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

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The Welsh poured into the eastern edge of the camp, throwing spears at the inhabitants and throwing torches at the tents. It was instant chaos as the camp came alive and men began to grab weapons, preparing to fight the onslaught. By the time Penelope, Thomas, and Edward entered the camp, there was a good amount of chaos with men running in their direction. Thomas and Edward were dressed much as their sister was, in the dark tunics and woolen caps of the Welsh to disguise them and they, too, were uncomfortable without their expensive plate armor, but it could not be helped. They had to travel, and fight, lightly in order to be convincing. Edward knew they were looking for the king’s tent and, having spent the past few weeks with the man, knew it would be towards the center of the camp. He motioned to his siblings.

  “Come this way!” he bellowed.

  The three of them tore off, having no idea where Kevin or the teulu commanders had gone. There seemed to be men everywhere and several tents were already burning furiously. In the dark of night, with sparks soaring into the air, Penelope and her brothers thundered through the encampment. Penelope had tossed her torch onto a particularly large tent, knowing it must be someone of importance, and proceeded to draw Bhrodi’s sword. She wanted everyone to see it, to know he was back in their midst. The Serpent had returned.

  Just as the three of them drew around a corner, Edward brought them to an abrupt halt. He pointed off to the northeast where a massive tent and a corral with several excited horses were situated, set off from the rest of the encampment. There were also several soldiers around it and even more that were starting to mount the horses. They would soon be coming after them.

  “That is Edward’s tent,” he said quickly. “If we are going to hit it, do it now while the men are still mounting. After you throw your torch, Thomas, ride as fast as you can out of here. We must get out now because Edward’s men are arming themselves and mounting. We do not want them chasing and catching up to us.”

  Thomas nodded sharply and spurred his charger forward. Edward’s guard saw him coming and rushed forward to meet him. Penelope and Edward were right behind him, however, and Penelope began swinging Bhrodi’s massive sword, making contact on more than one occasion. It was such a heavy sword that even though she was adept at sword fighting, it wasn’t long before she grew exhausted. But her intervention had helped Thomas; he had managed to launch the torch onto Edward’s tent and the material had caught fire.

  Seeing the king’s tent begin to burn was all the confirmation Penelope needed to turn for home. The fire was spreading rapidly and there would be no opportunity for them to put it out before it did significant damage. Maybe the king was inside and it would damage him as well. She could only hope. Every lick of flame had Bhrodi’s name on it and she took great delight in the destruction. But as she watched the fire burn, she failed to notice that two of Edward’s guard had been able to mount and were now charging out after her. Startled by the sight of men nearly upon her, she dug her heels into her charger and launched herself off in the only direction that wasn’t blocked. She headed south.

  Separated from her brothers and from the rest of the Welsh, she thundered south where there were several smaller encampments spread out. She could hear the rush of horses behind her but she didn’t dare turn around to look; if she could hear them, they must indeed be close. Off to her left was an open area and she thought to gain ground on them there because her charger was very fast; the horse had Spanish Jenette blood in it and had a good amount of speed.

  But it wasn’t fast enough. She realized one of the soldiers had managed to get up beside her and he took a swipe at her head with his sword. Penelope ducked, barely avoiding being beheaded, and she abruptly pulled her horse up so the pursuers ran past. Reining the horse to the left, and heading south again, she picked up a couple of more soldiers on her tail and she dodged between a pair of tents, emerging on the other side to a blockade of English soldiers. There were three of them and they had effectively cut her off. When she tried to turn around, four more men came up behind her.

  She was boxed in. Greatly disappointed, and very frightened, Penelope held tightly to her excited horse as she eyed the English soldiers.

  “You Welsh bastard,” one man snarled. “We’ve got you now. You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”

  Penelope still had Bhrodi’s sword in her hand and she lifted it; there was no one around to help her, no one to save her. She knew that her life as a Welsh raider and her life in general was at an end. It had been a good life; she had no complaints. She was simply sorry that she would never be able to grow old with her husband, or see his face when she presented him with their first son. Aye, it was a terrible regret but she couldn’t linger on any of that now. Death was approaching and she intended to meet it well.

  Rather than embarrass her father with her capture or risk a horrible, tortuous death, she would die the only way she knew how. She would die like the knight she was trained to be, for the blood of The Wolfe flowed in her veins. She knew that her life would be coming to an end very shortly and she would not go down without a fight.

  “Very well,” she hissed. “Do what you must but know that I will not make an easy kill for you. If you want me, come and get me.”

  She wielded the sword defensively, spinning her horse around because of the knights behind her. She was positive one of them was going to sneak up behind her and gore her.

  “Do it!” she yelled. “If you are going to kill me, then get on with it!”

  It was not a Welshman who had yelled at them. It was, in fact, a woman who spoke flawless English. That moment of confusion cost them because as they looked at each other in bewilderment, great armored horses from the darkness swept upon them and, as Penelope watched, the seven English soldiers who had cornered her went down in a bloodied and loud collapse. Men fell, horses ran off, but nothing came close to touching her. She remained still as stone right in the center of the action. When she finally looked at the horses who had charged in from the darkness, she came face to face with her father.

  “Papa!” Penelope gasped. “You have come!”

  William was in battle armor from head to toe, every inch the mighty and formidable Wolfe. He looked at his daughter with something between great anger and great relief.

  “Get out of here,” he told her. “Ride back to Rhydilian and stay there. I will not be far behind.”

  “But… Papa!” she cried softly. “What do you mean? Why are you coming?”

  Before William could answer, Kieran charged up beside her and gave her horse a shove. “You heard your father,” Kieran boomed. “Go back to Rhydilian and wait for us!”

  Penelope was terribly confused but she did as she was told. As she turned her horse around, Paris rode up, blocking her off.

  “Did de Shera come with you?” he demanded.

  Penelope shook her head. “He is badly wounded,” she said. “But you already know that. Why did you ask?”

  Paris was brittle with fear, with frustration. “Because men are shouting that they have captured de Shera,” he snapped. “Who are they speaking of, Penny?”

  Penelope’s jaw dropped and her eyes immediately filled with tears. “Kevin is dressed in Bhrodi’s armor,” she was starting to weep. She spun her horse in the direction of her father. “If they think they have Bhrodi, then they have Kevin instead. Papa, you must save him!”

  Filled with panic, Kieran was already racing for the center of the encampment. Paris, giving Penelope an expression of pure disbelief, tore off after him. Only William remained behind, his gaze on his youngest daughter.

  He realized he couldn’t become angry with her. She was doing what he would have done in the same situation, what any of them would have done, to avenge the person they loved. He would have done it for her a thousand times over, and she for him. She was a de Wolfe at heart, loyal to those she loved, and he simply couldn’t become angry. But he was very frightened for her. He struggled to maintain his calm.

  “You will head south
across this field,” he told her. “There is an old road at the end of the meadow that runs all the way to the coast. Follow it and it will lead you back to the ferry that crosses to Anglesey.”

  Penelope reined her animal towards him, reaching out to grasp his hand. “I love you, Papa,” she said, tears on her cheeks. “Thank you… for saving me, thank you. And thank you for sending Bhrodi back to me.”

  It was no time for a family reunion. He squeezed her hand and let go. “Go home,” he told her again. “I will be there as soon as I can.”

  “But why?”

  “Just go, Penelope,” he told her, reining his horse around to follow Paris and Kieran’s paths. “Get out of here. I will see you later.”

  He started to take off and she yelled after him. “Thomas and Edward are here, too!” she cried. “Find them, Papa!”

  She swore she heard the man groan as she, too, took off into the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Kevin was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t been knocked off his charger by the same morning star that had injured Bhrodi. It had all happened fairly early in the raid and he didn’t remember much other than the chain of the morning star wrapping around his arm and yanking him right off the horse. He’d fallen awkwardly and had landed on his forehead and face, which had knocked him unconscious. When he’d come to, he was being dragged by two of Edward’s knights into a tent on the northern perimeter of the encampment that had not been burned in the raid.

  The smell of smoke was heavy in the early morning sky as the knights tossed him into the tent. There were more men there, men with swords and armed with crossbows, and they had promptly beat him. He was wearing armor so the damage wasn’t too bad until someone caught him in the mouth with a booted foot and knocked a couple of teeth loose. Blood poured and his mouth was full of it, but the beating didn’t stop. It went on for several long minutes until they simply grew weary of kicking him.

  So he lay on the ground and pretended to be injured. He was positive that if he sat up or tried to rise that they would start beating him again, so he simply remained on the cold, damp earth, smelling the acrid smoke and listening to the sounds of battle die away. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to have gotten caught.

  Kevin wasn’t entirely sure how long he lay there, listening, but he was suddenly pulled into a sitting position as someone yanked the helm off his head. Others were yanking at his plate protection, using dirks to slice through the leather straps and pull it off his body. He was roughed up by the stripping and more began to kick at him. On the breastplate that he had worn was the de Shera coat of arms and the motto, nicked and faded with age. The soldier who had pulled it off of him studied it closely.

  “What’s this?” the soldier demanded. “Meam, legatum meum, quia Deus. What does that mean?”

  “That is Latin,” a man said as he pushed into the tent. He yanked the armor out of the soldier’s hand and looked at it closely. He read the passage over a couple of times. “My honor, my legacy, for God. That is what it says. And I have seen this crest before; it is the de Shera crest.”

  On his knees, Kevin was watching the man quite closely. He was very tall, with graying blond hair, and from the moment he had stepped into the tent, the atmosphere seemed to change. Men nearly cowered at his feet, which led Kevin to believe that the man standing before him was none other than Edward the First.

  He had only met the man once, when he had been quite young, but had not seen him in at least twenty years. When the man finally looked at him, Kevin waited for the inevitable recognition but the man continued to gaze at him with no remembrance in his face. The eyes were dark and hollow.

  “This is Coventry’s coat of arms,” the man pointed out, “and you were the only raider we saw that was wearing any armor.”

  “Welsh do not typically wear armor,” Kevin replied.

  “They do if their father was the Earl of Coventry. If you are, in fact, the Earl of Coventry.”

  Kevin gazed steadily at the man; he knew he was in grave danger with either path he chose – if he admitted he was de Shera or if he told the truth, that he was an English knight. He wasn’t yet willing to provide all of the answers to their questions because he wasn’t willing to hasten his demise. After a moment, he looked away.

  “I borrowed the armor,” he said. It was not a lie.

  The man was not amused. “You may as well confess your identity,” he said. “The armor and the name of de Shera inscribed on the broadsword tell me the entire story. It is unfortunate that you and I could not meet under better circumstances, de Shera.”

  Kevin could hear the hisses going up all around, like ripples in a pond, rippling out of the tent to the men beyond and spreading through the camp like wildfire. De Shera! They were saying. He, too, had noticed the name de Shera inscribed on the broadsword he had borrowed and it was like a calling card, announcing his identity. Or, at least, his stolen identity. He looked up at the tall man.

  “I suppose it would not do any good to tell you that I am not Bhrodi de Shera, would it?” he asked rather drolly.

  Edward lifted his eyebrows in feigned interest. “Who else could you possibly be?” he asked mockingly. “Another Welsh prince I do not know about yet?”

  “There could be more who are in hiding,” Kevin replied, “like Dafydd.”

  The man’s expression tightened. “What do you know about Dafydd?”

  Kevin shook his head. “I wish I knew more than I did,” he said. “If I knew where he was, I would be with him now and not in the middle of an English camp.”

  The man regarded him closely. “You speak English extremely well,” he said. “In fact, I cannot detect a Welsh accent at all. That is a surprise, de Shera. But, then again, you did foster in England so I suppose your mastery of the language would be impeccable.”

  “May I know who I am speaking with?”

  The glimmer returned to the man’s eyes. “I am called Edward,” he said, somewhat casually. “I will soon be your king so I suppose introductions are in order. It was foolish to leave Anglesey, de Shera. You were safe there. Why did you leave?”

  So his suspicions were correct; the King of England was standing before him. Kevin knew he could not have been in a worse position had he deliberately tried. Kneeling before Edward was like kneeling before a viper; it was only a matter of time before the man would strike. But he faced the question without fear.

  “If your countrymen were in peril, would you not heed the call?” he asked.

  Edward shrugged. “Mayhap,” he replied, “but you have put yourself in grave danger. Mayhap it will be enough to pry Dafydd out of his hiding place in an attempt to rescue you. You have made a valuable prisoner, you know.”

  Kevin caught movement out of the corner of his eye, aiming for his head, and he lashed out a hand, grabbing a booted foot and twisting hard. Bones snapped and the man who had been kicking at Kevin’s head screamed in pain as he went down in a heap. Kevin maintained his composure as he continued to face the king.

  “All warfare has risks,” he said as if nothing violent had just occurred. “I am equally sure Dafydd will not come out of hiding to attempt to rescue me. What will you do then?”

  Edward had a hint of a smile on his lips. “What would you do?”

  Kevin shrugged. “I suppose traitors cannot be tolerated, so I would kill the traitor. Is that what you intend to do?”

  Edward stared at him; it was an appraising sort of stare, calculating, as if he was weighing his options. The man whose leg Kevin had broken was still lying on the ground groaning and Edward watched as a pair of men carried him out. After a moment, the king averted his gaze thoughtfully.

  “You broke poor Hubert’s leg,” he commented.

  “The man was going to kick me in the head.”

  “Your reflexes are impressive,” Edward said as he pulled up a three-legged stool with an embroidered leather sling-like seat. He sat heavily. “You are a man of great breeding and skill, de Shera. I sh
ouldn’t like to kill you but you have left me little choice. I wed you to the daughter of England’s greatest knight yet still you rebelled against me. What am I to do now?”

  Kevin tried to put himself in Bhrodi’s shoes. It was an odd experience, really, pretending to be a man who should have very well been his mortal enemy. Not only was the man Welsh, but he had married the only woman Kevin had ever loved. This entire fiasco was because of Penelope and still, Kevin found himself defending her, now with his life at risk. He was either very stupid or very loyal; he wasn’t sure which.

  “The marriage contract was for peace,” Kevin said after a moment. “That goes both ways. That means you must be peaceful as well, and clearly you were not. Your presence in Wales demonstrates that.”

  Surprisingly, Edward didn’t become angry. He actually appeared thoughtful. “Wales cannot rule itself, de Shera,” he said after a moment. “There are several different kingdoms and many different princes, or at least there were, but there has never been one man able to bring them all together.”

  “So you intend to be that man?”

  “Would you prefer that Wales tears itself apart from in-fighting?”

  It was a good argument, but Kevin shook his head. “You are using that excuse to mask your greed,” he said. “Wales does not need English rule.”

  “Wales cannot survive by Welsh rule.”

  Kevin was opening his mouth to reply when the tent flap snapped back and armored men were charging in. He turned around to see his father standing there, his face pale with shock, and Paris standing right behind him. Both men looked at Kevin with expressions of great astonishment and the ambiance in the air instantly changed; there was grief there as well. It became moody and heavy as Kevin regarded the pair. It was Edward who spoke first.