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

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The great gatehouse of Carmarthen Castle spilled forth a group of men and one woman into its innards. They were from the village of Talley, an area that Cader ap Macsen controlled. It was high in the mountains, one valley over from the valley where Morys lived with his gang of troseddol. Criminals, Cader’s wife called them. A large collection of men with questionable backgrounds, all of them living off of Morys and obeying his commands.

  It was a strange, unholy tribe.

  Cader had spoken the quietly-uttered words to the woman riding to his left, a long-legged lass astride an equally long-legged stallion. This was no ordinary woman; she was Cader’s eldest daughter, a young woman who was more capable in battle than any young man Cader knew. She was intelligent, well-spoken, and beautiful. But she was also bold, unruly at times, and could fight like a man. Having no sons, Cader had indulged her. Now, he had a lovely daughter of marriageable age who could best any husband in a fight.

  And no self-respecting man wanted a wife who could beat the spit out of him.

  “By virtue of the fact that I am your daughter, I am, indeed, part of the rift,” the woman said in a voice that flowed like warm honey. “You need not try and distance me, Dadau. I will defend you from Morys’ deceit and venom at all costs.”

  “He is Uncle Morys to you.”

  “Morys.”

  She didn’t consider the man part of the family and, therefore, refused to show him such respect. Cader eyed the woman for a moment before turning his attention to the collection of men near the great hall of Carmarthen. It was a powerful group of important men, and he and his party came to a halt just inside the gatehouse.

  “Asmara,” Cader said, rather sternly, because if he wasn’t stern with her, she would damned well ignore him. “At this gathering, you will not speak. You will not shoot daggers at Morys with your eyes. In fact, you will remain silent as the grave in all matters. Is this in any way unclear?”

  Asmara ferch Cader cast her father a long look as she dismounted an excited but weary stallion that was throwing its head around. As she soothed the animal, she avoided giving her father an answer, but Cader was on to her. He dismounted his own steed and made a point of standing next to his daughter as she crooned to her beastly stallion.

  “Well?” he demanded quietly. “Do we understand one another?”

  Asmara sighed heavily. “Aye.”

  “Look me in the eye.”

  Asmara gave him an exaggerated look. “Aye.”

  Cader fought off a smile at his daughter. Had she been born a man, she would have been a magnificent warrior. As it was, she was still a magnificent warrior, but she was like a young colt – wild, strong, and difficult to tame. The fact that she’d been born a woman didn’t seem to matter to her. Sometimes, Cader had a difficult time reining her in.

  “See that you do,” he said. Then, he pointed off to the stables where the horses were being watered. “Tend to the horses. I will meet you inside the hall.”

  Asmara took both her horse and her father’s horse. Behind her, her father’s teulu were splitting up the duties, some of them gathering the horses while others went to accompany Cader to the great hall.

  Great warlords did not travel without their personal guards, and Cader ap Macsen was a great warlord, a son of royal blood. As Cader slogged off across the muddy bailey, Asmara led the pack of horses heading for the stable area. She hadn’t taken five steps, however, when she heard the thunder of hooves charging through the gatehouse behind them and nearly crashing into the rear of Cader’s party.

  Nervous horses danced and tried to bolt, and Asmara struggled to hold on to her stallion. The horse ended up kicking rancid mud onto her chest and neck, and she groaned with frustration. She was fully prepared to rant at the rider who startled the horses when she happened to see who it was. Her eyes widened.

  “Fairynne!” she gasped. “What are you doing here? Dadau told you not to come!”

  Fairynne ferch Cader, Asmara’s younger sister, appeared quite defiant as she struggled to control a horse that was far too much animal for her. It seemed to be a trait both ferch Cader sisters had.

  “I will not remain behind with the women and children,” she declared. “I do not deserve to be treated with such disrespect, so I came. It is my right!”

  Asmara shook her head at her sister. While Asmara was long-legged and beauteous, Fairynne was shorter, wiry, and believed she could do anything her sister could do. Truth be told, she was a fierce fighter, a little reckless, and she tended to spook easily. Cader had permitted her to fight in one battle, mostly because she had given him no choice, and because of it, she believed herself to be just as good as the seasoned warriors.

  But the truth was that she was a child. At ten years and five, Fairynne was too young and too unruly. She thought she knew everything there was to know and rarely listened. Cader was afraid the girl was going to get herself killed, as was Asmara.

  Like now. Fairynne had been told to remain at Mynydd Gwyn, but her arrogance and foolishness had her following her father’s party all the way to Carmarthen Castle. It was a dangerous journey, especially for a lone woman, and clearly she had tailed them all the way. Frustrated, Asmara marched up on her sister, grabbed the girl’s leg, and yanked her right off the horse.

  The men within eyeshot laughed uproariously as Fairynne ended up on her arse in the mud. When she came up swinging, Asmara pushed her down by the head.

  “Cease,” she snapped quietly. “You are making a fool of yourself in front of everyone. Dadau told you not to come, yet you disobeyed him. Again. Someday, your disobedience will get you killed, Fairynne.”

  With mud covering her backside and a slash of mud on her cheek, Fairynne glared at her older sister. “You cannot tell me what to do.”

  Asmara cocked an eyebrow. “If you want to be a soldier so badly, then you must know that soldiers follow commands. We all follow commands. You will never be a soldier as long as you cannot follow orders, you little fool.”

  Fairynne’s confidence took a hit and, for the first time since her arrival, she appeared uncertain. But only for a brief moment. Then, anger took over and she bolted to her feet, grabbing her horse’s reins and pulling the animal over to the stables.

  At that point, Asmara gave up on her sister. If the girl wanted to make a fool of herself, then that was her business. Asmara had more important things to tend to, like her father. He would be expecting her. Leaving the horses with her father’s men to be tended, she turned for the great hall where the men were gathering. Her long strides took her across the bailey and towards the one-storied, stone building with open oak and iron doors that had seen better days.

  The men were gathering with those they knew, allies and family, and she could feel their stares upon her. In this world of men, she was an anomaly. Some of the men knew her, as they had fought with her in the past as part of Cader’s contingent. Rhyfylwr dywsoges, they whispered. Dragon Princess. As a woman of the House of Dinefwr, she was indeed royal. Asmara returned their stares boldly, noticing the teulu from great houses, men wearing the traditional red tunics that signified their elevated status, and bearing wooden shields that had been painted white or blue, or both.

  In fact, Asmara herself wore a red tunic, one that had been given to her and it was too short for her long body. It rested about mid-thigh, but she had heavy woolen hose and another tunic underneath, a pale linen one, that went past her knees. In any case, she was well-covered. With boots up to her knees, held on with strips of leather, she was also well-protected.

  Every inch the Dragon Princess.

  It was, therefore, her manner to challenge those who stared at her, and her threatening glare began to turn men away. She was feeling rather powerful until she went to enter the hall and realized that her Uncle Morys was standing just inside the door.

  In fact, had she taken another two steps, she would have run right into him. However, not having spotted her father yet, Asmara didn’t want to walk right into Morys and a po
tential confrontation, so she quickly rolled away from the door, clinging to the rocky wall and rounding the corner of the hall. It was a blind move, meant to get away from Morys as quickly as possible before he could see her. But before she realized it, she was stumbling over someone who was crouched against the north side of the hall.

  Asmara flipped right over him.

  Now, she was the one sitting on her arse in the mud, looking up at a very big man who had been crouched against the wall. It wasn’t as if he was doing anything; relieving himself or anything else. He was simply crouched there, perhaps even resting from the long journey to Carmarthen. Asmara’s first reaction was one of rage, but the moment she looked into his face, the anger building inside of her was instantly doused. She found herself looking into eyes of the purest blue, with pale lashes and pale, but defined, brows. The man was wearing a sleeveless tunic, and his pale and freckled arms were bulging with beautifully defined muscles.

  She’d never seen a male specimen like him.

  “What… what are you doing, crouching there like a stump?” she managed to demand, sitting up and wiping her muddied hands on the wall. “You could have killed me.”

  The man simply looked at her, a glimmer in his blue eyes. “And you could have looked where you were walking.”

  His voice was deep and quiet, his speech somewhat slow, but she didn’t receive the impression he was a dullard. Simply deliberate in what he said. And, in truth, he was entirely correct in what he’d said, so she cast him a frustrated expression as she picked herself out of the mud, trying to wipe herself clean.

  “Next time, I suppose I shall have to,” she said. “With you around, I will have to watch every corner I turn.”

  He didn’t say anything, but he did watch her as she stood up, his gaze lingering on the long, slender legs in snug hose, the shapely female form beneath the belted tunics, and the face of an angel that was now twisted in disgust as she tried to wipe the mud off her arse. She had dark hair, pulled into a messy braid, and eyes that were a shade of hazel that made them appear golden. None of her alluring attributes escaped his scrutiny; that was clear. He eyed her as if he’d just found something delicious for supper. As she stood up, he suddenly stood up next to her.

  Now, he towered over her by well over a head. Considering how tall Asmara was, the fact that the silent warrior was so much taller was a serious testimony to the man’s size. As he stood next to her, he also turned to face her fully, and Asmara could see that the entire left side of his head was scarred and damaged. He virtually had no ear. As he shaved the sides of his skull and left the top of his blond hair long, the shorn scalp only emphasized the damage. Most men would have grown hair to cover it, but not this man. In truth, his shorn head didn’t distract from what Asmara was realizing was a truly handsome man. In fact, all of that battle damage seemed to make him even more attractive in her eyes.

  But he was also rather intimidating and frightening if she thought about it. He abruptly grabbed her by the wrist and began pulling her away from the hall. Startled, not to mention fearful, she dug her heels in to resist him.

  “Let me go,” she hissed, beating at the hand that held her. “Did you hear me? Release me!”

  He ignored her. He dragged her all the way back across the bailey, past groups of men who were watching but did nothing to help Asmara. They simply turned back to their conversations. Asmara didn’t want to create a huge scene and start screaming, but she was close. The man had a grip of iron. Still, she figured she could fight off anything he tried to do to her so, at some point, she stopped dragging her feet, purely for her pride. It was embarrassing to let people see her being dragged, so she started to pretend she was going along with it. She simply started walking behind him.

  The warrior pulled her into the stable yard where so many horses were being watered and rested. There was a well in the stable yard, which was an unusual feature, and also a very long drinking trough. He took her right over to the trough, picked her up easily, and tossed her in.

  Asmara landed with a big splash. Horses scattered as the water flew, and she howled when she realized what he’d done. The water was freezing. Quick as a flash, she leapt out of the trough, infuriated that she was now soaked to the skin.

  “Why?” she demanded, enraged. “Why did you do that?”

  He still had that glimmer to his eye as he looked at her. He pointed to the lower half of her body. “The mud is gone now.”

  He was right. Asmara realized that the mud was now almost completely washed off and although she was clean again, she was also soaking wet. Enraged, she balled a fist and threw a punch right into the man’s jaw.

  His head snapped back at the force of the blow, and he took a step back as well, but he didn’t stagger. The move simply surprised him. As he put a hand to the spot she’d hit, Asmara shook her fist at him.

  “That is for getting me dirty in the first place, you dolt!” she raged. “And you did not have to try and drown me. I am quite capable of cleaning myself!”

  The man eyed her as he rubbed his chin. “Forgive, demoiselle,” he said. “As you pointed out, I caused you to fall in the mud. It is my responsibility to clean you.”

  Demoiselle. That wasn’t a term Asmara heard frequently. That was a Saesneg term for an unmarried miss, a term of respect. This enormous, scarred warrior with the slow, deep speech had her curiosity; she could admit it.

  He was unlike anything she’d ever seen before.

  “Well,” she said, feeling her outrage fade somewhat at his explanation. “You could have at least told me what you were going to do.”

  All he did was look at her, a slight lift of the very broad shoulders. Then, a smile flickered on his lips, which spurred her outrage. She was about to berate him again when she realized that his smile also spurred her humor in what was truly a ridiculous situation. She’d fallen over him, and gotten dirty, so he threw her in the water. He’d taken responsibility for what he’d seen as a consequence of his actions. As stupid as the situation was, she couldn’t really fault a man who took responsibility for his actions. When she saw a flash of his teeth, surprisingly straight and white, she fought off a grin.

  God, what was happening to her? When she should be beating the man, she was grinning at him.

  Who is the dolt now?

  “I shall make sure I look where I step from now on, with you around,” she finally said. “My name is Asmara, by the way. You may as well know the name of the woman you tried to drown.”

  He simply dipped his head as if pleased to make her acquaintance. “You are a queen, demoiselle.”

  That low, slow speech was intriguing. “Nay,” she said. “Not a queen. I am a warrior, as are you.”

  His gaze lingered on her, the glimmer in his eyes now held a touch of warmth, she thought. “You should be a queen,” he said quietly.

  The way he said it made her heart beat, just a little faster. She opened her mouth to ask him his name, but a shout from the great hall distracted them both. Someone was calling the men into the hall and the big warrior with the scarred head began to move towards the call, quickly, leaving Asmara standing there, dripping all over the ground. She watched him go, thinking that he looked sorely out of place among the Welsh warriors. As if he didn’t belong in the least.

  Her thoughts lingering on the mysterious warrior, she began to follow the herd of men as they headed towards the hall, hoping she could find a place by the hearth to dry herself out. She also hoped she could find a location where she could keep an eye on the strange warrior and, perhaps, even discover his name.

  Why the interest? She had no idea.

  But no ordinary man would have the courage to throw Asmara ferch Cader into a watering trough.

  Somehow, she sensed the pale warrior was no ordinary man.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “My friends, my allies, you honor me with your presence,” Howell said as he stood on the dilapidated feasting table in Carmarthen’s great and rather run-down hall. “We
have much to discuss and little time to do it, so please quiet your conversations. Allow me to speak.”

  The hall was packed with men, all of them turning their attention to Howell, with Hew and a few of his teulu standing off to the side. The table couldn’t take the weight of more than one man, it seemed, so it was Howell’s podium. He smiled at the group, holding up his hands.

  “I know that you are men with families and with duties to attend to,” he said, “and I will therefore keep our gathering as short as possible, but this is necessary. I beg your patience as I explain.”

  There was a low hum of men mumbling to one another, shifting around nervously in the hall that was full of smoke from a hearth with a partially-blocked chimney. But it was more than that – they all knew why they had come, men who had suffered over the years from English overlords and English battles. Not one of them was inclined to knuckle under and accept English rule. And now, in this defining moment, perhaps there would be the opportunity yet again for them to show their resistance. All they needed was organization and a strong leader. Over near the edge of the table, a strong voice spoke up.

  “Tell us, Howell,” Morys said loudly. He wanted all of the men to know that he was in full support of whatever Howell had to propose. “You have my attention. What is so important that you would call such a gathering?”

  Howell looked at Morys. “Something of tremendous importance, great lord,” he said. “Your cousin, Rhys ap Maredudd, who is also the great-grandson of last king of Deheubarth much as you are, has confided in me his plans to retake the Ystrad Tywi. He has asked that I coordinate a similar attack to help him secure his legacy.” He returned his attention to the group. “That is why I have summoned you, great men. The time has come for us to reclaim what the Saesneg has so wrongly taken from us. We shall reclaim the south and from there, the rest of Wales. But it must start somewhere – it will start with us.”