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PROLOGUE

In the heady days of Yore,

There upon a moonlit shore,

Came the knight known one to all,

A warrior to heed the nightbird’s call.

Son of The Wolfe, a legacy born,

A knight of skill, yet his heart was torn.

A heart so bold, demanded by kings,

Yet a lady claimed it, an angel without wings.

A nightbird with a warrior’s soul,

This is now the story told.

~ 13 th c. chronicles

?

July, Year of our Lord 1269

Westminster Palace, London

“N o one enters a room like a de Wolfe.” An elderly man with a head of gray hair and one droopy eye spoke. “Even from afar, the moment the doors open and you enter, it is as if all of the air in the room is sucked out by your mere presence. Your father has the same gift, by the way. Think not that you are special in that regard, Patrick de Wolfe.”

An enormous knight with eyes the color of jade and hair as dark as a raven’s wing was halfway into the great hall, heading towards the dais at the far end where the king sat. Great Henry, he was called, an elderly man who had ruled England for over sixty years. But the king was in poor health these days and his voice was barely above a whisper, which meant that one of the king’s advisors had to repeat what the man had said so that Patrick could properly respond.

All was formality and pomp within the great hall of Westminster Palace. A mere knight was expected to respond to a kingly statement.

“You have accused my father of such things before, my lord, or so I have heard,” Patrick responded loudly, as the king’s hearing was also very poor these days. “In fact, he told me that you have refused to allow him to enter a room before you for that very reason.”

He was drawing nearer to the king now, his heavy leather boots clapping against the wooden floor in loud succession; boom, boom, boom…. Such a big man made very big sounds. He closed the gap quickly for he’d come with a purpose. An audience with the ailing king was something quite rare these days, even for the man who had been appointed to serve as the monarch’s personal Lord Protector. He had only just reached London and had sought audience with the king, which was granted as soon as the king was feeling better. Now, Patrick had arrived and the king could not be more pleased about it.

But the one person in the room who wasn’t pleased with Patrick’s arrival was, in fact, Patrick himself. He wasn’t one to be nervous or jumpy as a rule. But as he came to a halt before Henry, he realized that he was just that– nervous. God help him, he was here with a purpose in mind and if the king didn’t grant his request, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do. It all came down to the case he would lay out for the king and how convincing he would be. He’d done nothing but pray about it, fervently.

Sweet Christ, let Henry be in a generous mood today!

From the way Henry was staring at him, however, it was difficult to tell just how generous Henry intended to be. The man had been ill for quite some time now and his skin was yellowish, his eyes sunken. The silks swathing his body hung on the man’s thin frame. He was staring at Patrick as if the man’s most recent remark had offended him and, in truth, Patrick was coming to wonder if it had. He and Henry had an easy repartee, as easy as one could have with the king, because Henry owed much to Patrick’s father, William de Wolfe. It was on that basis that Patrick had established his own relationship with the monarch and answering the man as he had was something that usually gave Henry a grin. But, at the moment, that grin wasn’t forthcoming.

Patrick waited.

The grin finally came.

“Cheeky devil,” Henry muttered after a moment. Then, he lifted a finger in Patrick’s direction. “Now, you will tell me why you seek audience with me. You are my Lord Protector, Patrick. I have been waiting for you to arrive and assume your duties.”

“I know, my lord.”

Henry’s eyebrows lifted when there was no more of a reply than that. “Have you nothing more to say?” he asked. “You have never before sought an audience and I will admit that it has me concerned. Speak, now. Tell me what is of importance to you.”

Patrick looked at his monarch. Now, the moment had come. Swallowing away his nerves, he brought forth the speech he had planned for weeks. Now, the time was upon him to speak it. He could not delay.

“This is a formal request, my lord,” he began quietly. “It seemed best served to follow protocol and request an audience.”

“So you did. What do you want?”

Patrick took a deep breath, eyeing the advisors that stood around the king, knowing he was about to bare his soul for all to hear. It was an embarrassing event, to be sure, but the needs of his heart were stronger than his pride. The damnable, stubborn de Wolfe pride. But he hardly cared; if the seasoned men surrounding Henry thought him weak for it, then so be it.

“My lord, it has been the pinnacle of my career as a knight to personally serve you as my father once did,” he said in his rich, melodious baritone. “As a warrior and as a subject, I could ask for no higher honor. But several weeks ago, I had an experience with a raiding band of Scots that has changed my outlook on life. It happened at nearly the same time I received word that I was to come to London to attend you, in fact.”

“Is that so?”

“It is, my lord.”

“And how did this encounter with the Scots change your outlook?”

Patrick cleared his throat softly again; his nerves were still there. “Because there was a woman with them,” he said quietly. “She was a captive, you see, so I brought her back to Castle Questing for my mother to tend. My lord, it is because of this woman that I wish to return home.”

The king may have been ill and hard of hearing, but he wasn’t daft. He could see something reflected in Patrick’s eyes, something he’d once seen in the eyes of Patrick’s father. It is because of this woman that I wish to return home. Long ago, Henry remembered William de Wolfe in a seemingly similar predicament with the woman who turned out to be Patrick’s mother. A man so in love that nothing else in the world mattered, not even the prestige of serving a king. He sighed faintly.

“You want to marry this woman, I take it?” he asked.

“I already have.”

Henry was intrigued. “You have?” he said, astonished. “I did not know this. Who is she?”

“Her name is Brighton de Favereux. Her mother is the sister to Gilbert de la Haye of Clan Haye.”

“I know of him. But who is her father?”

Patrick seemed to falter. “Magnus, my lord.”

“Magnus de Favereux? I do not know him.”

Patrick shook his head. “Nay, my lord,” he said. “Magnus of Norway. He is the Norse king.”

That seemed of great interest to Henry as well as his advisors. The great Earl of Canterbury, Daniel de Lohr, happened to be in London at this time and had been visiting with Henry at Westminster. Patrick had known the man since childhood and he liked him a great deal. The House of de Lohr and the House of de Wolfe went back generations and were great allies. It was Daniel, standing on Henry’s right, who spoke.

“Who told you this, Patrick?” Daniel asked calmly.

Patrick turned his attention to the big, blonde earl, still powerful and agile in his sixth decade. “Her nurse, my lord,” he replied. “An old nun was also captured by the raiding party and she told me of Bridey’s true identity. It has been kept secret for many years.”

Daniel’s eyebrows furrowed. “The lass has been raised by nuns?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“A daughter of the king of the Northmen?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Daniel looked at Henry, greatly perplexed by the story that was coming forth from one of the most reasonable young knights he had ever known. It sounded like madness to his ears but he knew there had to be a complex reason in there, somewhere. Henry, equally perplexed, held up his hand to silence both Daniel’s questions and Patrick’s replies. He was only growing more confused by the moment.

“Patrick,” he said with quiet insistence. “I think you had better start from the beginning, my son. You have married a woman who is the daughter of the king of the Northmen and a Scottish mother?”

Patrick nodded, feeling some of the nervousness drain out of him as he realized that Henry was truly interested in what he had to say. So was Canterbury. These were two men he greatly respected. There was so much to tell he hardly knew where to start. With a sigh, he focused on the beginning of his tale, going back to that night that changed the course of his life. He hadn’t known it then, of course, but he certainly knew it now. And he wanted nothing more than to head back north to Northumberland, to the borders between Scotland and England, where his family ruled.

Where Brighton was.

Fixing the king in the eye, he began his complicated tale. “I have, my lord. And I did not have permission to do it.”

“I see. And now there is trouble?”

“Possibly, my lord.”

“Then start this story from the beginning. And leave nothing out.”

Patrick complied. “It was a dark and stormy night….”