Wolf’s Redemption (The Wolves of Langeais #3)

Chapter Twelve

Lance poured wine into two goblets, handed one to Godfrey, then settled back in his chair. Rarely did any of the pack visit him at his keep, and it should have delighted him. He had worked hard to gain his fortune and took pride in how far he had come from his humble beginnings. In the embroidered hangings adorning the walls, the ornate pewter goblets filled with expensive wine and the large table that rivaled the one in the d’Louncrais Keep. All the luxuries he had yearned for as a youth. Not today. Circumstances being what they were, he had little time for reveling in the comforts of his keep.

He raised the goblet to his lips and took a sip, studying the man across the table. When the pack had last met, Godfrey had behaved oddly—unusually argumentative and aggressive for the quietly spoken scholar. He had gone so far as to challenge Aimon for the newly discovered she-wolf, Kathryn Beauchene. Kathryn had chosen Aimon, as Lance had suspected she would the moment she had entered the clearing. No one could dispute a she-wolf’s right to choose. Not Aimon, not Godfrey, not he. Pack law was inviolate. As the oldest wolf, and once Gaharet’s closest counselor, it was up to him to ensure they all obeyed pack law in the alpha’s absence.

“You had something you wished to speak to me about?” asked Godfrey. “Something you could not discuss in front of the others?”

There was an unfamiliar wariness about Godfrey. Because of the news about a traitor amongst them? Or something else?

Lance put aside his goblet and leaned his elbows on the table. “I have known you for a long time, Godfrey. Since we were children. Is there something bothering you? I have never seen you as agitated as you were the last time we met.”

Godfrey’s eyes narrowed. “We have lost our alpha, Ulrik is in Lothair’s clutches and our pack is bordering on extinction. Does that not bother you?”

A non-answer. It reeked of things not said, though Lance scented nothing but truth in it. “Are you angry Kathryn chose Aimon?”

Godfrey took a sip from his goblet before carefully setting it down. “You are concerned I would disregard pack law.”

“Should I be?”

Godfrey cocked an eyebrow. “I am not the only one who petitioned Lothair for Kathryn’s hand in marriage, and by extension the d’Louncrais estate. Perhaps I should ask you the same question.”

Anger flared, but Lance kept a tight rein on his emotions, even more certain now that Godfrey was hiding something. What other reason would he have for avoiding his questions?

Lance leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand across his chin. “The d’Louncrais estate is in safe hands now. As is Kathryn. Do you agree?”

Godfrey gave a nonchalant shrug. “Aimon is young, but he is loyal. Through him, the estate has remained within the pack. As long as someone stronger does not challenge him for it.”

Lance met Godfrey’s stare. “And where would I find you standing if that were to happen?”

Godfrey did not flinch. “Where I should be.” He took a slow sip of wine, holding his gaze across his goblet. “With Aimon.”

The footfall of servants in the corridor and the scent of food stilled any further conversation. Unlike Gaharet, Lance had never trusted his people with his secret, and he wasn’t about to start now.

He quietly studied the other chevalier as the serving maids slipped into the hall and set platters of cooked meat and fresh bread on the table. As they ate, both he and Godfrey skirted around polite pleasantries, conscious of the servants hovering—bringing more jugs of wine, a plate of freshly churned butter, more bread.

Annoyed, Lance waved them off, determined to get to the heart of Godfrey’s behavior. “You have not answered my question, Godfrey. What is bothering you?”

“Pardon me, Mon Seigneur. Forgive the intrusion . ”

Lance turned, concealing his frustration at the interruption from his steward. “Yes?”

“The villagers have reported a strange woman in the vicinity.”

“Strange?” Lance set down his knife. “How?”

“Unfamiliar to these parts, Mon Seigneur, but also…different. The villagers say she has unusual markings on her skin and in her hair, and she was wearing a chevalier’s surcoat.”

Lance glanced at Godfrey. The chevalier had straightened in his chair. What were the chances of two unknown women appearing in little over a month? First Erin, and now this one.

“What color was the surcoat?”

“Umber, Mon Seigneur, bearing the phoenix crest of the Voclains.”

Lance was on his feet. “Ulrik.”

He shared a glance with Godfrey.

Godfrey’s eyes narrowed. “He has escaped?”

“Where is this woman now?” he barked.

“Farmer Pierre saw her disappear behind the tanner’s hut. She was in the company of a man bearing a striking resemblance to Seigneur Ulrik.”

Godfrey rose. “How is this possible?”

“Does it matter? Now? He is here.” Lance slapped his hand on the table. “We must find him.”

“I have prepared your horse for you, Mon Seigneur . And yours , Seigneur Godfrey. I suspected you would wish to investigate.”

Lance was at the door with Godfrey close behind. In the keep courtyard, they mounted up and rode the short distance to the village.

They dismounted at the tanner’s hut, and Lance grimaced. “We will find little trace of him beneath the stench of the tanning fluids and drying hides.”

Godfrey nodded. “Truly. He may well have been here when I rode through your village, using the tanner’s hut to camouflage his scent. For all his drunkenness and whoring, Ulrik is canny. It does not surprise me it is he who found a way to circumvent the effects of silver.”

Lance stalked around the hut, looking for signs—a scuff in the dirt, the tread of boots. Ulrik may be cunning, and he would use all of his wolf abilities to avoid detection, but that did not mean the woman had not left some sign.

“There!”

He pointed at a fresh print, small and leading away from the hut.

They followed the footprints away from the tanner’s hut, along the row to another, the scent of Ulrik and a female growing stronger. And something else, something familiar.

Godfrey snorted. “One of Ulrik’s conquests? Even in escape, he can think of mating.”

Lance sniffed the air, letting the scent roll across his tongue. “There is something strange about her scent. Something…unfamiliar. There is a foreignness to it.” He paused. “Do you remember when we first scented Erin at Gaharet’s keep?”

“Of course.”

“This reminds me of her. There is that same underlying sharpness I cannot identify.”

Godfrey turned his nose to the breeze. “You are right. And the villagers reported she had strange markings. Where are these women coming from?”

“I do not know.” He turned his attention to the forest. “But I think it is time we found out.”

“Agreed. Should we send word to the others?”

Lance returned to his horse, motioning over a villager. “Return our horses to my stable.”

“Of course, Mon Seigneur.”

The villager took the horses’ reins and led them away. Tracking Ulrik was best done on foot. If need be, they could shift and hunt him as wolves, covering great distances with ease. Ulrik, hampered by a female who, though strange, was entirely human, could not. Horses would only give away their approach. Godfrey had the right of it. For all Ulrik’s faults, he was shrewd. It was his impulsiveness, and his hot-headedness that usually got him into trouble.

Lance moved to stand beside Godfrey. “Let us not call the others in yet. We should track him in the forest. Find him. You know how the twins feel about Ulrik. Imagine if they were the ones to reach him first. They were baying for his blood the moment they learned he had killed Gaharet.”

Godfrey’s lip curled. “And Aimon will be busy with his new mate.”

Lance chuckled. “That he will. And as well as Gaharet trained him and his wolf, he is young and lacks experience. He is no match for Ulrik.”

Picking up the scent of Ulrik and the strange woman, Lance entered the forest with Godfrey close on his heels. He spared the other chevalier a glance. He had yet to unearth what was troubling him, what he was concealing.

“We still have much to discuss, Godfrey, but perhaps another time.”

Godfrey shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. We all have our secrets, Lance. Even you.” Lance’s gaze snapped to Godfrey, but the chevalier’s shuttered expression gave nothing away. “With any luck, this sorry business will all be over soon, but first we must find Ulrik.”

Lance nodded, and Godfrey strode ahead into the forest, his words ringing in Lance’s ears. What did the chevalier think he knew? What was he hiding? It was enough, as they hunted for Ulrik, that he would keep Godfrey firmly in his sight.

* * * *

The wolf slunk downwind, the scars on his body itching and his one good eye fixed on the men. Two chevaliers, two werewolves, stalking the woman and the blond wolf. Distrust lingered in the air. One of them was loyal to the pack. One of them was a traitor. On silent paws, he followed them.