Page 17 of Wolfehound (De Wolfe Pack Generations #11)

London, England

“A nd that is the story, Your Grace. That is everything the Lord of the Trilaterals told me about William de Wolfe and Llywelyn’s daughter.”

In the damp, dank cloister of Westminster Abbey that smelled heavily of incense and mold, St. Zosimus was speaking to a white-haired man in a dark robe and scarlet cloak.

He had just relayed the tale that Colm de Lara had told him, the one involving a de Wolfe betrayal and a princess under an assumed identity.

De Lara had died shortly after his confession, and even though it was forbidden for a priest to speak of anything confided in him during confession, St. Zosimus knew this was different.

Very different.

Therefore, he’d ridden like a madman for London, seeking an audience with the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Unfortunately, that was not a quick process.

It had taken him weeks to obtain permission because there was a chain of command within the church that was rigidly adhered to.

Technically, St. Zosimus should have gone to his superior, the Bishop of York, to request the audience, but he’d bypassed the man completely.

He didn’t want to trust this information to anyone else but the man at the top.

That man was Robert Winchelsey. At first, he’d been quite annoyed with St. Zosimus and his persistence, but once he heard the man’s story, he could understand why.

Robert had been the archbishop for several years, a leader of the church who was usually at odds with the king, so when he heard the tale, he was delighted that de Wolfe and de Royans had managed to pull off such a scheme against Edward.

Decades of fighting in Wales had come to one dark moment that would have seen royal Welsh bloodlines tucked away in a priory, but according to Colm de Lara, that hadn’t happened.

Quite the opposite.

The news was revolutionary, but it was also quite valuable. Given Robert’s history with Edward, and the years of contention between them, he immediately thought of how he could leverage the information.

All was fair in the deadly chess game that was England’s politics.

Whatever he decided to do, he had to think fast because St. Zosimus wasn’t going to keep the information to himself for long. Any man who would bypass protocols to go straight to the top was a man who would go to someone else with the same information if Canterbury didn’t give him what he wanted.

And that was the gist of this little audience, he suspected.

St. Zosimus wanted something.

“Shocking,” Canterbury finally said about the situation as it had been explained to him. “And de Lara swore to this?”

St. Zosimus nodded. “He did, Your Grace,” he said. “There was no reason for him to lie. In fact, he seemed quite eager to tell me.”

“Why, I wonder?”

“Guilt.”

Canterbury looked at him curiously. “Why should he feel guilty?”

St. Zosimus shrugged. “For deceiving the king, I suppose,” he said. “I did not ask. All I know is that he was most eager to tell me. Of course, I could not keep this information to myself. I will not be responsible for it.”

Canterbury cocked an eyebrow. “So you would make me responsible?”

St. Zosimus smiled thinly. “With a great post comes great responsibility.”

Canterbury was a man with a finely honed ability to read others, a talent that had gotten him far in life.

The more he listened to St. Zosimus, the more he knew the man wanted whatever advancement this information could get him.

All of this—the audience, the way he had delivered his information, and the generally helpful manner about him—was carefully orchestrated.

It was also sickening.

“Indeed, it does,” Canterbury replied slowly. “You’ve not told anyone else?”

St. Zosimus shook his head. “Nay, Your Grace,” he said. “Only you. My loyalties are to my profession, my fellow priests. I would not share this with anyone else.”

“And you will not from this moment forward,” Canterbury said, his gaze growing hard. “I am the only person you will tell. If you tell anyone else, it will be a violation of your covenant with God. Is that clear?”

St. Zosimus nodded. “I am obedient, Your Grace,” he said. “Very obedient. But I had hoped…”

“Hoped what ?”

St. Zosimus took a deep breath, pretending that it was for courage. “I had hoped to help you with this information, Your Grace,” he said. “If you need a man to talk to about it, or have a need for me to help you in any way, I would be honored to remain by your side.”

Now, St. Zosimus’ ambitions were becoming apparent. He’d veiled them well under the guise of delivering a service to Canterbury in the form of important information, but he couldn’t keep that kind of determination hidden for long.

Canterbury wasn’t stupid.

“You mean that you wish to remain here in London,” he said plainly.

St. Zosimus nodded. “That would be my dream,” he said. “I have spent a good deal of time on the marches. It is a dismal, cold place. I was born in London.”

“You want to come home.”

“I would like to, Your Grace.”

“And?”

“And… what, Your Grace? What do you mean?”

“Where would you like to be sent?”

St. Zosimus looked around the lavish solar of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

In spite of the condition of the cloisters, the archbishop’s apartments were well kept, warm, and appropriately luxurious.

Of course he wanted to be here, in the beating heart of England’s moral pendulum.

He was looking right at the man who played God to kings and lords and peasants alike.

Where would you like to be sent?

His information would come at a price.

And he’d planned it all along.

“I am from the East End of London, Your Grace,” he finally said. “My home was near Aldgate. St. Botolph was where my mother and I worshipped.”

“You want to be sent to St. Botolph?”

“I think so, Your Grace.”

Canterbury didn’t say anything to that. He simply nodded as if pondering the request. After a moment, he stood up and went to a beautifully carved table, coated with a layer of wax to make it shiny, and poured himself a cup of wine from a crystal and pewter decanter.

The cup was rock crystal, the ruby color of the wine showing through.

He put it to his lips and took a drink, not offering anything to St. Zosimus.

He didn’t want to. He stood there a moment, sipping, smacking his lips, and thinking.

“Since this information would be of more interest to the king than to me, why did you tell me?” he finally asked.

St. Zosimus wasn’t sure about the intent of the question. “Because… because it was given to me in confidence, Your Grace,” he said. “I cannot tell the king.”

“And you should not have told me,” Canterbury said, finally looking at him. “You are well aware of the seal of confession.”

St. Zosimus sat a little straighter, perhaps with some apprehension. “Of course I am, Your Grace,” he said. “But this seemed too important… and he did not exactly tell it to me in confession, but rather upon his deathbed. It was more like a conversation.”

Canterbury was hardening right before his eyes. “He told you because you are a priest and he deemed you trustworthy,” he said. “But why he should tell you this information is beyond my powers of comprehension. He should have let the secret die with him, but he did not.”

“Nay, he did not, Your Grace.”

The whole thing seemed to be making Canterbury angry. He stood next to the carved table and drank the entire cup of wine before pouring himself another. All the while, he seemed to be considering the situation, trying to decide what to do about it.

It didn’t take him long.

“Listen to me and listen well,” he finally said. “You are not to repeat the story, not to anyone. If I discover you have, I will excommunicate you myself and then I will have you thrown in the vault. Do you understand me?”

St. Zosimus nodded quickly. “I do, Your Grace.”

“Then get out,” Canterbury said, waving a hand in the direction of the door. “Where are you lodged?”

“I’ve not found lodgings yet, Your Grace.”

“Then go to the cloister and tell them you need a bed, on my request,” Canterbury said. “You will stay there until I send for you.”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

Canterbury waved him off again and St. Zosimus took the hint. He bolted to his feet and quickly fled the chamber, leaving Canterbury still standing with the cup in his hand. When he was certain that the greedy priest from the marches wasn’t going to return, he took another sip of his wine.

“Well?” he said. “Did you hear all of that?”

The room was surrounded with tapestries on the walls and alcoves covered by heavy curtains, dusty things that kept the chamber warm in the brutal winters of London.

On the left side of the room, one of the curtains flipped back and a big man with a sword strapped to his thigh appeared.

He was tall and handsome, with dark hair and hazel eyes.

He fixed on Canterbury, an almost amused smile on his face.

“I did, Your Grace,” he said. “I must say that is not what I was expecting.”

Canterbury grunted. “Nor I,” he said, moving to reclaim his chair.

“I do not know what I expected, but that priest has been trying to gain an audience with me for three weeks. I assumed that whatever he wished to discuss was something of local corruption or complaining about his lodgings or profession. God only knows what I thought. But hearing what came out of his mouth… Nay, I did not expect that.”

“Seems fantastic.”

Canterbury looked at him. “Do you think it is true?” he said. “You knew William de Wolfe, Ronec. Your family is allied with the entire de Wolfe empire.”

Sir Ronec de Nerra nodded. “There is a collection of us who have been allied with one another for centuries,” he said.

“A tight band of allies—de Lohr, de Wolfe, de Shera, de Lara and the like. Most of the families came over with the Duke of Normandy, ancestors who formed a band of knights called the anges de guerre , men who forged this nation.”