Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) by Conn Iggulden Page A

nothing.
    ‘Come on then, boy,’ he said aloud, growling the words. ‘See what I’ll give you.’
    Edward had hunted wolves many times but never seen the action of a pack when they were faced with a clear choice. With no beat of hesitation, every one of the animals launched themselves at him in lunging, frothing rage. Despite his size, Edward was slammed back against the wall of the cleft, almost brought to his knees with the sheer weight of them. His armour saved him then, the scarred metal proof against claws and teeth. The wolves grabbed and savaged his cloak, tearing holes in it as they jerked their heads back and forth, pulling him around and off balance. Edward made his own battle cry. He swung his sword in scything blows, though he did as much damage with his gauntlets.
    It was over in heartbeats, just as soon as the pack leaders had drawn or yanked him away from their only path to freedom. Edward panted, resting his hands on his knees. Four wolves lay on the ground near him, two alive and two clearly dead.
    The rest of the pack were long gone and there was no sign of the woman who had set them all off. Slowly, wincing from the bruises and scratches he had taken, Edward sank down to a crouch, reaching out to one of the wounded animals. He could see her back was broken and her haunches dragged as she tried to stand. Her lips curled and her eyes widened as his hand came closer, until he smackedher hard on the muzzle. She barked once, then crawled away from him, whimpering all the while.
    Edward straightened up carefully as the enormous mastiff padded over, growling deep in its throat whenever one of the wolves moved. They were no threat and the black-and-white dog was not afraid. Scuffed and dusty, it walked right up to Edward, limping on a paw that ran with blood. As Edward looked down, the dog pushed at him with its head, rubbing its muzzle into the folds of his cloak. He did not think he had ever seen a larger hound.
    ‘You
are
a big lad, aren’t you, boy?’ Edward said. ‘Like me. Was that your mistress, up there? The one who set the whole pack on me? Yes, it was. Was that your mistress, boy?’
    The dog wagged a tail like a leather whip. To Edward’s amusement, the huge-headed animal smiled visibly as he rubbed it between its shoulders. For all the scratches and cuts it had taken, the dog was simply pleased to be patted by someone friendly.
    Edward looked up as small stones and leaves rained around him. The woman he’d seen was climbing down through the rocks and undergrowth, hanging on to roots and stones while her dress snagged and showed her legs to the thigh. He was bruised and hot and irritated, so he went on to one knee and rubbed harder at the dog until it rolled suddenly and presented an almost hairless belly to him, beaming stupidly, its tongue lolling.
    Edward could hear the woman’s breathing, louder in that cleft than it might have sounded above. He waited for her, content to pat and fuss over the dog while his own breathing returned to normal. The injured wolves around him were whining and he considered using a knife to end their suffering, then thought better of it. They had attackedhim and the experience had been frightening, though he would not have admitted it to anyone. Despite his mail and plate, adult wolves were both heavy and blindingly quick. If he’d gone over on to his back, he knew they’d have ripped his throat out. He still had a memory of yellow teeth snapping shut so close to his eyes that he’d expected searing pain to follow.
    For what seemed an age, he waited, aware of the woman’s presence above but not reacting to it. She had climbed halfway down, but then stopped on a steep bit of moss-covered granite, about a dozen feet from the ground. It was still too high to jump and he could hear her crabbing back and forth in frustration, looking for another step or handhold and not finding one.
    He heard her slip, looking up as she cursed. Whatever she had been holding in both