Rise of de Wolfe Read online

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  EPILOGUE

  Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Kathryn Le Veque. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  RISE OF DE WOLFE

  A Knights of Honor Novella

  By

  Alexa Aston

  Other Titles in the Knights of Honor Series

  Word of Honor

  Marked by Honor

  Code of Honor

  Journey to Honor

  Heart of Honor

  Bold in Honor

  Dedication

  Big hugs to my friend and mentor, Kathryn Le Veque, for inviting me into the World of de Wolfe Pack and allowing me to unite her de Wolfes with my de Montforts.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Other Titles in the Knights of Honor Series

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  EPILOGUE

  Knights of Honor series

  Alexa Aston Biography

  PROLOGUE

  Northumberland, England—July, 1314

  ELIA DE WOLFE held the gnarled hand of her grandfather as he wheezed. His breathing had grown more difficult over the last three days and she knew his end was near. She only hoped that her father and two brothers would return from the battle in Scotland before death could snatch him away.

  He gripped her hand as another coughing fit seized him. Elia held on tightly, willing it to end. After more than a minute of choking and sputtering, he grew quiet, his eyes closed as he fell back against the pillows, exhausted.

  It hurt down to her very soul to see him so weak and frail. All her life, Patrick de Wolfe had been like a god—tall and powerful, with the jade green eyes of his mother, Jordan, and the raven black hair of his famous father.

  The Wolfe of the North.

  Elia had cut her teeth hearing stories of her fabled great-grandfather and his many exploits. William de Wolfe had been known as the best knight in all the land. Even three generations later, men still spoke his name in awe. Her grandfather had not only told her and her two siblings of William’s prowess and exploits but Patrick had handed down the code each de Wolfe must live by—family above all.

  Even if it meant going against authority.

  Her grandfather opened his eyes and Elia squeezed his hand in encouragement.

  “It’s been a good, long life,” Patrick told her. “But ’tis time I go to be with my Bridey.” A wistful smile crossed his lined face. “She grew up in a convent so I know she’s already waiting for me in heaven.” With a chuckle, he added, “Even if she had to shove a few others aside to make room for an old warrior such as me. And by the Living Christ, Bridey will throw open the gates and greet me with the sweetest kiss. Oh, how I’ve missed my girl.”

  Elia’s grandmother had died two years before and the light had seemed to go out of her grandfather upon his wife’s passing.

  “Tell me about her again, Grandfather,” she encouraged. “About Bridey and how the two of you met.”

  She had heard the tale many times, of how Patrick had rescued Brighton de Favereux from a reivers’ attack. How a dying nun revealed to him that Bridey was the secret daughter of King Magnus Haakonsson of Norway and a Scots woman named Lady Juliana de la Haye, a child who’d been raised with no knowledge of her heritage. How Patrick, known then as Nighthawk, had brought the beauty back to Castle Questing, home of the de Wolfes, and fallen in love with her. Even married her, without the king’s permission.

  It took her grandfather a while to share the story with her, due to his weakened state. When he grew tired of speaking, Elia took over. A smile played upon Patrick’s lips as she narrated the adventures from long ago.

  As she finished, he brought her small hand to his lips and kissed it.

  “You know my and Bridey’s story almost as well as I do—and I lived it,” he teased.

  For a moment, she saw the man he’d been back then, a handsome knight full of strength and promise, the future in front of him. Then before her eyes, he became the man he now was, seventy and one, old and tired and ill. Elia was glad she had spent time at Patrick’s feet and learned the history of her family through his eyes. Her father, Markus, never had seemed interested in the past. He always said the present was what concerned him. She thought it must have been hard on him, being a descendant from the renowned Wolfe and Nighthawk.

  Once again, her grandfather’s breathing grew labored. Elia remained by his bedside, both her hands holding on to his, trying to bring comfort and reassurance to him in his last minutes. She thought about leaving to call for a priest but she was afraid to leave him alone. Finally, he let out a long sigh and stilled, a trace of a smile on his lips, knowing he went to be reunited with the woman he loved. She kissed his weathered forehead and brushed her palm across his eyes to close them.

  Elia had grown tired of death. Her mother had died six years ago after giving birth to Anne, Elia’s younger sister, and Anne had slipped away soon after. Then her grandmother had passed two years ago. Now, Patrick was gone, as well. With the Scottish border wars in full swing, she assumed other deaths would occur. She whispered a prayer to the Virgin to bring her father and brothers safely back to her.

  Exiting the bedchamber, Elia returned downstairs and left the keep. She crossed the bailey to the stone chapel and entered it, spying their priest as he knelt in front of the altar. He must have sensed her presence for he made the Sign of the Cross and rose.

  “My lady? Do you have need of me?”

  “Aye, Father. Grandfather has departed this life.”

  Sorrow crossed his face. “Nighthawk was a great man.”

  “He was,” Elia said softly. “The greatest I have known.”

  “I will go to him,” the priest assured her. “Mass will be said for him tomorrow.”

  They left the chapel together but when he made for the keep, she decided to remain outside for a few minutes and savor the warmth of the summer day. Soon enough, she would need to prepare her grandfather’s body for burial.

  Elia moved through the bailey. Walking always brought her comfort. She went as far as the front gates and then reversed direction to head back to the keep.

  “My lady!” a soldier called from the wall walk. “Riders. Lord Markus has returned.”

  “Thank you,” she called up. Turning, she motioned over the blacksmith’s boy. “Go to the keep and let Cook know my father and his soldiers will arrive soon. They’ll need food and drink.”

  “Aye, my lady.” The child took off running.

  Elia remained in place, eager to see her family but reluctant to share the news of her grandfather’s
death with them.

  The gates opened in anticipation of the party’s arrival and she composed herself.

  When the soldiers arrived, they passed through the gates at a walk and not their usual gallop. Alarm spread through Elia. Then she caught sight of her father, and his face told the story. Quickly, her eyes swept through the group. She found her brother, Stephen, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then she looked for Kenneth and couldn’t locate him. Frantically, her heart beating wildly, she ran toward the riders, who’d come to a halt.

  Immediately, she noticed the horse Stephen led by the reins carried a body. Her gut told her it was her oldest brother.

  “No!” she cried.

  Elia reached the horse and saw it was Kenneth’s mount. That meant the body lashed to it must be her brother. She placed a hand against the blanket that covered it and squeezed her eyes closed. Memories flooded her. Kenneth holding out his hands, encouraging her to walk. Sneaking her an extra sweetmeat when no one was looking. Carrying her atop his shoulders. Teaching her to ride.

  Now he was gone.

  She glanced to her father, who swung down from his horse and touched her shoulder lightly.

  “It’s Kenneth?” she asked and he nodded in confirmation.

  Tears slid down her cheeks as he enveloped her in his arms, one large hand stroking her head. Elia pulled away, a thousand questions dying on her lips. It didn’t matter what answers her father gave. It wouldn’t change the fact that Kenneth was dead.

  Stephen appeared at her arm, anger sparking in his eyes. “Those miserable Scots,” he spat out. “Damn them.”

  She hugged Stephen to her, realizing he was her only sibling now and the new heir.

  He looked at her, fire in his blue eyes. “The king was unprepared. He didn’t expect a battle at New Park’s woods, where we stumbled upon The Bruce’s men. Edward’s forces were in marching order. Not battle order.”

  Elia gasped. As the daughter and granddaughter of talented knights, she’d learned much about armies and the strategies they employed. Archers marched at the back of an army when it was on the move but when battle time came, they needed to be at the front in order to break up spear formations. She could only imagine what a disaster the fight had been for the English.

  “The cavalry couldn’t operate in such cramped terrain,” Stephen went on. “They were crushed by the Scots’ spearmen. We were overwhelmed. Our leaders couldn’t regain control.”

  “And the king?” she asked, wondering if he had lived through the ordeal.

  Stephen’s lips pursed. “He actually stayed behind to fight but Pembroke dragged him away, knowing all was lost. The Scots pursued but, last we heard, he’d escaped.”

  “Thank the Christ,” she murmured, as her heart broke in two.

  Elia saw her father had given orders and the soldiers who had returned now walked their mounts away. She noticed just how many of the horses carried away the dead and how sorrow would touch many families today.

  Markus returned to his children, a grim look on his face. “There’s other news,” he said. “Beyond Kenneth.”

  She couldn’t imagine a hurt greater than losing her older brother. Then a thought occurred to her.

  “Adelard?” Elia asked.

  Her father nodded. “Aye. Your betrothed also fell on the battlefield at Bannockburn. Bravely, as did your brother.”

  She nodded, her throat thick. She’d only met Adelard once, the day the betrothal contracts had been signed. Her betrothed had been the same age as Kenneth. Now both young men, each only ten and eight, lay dead. Elia silently cursed the fight between the English and the Scots. Who knew how many others had perished in their fight?

  Elia summoned the last vestige of courage. “Father. Stephen. I must tell you something.”

  Both men looked at her warily.

  “Grandfather took ill three nights ago. He passed on a quarter hour before you arrived home. Our priest is with him now. I must go to wash and prepare him for burial.”

  Markus seemed to age a dozen years before her eyes. Grief twisted Stephen’s face until he looked almost unrecognizable. She wrapped her arms about her father, hoping to bring him some solace.

  Suddenly, he thrust Elia from him but kept his hands upon her shoulders. “The north is no place for you, my child,” Markus proclaimed.

  “What do you mean?” Fear gripped her as she saw determination fill his eyes.

  “Robert the Bruce will not be stopped. He’s already recaptured most of the castles the king took in Scotland. Taking Stirling Castle now will only whet his appetite for more. With this victory, he’ll use it to propel invasions into England. I foresee raids at Carlisle and Berwick. Mayhap as far south as York.”

  “Surely not, Father,” she said, though her words rang hollow. She’d heard how bloodthirsty The Bruce could be and how he lusted for power. With this recent triumph over the English, the Scotsman would use the momentum to push into England.

  And their home lay directly in his path, close to the border.

  Her father released her shoulders and tenderly cupped her face. “You are my only daughter, Elia. I would see you safe.” He paused. “I plan to send you far south.

  “To the royal court at Westminster.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Kinwick Castle—April, 1321

  FERAND DE MONTFORT brought his horse to a halt and looked across his vast estate. Spring had come early to southern England and the land already had turned into varying shades of green. In the distance on a hill, Kinwick Castle rose majestically, still a sight that took his breath away from the time he was a boy until now as he served as its earl.

  Beside him, another horse stopped. It carried one of his pages, Gilbert, a boy of eight who’d come to foster at Kinwick only last fall. The lad was still so short that his feet didn’t reach the stirrups. Ferand would speak to whomever had saddled the horse for the child. It could be dangerous to ride in such a manner.

  “’Tis most beautiful, my lord,” the boy said in wonder, his round eyes roaming the land.

  Ferand swept his hand across. “Everything you see, Gilbert, is Kinwick. I am a most fortunate man.” He looked to his page and saw a question in the boy’s eyes. “What is it?” he asked in concern.

  Gilbert’s mouth twisted in uncertainty.

  “Go ahead, boy. Spit it out.”

  “Father says I’m to keep my thoughts to myself, my lord. That I am here to serve you. He told me that Lord Ferand would do my thinking for me for the next dozen years.”

  It angered him to hear what the boy had been told but he understood. Noblemen raised their sons to be seen and not heard. Ferand’s father had thought differently from most men and encouraged his son to speak his mind. Though his father was long gone, Ferand still kept up the practice and enjoyed conversing with his soldiers, seeking their opinions.

  He looked sternly at Gilbert. “As Earl of Kinwick, I order you to share with me your thoughts. Silence will not be tolerated.”

  The boy looked uncomfortable but nodded in understanding. Finally, he spoke.

  “You say you are a fortunate man, my lord, and I know you are. But . . . you seem a lonely man to me. You have all of this land and many serfs and servants and more soldiers than I can count. You need someone to share it all with.”

  Gilbert’s words took Ferand aback.

  “I know what it’s like to be lonely, my lord,” the page continued. “My brothers are much older than I am. My mother died giving birth to me. Hardly anyone pays me any attention. Oh, I have clothes to wear and food to eat at home but I have no one to talk with.” He brightened. “’Tis why I like it here at Kinwick. Not only are there other boys my age but the squires and even most of the soldiers are nice to me and will stop and talk and answer my questions.

  “You also could use someone to talk to, my lord. I think you need a wife.”

  Ferand took a deep breath and slowly released it. Little did young Gilbert know, but seven years ago, Ferand once had a wife.
/>   And a son.

  Oh, Minta hadn’t been someone he could talk to, as Gilbert envisioned. Ferand’s wife had been ten and six and so shy, he usually only saw the top of her head since her eyes constantly looked to the ground under her feet. The girl had lacked confidence and spoke to everyone in a whisper. He never would have married the fragile young woman on his own but his father and hers had fostered and then fought together. They’d grown as close as brothers over the years and dreamed of the day their children could wed.

  Ferand had taken one look at how tiny Minta was and how narrow her hips were and knew she wouldn’t have much success breeding. When they coupled on their wedding night, Minta cried silently the entire time though he’d been as gentle as possible. She did the same each time they came together until he left for the fight in Scotland. He’d departed Kinwick knowing she carried his babe, only to return after the battle at Bannockburn to find his father had passed on and Minta struggling in labor.

  The midwife, Gerta, pulled Ferand aside and told him his wife would not live another hour. The babe was too large and unable to pass after two days of labor pains. She sent him in to comfort his countess and say goodbye. Ferand held his wife’s hand and brushed back the damp, limp hair from her face, murmuring soothing words until she expired.

  Gerta swept in and quickly cut the child from the mother’s body in an effort to save it but the cord had wrapped around his tiny neck, choking the babe. Ferand insisted on holding his son’s lifeless body a few minutes before he relinquished it. Mother and son were buried the next day.

  Ferand’s loneliness grew ever since.

  He looked to the eager page. In truth, the boy had given him sage advice. Ferand was already a score and nine. ’Twas time he married and provided an heir for Kinwick. Looking to the past accomplished nothing.

  Kinwick’s future rested upon his shoulders.

  “Who would you have me marry, Gilbert?” he asked, curious to how the lad would respond.

  The page grew thoughtful. He looked over his shoulder to the south.