Page 23 of Wolfehound (De Wolfe Pack Generations #11)

O ne thing about meetings with Edward always rubbed Canterbury the wrong way.

He always felt as if he were on the defensive.

In this case, he was. He’d brought the information to Edward about de Wolfe and Llywelyn’s daughter and the whole bloody mess of it, so in a sense, he really was on the defensive.

This was his story, gleaned from that ambitious priest, and now he had to prove it.

Edward wasn’t going to send anyone to confirm the claim—Canterbury had come forth with it, so it was he who needed to substantiate it.

And then Edward would never doubt him again.

In a sense, his credibility was on the line.

Having returned to his quarters at Westminster Cathedral, he’d sent his personal guard away and pushed into his chambers, knowing that Ronec would be there.

And someone else.

But Ronec met him at the door.

“Where is he?” Canterbury demanded as soon as he passed into the dimly lit vestibule. “Did you tell him why I wished to see him?”

Ronec nodded. “I did,” he said, helping Canterbury remove his cloak and tossing it off to a servant. “He’s already been to see St. Zosimus.”

Canterbury glanced at him. “Is the deed done?”

“It is.”

“What did he do with the body?”

“In the river, weighted.”

That was good enough for Canterbury. “Come with me,” he said. “You will want to hear this also.”

Ronec followed. They passed into the next chamber, a larger chamber with chairs and a hearth that was blazing against the cold, damp night. Even so, the room was dark but for the light coming from the hearth, and it took Canterbury a moment to spy the very man he wanted to see, sitting in a corner.

Tyrus le Mon in the flesh.

No one would have ever suspected what the man did for a living.

He was in his fortieth year, a fine example of a handsome man, blond and well groomed and articulate.

He was from the House of le Mon, and the men of the family had a history with William Marshal and his spy ring, a profession Tyrus’s father and grandfather and great-grandfather had served with distinction.

There was no question that Tyrus would follow the same path, and he had, for a while.

He’d performed flawlessly except for one thing.

The man had the inability to show mercy.

With Tyrus, it was all or nothing. If he was told to kill, he killed.

It didn’t matter who it was—man, woman, or child.

He felt no guilt in snuffing out the life of an infant if that’s what was asked of him.

If his target was a woman, he showed no compassion against her fear.

He was, to put it kindly, a killing machine, and that was something not even his fellow Executioner Knights could break him of.

He also had the inability to form relationships or bonds, making camaraderie with him difficult.

Oddly enough, he was mild mannered. He smiled quite a bit.

He enjoyed jokes and had the uncanny ability to appreciate and interpret art in most forms. He was highly educated and his knowledge of horses was unmatched.

But there was nothing deeper or emotional about him.

He was only superficial in his ability to converse or carry on a relationship.

Below that surface were the gates to hell, revealing a tormented and black soul beneath.

It had come to a head when a fellow Executioner Knight ran into difficulty and, rather than help him, Tyrus had gone on to accomplish their task, leaving the man alone to become severely wounded.

He’d been so focused on his orders that he considered anyone else around him, including his allies, collateral damage.

That had drummed him out of the Executioner Knights.

These days, Tyrus worked on his own and had no shortage of jobs to choose from, and the Archbishop of Canterbury was his best customer. Even now, they faced each other in the shadowed room as the archbishop took a seat near the hearth. Ronec stood back against the wall, watching.

Waiting.

It wasn’t long in coming.

“I need your skills, Tyrus,” Canterbury said, holding out his hands to the fire because the cold night had chilled them. “Ronec told me that you took care of the priest.”

Tyrus nodded. “I did, Your Grace,” he said. “It was a simple task.”

Canterbury grunted. “Did Ronec tell you why we had to be rid of him?”

Tyrus nodded. “He did,” he said. “He told me that the man had valuable information that no one else needed to know and there was only one way to ensure his silence.”

“And nothing else?”

“Nay, Your Grace.”

Canterbury sighed sharply, rubbing his hands together quickly before sitting back in his chair and facing le Mon.

“Then listen to me and listen well,” he said, his voice low and tense.

“I have just come from an audience with the king. Forgive me for being abrupt, but I must explain to you the background of this situation before I tell you what I require of you. Most importantly, you must never repeat this story. I must have your word.”

Tyrus nodded. “You have it, Your Grace.”

Canterbury took another deep breath. “Twenty years ago, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd was killed in Wales,” he said.

“The man was considered the last true Welsh prince. He was murdered at the end of many years of battle by Edward’s men.

His brother, Dafydd, and several children were taken prisoner, including Llywelyn’s only child, a daughter, named Gwenllian. Do you understand me so far?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Canterbury said. “It is this daughter that is in question. Not only does she carry the bloodlines of the princes of Wales, but her mother was Eleanor de Montfort. That means her maternal grandfather was Simon de Montfort and her maternal great-grandfather was King John. Her bloodlines are more royal than the very man who sits upon the throne of England at this time, so naturally, she poses a tremendous threat to English rule. It was, therefore, Edward’s order that she be taken to Sempringham Priory in Lincolnshire, where she would be sequestered for the rest of her life.

A nun, unable to procreate, imprisoned within holy walls.

Llywelyn’s bloodlines will die with her. ”

He paused, motioning for wine, and Ronec handed him a cup from a carved sideboard. As Canterbury took a drink, letting it ease his parched throat, Tyrus leaned forward in his chair, his brow furrowed.

“And?” he said. “What about her ?”

Canterbury took another drink before responding.

“We have reason to believe she never made it to Sempringham,” he said.

“The man you disposed of tonight heard a confession from a knight who served under the Earl of Warenton at that time. He was in Wales during the wars and was part of the escort that brought the infant Gwenllian to Lincolnshire—only as he told the story, William de Wolfe switched babies. Gwenllian went to live as the adopted daughter of Carlton de Royans of Folkingham Castle and another child was sent in her place to Sempringham.”

Tyrus was still not much clearer on why he was being told this story. “What do you want me to do, Your Grace?”

“Discover the truth,” Canterbury said simply. “Go to Sempringham and meet this Gwenllian of Wales. Determine if she is the lady in question. If she is not, then go to Folkingham Castle and discover what you can about de Royans’ daughter.”

Tyrus understood the assignment, but pieces were missing. “How am I to know it is her?” he said. “If there is a woman at Sempringham and a woman at Folkingham, how do I know if one or the other is Gwenllian?”

“A clue that came from the priest,” Canterbury said.

“As I mentioned, he heard the confession of a knight who had intimate knowledge of the situation and the knight said that Gwenllian had black hair and blue eyes. My suggestion would be to focus on the physical appearance of the woman at Sempringham. If she has black hair and blue eyes, then mayhap that is the very woman in question. If she is at Sempringham, then we know the knight lied. We know this entire story is a figment of someone’s imagination.

But if she does not bear that coloring, and de Royans’ daughter does, then we know the story is true. ”

“And if it is true?”

Canterbury looked at Ronec, who simply shrugged his shoulders. Silent words passed between them, mostly because Ronec suspected what Canterbury wanted to do. He’d wanted to do it since the first time he heard the story.

And Canterbury always got what he wanted.

“If she is living as a de Royans, then bring her to me,” he said quietly as he returned his attention to Tyrus.

“Do not hurt her. Bring her to me unharmed and I will determine what is to be done with her. Do this and I shall pay you handsomely as well as gift you with a property where you can live out your days if you so choose.”

Tyrus had never been offered a property before. Truthfully, he was rather surprised by that offer, and his gaze moved back and forth between Ronec and Canterbury.

“Does this situation have so much importance to you, Your Grace?” he asked, somewhat incredulous. “So much so that you would offer me property to complete it?”

Canterbury nodded. “It is bigger than all of us,” he said.

“If a black-haired woman is still living with de Royans, I want her. If she is not, and she is married, then track her down. Find out what you can about her and her husband and return to me with the information. But if she is still living at Folkingham… bring her to me. Is that clear?”

Tyrus nodded. “Thy will be done, Your Grace.”

Canterbury simply nodded. Sensing the conversation was concluded, Tyrus rose from the chair he’d been sitting in and headed to the entry door. He was about to open the panel when he heard someone behind him.

“Le Mon,” Ronec said quietly. “Wait a moment.”

Tyrus paused as the tall, dark-haired knight caught up to him. “What is it?” he asked.

“Here,” Ronec said, passing him a purse full of gold and silver coins. “For your journey north. More when you return. And Tyrus… do not utter a word to anyone about this.”

“I told you I wouldn’t.”

“See that you don’t,” Ronec muttered. “Godspeed, lad.”

Tyrus nodded once and pulled the panel open, heading out into the cold, misty complex of Westminster. Ronec shut the door behind him and bolted it, pausing a moment to think on the mission that had been laid out before him.

Bring her to me.

If Gwenllian of Wales really was somewhere other than Sempringham Priory, Ronec knew that Tyrus would find her.

Something told him that the situation was about to get very, very ugly.