Soul of the Wolf

by Judith Sterling

  Once night descended, her patience all but collapsed. She needed to know what he saw in his vision. Peering through the murk, she caught sight of him atop his white stallion, pulling even farther ahead than before.

  A rush of frosty wind assailed her cheeks as the party started up another hill. With a huff, she looked to the heavens. The clouds shifted, unveiling the waxing, silver moon. An instant later, the wind secreted the orb behind a larger mass of clouds.

  “Do we travel to the edge of the earth?” she muttered. She was still staring at the starless sky as they crested the hill.

  Alice’s teeth chattered. “If so, we may have reached it.”

  Jocelyn lowered her gaze. A half-mile away loomed a great mound of shadow and fire.

  “Do you suppose that’s Nihtscua?” Alice asked.

  Jocelyn’s hands tightened on the reins. “What else could it be?”

  “A black dragon, with scales and breath of fire,” Alice remarked.

  “I’m afraid this dragon is nothing more than a torchlit keep,” Jocelyn said as the party advanced toward the fortress. “It certainly lives up to its name.”

  Nihtscua Keep loomed on a great pile of rocks. A square structure, it rose two stories above the basement storerooms and three stories in each of its four corner towers. Though the keep and gatehouse were built of stone, the curtain wall was all wood.

  Worn wood, Jocelyn thought when they neared the gatehouse. Some of it looks as rotten as an old man’s teeth.

  With a discordant groan, the portcullis came to life. It opened like the jaws of a savage beast, challenging those who dared enter. Bathed in torchlight, Wulfstan watched the iron grid as it rose in front of him. Then he rode forward, and shadow swallowed him whole.

  Jocelyn glanced at Alice, whose countenance mirrored her own misgivings. God only knew what they’d find within Nihtscua’s walls. But fate had brought them hither, and Jocelyn would meet it head on. The first step was to make a good impression on the Saxons who waited inside. Straightening in the saddle, she urged her mount into the gatehouse.

  The interior was brighter than she’d imagined, thanks to a wall torch at the far end. Beside it, a bald, hulking man crossed his arms and stared at her.

  Jocelyn put a hand on her stomach. All of the food she scoffed at the banquet seemed to cavort inside it. Clearing her throat, she reined in her mount beside the gatekeeper. “What is your name?” she asked.

  His dark eyes widened. He unlocked his arms and scratched his head. “Offa.”

  “You must be cold, manning the gate on such a night. Have you had your supper?”

  His ample brow wrinkled. “Not yet.”

  Jocelyn reached inside her mantle to the leather pouch at her waist. She pulled out a small, cloth bag and offered it to him. “Take it.”

  His large hands closed around the bag. “What is it?”

  “Sweetmeats from the wedding feast.”

  Behind her, two of the mounted men murmured to each other. Offa gaped at her.

  “To steal your hunger’s bite,” she added.

  Offa gave her a tentative grin. “Thank you, my lady. I’ll return the bag to you.”

  She shook her head. “Keep it.”

  His grin broadened and lacked at least two teeth. Warmed by his response, she returned his smile and spurred her horse forward into the torchlit bailey.

  Wulfstan’s presence dominated the courtyard. He’d already dismounted his horse, and though he handed the reins to the nearby groom, he trained his eyes on her.

  Jocelyn hopped off her palfrey and led the horse toward the two men. Apart from them and the travelers emerging from the gatehouse, the courtyard was empty.

  Wulfstan’s gaze was locked to hers. “Bertwald, take her ladyship’s mount to the stables.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Jocelyn ripped her gaze from Wulfstan and regarded the groom. He was tall and thin, with brown hair and a short beard, and his eyes were downcast.

  “Thank you, Bertwald,” she said.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing. He risked a glance at Jocelyn, then lowered his eyes and guided the horses away.

  Wulfstan motioned to someone behind Jocelyn. “See that her ladyship’s trunks are taken inside,” he ordered. “You know where they belong.”

  “Consider it done, my lord,” a male voice responded. Then the man’s footsteps receded.

  Jocelyn adjusted her couvre-chef. The circlet was bothersome, but as a married woman, she was expected to cover her hair.

  “Getting used to your headrail?” Wulfstan asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “Truth be told, it plagues me. I want to be free.”

  He took a step closer, and his eyes bored into hers. “I understand…better than you think.”

  She couldn’t speak. There was power in his gaze. She was sure of it.

  Finally, she found her tongue. “Well, we’re here. Tell me of your vision.”

  He averted his gaze. “Later. First, you’ll meet the others.”

  Jocelyn looked up at the battlements of the dark, towering keep. “Others?”

  “Fear not. Come.”

  In silence, they crossed the courtyard and climbed the wide, stone steps to the keep’s entrance. Massive oak double doors hung silent and still. A moment later, they swung inward.

  Jocelyn passed under the stone archway. Her gaze shot from one door to the other, searching for whoever might’ve opened them. Not a soul was visible, and she got the distinct impression her husband—or the sheer force of his will—was responsible for the gaping doors. She snuck a glance at him, but his expression was unreadable. It remained so as they entered the great hall.

  ’Twas as bare a space as she’d ever seen. There were no tapestries to warm the walls. No banners to accent the high, beamed ceiling. The lower trestle tables were devoid of cloth, as was customary, but so too was the high table. Even the light seemed lacking. There was a procession of tall, iron stands bearing tallow candles, but only half of them were lit. One fireplace held a roaring blaze; the other stood dormant.

  Three individuals waited in front of the dais. A stocky, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair hooked his thumbs onto his leather belt and leveled his brown gaze at her. Beside him stood a woman of similar age, with eyes of midnight blue. She wore a flowing, white veil, and as she wrapped a protective arm around the girl at her side, her tunic’s wide, gray sleeve unfurled like a spirited mist. The child looked about eight or nine years old. With her blonde hair and light blue eyes, she favored Wulfstan. Jocelyn smiled at her, but the girl hid her face in the older woman’s skirt as the newlyweds approached.

  Wulfstan halted and turned to Jocelyn. “Lady Nihtscua, may I present Harold, Edith, and Freya.”

  Harold bowed. Edith curtsied. Freya slowly peeked out from the gray tunic.

  Jocelyn bent down to the girl’s height. “Freya. What a lovely name. How old are you?”

  Freya bit her lip and looked at Wulfstan.

  “She’s nine,” Wulfstan said. “And she’s my sister.”

  Jocelyn straightened. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  A shadow fell over his features. “She does not speak.”

  “Does not or cannot?” Jocelyn questioned.

  “She spoke once. But she stopped when she was four.”

  “She’s said nothing since?”

  “Not a word.”

  Jocelyn’s heart twisted. Poor girl. What on earth silenced her?

  “Harold is my manservant,” Wulfstan continued. “Edith tends my sister. Both have served Nihtscua since before I was born.”

  Jocelyn nodded. “I met Offa, the gatekeeper, outside. And Bertwald, of course. Whom else should I know about?”

  Wulfstan looked thoughtful. “Well, there are the men who traveled north with us. Besides them…Sven the smith, Edgar the huntsman…and Aelfric the falconer. Gunhild heads the laundresses. Then there’s Walter the chandler, Cearl the cook, Tom the undercook, a butler, a pantler, scullions,
a smattering of apprentices, and a small garrison.”

  “And the other servants?”

  “There are no others.”

  “Not even a steward?”

  Wulfstan ran a hand through his hair. His eyes flared.

  Jocelyn folded her hands. “I mean no disrespect, but ’tis incredible such a small staff could run an estate this size.”

  “We live simply here.”

  “Apparently so.” She amended her expression to one of acceptance. Secretly, she vowed to make some changes. Every dwelling, be it cottage or keep, craved a woman’s touch.

  He watched her closely. “Are you hungry?”

  She returned his stare with equal intensity. “For information, not food.”

  Slowly, his eyes narrowed. “What about your handmaiden?” He glanced at the hall’s entrance.

  Jocelyn followed his gaze. Alice, cocooned in her brown, woolen mantle, shivered in the archway.

  Jocelyn looked askance at Wulfstan. ’Twas curious that he’d heard the handmaiden’s entrance, while she herself had not.

  “Alice,” she called, “would you like some supper?”

  Alice shuffled forward. “N-no, my lady. But I wouldn’t mind a fire.”

  Wulfstan gestured to the fireplace in use. “Warm yourself there.”

  “Th-thank you, my lord,” Alice responded through chattering teeth.

  Wulfstan’s gaze followed the handmaiden. “Edith will show you to your chamber, after she’s shown her ladyship to mine…ours.”

  Jocelyn’s stomach somersaulted. His chamber. His bed. Our bed.

  Heaven knew what the night would bring. And Alice—her constant companion and confidante on this runaway nightmare—would be elsewhere. For now, the handmaiden warmed her hands before the fire, but her eyes sought Jocelyn. Her anxious stare spoke volumes.

  Jocelyn answered her with a wan smile. Then she regarded Wulfstan. “I trust you’ll be along shortly. You have much to convey.”

  Wulfstan lifted a hand to his waist and slowly fingered the hilt of his dagger. “I have indeed.”

  Heat stung Jocelyn’s cheeks. The motion of his large, dexterous fingers seemed more symbolic than habitual.

  Pray God he didn’t mistake my meaning, she thought. She wanted to hear about his vision, not hasten their coupling.

  She turned away and looked toward the dais. Harold’s stance hadn’t changed. His thumbs were still latched to his belt, but his gaze rested on Edith. The older woman cast him a sidelong glance, patted Freya’s head, and stepped forward.

  Her face expressionless, Edith addressed Jocelyn in an even tone. “If your ladyship will come with me.” Her long veil floated wraithlike on the air as she turned and moved toward a narrow archway to the left of the dais.

  Without a backward glance, Jocelyn followed her. They passed through the archway, made a sharp right turn, then continued along a cold, dimly lit passage. At last, they came to a glowing stairwell. A rush of wind whistled down the stairs and swept the wall torches. The flames flickered, evoking shadowy phantoms on the stone.

  They climbed the tower’s winding steps…forever it seemed. Finally, they reached the top, where a thick, oak door opened into the bedchamber.

  ’Twas larger than Jocelyn expected. Cleaner, too. Fresh rushes covered the floor, and purple heather perfumed the air. Fire crackled on the hearth, streaming light onto a high-backed chair, a table and stools, and the chests that lined the bare, stone walls. Her trunks, deposited in a corner, were a new addition.

  All of the furnishings seemed insignificant next to the bed. Its carved posts were devoid of curtains, but what the bed lacked in linen, it redressed through design. The huge, oak headboard was a mass of close, complex ornamentation. Jocelyn moved forward to study it and discovered a formal, almost rhythmic pattern of interweaving animals. Legs, arms, tails, and beaks twisted and gripped each other in an unusual, transcendent embrace.

  “’Tis very old,” Edith remarked.

  Jocelyn pulled her gaze from the headboard and regarded the woman. “I’m not sure why, but it appeals to me.”

  For half a second, approval glimmered in Edith’s deep blue eyes. “’Tis not the brightest of chambers, but I did what I could to make it comfortable.”

  Jocelyn smiled. “I knew someone had been busy in here. I’m grateful to you.”

  Edith lowered her gaze. “Your ladyship is too kind.” She turned toward the door and paused.

  Jocelyn waited for her to speak, but Edith merely bit her lip. “Edith?”

  “If your ladyship will excuse me, I’ll see to your handmaiden.”

  “Of course.”

  Edith left the chamber and shut the door behind her. Within seconds, her footfalls faded into silence.

  Jocelyn removed her mantle and slung it over one of her trunks. Then she stretched her arms above her head and let them drop to her sides. With a frown, she glanced at the bed’s fur coverlets.

  Where was Lord Nihtscua? When would he appear? A minute hence? An hour? She didn’t know which was more intolerable, the wait or what might come after it.

  The walls seemed to close in on her; the fire breathed down her neck. She spun on her heel, strode to the window, and yanked open the shutters. Leaning forward, she closed her eyes and drank in the crisp night air.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Her eyes shot open. She whirled around to face the door.

  A plaintive cry sliced through the night. ’Twas a wolf’s howl, far off in the distance. For a moment, the footfalls in the stairwell ceased. Then they continued upward.

  Jocelyn stared at the door. For the first time, she noticed it had no bolt, no way to bar her husband from the room. She shuddered. I’m in God’s hands now.

  ****

  Wulfstan pushed open the bedchamber door but hesitated on the threshold. Pale and wide-eyed, Jocelyn stood motionless in front of the gaping window. She stared at him as though he were the Devil incarnate.

  “Is it the wolf you fear?” he questioned. “Or is it me?”

  Jocelyn lifted her chin. “That depends on how much the two of you have in common.”

  Curbing a grin, he entered the chamber and shut the door. “We have more in common than you’d suspect.”

  “Oh, I suspect quite a bit.”

  “I suppose you would.”

  She crossed her arms. “What do you mean?”

  Careful. Tell her gently. He gestured to the hearth. “Come sit by the fire.”

  “I’m warm enough, thank you.”

  “Then sit on the bed.”

  Her arms tightened against her torso. “I’d rather not.”

  He sighed heavily. “I’ll keep my distance. You’ll be quite safe.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but she lowered her arms. She marched to the bed, and as she sat, her tan tunic seemed to meld with the various shades of the pelts around her. Her long, elegant fingers raked the fur. “Happy?”

  He swallowed hard. “Rapturous.”

  His mutinous mind conjured an image of her lying beneath him on the soft fur, arching toward him with the same abandon she’d shown at Woden’s Circle. It stirred his blood, and his manhood. By law, her body was his to claim, his to devour at will.

  Outside, the wolf howled a second time, prolonging the highest note with seeming ease. The sound shattered Wulfstan’s fantasy, reminding him of his mission and the discipline he dared not forsake. He took a deep breath and quelled his arousal.

  “Well?” said Jocelyn.

  He cocked an eyebrow. Had she intuited his dilemma?

  “Your vision,” she prompted. “I’ve waited a lifetime to hear it.”

  He gritted his teeth. ’Twas now or never. “I see my visions from the viewpoint of the person I’m touching.”

  She gave him a nod. “In this case, from my point of view.”

  “Exactly. I was in a large, ornate bedchamber, standing before a woman with brown hair and amber eyes.”

  “That sounds like my sister.”

  He s
hook his head. “The woman was older.”

  Jocelyn went rigid. “My mother?”

  He took two steps closer. “’Twas your nineteenth birthday. She was telling you about your father. Not her husband, the man you’d trusted all your life. Your true father, the Saxon who raped her.”

  Color spread across Jocelyn’s face. “How dare you?”

  “Why she told you, I know not. Perhaps she finally deemed you old enough to learn the truth. But that truth has turned you against the Saxon race.”

  “Not the whole race…just the savage beasts among you!”

  “Among us.”

  Her eyes flared. “What?”

  He willed his voice to remain calm, even. “You are Saxon too…at least partly. And don’t forget, there are Normans just as cruel.”

  She shook her head. “The indignities my mother suffered—”

  “I know them. I heard her speak. The man was indeed a brute.”

  “Like you?”

  Heat climbed into his cheeks. “Don’t lump me into that lot.”

  “How about your brother?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “My brother is dead.”

  She folded her arms. “And you share none of his barbaric traits?”

  His chest tightened. “Obviously, you think I do.”

  A haunted expression swept over her face. Unfolding her arms, she stared past him to the fire. “I don’t know what to think.”

  He wanted to approach her but hesitated. Then he spoke in a softer voice. “Well, fate has given you the opportunity to change that.”

  Her brown eyes reclaimed his. “Meaning?”

  “From the moment your mother revealed her secret, you’ve been ashamed of your hidden heritage. But now you live in the North, surrounded by full-blooded Saxons…and married to one, no less. You might just—”

  “My heritage is my business.”

  “You have to deal with it.”

  She stamped her foot. “I don’t have to do anything. There’s always a choice.”

  Anger gripped him, dug into his darkest self. “Right you are. You can either continue to snivel at your birthright, or you can embrace it.”