Soul of the Wolf

by Judith Sterling

  The animal brushed past him and circled the mound. Without a moment’s pause, it crossed to Woden’s Stair, climbed almost to the top, then turned back at the penultimate step. It descended to the ground and stared again at Wulfstan.

  Stranger, it repeated, louder this time.

  “I hear you,” Wulfstan said. “Tell me more.”

  There has been a stranger here, roaming the north woods.

  “Do you mean my wife, the woman you sensed before?”

  No. Another. A stranger who is not a stranger.

  Wulfstan frowned. “Is this person alive or dead? Flesh or spirit?”

  The wolf lifted its face to the full moon and howled. The cry was long and resonant. Soulful.

  At last, the animal fell silent. It glanced at Wulfstan, then turned and padded toward the trees.

  “Wait!” Wulfstan called. “I must know more!”

  The wolf kept to its course and merged with the Stygian forest.

  Chapter Nine

  Pur-r-r. Pur-r-r.

  Jocelyn swam higher and higher toward consciousness. There was a weight on her chest. Light, yet constant. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

  Pur-r-r! Pur-r-r!

  Baby blue eyes stared her down. ’Twas Snow, crouching on her chest. On the bed to her right was a fat, blue-gray cat; to her left, a black one. The trio’s low, rhythmic purring blended into a symphony of feline contentment.

  Jocelyn yawned. “Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy. But how did you get in?”

  The blue bed curtains shivered and parted. Freya leaned over and lifted Snow off Jocelyn.

  Jocelyn rolled on her side. “Good morrow.”

  Freya grinned in response. She kissed the top of Snow’s head and rocked him back and forth.

  “My lady?” Alice called from the doorway.

  Jocelyn propped herself up with a mountain of pillows. “I’m still abed, but very much awake.”

  Alice appeared at the bedside with a small tray of food.

  “What is this?” Jocelyn asked.

  Alice pursed her lips. “You ate next to nothing yesternight, so I figured you’d be hungry.”

  “Thank you.” It had been hard to consume food when Wulfstan consumed her mind.

  Freya crossed to the door and placed Snow on the threshold. Returning, she ushered the two remaining cats from bed to floor.

  Alice set the tray on Jocelyn’s lap. “Did your ladyship sleep well?”

  Jocelyn’s stomach rumbled, and her mouth began to water as she eyed the food. Thick rounds of fragrant cinnamon bread slathered with soft whey cheese. Mead to wash it down.

  “I slept well enough, once I had the chance.” She lifted a round of bread to her lips.

  Alice opened the bed curtains wider. “Trouble falling asleep?”

  Jocelyn could only nod. Her mouth was full of soft, warm bread and cheese accented with nutmeg.

  Alice looked at Freya, who knelt on the rush-covered floor amid a sea of cats. Two more had found their way into the bedchamber, and Snow had slunk right back in to join them.

  Alice approached the girl and squatted beside her. “Freya, have you broken your fast?”

  Freya nodded and scooped an orange tabby into her arms.

  “Good,” Alice said, standing. She shuffled to one of the large chests against the wall and raised the lid. “What color today, my lady? Red? Blue? Green?”

  Jocelyn reached for the second slice of bread. “Green.” She took another bite of heaven.

  Humming to herself, Alice pulled a forest green garment from the trunk. “I spoke to Gunhild this morning.”

  “Did you?” Jocelyn gulped down the mead.

  “You weren’t the only one who couldn’t sleep. His lordship left the keep at daybreak, looking as if he’d not slept a wink.”

  The memory of his kiss, of his arms locked around her, flooded Jocelyn’s mind. Heat crept into her cheeks, and she pushed the tray away.

  Alice rushed to retrieve it. “I’d imagine his lordship went for a walk, to escape whatever he does in that tower.”

  Jocelyn glanced at Freya. The girl bobbed her head, and her eyes were wide.

  “Is that so, Freya?” Jocelyn asked. “Your brother is out walking?”

  Freya released the tabby cat and jumped to her feet. She scurried to the bed, flipped her long braid forward over her shoulder, and pointed to the pink ribbon interwoven with her blonde hair.

  “The ribbon I gave you,” Jocelyn said, smiling. “’Tis lovely.”

  Freya grabbed Jocelyn’s hand and turned it palm up.

  Jocelyn nodded as understanding dawned. “I see. I gave you a gift, and now you wish to give me one.”

  Freya’s head bobbed again. She dashed to the table and back, then placed a key in Jocelyn’s outstretched hand.

  Jocelyn curled her fingers around the cold iron and regarded Freya. “What does this unlock?”

  Freya pointed to the north and tugged on Jocelyn’s free hand.

  Jocelyn exchanged frowns with Alice. “What’s the hurry, Freya? I have access to every chamber save…”

  It couldn’t be. Could it?

  Freya’s small hands yanked off the fur coverlets and shoved them to the foot of the bed.

  Her heart aflutter, Jocelyn swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Is this the key to your brother’s workroom?”

  Freya sighed, and her relief was palpable. She nodded.

  Jocelyn bolted out of bed, startling the mewing cluster of cats. “Saints preserve us! Help me dress, Alice. Quickly!”

  Once dressed, Jocelyn raced down the stairs, key in hand. Her heart thumped in her chest, but she forced herself to saunter and smile as she passed servants in the hall. Luckily, Harold wasn’t around. If he’d noticed the direction in which she headed, he would’ve questioned her.

  It seemed to take forever and a day, but she made it to the north tower. She hastened up the winding steps but hesitated before the closed, battened door. No sound came from within, so she drove the key into the lock and turned it. Slowly, she pushed open the door.

  The smell of herbs filled her senses as she crossed the threshold. Tight bundles of everything from betony to watercress dangled from high wooden beams. Against the far wall, there were three large trunks on the floor. Above them and along the adjacent walls, shelves hugged the stone, packed with countless jars, flagons, and pots, a stone mortar and pestle, candles, and an impressive number of books. A large gap between two of the books indicated some missing volumes. Jocelyn scanned the room and spotted the rogue books on the wide, oak table in the center of the room.

  Gliding past a cot and brazier on the clean-swept floor, she approached the table. Two books were written in Latin: an herbal and Etymologiae. Two others appeared to be written in the Saxon language. The largest volume—and the oldest, by the looks of it—had strange figures carved into its binding and was fitted with a tiny lock.

  Jocelyn’s lips twisted. More secrets. Why should that surprise me?

  All at once, her gaze fell on a blue, silken pouch just beyond the locked book. She reached for it and weighed it, first in one hand, then the other. The bag was light, but its contents clicked and jostled as she handled it.

  Secrets be damned, she thought, loosening the drawstring. She peered into the pouch.

  ’Twas chock-full of small, flat, oval-shaped trinkets. Intrigued, she poured several into her hand. They were pieces of wood, shiny and smooth, with a different runic symbol carved into each face.

  One by one, she dropped them back into the bag. One rune for every piece, she mused. But what was their purpose?

  ****

  Wulfstan ran a hand through his hair, melting the snowflakes that coated it. At the foot of the tower stairwell, he paused. The ghosts of familiar herbs tickled his nostrils. That meant the workroom door stood ajar.

  With a frown, he stooped and slid open the loose stone of the fourth step. The spare key was gone. Only Harold knew where ’twas hidden, and only an emergency wa
rranted its use.

  Wulfstan’s stomach lurched. He scaled the stairs two at a time, every sense trained on the open door. At the threshold, he froze.

  Jocelyn’s mouth was agape. Her brown eyes were huge. Her hands shook.

  Her hands. The bag. Mother’s runes!

  “You!” he growled.

  She stiffened and lifted her chin. “Well spotted.”

  Fists clenched, he stalked into the chamber. “After your snooping last night…after I forgave you…now you’re…why? How?”

  “Freya gave me the key.”

  Shock muted his rage. “Freya?”

  “In exchange for the ribbon I gave her.”

  “She’s only a child. You made her—”

  “What manner of woman do you take me for?”

  He gave her a piercing look. “After last night, I’m not sure.”

  She returned his gaze with equal intensity. “To what do you refer? My penchant for spying or the passion we shared?”

  The power of speech deserted him.

  “Well?” she pressed.

  He found his tongue. “Both, actually. You have a genius for stirring up trouble.”

  “And for ‘pounding my pestle’ in your affairs, I know.” She set the rune bag on his worktable.

  “Do not make light of the situation.”

  She threw her hands up. “What should I do then? Fly into a rage? Brood?” She laced her fingers together and knelt before him. “Or would you have me beg for forgiveness?”

  “Get up.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “What if I make you?” He could do it. She’d never see it coming, nor understand how it happened…unless he wanted her to.

  She glared at him for a long moment, but rose to her feet. Then she arched an eyebrow.

  He sighed. “You haven’t expressed the tiniest regret for sneaking in here, a place forbidden to everyone.”

  “Everyone but Harold.”

  “True, but even Harold respects my privacy…and my space.”

  Jocelyn rolled her eyes. “Privacy. Space. Your constant need for both is more than tiresome.”

  He crossed his arms. “That’s your problem, not mine.”

  Her lips twisted. “’Twould seem more yours than mine. After all, I…how did you put it? I have a genius for stirring up trouble.”

  “And for using my words against me.”

  “Not against you. But all things considered, can you blame me for being curious about this place?”

  Wulfstan scratched his stubbly jaw. “I don’t blame you. But that doesn’t mean you belong in here. How did Freya know about the key anyway?”

  “She’s observant, that one. Generous, too.”

  “Too generous, you mean.” Grumbling, he shook his head.

  “One can never be too generous. And what is the tragedy of my invading your inner sanctum?”

  “You’re meddling into matters you know naught of.”

  Jocelyn snorted. “Well, you’re right about that. I know naught because you reveal naught.”

  He shifted from one foot to the other. “That’s as it must be.”

  Jocelyn folded her arms. “I see.”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  She gave him a pointed look. “Whose fault is that?”

  He clenched his teeth. “You’ve already declared it to be mine.”

  She turned to the table and lifted the rune bag. “What use do you make of these?”

  “Put that down.”

  “Why? They’re just letters, symbols for writing.”

  He snatched the bag from her hand. “They’re a lot more than that, and they were my mother’s.”

  Jocelyn looked up at him. Her eyes smoldered. Her skin glowed. She was too close, too desirable.

  He retreated a step. “Where is the key?”

  She stared at him in silence.

  He held out his left hand. “The key. Give it to me.”

  “’Tis still in the door,” she said, pointing.

  “Oh. Now, if you’ll take your leave…”

  “Couldn’t I stay? Couldn’t we—”

  “No and no. I’ve work to do.”

  Her face flushed, but she said no more. Ignoring his gaze, she marched past him and out the door.

  He turned and trailed her steps, but by the time he reached the stairwell, she’d vanished. He retrieved the key, then closed and locked the door. With a heavy sigh, he trudged back to his worktable.

  He understood her frustration. Were their places reversed, he might even…

  No. There was no excuse for barging into a person’s sacred space.

  She’d already insinuated herself into his life, his work, even his dreams. For he’d dreamt of her last night. He’d lain and melted in her embrace, enveloped by warmth, softness, the mysticism of woman.

  Wulfstan shook his head and ran a hand through his damp hair. He glanced at the books on his worktable. Surely she’d leafed through the Latin ones and gleaned their significance. But she couldn’t translate the leechbook, nor the copy of the Lacnunga with its description of Woden’s nine hallowed herbs. Luckily, lock and key protected the manuscript of magic he’d inherited from his mother, and there was no way his wife could decipher the sigils on its cover.

  He piled the books one atop the other and returned them to the shelf. Then he turned back to the table and eyed the rune bag. Perhaps Jocelyn’s handling them was a sign he should seek their counsel.

  He crossed to the worktable, pulled a white cloth from the drawer beneath it, and spread it over the center of the table. Cradling the rune bag in his hands, he closed his eyes and silenced his mind. Thanks to years of practice, he easily merged with the All.

  With eyes still shut, he lifted the runes high. “Wend forth, ye maidens of the east: Wyrd, Werthende, and Should. From thy well, within thy fold, I lay the lots.”

  He opened his eyes, lowered the bag, and selected nine runes, one by one. He placed them on the cloth in an ancient pattern and studied them for some time. Then he grabbed a quill and recorded his findings.

  The runes were clear. There were positive forces at work. There was power on the wind. An imminent union. A reunion.

  And there was the distinctive shadow of danger.

  Chapter Ten

  High on the battlements, the wind was brisk and stern. Jocelyn paced up and down, back and forth. The black cat, the orange tabby, and Snow had pinpointed her location with alarming speed and shadowed her every move. The guards on duty gave her a wide berth. Whether ’twas for her sake or the cats’, she didn’t know, but she was grateful.

  She stopped and peered over the western wall at the white ground below. The snow had ceased, but a good six inches covered the land. ’Twas beautiful, serene.

  And as cold as her husband’s heart.

  Curse him for shutting me out and nursing his secrets! For giving me a taste of paradise, then denying its fulfillment.

  When he burst into the workroom, shame girdled her. But that slackened the instant he assumed she’d used Freya to gain the key.

  What nerve! What a foul, frostbitten—

  “My lady,” a voice called from the left.

  Jocelyn turned. Edith stood several yards away in front of the stairwell. Huddled against the cold, Alice shivered beside her. Jocelyn approached them with cats in tow.

  The ghost of a smile touched Edith’s lips. “I can almost see the heat you’re giving off. The snow doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Jocelyn released a sigh so long and warm it swirled visibly in the cold, dry air. “’Tis not the snow I would thaw.”

  “What then?” Alice asked.

  Edith’s gaze held Jocelyn’s. “Not what. Whom.”

  Alice’s hazel eyes doubled in size. “Do you mean—”

  “Aye,” Edith said, nodding. “Lord Nihtscua.”

  Alice smiled. “Your ladyship is warming up to him?”

  Jocelyn made a face. “I might say aye if I could wipe the hoarfrost f
rom his heart.”

  Alice tilted her head to the side. “But Gunhild says his lordship is a passionate man.”

  “Passionate about his work, mayhap.” Jocelyn crossed her arms.

  “He’s had lovers,” Alice said in a hushed voice. “Not recently, but—”

  “How would Gunhild know?” asked Jocelyn, hands on hips.

  “Hmph.” Edith rolled her eyes. “What doesn’t she know?”

  Alice twisted her lips. “Mayhap if Gunhild had a man of her own, she’d have less time for gossip.”

  “I know she fancies Sven,” Edith said.

  A look of horror ran through Alice’s face. “The smith? He’s ages older than her!”

  Edith shrugged. “He’s still virile, and there’s no accounting for taste. But you’d better believe if Gunhild knows something, Sven can wheedle it out of her.” Edith turned to Jocelyn. “My lady, Alice says you went to the north tower.”

  “I did indeed,” Jocelyn said.

  Edith’s eyes narrowed. “Did you enter his workroom?”

  “I did, and his lordship found me there.”

  As one, Alice and Edith gasped.

  Jocelyn pushed her shoulders back. “He was angry, but I don’t regret it. I’m half-mad from his secrets and seclusion. Does he think to ignore me forever?”

  Edith grinned. “I doubt even Wulfstan could manage that.”

  Jocelyn grunted. She wasn’t so sure.

  Alice cleared her throat. “His lordship cannot be all bad if you left the tower unharmed.”

  Jocelyn’s gaze dropped to the cats circling her hem. “He’s not bad…just obsessed with his goals, whatever they are.” Heat traveled the length of her body, and she looked up. “Well, I’ve got goals of my own.”

  “Such as?” Edith prompted.

  Jocelyn glanced at Snow, whose white fur blended in with the new-fallen snow. “Children. Nihtscua’s transformation. Learning the Saxon tongue.”

  “Why learn Saxon, my lady?” Alice asked.

  Jocelyn regarded her handmaiden. “I refuse to be shut out of anything that concerns Nihtscua and its people.”

  “Admirable goals,” Edith said. “I can teach you Saxon. The speaking and the writing of it.”

  Jocelyn smiled. “You can? You will?”