Jocelyn shook her head. “Forgive me. I could’ve sworn I asked you why.”
For the first time, Edith unleashed a smile. “Because you don’t strike me as a person who scares easily.”
“I don’t?”
“No, and I’m not alone in my opinion. The people are amazed you’re not afraid of Wulfstan…that is, his lordship.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
Edith held up her hands. “Heavens, no. But I respect his powers, as I respected his mother’s.”
His mother? Jocelyn thought. Lord Nihtscua seemed so virile and mysterious, ’twas hard to picture him cradled in someone’s lap. But of course he’d had a mother, and she apparently shared his gifts. “Did you know her well?”
Edith looked wistful. “I was Lady Sigrid’s handmaiden. We came to Nihtscua together on the eve of her marriage to Cenwulf.”
“His lordship’s father?”
Edith’s air darkened. “Aye, and a greater churl there’s never been.”
“Aldred excepted, I gather.”
Edith snorted. “Where should Aldred learn his manners but at his father’s knee? Surely, your ladyship noticed something odd about the bedchamber door.”
Jocelyn nodded. “There’s no bolt.”
“That was Cenwulf’s idea, so he could force himself on Lady Sigrid whenever he chose. Affection had naught to do with it. His love of violence and ale spurred him on.”
Jocelyn’s stomach heaved. But Edith’s willingness to chat was a miracle, and she’d make the most of it. “Was he often in his cups?”
“Oh aye. But I never saw him so drunk as the night the twins were conceived.”
“Twins?”
“Freya is a twin. Her brother, Frederik, died when they were four.”
Jocelyn’s breath caught in her throat. “Was that when Freya lost her voice?”
Sorrow rippled across Edith’s face, and she nodded. “Poor little Frederik. He was found locked in a trunk in the basement…suffocated. Must’ve been playing in it when the lid closed and, well…”
Jocelyn lifted a hand to her chest. “Where was his nurse when the accident occurred?”
Edith shrugged. “Who knows? She ran away the day it happened and never returned. Even now, ’tis hard to imagine her neglecting the twins, but she must’ve done. I expect when she heard of Frederik’s death, grief and guilt drove her away.”
Jocelyn looked up. A murder of crows cawed to each other and raced across the ashen sky. The unmistakable smell of slaughtered cattle wafted toward her. Her nose twitched, and she lowered her gaze to the kitchen door. A freckled teen carrying two wooden buckets emerged from the kitchen. Limping slightly, he started toward the well.
“Edith, will you take a turn with me?” Jocelyn asked.
“Aye, my lady.”
Jocelyn headed for the garden, and Edith fell into step beside her.
“Frederik’s death must’ve been hard on Lady Sigrid,” Jocelyn ventured.
Edith wrung her hands. “Her ladyship was spared that tragedy. She died at the twins’ birth.”
“I see. And Cenwulf?”
“He died at the twins’ conception.”
Jocelyn stopped short. “What? How?”
Two steps ahead, Edith halted and turned back to her. “No one knows for certain, but most believe Wulfstan killed him.”
A knot formed in Jocelyn’s stomach. “Wulfstan?”
Edith shrugged. “I know I should use his title. But you see, I’ve known him since he was a babe, and his earldom is still new—”
Jocelyn made a placating gesture. “Don’t trouble yourself. Call him what you will.” They continued walking. “Do you truly believe he killed his own father?”
“If he did, no one had more right. Wulfstan was just sixteen then, and very protective of his mother. That terrible night, Cenwulf satisfied his lust, then began to beat Lady Sigrid. Wulfstan heard her screams and burst into the chamber. He threatened to kill Cenwulf, but the Master didn’t care. He laughed and ran out into the night. Wulfstan bade me stay with his mother and took off after his father. The next we heard, Cenwulf was dead.”
The knot in Jocelyn’s stomach loosened. “Lady Sigrid must’ve been relieved.”
“Greatly, and his death left her free to spend the next nine months focusing on the riddle of the Wolf Stone.”
Again, Jocelyn halted. “The riddle of the what?”
Edith stopped and turned. “The Wolf Stone. A standing stone with runes etched on it.”
“Runes?”
Edith gave her a patient smile. “Symbols used in the old writing system. Few can read them now.”
“Can Wulfstan? I mean…Lord Nihtscua?”
Edith nodded. “Naturally. His mother taught him.”
“What say the runes?”
Edith’s eyes twinkled like stars in a midnight sky. “Lady Sigrid said they were a riddle that, if unraveled, would bring peace and joy to Nihtscua.”
Nihtscua could certainly use those, Jocelyn thought. “Where is this Wolf Stone?”
“Not far from here. In a clearing at the edge of the forest that separates us from Druid’s Head and Ravenwood.”
“Druid’s Head?”
“Another of Lord Ravenwood’s holdings,” Edith explained. “I myself visited the clearing only once—with Freya—but Wulfstan frequents the spot. His mother did too. Of course, no one else will go near the place, day or night.”
“Why ever not?”
“’Tis sacred ground, brimming with ancient magic.”
Jocelyn’s lips curved into a smile.
Edith’s eyes widened. “You would go thither?”
“This moment, if you’ll tell me the way.”
Edith grinned. “Outside the gatehouse, follow the road to the bottom of the hill. Turn left and head up the slope for half a mile or so. As you enter the woods, there’s a trail, and the climb will get steeper. Keep to the path, and you’ll soon see the clearing.”
“Is the stone itself easy to find?”
“You cannot miss it.”
A rush of emotion lightened Jocelyn’s spirit. “Thank you, Edith, for all you’ve told me.” For opening up and making me feel…welcome.
Edith’s face softened. “Not at all, my lady.”
Jocelyn spun around and headed for the gatehouse. The gatekeeper bowed his bald head as she entered the wide enclosure.
He bared his uneven smile. “Good day, my lady.”
“Good day, Offa.”
She crossed the drawbridge, descended the hill, and paused at the bottom. Ahead lay the valley with its bustling village, harvested fields, and sprawling pastures. To the right, in the distance, were high peaks and heather-draped moors. To the left, a mystery beckoned.
She started up the grassy slope. ’Twas bliss to flex her leg muscles, to meet the brisk wind head on. As woodland rushed up to greet her, she removed her headdress and untied her long braid to let the breeze comb freely through her hair.
Sunset-colored leaves whispered and shook, falling from great pillars of elm, birch, beech, and oak. Conifers dwarfed moss-covered boulders of every shape and size. The forest so entranced Jocelyn that she nearly tripped over a rock. Kicking it aside, she continued toward the summit.
Snap!
She froze. The sound had come from her right, perhaps twenty yards away.
Her breath held, she stared at an enormous, gnarled tree trunk from which the noise might’ve come. “Who goes there?”
All was silence.
Was it Edgar the huntsman? An animal? A rogue branch buckling under a heavy weight?
The tree trunk told no tales. At its base, a whirlwind tickled a patch of rustling, dead leaves into a floating spiral. All else was still.
Jocelyn shrugged and crested the hill. Then she gasped.
“Hallowed ground,” she murmured, barely aware she’d spoken.
Towering evergreens formed a perfect circle around a large clearing. Two curiosities stood inside it. To
the right was a stone staircase, seven feet wide and some twenty steps high. The stone landing was large but empty. Without railing. With nothing beyond.
A stairway to nowhere, she thought.
To the left was a broad, earthen mound carpeted by thick grass. A large slab of rock stood atop it. The Wolf Stone.
She edged toward it. ’Twas six feet tall and two feet wide. A master artist had carved a twisting, interlocking snake or worm on its weathered surface. The runic inscription filled the snake’s body. It wound around a central carving—part of which was obliterated, along with some of the writing—but the silhouette of a wolf was clearly visible.
Jocelyn’s skin tingled. Every sense seemed heightened by a nameless, mystical thrill. She grinned. Perhaps my Saxon heritage isn’t so foul after all.
****
Wulfstan stalked out of the keep through the huge double doors at its entrance. He swore in silence. Woden’s blood! A whole month’s work. Hours of study. All for naught.
Defeat coursed through him as he stomped down the broad, stone steps to the bailey floor. Vaguely aware of the nervous glances directed his way, he moved through the madding servants in the courtyard.
As he passed the chandlery, he slowed his steps. The sweet, warm smell of beeswax was a welcome change, yet another his wife had suggested. The stink of tallow used to hang about the chandlery like an evil aura, and he and everyone else went out of their way to avoid it. Now, there was only beeswax. Loads of it. Walter and his apprentice worked tirelessly to supply candles for the increased number of castle occupants.
At least Walter has tangible proof of his labor, Wulfstan thought. That must be nice.
“My lord,” a familiar voice called in between the clangs from the smithy.
He turned. Sporting a rare smile, Edith shuffled toward him.
“You’re unusually chipper,” he said. “Where is Freya?”
“Napping.”
He frowned. “Another nightmare?”
Edith nodded. “She was awake half the night.”
He took a deep breath and blew it out. “I don’t know how to help her.”
“Neither do I. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.” She made a wide, sweeping gesture with her arms, and the voluminous sleeves of her sapphire tunic unfurled. “What do you think?”
“About?”
“All of this. The new servants. The repairs. The blessed beeswax! Your wife has worked wonders.”
“Quite,” he said with a nod. Nihtscua hadn’t seen this much action, nor received such care, since his mother was its mistress.
At the thought of her, long-buried regrets raided his mind. He fingered the hilt of his dagger and scowled.
Edith raised her eyebrows. “I thought you’d approve of the changes.”
“I do.”
“Have you told her ladyship?”
“Not yet, but I intend to. Do you know where she is?”
Edith made an obvious effort to look casual. “Oh aye. She’s gone to the Wolf Stone.”
His chest tightened. “What?”
Nearby, the pounding of iron ceased. He glanced at Sven. The smith’s blue eyes were wide with interest, but as he caught Wulfstan’s gaze, he quickly bent his blond head and continued pounding the red-hot horseshoe on his anvil.
Wulfstan rubbed his jaw. Sven had always conversed easily with Aldred, and with Cenwulf as well. Apparently, he perceived his new master in a different light.
“A mere mention of the stone was all it took,” Edith said, reclaiming his attention. “An arrow never shot so fast as did her ladyship to the gatehouse.”
“Intriguing,” Wulfstan said, more to himself than to her. “Thank you, Edith. Carry on.” He pivoted on his heel.
The hike through the woods acted on him like a balm. The higher he climbed, the calmer he became. Soothing, beguiling, the energy of the sacred site reached out to him.
He stepped into the clearing, and his gaze locked onto Jocelyn’s form. She stood on top of the mound, her back to him, and contemplated the Wolf Stone. In her yellow gown, with her long red hair writhing on the wind, she seemed the essence of fire. He couldn’t help thinking of the chandler’s candles, whose light would seem dim next to Lady Nihtscua’s brilliance.
He spoke in a clear, commanding voice. “I never expected to find you here.”
She whirled around and raised a hand to her chest, inviting his gaze to the swell of her breasts. “You startled me. Have you been here long?”
“I just arrived.”
“You’ve not been roaming the forest?”
“Which forest do you mean?” He pointed to the trees behind him and to his right. “The North Woods?” Then he motioned to the trees behind her. “Or the Long Wood?”
“The North Woods,” she said. “Were you in among the trees a short while ago?”
“No. I kept to the trail and came hither directly. Why?”
She averted her gaze and shrugged. “No reason.”
He gave her a sideways glance but said nothing. He strode to the mound, scaled it in four strides, and stopped a few feet from her. “I see you’ve abandoned your battle with the headdress.”
With a rueful smile, she regarded him. “I have. If only I could abandon it altogether.”
He found himself wishing the same. Her hair was luscious. He could admire it all day.
“Perhaps you can,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“If you visit the village or Ravenwood, the headdress stays. But it needn’t around Nihtscua.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re serious?”
He nodded. “I am. Would that please you?”
“Aye.”
It had been a long time since he desired to make a woman happy. He wasn’t sure he liked the feeling, but it persisted. “Then so be it.”
Her smile warmed him, rewarded him. ’Twas as if her aura stretched out to his and touched it.
Bending down, she carefully placed her veil and circlet on the ground. Then she straightened. “’Tis good to see you out and about. I trow you’ve been busy.”
“As have you. I’m not yet familiar with all of your handiwork, but I approve of what I’ve seen.”
Slowly, a second smile spread across her face. “That sounded suspiciously like praise.”
He grinned. “I’ll not deny it.”
“Well, I’ve only just begun. Which reminds me, have you any objection to my using free space in the basement?”
“Are you referring to the torture chamber?”
“Former torture chamber…and I am.”
He attempted to read her expression, to no avail. “That depends on your design for it.”
She took a step closer. “I’d like to use it as a storeroom.”
He rubbed his jaw. “What would you store there?”
“Goods to be given to the poor. ’Tis high time Nihtscua was associated with something other than cruelty.”
Her candor was impressive, as was her proposal. It held the strength and simplicity of justice. “Charity,” he said.
She nodded. “In particular, clothes for the poor. Winter is almost upon us.”
“So is Yule.”
“Aye, Christmastide. That puts me in mind of something else I’d like to do.”
Another grin snuck onto his face. “Go on.”
“For all twelve days, we should offer food and drink to anyone who seeks it.”
“That’s a lot of food,” he replied.
“There are a lot of hungry mouths. Our stores are plentiful, even with the new hands. I can also send word to Lady Ravenwood and request any wine they can spare.”
’Twas another good plan. Always generous, Emma would welcome Ravenwood’s part in it.
Wulfstan nodded to his wife. “I agree. You may initiate both plans.”
Jocelyn let out a long breath he assumed she’d been holding. “Thank you!” She gave him a sidelong glance. “While you’re in a giving mood, might I ask one thing more
?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Possibly. What do you want?”
She pointed to the Wolf Stone. “Information about this.”
Relaxing, he laid a hand on the stone. ’Twas the same height as he. “I’ll tell you what I can. For one thing, I was named after it. My name, in the Saxon tongue, means ‘wolf stone.’”
“Extraordinary.”
“On the night I was born, lightning struck a tree, and it fell dead onto the stone. My mother saw it as an omen and insisted I share the stone’s name.”
“What marred the engraving? Lightning?”
Shadow snaked its way through Wulfstan’s mind. He lifted his left hand and ran his fingers across the thick scar above his eye. “My father.”
Jocelyn frowned. “Cenwulf.”
Wulfstan looked sharply at her.
She backed away. Then she stopped, pushed her shoulders back, and stepped forward again. “Edith told me of him…and Lady Sigrid.”
Wulfstan’s chest tightened. “The first time my mother came hither, he followed her. When he saw her interest in the stone, he wielded his battle axe and destroyed part of the inscription.”
“But why?”
“He relished my mother’s fear and the gloom that hangs over Nihtscua. The runes spell a riddle that, if solved, could’ve remedied both.”
“Most is still visible, though. Will you read it to me?”
Wulfstan knew the riddle by heart. “‘As above, so below. Born of earth, born of sky. Great mirror of time, of souls and worlds transformed. At the wolf’s cry’—and here ’tis blotted out—‘then shall light conquer shadow and all Nihtscua rejoice.’”
Jocelyn stared into his eyes for a long moment, so long he fancied she was sizing up his soul. Then she blinked. “Your mother couldn’t remember the missing words?”
He shook his head. “She saw them but once.”
“Who erected the stone in the first place?”
“Nihtscua’s founder, Thorgils. ’Twas he who wrote the riddle.”
“Did he work magic?”
“He did.”
Jocelyn reached a hand toward the stone and ran her fingers along the curved line of the wyrm. ’Twas more than curiosity. ’Twas a caress.
Wulfstan’s heart raced. His manhood stiffened.
Her fingers continued their journey. “This reminds me of the intricate carving on our bed.” Her cheeks flushed. “My bed. The bed.”
Soul of the Wolf Page 6
