World of De Wolfe Pack_The Big Bad De Wolfe

by Barbara Devlin

  “But—you said a small group?” Senara dropped her gown, ignored her mother’s ensuing tsk, and rushed to the ledge. “Papa took five hundred men from our garrison to fight His Majesty’s unfair taxes.”

  “Given the size of the party, it would appear his lordship met disaster, Lady Senara.” Frowning, the grey-haired steward wiped his brow. “And my son was among those who answered the call to arms.”

  “Let us not rush to conclusions, Lowen.” Yet she gulped as the staggering collective of some twenty persons neared the gate, and she feared the obvious. “Shall we repair to the courtyard and greet our heroes?”

  “Do not tarry, as they may need care.” Mama hurried into the hall. “Lowen, summon the physic.”

  “Aye, my lady.” The steward rushed into the passage and veered left in the entryway.

  All but running, Senara lifted her skirts and joined the others, who gathered to welcome those who defended Cornwall from the King’s tyranny. When she spied Papa at the fore, a casual glance revealed the lines of strain and the stony, taut lips about his usually affable countenance, which conveyed a wealth of meaning that left her trembling.

  Her family was in trouble.

  “Ryol.” With outstretched hands, Mama darted into Papa’s embrace. “What happened? Whither art our soldiers?”

  “Those who were not killed in battle were taken into custody, but His Majesty promised to let them come home, if I abide by the terms of surrender, and I will do so.” In an instant, Papa drew up short. “Senara, I will speak with you in the solar, now.” Trudging past the guards, her father stormed into the grand entry and yelled at a servant, “Bring some wine to my chamber.”

  “Father, what is wrong?” Senara skipped in his wake, daring to ponder what altered his manner. “If we lost the fight, but the Crown spares our troops, then we have still won, have we not? Wherefore are you so unsettled?”

  “The taxes must be paid, and I am forthwith stripped of my title, but thither is more the King demands, in light of our rebellion.” In the family gathering room, Papa doffed his tabard, sat in his usual chair, bent forward, and cradled his head in his hands. “And His Majesty claims Bellesea and my firstborn child as the spoils of war.”

  “No, Ryol. I can tolerate a great many things, but I cannot countenance the trade of my child, as if she were no more than a piece of meat.” In that moment, Mama dropped to her knees and rested her palms to Father’s thighs. “Never have I asked you for anything, never have I disobeyed you, but I beg you, not my baby. We can find another home, but we cannot replace our daughter. Thither is no other way?”

  “What would you have of me, Wenna? Should I revolt and refuse a royal command, for which the Sire will surely see my head on a pike, mayhap with yours, and orphan both our offspring, to have them snatched by the Crown, in the end?” Papa gazed at Senara and flicked his fingers. “Come hither, girl.”

  “Yes, Father.” Given no opportunity to digest the inauspicious developments, which boded ill tidings, Senara clung to her wits. Thither would be time for panic and tears, later. When Papa clutched her wrist with a steely grip, she winced. “You are hurting me, Father.”

  “I am sorry, Senara.” He eased his hold. “But you are our only hope for survival.”

  “Tell me what you need from me, and I will do it.” If only her voice carried the strength and courage of conviction, but she vowed to persevere. “As an Arscott, I am at your service and stand ready to obey His Majesty’s orders.”

  “You are a dutiful daughter and a credit to your sex, and I have never been more proud. Much is required of you, and I would mitigate the circumstances, if I could, but I cannot divert the Sovereign, so you must be brave, my girl.” After brushing aside Mama, Father scooted from his seat and stretched tall. Framing Senara’s face, he kissed her forehead, and the tender display almost brought her low. “The King gives you in marriage to one of his knights, along with the title and Bellesea.”

  “No.” Mama shrieked in unmasked horror. “Can you not protest, Ryol? Whither are we to go? How are we to live?”

  “And what of my betrothal to Petroc?” Fear—no, sheer terror shivered down her spine, and Senara realized a cruel twist of fate forced her to confront the same situation as her mother. If only her future husband was as kind as her father. “I am to wed a stranger, a man about whom I know naught?”

  “What would you have me do, Wenna? Should we wait until His Majesty puts our necks on the block, that the Crown might seize both our children?” Papa inquired of Mama. To Senara, he said, “But if we acquiesce, you will be a countess, and you will remain at Bellesea, so you must promise to guard our people against those who would harm them, as I am unable to protect them from His Majesty’s wrath. Remember what you were taught, and do not shame your mother and I.”

  “Of course, Father, but what of you, Mama, and Ysella?” Senara fretted for her younger sister, who, by the Lord’s grace, survived a wicked bout of consumption and struggled with her health. “What is to become of you?”

  “We are at the mercy of the new lord of Bellesea.” Tipping her chin, Papa brought her stare to his. “Perchance you might soften his heart, and secure his permission for us to live on the estate. As the official producer of the King’s clotted cream, I have some value to your new fiancé, and our methods are a great secret I will carry to my grave.”

  “How am I to persuade a man of which I possess no knowledge to bend in my favor?” The weight of the world settled on her shoulders, as she pondered a future that no longer existed and new prospects that could yield naught but misery, for her and her kin. As always, Senara mulled the possibilities, her mind raced in various directions, and she scrambled to devise a plan that would spare her family. “What do you know of him, and when is the wedding to take place?”

  “We depart inland to the Scottish village of Wolflee, on the morrow, and the ceremony will commence the day after our arrival at the Lair.” Papa pressed a fist to his mouth, and tears welled in his blue eyes, which only compounded her anxiety. “And the brute who claims you as his property, in reward for killing untold numbers of our fellow Cornishmen, is named Arsenius De Wolfe.”

  _________________

  CHAPTER TWO

  Naught could inspire fear more than four pedestrian words, when considered on their own, but taken together as a whole their meaning incited a wealth of angst and apprehension in the most valorous warrior, His Majesty summons you. In the past, Arsenius met the various dates with destiny in the spirit intended, with courage and conviction, unaware of the outcome, understanding full well that the royal audience could be his last. Of course, it was easy to stand fast, confident of his survival, as he never acted in haste or against the Sovereign, and a steady stream of rewards bolstered his equanimity. In all his imaginings, and he courted some wild reveries, never had an arranged marriage entered his thoughts, and he viewed his bride-to-be as more a penance than a boon.

  “Could you not have prevented this mess?” Atticus raked his fingers through his hair and groaned, as he paced the solar. “Mayhap a generous payment, of some sort, to appease the King’s thirst for wealth?”

  “Uncle, believe me, I tried everything to spare our sons, but thither was naught I could do to avoid the matches, and you know how the Sire can be when he is provoked.” Smacking a fist to a palm, Father shook his head. “By God’s bones, His Majesty was furious that so many rebel troops marched on London, unopposed, which exposed a dangerous weakness in the Crown’s political connections that no leader could afford. These unions are about power, not a felicitous match.”

  “This is all your fault.” Mama stomped a foot. “And if my baby is injured in the process, the King will answer to me, and I will never forgive you.”

  With a familiar pained expression, Papa shuffled his feet. “But, sweetheart—”

  “Do not ‘sweetheart’ me, you great abyss of incompetence.” Mama gave vent to a telltale sob of woe, which never failed to bring Papa to his knees.

&nbs
p; Uncle Atticus laughed, until Isobeau wrapped an arm about Mama’s shoulders. “Prithee, just what do you find so humorous, given my angel faces a similar forced wedding?” That quieted Atticus in similar resplendent fashion, and Arsenius vowed never to let a woman manipulate him in such an embarrassing manner. “And if you do not seize upon a means to resolve the predicament to our satisfaction, you may retire to the garrison, and sleep with the soldiers for the remains of your days.”

  Ever since their arrival at the Lair, the imposing ancestral pile of the De Wolfes, Father and Atticus had argued without pause, while Mama and Isobeau wept one minute and quarreled with their respective husbands in the next instance, thus no one enjoyed any peace.

  Hugging the wall, Arsenius glanced at his cousin, who peered at the exit. As the elders fought, with Mama and Isobeau posing a united front against their husbands, Arsenius and Titus crept from the room. In the hall, Titus exhaled and rolled his eyes.

  “Never have I seen Mama so angry.” Titus tugged at his doublet and whistled. “And to my recollection, the only occasion upon which she banished Father from her bed was after the feast of Christmastide in London, when he danced with Lady Arweld, but that period of atonement lasted but a small portion of an evening, as they woke the entire household when they reunited.”

  “I remember that.” Arsenius scratched his chin. “Did not the King order Atticus to indulge Lady Arweld?”

  “He did.” Titus narrowed his stare. “Do you really think that makes a difference when, as is the case with Desiderata and your sire, Mama reigns supreme, whither Father is concerned.”

  An eerie sensation traipsed his soul, and Arsenius shivered. “We must never let that happen to us.”

  “Agreed.” As if plagued by the same affliction, Titus rubbed the back of his neck and then slapped Arsenius on the shoulder, as they navigated the narrow passage. “Let us search out a firkin of ale in which to drown our sorrow.”

  “Cousin, you are wise beyond your years.” In the great hall, Arsenius hailed a servant, requested their drink of choice, and sat at a table near the back of the large gathering room. “Have you reviewed the condition of your new estate?”

  “Nay.” As usual, Titus delayed his duties. “I suppose I shall survey the situation when I arrive in Cornwall, but I wager you have scrutinized every detail of the reports we received.”

  “Wherefore would you say that?” Of course, Arsenius had combed over each page of the documents assessing the status of Bellesea.

  “History.” A maid delivered two tankards of ale, curtseyed, and excused herself. “I know you too well, cousin.” Titus raised his mug in toast. “To your marriage.”

  “And to yours.” Arsenius consumed a healthy draft and belched. “After studying the monetary impact of the King’s tariffs, I understand why the Cornish farmers rebelled. They shoulder the greatest portion of the tax burden for a war that benefited them not, while His Majesty demands Lord Arscott supply the usual amount of clotted cream to appease the royal appetite. The situation is beyond unreasonable.”

  “Careful, Arsenius.” Titus peered over either shoulder and frowned. “The walls have ears, and you could still land in the stocks.”

  “I know, but I sympathize with my soon-to-be in-laws.” Reflecting on the difficult task looming on the horizon, Arsenius scratched his chin. “They have forfeited their ancestral lands, their title, their industry, and their legacy. No doubt, they hate us, yet we are to wed one of their women. Their loss is our gain, and I would not rub their noses in their misery. Rather, I would welcome them.”

  “What do you propose?” Leaning forward, Titus propped his elbows on the table. “Most assuredly, they will hate us.”

  “Who could blame them?” For a while, Arsenius revisited the various events precipitating the hasty nuptials, and then he recalled his upbringing and the words branded in his memory. “The answer is simple. We are De Wolfes.”

  “And De Wolfes always take care of our own.” Smiling, Titus nodded. “How could I forget, when Papa recited that every day of the first twenty years of my life?”

  “Although His Majesty considers our brides the enemy, the betrothals define them as family, and we must treat them as such.” But how should he make the initial overture? “It is imperative we reassure our future wives that we are not their adversaries. Indeed, we are their allies and protectors.”

  “How do you suggest we achieve our goal, while seizing their birthright and their maidenhead?” Titus arched a brow. “Trust me, I am not sure which scares me more or presents the greater danger.”

  “Do not fool yourself.” All manner of wild imaginings filled his brain. “The latter poses the most formidable threat, and I have no clue whither to begin, as I have never, to my knowledge, deflowered a virgin. Have you any experience with such creatures?”

  “Bleeding balls of agony, no.” Titus wrinkled his nose. “I prefer skilled ladies, as opposed to chaste innocents, and I dread the time and energy we must expend to teach them the ways of pleasure. The poor thing will probably collapse in a fit of hysteria upon glimpsing my longsword.”

  “Mayhap we should inquire after our fathers for counsel, as they faced the same quandary on their wedding night.” Even as Arsenius voiced the suggestion, he trembled. “Although I am not eager to broach the topic, as I anticipate a series of endless baiting, taunting, and feminine giggles.”

  “That is because their fair temperament hinders their ability to engage in serious topics.” Pointing for emphasis, Titus snickered. “In fact, my father contends that every discussion of import with my mother ends in bed.”

  “No doubt the female penchant for emotion hinders their judgment, as I suspect the same is true of Mama.” An odd symphony of sighs, moans, and groans played in his ears, and Arsenius quivered. He was but a lad when he discovered the source of the strange noises, as his parents made love in a stable at Braewood Castle, and he wished he could erase the disturbing vision from memory. “Papa often laments similar situations with my mother. Perchance physical relations offer the sole means of consolation when real world issues invade my mother’s gentle existence, and she cannot cope.”

  “Well, we are the stronger sex.” Titus nodded in agreement. “We would do well to take notes for future reference, that we might provide succor in like fashion. You know me, I will take any excuse to drain my moat.”

  “Oh, do I know you.” Laughing, Arsenius stared at the contents of his tankard. “I wonder if I might ask you a personal question.”

  “When have you not?” Titus snorted. “We have no secrets, cousin. I am your brother, as you are most assuredly mine.”

  “I wondered if you embrace the opportunity the King bestowed upon us?” Thus Arsenius exposed his inner feelings. Indeed, he could tell Titus anything without fear of criticism. “Do you never find yourself alone amid our family? Are you never lost in the crowd? Have you ever wished that you might journey some place whither—”

  “—No one knows my name?” With an expression of understanding and sympathy, Titus locked forearms with Arsenius. “Whither no one has heard of the De Wolfe legacy?”

  “Aye.” Arsenius should have known Titus could comprehend the awesome responsibility that came with affiliation with one of England’s oldest and most respected noble families. “Forgive me, if this offends you, but I am excited about the prospect of moving to Cornwall and forging my own heritage. And although I do not yet know the character of my bride-to-be, I am emboldened by the possibilities associated with the title and estate.”

  “I, too, am blessed with renewed vigor and a spirit of adventure I have not experienced since Father hired my first whore.” Titus slapped his thighs. “Ah, I have fond recollections of her red hair and the funny little sounds she made in the throes of passion. What was she called?”

  “How should I know?” Compressing his lips, Arsenius averted his gaze. “And I wager her passion relied more on Atticus’s generous payment than your fledgling abilities between the sheets.�
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  “Do not insult my skills, cousin.” Titus sobered. “Though you have grown to equal my size, I can still whip you.”

  “Is that so, old man?” Arsenius downed the last of his ale, set down the tankard with a loud thud, and stood. “I would like to see you try.”

  In the blink of an eye, Titus lunged across the table and grabbed Arsenius by the throat. Moving swift and sure, Arsenius tripped his foe, and they toppled to the ground. Rolling left and then right, with each gaining the high ground for a moment, before the other made a successive launch, they knocked over and reduced a bench to splinters, chuckling the entire time. Titus rumpled Arsenius’s hair, and he pinched his cousin’s nose, until someone coughed rather loudly.

  “What goes on hither?” Folding his arms, Atticus glared at his son and then Arsenius. “It appears a couple of braying asses have ventured into the great hall.”

  “Mayhap a visit to the sanctuary and an afternoon spent in reflective prayer will do them some good.” Adopting a similar portentous stance, Father bared his teeth. “But first my son will right his clothing and comb his hair, that he might greet his future wife in a manner befitting a De Wolfe, as her traveling party is just arrived.”

  ~

  Tales of the renowned beauty of Scotland preceded Senara’s long and tortuous journey to the border village of Wolflee, the site of the Lair, her intended’s ancestral home, but naught could have prepared her for the breathtaking, watercolor sunsets that provided a majestic backdrop for the lush, green highlands. And occupying a dominating pride of place in the shadow of Wolflee Hill, like some great sentry, as if the inhabitants sought to boldly declare no need of a geographical advantage, sat the impressive stronghold of the De Wolfe’s.

  Composed entirely of dark grey sandstone, the castle boasted the tallest curtain wall she had ever seen, decorated with frieze carved parapets featuring morose gargoyles, and crenellated towers soared toward the heavens to kiss the clouds. After crossing the primary bridge, the caravan paused before wrought iron portcullis of the barbican.