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

Chapter Thirty-Four

Ulrik paced the clearing, unable to sit still any longer. The sun had reached its zenith, though it penetrated little through the heavy tree canopy. Nearby, the horses grazed, resting from their hard ride from the d’Louncrais Keep. Gaharet and Aimon sat on a fallen tree, silently regarding him, a small fire and the remains of a roasted hare carcass at their feet.

The coolness of the surrounding forest and the company of his friends could not calm him. “We are but half a league from Langeais Keep. Why must we wait here? Why must we wait at all?”

A sense of urgency tugged at him. His Rebekah needed him.

“It is the middle of the day, Ulrik.” Gaharet tossed a leg bone in the fire. “It is too risky. We must wait for nightfall.”

Ulrik ground his teeth. “You think I am going to wait here, while Lothair has Rebekah in his horrid underground chamber, doing who knows what to her? That I would leave her alone to fend for herself for a full day?” He glared at Gaharet. “Would you wait? If it was Erin instead of Rebekah confined to that godforsaken hole?” He shook his head. “No. I will not wait.”

He strode toward his horse.

“Ulrik. Stop.”

The alpha command rolled over him, and he paused, his hands on his saddle.

“Think, Ulrik.” Gaharet rose and blocked his horse, gathering the reins. “Lothair does not want Rebekah. He wants you. Rebekah is but the lure. Do not fear. He will do naught to her, save for keeping her prisoner. We have time.”

“Argh.” Ulrik raked his hand through his hair and turned away from his horse. He hung his head and stared at his boots. “You are right.” Gaharet was always right. He was a far wiser alpha than Ulrik would ever have been. “It is just…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “The thought of her, alone, in the dark and at the mercy of Lothair, the guards…”

Gaharet sighed. “I know, but rushing in is not the answer. We need—”

Pounding hooves of an approaching horse stilled all conversation and Ulrik reached for his sword. He sniffed the air. Over the smoke of the fire and the scent of roasted hare, he caught something familiar.

“One of your horses, Gaharet?”

“Yes. And Gascon. As ever, he is resourceful. It must be of some importance for him to track us down.”

Horse and rider appeared through the trees, and Gascon reined in and dismounted. “Mon Seigneur Gaharet, Mon Seigneur Ulrik, Monsieur Aimon.” He thrust a sealed parchment at Aimon. “This arrived for you this morning, Monsieur. I thought it best to bring it to you immediately.”

Ulrik’s gut clenched as he caught sight of the wax seal. “It is from Lothair.”

Aimon took the parchment. “Most likely, it is to inform me he has Rebekah. He knows I have contact with Gaharet.” Aimon broke the seal. “ Merde. ”

Ulrik’s heart dropped. “What is it? What does it say?”

Aimon handed the parchment to Gaharet. “He is commanding all of us—Lance, Godfrey, the twins and me—to present ourselves in the hall. Today.” Aimon sighed. “We are to kneel before him again. Repeat our vows. It is something he called for after your capture, Ulrik.”

Ulrik’s shoulders sagged. The missive did not bring news of Rebekah. “This does not affect our plans. You go, Aimon. Do Lothair’s bidding. Tonight, we will enter the keep and rescue Rebekah.”

Aimon would not meet his gaze. Gaharet handed the parchment to him, and Ulrik read the message, his attention catching on the last line.

“I have Ulrik’s woman. Guilty of aiding his escape, I will pass sentence on her today.”

“ Merde. ” Ulrik balled up the message and threw it into the fire. The parchment darkened, flames curling at its edges, but the vellum didn’t catch. “He is going to sentence her to death. He is going to kill her.”

“We will not let that happen, Ulrik,” said Gaharet. “ I will not let that happen. We will—”

“Gaharet!” Aimon pointed to Gaharet’s chest, his eyes wide. “The bloodstone. It glows.”

Ulrik stared at Gaharet’s chest. Aimon spoke true. The binding stone glowed.

Could it be… “Rebekah?”

Did she still have the amulet? Or was it another fallen werewolf?

Gaharet drew his sword. “Maybe.”

Ulrik slid his sword from his scabbard. “Maybe not.”

Aimon also drew his sword, and he moved with Ulrik to flank Gaharet. United they stood, and waited.

A figure in black, his robes shot through with silver thread, appeared, grunting as he landed on his hands and knees. In his bleeding hand, he clutched an amulet.

Ulrik gaped at the figure. “Renaud?”

The man who had trapped and killed so many of their kind. Had turned Comte Lothair against them. How the hell had he gotten his hands on an amulet?

The archeveque looked up, and he blanched. “D’Louncrais. You are supposed to be—” Renaud pressed his thin lips together and got to his feet.

Ulrik raised his sword. “ Now will you let me kill him?” At Gaharet’s raised hand, Ulrik stilled. “You cannot mean to let him walk away?”

Gaharet’s jaw clenched. “No. We cannot.”

Renaud backed away a step.

“You are not going to suggest we simply tie him and leave him, are you?” Ulrik stared at Gaharet, incredulous. “We risk him escaping. Or Lothair’s guard’s finding him.”

“Kill me”—Renaud’s face twisted in a vicious snarl—“and you will burn in hell .”

“Oh, I will not have Ulrik kill you, Renaud, but you may well wish for death.” Determination glittered in Gaharet’s eyes. “Thanks to you, Lothair wants an enhanced army. I plan to show him what is involved in that, and you are going to help us.”

Ulrik’s eyes narrowed on Renaud. The archeveque, eyes wide and his heartbeat loud and racing in Ulrik’s ears, shuffled backward. A slow smile spread across Ulrik’s face, and his canines punched through his gums.

“Get some rope, Aimon.” Ulrik sent Gaharet a questioning look. “May I?”

“You are the one who Renaud trapped with wolfsbane and bound in silver.” Gaharet held out his hands, offering up the archeveque. “The pleasure is all yours.”

Ulrik sheathed his sword, unbuckled it from around his waist and handed it to Gaharet. As he prowled toward a retreating Renaud, he removed his vambraces, greaves and boots.

Renaud’s face paled, and his steps quickened. In his haste, he tripped over his robes. He scrambled to his feet. “Call off your dog, d’Louncrais.”

Ulrik ignored Renaud’s high-pitched command, the scent of the archeveque’s fear sweeter than any fine wine. He pressed forward, shucking his hauberk and gambeson, and pulling his tunic over his head.

“I can tell you who my informant was!” Renaud’s voice rose to a screech. “Who betrayed you!”

Ulrik paused. This was important information. Would Gaharet stop him?

His alpha shrugged. “Soon he will be in so much agony he will tell us whatever we want to know.”

Ulrik grinned and slipped out of his breeches, the change rippling through him the moment he stepped free of them. Sandy-colored fur sprouted across his shifting body, his snout elongating and his spine contorting. With a shriek, Renaud turned and fled.

Ulrik laughed, the sound distorted by his changing vocal cords. Renaud could not run fast enough or far enough to escape him. He slunk down on all fours, his transformation complete, and ran after his prey. Renaud ducked and wove through the trees, pushing aside branches and plowing through shrubs. Ulrik, vengeance in his heart, nipped at his heels.

“Stop toying with him, Ulrik,” yelled Gaharet.

Ulrik whined but increased his pace. Renaud was an agile man for his age, but he was no match for a wolf. Especially not a werewolf. Ulrik bore down on him. All his pain and rage, all his suffering in that chamber, the lack of control forced on him by the cursed wolfsbane, and the bite of the silver against his skin that had bound his wolf, he directed at Renaud. He leaped on the archeveque, hitting him hard and bringing him to the ground. His two front paws held Renaud in place as he leaned in, putting his muzzle next to Renaud’s face. He bared his teeth.

Renaud’s eyes widened, and his body trembled. “No, no, no. You cannot. I am an archeveque.” His voice pitched higher. “You cannot make me…I can not be one of you.” His words tumbled out of his mouth, his face deathly pale and sweat beading on his upper lip. “I am going to be a cardinal!” he shrieked.

Not anymore.

Ulrik lunged and sunk his teeth deep into Renaud’s neck, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. Renaud screamed, and he beat his fists on the ground. Ulrik tightened his hold as his saliva entered his victim’s veins. Renaud’s body shuddered. A spasm ripped through the prone archeveque and his back arched, his mouth open in a silent scream.

Gaharet came up behind him. “It is done.”

Ulrik released his grip, the distinct and unpleasant scent of urine filling his nostrils. Renaud had voided his bladder. Ulrik backed away and shifted as Aimon and Gaharet bound Renaud in rope and gagged him with a strip of cloth. He took the offered wineskin from Gascon and washed the blood from his mouth, spitting it at Renaud. He wanted no reminder of Renaud on him when they rescued Rebekah.

Ulrik took his clothes and armor from Gascon and quickly dressed. “What now?”

Gaharet nudged Renaud with his boot. “Now we go to the keep and rescue your mate. We can no longer afford to wait until nightfall, lest someone come looking for Renaud.” He jerked his chin at Aimon. “You will answer Lothair’s summons. We still have a traitor, and he will be there along with the others. Ulrik, Gascon and I will take Renaud through the postern gate and enter the keep via the secret passageway. We will free Rebekah and leave Renaud in her place. We may have to kill a few guards, but that cannot be helped.”

Yes. Ulrik fist-punched the air. Hold on, Rebekah. I am coming for you, baby.

“Gascon,” said Gaharet, “fetch the horses.” Gascon retreated through the forest. “We will get your mate back, Ulrik. I vow it to you.”

Ulrik gripped Gaharet’s arm. “Thank you. I do not think I could…”

“You have suffered enough loss in this lifetime, my friend. We all have. Come.” He pointed to the writhing archeveque, his moans muffled by the gag. “Help me get this weasel onto my horse.”

Together, they lifted Renaud and slung him across Gaharet’s stallion.

Ulrik tossed Gaharet a rope. “Have we made a mistake, do you think, in turning him? Not that I did not derive great pleasure from biting Renaud.”

“At his age”—Gaharet shook his head—“it will surprise me if he survives the turning. Three days of agony should be enough to stop his heart.”

“And the evidence of our existence?”

“Do you think Lothair would like it known he had a werewolf confined in his keep?” Gaharet wound the rope around Renaud and secured him to his saddle, pulling the knots tight. “Besides, the church would not view favorably his chaining up of an archeveque in his underground chamber.”

Ulrik took his horse’s reins from Gascon and swung himself into his saddle. “And the information we need about the traitor?”

Gaharet mounted his horse. “Once in that chamber, we can confine him in silver and get the answers we need.” Gaharet set his jaw. “Then we leave him there to die.”

A smile hovered on his lips. Leaving Renaud to die in the chamber that had once confined him… A fitting end, and it pleased him well. He would see it done.