WolfeBite (De Wolfe Pack Generations #10)

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Woodstock Palace

“D o not leave, Christy, please. Stay and talk to me.”

It was a soft plea, a tender plea, and one that had Lady Christelle de Lorrain pausing at the door to the queen’s chamber. The plea had, in fact, come from Phillipa as she sat in her bed, surrounded by furs and silks, resplendent as a queen should be, but there was one problem.

She didn’t like to be alone.

Christelle smiled.

“Lonely, your grace?” she said. “Truly, you should be used to sleeping alone by now. Your husband has been gone several days.”

Phillipa frowned. A slight young woman with long, dark hair and big brown eyes, she was a petite, pretty woman. She had seen seventeen summers, the same as her husband, and there was a grace and maturity about her that well exceeded her chronological age. But physically, she still looked childlike, young and innocent and slight, and sometimes that immaturity bled over into her manner like it did tonight.

“He goes hunting and I am left alone,” she said, standing up from the bed. Dressed in an elaborate robe of red silk, she moved to the polished bronze mirror to inspect her reflection. “Mayhap it is because he does not wish to stay here with me. Mayhap he thinks I am too fat!”

She emphasized her statement by pulling the robe tight to reveal a very small belly bulge. It was hardly noticeable. Christelle fought off a smirk as she came away from the door and back into the chamber.

“You know he is so proud of your coming child that he is about to burst,” she said. “And he went hunting because he enjoys it and for no other reason than that. This hunt has been planned for some time.”

Phillipa rubbed the tiny bump. “He told me I could not come.”

“Do you truly want to go in your condition, your grace?”

Phillipa turned to Christelle, brow furrowed. “I can ride a horse, still,” she said with some indignance. “I did not want to hunt. I simply wanted to go with him.”

With that, she turned away from the mirror, hurt and lonely. Christelle wasn’t unsympathetic, but the truth was that her role as la protecteur de la reine had become something more than simple protection. Somewhere over the past year, she’d become the big sister and Mother Confessor as well, nurturing the young queen through some of the most difficult days of her life.

That was something Christelle had not been taught at Blackchurch.

As she watched Phillipa head back to her bed, Christelle knew that there wasn’t anything more she could say or do to give the young woman comfort. She’d learned that long ago. Phillipa was very attached to her husband, a young man who was finally coming into his own as a king but also as a man. He had a good head on his shoulders. The truth was that Phillipa and Edward had practically grown up together because they had been betrothed at such a young age. Even though the marriage had been by proxy, Phillipa had come to the shores of England shortly thereafter so she and her new husband could grow to at least like one another.

Phillipa’s father had hoped for that, at the very least.

The truth was that her father, a powerful count, had been so desperate for his daughter to become a queen that he had agreed to a marriage that put his daughter in a good deal of danger. It wasn’t any secret that Edward’s mother, Isabella, permitted her lover to rule England in her son’s stead. The excuse had always been that Edward was too young to rule as king and, therefore, Isabella and Roger Mortimer were forced to be the lad’s regents. Mortimer’s involvement in the Crown of England had long roots, starting back in the days of Isabella’s husband, Edward II, when Edward and the Despensers practically ruled England as a trio and Isabella was demeaned and humiliated by her husband’s actions, including the terrible act of having her own children taken away.

To Isabella, Roger Mortimer had been a godsend.

The entire situation of Edward, Isabella’s husband, and Edward, Isabella’s son, was incredibly complicated. Christelle was all too aware of it because before she returned to England to attend Phillipa, she had been schooled in the situation by French courtiers, who understood the circumstances as well as an Englishman could. The French, too, had been involved in the situation because Isabella was French.

And so was Christelle’s family.

La Maison Lorrain.

A very powerful house that would like nothing more than to see the collapse of the English Crown.

Therefore, Christelle’s presence at Phillipa’s side was complicated as well. She had the mission that Phillipa and young Edward knew about, as an attendant and protector. She also had a mission they didn’t know about. She had been specially trained, by her own father and his allies, as a spy of the most nuanced kind. Christelle was always meant to be a weapon.

That was the mission Phillipa didn’t know about.

Not until the time was right.

“It would not have been enjoyable for you to go on a hunt, your grace,” Christelle said after a moment, watching Phillipa pace. “It would have been cold and uncomfortable, and a lady in your delicate condition requires warmth and a soft bed to sleep in. Your husband will be home soon enough, I promise.”

Phillipa shrugged. “I suppose,” she said. Then she came to a halt and sighed sharply. “I cannot sleep, Christy. Will you read to me?”

Christelle nodded. “Of course, your grace,” she said. “What is your wish?”

“Anything.”

That meant any one of the manuscripts and books Phillipa proudly collected. She had hundreds of them, most of them left behind at her childhood home, but her most valuable ones had made it to England and were neatly stacked on shelves far away from the window and far away from the hearth. As Phillipa explained, the heat or the cold affected the vellum and the leather, so they were kept away from everything.

Christelle was well acquainted with the books because she often read aloud to Phillipa, who would gaze from the windows and daydream about the world that was being spun through Christelle’s words. Her favorite stories were those of romance, but she also loved myths and religious stories. Christelle was thinking about continuing a book about ancient Welsh legends, written in Latin that had been translated from oral stories about three hundred years earlier, when she passed by the large window that overlooked the ward of Woodstock Palace. A cold breeze caught her attention, so she paused to close the oilcloth windows.

Woodstock Palace was really nothing more than a large manor house with a big bailey and an enormous wall with a central gatehouse. The manor house, however, had two entrances—one for the king’s set of chambers and another for the queen’s. Both monarchs had their own halls, antechambers, bedchambers, privies, and the like, so it was like two households in one structure. Christelle was used to seeing people going into the king’s hall, with an enormous flight of stairs leading up to it, but tonight everything was still and quiet. It had been ever since Edward went away to hunt. She was about to close the curtains for the night when she saw figures coming in through the gatehouse, dark shapes on horseback that were moving for the manor.

Curious, Christelle looked around to see if she could spot any of the royal guards that roamed the grounds and walls of Woodstock, but she didn’t see anyone. Not a soul. More than that, the usual torches weren’t lit on the walls or at the gatehouse, and as she watched, the four men approached the entrance to the queen’s hall, which was usually well guarded. Given the fact that she didn’t see any guards about the grounds, however, she was coming to wonder where all of the guards had gone. Perhaps purposely gone. When the shadows down in the bailey dismounted their horses and unsheathed their swords, realization hit her.

A lone queen… her king away on a hunting trip… would be a perfect target for enemies.

Damn!

Swiftly, she moved away from the window.

“Quickly,” she said to Phillipa. “Douse the lights. Hurry!”

Startled by the tone of Christelle’s voice, Phillipa slid off the bed and hurriedly doused the taper next to the bed.

“Why?” she asked fearfully. “Whatever is the matter?”

Christelle grasped the woman by the hand and quickly pulled her from her bedchamber and into the privy chamber. It was a chamber full of wardrobes, a tub, and other things for the queen’s toilette, but it also contained a hidden chamber for moments just like this. Tucked in behind one of the wardrobes was a panel that opened. Christelle rushed for it and hit the secret lever that swung the door open.

“Get inside,” she whispered urgently. “Bolt the door and do not come out until I tell you to.”

Phillipa was terrified but did as she was told. The panel shut and Christelle heard the bolt thrown. Only then did she swing into action.

Her things were in what was called the queen’s withdrawing chamber, but it was simply a chamber where Christelle slept behind a painted wooden screen, a chamber that guarded the door to the queen’s bedchamber. Anyone wanting to get to the queen had to pass by Christelle first, so she rushed into the chamber and grabbed her sword and a club she had tucked under her bed. It was all she had time for. After quickly fastening the scabbard around her hips, she shoved the sword into its sheath and picked up the club, heading for the queen’s hall and the antechamber that was next to it. If anyone came into the hall, they’d have to enter the antechamber before they were able to move any further into the palace.

And she was going to be waiting for them.

Truthfully, Christelle didn’t even know if the door to the queen’s hall was locked. The servants usually bolted it after dark, but sometimes the guards moved in and out, so she couldn’t be sure it was bolted. As she rushed into the antechamber and sank back into the shadows, she listened for the hall door to open. It was still and dark in the queen’s hall, and the antechamber, so the only sound she eventually heard was that of the entry door opening. Her heart sank when she realized it hadn’t been bolted yet for the night.

Footsteps.

Heavy footsteps.

The men were in the hall.

Sneaking up to the door to the antechamber, Christelle positioned herself well.

And then, she waited.

*

“Where is everyone?” Stephen wondered, looking around the darkened bailey. “I do not even see the sentries, who should be on duty.”

Tate and Leonidas dismounted their steeds, looking around too. “There were men at the gatehouse,” Tate said. “But it does seem oddly quiet.”

Leonidas removed his helm and propped it on his saddle. “Are the king and queen even here?” he asked. “Did they move to another residence?”

“Where?” Tate said, looking at him. “There are no royal residences nearby, unless you want to include that hunting lodge about a day’s ride to the west.”

Leonidas just stood there, looking around, wondering why everything felt so strange. “I do not like this,” he said after a moment. “The sooner we find Edward and Phillipa, the better.”

Kenneth, who had pulled his horse next to Leonidas, slid off his saddle. “What’s wrong, Leo?”

Leonidas shook his head. “I do not know,” he said. “But Tate is right—it seems oddly quiet.”

The realization of stone-cold surroundings seemed to put them all on heightened alert. Leonidas was the first one to draw his broadsword, quickly followed by the others. He pointed toward the queen’s hall because that was a small, less-traveled entry point, and Stephen took the lead. He was the tallest out of the four of them, at least a head taller than those around him, and he was also the one who usually insisted on being on point. He’d take the lead and open the way, letting Leonidas and Tate and Kenneth take on the heavy fighting. Heading right for the door, he tried the latch to see that it was unlocked. Silently, he lifted his hand to the others, telling them to be prepared, as he opened the panel and stepped through.

Whack!

Because Stephen was so tall, the weapon flying at him in the darkness hit him in the throat rather than the face or the head, which was where it was probably aimed. Startled by the blow, and very nearly choking on the impact, he stumbled sideways as Tate charged in, pushing Stephen aside as the man fell to his knees. But Tate immediately took a blow to his left wrist and hand, not enough to crush but certain enough to hurt like the blazes. He faltered as a result, and the figure in the darkness with the club rushed toward the rear of the hall, back into the shadows, as Leonidas and Kenneth entered. As Kenneth went to make sure Stephen wasn’t choking to death, Leonidas fanned out into the corner near the door, watching the hall closely, as Tate shook out the stinging in his hand.

“Whoever you are, we will find you,” Leonidas said loudly. “Surrender now and we may show mercy.”

There was no answer. Motioning to Tate and Kenneth, and even Stephen now that the man could at least catch his breath, Leonidas and the knights began to move in a line, from one end of the hall to the other, sweeping forward in slow, methodical steps. Swords were leveled defensively because it was very dark and the queen’s hall was somewhat elaborate. There were several opportunities to hide behind chairs or even a great curtain that was draped at the far end, concealing the door to the next chamber. They were halfway across the hall when the shadow suddenly appeared again and something went flying out at them.

Whatever it was happened to be metal. It flew into the hall, clipped a chair, and ricocheted right into Leonidas’ head. He saw stars as a metal cup, a heavy one, hit him in in the forehead, and he staggered as he came to a halt. But the pause was only momentary. When he realized the cup had cut him, his fury took over.

He charged.

The figure was trying to make it to the door behind the curtain, but Leonidas was on them. The figure was armed and a sword came out, though it was low, at about Leonidas’ hip. Because it was so dark, he almost saw it too late, but he caught the movement and was able to lower his sword to deflect it. Tate, Kenneth, and Stephen were right behind him and managed to chase the figure away from the door and into a small alcove used by servants.

That was when things really started to fly.

The figure began to throw anything and everything at them—cups, bowls, and cutlery. A spoon nearly put Kenneth’s eye out. Leonidas, in the lead, had his arm up, deflecting the flying dinnerware, but he crowded the figure too much and ended up being kicked in the knee. In fact, feet were flying at him and he caught kicks in the thigh and lower belly as well, but he managed to grab the foot and yank, trying to pull the figure out of the shadows. It didn’t work immediately because whoever it was put up a hell of a fight. Tate tried to help him and got kicked in the face for his efforts. Enraged, Leonidas grabbed whatever he could on the figure and pulled as hard as he could, sending the person onto the ground. Then he managed to get a hold of the head, which had masses of long hair that he painfully wound his hand into.

The sword that the figure was holding clattered to the ground.

“You’ll never find what you are looking for, you bastards,” the figure grunted. “The guards will kill you when they realize you are here!”

Leonidas suddenly came to a halt. He recognized that voice. He’d heard it over the past year as he’d kept guard over the young king and queen and, very quickly, he realized who was within his grasp.

“Lady Christelle?” he said, incredulous.

It was so dark that no one could see much of anything and certainly not enough for identification, but the figure in his arms slowed her struggles.

“Christelle?” Leonidas said again. “Is it you?”

There was hesitation. “Who is it?” she demanded.

Leonidas’ suspicion was confirmed and he immediately released her. As Christelle fell to the ground, he put a hand to his bloodied forehead.

“It is de Wolfe,” he said, unhappy with all of the wetness he was feeling. “I’m with de Lara and Pembury and St. Hever.”

Christelle scrambled to her feet. “Leonidas?” she gasped. “But… what are you doing here? What are you all doing here? You are supposed to be in London.”

The knights made their way out of the alcove and Kenneth managed to find a taper, using flint and stone to light it. A soft, warm glow emerged, making faces clear.

Leonidas still had his hand against his forehead. “We were in London,” he said, irritated. “Now, we are here. Where are all of the guards? Why is this place so dark and empty?”

Christelle peered at him in the dim light. “You know the guards,” she said, pulling his hand away to get a look at his forehead. “They are lazy when Edward is not here. They’re probably all in the troop house, drinking and gambling.”

Leonidas snorted unhappily. “I am not surprised.”

“You had better let me tend your wound.”

He scowled at her. “You’d better tend it,” he said, jabbing a finger at the rest of them. “And Stephen’s throat. And Ken’s eye. And Tate’s face. You probably broke the man’s nose with that kick.”

Christelle looked at the four knights she’d managed to wound. Four of the most powerful knights in the realm and men she’d been acquainted with for the past year. Not friendly with, but acquainted with. They mostly served Edward and she exclusively served Phillipa, so their paths were parallel rather than crossing.

With Leonidas, sometimes she wished they would cross.

It was true that she was here on a mission, and that mission was only regarding the queen. It did not involve English knights or warlords or any number of people that Edward sometimes surrounded himself with. Though she did keep an ear to what the king was doing, and what was being said, she never got involved. That wasn’t her place. Nor was it her place to particularly interact with the knights.

But that didn’t stop her from thinking one, in particular, was rather comely.

All of the de Wolfes were. Or, at least, that was what she’d heard. Leonidas de Wolfe was the eldest son of Edward de Wolfe, a man who had been Henry III’s chief diplomat. He’d served Edward I in the same capacity, but Edward’s son, Edward II, had relegated de Wolfe to the background in favor of his most cherished companions, the Despensers. If anyone should take issue with the Despenser father and son, it would be Edward de Wolfe. An experienced and well-loved diplomat, he’d not been treated well by the former king. But Leonidas’ devotion to Edward III had shown no animosity or reserve. Leonidas de Wolfe, according to some, was the most powerful and clever knight of his generation. He did his grandfather’s legacy proud.

Christelle thought he was all those things and more.

But she’d never let him know it.

As Kenneth and Stephen, nursing a sore neck, went to harass the sentries who had shirked their guard duties, Christelle took Leonidas and Tate into the queen’s antechamber and released Phillipa from the concealed room. As Phillipa fussed over Tate and his slightly bloodied nose, Christelle forced Leonidas to sit down on a cushioned bench so she could take a look at the cut on his forehead. The man was so tall that even sitting down, his forehead was about at her eye level. The wound had bled a lot, so the man had blood all over him, and as he tried to clean up his hands with a wet rag, Christelle inspected the cut she’d given him.

“I think you will need a stitch or two,” she finally said, taking the rag out of his hand as he was in the middle of wiping. “But I must stop the bleeding first.”

He frowned that she’d taken his rag and pressed it against his forehead. She pushed so hard that she pushed his head backward, irritated when he didn’t hold steady.

“Do not move so much,” she told him.

He rolled his eyes. “I would not move at all if you did not push so hard,” he said. “Stop using your brute strength on me.”

She grunted. “You’ll know when I use my brute strength on you,” she said. “I would do more than push your head backward.”

“I’ve seen your brute strength. It tried to take my head off with a bowl.”

He was referring to the cut, and Christelle fought off a grin. “You complain much.”

“You give me much to complain about.”

“I imagine you were an annoying child.”

“I was the perfect child.”

Christelle simply shook her head, putting her hand against the back of his skull while she pushed the rag against the cut at the same time to help hold his head still.

“There, darling,” she said with mock sweetness. “Is that better?”

He eyed her. “Careful, love,” he muttered. “Next time, I may not be so forgiving if you throw a bowl at me.”

“Next time, don’t sneak in like an assassin.”

“Next time, I will catch you, string you up by your thumbs, and beat you like the incorrigible child you are.”

She peeled back her lips to display a very fake, and quite sassy, smile. He did the same thing, and it looked as if they were baring their teeth at each other. Christelle was forced to turn away lest he see her smile, because he really was annoyed with her and she found it hilarious. And charming.

Damn the man!

“Here,” she said, slapping the bloodied rag back into his hand. “Hold this against your forehead. I must collect the needle and thread.”

He put the cloth against the wound. “Find a color that blends in with my skin,” he said. “No need to flash around your handiwork.”

Christelle cocked an unhappy eyebrow at him as she went to find what she needed and Leonidas watched her go. That fiery woman who wasn’t afraid to stand up to him, taunt him, and generally annoy him.

That beautiful little minx.

Stop thinking like that, you fool .

He was a fool—a stupid, idiotic fool—to let thoughts like that into his head, but when Christelle was around, he couldn’t help it. It was her appearance that first caught his attention; she was a stunningly beautiful woman with long spirals of auburn hair, rather wild at times, and a face that would make any man take a second look. She had a square jaw, pert nose, eyes the color of the sea, and a smile that was brighter than anything he’d ever seen. A very rare smile, if he thought on it. The woman was tough and focused, not leaning into her femininity like most women did, but rather more toward the life of vigilance and the training that she’d endured. If she brushed her hair once in a while or wore something other than breeches and a broadcloth surcoat over them, she could outshine the sun.

Or so he thought.

But he’d die before he’d say such a thing.

A timid privy chamber servant joined them, an older woman who had heard all of the fighting and yelling, and she went running for hot water and other items at the queen’s request. Meanwhile, Phillipa made a poultice for Tate to hold on his nose as Christelle gathered her lady’s sewing kit and some wine, returning to Leonidas, who was trying not to look at her. He had the rag still pressed against his forehead, but his focus was on Tate as Phillipa tried to help the man.

Christelle pulled the rag out of his hand and set it aside.

“Here,” she said, handing him a cup with some wine in it. “Drink this while I do this. I’ll be quick.”

He drained the cup and set it down. “Have you done this kind of thing before?”

“I have.”

“Did they live?”

“Nay, none of them.”

He did look at her then. He could see the mirth in her eyes as she focused on the cut, antagonistic little chit that she was, and couldn’t decide if he was irritated or amused. He settled on closing his eyes because he didn’t want to see the enormous needle she was going to use on his forehead, undoubtedly just to be cruel to him.

He wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Hopefully I shall not be among them,” he said after a moment. “Remember—I told you to use thread that will not be obvious against my skin. No black thread.”

Christelle glanced at him, seeing that his eyes were closed, and her lips twitched with a dastardly smile.

“No black thread, I promise,” she said. “Be strong, de Wolfe. This may sting a little.”

He grunted in response, and she took some of the wine she’d brought over to cleanse the wound, pouring it onto his forehead and letting it dribble down onto his nose and eyes. But Leonidas didn’t flinch. He sat stock-still as she swiftly put five rather big stitches in his forehead, into the cut which was oddly shaped like a cross.

“You are finished,” she said, taking the bloodied rag and using a clean corner to clean the wine that had dripped onto his eyes. Such nice eyes. “I would continue to put wine on the cut every morning and every evening until it begins to heal. You do not want poison taking hold.”

He stood up, towering over her. “I have had wounds before,” he said. “I know how to tend them. But I thank you for your kind attention.”

“My pleasure, my lord.”

“Even if you did cause it.”

“You should not have been moving in the dark like a phantom.”

They were verging on an argument, and he eyed her with displeasure before moving over to where Tate was holding an arnica poultice over his nose. Phillipa and Christelle quit the chamber, heading back to the queen’s bedchamber, as Leonidas bent over Tate and pulled the poultice back to get a look at the damage.

“Well,” he said, replacing the poultice. “It is not too bad. It looks as if she mostly got you under the eye. You’ll have a bruise.”

Tate, seated on a stool, was looking up at Leonidas but not looking the man in the eye. He was looking at his forehead.

“Christ,” he muttered. “Leo, have you looked at your forehead?”

“What about it?”

Tate gestured to the mirror on the other side if the chamber, near the wardrobe. “You’d better go look.”

Puzzled, Leonidas went to the mirror, peering closely in the dim light to see what Tate was referring to. Not only did he have a cross-shaped wound on his forehead, but it was a cross stitched with bright red thread. There it was, sticking out like a sore thumb, right in the middle of his brow. He looked like a damn flagellant, cutting crosses on his head to prove his devotion to God.

He’d told her no black thread.

He should have said no red thread, either.