Page 1 of Historical Hotties
De Wolfe Pack Generations
The grandsons of William de Wolfe are referred to as “The de Wolfe Cubs”. There are more than forty of them, both biological and adopted, and each young man is sworn to his powerful and rich legacy. When each grandson comes of age and is knighted, he tattoos the de Wolfe standard onto some part of his body. It is a rite of passage and it is that mark that links these young men together more than blood.
More than brotherhood.
It is the de Wolfe birthright.
The de Wolfe Pack standard is meant to be worn with honor, with pride, and with resilience, for there is no more recognizable standard in Medieval England. To shame the Pack is to have the tattoo removed, never to be regained.
This is their world.
Welcome to the Cub Generation.
De Wolfe Motto: Fortis in arduis
Strength in times of trouble
PROLOGUE
Spring, 1303 A.D.
Hagg Crag
Six miles northwest of Doncaster
“You have seenthe fortress?”
“I have. And it will cost you more to take it.”
There was a pause. In a small, cluttered solar that smelled of urine and dog feces, a man with bad teeth and even worse hair was facing off against a well-dressed, well-armed man of Flemish origins.
It was a business meeting.
The man from Flanders wore a yellow tunic with a black lion, the claws bloodied and a big, red tongue lashing out from the mouth. His standard was recognizable to most warlords in England, France, and Scotland because it was his calling card. It was a walking advertisement.
Marcil Clabecq advertised his services through that distinguishable standard.
But those services were pricey.
That was something Catesby Hagg was discovering. He’d already paid the man twenty pounds sterling to bring him andhis eighty-one man army from Flanders to the inlet in Grimsby. From Grimsby, they’d taken the land route to Doncaster, which is where they found themselves now. Even if he didn’t hire this small army of some of the best fighters in the world, it had still cost him plenty to bring them to England.
Now, they wanted more.
He felt as if they were trying to fleece him.
“Howmuchmore?” Catesby asked, trying not to sound annoyed in the face of a man who was paid to kill people. “I told you that Edenthorpe Castle was a substantial bastion. That was never kept from you, so you knew when you came what you would be facing. I fail to see why it is going to cost me more for you to do the job I want you to do.”
Marcil Clabecq could hear the frustration in the man’s voice. But he could also hear his desperation. “Because you failed to mention just how big Edenthorpe was,” he said in his thick Flemish accent. “My men have seen the place and tell me it is massive. There are enormous walls and massive earthworks, which make it more difficult to breach. You also failed to mention that Doncaster has more than a thousand men inside that castle.”
Catesby eyed him. “Who told you that?”
Marcil snorted. A tall man with shoulder-length black hair, a trim mustache and beard, and black eyes that were as black as his mercenary soul, he had been a soldier for hire for many years. So had his father. The Lords of Clabecq were quite rich and well-known mercenaries, hired by barons and kings alike.
Marcil saw great potential in this particular job.
“My men were in Doncaster for several days before we went to the castle,” he said, moving to the sideboard that contained a rock crystal decanter of wine and fine crystal cups. “They asked questions and received answers. It is necessary in my line of work to know exactly what I am dealing with.”
Catesby was a little miffed that Marcil had gone off on his own fact-finding exhibition. “And what are you dealing with?”
