Castle of the Wolf

by Sandra Schwab

  To prevent another round of awkward and stilted conversation, she subtly steered the dinner talk to the field of mythology. Just like her father, Graf von Wolfenbach was keenly interested in the latest developments in this field. He asked her whether she had heard about the Edda edition and translation by the Arna-Magnaean Society in Copenhagen. He recited some of the Latin translations for her and told her about his plan for a new German translation. “Of course, Herder has already translated some of the songs, as have Grater and the Grimms, but still…” Abruptly he stood, raised his glass and in a deep, booming voice declaimed:

  “Up rose Odin,

  the old hero,

  and saddled

  Sleipnir.

  Down he rode

  to Nifelheim…”

  He drank from his wine before he gave Cissy a crooked smile. “It is, of course, not terribly patriotic, but I have always loved those old Norse songs best of all medieval literature.” He sat down. “Tell me, my dear, which piece of medieval literature do you like best?”

  And thus they passed the evening. That night Cissy dreamt of old prophecies, of divine horses with eight legs, of heroes riding the skeletons of giant mice, and of a great demon wolf with glowing eyes, sulking through the forest and pursuing a little girl in a black hood.

  ~*~

  The next morning, Cissy tried to find a new place for all the things in her travel chest. When she unwrapped her books it felt like a reunion with old, dear friends. After they had found a new home on the shelf that adorned one wall of the room, Cissy thought her own new home suddenly looked much cozier than before. The finishing touch was her old blanket on the bed. She left her room with a smile on her face.

  Yet just as quickly, her smile faded. While the previous evening a servant had been sent to guide her to the Great Hall, she was now on her own and soon found that the castle very much resembled a maze. Hallways suddenly twisted into different directions or ended in dead ends, while some staircases led nowhere. With increasing frustration, Cissy went from one ghostly silent room to the next, past faded tapestries and pictures so dark with old age the lines had been blurred beyond recognition. The furniture had lost its luster and everything was covered by a thick layer of dust, making Cissy almost believe it had snowed inside the castle. Her breath formed white puffs of air in front of her face, and she cursed the fact she had only taken her shawl with her and not her thick pelisse. A person might wander around here for days and never find a way out…

  Shuddering, she stepped to a window and looked outside. Far below, she could catch a glimpse of the ward above a rocky drop enclosed by the unrelenting darkness of the forest. And even farther below, like a child’s toy, she saw the small town of Kirchwalden. If she were to disappear, nobody would miss her down there. The innkeeper’s wife, Frau Henschel, might eventually spin a romantic tale about a young Englishwoman mad enough to brave the even madder son of the Graf von Wolfenbach. “And she was seen nevermore …”

  Cissy snorted.

  “Oh no, I’m not that easy to get rid of.” Determinedly, she walked on and finally found herself in the second, smaller courtyard. Heaving a sigh of relief, she glanced up at the wolfish gargoyles lurking beneath the roof above. On a childish impulse, she stuck her tongue out at them then stomped through the gateway to the main courtyard and up the wooden stairs to the Great Hall.

  There she found the Gräfin staring at her plate, seemingly embarrassed, while her husband hid behind the previous day’s newspaper. At a side table, which hadn’t been there day before, Rambach stood waiting, his face devoid of all expression. When the door clicked shut behind Cissy, the Gräfin looked up and made an effort to smile. “Good morning, my dear. I’m afraid my son’s kitchen does not lend itself to culinary delights as far as breakfast is concerned.”

  The butler came forward to help Cissy sit down. “Why, thank you, Rambach.”

  The Gräfin wrinkled her nose, but it was her husband who answered from behind the newspaper in a most disgruntled tone. “There’s only black bread with butter.”

  “And cold gruel,” Rambach added helpfully.

  “Indeed?” Cissy shook out her napkin. And I am supposed to believe that?

  The newspaper rustled agitatedly. “Who knew what kind of strange diet our son keeps to! It’s a shame! A perfect shame!”

  The Gräfin patted his arm. “Don’t upset yourself thus, Ferdinand. We knew Fenris has…strange habits.”

  “Strange habits? Strange habits?” The Graf started to fold the newspaper so fiercely it seemed as if he wanted to wage war against it. “He’s grown into a heathen, our son! That’s what happened! A perfect heathen!”

  A lout, a churl, a nidget, a mutthead… Cissy cocked her head to one side. “Rambach?” She turned her head.

  The butler blinked. “Gnädiges Fräulein?”

  “Are there some leftovers from last night’s roast meat?”

  He gave a cautious nod. “There might be.”

  “Then bring them up.” She gave him a beaming smile.

  “Y-yes.” He gulped. “Gnädiges Fräulein.”

  ~*~

  The thick bulges of the bull’s-eye panes of the study softly filtered the light of the late morning sun. Specks of dust danced in the rays of light, which fell across the heavy desk of darkest wood.

  “And?” Fenris kept his attention on the treatise on modern forestry he was reading.

  Johann shuffled his feet. “Well…” He cleared his throat.

  At that, Fenris looked up, a frown on his face. “Did it work?”

  His valet scratched his head. “Well…your parents had black bread and cold gruel for breakfast, just as you ordered.” He paused.

  “Yes, I admit it.” Sighing, Fenris waved his hand about. “That was a bit unfortunate. What did they say?”

  “According to Rambach, your father thinks you’ve become a heathen. Correction: a perfect heathen.”

  Fenris blew up his cheeks and exhaled slowly. Warily, he rubbed his neck. “What’s new there?” he muttered. “Go on. What happened then?”

  “Well…”

  “Yes?”

  “Then Miss Fussell came and ordered Rambach to bring up the leftovers from last night’s dinner.”

  Fenris groaned.

  His valet lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “Apparently she liked neither buttered black bread nor cold gruel.”

  “Damn.”

  ~*~

  “My dear, you cannot possibly stay here.” The Graf cut off a piece from his slice of cold roast meat. “And mind you, it’s not just because my son has turned into an absolute recluse with no manners whatsoever.” He waved his fork with the pierced bit of meat at her.

  His wife patted his arm. “Don’t agitate yourself. It’s not good for you.” She turned an apologetic smile on Cissy. “You must realize, Miss Fussell, that you cannot stay here unchaperoned and all alone with Fenris. It would not be seemly.”

  Cissy stared at them. There’s no way I am going to leave this castle. If somebody is moving out it will be your bratty, nutty heir!

  “You are more than welcome to come and live with us at the Villa Wolfenbach, for as long as it takes to sort everything out. Isn’t that so, Ferdinand?”

  Harrumphing, the Graf busied himself with his meat. “Yes, yes. Of course,” he mumbled, while a hint of pink crept up his neck, which made Cissy wonder what was wrong this time. After all, when he had become flustered yesterday, the next thing she had known was being face to face with his snarling son.

  “This is very kind of you,” she began, but he immediately interrupted her.

  “Rubbish, my dear.” He looked up, and this time she could detect no sign of fluster in his expression. “Your father was a very dear and close friend. And you’re more than welcome in our home.”

  But definitely not welcome in his son’s.

  No, her home. Wolfenbach was hers now.

  Of course, she needed to marry the loutish son if she wanted to keep the castle.
Yet this was something she did not care to think about at the moment.

  “I…” Cissy sighed and finally admitted defeat. Fenris von Wolfenbach had not seemed to be the type to be thrown out of a house easily. And short of hauling him out by his collar, which she very much doubted she could actually manage, there was nothing she could do. For the Gräfin was of course right: she simply couldn’t stay here unchaperoned.

  She blinked against a sudden pricking in her eyes.

  It was not fair! She had come so far, had endured a hellish snowstorm, a trip on a cart that had made her teeth rattle. She had endured Dorinda’s nagging and had watched the witch taking over her home after her father’s death. And Cissy had put all her hope in this new life, in her castle. And now she should just leave again until somebody had whacked a little sense in His Churlish Excellency, Fenris von Wolfenbach? She wanted to scream and stamp her foot, but of course, this would not have been seemly for a gently reared young woman.

  The Gräfin leaned forward. “It is surely for the best, my dear.” A frown furrowed her forehead as just then a commotion was to be heard in the courtyard—the slowing tattoo of hooves and the crunch of carriage wheels coming to a halt. “Visitors? Whoever can that be?”

  The sound of a carriage door flung open and then: “Oh la, what a picturesque castle!” a familiar English voice exclaimed.

  It couldn’t be! Cissy rose so quickly her chair nearly fell over. She rushed to the door to the outside gallery and, a little breathless, leaned over the balustrade.

  “My dear child!” Mrs. Chisholm’s face shone with delight as she caught sight of Cissy. “Oh, my dear child!”

  Cissy hurried down the stairs and the next moment found herself enveloped in the widow’s lavender-scented embrace.

  “My dear girl.” Mrs. Chisholm pressed a trembling kiss onto her cheek. “I just couldn’t leave you all alone among these strangers. How barbarous would that have been? And so I decided to follow you right away.” Drawing back, she dabbed at her eyes. Then her gaze scanned the round. “And I have to say…I quite adore your castle. It seems a bit tumbledown, though, doesn’t it?” She cast a speaking look toward the tower and the ruin next to it before she turned back to Cissy. A beaming smile lit her face. “I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to see you, dearie. Tell me: have you already met your intended?”

  Abruptly, Cissy’s joy evaporated.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Chisholm said. “That bad, is it?”

  ~*~

  In utter frustration, Fenris tore at his hair. “Why? Why?”

  His valet shuffled his feet. “Well… Your parents have left, though.” He obviously thought this constituted great encouragement for their cause.

  Fenris shot Johann a glowering look. “That other woman…” He shuddered just to think of it. Why couldn’t people leave him be? All he wanted was a little peace and quiet. Peace and quiet. He drummed his fingers on his desk. “Where did she come from?”

  “Um…from Baden-Baden?”

  “Damn it all!” Fenris boxed his fist into his flat hand. “Johann, we have to get rid of them. No matter how.”

  The other man clasped his hands behind his back. “Indeed, we have, for if they continue to stay here, they’ll have the servants revolting in no time at all.” He gave his master a bland smile.

  Fenris narrowed his eyes at him. “What did they do?”

  “Well, first they had us all lined up, and then Miss Fussell commented that Lisa needed a new apron, which promptly made the girl burst into tears.”

  Fenris gritted his teeth. “And then?”

  “Then they went away and the older woman chose a room for herself, which Miss Fussell ordered to be cleaned.” In a probably unconscious gesture, Johann brushed at the large dirt stain on the sleeve of his jacket. “Thoroughly.” He grimaced. “Until this afternoon. And then they…um…found the normal dining room. And Miss Fussell ordered that from now on meals should be served there.”

  Fenris’s throat felt tight. God, he didn’t need this. Didn’t need some little miss marching through his castle, through his life…

  No, not his castle. Not according to his father and that woman. It had never been his, for his family had lost it sixteen years ago, just as they had lost everything else. Because of him.

  His stomach cramped. Fenris felt sick.

  Sick of himself.

  Sick of his life.

  He buried his face in his hands, dug his fingers into the flesh until they rubbed painfully over the bone beneath.

  “Fen…”

  “We have to get rid of her.” He looked up, hated the worry on Johann’s face, the compassion he saw in the other man’s eyes. God, what a weakling he was! Fenris shook his head. What a bloody loser. Not only had he managed to wreck his own life, no, he had also wrecked the life of his family. Hell. “We have to make her leave the castle.” He pushed unsteady fingers through his hair. “We have to make sure she will never want to come back again. We have to win Wolfenbach back.” Leaning his hands on the desk, Fenris got up and reached for the lantern sitting under the desk. “Come on, Johann, we’re going to the cellars.”

  His friend’s brows creased a little. “The cellars?”

  “Indeed, the cellars. Where the rats are.”

  ~*~

  “I felt a little bit like the evil bishop of Bingen,” Mrs. Chisholm confided the next morning over breakfast in the small, comfy dining room they had discovered the previous day. In the corner, a dark green tiled stove created comfortable warmth, while a faded carpet on the floor held off the chill rising from the stone tiles. “Only, of course, the bishop had been eaten up by mice instead of rats.” Cheerfully, Mrs. Chisholm took a sip of her coffee, but immediately grimaced. “Oh dear, what kind of brew do they drink here? And do look at that color! Like a caramel toffee! This is quite shocking, dearie. Quite, quite shocking!”

  “The rat?”

  “Of course not the rat! Whatever are you thinking! The—” The sound of the door opening made Mrs. Chisholm turn around. Her eyes widened. “Oh my,” she whispered in appreciation.

  Fenris von Wolfenbach loomed on the threshold, his dark hair tousled, his eyes gleaming. The harshness of his expression and the wooden leg he again blatantly displayed lent him a dangerous edge, a hint of menace.

  And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,

  Hope withering fled, and Mercy sigh’d farewell!

  A shiver of ice ran down Cissy’s spine. Only too well she remembered her own helplessness when he had manhandled her two days prior. She gripped her fork tighter. But she was no longer alone, and she would not let him bully her a second time. Haughtily, she raised her chin and met his glare.

  Mrs. Chisholm’s face lit up. “Good morning, good morning! You must be Herr von Wolfenbach, no doubt. How very lovely to finally meet you! Will you not sit down and have some breakfast with us?”

  Momentary confusion flickered over his face. He cleared his throat. “Well…good morning.” His voice sounded slightly rusty, as if he hadn’t used it in a long while.

  Or at least not in polite company, Cissy thought nastily. “Rambach,” she said to the butler, who stood stonily next to the sideboard. “Since Herr von Wolfenbach is joining us today, do bring up some of the cold gruel he so enjoys.” With a smug smile, she turned her attention back to von Wolfenbach. “Or do you prefer buttered black bread?” she asked innocently, and watched with satisfaction how his face darkened even more.

  That man of loneliness and mystery,

  Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh;

  Whose name appalls the fiercest of his crew…

  Cissy pursed her lips. But not me. She had always thought Byron’s pirate somewhat overly theatrical anyway. And for somebody called Fenris to strut around like a snarling demon wolf was just as ridiculous as, say, for somebody called Darcy to refuse to dance at an assembly.

  “I was just telling Miss Fussell here”—Mrs. Chisholm patted Cissy’s hand, while the demon wolf chose a
seat—“about this most horrid rat which came to my room last night.”

  “A rat?” His dark brows rose. “How…unfortunate. These things sadly happen so often in such old buildings.” He grimaced a little as the butler put down a small bowl of cold gruel in front of him. “I think I need a mocha with that,” Cissy heard him mutter.

  Her eyes narrowed. How peculiar that she had spent two nights in this castle and had not even caught an itty-bitty glimpse of a rat tail. “You must have been very frightened, Mrs. Chisholm,” she said slowly, while keeping her eyes trained on von Wolfenbach. And indeed: when he looked up from his gruel, she thought she could detect a glitter of anticipation in his expression.

  “Frightened?” The widow laughed heartily. “Oh, my sweet child, not at all! When you’re the wife of a merchant and loath to stay at home while your husband travels the world, then you certainly get to see your share of rats!”

  Von Wolfenbach’s face fell.

  “Why, this one took a little longer to kill,” Mrs. Chisholm continued merrily, “but there’s nothing like a pair of good sturdy boots, I tell you!” As happy as a child in a toy shop, she beamed at Cissy, while the butler turned an interesting shade of green.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning they woke to icy coldness. The water in the ewer was frozen through and through. Shivering, Cissy fastened her wrap-around stays over her shift, slipped into two petticoats and decided to wear her woolen dress. At first, she thought it was only the fire in her room that had gone out, yet when she arrived in the dining room, she discovered it had also been transformed into an icehouse overnight. Dressed in a thick coat and with a scarf wrapped around his neck, Rambach stood stoically next to the sideboard.

  His bow seemed a little stiffer than normal. “Good morning, gnädiges Fräulein. I am sorry to inform you that we’ve run out of firewood.”

  “What?” Hardly believing what she had just heard, Cissy gaped at him.

  “We have no more wood to light the fires and unfortunately…”—shifting his weight, he cleared his throat—“the fire in the kitchen has gone out, too.”