Page 34 of Wolfehound (De Wolfe Pack Generations #11)

That came as a distinct shock to Tyrus, a man who was, by nature, unshockable.

The House of de Lohr was in charge of the Executioner Knights, and there were many family members spread out on the Welsh marches as well as Kent and Yorkshire.

Clearly, she came from one of those extended branches.

Tyrus was on a first-name basis with the Hereford and Worcester de Lohrs but not necessarily on good terms, so he didn’t acknowledge that he knew anything about the House of de Lohr.

He wasn’t here about that, anyway.

“So the man who brought her was a de Wolfe,” he said. “Patrick de Wolfe?”

She nodded. “Aye,” she said. “His brother was with him, but he did not introduce himself. It was I who took young Wentliane from them, on the king’s order. The child was in distress, cold and hungry, and I took her straight away and fed her. She has been here ever since.”

“Do you know who she is?”

Again, the woman nodded. “I do,” she said quietly. “She is the daughter of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd. She is a prisoner of war.”

“She is a princess,” Tyrus muttered. “Does she know who she is?”

“She does. She has been told.”

“Then why does she call herself Wentliane? Her name is Gwenllian.”

Mother Cecelia shrugged. “Because she has always called herself Wentliane,” she said. “When she was first brought here, she could speak a little and called herself Wentliane. However, she is aware of her real name. She simply does not use it. I do not know why.”

It all seemed quite odd to Tyrus. He’d been told that Gwenllian had been brought as an infant to the priory. There was no mention of her being able to speak.

“You mentioned that she could speak a little,” he said. “Was it Welsh?”

“It was not.”

Tyrus looked at the woman as if she’d just said something quite puzzling, because to him, she had. A Welsh child speaking, but not speaking in her native tongue?

The mystery deepened.

“Bring her to me,” he said quietly. “Let me assess her condition for myself.”

That wasn’t an unusual request when it came to Wentliane.

There had been men sent from the king in the past to see to her welfare because of who she was, but this was the first time the Archbishop of Canterbury had sent someone.

The mother prioress stood up from the table and went to the door again, the one she’d used before.

After a few moments, she called to someone outside and waved them over.

Wentliane returned.

She came back in again, both concerned and reluctant, once again wiping her hands on her dirty apron. It was covered with dirt, clear evidence that the woman had been working in the gardens, and she sat down across from Tyrus when the mother prioress told her to.

Anxiously, she faced him.

“I am Sir Tyrus,” he began calmly. “I have been sent by the Archbishop of Canterbury. His grace wishes to ensure you are in good health and require nothing to make your stay here more comfortable.”

Wentliane was confused, uncomfortable. She looked to the mother prioress as if unwilling to answer a simple question.

The mother prioress had to encourage her with a nod of the head, and even then, Wentliane didn’t seem to quite understand what was required of her, as if the mere presence of the knight, a man , was turning her world on its end.

It was clear that she’d not been educated in the art of social graces, of any kind, because she looked like a cornered animal.

“Why… why should the archbishop ask about me?” she said, her voice trembling. “I do not know him.”

Tyrus sat forward, his forearms on the tabletop. “Because of your heritage,” he said. “You are the Welsh princess and he is concerned for your well-being.”

That seemed to startle her. She looked at the mother prioress again, distressed, but the old woman put a hand on her shoulder to ease her.

“All is well, Wentliane,” she said quietly. “You may answer his questions.”

Wentliane’s breathing began to grow more rapid as fear set in. “I am well,” she said. “I work and I pray and I do as God wishes.”

Tyrus nodded. “That is good,” he said. “But you do know that you are different from the other nuns because of your background.”

Wentliane blinked at him. That was her response. She was so frightened that she could hardly do anything else. Tyrus could see that, but rather than show compassion, which he could not, he had to try a tactic to calm the woman down purely because he would get nothing out of her if she didn’t.

And he had questions.

“Wentliane,” he said, softening his speech. “May I call you Wentliane? Or should I address you as sister?”

“Wentliane will do,” the mother prioress said.

Tyrus nodded his thanks and continued. “You do understand where you were born, do you not?”

Wentliane just sat there, looking at him fearfully. “May I return to my duties, please?” she said, the trembling in her voice worsening. “I am preparing vegetables for tonight’s meal. I must return.”

“And you shall,” Tyrus said. “But there are questions I must ask you before I go. The sooner you answer them, the sooner you may return. Crying and distress will not force me to relent, so you would do better to obey me. Do you understand?”

That only made her more afraid, but she nodded quickly, her eyes wide. “I… I understand,” she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and smearing dirt on her cheek. “But I do not understand why you are here.”

“I am here to see to your welfare,” Tyrus said, although he’d already told her that. “You are a woman of royal blood, a cousin to the king, and there is concern for your health.”

Wentliane took a couple of deep breaths, struggling to calm herself. If she answered his questions, she could go. He’d said so.

“What do you want to know?” she asked. “I am well. I have been well.”

“Good,” Tyrus said. “Tell me what you remember from the time when you came to Sempringham. What is your earliest memory?”

He shifted the subject, but he’d done it for a reason. This woman didn’t match the description he’d been given, so he wanted to know what she remembered, if she could even possibly remember, given how young she was. Realizing that, he shifted his attention to the mother prioress.

“You remember when she came here,” he said. “You said she was brought by someone bearing a de Wolfe standard.”

The mother prioress nodded. “Indeed,” she said. “I remember it well.”

“You said she spoke when she came here,” he said. “How old do you think she was?”

The mother prioress and Wentliane looked at one another as if they could help each other remember. “She was speaking words, so she had seen at least two years,” the mother prioress said. “She could say words like ‘milk’ and ‘mama.’”

Tyrus looked at the young nun. “Do you remember your mama?”

For the first time since sitting down, Wentliane didn’t look so frightened. Having the mother prioress next to her helped, but Tyrus’s question had her thinking, going back in the mists of her memory to her very earliest recollections.

“I think so,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I remember an apron. A woman with an apron. When you are small, things like aprons are right in front of your face because you are short, so aprons and knees… they are right in front of your eyes. I also remember other children. Many other children.”

“Who were they?” Tyrus asked.

Wentliane shook her head. “I do not know,” she said. “In truth, I do not know if I dreamed them or if I remember them. It was so long ago. I think they were brothers and sisters.”

“What else do you remember about them?”

Wentliane shrugged. “I am not certain,” she said.

“A big table. Many people around it. I remember sitting in dirt and I think I was pulling on carrots. As I said, I do not know if I dreamed the memories or if they are actual recollections. But I feel as if my mother loved me. And then I came here. I have memories of a fishpond here, and I liked to watch the fish.”

The mother prioress smiled, displaying her yellowed teeth. “We do have a fishpond and I fished you out of it many times,” she said, watching Wentliane grin. “You liked to get into the pond with the fish.”

As the two of them shared a humorous memory, Tyrus found himself fixing on what the young woman had said.

I feel as if my mother loved me. According to Canterbury, Gwenllian of Wales never knew her mother.

The woman had died in childbirth. So many things weren’t making sense.

Tyrus had come to investigate whether or not Gwenllian was actually at Sempringham Priory, and he could now say, with a strong degree of certainty, that the woman before him wasn’t the Welsh princess. Too many things were off.

“One more question,” he said, looking at the mother prioress. “This may sound like an odd question, but I am serious when I ask it. When Wentliane came to Sempringham, did she have black hair?”

The mother prioress immediately shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “It was dark brown, but it lightened over the years. It has red in it now also.”

“You can confirm that it was never black.”

“Nay, never. Why?”

Tyrus shook his head. “No particular reason,” he said. “Something I’d heard once, but I must have been mistaken. I will not take up any more of your time. I am satisfied that the princess is healthy and content.”

“She is,” the mother prioress said. “You will report back to the archbishop?”

Tyrus stood up from the table, nodding his head. “I will,” he said. “I believe he will want to send more money to help support Wentliane, but I will tell him that you have done a fine job of it.”

The mother prioress stood up, Wentliane next to her. “I am grateful,” she said. “May I send Wentliane back to her duties now?”

“Aye.”

The young woman fled, out into the garden where the vegetables weren’t nearly as frightening as a big knight. When she was gone and Tyrus was turning for the door, the mother prioress caught up with him.

“Is something amiss?” she said seriously. “You asked her many questions about her early memories. Has something happened?”

Tyrus shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “It was conversation and nothing more. And also to confirm that she was the child brought here by the de Wolfe men.”

“She is,” the mother prioress confirmed. “I assure you, she is.”

“And I shall inform the archbishop,” Tyrus said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

The mother prioress simply nodded. She walked with him in silence back into the church, pausing at the door as he continued on, heading outside to collect his horse. The last vision Tyrus had of the old woman was of her lifting a hand to him in farewell.

He lifted a hand in return.

But, as sure as he knew that he was alive and breathing, he knew she’d been duped.

The entire priory had been duped, and the king included, into thinking the woman known as Wentliane was, in fact, Gwenllian of Wales.

Tyrus was willing to stake his life on the fact that she was not.

That meant his next stop was Folkingham Castle.

He had a feeling the truth was waiting for him there.

God help de Wolfe if that was the case.

God help them all.