Page 60 of Wolf's Prize

He tugged at his bottom lip. “The estate in question is extensive and comes with a myriad of obligations. Are you prepared to take on the responsibilities Gaharet’s death has left void?”

“I will serve you in any way you deem fit, Mon Seigneur Comte. As I always have.”

Yes, he would, and it would not be in Gaharet’s stead. Nor as Kathryn’s husband.

Lothair nodded, pretending to consider Lance’s proposal. “I will think on this. Dismissed.”

As Lance departed, Lothair rose and poured himself a drink, then dropped back into his chair. He kicked his feet up on his desk and leaned back, pondering this new turn of events. He now had three of Gaharet’s vassals vying for Kathryn, but only one of them had dared turn up at the estate. As of today, two men had petitioned him for Kathryn Beauchene’s hand in marriage. Both Gaharet’s men. Neither of them Aimon Proulx.

Lothair had expected a reaction, but not from Aimon. It made no sense. If Aimon knew Gaharet to be alive, and Lothair was certain he did, why would he call on the d’Louncrais estate?What are you up to, Aimon?

He took a sip of wine. He did not believe Aimon had betrayed Gaharet. The young man did not possess the guile. He never had. A fine warrior on the battlefield, he lacked the ruthlessness one needed for court politics, to deal with the likes of consummate players like Renaud. And yet, for one not well suited to cutthroat intrigue, he was holding his own, keeping secrets from Gaharet’s other vassals. Lothair had never erred when judging a man’s character. He did not believe he had misread Aimon.

And what of the other petitioner? Godfrey Lagarde? Quiet and scholarly, but a solid warrior, his request for Kathryn’s hand in marriage, and by extension the d’Louncrais estate, had surprised Lothair. He had always thought Godfrey’s interests lay elsewhere. Perhaps Godfrey had more than one secret.

Lothair drank down his wine. Werewolf pack politics, it seemed, were as convoluted as those of the court. But which one of them had aligned with Renaud?

“Robert,” he called to the guard stationed outside his door. “Inform the stables to have my mount ready first thing tomorrow morning. And tell the capitaine of the guard to have a score of men ready to ride to the d’Louncrais keep.”

“It shall be as you command, Mon Seigneur Comte.”

The time had come for him to have a talk with Aimon. Lothair swung his legs down and refilled his wine. He would need more fortification to deal with his next appointment.

“Send in the archeveque.”

Lothair made himself comfortable behind the wide expanse of his desk. He wanted something solid between them and his sword within easy reach. He had never trusted Archeveque Renaud. The man was a diabolical schemer, but knowing he could entrap and kill a werewolf had Lothair taking more precautions than usual. Renaud might use mercenaries to do his killing, but it did not mean he would not attempt something on his own.

The door swung open. Archeveque Renaud swished into the room using his ecclesiastical robes like a pass granting him all access. His ring of office glinted on his aged and wrinkled fingers, and, in his hands, he held a clay pot from which sprouted a plant. He placed it on the desk, taking a seat Lothair had not granted him.

Lothair scowled.Do not get too comfortable, old man.

It mattered not how many times Lothair excluded him, ignored him or rebuked him. Renaud took it all in his stride. He had lost count of the myriad of Renaud’s schemes he had foiled, and how many he had refused to sanction. He could not dissuade Renaud. The man continued to approach him with yet another idea, petition or, as Renaud liked to put it, opportunity. Until now, Gaharet had been at his side, a formidable barrier, cutting Renaud down with a sneer or a well-chosen barb. He wished Gaharet were here now.

Renaud bobbed his head in a semblance of a bow. “Mon Seigneur Comte.”

“What is this?” Lothair asked, pointing at the plant.

He had no intention of giving Renaud any cause to think they were co-conspirators. For certain, Renaud had brought him the knowledge of werewolves. Should he be grateful? Perhaps. Should he reward Renaud for it? Absolutely not. Renaud had overplayed his hand on this one. He had put Lothair at odds with Gaharet, his closest advisor, and the only man he had ever thought of as his friend. He suspected Renaud had planned that all along, in order to bring him, Comte of Anjou, down. How did Renaud think he could succeed when Lothair’s own brothers had failed?

“The plant is a safeguard, Mon Seigneur.”

Lothair’s scowl darkened.

“Wolfsbane,” said Renaud. “It never hurts to be prepared. One never knows when one might need it.”

Lothair narrowed his eyes. Renaud giving him something for protection? Unrequested? Out of character for Renaud. No. The wolfsbane served a purpose. For Renaud’s benefit, no doubt.

“How goes it with our captive werewolf? Have you made any progress?” asked Renaud, ignoring Lothair’s lack of appreciation for the gift.

Lothair waved his hand dismissively. “I have yet to speak to him. For all I know, he is dead.”

Ulrik was not dead. Lothair had spoken to the guards stationed at the grate to his cell that very morning to see how Ulrik fared. Not well, but he was not dead. A week or two in the dark, dank cell, alone, weak and on meager rations might make Ulrik more amenable to his plan. Perhaps not. Perhaps it would only make Ulrik’s anger and hunger for revenge burn hotter, but Lothair was in no rush. Not with Renaud salivating at the prospect. Not until he determined how this fit with the archeveque’s plan.

Renaud grinned, a joyless smile all teeth and jutting cheekbones. “You think he may be more agreeable to your demands once he has had time to enjoy your hospitality? Ulrik has ever been hot tempered. Time in that miserable hole should dampen his enthusiasm a little.”

Renaud’s smile, all cruel intent, would have chilled a lesser man to the bone. Age brought wisdom, so the saying went. In Renaud’s case, it brought him cunning and, if the lines on Renaud’s face were anything to go by, he had an endless supply.

Renaud steepled his fingers, settling into his chair. “Have you given any thought to who you might turn first? A loyal chevalier? A servant?”

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