Page 36 of Wolf's Return
D’Artagnon huffed. The twins were formidable, and surrounded by loyal pack, out in the open, his brother would not be an easy target.
“Will you do this for me? Who else would I trust with this than mine own brother?”
D’Artagnon dipped his head. He would go to the cottage. He would protect Constance until his brother deemed it safe for her to return to the keep. Then he would go after the traitor. In truth, he would hunt better knowing she was safe.
Gaharet laid a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of her, D’Artagnon. We need her.Youneed her.”
D’Artagnon sniffed, turned on his heel and trotted off to collect Constance. The pack may have need of her knowledge, but D’Artagnon had no use for her healer’s skills. Not now, not ever.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lance closed the door on Godfrey’s steward and surveyed the room. Though not as impressive as the d’Louncrais library, it was filled with many more tomes and scrolls than his own—stacked in chests, on side tables and on the desk. It had been years since he had set foot in the Lagarde’s keep, but Godfrey, it appeared, had continued his father’s pursuit of collecting knowledge.
A comfortable chair rested by the brazier. A few scrolls with their bindings loose, a journal and an empty goblet with dregs of wine sat on the table beside it, and the coals in the brazier had long since gone cold. On Godfrey’s desk, unopened, were two folded parchments stamped with Comte Lothair’s seal.
Lance had received a similar one yesterday. A summons. And an earlier one a sennight prior. Godfrey had not returned to open either of them. The steward, on Lance’s arrival, had expressed his concern about Godfrey’s unusual absence. No one had seen him for nearly a fortnight. It looked damning for the chevalier.
Lance eased himself into the chair by the brazier. What had Godfrey been reading? He unfurled one of the scrolls. The chevalier’s agitation in the clearing when Kathryn had chosen Aimon as her mate, his visit to Lance’s keep and his cryptic comment about secrets, suggested he was hiding something. It warranted further investigation.
He read through the scroll—an account of Victor’s visit from Bretaigne and his taking of Marie as his mate—writtenin Godfrey’s familiar, concise hand. There was nothing in it Lance did not already know. He had been there. Together with Godfrey, he had escorted the miscreant stable hand, Didier, off the d’Louncrais demesne. It had been a foolish move on Jacques’ behalf, banishing Didier rather than killing him on the spot. Lance would not have shown such mercy. Or risked the secret of their existence by allowing Didier to walk free.
Had Godfrey thought to track Didier? See if he still lived? The stable hand would for certain have harbored resentment toward the d’Louncrais. He set the scroll aside. It was worth considering.
Lance picked up another scroll. The writing was more slanted, brisk. Written by Godfrey’s father, if his memory served him. He skimmed the first few lines. Ah, the account of Ulrik’s exile, and the punishment of Ulrik’s family in his stead. A sorry business all round. At least now Ulrik appeared to have pulled his head out of the wine barrel. Finally. Finding your mate would do that to a wolf.
A flicker of resentment sparked in his chest. That Ulrik would be the one to find his mate, after all the problems he had caused the pack—exiled by his own parents, challenging Gaharet, spending years bedding every available and unavailable woman and imbibing more wine than was good for any man, werewolf or no—irked him. Both he and Godfrey had waited decades. He grunted. Fate was a fickle mistress.
Lance tossed the scroll back onto the table. With Ulrik now absolved of any wrongdoing, it was of no use. He unfurled another scroll. A recounting of a battle against the army of Blois. The battle where D’Artagnon had died. Lance paused in his reading.
They never found his body.
They had discussed this possibility—that D’Artagnon was their rogue wolf—and dismissed it. Lance had to agree withEdmond. D’Artagnon would never have killed his own mother. And, by Kathryn’s account, the wolf who had attacked her and killed Gaharet’s mother had had brown fur, which ruled out D’Artagnon. Why had Godfrey set aside this scroll? What was he searching for?
He read through it twice, but nothing struck him as being amiss. The battle had been ferocious, and many chevaliers on both sides had died before they had routed the enemy. There were several accounts of D’Artagnon crawling away into the forest, a deep slash to his face and a grievous injury to his side. Mortal injuries for a man, and possibly for a werewolf, too, if he were to bleed out before healing could begin. There was mention of others of the pack—his own name amongst them, and Godfrey’s—fighting to get to the downed chevalier. None successful. Of the search for days afterward with no sign of D’Artagnon, living or dead.
Lance set the scroll aside. There was nothing in it to suggest anything other than D’Artagnon had crawled away from the battlefield and died from his wounds. His armor alone would have been cause for someone, whether peasant or enemy, to steal away his body.
He opened the leather-bound journal full of slanted scrawl. This was one of Godfrey’s father’s journals. Geoffroi Lagarde had been as prolific and as fastidious with keeping records as any monk. Perhaps more so. On the desk, and most likely in the chests lining the walls, were more journals like these. What made this one so important?
Lance flicked through the pages, searching for any sign of a section, a line, that had caught Godfrey’s eye. He paused at a page close to the back of the book, his own name leaping out at him, circled in fresh ink. He read through the lines. Reread them again.
Merde.
There on the page, in the bold hand of Geoffroi Lagarde, was motive enough for a twisted jealous mind to have committed heinous acts—attacking a child, and killing his friend’s, his alpha’s, mate. And they pointed the finger squarely at him.
He read through them again.
I needs must write this down, for should it come to anything, this shall be my witness.
He swallowed. In his mind, Geoffroi’s voice rang clear. A man long since fallen, but alive in these pages, in these words, as though speaking from beyond the grave.
As children, Elise, Lance and mine own son, Godfrey, were inseparable. A bond formed between them and remained through to adulthood, extending to Jacques d’Louncrais upon his claiming of Elise. But I fear that bond may soon be broken, for I have observed an unhealthy interest in Lance toward Elise. One that, on Lance’s behalf, extends beyond friendship. Jacques and Elise appear to be unaware of Lance’s infatuation. Lance has yet to act upon it, and may never do so, but I have, on more than one occasion, scented his dissatisfaction with Jacques. Though, in all honesty, I could not, without a doubt, attribute it to his feelings toward Elise.
This may amount to naught, for both my son and Lance have always had a fondness for Elise, and she them. Perhaps it is merely Lance’s wish that he, too, had found his mate.
Lance snapped the journal shut. This was the secret Godfrey suspected him of harboring. It was damning if one considered the actions of an infatuated young man as evidence. Believedhimto be the infatuated man Geoffroi had thought him, rather than a man envious of the happiness his childhood friend and his alpha had found.
Given what had recently come to light—Elise’s death, and Kathryn’s attack at the hands of one of their own—it would be an easy enough conclusion to come to. If one had not been there. Had not seen that Jacques’ mate had been the object of desire for almosteveryman in the county. Elise was a beauty. A flame that burned so brightly, so hot. Sometimes too hot. She had set many a man’s imagination on fire with her boldness, only to burn them to the ground with her temper. Jacques had succeeded where others had failed, taming her in some small way.
