The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe

by Kathryn Le Veque

  One of the scholars at the table, Dr. Rapkin, was listening to her. He stepped away from the table as the others pored over the journal. “De Wolfe is a fairly well-known name in England, still,” he said. “They’re still the Earls of Wolverhampton, I believe.”

  Abigail nodded, pointing to Anne de Wolfe back in the audience. “That’s Lady de Wolfe right there,” she said. “She has helped me tremendously in discovering the history of the entire de Wolfe family, starting with Gaetan. We’ve been able to clear up a few misnomers starting with an old de Wolfe family legend that Gaetan de Wolfe met his wife, Ghislaine of Mercia, at the Battle of Wellesbourne. The truth was that Ghislaine of Mercia, the sister of Edwin of Mercia, was a warrior woman and she was at the Battle of Hastings. That’s where Gaetan first met her. You’ll read about it in the transcript. It was Ghislaine who helped Gaetan and his men hunt down her brother, Alary, and the Norman knight he’d abducted. The Battle of Wellesbourne didn’t come until well after the Battle of Hastings. You’ll also see in the transcript that one of Gaetan’s men, interestingly enough, bore the name of Wellesbourne.”

  Dr. Rapkin nodded, very interested in this unique subject. “After reading your dissertation, I did a little research myself on the de Wolfe family. He became the Earl of Wolverhampton after the Battle of Wellesbourne.”

  “That is correct.”

  “But the de Wolfes that inherited the earldom of Warenton are a separate branch.”

  Abigail shrugged. “Partially,” she said. “Those de Wolfes came from William de Wolfe, who was the first Earl of Warenton. William was the third son of the Earl of Wolverhampton, the man who had inherited that title through Gaetan. Since William de Wolfe was the third son, he was not in line for that inheritance. He received the title Earl of Warenton from Henry III, but he is a direct descendent of Gaetan de Wolfe.”

  It was clearing up some rather complicated family trees and, by now, more of the panelists were listening. “I also read about the Roman factor in your paper as it had to do with Gaetan’s quest northward,” Dr. Rapkin continued. “Can you please clarify how a lost Roman legion was part of the Norman conquest?”

  Abigail grinned. “Well, you’ll see in the Book of Battle that they weren’t really a lost Roman legion, but merely descended from one,” she said. “The leader was from the House of Shericus, but it was evidently de Wolfe who changed the name to de Shera because he felt it should be in the ‘Norman fashion’. At least, that’s what Jathan wrote. Anyway, several great English houses – de Lara, de Moray, and de Russe – have links to these Roman descendants because they married women from the tribe.”

  Dr. Rapkin rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “And the House of de Shera? What became of them?”

  Abigail glanced back at Anne once more. “With Lady de Wolfe’s help, I did a little research on the House of de Shera and discovered it was de Wolfe who gave them properties up near Chester when Antillius de Shera, who was a widower, married a Norman woman,” she said. “He had a few sons by her and it was the service of the sons to the Norman kings that gave them the Earldom of Coventry. The House of de Shera and the House of de Wolfe remained allies for hundreds of years after that.”

  It was a very neat story, all wrapped up in her dissertation and explained to the last genealogical detail. Dr. Rapkin picked up a copy of the text from the Book of Battle, scanning it as Abigail sat there and waited for the next question. Considering the fascinating subject, it wasn’t long in coming.

  “De Lohr, de Russe, de Moray,” Dr. Rapkin muttered as he read. “These are some of the greatest Medieval houses during that time. And all of them came with Warwolfe with the Duke of Normandy?”

  Abigail nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “You know that Edward I named his giant trebuchet Lupus Guerre, which means war wolf, but I couldn’t find any definitive information that stated that he actually named it after de Wolfe. But one can only assume he knew of the Normandy’s greatest knight, so maybe that was his homage to de Wolfe.”

  Dr. Rapkin was still looking at the transcript. “It would explain a lot, actually,” he said. Then he began flipping around the pages. “I saw somewhere that Gaetan and his wife had eleven children.”

  Abigail watched him flip around. “That’s in my paper,” she said. “William, Aaric, Elizabetha, Matthias, Juliana, Stefon, Dacia, Edwin, Quinton, Jarreth, and Catherine.”

  When he looked at her strangely for rattling off all of those names so quickly, she knew his question before he asked it.

  “I have an eidetic memory. I see words,” she said.

  He understood. Dr. Rapkin looked back at the papers. “And they all lived into adulthood?”

  Abigail nodded. “Seven sons and four girls, all of them growing up to become pretty great in their own right, but Lady de Wolfe can tell you more about that since it’s her family. My focus was on Warwolfe and Ghislaine of Mercia, not their children.”

  Dr. Rapkin simply nodded as he went to reclaim his seat, still looking at the papers in his hand. In fact, all of them were starting to settle back into their seats and Abigail took the opportunity to plead her case before the heavy questioning started. There were a few things she wanted to clear up.

  “I had someone tell me once that writing about English history like this wasn’t my right because I’m not British,” she said. “As I explained to him, my love of England is in my blood. I may not have been born here, but my heart is here. I didn’t set out to change English history as we know it but I did want to give a voice to those men, those warriors, whose deeds and names had been lost to time. Maybe it was arrogant of me, but just maybe I actually did something that will make people look back on these knights – the Anges de Guerre – and appreciate them for their accomplishments. Yes, I know they conquered a nation, but it goes beyond that – these were men of great honor, and when you read the transcription of the Book of Battle, you’ll see how much they were devoted to each other. Nowadays, we just don’t see honor and duty like that. These men literally risked their lives for a colleague, just to rescue the man, and that’s a kind of heroism that is largely lost these days. People have forgotten what it means to love your friends like these men loved each other. I think that’s the greatest thing I took away from this whole project – the love these knights had for each other. They were the original band of brothers.”

  By the time she was finished speaking, the entire panel was looking at her. They were reclaiming their seats, refocusing on the task at hand even though there wasn’t one of them that didn’t want to run off with the Book of Battle and bury themselves in a room with it for the next six months. Such history, and such artifacts, were rare in their field. But even more rare was the passion from this young woman who spoke of men who had been dead for almost a thousand years as if they were her real-life heroes. That alone infused her dissertation with a glow that was difficult to describe, but one that was most worth listening to.

  “Then let’s talk about these men, Miss Devlin,” Dr. Sorkin said, a smile playing on his lips. “You speak as if you know them personally.”

  Abigail was dead serious as she looked at them. “I do,” she said. “Let me tell you about them.”

  As Abigail began to speak of Gaetan de Wolfe and his humble origins, Groby and Queensborough sat back and listened with the pride of fathers listening to their children. Abigail was articulate and intelligent, and she spoke of Warwolfe and the Anges de Guerre as if she knew them all personally. But, as she’d said, she did. She truly did. These weren’t simply men on paper; these were men who had lived and died but, now thanks to her, they were living once again. Now, the world would know what Abigail and Queensborough knew.

  The world would know the importance of the Duke of Normandy’s greatest knights.

  Therefore, this was a satisfying moment as well as a defining one, at least for Queensborough. He was proud; so very proud to have been part of something that brought the honored dead to life. From that old book that had remained buried in his
family’s artifacts, he was glad he’d been the one that allowed the story to finally be told. It gave him a sense of satisfaction he’d never known before.

  “She told you she would make these men breathe again, Queenie,” Groby leaned over and whispered to him. “Do you believe her now?”

  Queensborough smiled, remembering those words from the day he’d first met the determined Abigail Devlin.

  I’ll make you proud, I swear it. I’ll make these men breathe again.

  She had. And somewhere in the halls of heaven, he was pretty sure Gaetan was smiling, too.

  * THE END *

  THE WOLFE

  An epic 2 part Medieval Romance

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  Part 1

  The Wilds of the North

  There upon a midnight blue

  The knights went riding two by two

  Out upon the moonlit moors

  Death consumed them, brought by war

  Into their midst, a phantom came

  Known by heart, this gentle rain

  A lady’s name…

  A river, she was called

  Loved and cherished, one and all

  This lady known to knights so bold

  This is now the story told.

  ~ Prelude to The Wolfe

  CHAPTER ONE

  The month of December

  Year of our Lord 1231

  Skirmish of Bog Wood near Blackadder Water, the England/Scotland border

  “By everything that is holy, I do hate a battle.”

  A soft female sigh filled the damp and cool air. The reply was harsh.

  “So help me, Caladora, if ye faint again I shall take a stick to ye.”

  Five women stood high atop a hill, looking down upon a grisly scene far below in what was once a peaceful and serene valley. Where lavender heather used to wash amidst the lush green there were now broken, bloody corpses, the result of a fight that had lasted for a day and a night. Now, everything was eerily still with only the occasional cries of the dying. No more sounds of swords; only the sounds of death.

  The sun was beginning to set over the distant hills, casting the valley in a shadowed light. To the women waiting on the high hill, it looked as if Hell itself was setting in to begin claiming its souls. It was ended, this battle; one battle in a mightier war that had been going on for as long as anyone could remember. The war for the Scots border.

  The Lady Jordan Scott waited with her aunts and cousins, waiting for the signal from her father that would send them down into the valley to begin assessing their own wounded and making sure any enemy wounded were sent into the netherworld. She hated it; all of it. She hated seeing good men die, watching their life blood drain away and listening to their pleas for help. She hated the bloody English for causing all of this blessed pain and suffering because they believed themselves the superior race. All Scots were wild men in their eyes, unthinking and unfeeling, and somehow the English felt compelled to act as their cage-keeper.

  But Jordan was anything but wild and unthinking. She had a heart and a mind and soul, sometimes softer than her clansmen would have liked. As the sun continued to set she pulled the hood of her woolen cloak closer, staving off the chill and the gloom. Just when the wait seemed excessive, a shout from one of her father’s men released the dam of women who now poured down into the valley. As the dusk deepened, the hunt began.

  Jordan was one of the last one into the valley, dragging her feet even when her aunts casted her threatening glares. She ignored them. In fact, she moved away from them so they would not watch every move she made, removing her hood and picking her targets among the dead.

  Her long, honey-colored hair hung loose about her as she bent over a young man and began to tug on a gold signet ring. It seemed to be securely stuck to his finger and she swallowed hard; her father would expect her to take out her dirk and cut off the finger, throwing the whole thing into her basket.

  She wrinkled her nose at that prospect and let the dead hand fall back to the ground. She was not going to cut off the finger, no matter what her father said. She didn’t have the stomach for it. But the man at her feet suddenly groaned, and Jordan, startled with fear and without hesitation, yanked her dirk from its sheath at her forearm and plunged the blade deep into his soft neck. The man stilled, silenced forever by the cold steel of her knife.

  Gasping with shock, Jordan stared down at the man and could scarcely believe what she had done. She didn’t know why she had done it, only that she had been terrified and afraid if she didn’t kill the man that he would rise up and kill her. Her breath came in short, horrified pants as she stared down at her kill. Sweet Jesu,’ had she deteriorated to such a scared rabbit that she would kill before thinking?

  In disgust she threw down her dirk and stumbled away from the dead man, wondering if indeed her father’s warring ways were claiming her. Already, she had to get away from the destruction and clear her thoughts. She didn’t care if her family thought she was weak. They had tried to toughen her up, to make her strong and fearless, but she didn’t have it in her. She was sweet and nurturing, kind and gentle. There were those better suited to tend those on the battlefield and cut fingers off for the gold they wore; she was going to find a place to hide and wait until the hunting and killing was over.

  Glancing over her shoulder to see if she were being watched, Jordan wandered away from the field of destruction and into a small valley. Nestled at the bottom among a few scrawny trees was a small stream, with water glistening silver in the moonlight.

  It was peaceful and calm, and she could feel her composure returning. She knelt by the stream and washed her hands as if cleansing away the confusion and revulsion she felt. She knew she was a disappointment to her father on two accounts: not being born male, and not being able to sufficiently deal with the normal aspects of being a daughter of one of the fiercest warlords on the Scottish border. Although her father loved her dearly and never made her feel anything less, she knew deep down he wished she were stronger. Sometimes she wished it, too.

  Her father did not pretend that he always understood his only child, especially where her loves for music and animals were concerned. Jordan could sing like an angel and could dance a Scottish jig like the devil himself, accomplishments for which he was enormously proud, but sometimes he just could not comprehend the female mind. He was a warrior, a baron by title, and his world was one of death and fighting, not the gentle world where his daughter dwelled.

  Still, he would not be pleased if he found out she had run off like a scared goat and sought refuge this night. Jordan found a large boulder by the creek and sat on its icy surface, watching the water bubble in the moonlight. She wondered why she wasn’t like the rest of her female kin; bold and fearless. Above her, a nighthawk rode the drafts, crying out to its mate and she watched it for a moment before returning moodily to the stream.

  “If you are thinking of drowning yourself, ’tis a bit shallow.”

  The voice came from the darkness behind her. Jordan leapt off the rock, terrified as she whirled to face her accoster. She could make out a form of a man lying at the base of one of the bushy trees but could not make out much more in the darkness.

  Panic rose in her throat and she realized with deep regret that she had left her dirk back on the battlefield. She could scream, but he appeared to be large and would most likely pounce and slit her throat before she could utter a sound. She froze, unsure of what to do next. She certainly did not want to provoke the man with the decidedly English accent.

  “What…what do ye want?” she demanded shakily.

  The moon emerged from behind the clouds, revealing the landscape in bright silver light. Jordan could see right away the man was gravely injured, as there was a great deal of dark blood covering his legs and the ground beneath him. It didn’t take her long to figure out that he was unable to rise much less attack her. Her courage surged and she was sure she could run back and retrieve her dirk before he could move upon her, the da
mnable English devil. She would do to him exactly what he would do to her given half a chance.

  But on the heels of that thought came another. Jordan’s blood ran cold with abhorrence; she had just killed one man and punished herself endlessly for it. Now she was planning the death of another. More of her father’s violent influence was a part of her than she cared to admit. Perhaps this wounded man was innocent of any killing at all, she thought naïvely. Mayhap he was a victim of the situation, forced to fight by the hated English king. Perhaps he didn’t want to fight at all and then found himself a casualty.

  Jordan forced herself to calm, realizing that the man could not hurt her. She took a step to get a better look at him yet still kept a healthy distance between them.

  “Speak up,” she told him, feeling braver. “What are ye doing here? What do ye want?”

  She heard the man sigh. “What do I want?” he repeated wearily. “I want to return home. But what I want and what will be are two entirely different things all together. What do you intend to do with me?”

  Jordan eyed him beneath the silver moonlight. “I intend to do nothing with ye,” she replied softly. “I dunna need to. From the looks of that wound, ye will be dead by morn.”

  The man laid his head back against the tree in a defeated gesture. “Mayhap,” he said, eyeing her in the darkness just as she was eyeing him. “Will you tell me something?”

  “What?”

  “What is your name?”

  She saw no harm in giving her name to a dying man. “Jordan.”