifice to be ignored?”
After a healthy draw from the bottle, Father wiped his mouth and said, “The King also bequeaths a wife.”
“Great abyss of misery.” Titus burst into uncontrolled mirth. “But you may take your reward, as I covet it not.”
“I would not be too quick to delight in Arsenius’s difficulty.” Father scratched his jaw. “As the King bequeathed the same to you.”
“What?” Titus flinched.
“Now who is laughing?” Slumping forward, Arsenius propped an elbow on the table and cupped his chin. “But Mama will never support a union in which she had no say in the selection.”
“Trust me, between your mother and His Majesty, I would rather confront the King, as naught scares me more than Desi’s temper.” To Titus, Father said, “And Atticus may kill me, when we apprise him of the not so felicitous developments, given he and Isobeau are to host the weddings at the Lair.”
“Well that should be interesting.” Arsenius reflected upon that gem of brilliance and shuddered. “Thither could be violence.”
“No, that will not happen.” Father pinned Arsenius with a steely glare. “Whatever their station, our future in-laws will be De Wolfes.”
“I understand, father.” Arsenius glanced at his cousin, who blanched. “But at present they remain the enemy.”
~
The sun peeked above the horizon, and the heavens kissed the earth on an unusually warm morning, as Lady Senara Arscott stood before the lancet window and admired the lush green countryside of Cornwall. Born and raised on the rugged, wild moorlands of England, she loved the quaint town of Penryn, situated on the river bearing its name.
Descended of a long line of Arscotts, who could trace their ancestry to the fourth century, when that part of the kingdom was called Belerion, or Land’s End, she took great pride in her estimable heritage. Like the motto upon which the city had been founded, Onen hag oll, One and all, she spent her days in preparation for a future that would uphold the traditions of her ancestors and her family legacy.
“Senara, you waste valuable time.” Mama clapped her hands. “We must complete the hem of your gown, and the situation is urgent, given your wedding to Petroc is in a fortnight.”
“But Father and Petroc have not returned from London.” And that nagging fact kept her awake in the dark hours, as the men should have arrived days ago, but they had nary a word of the Cornish troops or their fate. “While I am ready to do my duty, and of my own free will I have given my vow of filial obedience, I cannot marry without the groom.”
“Still, you should not delay, as I gather Petroc is anxious to make you his bride.” Mama continued her work, assessing a stitch with discriminating scrutiny. “After all, you have been betrothed from the cradle. Are you not equally excited?”
“Of course, I am happy to fulfill my commitment.” Shrugging, she strolled to her chair, sat, retrieved a needle and thread, and tugged on the opposite end of the skirt of the rich burgundy giornea. Although she gave every appearance of calm, on the inside, she could not quiet her internal unrest. “However, I consider Petroc more a friend than a husband, when I had hoped to form an attachment based on love. Is it wrong to want more? What am I to do, Mama?”
“You would do well to focus on providing a male heir to carry on our legacy and forget such nonsense regarding an emotional connection, as that is not the purpose of the sacrament.” With a commanding and enviable posture, which Senara had seen on occasions too numerous to count and made it clear the topic was not open for discussion, Mama resumed her task and set another perfect stitch. “For a woman, procreation is the sole intent of a union.”
“What of happiness?” In a rush, Senara pricked her finger and winced. “Wherefore is it written that I must temper my expectations to suit society?”
“It is known, my dear.” At last, Mama secured her needle and peered at Senara. “It is unwise to wish for something more. At best, you might hope for amiable companionship. Otherwise, you court naught but despair and heartbreak.”
“Is that what ha
ppened to you?” Despite their difference of opinion, Senara always heeded her mother’s advice, as Mama was well-respected in the community. “Forgive me, but I have long suspected you do not love Papa.”
“That is because I entered the union with no unreasonable requirements, much to my satisfaction, and I recommend you follow my path.” How sad it seemed that Mama settled for less than a true and devoted bond even as she proclaimed her contentment. “Your father and I were strangers when we wed, as is often the case, thus you are fortunate to know Petroc. It will make your first night as husband and wife much easier.”
“Ah, yes.” A startling image formed in her mind, bodies intertwined in the mating dance, and she shuddered, given Mama had explained the process of marital relations in startling detail bereft of any hint of the pleasure to be gained therein, leaving Senara both fascinated and terrified of the singular event. “I forgot about the consummation.”
“Just remember my counsel.” Mama wagged a finger. “Lie back, close your eyes, and permit him to complete his occupation, and it will go easier if you do not fight him. And the sooner you produce an heir, the sooner he will seek his jollies elsewhere, and you may live in peace.”
“That sounds dreadful.” And if Petroc intended to avail himself of other women, he would do so without his most prized part of his anatomy, as Senara would not tolerate such an affront.
“On the contrary.” With an unveiled expression of pride, Mama lifted her chin and smiled. “Ryol and I have formed a lasting friendship, and I have you and your sister, so thither have been compensations. Also, my position has afforded me the chance to help our citizens. If you are smart, and you are smart, that is whither you will make your mark.”
A knock at the door snared Senara’s attention, and she said, “Come.”
“My lady, a small group of riders approaches from the east.” Lowen, the steward, crossed to the lancet window. “I believe it is his lordship.”
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