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

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Blayth closed his eyes, the tears falling as he turned away from her. Asmara went to him, putting her arms around him as Penelope stood there and watched the pair. Her hysteria had eased, but her tears hadn’t. She was still weeping silently, watching her brother as he was comforted by a woman who called herself his wife. As she stood there, wiping the constant flow of tears from her face, she heard a voice behind her.

  “Penny?” It was Bhrodi. “What is happening here?”

  She turned around to see her husband standing behind her, looking quite confused and concerned. She rushed to him, throwing her arms around him as the sobs came again. She wept against him as he held her, but he didn’t hold her for long. His concern had the better of him.

  “Penny, what is the matter?” he demanded. “Why are you crying? And who are they?”

  He was indicating Blayth and Asmara, and Penelope labored to stop weeping so she could explain.

  “It’s him,” she whispered tightly. “It is my brother, James. He… he is here. I do not know how he is here, but he is. It is him!”

  Bhrodi’s eyes widened. “What?” he hissed. “Are you serious?”

  Penelope nodded fiercely. “Very,” she said. She tried to explain something that even she herself didn’t quite understand. “When I left you in the stable, I walked out here and there he was, sitting under the yew tree. I started talking to the woman about her horse and then I saw him… he said that he was waiting for someone. Bhrodi… it is a miracle!”

  Bhrodi was astounded. He turned to look at Asmara and Blayth, who were now turning around to look at him. Greatly shocked, Bhrodi took a few steps towards them, inspecting the big, blond warrior with the scarred head. He couldn’t take his eyes off the man as Penelope walked beside him, her hands wrapped up in his big palm.

  It wasn’t that Bhrodi didn’t believe Penelope because, clearly, something had happened. Everyone was in tears, their features ashen, as if they had all just had a great shock. But Bhrodi didn’t have an emotional stake in this, other than his wife, so he could be a little more objective. He looked closely at the big warrior with the beard and in looking into the man’s eyes, he could see the faint resemblance to his wife. They both had the same eyes.

  His jaw dropped.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Blayth,” the man responded without hesitation.

  Blayth. The man mentioned in Howell’s missive, Bhrodi thought quickly. He wasn’t only astonished by the man’s appearance, but quite curious about it as well. The man was supposed to be in Wales leading a rebellion, wasn’t he? So why was he here at Lioncross Abbey?

  “Why are you here?” he asked in his perfect Welsh.

  Blayth didn’t know who the man was other than the fact he must have been Penelope’s husband. His sister. He was big and dark, and had the look of a warrior about him, but Blayth wasn’t going to answer any questions until he knew who, exactly, he was.

  “Forgive me,” he replied. “I do not know you. What is your name?”

  “Bhrodi de Shera.”

  Blayth knew that name; he’d heard it a thousand times, a name revered by the Welsh. The man was the hereditary King of Anglesey. He remembered hearing that Bhrodi had married a Saesneg, but he had no idea that the man’s wife was Penelope de Wolfe.

  It seemed it was a day full of surprises, and things were coming full circle, but Blayth was still cautious. He wasn’t sure just how devout, or rabid, Bhrodi might be about the Welsh rebellion, so he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to tell the man.

  He would proceed cautiously.

  “Great lord,” he said, bowing his head respectfully. “I have heard of your greatness. It is an honor to meet you.”

  Bhrodi was watching him like a hawk. He kissed Penelope’s hand before letting it go, taking a step away from her and crooking a finger at Blayth. The man immediately obeyed, and Asmara tried to follow, but Bhrodi held up a hand to stop her, so she didn’t go any further. She stood there, concerned, as Bhrodi pulled Blayth with him into a private conference.

  With the women looking after them rather anxiously, Bhrodi came to a halt and turned to Blayth. He took a moment just to look the man over again, now that he was at close range, and he could see every detail of him from his damaged head, to his wife’s eyes, to the shape of William de Wolfe’s face. Beneath that reddish-blond beard, he suspected the man looked a great deal like William. He folded his big arms over his chest.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked quietly. “I received word from Howell ap Gruffydd that you were helping drive Rhys ap Maredudd’s rebellion in the south. You are aware that Howell has asked for my support.”

  “I am, great lord.”

  “Then if you’ve come to Lioncross to create some sort of a ruse or betrayal, I am going to tell you to go back to Howell. This is no place for you.”

  Blayth understood his concern but, in explaining his presence, he was going to have to tell Bhrodi things he wasn’t so certain he wanted to tell him. He wanted to proceed cautiously, but it may not be possible.

  The truth was the only thing he could give the man.

  “I am not here to create a ruse, great lord,” he said. “I am not sure how to explain this to you without telling you everything, so suffice it to say that I am no longer part of the rebellion.”

  Bhrodi’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”

  “Because I am English. I have come to Lioncross to discover who I truly am.”

  Bhrodi cocked his head curiously. “I do not understand.”

  Blayth conceded the point. “I know,” he said. “I was discussing it with your lady wife before you came. You see, I was badly injured at Llandeilo five years ago. You can see the damage on my head. When I awoke from this wound, I had no memory of who I was. I was taken in by Morys ap Macsen, who told me that I was the bastard son of Llywelyn the Last. Without any knowledge of my past, I trusted him. I believed him. But recently, Morys told me the truth of who I am, and I have decided that discovering my true past is more important than fighting in a Welsh rebellion when I am not even Welsh. If that offends you, great lord, then I beg your forgiveness. But that is why I have come to Lioncross – to find out who I really am.”

  It was an astonishing story, but one that made sense to Bhrodi. He was sure there was much more to it but, in that brief explanation, he didn’t sense lies or deceit. He sensed that Blayth truly meant what he said and, clearly, his reaction to Penelope and hers to him were genuine.

  “Then… you are not here to try and wreak havoc?” he asked.

  Blayth smiled thinly, shaking his head. “Nay, great lord,” he said. “The only havoc I seemed to have wrought is upon your lady wife when she told me who I was.”

  It all seemed honest enough, but there was one more thing on Bhrodi’s mind. “I will ask you a question and you will tell me truthfully,” he said. “Know that I will not punish you in any way, but I must know the truth. Will you do this?”

  “If I can, great lord.”

  “Are you an English agent for King Edward, sent to destroy ap Maredudd’s rebellion?”

  Blayth looked at him in surprise, such a genuine reaction that Bhrodi knew right then that the man wasn’t who he’d been suspected of.

  “Nay, great lord,” he said, perplexed. “Have men been saying that about me?”

  Bhrodi shrugged. “I heard someone say it,” he said. “Then it is not true?”

  “Nay, great lord, I swear with all my heart it is not.”

  Bhrodi believed him. “That is good,” he said. “Because that has been something of a concern. For your father’s sake, I was hoping that your reported death wasn’t some elaborate hoax.”

  Blayth shook his head as if the entire concept baffled him. “Not at all, great lord,” he said. “It seems like something terribly cruel to do. I hope my father did not think that.”

  “He does not know. And he never shall from my lips.”

  Blayth understood. “Nor mine,” he said. From the corner
of his eye, he could see Penelope and Asmara standing together, now in quiet conversation, and he was drawn to the woman who had identified herself as his long-lost sister. He very much wanted to be part of that conversation, too. “Now, if I may have your permission to speak with your lady wife and find out about my family, I would be grateful.”

  Bhrodi simply nodded and Blayth smiled, a genuine gesture. But before turning to the women, he paused one last time.

  “I have been told that I am a de Wolfe, but you must understand that being cymry is the only thing I remember,” he said. “I find myself in a very strange position now, a Saesneg by birth, but a Welshman by heart. I would be proud to call you brother in any case. But knowing what I do about you, and how the Welsh feel about you, I hope that from time to time you will permit me to speak to you of the Wales I remember.”

  For the first time, Bhrodi smiled at the man. He could sense a kind man, perhaps even a gentle nature, which seemed odd considering the reputation Blayth the Strong had amassed as a warrior.

  “I would be honored,” he said. “But remember this – the English heritage you have and the love of your family are as strong as anything I have ever seen. They adore you, James. Do not be afraid to embrace that. It is something few men ever know.”

  Blayth simply nodded, perhaps lingering on the thought of being loved beyond measure, before turning for the women and making his way over to them.

  Bhrodi simply stood there and watched as Penelope pulled the man over to the benches beneath the yew tree, where Blayth the Strong would learn about James de Wolfe from one of the people who had loved him best.

  A sister who had once called him her Favorite Brother.

  Truth be told, he still was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “God, I never thought we’d get here,” Scott muttered. “That must have been the fastest trip from northern England that I have ever had the discomfort of participating in. Papa, how is your backside?”

  William de Wolfe grunted as he glanced up at the massive gatehouse of Lioncross, feeling an extraordinary amount of relief.

  “Painful,” he muttered. “As if it has been spread a mile wide by all of the time we have spent in the saddle.”

  “You have no right to speak on such things,” Patrick said, reining his enormous red beast in behind his father. “I have been in the saddle longer than any of you. All the way from Berwick, for Christ’s sake. If I can no longer have children, you are all to blame.”

  As Scott snorted at Patrick’s misery, Troy chimed in. “I am surprised the horses are still standing,” he said. “We must have done forty miles a day at times. Thank God these beasts are as strong as they are, or we would still be up in Manchester somewhere.”

  As William listened to his sons bicker back and forth, men who were exhausted by the pace their elderly father had set, his focus was on the wide bailey of Lioncross as it opened up before them. He had his three eldest sons with him along with eight hundred men and three wagons, as he’d promised Kieran. An entire army was rolling in with him and he could hear the sergeants organizing the men, pulling them into the bailey that could easily accommodate a thousand men or more.

  It was mid-morning on the eleventh day since leaving Castle Questing to come to Lioncross. With every mile they drew closer to the Marches, William’s anxiety had grown. His sons surely must have felt his mood, but they kept the conversation as normal as possible, trying to keep their father sane as he entertained the hope of recovering a dead son.

  It was a like a massive weight hanging over them all.

  In truth, Scott and Troy and Patrick thought it was a false hope. They, too, had read the missive from their sister, but they had been tactful in pointing out that what Penelope had given them was at least third-hand information. Corbett Payton-Forrester “thought” he’d seen James and although it was cruel to make such a mistake, it was true that mistakes like that had been made before. Still, William was determined to come, and they would come with him. So, four big de Wolfe knights entered Lioncross’ bailey, all of them hoping beyond hope that Penelope’s missive hadn’t been wrong.

  But the moment the army began entering the gates was the moment the chaos really began.

  First, it was Chris de Lohr emerging from his keep along with his sons, Morgen and Rees. William saw them coming and he reined his horse to a halt, stiffly dismounting as Corbett suddenly emerged from the keep as well, coming up behind Chris and his sons as they made their way across the bailey.

  Scott, Troy, and Patrick saw the onslaught of knights rushing from the keep so they, too, dismounted, coming up behind their father like a great line of support, wondering why everyone seemed to be running at them.

  It was something that filled William with great apprehension. He had been prepared for polite greetings and small conversation before delving into the meat of the situation. But when he saw all the rush of de Lohrs coming at him, his tactics changed. He’d come a very long way and there was only one question he wanted answered.

  As Chris came near, William held out his hand to the man.

  “Is it true?” he demanded. “Is my son alive?”

  Chris heard the father’s plea and it was heartbreaking. He grabbed William’s outstretched hand, taking it tightly as he hugged the man.

  “My lord,” he breathed. “It is true. James is alive.”

  William simply stared at him, letting the words sink in. But behind him, his sons’ reactions were varied – Patrick’s eyes widened, Troy hung his head as if he’d just been dealt a great shock, and Scott put his hand over his mouth in astonishment.

  The most emotional of the brothers, Scott could hardly hold back the tears.

  “He is?” Scott asked hoarsely. “Dear God… it’s really true? James is alive?”

  Chris nodded, seeing the wild range of emotions running through the de Wolfe men. He still had William in his grip and he could feel the man trembling.

  “It is,” he said evenly. “Truly, he is. I have seen him. I have spoken with him. But that is why I have come to greet you in the bailey – there is something you should know before you see him.”

  William was quivering so badly that his knees were beginning to give way. “Where is my son?” he breathed. “I must go to him. Where is he, please?”

  “He is inside,” Chris said. “He came yesterday. Penelope and Bhrodi are here, too, and they are all inside. I told my men to be discreet when they saw your army arrive so that I could have a chance to speak with you first, but your daughter is very nosy. I am sure she has been watching the horizon for you, so my time with you is limited before she interrupts. My lord, you must listen to me about your son. There is much you must know.”

  William was holding on to him with two hands now. “He is here?” he asked, incredulous. “James is at Lioncross?”

  Chris nodded. “He does not go by James any longer,” he said. “His name is now Blayth. As his story goes, he was badly wounded at Llandeilo, as you know.”

  “He was dead!” William hissed. “I held him in my arms and he was dead!”

  He was starting to grow upset and Scott came up beside his father, putting his arm around his broad shoulders. “We all thought he was, Papa,” he said steadily. “I thought he was and so did Uncle Paris. You cannot blame yourself in that you thought he was dead.”

  William closed his one good eye, the tears coming. “God,” he gasped. “How he must hate me for having left him behind. I did not want to.”

  “You had no choice,” Scott said again, growing concerned over his elderly father’s mental state. “You cannot blame yourself. We will tell James the truth.”

  “Nay,” Chris said, interrupting them. “William, he does not remember anything. His head wound was so terrible that he lay unconscious for weeks and when he awoke, he had no memory of who he was. A Welsh warlord took him in, healed him, and told him that he was the bastard son of Llywelyn the Last. Do you hear me? James’ only memory is of being told that he was a Welsh
man with a great legacy, and that was why he was part of Rhys ap Maredudd’s rebellion. He does not remember you at all.”

  By now, William, Scott, Troy, and Patrick were looking at Chris in astonishment. “Is this true?” William said with awe. “He… he did not know who he was?”

  Chris shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “He only came to know his true identity a few days ago and he set out to discover the truth about his past. He knew Corbett was here and he came to find him, because Corbett saw him when he was in Wales. Corbett recognized him, but James did not return that recognition.”

  Chris turned to look at Corbett, who stepped forward when he saw that the attention was on him.

  “It is true, my lord,” he said to William. “James commanded the Welsh rebels who captured Gwendraith Castle, where I was the garrison commander. They managed to capture me, too, and I was in the vault for a month before James came to question me. I recognized him, but he did not recognize me, and then I thought… I thought that, mayhap, he was only pretending not to recognize me.”

  William wasn’t following him. “What do you mean?”

  Corbett felt somewhat foolish for ever suspecting such an elaborate scheme. “Because I thought, mayhap, that he’d meant for everyone to think he was dead because he was an agent for King Edward.”

  William was thoroughly confused now. “An agent?” he said, aghast. “For what purpose?”

  Corbett was feeling foolish. “To infiltrate the Welsh resistance, I thought. James is a de Wolfe, after all, and the de Wolfe connection with the crown is very close. I thought that he might be a spy.”

  William glanced at his sons, who had a variety of shocked and confused expressions on their faces. “James?” he said as he turned back to Corbett. “My son a spy?”

  Corbett shook his head before William finished speaking. “He is not, my lord, I assure you,” he said. “It was simply a wild idea I had, but James is no spy. Lord de Shera is convinced of it. In any case, James knew that I recognized him, and it was he who released me from Gwendraith. So when he came seeking the truth behind his past, he came to Lioncross because he knew that I would be here. He came to find me.”