WolfeStrike (De Wolfe Pack Generations #2) - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,41

places,” he said, pointing. “You check the stables. Yesterday, I happened to know she had some interest in a man selling horses there, so she may have gone back there.”

He refrained from mentioning the wild Arabian and Fraser nodded. “Where are you going?” he asked.

Tor looked towards the east end of the village. “There is a tavern over there I am going to check.”

“The Crown and Sword?”

“Aye,” Tor said. “I swear I have never eaten so much in my life.”

Fraser snorted. “That place will make a glutton out of you.”

Tor grinned. “If she is not there, I will make my way down the avenue and see if I spy her. I would suggest you do the same if you do not find her in the stables. Sweep until the end of the avenue heading west and I will meet you right here when I am finished.”

It seemed like a good enough plan. Fraser nodded as he headed off towards the livery and Tor turned in the opposite direction, heading for the Crown and Sword.

The tavern seemed like as good a place to start as any. He really didn’t know where else Isalyn could go this early in the morning, but the entire town seemed to be open for business at this early hour.

If she was here, she could be anywhere.

The Crown and Sword was empty at this hour, at least of diners, but there were a few people sleeping on tables and in the corners. Isalyn was not among them, so Tor headed down the street, planning to check in every stall he could find.

As Tor had noted yesterday, Haltwhistle was a surprisingly busy village, but not so surprising considering it was the largest village on the road between Newcastle upon Tyne and Carlisle. Leading Enbarr behind him, Tor came to a row of stalls whose sole business was precious metals. There were heavily armed guards all around, and they eyed him suspiciously. Unwilling to be seen as a threat, he stayed clear of them as he moved down the avenue.

Across the street were more stalls that seemed to have a good deal of wool. Raw wool, woven wool, and woolen thread, and they were advertising the fact that they could dye the wool whatever color one might wish. Two men stood out in front of one of the stalls, calling to women passing by, promising that they could dye thread the color of the sky or the color of their eyes. They seemed to be very enthusiastic, pulling in customers for their colored wool.

But still, no Isalyn.

Further down the street came an area that had more to do with the heavy wool trade in the region – beaters, sorters, and washers of wool were spread out in an organized fashion, overseen by managers, and there was a good deal of business going on. At this time of year, sheep were being brought to market, as he’d observed yesterday. He had his own sheep at Blackpool to take to market, but last year he took them into Carlisle. He thought that this time, he might bring them here because they clearly had a heavy wool trade industry. Thoughts of bringing his sheep down here were interrupted, however, by what he thought might have been a cry.

A scream.

Tor paused, ears cocked. There were crowds around him, so he thought he might be hearing things until he heard it again.

He’d heard that scream before.

Yesterday.

He was on the move.

The day had started out as a good one.

Isalyn had awoken before dawn, rising in a chamber that was already warm because the servants had stoked the hearth in the wee hours while she’d been sleeping. Her father always made sure that she was well-tended when she visited, which meant the room was warm, fragrant, and richly appointed in all aspects.

As the daughter of a merchant, luxury was a given, and that was readily apparent at Featherstone. Covering the wooden floor were fluffy hides and expensive woolen carpets that had been imported from points east. Because her father had many suppliers all over the known world, and supply trains that traveled all over the continent, they often had exotic items from the Holy Land and even further east.

Things from the lands of the pagan gods.

One of those items was beneath her feet at that very moment, a rug from Baghdad. It was elaborate and beautiful, magnificent in every aspect. Featherstone had at least four of those rugs that she knew of, including two in her