Page 5 of Wolf's Prize

Unease clawed at Aimon Proulx as he rode his warhorse toward the gate of Langeais Keep. Fisted in his hand was a directive to present himself to Lothair, Comte de Anjou. After all that had occurred that cursed night Gaharet had fled with his betrothed, being summoned by Lothair did not bode well. Treachery surrounded them, tied his stomach in knots and left him bewildered and unsure of whom to trust.

He had not wished to leave his self-appointed position guarding Gaharet and Erin, but Gaharet had ordered him to return home, to pretend he knew little of what had happened. Hidden away in the forest, Gaharet was blind to what transpired with his men, the unpredictable Comte Lothair, or the scheming Archeveque Renaud. Gaharet needed him to be his eyes and ears. A task he felt wholly unsuited for.

At the gate ahead of him, he spotted Lance dismounting from his horse. Had Lothair commanded his presence, too? Had they all received a similar summons? Lance passed his horse’s reins to a waiting stable hand and unbuckled his sword, handing it to the gate guard. A moment later, he retrieved a dagger from his boot and another from beneath his surcoat. Lothair would want to be certain they were not armed, at least not with human weapons.

Aimon reined his horse in and dismounted beside Lance, eyeing his fellow chevalier, his pack member. Could Lance be the one who had betrayed them, selling their secrets to Archeveque Renaud? Who, in turn, had exposed them to Comte Lothair? Lance, who had stood by Gaharet, advised him and supported his ascension to pack alpha? Was he the one who had faked grief at the murder of their kind—men, women and children, even his own family?

Lance shifted and turned to face Aimon, placing his back to the wall. Lance, it seemed, held his own concerns.

“Any word of the others?” His face grim and a haunted look in his gray eyes, Lance appeared tired and worn, as though their situation had aged him more than time ever had.

Aimon shook his head. “You are the first I have seen in days.” Aimon hesitated, his hand on the buckle of his sword.

Lance held up his empty hands. “Troubled times. It is hard to know who is friend and who is foe.”

“Agreed.” Aimon unbuckled his sword, his gaze never leaving Lance. He handed his weapon to the gate guard.

The guard raised an eyebrow. “Any other blades?”

Aimon removed two daggers concealed on his body. He had other weapons at his disposal, but none he could reveal in such a public place.

Lance frowned. “We cannot let them turn us against each other. If they succeed in that, then they have already won.”

Aimon caught a scent in the air and turned. Two large men rode toward them. Aubert and Edmond. All their kind were larger, more muscular than most, but Edmond and Aubert were truly daunting in their sheer height and breadth. Rarely seen apart, the twins made a fearsome pair. Could they have turned on the pack? Gruff in manner and brutal in battle, Aimon had always thought them steadfast and loyal.

They reined in beside him, dismounting and handing their weaponry to the gate guard. Edmond forced a tight smile. Aubert glowered. The four of them moved within the walls, away from listening ears.

Godfrey entered the bailey and joined them, his movements cautious, his expression wary. Always careful with his words, considered in his approach, could his quiet, thoughtful ways hide a deceiver?

An awkward silence hung between them, each man looking to the others, suspicion darkening their faces. One of these men had betrayed them all. He must discover who. The weight of Gaharet’s expectations fell heavily on Aimon.

“It appears we have all received a summons. Has anyone seen or heard from Gaharet? Ulrik?” asked Lance.

A shake of heads. Aimon kept still. He could not afford to be caught in a lie.

“Perhaps they are already here.” Edmond’s words lacked conviction.

Lance turned his head to the breeze and his nostrils flared. Aimon did not deter him, though Lance would not catch their scent. Neither Ulrik nor Gaharet would appear, no matter how long they waited.

“We cannot linger. If we keep Lothair waiting, it will only add to his displeasure.”

Aubert huffed. “We can well do without that.”

They made their way to the keep. Whispers circulated as they entered the crowded hall, and Aimon noted the preponderance of keep guard in the room. Men moved out of their way, gazes dropping to the floor as they deferred to their authority, their power. Women smiled and batted their eyelids. One reached out and touched his mailed arm. Aimon did not even glance in her direction, brushing past her, all his focus on the man seated at the end of the hall surrounded by guards. Comte Lothair.

They halted, five abreast. Movement to the right of Lothair snagged Aimon’s attention. A black-robed priest, his pectoral cross dangling about his neck, moved to stand beside Comte Lothair. Archeveque Renaud. Cold, hard eyes stared out of his lined and cadaverous face, a malevolent grin twisting on his thin, bloodless lips. Aimon swallowed his disgust. He had never encountered a man of the cloth as devious and manipulative as Renaud. The man was a disgrace to his profession.

An expectant silence settled over the hall. The crowd waited, almost salivating.

Lothair motioned to his guard. “Clear the hall. I want everyone out.”

An undertone of disappointment rumbled through the crowd, and a prickle of unease flickered along Aimon’s spine. Whatever Lothair had in store for them was not for public dissemination, and yet Lothair had ordered them to appear here, in the hall, rather than in his private chambers. His message was clear. You are mine to command, and I wish all to know it.

The guards stepped forward, ushering people out, the hum of conversation, the curious whispers fading to a murmur, the hall emptying with reluctant shuffles and curious backward glances.

“You too, Renaud.”

“Mon Seigneur?”

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