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THE WOLFE

An epic 2 part Medieval Romance

By Kathryn Le Veque

Part 1

The Wilds of the North

There upon a midnight blue

The knights went riding two by two

Out upon the moonlit moors

Death consumed them, brought by war

Into their midst, a phantom came

Known by heart, this gentle rain

A lady’s name…

A river, she was called

Loved and cherished, one and all

This lady known to knights so bold

This is now the story told.

~ Prelude to The Wolfe

CHAPTER ONE

The month of December

Year of our Lord 1231

Skirmish of Bog Wood near Blackadder Water, the England/Scotland border

“By everything that is holy, I do hate a battle.”

A soft female sigh filled the damp and cool air. The reply was harsh.

“So help me, Caladora, if ye faint again I shall take a stick to ye.”

Five women stood high atop a hill, looking down upon a grisly scene far below in what was once a peaceful and serene valley. Where lavender heather used to wash amidst the lush green there were now broken, bloody corpses, the result of a fight that had lasted for a day and a night. Now, everything was eerily still with only the occasional cries of the dying. No more sounds of swords; only the sounds of death.

The sun was beginning to set over the distant hills, casting the valley in a shadowed light. To the women waiting on the high hill, it looked as if Hell itself was setting in to begin claiming its souls. It was ended, this battle; one battle in a mightier war that had been going on for as long as anyone could remember. The war for the Scots border.

The Lady Jordan Scott waited with her aunts and cousins, waiting for the signal from her father that would send them down into the valley to begin assessing their own wounded and making sure any enemy wounded were sent into the netherworld. She hated it; all of it. She hated seeing good men die, watching their life blood drain away and listening to their pleas for help. She hated the bloody English for causing all of this blessed pain and suffering because they believed themselves the superior race. All Scots were wild men in their eyes, unthinking and unfeeling, and somehow the English felt compelled to act as their cage-keeper.

But Jordan was anything but wild and unthinking. She had a heart and a mind and soul, sometimes softer than her clansmen would have liked. As the sun continued to set she pulled the hood of her woolen cloak closer, staving off the chill and the gloom. Just when the wait seemed excessive, a shout from one of her father’s men released the dam of women who now poured down into the valley. As the dusk deepened, the hunt began.

Jordan was one of the last one into the valley, dragging her feet even when her aunts casted her threatening glares. She ignored them. In fact, she moved away from them so they would not watch every move she made, removing her hood and picking her targets among the dead.

Her long, honey-colored hair hung loose about her as she bent over a young man and began to tug on a gold signet ring. It seemed to be securely stuck to his finger and she swallowed hard; her father would expect her to take out her dirk and cut off the finger, throwing the whole thing into her basket.