Wolfehound: A Medieval Romance

Book 11: De Wolfe Pack Generations

by Kathryn Le Veque

Genres: Historical Romance; Ancient World Romance; Medieval Romance

Synopsis

The Mother of All Secrets is blown wide open in this epic Medieval Romance set in the lush, family-driven world of de Wolfe Pack.

Secret identities, age-gap romance, and alpha males abound!

Twenty years ago, during the reign of Edward I, the last Welsh prince was sentenced to death. All that remained of his family was his six-month-old daughter with dual royal bloodlines, who was arrested and sent to live at Sempringham Priory. She was to become a nun, never to procreate, because prophesy dictated that should she ever marry and rise to power, she would bring about the collapse of England.

Gwenllian was the infant's name.

But she never made it to the priory.

The English knight who took charge of her as an infant was a friend of Gwenllian's father. William de Wolfe, Earl of Warenton, promised Llywelyn the Last that he would see his daughter safety hidden from the English king. No one knew of this but a select few, but many years later, a deathbed confession thrust the secret out into the open.

Now, the king's men are looking for the infant once known as the Princess of Ghosts and Dragons, only she's not an infant any longer. She's a beautiful young woman from a fine Northern English family who has no idea of her true identity. Cambria de Royans, as she's known, is about to marry Liam Herringthorpe, one of the knights who helped spirit her to safety. The pair are madly in love and looking forward to a life together. But Liam is also part of the de Wolfe family, the most powerful in Northern England, and when they realize Gwenllian's secret is out, that puts the King of England on a directly collision course for the House of de Wolfe.

A cataclysmic clash is on the horizon as it's de Wolfe versus the Crown of England in this sweeping Medieval saga.

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Release date: August 21, 2025

Publisher: Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

Print pages: 321

Sample

PROLOGUE

Year of Our Lord 1302
Hyssington Castle, England
Demesne of the Lords of the Trilaterals, House of de Lara
The old lord was dying.
Colm de Lara had seen more than his fair share of adventure and battle over the course of his
lifetime, things that often hardened men or weakened them, spiritually and mentally, things that
could crush a lesser man. Colm had seen everything with the House of de Royans, battling the
Welsh on the marches with great armies or the Scots or any number of enemies that allies had
deemed he should fight. Allies like William de Wolfe, Earl of Warenton, and inarguably the
greatest knight of his generation. He’d served de Royans and de Wolfe well until his father died a
few years ago and, as the heir to the Trilateral castles of de Lara, he’d come back to the marches.
But that tenure as Lord of the Trilaterals was about to end. No sooner had he returned than a
cancer had infected him. He’d suffered with it for years, but now it was overwhelming his body.
He didn’t have much time left. And, God help him, it couldn’t end before he told what he knew.
A man sat next to his bed, smelling of wine and urine. It radiated from the filthy woolen
robes he wore, clothing that proclaimed his place as a prince of the church, but robes that in
reality hid the darkness of the man’s soul. He called himself St. Zosimus and he came from St.
Mary’s church, the largest church in the nearby village of Y Trallwng and the source of strange
and unsavory happenings for years. Women vanishing and orphans being subject to heavy labor
were among some of the sins. There was even rumor that St. Zosimus had convinced a wealthy
local man to give all of his money to the church in the hopes of saving his immortal soul. Then
he’d spent the money on wine and food. For himself.
In short, St. Zosimus was not a man to be trusted.
And that was what Colm was counting on.
“You were saying, my lord?” St. Zosimus said after ingesting a large drink of wine from his
third cup of the evening. “You have something important on your mind. That is clear. Please tell
me what you have summoned me for so that you may die in a state of grace. Surely a knight with
your reputation requires much forgiveness for your actions over the years.”
That was true. Colm tried to speak but his throat was dry, so he ended up coughing that
hacking cough that was caused by a cancer that was eating him alive. St. Zosimus could have
given him a sip of wine to ease his throat, but he didn’t. He didn’t have that kind of compassion.
Therefore, Colm coughed until the blood started coming up again, and only then was he able to
stop somewhat.
Ragged breathing filled the air of the stale, dim chamber.
“I must confess something,” he finally rasped. “I must speak of it because I cannot die with it
on my conscience. Others will. They will die with this burden upon their breast, but I will not. I
once promised I would not speak of it, but I must break that vow because I fear that God will ask
me why I would not confess such a thing. I was there. It is my secret to tell.”
Secret. That word had St. Zosimus leaning just a little closer to the bed, his angular features
illuminated by the light from the bedside taper. He knew that de Lara had served with an ally of a
very powerful house, one that was entrenched in the politics of England. In fact, neither England
nor the Crown moved these days without the assistance of the House of de Wolfe. There were so
many of them now that they’d all but taken over the north of England. Allied to the Houses of de

Velt, de Royans, and de Reyne, other major northerner warlords, the four major families locked
up England from Leeds to the Scots border.
Secret.
St. Zosimus was very curious what that might be.
“Speak, my lord,” he said. “I am listening. God is listening.”
He threw “God” into the conversation to force Colm into spilling whatever juicy mysteries he
might be harboring, the unspoken threat of a deity that demanded truth from all. Perhaps the man
had cheated a neighbor. Perhaps he’d even cheated a brother or his father. Or perhaps he’d stolen
something that he now wanted absolution for. Whatever it was, St. Zosimus was ready.
Somewhere in the night, a dog howled. The mournful cry wafted in through the lancet
window, contributing to the sense of disquiet in the chamber. Colm was breathing heavily, his
eyes closed, and he let out a sound that led St. Zosimus to believe he was about to speak. But it
was a false start. Colm remained silent for several long seconds before he finally began his
confession.
“You must swear before God that you shall not repeat what I am about to tell you,” he rasped.
St. Zosimus nodded. “Of course,” he said, picking up his wine cup and taking another long
drink. “Speak, my son. It will do you good.”
Colm’s eyes remained closed. “You know that I once served an ally of the Earl of Warenton,”
he said. “The first one, I mean. William de Wolfe himself.”
“I know.”
Colm’s eyes slowly rolled open. “He was a great man,” he said. “I do not criticize him, but
long ago, he did something… something that could be considered treason.”
That perked up St. Zosimus considerably. “Did he?” he said. “But I am certain that a man
like de Wolfe has done many things in his lifetime that could be considered questionable. Men
like William de Wolfe do not achieve legendary status unless they have.”
“Even concealing something that could possibly bring about the destruction of England?”
St. Zosimus wasn’t quite following him. “What could that possibly be?” he said. “De Wolfe
was always in support of the Crown. Henry depended on him. That is well known. Surely
Edward did as well, since de Wolfe served two kings.”
“Edward did not know what de Wolfe had done,” Colm muttered. “But I do. I was there.”
“Where?”
“There,” Colm said, raising his voice as much as he could. “I was there when de Wolfe
betrayed Edward. Mayhap Warenton has been dead for a few years, but this secret did not die
with him. It continues to live, and I fear it will come back to cause chaos.”
“What could this terrible secret be?”
“Swear to me again that you will not tell.”
“Of course I will not tell. What is it?”
Colm turned his head stiffly until his gaze fell on the priest who was pouring himself another
cup of wine even as they spoke. He did not believe him when he said he would not repeat what
he was about to be told, and that was how Colm would get the word out. It wouldn’t be him
divulging the news, but an idiot priest who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, keep his mouth shut.
That was how they would know.
And Colm could go to his grave in peace.
“How much do you know about the battles in Wales between Dafydd and Llywelyn against
Henry and Edward?” he finally asked.

St. Zosimus shrugged. “As much as anyone, I suppose,” he said. “Edward finally defeated
them and eventually proclaimed his own son the Prince of Wales.”
“He did,” Colm said, his eyes taking on a distant cast. “I was involved in those wars, you
know. I was there when Dafydd was killed and when his brother, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, was
ambushed whilst running from the English. If anyone tells you that he died an honorable death, it
is not true. He tried to escape and the English caught him in a forest. They hacked the man to
death. There is nothing noble about that.”
St. Zosimus thought he knew what Colm meant. “And you need absolution from killing the
last Prince of Wales?”
“Nay,” Colm said, remembering that time not so long ago. A mere twenty years ago. But it
seemed like a lifetime. “I did not participate in the death of Llywelyn. It was what came after that
concerned me.”
“What came after?”
Colm cleared his throat quietly and closed his eyes. “Llywelyn was married to Eleanor de
Montfort,” he muttered. “Were you aware of that? The man was married to a woman of royal
blood. Simon de Montfort was her father, and the daughter of King John, also Eleanor, was her
mother.”
St. Zosimus took another long drink of wine, growing impatient waiting for this great
confession to come forth. “I know the lineage,” he said. “I’ve served here on the Welsh marches
for thirty years, my lord. I am well aware of those you speak of.”
Colm’s eye peeped open, seeing that he was close to losing the man’s interest because he
hadn’t gotten to the point yet. But there was a reason for that. He needed to make the situation
clear before he hit the man with what would undoubtedly be a shocking statement.
St. Zosimus was simply going to have to be patient.
“Llywelyn and Eleanor had a child,” he said. “I do not suppose you heard that, too.”
St. Zosimus nodded. “A girl,” he said. “She was taken to Sempringham Priory. Of course I
know that. Everyone knows that. The child is the last of her line, of Welsh royal blood, but she
also carries English royal blood. She is the daughter of a prince and the granddaughter of a king
and now she is consigned to Sempringham. It is a Gilbertine priory, as I am a Gilbertine as well.
I know all of this, my lord, so what did you wish to tell me about it?”
Colm had suffered enough of the man’s dismissive attitude. All he’d done was drink his
wine, belch, and wait for him to die. Then he would return to his church and plot his next scheme
to gain more money and power. With a last surge of strength, Colm suddenly sat up.
“Listen to me, you idiot,” he said, feeling breathless from his sudden movement. “I am trying
to tell you something so important that it will shake England to her very foundation if it is
discovered, but I tell you this for a reason, and it is not to give you a history lesson.”
St. Zosimus was sitting straight in his chair at this point, startled by de Lara’s abrupt show of
strength. He was a big man and quite intimidating when he wanted to be, so St. Zosimus held up
his hands to ease him.
“Be at peace, my lord,” he said. “Lie back down. You needn’t concern yourself so. I am
listening, I swear it.”
Colm let the man push him back down on the bed, mostly because he was too weak to fight
him. Sitting up had taken nearly everything out of him. Sweating, and red in the face, he pushed
St. Zosimus’ hands away.
“The infant girl, Gwenllian, was in the guardianship of Dafydd when she was captured,” he
said. “I was part of that action. Dafydd was taken away and executed, but the infant and

Dafydd’s daughters were taken to Lincolnshire, to remote abbeys, so they could live out the rest
of their lives as nuns, guarded by the Gilbertines. But that was not the original plan.”
St. Zosimus’ eyebrows lifted. “It wasn’t?’
Colm shook his head weakly. “Nay,” he said. “The Earl of Warenton was part of that action,
too. He was in command of it. Now, understand that I was not privy to many of the reasons
behind this action. I was a mere knight. I simply followed orders. But something was brewing
with de Wolfe, something dark. I heard that his orders were to kill the Welsh offspring, but he
could not bring himself to do it. The man has too much honor to murder small children, so he
sent them to the priories instead. Edward was not entirely pleased with that action, but in the end,
he agreed to it. It would look less that generous of him should a king be responsible for the
deaths of small girls. De Wolfe understood that, but it took Edward time to realize that de Wolfe
did him a favor. When he understood what de Wolfe had done for him, he took credit for sparing
their lives. Or so I was told.”
St. Zosimus was listening closely at this point. “And that is what you wish to confess?” he
said. “That Warenton is responsible for sparing the children of Llywelyn and Dafydd?”
“Nay,” Colm said, his gaze unnaturally focused on the priest. “That is not it. You do realize
that if those girls had married and produced sons, the wars in Wales would never end. They
would go on forever.”
“I would imagine so.”
“And if Gwenllian had married and borne sons, she would be the living link between Wales
and England,” Colm said, his voice quieting. “The woman has more royal blood in her than
Edward does or Henry did. She is as rare as a unicorn. She could lay claim to both thrones, as
could her sons. It would throw England and Wales into decades, if not centuries, of turmoil.
There would be no peace.”
St. Zosimus nodded. “Then it was wise of Warenton to send her to a priory,” he said. “I
wonder if she is aware of who she truly is?”
Colm was silent for a moment. “She is not,” he said. “And she is not at Sempringham. This I
do know because I saw it with my own eyes.”
St. Zosimus’ brow furrowed. “Was she moved? I’d not heard.”
“She never made it there.”
Now, St. Zosimus was starting to catch on that there was something far more to this
conversation. Now, a hint of something had come into the light, and he looked at Colm most
curiously.
“How do you know this?” he asked.
Colm sighed heavily. “Because I was told, by my lord, that the decision had been made to
take the child to Sempringham,” he muttered. “But instead of being taken to the priory, she was
given over to my lord to live as his daughter while another infant was sent to Sempringham.
Gwenllian of Wales is alive and well and living as an Englishwoman. She was a beautiful baby,
with black hair and blue eyes, and she grew into a beautiful woman. She is twenty years of age
this year and, more than likely, already married. And if she is married, then children are a distinct
possibility. Sons, that is. Sons that, in turn, may be told of their royal blood and encouraged to
embrace their unique royal heritage.”
St. Zosimus’ mouth was hanging open. “Did de Wolfe know about this?”
“Of course he did,” Colm said. “He arranged all of it.”
That was even more shocking. “He did this knowing what the cost would be if she bred
sons?”

“Sons that will fight Edward and Edward’s progeny for their birthright,” Colm said. “We all
knew what the cost would be.”
St. Zosimus sat in his chair, dumbfounded by what he was hearing. “The betrayal you spoke
of,” he mumbled as the revelation hit him. “De Wolfe knows of the Welsh princess’s identity and
living arrangements. He knows what she can do to the Crown.”
Colm could see that the man was understanding the situation. “De Wolfe was loyal to Henry,
but Edward is another matter,” he said. “Edward was always threatened by the power William de
Wolfe held in the north, in particular because he had voiced his sympathy for Simon de Montfort,
and the relationship between the two was tenuous at best. Worse still, de Wolfe and his family
have no use for Edward’s son, who will be king someday. Scott de Wolfe is the current Earl of
Warenton and he is very much his father’s son. He was part of the decision, too, and I’m sure the
House of de Wolfe would like nothing better than for Gwenllian’s sons to rebel against Edward
and his offspring, destroying their reign. Mayhap they are even hoping for it.”
“You think de Wolfe planned this from the start?”
“I believe he did.”
“He wants a civil war?”
“I do not know his reasons other than he and Edward have never gotten on,” Colm said. “I
only know what happened, not the motivation behind it. But it is my guess that de Wolfe wants a
stable England and does not feel that Edward, nor his son, can provide that. If I am being
truthful, then I will say that I agree with him. Edward is a ruthless man and his son is a fool.
Mayhap de Wolfe was hoping that nature would simply take its course.”
“That may be entirely possible.”
“But there is something else.”
“What?”
“Two of William de Wolfe’s children married into the nobility of Wales,” Colm said. “He has
several half-Welsh grandchildren. Once, Henry nearly destroyed his youngest daughter’s
husband, the hereditary King of Anglesey. It is quite possible that this is all revenge for that
attempt.”
St. Zosimus shook his head in disbelief. “Do you think that is true?”
“As I said, I do not know the reasons behind the action,” Colm said. “But anything is
possible.”
St. Zosimus sighed heavily as he pondered it all. “My God,” he muttered. “It seems
fantastic.”
“I know, but I assure you that it is all true.”
“I believe you,” St. Zosimus said. “But Gwenllian… She is living as a nobleman’s
daughter?”
“She is.”
“Will you tell me where?”
Colm didn’t say anything right away. The only sound in the chamber was of the gently
crackling hearth, with the silence growing progressively more oppressive. St. Zosimus waited
with increasing impatience, needing to know what more there was to this tale. And it was a wild
tale at that.
“My lord?” he finally said.
Colm’s eyes were closed, indicative of his exhaustion now that he’d spent so much energy
speaking on something he’d never told anyone. Not even his wife. But he was one of the very
few who knew the truth. He couldn’t take it to his grave because if he did and Gwenllian did

indeed produce sons, the deaths of those killed in the battles that would undoubtedly come would
be on him because he knew everything.
And he hadn’t told the truth.
He’d been wrestling with the dilemma for twenty years.
“Only a handful of us knew the truth,” he finally said. “Four or five at the most. Three that
knew are dead.”
“Who is that?”
“William de Wolfe and his closest friends, Paris de Norville, Lord Bowmont, and Sir Kieran
Hage,” Colm murmured. His strength was fading. “I was the fourth. There is a fifth.”
“Who is that?”
“The knight who raised Gwenllian as his daughter.”
“What is his name?”
There was the question. Colm had told St. Zosimus his deepest secret for a reason, but now
that the priest had asked for the last key piece of information, he was oddly hesitant. He didn’t
know why. Perhaps it was because he’d be betraying a man he’d once served with, a man he
considered a friend. He knew St. Zosimus was going to take this revelation straight to the king.
He knew that meant his friend, the one who had raised Gwenllian as his own, would be in a good
deal of trouble. But the reality was that the man had done something he should not have,
knowing full well the consequences.
Betray his friend?
Or betray his country?
Colm made the only choice he could.
He told him. ...