Serpent (55 page)

And now, enjoy bonus chapters from William de Wolfe’s novel, THE WOLFE, and Keir St. Hever’s novel, FRAGMENTS OF GRACE.

THE WOLFE

An Amazon #1 Best Seller in Medieval Historical Romance

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“The Best Medieval Romance I’ve ever read. Period.”

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There upon a midnight blue

The knights went riding two by two

Out upon the moonlit moors

Death consumed them, brought by war

Into their midst, a phantom came

Known by heart, this gentle rain

A lady’s name…

A river, she was called

Loved and cherished, one and all

This lady known to knights so bold

This is now the story told.

              ~               Prelude to The Wolfe

CHAPTER ONE

The month of December

Year of our Lord 1231

Skirmish of Bog Wood near Blackadder Water, the England/Scotland border

“By everything that is holy, I do hate a battle.”

A soft female sigh filled the damp and cool air. The reply was harsh.

“So help me, Caladora, if ye faint again I shall take a stick to ye.”

Five women stood high atop a hill, looking down upon a grisly scene far below in what was once a peaceful and serene valley. Where lavender heather used to wash amidst the lush green there were now broken, bloody corpses, the result of a fight that had lasted for a
day and a night. Now, everything was eerily still with only the occasional cries of the dying. No more sounds of swords; only the sounds of death.

The sun was beginning to set over the distant hills, casting the valley in a shadowed light. To the women waiting on the high hill, it looked as if Hell itself was setting in to begin claiming its souls. It was ended, this battle; one battle in a mightier war that had been going on for as long as anyone could remember. The war for the Scots border.

The Lady Jordan Scott waited with her aunts and cousins, waiting for the signal from her father that would send them down into the valley to begin assessing their own wounded and making sure any enemy wounded were sent into the netherworld. She hated it; all of it. She hated seeing good men die, watching their life blood drain away and listening to their pleas for help. She hated the bloody English for causing all of this blessed pain and suffering because they believed themselves the superior race. All Scots were wild men in their eyes, unthinking and unfeeling, and somehow the English felt compelled to act as their cage-keeper.

But Jordan was anything but wild and unthinking. She had a heart and a mind and soul, sometimes softer than her clansmen would have liked. As the sun continued to set she pulled the hood of her woolen cloak closer, staving off the chill and the gloom.  Just when the wait seemed excessive, a shout from one of her father’s men released the dam of women who now poured down into the valley.   As the dusk deepened, the hunt began.

Jordan was one of the last one into the valley, dragging her feet even when her aunts cast her threatening glares. She ignored them.  In fact, she moved away from them so they would not watch every move she made, removing her hood and picking her targets among the dead.

Her long, honey-colored hair hung loose about her as she bent over a young man and began to tug on a gold signet ring. It seemed to be securely stuck to his finger and she swallowed hard; her father would expect her to take out her dirk and cut off the finger, throwing the whole thing into her basket.

She wrinkled her nose at that prospect and let the dead hand fall back to the ground. She was not going to cut off the finger no matter what her father said. She didn’t have the stomach for it. But the man at her feet suddenly groaned and Jordan startled with fear; without hesitation, she yanked her dirk from its sheath at her forearm plunged the blade deep into his soft neck. The man stilled, silenced forever by the cold steel of her knife.

Gasping with shock, Jordan stared down at the man and could scarcely believe what she had done. She didn't know why she had done it, only that she had been terrified and afraid if she didn't kill the man that he would rise up and kill her. Her breath came in short, horrified pants as she stared down at her kill.
Sweet Jesu'
, had she deteriorated to such a scared rabbit that she would kill before thinking?

In disgust she threw down her dirk and stumbled away from the dead man, wondering if indeed her father's warring ways were claiming her. Already, she had to get away from the destruction and clear her thoughts. She didn’t care if her family thought she was weak. They had tried to toughen her up, to make her strong and fearless, but she didn’t have it in her. She was sweet and nurturing, kind and gentle. There were those better suited to tend those on the battlefield and cut fingers off for the gold they wore; she was going to find a place to hide and wait until the hunting and killing was over.

Glancing over her shoulder to see if she was being watched, Jordan wandered away from the field of destruction and into a small valley. Nestled at the bottom among a few scrawny trees was a small stream, the water glistening silver in the moonlight.

It was peaceful and calm, and she could feel her composure returning. She knelt by the stream and washed her hands as if cleansing away the confusion and revulsion she felt. She knew she was a disappointment to her father on two accounts: not being born male, and not being able to sufficiently deal with the normal aspects of being a daughter of one of the fiercest war lords on the Scottish border. Although her father loved her dearly and never made her feel anything less, she knew deep down he wished she were stronger. Sometimes she wished it, too.

Her father did not pretend that he always understood his only child, especially where her loves for music and animals were concerned. Jordan could sing like an angel and could dance a Scottish jig like the devil himself, accomplishments for which he was enormously proud, but sometimes he just could not comprehend the female mind. He was a warrior, a baron by title, and his world was one of death and fighting, not the gentle world where his daughter dwelled.

Still, he would not be pleased if he found out she had run off like a scared goat and sought refuge this night. Jordan found a large boulder by the creek and sat on its icy surface, watching the water bubble in the moonlight and wondering why she wasn't like the rest of her female kin, bold and fearless. Above her, a nighthawk rode the drafts, crying out to its mate and she watched it for a moment before returning moodily to the stream.

“If you are thinking of drowning yourself, 'tis a bit shallow.”

The voice came from the darkness behind her. Jordan leapt off the rock, terrified as she whirled to face her accoster. She could make out a form of a man lying at the base of one of the bushy trees but could not make out much more in the darkness.

Panic rose in her throat and she realized with deep regret that she had left her dirk back on the battle field. She could scream, but he appeared to be large and would most likely pounce and slit her throat before she could utter a sound. She froze, unsure of what to do next. She certainly did not want to provoke the man with the decidedly English accent.

“What...what do ye want?” she demanded shakily.

The moon emerged from behind the clouds, revealing the landscape in bright silver light. Jordan could see right away the man was gravely injured, as there was a great deal of dark blood covering his legs and the ground beneath him. It didn’t take her long to figure out that he was unable to rise much less attack her. Her courage surged and she was sure she could run back and retrieve her dirk before he could move upon her, the damnable English devil. She would do to him exactly what he would do to her given half a chance.

But on the heels of that thought came another. Jordan's blood ran cold with abhorrence; she had just killed one man and punished herself endlessly for it. Now she was planning the death of another. More of her father's violent influence was a part of her than she cared to admit. Perhaps this wounded man was innocent of any killing at all, she thought naïvely. Mayhap he was a victim of the situation, forced to fight by the hated English king. Perhaps he didn't want to fight at all and then found himself a casualty.

Jordan forced herself to calm, realizing that the man could not hurt her. She took a step to get a better look at him yet still kept a healthy distance between them.

“Speak up,” she told him, feeling braver. “What are ye doing here? What do ye want?”

She heard the man sigh. “What do I want?” he repeated wearily. “I want to return home. But what I want and what will be are two entirely different things all together. What do you intend to do with me?”

Jordan eyed him beneath the silver moonlight. “I intend to do nothing with ye,” she replied softly. I dunna need to. From the looks of that wound, ye will be dead by morn.”

The man laid his head back against the tree in a defeated gesture. “Mayhap,” he said, eyeing her in the darkness just as she was eyeing him. “Will you tell me something?”

“What?”

“What is your name?”

She saw no harm in giving her name to a dying man. “Jordan.”

His head came up from the trunk. “Jordan? A sound name. Yet it is usually a man's name.”

Jordan moved a few steps closer. “My mother, being a pious woman, named me for the River Jordan,” she replied. “Jordan Mary Joseph is my full name. Moreover, I was intended to be a male child.”

The man's eyes grew intense and Jordan felt a shiver run down her spine. It struck her just how handsome he was, English or no, and her cheeks grew warm.

“You are most definitely not a male child, Jordan Mary Joseph,” he said, almost seductively. “How old are you?”

“I have seen twenty years,” she replied, flattered and disarmed by his statement.

“Then you are married with children,” he stated. “Was your husband on the battlefield?”

“I have no husband,” Jordan said flatly. At twenty, she was embarrassed that she had not yet wed; it was a sore subject and one she certainly did not wish to discuss with him.

“No husband?” he repeated, evidently shocked. “Why not?”

She frowned. “Ye ask too many questions, English.”

He did not reply. He lay back against the tree again, closing his eyes. His strength was draining and Jordan guessed that he would be dead was swiftly approaching.

As she gazed at him, she began to feel pity for the knight. He was perhaps ten years older than her, still a young man.  He was very big with enormous hands and big, muscular legs, and his facial features, although surrounded by mail and a helm, were chiseled and handsome. She was coming to feel sorry that his life would soon be over soon from a wound sustained in a senseless, meaningless skirmish.

A thought occurred to her; she knew that she could make his last hours more comfortable with what she carried in her satchel. The healing items were meant for her own people but she simply could not leave the knight and not help him. It was her soft heart tugging at her, concern for another. She hoped her Scot ancestors moldering in the ground would forgive her treasonous act.

“English,” she said softly. “Would ye let me tend yer wound?”

One eye opened in mild surprise. She could see suspicion in the mysterious depths.

“Why?” he whispered. “So you may finish what your clansman started?”

“Nay,” she answered, although she didn’t blame his distrust. “So that I may make yer last hours a bit more bearable.” When he did not reply, she frowned at him. “I promise I wunna intentionally hurt ye. Ye can bleed to death or ye can let me help ye; ‘tis all the same to me.”

After an eternal pause, he reached up with effort and tore the helmet from his head, revealing dark wet hair plastered to his pasty head. Clumsily, he began to remove his armor.

Jordan closed the distance between them with small, rapid steps and knelt beside him. His hands were heavy and unwieldy and she batted them away, finishing the job of the removal herself. She fumbled a bit with his cuisses, or thigh armor, because the wound was along the edge of the armor where it met his breeches. A vulnerable point, she noticed. She felt a little apprehensive being so close to an English warrior and deliberately avoided his gaze. She could feel his eyes on her, watching every move she made. Her palms began to sweat as she stripped off the remainder of the protective gear.

As Jordan bent over her work, her pink tongue between her teeth in concentration, the knight studied the fine porcelain features and the huge round eyes of the most amazing green color. He could see it even in the moonlight. Her eyebrows arched ever-so-delicately and her lashes were long and dense. She had stopped biting her tongue long enough for him to see that her lips were soft and sensuous.