Dark Destroyer (De Wolfe Pack Book 6)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  It was dawn in the tiny inn on the edge of town and the de Lara men were just beginning to stir. Kathalin could hear them grunting and farting, calling for chamber pots and warmed water and food. Everything was cold and dark at this hour, men muddling through the early morning shadows. But Kathalin had been up well before dawn even though she had slept very soundly on her mattress on the floor. The cloyingly hot room, coupled with the warm bath, had been exquisite and wonderful, lulling her into a very deep sleep of more comfort than she’d known in her entire life.

  It was this first taste of comfort that was beginning to pique her interest. Having grown up in the convent, she had slept on a rope bed and the only clothes she’d ever worn had been those of durable fabric as opposed to fabric of comfort. Her tender skin had suffered through years of scratchy wool and rashes because of it, but last night after her bath, she had put on one of the feather-soft shifts to sleep in and woke up in the morning without a rash or without scratching. It had been utterly remarkable and, if she were to admit it, a great relief. Was it possible that she did not have to go through life scratching herself until her skin bled?

  The lure of finding out was too much to resist. In her bathwater, she had washed the brown woolen garment she had worn from St. Milburga’s and put it by the fire to dry, but as she rose that morning and looked between the soft and comfortable things Gates had purchased for her and the brown wool that chaffed her terribly, her need for skin relief drew her to the clothes from Gates. No sooner had she started pulling them out of the basket than there was a soft knock at her door and when she opened it, a serving wench was there with food on a tray.

  Kathalin admitted the wench and when the woman set the food down and saw all of the marvelous clothing, she struck up a conversation. One thing led to another and before Kathalin realized what had happened, the woman was more than happy to help her dress. Shifts were being pulled forth, and hose, and it was all being organized on the mattress on the floor. Curious, Kathalin simply watched and learned. It was an education on worldly protocol that she had never received but one she found she was increasingly eager to learn.

  The serving wench started from the bottom, or literally, the naked flesh. She instructed Kathalin to remove the shift she’d slept in, which she did except for the fact that she kept the garment clutched in front of her to protect her modesty as the serving wench took some of the oil in the glass phial and smoothed it all over Kathalin’s body. Skin that had been dry and cracked was eased and the permanent rash caused by the woolen garments was soothed; exquisitely soothed. The wench also took the calendula salve and, after rubbing it on Kathalin’s damaged wrists, she proceeded to rub it against the rash on her back and on her thighs, which further soothed her. Kathalin had never been so utterly relieved in her entire life. No itching, no misery. Those two marvelous little miracle-workers, the oil and the salve, had seen to that.

  There had been no relief like that at St. Milburga’s and Kathalin was awed that such things existed. Worldly things that Mother Benedicta had said were evil. But they didn’t seem evil to Kathalin; quite the contrary. After that, she was more than willing to let the wench helped her pull the soft shift over her head again but Kathalin had no idea what she wanted to wear so the wench drew out the unbleached linen with the rabbit fur cuffs and neckline.

  It was a gorgeous garment, and warm, and the wench pulled it over Kathalin’s head and then tightened the laces on each side of the torso until Kathalin’s slender but lovely figure was greatly emphasized. The wench could see how shapely she was but Kathalin couldn’t, and it was probably a good thing because she would have been grossly embarrassed by what could be perceived as a revealing surcoat – the scoop neck with the fur lining, long and cuffed sleeves, and snug bodice were quite clinging.

  And quite alluring.

  Hose went on next, tied with two pieces of twine that the seamstress had attached to them, and the silk slippers with the fur lining went on after that. Kathalin was quite overwhelmed with the beauty and warmth and softness of what she was wearing, shocked and guilty that she loved it so much and felt so incredibly content in it. I believe God would be happy for you to be warm and comfortable. That was what Gates had said and she wasn’t hard pressed to admit that he had been right. However, she felt guilty that she wasn’t putting the brown wool back on but not guilty enough to want to actually do it. The soothed skin was enough to keep her out of the brown wool and remain in what she was wearing because it didn’t irritate her skin.

  Fully dressed and chewing on a piece of bread, Kathalin sat on the mattress while the wench, on her knees, got up behind her with the comb and pins the seamstress had included and began to dress her hair. It was then that the question had come up about the preferred style of her hair, to which Kathalin had no answer. She’d only ever worn it modestly braided so she genuinely had no idea what the wench meant.

  And so, the true transformation began.

  “Let me fix yer hair, m’lady,” the wench said. “Ye say ye’ve never dressed yer hair before?”

  Kathalin shook her head as the wench began to comb it with the tortoise-shell, double-sided comb. “Nay,” she replied. “I… I have had no need to dress it.”

  The wench didn’t say anything as she combed the dark, shiny tresses with a hint of red to them. Kathalin’s hair was well below her buttocks, very wavy because Kathalin had washed her hair with the rosemary soap the night before and then braided it to sleep in. The wench combed and combed before finally sectioning the hair off into two parts, split right down the middle, and she began to braid one of the sections.

  “’Tis a shame, m’lady,” the wench said as she braided. “Yer hair is lovely. Ye could wear it with gold ribbon or feathers!”

  Kathalin had no idea what the wench meant but she instinctively put her hand up to her hair, touching it nervously, as the dark strands were braided.

  “Why?” she asked. “Do women really wear their hair so?”

  The wench nodded. “Sometimes fine women come here,” she said eagerly, as if gossiping. “I watch to see what they are wearing. I have seen women with golden nets in their hair and one woman who had peacock feathers arranged in it. Ye would look stunning with peacock feathers in yer hair!”

  Kathalin listened with some awe, quite intrigued, before discounting her interest. Only vain and worldly women would do such things… wouldn’t they?

  “I would have no use for feathers in my hair,” she said. “A simple arrangement is all I need.”

  The wench suspected that so she wasn’t about to do anything outlandish no matter how much she wanted to. She practiced on her sister, the other woman who worked for the innkeeper, and she was growing quite good at dressing hair. She aspired to be a lady’s maid someday so she kept up on fashions and hair, hoping that one day the opportunity would present itself. But this lady seemed quite different; she had come in yesterday dressed in rags and being led by a rope, and now she was dressed in great finery and having her hair dressed. It was all quite puzzling and the wench didn’t have much control over her curiosity.

  “I will only braid yer hair, m’lady,” she assured her, eyeing the woman with the long, white neck and snow-white shoulders that blended with the pale color of the surcoat she wore. “May… I ask where ye are coming from?”

  Kathalin thought on St. Milburga’s, struggling with the depression it provoked. “Ludlow,” she said softly.

  The wench finished braiding the right side of her head, secured the ends with a strip of twine from the calendula salve box, and then started in on the left side of the head.

  “The knight ye came with,” the wench ventured, nosy. “Is he yer brother, m’lady?”

  Kathalin thought on the men who were her brothers, men she had only seen a few times in her life. In fact, she’d spent more time with de Wolfe than she’d ever spent with her blood brothers.

  “Nay,” she said. “He is a knight who serves my father.”

  “Who is yer father, m’lady?
”

  “You ask many questions.”

  The wench fell silent for a moment. “My apologies, m’lady,” she said quietly. “I meant no harm.”

  Kathalin immediately felt bad, as if she had rebuked the girl too strongly. She was usually an excellent conversationalist and not rude in the least. In fact, she was usually quite friendly but she was very much out of her element at the moment and unbalanced by it all.

  “I know,” she said. “I did not mean to be rude. What is your name?”

  The wench was surprised by the apology. “Ruby, m’lady.”

  Kathalin smiled faintly. “Ruby?” she repeated. “I like that name.”

  Ruby finished plaiting the right side of Kathalin’s head and now began to wrap both braids around her head, up behind each ear, creating a rather elaborate work of art that encircled Kathalin’s head as she pinned the heavy hair down with the iron pins.

  “My sister’s name is Pearl,” she said. “My mother named us after things fine and beautiful.”

  Kathalin thought it rather ironic that plain, well-worn women in a small village were named after things fine and beautiful. “They are lovely names,” she said, wincing as Ruby pushed the last pin into her scalp. “Thank you for taking the time to help me dress.”

  Ruby stood back to look at her handiwork, which was quite exquisite. All of the practice on her sister’s bushy hair had paid off. She smiled at the utterly lovely picture before her.

  “Ye look beautiful, m’lady,” she said.

  Kathalin stood up, gingerly touching her hair, not waiting to mess the careful dressing. Ruby motioned her over to the cold bathwater that, in the glow of the firelight, acted as a mirror and for the first time in her life, Kathalin was stunned at the reflection gazing back at her. Her hair was beautifully dressed and the garment she wore was flattering to a fault. Kathalin hardly recognized herself. As she looked into the water with wonderment, Ruby found the calendula salve and, using a finger, slicked some of it onto Kathalin’s lips before the woman could stop her. As Kathalin mashed her lips together, unfamiliar with the feel of the salve, Ruby began packing everything away into the basket.

  “The cold will crack yer lips if ye aren’t careful, m’lady,” she told her. “The salve will help them not to crack and bleed. Ye should put it on yer lips every time ye put it on yer wrists to heal the rope burn.”

  It was an excellent suggestion and one Kathalin never would have thought of. In fact, Ruby seemed to know a good deal about garments and dressing and hair and salves that Kathalin didn’t.

  “I will,” she said, rubbing her lips together still. “Thank you for your assistance. It has been invaluable.”

  Ruby smiled modestly. “My pleasure, m’lady,” she said, now appearing somewhat distracted as she packed up the last of the basket including Kathalin’s brown wool garment from St. Milburga’s and her worn leather shoes. “I… I have always wanted to be a lady’s maid so I have learned much. I would make a very good maid if ye need one.”

  Kathalin’s first instinct was to agree; she thought she might feel much more confident with Ruby along to help guide her through this strange new world, but on the other hand, she had no idea what her father wanted of her and if, in fact, she was heading back to St. Milburga’s soon. If that was the case, then she certainly wouldn’t need a maid.

  “I am sure you would,” she said. “But my… my future is uncertain at the moment; otherwise, I would gladly take you with me.”

  Ruby was both elated and crushed. “If ye change yer mind, then ye know where to find me, m’lady.”

  Kathalin smiled at the girl. “I do,” she said. “Thank you for your offer. Now, can you tell me where the knight is who brought me here?”

  Ruby nodded as she put the lid on the basket, securing it, before going to the cloak that was hanging on the peg behind the door. She shook it out as she went to Kathalin and swung it around the woman’s shoulders.

  “He was by yer door all night,” she said. “He never left, but when I came up to yer room a short while ago, he was at the bottom of the stairs with the other knight. Should I get him for ye, m’lady?”

  Kathalin looked at her with some surprise. “He… he was outside of my door all night?”

  “Aye, m’lady.”

  “But why?”

  Ruby shrugged. “To protect ye, I suppose,” she said. “He sent all of his men to bed but he remained awake, all night, guarding yer door.”

  Kathalin was somewhat astonished by the information but in the same breath, she had a strange urge to smile again. Just like that urge she had last night every time she looked at the basket de Wolfe had brought her. What was it about the man that seemed to make her smile all of a sudden? More than that, her heart would beat faster and her insides felt queer and quivery. She’d never known such sensations before and therefore had no way of knowing what caused them, but the only common denominator was, in fact, de Wolfe.

  The man is making me giddy!

  It was a startling realization. There was no reason why Gates de Wolfe should make her feel giddy, but he did. Only yesterday she had hated the man, hated him for dragging her out of St. Milburga’s. But since last night, her hate had vanished, turning into something else, something unfamiliar but strangely exciting. She had no idea what to make of it, only that she found it confusing.

  I am simply exhausted, she told herself. That must be why thoughts of him cause my heart to race.

  … isn’t it?

  Taking a deep breath, trying to calm her unfamiliar thoughts, Kathalin fastened the top of her cloak and turned away from Ruby.

  “Will you please find the knight and tell him that I am ready to depart after prayers?” she asked, moving to the half-eaten food tray. “I am sure he is eager to leave.”

  Ruby nodded, heading for the door, as Kathalin popped a piece of white cheese into her mouth. “Aye, m’lady,” she said, opening the door to find three big soldiers standing outside. She eyed the soldiers warily before returning her attention to Kathalin. “Remember that if ye ever need a maid, I should be happy to assist ye.”

  Kathalin nodded as she chewed and swallowed. “I am grateful.”

  With a timid smile, Ruby quit the chamber as Kathalin finished what was left on her tray. But the lure of food was in competition with the fox-lined cloak she wore, for most certainly she had never in her life known anything so warm or so soft. She kept running her hands over the fox, enthralled with the feel of it, enthralled with the feel of everything she was wearing because it was exactly as de Wolfe said it would be – soft, warm, and comfortable.

  Was this what worldly vanity meant? Wearing garments that didn’t make her skin raw? If that was the case, Kathalin began to think that, perhaps, she might be in danger of being a vain woman because she liked the feel very much. She knew she could get used to it, and happily.

  Mother Benedicta would be most displeased.

  With that thought, she dropped to her knees, crossed herself, and began intoning the morning prayers for Matins. It was a habit she had been in since childhood and Catholic guilt dictated that she prayed very hard for her wicked lust for comfort. At least, Mother Benedicta would say that she needed to. She was nearly finished pleading for God’s mercy for her evil thoughts when there was a soft knock at the door.

  Finishing quickly with her prayers, she bade the caller to enter and when she looked up and saw de Wolfe in the dim light of the chamber, she would remember the look on his face for the rest of her life. She’d never seen anything like it before, ever. Something between surprise, awe, and pleasure.

  She fought off the urge to smile at him in return but she couldn’t quite manage it.

  “Did you sleep at all?”

  The question came from Stephan as he sat across the table from Gates, down in the inn’s common room that was hardly bigger than a solar. It would seat perhaps twenty people at the most, and even now, the twenty people that were there were Gates’ men, all breaking their fast.

&n
bsp; Tables were leaning, some were broken altogether, and the entire room smelled heavily of smoke and urine, but Gates’ men didn’t particularly care, and neither did Gates. Men were coughing, waking up, ordering food, and gathering their possessions for the march to Hyssington as Gates and Stephan sat at the table nearest the stairs. Gates, who appeared pale and exhausted highlighted by a growth of beard, grunted to Stephan’s question.

  “We will be at Hyssington by late today,” he said, avoiding an answer. “There will be time enough to rest once we have reached home.”

  Stephan who, in fact, had slept quite well most of the night, whistled low to get the attention of the lone serving wench in the room. He pointed to the table, silently telling the woman they required food, before continuing the conversation.

  “I have never known you to sleep much,” he said. “In fact, you are usually awake when I go to bed and you are still awake when I wake up in the morning. Do you not ever become tired?”

  Gates smiled faintly, nodding his head. “I am always weary,” he said. “But I have never been able to sleep well, even as a youth. My master did not sleep well and therefore had me up at all hours of the night, keeping busy. It is an unfortunate habit that has remained with me all of these years.”

  Stephan’s expression suggested sympathy and understanding. He moved his arm off the table as the serving wench brought a pitcher of watered ale and two dirty cups. He wiped them both out before pouring.

  “So we return to Hyssington today,” he said. “What then? We will not be returning to France any time soon, so what is there for us now?”

  Gates took the cup that the man offered. “Wales,” he said flatly. “We have come home to fight off Welsh raiders who can be just as deadly as any French fighter. But I will admit that I do have a longing to return home and see my father.”

  “The one that taught you to curse?”

  “The same. His father taught him, and his father before him.”

  “A legacy of insults,” he said. “Let me hear something, then. I’ve not heard you insult the men since we returned from France. Have you forgotten how?”