Page 10 of Wolfehound
It wasn’t long before they came upon the road to Folkingham. Carlton took the lead and urged the escort to move more quickly, along a muddy road that had big holes in it. The landscape was winter-gray all around them, cold and dead, and in the wagon, the babe had started to cry. That thin, piercing sound filled the air as they traveled and Liam glanced behind him, into the wagon bed, to see that the wet nurse was trying to feed the infant. It was almost impossible given how much the wagon was lurching. A hungry baby with the inability to latch on to the nipple made for a frustrating effort.
There wasn’t anything Liam could do about it. They had to make it to the castle, which had appeared in the distance. Lincolnshire was flat, as flat as a plate, and this particular area seemed to be devoid of trees. There was nothing for a mile in any direction, a dark line in the distance the only indication of growth other than the dead grass upon the ground. A cold wind began to pick up and Liam didn’t think he much liked Lincolnshire. He was from the north, on the sea, in fact, and he missed the smell of salt in his nostrils and the cry of gulls overhead. He’d spent nearly the past year in Wales with the English armies, with de Royans, and now they were finally returning to a castle he didn’t much like.
It didn’t remind him of home.
But here they were.
Little did he know what they were in for.
CHAPTER THREE
“You should takethe child straight to the priory. Why bring her to the castle?”
The question came from Colm de Lara. He was riding point for the escort, now joined by Carlton, as they slogged toward the castle along the impossibly muddy road. Both knights had pale-colored warhorses, animals that were now brown from the neck down because of all of the muck. It was flying everywhere because they were moving quickly. Carlton heard the question, his gaze on the gray-stoned walls in the distance.
“Because the priory is still about five miles to the east,” he said. “The sun is setting and a storm is approaching. If we do not get this child to warmth and safety, there will be no child to deliver to the priory, and that will not bode well for you or for me.”
Colm looked off toward the east, instinctively, as if to see the priory that was their ultimate destination. “Tomorrow, then,” he said. “She will not be completely safe until she is within those old walls.”
“Agreed.”
A pause. “Do you truly think Warenton is following us?” Colm asked.
Carlton’s gaze was fixed on his home, as if he could look at nothing else. “I do not know,” he said. “We were not part of the ambush at Llandeilo, but the stories I heard… tragic at best. Men lose sons all the time, but the men who witnessed the death of Warenton’s son said that he took it very hard. He tried to carry his son out of the fighting, but he could not. They were swarmed with Welsh, and Warenton’s surviving sons had to pull the old man free or risk his own death. They had to leave their brother behind.”
Colm didn’t seem particularly sympathetic. “The man acts as if he has been the only father in history to have lost a son in battle,” he said, lifting a hand in surrender when he saw the frown on Carlton’s face. “I do not mean to be cruel. And I like Warenton enough. He is a decent man. But he will have to come to terms with this, and taking his grief out on children is beneath him.”
“He will not take it out on the children,” Carlton said. “But de Norville seemed to think that quickly removing them from Warenton’s reach might remove any temptation.”
Colm shook his head. “This may not have anything to do with vengeance for his son and instead be more of a swipe at the king,” he muttered. “You know that Edward and Warenton have never seen eye to eye. It’s Edward’s fault, I will admit, but Warenton could be threatening to take the Welsh children hostage himself in order to take control away from Edward. It would be a volatile political move.”
Carlton couldn’t disagree. “Mayhap,” he said. “But Edward knows how much support Warenton has. All the man has to do is lift a hand and half of England will rush to his side. The Scots, too, because his wife is Scots. And the Welsh would more than happily rush to Warenton’s side because of his ties to them also.As I said, taking the babe to the priory tomorrow will be safer for us all.”
Colm simply shook his head because the entire situation was delicate. Delicate and dangerous. The sooner they delivered the child to Sempringham, the better.
The last half-mile to Folkingham seemed to take forever. The rain had begun to fall by the time they reached the gatehouse, which was strangely open. Both portcullises were lifted. Assuming it was because the gate guards had seen their party approaching, Carlton and Colm didn’t have any hesitation in entering.
The entire party charged into the rather large bailey of Folkingham, which was a motte and bailey fortress. That meant that walls surrounded a big ward with a hall and outbuildings and stables, and then toward the northern side of it was a man-made mound with a large, square keep built atop it. There was a small moat around the mound, more like a mud puddle, and a wall with a barbican that protected the stairs into the keep. Folkingham was a complicated structure and a crowded bailey in places as a result, but to Carlton, he’d never seen anything so beautiful.
He was home.
But there was someone else at his home, too.
Behind them, the portcullis slammed shut.
They all heard it, a squeaking sound followed by a loud boom as the wood and iron grate fell into place behind the last men from Carlton’s escort. In fact, the men bringing up the rear had barely come through. Frowning, Carlton thought it was just a bit of clumsiness from the gate guards, so he didn’t really give it much thought beyond that. He dismounted his horse, wiping rain from his eyes, when he heard Colm’s quiet voice.
“Carlton,” the man muttered. “Look ahead of you.”
Carlton had to blink his eyes again to clear them of rain. He finally pulled his helm off because it was dripping from the crown. It took him a moment to realize he was looking at a familiar knight heading in his direction, a man he thought he’d left behind in Wales.
The tallest man he’d ever seen in his life.
Patrick de Wolfe was coming for him.
“Christ,” he breathed. “What is he doing here?”
Colm couldn’t even answer him. They were all afraid of Patrick de Wolfe, a mountain of a man with a long arm and an even longer sword. No Welshman had ever survived against Patrick de Wolfe’s long reach, and skill, and Carlton dared to glance around to see if there were any other de Wolfe knights around. A casual glance behind him showed that there were a few at the gatehouse. That was why the gate had slammed shut so abruptly.
