Page 33 of Wolfehound (De Wolfe Pack Generations #11)

Sempringham Priory

H e’d made it.

After his unfinished business in London had taken him longer than expected, Tyrus had finally departed and headed north, but not without several stops along the way.

There were two Gilbertine priories between London and Lincolnshire and he stopped at each one.

Not because he was religious, but because he wanted to get a feel for what they knew about Sempringham, about the prior and the history in general.

He found out a good deal more than he bargained for, all of which would help him in the days to come.

This latest task from Canterbury had the distinction of actually being interesting to him.

Usually, a task was a task. He took no pleasure or distaste in it.

But this one had his curiosity because he, too, wanted to know if William de Wolfe had actually hidden a Welsh princess from the king.

He was a fine investigator, one of his many talents.

He was going to get to the bottom of it.

Tyrus arrived in the late afternoon, to a priory, grounds, and cemetery that seemed to be far from any civilization.

The nearest town that he rode through was miles to the south.

He didn’t know what was east or west or north, because he’d come up from London, but he knew that this location was remote.

Desolate, even.

It wasn’t as if those pledged to the church didn’t already have hermit tendencies, but this place seemed to emphasize that.

It sat on a grassy plain, with no hills or landmarks nearby.

The cold wind blew in from the east, moving the grass in waves as it went.

Overhead, clouds had rolled in and the threat of rain was prevalent in the air.

Ahead of him, he could see a gray-stoned structure rising out of the flatlands, with a pitched roof and a steeple that reached for the sky.

This particular location was the Gilbertine monastic house that had the distinction of having both nuns and canons.

In speaking to the other priories on his way north, Tyrus had learned that.

He’d also learned it had a history of changing hands, of attacks by Northmen, and other unsavory actions.

Upon visual inspection, the church itself was nothing unusual and he’d seen more spectacular buildings, but it was large and there were clusters of structures to the north of it as well as smaller structures to the southeast.

As he drew closer, he could see the livestock area as well as the garden, which was extensive.

The entire thing was encircled by stone walls and wooden fences, designed to keep the livestock in and any predators out.

But it had an unwelcome feel about it and he was fairly certain that a lone rider would be viewed with suspicion, especially since he wasn’t a priest. However, he was a knight and his vocation was sworn to the church, and he also bore a missive from the Archbishop of Canterbury explaining to the prior that he must be allowed to interview the nun who bore the name of Gwenllian of Wales.

His presence there was simply an inquiry into the health and welfare of the royal hostage and he didn’t anticipate any refusal.

Still, he proceeded carefully. People of the church, and particularly those who lived in isolated areas like this, tended to be skittish and he didn’t want to frighten anybody because, in the end, it would only be more difficult for him to complete his task.

As he wound his way through a couple of garden gates, he could see people working a large vegetable garden.

There were several of them. They all stopped when they saw him pass through, staring at him as if he were an object of fascination.

But Tyrus ignored them, heading for the church itself because that was the most public space in the entire complex.

A visitor would be expected to go there first.

He had a man to find.

After tethering his horse outside the church, he entered the dark, cool structure that smelled heavily of animal habitation.

It smelled like a barn. As he walked slowly into the bowels of the place, he could see that straw was strewn all over the dirt floor.

The ceiling overhead was arched, with big wooden beams, strangely elaborate in so remote a place.

His boots thumped on the ground as he made his way to the front, all the while looking for someone to speak to.

The church had been empty so far. Once he reached the altar, he continued around it and ended up at a door that led out into the cloister.

He wasn’t sure if it was the male or female cloister, so he took a timid step out into the dirt only to be met by a woman in worn woolen robes.

“Stop,” she said firmly. “Who are you? What is your business here?”

Tyrus came to a halt, turning to see the older woman as she came around the corner of the church. “My name is le Mon,” he said. “I am looking for the prior. I come with a message from the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

That seemed to bring the woman pause. She was older, with plump, unusually smooth skin and no eyebrows. She eyed Tyrus suspiciously.

“Canterbury?” she repeated. “What use does he have for us?”

“A great deal,” Tyrus said. “I am instructed to find the prior or the prioress and deliver the missive.”

The woman looked him up and down a few times. She visually inspected the tunic he wore, the scarlet of Canterbury, and she inspected the sword at his side, the boots at his feet.

“Why send a knight?” she finally asked. “Why not simply a messenger?”

“Because this missive is important.”

“Why?”

“Take me to the prioress so that she may discover that for herself.”

The woman didn’t reply right away. She was still looking him over, trying to determine if he was telling her the truth.

“Show me the missive,” she finally said. “Show me the seal.”

He had it in his left hand, the one under his cloak that she couldn’t see.

He tossed his cloak back and lifted his hand, holding the seal out so she could see it.

She took a couple of suspicious steps in his direction, peering at the seal.

It took her several moments before her suspicion turned to concern.

“Come with me,” she said.

She was motioning for him to follow, and he did.

They headed toward the collection of buildings to the north, long dormitory buildings and a few smaller ones.

They were all connected by stone walkways, one to the other.

Tyrus followed the woman into one of the smaller buildings where there was what seemed to be a common room of sorts and two smaller chambers.

She went into the common room, where there were neatly scrubbed tables, and indicated for him to sit.

She sat opposite him and extended her hand.

“I am Mother Cecelia,” she said quietly. “Give me my missive.”

He wasn’t going to take her word for it. “Send for another nun.”

“Why?”

“Do it or no missive.”

She frowned, peeved, and got up from the table.

He watched her walk to a door facing east, with sunlight streaming in through it, and stick her head out, shouting to someone nearby.

In little time, a woman entered, wiping her dirty hands off on her apron as Mother Cecelia pulled her over to the table to face Tyrus.

“There,” Mother Cecelia said. “Here is another one. What do you want with her?”

Tyrus looked at the woman. She was young, with light brown hair peeking out from underneath her wimpled head, a sweaty face, and dark hazel eyes.

“What is your name, woman?” he asked.

The woman looked at Mother Cecelia fearfully before answering. “Wentliane, my lord.”

Tyrus pointed at Mother Cecelia. “Who is this woman?”

Confused, the young nun looked at the older woman. “She… she is the mother prioress, my lord.”

Tyrus nodded. “Good enough,” he said. “Return to your duties.”

As the young woman fled, Mother Cecelia resumed her seat and extended her hand once more.

“May I have my missive now?” she asked.

He handed it over. “You must understand that I had to make certain,” he said. “I meant no disrespect.”

She grunted, a doubtful expression, as she broke the seal.

Knowing what the missive contained, Tyrus simply sat there peacefully until she’d read it twice.

Slowly, in fact. It took the woman at least ten minutes to read it twice, and by the time she was finished, she simply set the missive down and nodded her head.

“You have already met her,” she said. “Wentliane is that woman. The one you asked to verify my identity.”

Brown hair, brown eyes, fair-faced . That wasn’t the description Canterbury had given him about Llywelyn’s daughter. That was the very first thing he was to look for—her physical description—and the woman he’d seen certainly didn’t fit it. That brought him to a bit of a quandary.

“Mother Cecelia, may I ask you a question about her?” he said.

The prioress nodded. “Proceed.”

“Were you here when she arrived?”

“I was.”

“Did you see who brought her?”

“I did.”

“Was it Berwick?”

The woman nodded her head. “He identified himself as Patrick de Wolfe,” she said. “I may live at the ends of the earth, my lord, but I do know a de Wolfe banner. I had seen it before.”

“How?”

She shrugged. “We’ve had armies move through here before,” she said.

“I have seen de Wolfe and de Winter and du Reims and others. There is also the fact that I did not become a nun until I was a grown woman. Before that, I lived at home, in Derbyshire. My father was a warlord. I knew the men he associated with.”

“Who is your father?”

“He is a de Lohr.”