Soul of the Wolf

by Judith Sterling

  He closed the gap between them. An exotic mixture of spices wafted toward him from her flowing, fiery hair.

  “’Tis a wyrm,” he said in a low voice. “A symbol of hidden might.”

  She looked up from the stone. Her brown eyes were dark as the womb of Mother Earth. “I can sense it. This place has power. Every inch of my body feels alive.”

  Her eyes drew him in. Her lips were wide and full, mere inches from his.

  I’ll make you feel alive, he thought. I’ll make you tremble with pleasure until you desire only me. He bent toward her.

  She lurched aside and looked past him. “Freya!”

  He spun around. His sister sat on the bottom step of Woden’s Stair.

  He rushed toward her. “What are you doing here?” In one easy motion, he picked her up and set her on the ground. “I told you before. Keep away from Woden’s Stair. ’Tis no toy.”

  Freya looked up at him with wide eyes. The next instant, Jocelyn came up beside him, and Freya smiled at her.

  Jocelyn returned the smile, then regarded Wulfstan. “Woden’s Stair, hmm? Must I also keep away?”

  Wulfstan nodded. “You must.”

  “Why?”

  “Forget why. Just do as I say.”

  Jocelyn stared hard at him, and color filled her cheeks. Then she took a deep breath and turned to his sister. “I have something to show you, Freya.”

  Freya pointed to her chest and raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

  Jocelyn nodded. “Beautiful cloth to make you some new clothes. Shall we go back to the keep and see it?” She held out her hand.

  Freya looked askance at Jocelyn. Then her brow smoothed, and she grabbed the outstretched hand.

  Jocelyn’s gaze locked onto Wulfstan. “By your leave, my lord.”

  Something in her eyes unnerved him. Defiance? Passion? Mayhap both. She should leave. Posthaste.

  “Of course,” he said.

  Hand in hand, they started toward the forest path. He folded his arms and watched them. In the short space of a month, Freya had taken to Jocelyn in a way hitherto reserved for Edith. In truth, his wife was affecting them all. Lucky that Freya appeared when she did. Another moment and he would’ve forgotten his work.

  And lost himself in a torrent of fire.

  He shook his head to clear it. Then his ears pricked up as the twosome neared the clearing’s edge.

  Jocelyn’s voice was faint, but her words were unmistakable. “Freya, were you playing in the woods earlier?”

  Freya shook her head as they disappeared into the forest.

  He frowned. ’Twas the second time Jocelyn had asked such a question. She must’ve heard someone in the woods. Someone…or something.

  Chapter Eight

  That night, Jocelyn paced before the fire in her bedchamber. Her slippered feet crunched again and again on the herb-scented rushes. Most of the castle’s inhabitants were abed, but slumber snubbed her. She was awake for the foreseeable future.

  Stirred up, she thought. Driven half-mad by a kiss that never happened. If Freya hadn’t materialized when she did…

  The truth was she’d wanted Wulfstan’s attentions, wanted his lips to claim hers and plunge them both into a fever of…what?

  Passion. Sensuality. The secret embrace between a man and woman.

  What in the blessed Virgin’s name was I thinking? Virgin? Ha! Satan’s minions, more like. Yet that moment on the mound felt sanctified, preordained.

  A plaintive sound penetrated the chamber door. Meow!

  Jocelyn strode to the door and opened it. Snow slinked over the threshold.

  She stooped to pick him up. “Good evening.”

  The cat purred with zeal as she cradled him in her arms.

  She glanced around the chamber. “How do you like the changes?”

  The high-backed chairs—for there were two now—in front of the fire boasted cushions of cornflower blue. Long, billowy curtains of the same shade encased the four-poster bed, which enjoyed the finest linen sheets and a colorful array of pillows. Bare stone walls had become vivid hunting scenes that leapt from silk-threaded tapestries.

  Snow mewed his approval, and Jocelyn sighed. What would her husband make of the decor? Would he object? Would he even care? For that matter, would he ever see it?

  With a grumble, she set Snow on the floor. The cat pawed a protruding rush, then gave her a quizzical stare as she traded her slippers for low, leather boots.

  She snatched her brown mantle from a peg on the wall and slung it around her shoulders. “You have the run of the place, Snow. I’m going out.”

  The cat seemed to understand, for he jumped onto one of the chairs before the fire, circled the cushion twice, and settled onto its blue fluff. Jocelyn blew him a kiss and headed for the stairs.

  In the torchlit bailey, she circled the keep, impervious to the cold night air. The moon was full, watchful. High on the battlements, sentries tramped to and fro. The hounds rested in their kennel; the falcons, in their mews. The workshops stood silent, all save one. Sven the smith obviously prized duty and craftsmanship over sleep.

  Jocelyn rounded a corner and stared up at the north tower and the lone, small window of Wulfstan’s workroom. The shutters were open, but the window revealed only shadows dancing in the flickering light.

  She pursed her lips. What is he doing up there? Summoning demons? Juggling chamber pots? What?

  At least she’d learned something of Nihtscua’s past and the Wolf Stone. But what about Woden’s Stair? Wulfstan’s warning smacked of secrecy, and possibly danger. Was he himself dangerous? God knew what the forbidden tower concealed.

  Curiosity gnawed at Jocelyn until she thought she would scream. There was nothing for it. She had to investigate.

  She scurried into the keep and skulked to the north tower’s stairwell. There was no guard at the bottom, nothing to stop her but her own conscience. She hesitated and bit her lip. Then, with a dismissive gesture, she started up the spiral stairs.

  The tower was damnably still. She monitored the pace and volume of each footfall as she crept upward. Wall torches lit her path all the way to the top, where a battened oak door blocked her progress. The workroom lay beyond. With the utmost care, she put her ear to the door.

  At first, all was quiet within, but soon Wulfstan’s deep voice drifted toward her. ’Twas rhythmic, controlled. The words were Saxon.

  She warmed to the sound. His tone and inflection were like music; each syllable, a caress. Outside, the wind howled, but its fury breached neither the tower nor the shimmering cocoon of peace Wulfstan’s voice wove around her. For that moment, she was safe. Home.

  A wolf’s cry rent the air. Wulfstan’s chanting ceased.

  The spell was broken. Jocelyn jerked away from the door. If her wedding night taught her anything, ’twas that Wulfstan would heed the wolf’s call.

  Her heart in her throat, she raced down the stairs, through the hall, and out into the bailey. She ran the short distance to the dovecote and hid behind it. From there, she had a good view of the keep’s entrance and the gatehouse.

  Not one minute later, Wulfstan burst out of the keep and bounded down the stairs. His dark cloak swirled about him as he crossed the courtyard and disappeared into the gatehouse. The discordant groans of gear and chain followed. The portcullis was opening.

  Jocelyn bit her lip. Now came the tricky part. She hastened to the gatehouse, halted just outside it, and listened. The clunk of Wulfstan’s boots devoured the wooden drawbridge in just six strides. She counted to ten, then entered the gatehouse.

  Offa smiled and opened his mouth as if to speak, but she laid a finger over her lips in a silent plea. The gatekeeper’s brow crinkled but smoothed a second later. He nodded, and she started forward.

  An armed guard stepped out of the shadows. Fingering his crossbow, he gave her a sullen look.

  Offa straightened to his full height and glowered at the man. “Let her ladyship pass,” he whispered.

 
; The sentry looked from Jocelyn to Offa, and back again. Finally, he stepped aside.

  Jocelyn shot past him. She trod softly over the drawbridge, and her eyes searched the shadowy landscape. The silver moon illuminated Wulfstan’s tall, dark form as he entered the forest.

  She hurried down the hill. I knew it. He’s going to the Wolf Stone.

  She climbed toward the woods. The wind snarled and clawed at her mantle. It rustled the graveyard of dead leaves beneath the towering trees. She kept to the darkened path and moved with slow, careful steps to avoid tripping. At last, she reached the end. Then she slipped behind an evergreen and peered into the clearing.

  The moon shone bright upon the site. Woden’s Stair and the Wolf Stone gleamed like marble. Wulfstan sat cross-legged in front of the stone, facing north. The wind that rattled a thousand leaves pulled at his hair and cloak, but he stayed preternaturally still, almost a part of the landscape. He was power, control, silence.

  In a sudden, fluid movement, he stood up, and Jocelyn thought of Snow. Wulfstan might claim an affinity with wolves, but he had the grace and agility of a cat.

  From beneath his mantle, he produced a small flask and a silver cup. He poured liquid into the cup, took a sip, then emptied the rest onto the hillock. He stooped to place both vessels on the ground, straightened again, and spoke a Saxon chant into the darkness.

  He waited, and so did she. For what she dared not guess.

  Without sound, without stealth, a large, gray wolf entered the clearing from the trees nearest Woden’s Stair. Its gait was casual as it approached the mound. Wulfstan turned to greet it.

  The animal stopped barely a foot from the man. Wulfstan spoke Saxon to it, then fell silent.

  Jocelyn shivered beneath her woolen cloak. She knew—without any idea how she knew it—the wolf was answering Wulfstan with its mind.

  Again, Wulfstan addressed the animal. The wolf turned its gaze on Jocelyn.

  She held her breath. Don’t let him find me here!

  Wulfstan’s head snapped in her direction. “Who goes there?”

  She flattened against the rough pine bark. Her mouth was dry as dust. Her heart hammered in her chest.

  Wulfstan stalked toward her hiding place. “Answer me!”

  She rolled her eyes. With a sigh, she abandoned the tree and stepped into the moonlit clearing. “’Tis I.”

  Wulfstan’s expression shifted faster than the midnight clouds. “Why are you here?” he asked in a low, tight voice.

  Keeping her distance, she eyed the wolf behind him and willed her voice to sound calm. “Why do you think?”

  Wulfstan’s eyes were like ice. “I think…that you’re spying on me.”

  She held his wintry gaze. “Then you think rightly.”

  “What? No denial? No protestations of innocence?”

  “Would you have me lie?”

  He clenched his fists. “No.”

  “Then you cannot—”

  “Nor would I have you pound your pestle into my private affairs.”

  Heat swept through her. “Pray, what affairs have you that are not private?”

  “I’ve given you a free hand with the servants and the keep. What more do you want?”

  The wolf turned away and padded toward the forest. Her courage doubled. “More.”

  Her mind made up, she strode past Wulfstan and approached Woden’s Stair. She raised her foot above the first step.

  “Stay!” Wulfstan shouted above the wind.

  She stopped short and turned to him. “Are you addressing me?”

  He tore his gaze from the forest and settled it on her. “No. The wolf.” With powerful strides, he bridged the gap between them.

  Her stomach quivered. He stood but a foot away. “Good,” she croaked. Then she cleared her throat. “For a moment, I thought you ordered me to stay, as you would order a dog.”

  Humor softened his features. “Now there’s an idea. I must say, it does have a certain appeal.”

  “Be serious.”

  “A dog can be trained to please its master, but the master also enjoys pleasing the dog. Some hounds are spoiled, in fact.”

  She frowned. Something in his tone was…suggestive. “Were I a bitch, I would not be so easily managed.”

  He grinned. “That I believe. And I know you’re no animal to be trained. You’re a strong woman with a mind of your own. But even the strong-willed like to be pampered. Wouldn’t you like it?”

  “I…I wouldn’t mind being pampered.”

  His hair looked like spun starlight. “And pleasured?”

  She stepped backward, and the heel of her boot met stone. Flustered, she clambered onto the step.

  Wulfstan’s demeanor darkened. “Get down from there.” His large hands invaded her mantle and encircled her waist.

  She wriggled free of his hands and backed onto the second step.

  He crossed his arms. “Didn’t you hear me? Come down. That’s an order.”

  Her body heat flared anew, and she climbed three steps higher. “I heard you, but I’ll not play the bitch to any man.”

  “This isn’t a game.”

  “No? What would you do if I ran all the way to the top?”

  His words, exactly measured, were a promise. “I would stop you.”

  “You could try.” She whirled around and started upward.

  He grabbed her from behind and hoisted her several inches off the stairs. She struggled and kicked, and her left foot connected with his flesh.

  “Woden’s blood!” He hauled her away from the stairs and planted her on the ground.

  She twisted in his arms to face him. “Your nerve is unparalleled.”

  His face was mere inches from hers. “Trust me, it bows to yours.”

  “You’ve a clever tongue, my lord.” The hard, hot length of his body pressed against her.

  His eyes were now dark and inviting. Expectant. “Would you care to see how clever?”

  He lowered his lips to hers in a feather-light kiss. She gasped at the intimacy of it. He slipped his tongue inside her open mouth and began to explore.

  ’Twas her first kiss. A secret made known.

  He’s tasting me, she thought. He tasted like mulled wine.

  She melted to the kiss and opened her mouth wider. Their tongues entwined in a wet, rhythmic dance every bit as intricate as the patterns of Saxon art.

  This is magic, she thought. And she wanted it to last forever.

  He started to retreat. She moaned in protest and thrust her tongue deep inside his mouth. With a groan, he pulled her body hard against him. The kiss grew wild, hungry. His hands roamed over her hips. He squeezed her buttocks. His pelvis pushed against her in a primitive caress that sent shivers through her entire frame.

  This was passion. This was life. This was—

  He wrenched himself from her arms and backed away.

  ****

  Wulfstan struggled to collect his wits and steady his breathing. Desire throbbed in his mind, his veins, his stiff manhood.

  He stared at Jocelyn. And the people fear me? This woman weaves magic instinctively. Forget Norman upbringing…prayer books…courtly deportment. She is a sorceress.

  ’Twas the highest praise he could give her, and he marveled at its implications. Now that he’d admitted her power over him, how would he resist her?

  With determination. Self-control. The mighty force of his will.

  “Forgive me,” he rasped.

  She blinked. “There’s naught to forgive.”

  “I had to pull you off the stairs.”

  “Then you had to kiss me?”

  He sighed. “They are two separate matters.”

  She stepped forward. “If you say so.”

  He took two steps back. “I do.”

  She turned to Woden’s Stair. “What’s the danger in these stairs?”

  He wished he knew for certain. He’d half-butchered the clues with endless guesswork and the scourge of painful memories.

 
; He ran a hand through his hair. “My father…died here.”

  Jocelyn regarded him in silence. “Oh,” she said finally. “Does Freya know?”

  “No one alive knows, except you and I.”

  “No one alive. Did your mother know? Did Aldred?”

  He held up his hands. “I’m done talking about it.”

  She stepped forward. “Wulfstan…” His given name flowed like silk from her mouth. The sound was melodious, bewitching.

  His tongue caressed her name. “Jocelyn.”

  She gazed into his eyes as though entranced. Then she blinked, removed her cloak, and draped it over her arm.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you cold?”

  She shook her head. “I’m hot.” The sheen on her skin confirmed it.

  His heart quickened its pace. I’ll warrant you are. Hot, tight, smooth as—

  “You shouldn’t be surprised,” she said, shrugging. “The first time we met, I told you my blood ran hot.”

  He emptied his mind of lustful images and cleared his throat. “So you did. But now, you must go.”

  “Must I?”

  “You interrupted my work. Surely you haven’t forgotten.”

  She gave him a sheepish grin. “I haven’t, but I was hoping you had.”

  “I assure you, ’tis burned in my memory.”

  “In a good way or a bad one?”

  He gave her a pointed look. “Which answer will make you leave?”

  “No need to be rude. I’ll go.”

  She pouted, which only served to remind him of the rapturous kiss they shared. She had to leave. Fast.

  “Now,” he ordered.

  She opened her mouth, then clapped it shut. With a huff, she turned and stomped toward the trees. Her hips swayed from side to side as a final temptation before she disappeared into the forest.

  Wulfstan drew a deep breath and slowly released it. Empty your mind. Breathe. The wolf will return.

  No sooner had he thought of the wolf than it stepped from behind Woden’s Stair. Had it watched them? Did it understand his dilemma?

  The wolf approached him and halted two feet away.

  “Welcome back,” Wulfstan said with a nod.

  The wolf’s gaze locked with his. Its mind whispered a message that seemed to come from all directions at once. S-s-stranger-r-r, it said, sibilant and sure.