Soul of the Wolf

by Judith Sterling

  Jocelyn jumped up from the bed and stood with her fists clenched. “And embrace you? Do you think I’d willingly let you defile my body as you’ve defiled my memories? And what happens the next time you touch me? Will you pilfer every thought I have?”

  A sudden peace cloaked Wulfstan. “I only see what has hurt others, and the visions come but once…when they will, not when I will them. And fear not. I’ve no intention of forcing myself upon you. In fact, we needn’t consummate the marriage at all.”

  She visibly relaxed, then frowned. “Wait…what?”

  “You heard me. Intimacy is a complication I cannot afford.”

  “I don’t understand. What about heirs?”

  “After you and I are gone, Nihtscua shall pass to Freya, and any children she might have.”

  “And you’re actually content to be celibate?”

  His gaze slipped to the swell of her breasts, but he forced it back to her face. “I am.”

  Her frown deepened. “Forever?”

  For the foreseeable future, at least. “I have important work to do,” he said aloud. “It requires all of my energy.”

  “What work?”

  “It doesn’t concern you.”

  Her hands flew to her hips. “You can invade my private thoughts, but I’m not allowed to know of your work. I love your sense of justice.”

  “You should also love having the bedchamber to yourself. I work late into the night, and when I need sleep, there’s a pallet in my workroom.”

  Again, the wolf howled outside. Wulfstan was ready to heed the call.

  “I must go,” he said.

  “To meet the wolf?” Sarcasm oozed from her voice.

  Wulfstan regarded his bride a moment longer. Then he turned toward the door.

  To meet my destiny.

  Chapter Six

  A whisper of frigid wind crept through the bedchamber’s open window, while muted sunlight pried at Jocelyn’s closed eyelids. With a start, she awoke to the smooth rhythm of a cat’s purr.

  Two pairs of light blue eyes studied her from the edge of the bed. One belonged to Freya; the other, to the white feline cradled in her arms.

  Jocelyn silently mourned the sleep she lost by fretting the night away. Sighing, she sat up, propped two pillows behind her, and leaned back. She glanced at the gaping doorway, then offered her visitors a tired smile.

  “Good morrow to you both,” she said.

  Unmoving, Freya stared back at her. The cat’s tail twitched.

  “May I pet him?” Jocelyn asked.

  After a brief hesitation, Freya set the cat on the bed. Immediately, the animal padded forward and rubbed its cheek against Jocelyn’s outstretched hand. Its purr intensified.

  Jocelyn grinned and scratched beneath the cat’s chin. “I guess I’ve made a friend.”

  A shy smile brightened Freya’s face. She reached a tiny arm toward the cat but faltered as brisk footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  Seconds later, Alice hurried into the chamber. “Good. You’re awake.”

  “Is there a problem?” Jocelyn asked.

  Alice glanced at Freya and forced a smile. “No, my lady. Not exactly.”

  Freya regarded Alice for a long moment, then plucked the cat from the bed. Hugging the animal to her chest, she started toward the door.

  Jocelyn sat straighter. “Freya?”

  The girl paused but didn’t turn.

  “We’ll talk later,” Jocelyn said. Instantly, she regretted her words. She might talk, but Freya wouldn’t.

  With her back still turned, Freya kissed the cat and disappeared down the stairs.

  Alice placed an oil lamp on the table and shook her head. “Poor little mite. I heard about her affliction.”

  “From whom?” Jocelyn tugged at the sleeves of her linen smock.

  “Gunhild, the laundress.” Alice frowned at the open window. “Aren’t you cold?”

  Jocelyn rolled her stiff neck from side to side. “Not at the moment.”

  All night, she’d opened and closed the window, adjusting the room’s temperature with far greater ease than she could her emotions. Her husband’s vision was bad enough. His intention to remain celibate was…well, unthinkable. As the night wind and the lone wolf howled in unison, she vacillated between relief and indignation. She’d feared his advances, but when they didn’t come, she felt…

  Ignored. Unappealing. And worst of all, cheated. For he’d shattered any hope of motherhood.

  Alice cleared her throat. “I heard what happened. I mean, what didn’t happen.”

  Jocelyn arched an eyebrow. “Gunhild again?”

  Alice nodded and rubbed her arms. “According to her, everyone knows.”

  Jocelyn rolled her eyes. “Wonderful. Alice, close the shutters if you’re cold.”

  “You must be grateful.” The handmaiden hurried to the window.

  “Must I?”

  “Lord Nihtscua gave you a night’s reprieve.”

  Jocelyn fixed her gaze on the bare stone wall, which darkened as the shutters denied the sun. “Oh, he gave me more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jocelyn turned to her. “He has pardoned me for life.”

  The size of Alice’s hazel eyes grew twofold. “But…”

  “There are no buts. There will be no babies either.”

  Alice bowed her head and pouted. “My lady, I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you, Alice. I don’t know how I’d cope if you weren’t here. I’m sure I’d feel quite alone.”

  “You’ll never be alone.” Alice met her gaze. “Not if I can help it.”

  The heaviness in Jocelyn’s chest eased, and she smiled. “Tell me, what else have you learned from Gossiping Gunhild?”

  Alice giggled, and her eyes lit up. “It seems his lordship really can do magic. He communicates with animals, and his moods control the weather.”

  Jocelyn snorted. “No wonder the sun has shunned us for the past few days.”

  “Night after night, he locks himself away in a chamber atop the north tower.”

  “Ah, the workroom he mentioned. Did Gunhild say what he does there?”

  Alice shook her head. “No one knows for sure, but it must be some kind of sorcery. Gunhild said he was there again yesternight.”

  “I wonder if he worked a spell to be rid of me,” Jocelyn muttered. All at once, the fur coverlets felt hot and oppressive. She shoved them aside. “Well, it shan’t work. He may have no use for my bed and my womb, but I have more to offer than those. If children are denied me, I’ll focus on the estate.”

  “It certainly needs your attention,” Alice said.

  Jocelyn swung her legs over the side of the bed and hopped onto the floor. “He wants me to live a Saxon life? Fine. I’ll do so. My way. I dare him to object.” She marched to the door.

  “My lady,” said Alice.

  Jocelyn turned. “Aye?”

  The handmaiden gave her a meaningful look. “First, let’s get you dressed.”

  Jocelyn rolled her eyes and grinned. “Of course. But I mean to inspect every inch of this keep. Before I’m through, Nihtscua shall be fit to house a king!”

  ****

  Sensing Harold’s presence, Wulfstan straightened in the high-backed chair before the solar’s hearth. “Have you emptied the basement chamber?” he asked without turning. The fire snapped and popped, anticipating the manservant’s reply.

  “We have, my lord.”

  Wulfstan stood and regarded him. “The rack, too?”

  Harold stepped through the arched doorway and halted just inside. “Aye, but the chamber needs cleaning.”

  Wulfstan sighed. ’Twas as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Then by all means, clean it. There are still too many traces of Aldred about. The sooner we wash them away, the better.”

  In a flurry of peach fabric, Jocelyn entered the solar and stopped beside Harold. “Did I, perchance, hear the word ‘wash’ escape your lips?”

&n
bsp; Wulfstan’s pulse quickened. “You did.”

  Her brown eyes were warm, bright. “It must’ve felt strange on your tongue, considering the state of your home.”

  Harold’s mouth fell open. He sent a questioning glance toward Wulfstan, then gawked at Jocelyn.

  “Are you saying Nihtscua is unkempt?” Wulfstan asked.

  “I’ve toured it, inside and out,” Jocelyn said. “Improvements are a must.”

  He suppressed a smile. She had backbone, bursting in and confronting him about the castle’s condition. After last night’s quarrel, he’d expected her to sulk in the bedchamber, bemoaning her Saxon blood and her fate. Yet here she stood, hands on her curvaceous hips, cheeks pink with emotion.

  She took a step forward. “Let’s begin with the curtain wall. Stone is the best material, but if you prefer wood, the rotten planks must be replaced.”

  Wulfstan nodded. “Go on.”

  “A coat of lime would brighten the outside of the keep. The inside should be cleaned from top to bottom. There are sections of the hall floor—particularly beneath the tables—that are covered by a buildup of ale, grease, and Heaven knows what else. The servants aren’t wholly responsible; there simply aren’t enough of them to do the work. For their sakes, as well as ours, we must have more hands.”

  Wulfstan looked to his manservant, who still gaped at Jocelyn. “Harold.”

  Harold’s head snapped around. “My lord?”

  “I would speak with my wife in private. Have we completed our business?”

  Harold hooked his thumbs onto his leather belt. “Almost. What should we do with the…equipment?”

  “Destroy it.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Harold turned to Jocelyn. “My lady.” Briskly, he made his escape.

  Jocelyn watched him flee, then turned to Wulfstan. “Did I make him uncomfortable?”

  “No doubt.”

  “What equipment is to be destroyed?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Indeed I do.”

  Disgust wrenched his stomach. “Instruments of torture. My late brother’s toys, and my father’s before him. I had Harold clear them out of the basement.”

  Her face paled. “I saw an empty chamber, but I never thought…”

  “I would Aldred had shared your restraint.”

  She stared into his eyes. “Restraint. ’Tis a quality you seem to have mastered.”

  The air seemed close; the fire, insistent. He moved to stand behind the chair. “Yet I spared you neither opinion nor truth last night.”

  “And I gave you a taste of my unfortunate temper.” A contrite sigh escaped her lips.

  “You were distraught.”

  “You were distracted.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “Was I?”

  She nodded. “By the wolf’s cry.”

  He averted his gaze to the blazing hearth. The fire crackled, as if to caution him.

  “My lord, there’s something you should know. I prefer the truth. I pray you will always give it to me.”

  He turned to face her. Yet even as he met her gaze, the threads of memory wove a warning within him. Some secrets were worth keeping.

  “I shall endeavor to do so,” he said. Within reason.

  Jocelyn looked down. A small, slinking body of white fur skirted the hem of her gown. “Ah,” she said, bending over. “We meet again.” She lifted the cat and cradled it in her arms.

  Wulfstan stared; they created such a cozy picture. “He avoids everyone but my sister. He’s deaf, and very particular.”

  “Freya brought him to visit me earlier.”

  “She did?” Even as he asked the question, strong and steady purring seemed to answer it.

  “You sound shocked.”

  “I am. The only soul more particular than that cat is Freya.”

  “Then I’m flattered.” Jocelyn kissed the cat’s head, set him back on the floor, and straightened. “Now, back to the matter at hand.”

  “Right,” said Wulfstan, unable to check a grin. “The chaos that is my household.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “‘Chaos’ is too strong a word, but we must have more servants. And a little decoration about the keep wouldn’t hurt. ’Twould be a comfort.”

  “To you?”

  “To everyone.”

  He glanced at the solar’s paint-bare walls and recalled the exquisite tapestries in Ravenwood’s solar. Nihtscua had never felt like a home, even while his mother lived.

  Perhaps ’tis ripe for change, he thought, on more levels than one. The riddle of the Wolf Stone has already waited two centuries. That’s long enough.

  Jocelyn was watching him closely. “I’ve heard your wealth is considerable, even without my dowry.”

  “You heard right. Aldred filled our coffers to bursting with treasure from the Holy Land.”

  She folded her hands as if to pray. “Then we have the resources to improve Nihtscua. All I want is your consent.”

  The light in her eyes was breathtaking, contagious. It swept away the specters in his mind, but at what cost?

  “You have it.” Avoiding her gaze, he brushed past her and left the solar.

  Chapter Seven

  Over the next four weeks, Jocelyn embodied a whirlwind. She acquainted herself with Nihtscua’s current staff, assessing each person’s skills with a practical yet generous eye, and hand-picked thirty new servants from the village in the shadowed valley below. After learning that Aldred had murdered the keep’s former steward in a fit of rage, she hired a tall, wiry, well-educated man named Raymond to take his place. Together, she and Raymond pored over the household accounts and inspected the winter stores.

  She supervised the cleaning and reorganization of keep and bailey. She wrote to her mother to request select, mouthwatering recipes for Cearl, the cook. She even engaged a tailor to transform rolls of vibrant, elegant cloth from dowry to decor.

  All this she did with Wulfstan’s blessing, distant though it was. He spent the majority of his days and nights in the north tower. ’Twas off-limits to everyone, with the possible exception of Harold, who climbed its height twice daily to ensure Wulfstan didn’t starve.

  Even the castle cats avoided the tower, choosing instead to congregate around Jocelyn’s heels. They were always underfoot, purring and mewing with enthusiasm. Her greatest admirer was the deaf, white cat named Snow.

  Feline affection aside, Jocelyn still felt like an outsider. The servants respected her authority, but most acted as if a smile might crack their faces beyond repair. Edith, distant and deadpan, watched the bustle and shuffle from doorways and corners. Freya mirrored Edith’s behavior, seeming little more than a pair of big, blue eyes peeking out from behind the older woman’s skirt.

  Thankfully, Raymond found occasion to grin, as did Offa. The gatekeeper beamed his tooth-challenged smile at Jocelyn whenever possible. And in the evenings, as Jocelyn prepared for bed, Alice entertained her with tidbits and tales from Gossiping Gunhild.

  If only Gunhild could tell me what manner of glue binds the lord to his tower, Jocelyn thought, standing in the onetime torture chamber. She cast her frown around the large, hollow cell. If only this chamber didn’t exist.

  But it did exist. So did her Saxon blood, and the cruelty that marred her conception. ’Twas an indelible stain on her past, on her very identity. She didn’t know whether she’d ever be able to integrate her Saxon heritage into her life, but she had to accept it. Her husband was right about that.

  She stared hard at the cold, gray walls, slabs of stone which must recall each anguished cry, every broken spirit. Had anyone survived this place? How had her mother survived her own ordeal with her soul intact?

  Jocelyn shuddered as her imagination got the better of her. Then she heaved an impatient sigh. No good would come of conjuring tormented echoes from the past, particularly in a location like this. Squaring her shoulders, she left the chamber for the land of the living.

  She passe
d through the basement storerooms—each opening onto the next—and welcomed the hum of activity. Three servants salted sides of beef, pork, and mutton in a long salting box. Three more threaded bunches of onions and mushrooms with string, while another servant hung the finished bundles to dry. The clatter of rolling barrels competed with the swoosh of hand-shoveled flour and the rickety-rack of grain spilling onto one pan of a large weighing scale.

  The din grew louder as Jocelyn climbed the stairs and exploded as she entered the kitchen. With relish, she drank in the scents of freshly baked bread and spiced meat spitted over the giant hearth. Scullions scrubbed pots and cauldrons with soapwort and water. Undercooks pounded meat, chopped cabbage, and sliced apples intended for an arm’s length of pastry. Knife in hand, the ruddy-faced Cearl bellowed what could only be a Saxon curse at an unassuming plucked chicken. Jocelyn suppressed a smile and continued out of doors.

  A pewter sky canopied the bailey. The crisp air felt divine. Grinning, Jocelyn placed her hands on the bodice of her yellow tunic and breathed deeply. She traipsed across the courtyard, nodding her approval at the carpenters repairing the curtain wall. Not far away, Gunhild chattered animatedly to three new laundresses. The young women pounded wet linens with wooden bats, but their attention was riveted on the head laundress. ’Twas a safe bet Gunhild’s gab encompassed more than their supply of wood ash.

  Twelve paces farther, Jocelyn halted in front of the castle well. She leaned forward and peered into the rock-lined shaft. ’Twas dark, fathomless.

  Not unlike the man I married, she thought.

  “’Tis very deep, my lady,” a woman said from behind.

  Jocelyn started, then turned. There stood Edith, her arms crossed, garbed in a deep blue gown which matched her eyes.

  “Indeed,” said Jocelyn. After a month of Edith’s silent surveillance, what else was there to say?

  “I could apologize for scaring your ladyship, but ’twould be pointless.” Edith’s tone was as even as her expression was flat.

  Jocelyn watched her for a long moment. Why “pointless”? What did she mean? Was she friend or foe?

  Edith blinked in silence.