Page 4 of Wolf's Keep

They could not hide their disquiet from him any more than he could conceal his presence from them. As one they turned, regarding him, their keen eyes peering at him through the shadows though he made no sound save for his breathing. They spoke not a word as he crossed the floor to join them.

Once, not so long ago, their numbers were greater, their thoughts less grave and the danger barely a threat. That had all changed. Their days of peace and prosperity were gone, their existence no longer secret. How? Pondering that question gave him nights of restless slumber.

For centuries, their kind had thrived with not a hint of their true nature leaking into the general populace. Over thirty men had once sat in this room, filling the hall with their talk, their laughter and their disputes. Sounds of the past echoed in his ears—of raucous gatherings lasting for days, even weeks. A rumble of male voices, women’s gossip and children’s laughter. They had once gathered here from across the land, the borders of comtes and kings of no concern to them as they slipped past armies unseen and unheard.

No more. The laughter had gone, the children no longer played and Gaharet now had a significantly reduced band of men to lead. Silence had descended over the keep, the quiet corridors and empty rooms bearing witness to how few remained. It left a hollow emptiness in his chest. He missed the old days. Somehow, someone had exposed them, and one by one, they had fallen. Men, women and children.

Was it the church? Gaharet dismissed the idea. He did not believe so, at least not the church as a whole, for their kind would have been publicly denounced as an abomination. Hunted down, imprisoned, tortured and executed. But perhaps an individual of the church might have used knowledge of their pack to his own advantage, killing them off for his own twisted purpose.

Archeveque Renaud?

The archeveque’s name had come up on more than one occasion, and Gaharet had been quick to take action, sending Aimon to investigate. Now the pack met again, all anxious for Aimon’s news. Would they finally have their answers?

Gaharet waited for the servants to place their platters of steaming meat, thick, crusty bread and pitchers of wine on the table, ensuring they had left the room before he spoke. His people had served him well, always faithful, loyal and discreet, guarding his family’s secret. But these were dangerous times, and one could not be too careful. A tight knot formed in his chest. It pained him to think this way.

He addressed the youngest of the group. “What news, Aimon, of the archeveque?”

Aimon snorted, running his hand through his white-blond hair, blue eyes flashing. “Never have I seen a more ungodly man of God.”

Ulrik threw back his head and laughed, a coarse, gravelly sound, revealing vicious scars lacerated across his throat. “Godliness is not a prerequisite for the priesthood.” Ulrik leaned back, slouching in his chair, refilling his wine goblet. “Your naivety is showing, Aimon. Grow up young pup, or you will become a liability. Perhaps we should have left you on that battlefield. Not everyone was in favor of Gaharet’s decision that day.”

Gaharet scowled at Ulrik, a growl rising to his lips, but he held it in check. Ulrik was always wont to provoke him and Gaharet refused to bite.

“I may be young, but do not take me for a fool. I am well aware a calling from God does not motivate all clergymen.” Aimon glared at Ulrik. “But Archeveque Renaud has taken corruption to a whole new level. The man has his finger in every dissolute scheme this side of bloody Rome and,” he added, “he is busy trying to ingratiate himself with Comte Lothair.”

Gaharet snorted. “That is nothing new. I have blocked his access to the comte for years. That alone does not make him responsible for our current woes, Aimon.”

Aimon shook his head. “He has petitioned the comte for a private audience specifically excluding you.”

“He has been trying that for years, too. He does not like me intervening between him and the comte.” Gaharet took a sip of wine, unperturbed by Aimon’s revelations. Renaud was a schemer, but did he have the skill, the cunning or the nerve to take them down? Gaharet was not so certain.

“He has petitioned him five times in the last week,” Aimon pressed.

Gaharet chuckled. “He is persistent. I will grant him that.”

“Well, this time he has convinced the comte. Lothair has approved his final petition.”

Gaharet’s head snapped up, his knife clattering against the table and his food forgotten.

“What?”

“Word has it Renaud has something he is itching to tell the comte. Something he refuses to disclose to anyone else. Something that will make them allies against an insidious enemy, a great evil.”

“When?”

“He is meeting with the comte late tomorrow.”

“This is an unexpected development,” said Ulrik. “Seems our illustrious leader is not as informed as he would like us to believe. If you were not aware of this meeting, what else do you not know?” Ulrik’s brown eyes challenged him, a smug smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

Gaharet scowled, clenching his jaw tight. Picking up his knife, he impaled a piece of meat and glowered at Ulrik. The others remained silent, eyes averted. He stared at Ulrik, lip curled in a snarl, refusing to let this insolence go unchecked, demanding acquiescence. A few moments passed, breaths held. With a grunt, Ulrik dropped his gaze and bowed his head, but his smirk remained. Gaharet forced his shoulders to relax. He would not be drawn into a confrontation. Loud exhalations echoed around the table.

“I was not aware,” he said, glancing around at his men. “Lothair has not informed me of this meeting.” Leaning back in his chair, he sipped his wine. Lothair, his Seigneur, Comte de Anjou, in collusion with Archeveque Renaud? What an alarming thought. Why was he not privy to this information? Lothair consulted him on everything. Or at least he had.

“It is not beyond Lothair to use Renaud to suit his purposes,” he said, picking at his food. “He will often befriend religion before going to war. Perhaps he plans another campaign.” Yet Lothair had given no hint in that regard. And why would Lothair exclude him from that?

“But if Renaudisthe one behind these attacks on us, would Lothair not find such information useful? Would he not try to use it against us?” asked Lance, his dark beard streaked with gray, the only telltale sign of age. The men nodded in agreement.

“It makes our position far more dangerous,” said Edmond. “Why has Renaud not denounced us already? From the pulpit or at court? In Rome?”

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