Page 1 of Wolfehound (De Wolfe Pack Generations #11)

Hyssington Castle, England

Demesne of the Lords of the Trilaterals, House of de Lara

T he old lord was dying.

Colm de Lara had seen more than his fair share of adventure and battle over the course of his lifetime, things that often hardened men or weakened them, spiritually and mentally, things that could crush a lesser man.

Colm had seen everything with the House of de Royans, battling the Welsh on the marches with great armies or the Scots or any number of enemies that allies had deemed he should fight.

Allies like William de Wolfe, Earl of Warenton, and inarguably the greatest knight of his generation.

He’d served de Royans and de Wolfe well until his father died a few years ago and, as the heir to the Trilateral castles of de Lara, he’d come back to the marches.

But that tenure as Lord of the Trilaterals was about to end. No sooner had he returned than a cancer had infected him. He’d suffered with it for years, but now it was overwhelming his body. He didn’t have much time left. And, God help him, it couldn’t end before he told what he knew.

A man sat next to his bed, smelling of wine and urine.

It radiated from the filthy woolen robes he wore, clothing that proclaimed his place as a prince of the church, but robes that in reality hid the darkness of the man’s soul.

He called himself St. Zosimus and he came from St. Mary’s church, the largest church in the nearby village of Y Trallwng and the source of strange and unsavory happenings for years.

Women vanishing and orphans being subject to heavy labor were among some of the sins.

There was even rumor that St. Zosimus had convinced a wealthy local man to give all of his money to the church in the hopes of saving his immortal soul.

Then he’d spent the money on wine and food. For himself.

In short, St. Zosimus was not a man to be trusted.

And that was what Colm was counting on.

“You were saying, my lord?” St. Zosimus said after ingesting a large drink of wine from his third cup of the evening.

“You have something important on your mind. That is clear. Please tell me what you have summoned me for so that you may die in a state of grace. Surely a knight with your reputation requires much forgiveness for your actions over the years.”

That was true. Colm tried to speak but his throat was dry, so he ended up coughing that hacking cough that was caused by a cancer that was eating him alive.

St. Zosimus could have given him a sip of wine to ease his throat, but he didn’t.

He didn’t have that kind of compassion. Therefore, Colm coughed until the blood started coming up again, and only then was he able to stop somewhat.

Ragged breathing filled the air of the stale, dim chamber.

“I must confess something,” he finally rasped.

“I must speak of it because I cannot die with it on my conscience. Others will. They will die with this burden upon their breast, but I will not. I once promised I would not speak of it, but I must break that vow because I fear that God will ask me why I would not confess such a thing. I was there. It is my secret to tell.”

Secret. That word had St. Zosimus leaning just a little closer to the bed, his angular features illuminated by the light from the bedside taper.

He knew that de Lara had served with an ally of a very powerful house, one that was entrenched in the politics of England.

In fact, neither England nor the Crown moved these days without the assistance of the House of de Wolfe.

There were so many of them now that they’d all but taken over the north of England.

Allied to the Houses of de Velt, de Royans, and de Reyne, other major northerner warlords, the four major families locked up England from Leeds to the Scots border.

Secret.

St. Zosimus was very curious what that might be.

“Speak, my lord,” he said. “I am listening. God is listening.”

He threw “God” into the conversation to force Colm into spilling whatever juicy mysteries he might be harboring, the unspoken threat of a deity that demanded truth from all.

Perhaps the man had cheated a neighbor. Perhaps he’d even cheated a brother or his father.

Or perhaps he’d stolen something that he now wanted absolution for. Whatever it was, St. Zosimus was ready.

Somewhere in the night, a dog howled. The mournful cry wafted in through the lancet window, contributing to the sense of disquiet in the chamber.

Colm was breathing heavily, his eyes closed, and he let out a sound that led St. Zosimus to believe he was about to speak.

But it was a false start. Colm remained silent for several long seconds before he finally began his confession.

“You must swear before God that you shall not repeat what I am about to tell you,” he rasped.

St. Zosimus nodded. “Of course,” he said, picking up his wine cup and taking another long drink. “Speak, my son. It will do you good.”

Colm’s eyes remained closed. “You know that I once served an ally of the Earl of Warenton,” he said. “The first one, I mean. William de Wolfe himself.”

“I know.”

Colm’s eyes slowly rolled open. “He was a great man,” he said. “I do not criticize him, but long ago, he did something… something that could be considered treason.”

That perked up St. Zosimus considerably. “Did he?” he said. “But I am certain that a man like de Wolfe has done many things in his lifetime that could be considered questionable. Men like William de Wolfe do not achieve legendary status unless they have.”

“Even concealing something that could possibly bring about the destruction of England?”

St. Zosimus wasn’t quite following him. “What could that possibly be?” he said. “De Wolfe was always in support of the Crown. Henry depended on him. That is well known. Surely Edward did as well, since de Wolfe served two kings.”

“Edward did not know what de Wolfe had done,” Colm muttered. “But I do. I was there.”

“Where?”

“ There ,” Colm said, raising his voice as much as he could. “I was there when de Wolfe betrayed Edward. Mayhap Warenton has been dead for a few years, but this secret did not die with him. It continues to live, and I fear it will come back to cause chaos.”

“What could this terrible secret be?”

“Swear to me again that you will not tell.”

“Of course I will not tell. What is it?”

Colm turned his head stiffly until his gaze fell on the priest who was pouring himself another cup of wine even as they spoke.

He did not believe him when he said he would not repeat what he was about to be told, and that was how Colm would get the word out.

It wouldn’t be him divulging the news, but an idiot priest who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, keep his mouth shut.

That was how they would know.

And Colm could go to his grave in peace.

“How much do you know about the battles in Wales between Dafydd and Llywelyn against Henry and Edward?” he finally asked.

St. Zosimus shrugged. “As much as anyone, I suppose,” he said. “Edward finally defeated them and eventually proclaimed his own son the Prince of Wales.”

“He did,” Colm said, his eyes taking on a distant cast. “I was involved in those wars, you know. I was there when Dafydd was killed and when his brother, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, was ambushed whilst running from the English. If anyone tells you that he died an honorable death, it is not true. He tried to escape and the English caught him in a forest. They hacked the man to death. There is nothing noble about that.”

St. Zosimus thought he knew what Colm meant. “And you need absolution from killing the last Prince of Wales?”

“Nay,” Colm said, remembering that time not so long ago. A mere twenty years ago. But it seemed like a lifetime. “I did not participate in the death of Llywelyn. It was what came after that concerned me.”

“What came after?”

Colm cleared his throat quietly and closed his eyes. “Llywelyn was married to Eleanor de Montfort,” he muttered. “Were you aware of that? The man was married to a woman of royal blood. Simon de Montfort was her father, and the daughter of King John, also Eleanor, was her mother.”

St. Zosimus took another long drink of wine, growing impatient waiting for this great confession to come forth. “I know the lineage,” he said. “I’ve served here on the Welsh marches for thirty years, my lord. I am well aware of those you speak of.”

Colm’s eye peeped open, seeing that he was close to losing the man’s interest because he hadn’t gotten to the point yet. But there was a reason for that. He needed to make the situation clear before he hit the man with what would undoubtedly be a shocking statement.

St. Zosimus was simply going to have to be patient.

“Llywelyn and Eleanor had a child,” he said. “I do not suppose you heard that, too.”

St. Zosimus nodded. “A girl,” he said. “She was taken to Sempringham Priory. Of course I know that. Everyone knows that. The child is the last of her line, of Welsh royal blood, but she also carries English royal blood. She is the daughter of a prince and the granddaughter of a king and now she is consigned to Sempringham. It is a Gilbertine priory, as I am a Gilbertine as well. I know all of this, my lord, so what did you wish to tell me about it?”

Colm had suffered enough of the man’s dismissive attitude. All he’d done was drink his wine, belch, and wait for him to die. Then he would return to his church and plot his next scheme to gain more money and power. With a last surge of strength, Colm suddenly sat up.

“Listen to me, you idiot,” he said, feeling breathless from his sudden movement. “I am trying to tell you something so important that it will shake England to her very foundation if it is discovered, but I tell you this for a reason, and it is not to give you a history lesson.”