Freya shrugged. “I simply knew, just as I knew Jocelyn needed the key to your workroom.”
Wulfstan looked from Freya to Jocelyn, and back again. “So you have the gift too,” he said, smiling. “I thought you might. You’re very like our mother. Do you want to learn what she taught me?”
Freya bobbed up and down. “I do! Thank you, Wulfstan.”
His smile was tender. “’Tis good to hear you say my name again.”
“I cried when she said mine,” Edith admitted. She glanced at the shovel in Wulfstan’s hand. “What do you expect to find in the mound?”
“If luck is with us, a hidden chamber,” he answered.
Edith stared at him for a long moment, then gave him a nod. “Right. You’ll want a torch. I’ll fetch one from the gatehouse.” She turned and scurried toward the woodland path.
Shovel at the ready, Wulfstan started toward the mound. “Come, Harold,” he called over his shoulder. “Let’s dig.”
The men set to work. Jocelyn sat beside Freya at the bottom of Woden’s Stair.
I hope I’m right, she thought. I must be. Meg foresaw it, and Freya divined the need to dig.
A short while later, Wulfstan’s shovel made a loud clang. “I’ve hit something hard,” he said. “It sounds like metal.”
He turned to Jocelyn. They shared a soulful glance, and her heart beat faster.
I was right! Keep digging, my love. We’re almost there!
****
Wulfstan threw his shovel aside. He was breathing heavily, from both his labor and the excitement of discovery. He stared in awe at the entrance he and Harold had uncovered. A golden door, highly decorated and framed by stone, right in the side of the mound.
“I don’t believe it,” Harold remarked. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped back.
“Neither do I,” said Wulfstan. ’Twas here all this time, and we never suspected. Look what we found, Mother!
Suddenly, Jocelyn was at his side. “Let’s leave belief out of this and see what’s inside.”
Wulfstan reached for the ring-shaped handle and pulled. With surprising ease, the door swung outward. Stale air wafted toward them.
“Steps, leading downward,” he said, turning to Jocelyn. “You were right.”
Edith handed him the blazing torch. The wind, calmer now, was kind to the flames.
He descended the stone stairs with Jocelyn close behind. In all, there were twelve steps, curving around a long slab of rock which seemed an extension of the Wolf Stone. It jutted out of the ceiling and hung down into the middle of the stone chamber.
At the bottom of the stairs, he paused to take it all in. Swords and shields. Books and scrolls. Relics of silver and gold.
“You see it too, right?” he asked.
“Oh aye,” said Jocelyn.
Relief flooded through him. At last. This is it!
Freya called to them. “It’s started to rain out here. May we come down too?”
“Of course,” he returned.
“There’s a socket in the wall,” Jocelyn said, pointing. “I think the torch will fit.”
He handed her the torch, and she lowered it into the iron holder as Freya, Edith, and Harold joined them. The sound of rain pelting the earth filled the chamber.
“Treasure,” Edith breathed.
“In written form too,” Wulfstan said, leaning over the table against the wall. He pointed to a conspicuous parchment. “’Tis a message from the past.”
The others gathered around him. He read aloud, translating the words so all could understand.
“'To the woman of fire and the man of ice: I, Thorgils, beheld you in a vision, here on this hallowed ground. I foresaw a troubled time, when darkness would swallow light, and there my vision ended. At that moment, a wolf and a woman fell from the sky. The woman was dead, but the wolf circled the ground above and bade me create the rune stone and the stairs. The riddle is yours to solve. Use the objects herein as you will. May they find you well and bring you joy.’”
“The woman of fire,” Edith mused. “She must be you, my lady.”
Wulfstan looked at Jocelyn and knew it to be true. He slid an arm around her.
Jocelyn leaned her head on his shoulder. “And who else but his lordship could be the man of ice?”
“Look!” Freya exclaimed. “The full riddle is on the hanging stone.”
Everyone turned. Pristine and plain to see, the etchings on the stone offered a glimpse of how the upper half of the Wolf Stone once appeared. Beside the wolf’s silhouette was a woman’s.
Gertrude, no doubt, thought Wulfstan. The rune-filled wyrm was easy to read, and he thrilled at the way it felt on his tongue. “'As above, so below. Born of earth, born of sky. Great mirror of time, of souls and worlds transformed. At the wolf’s cry, when fire and ice embrace, when the two drink from the sacred horn, then shall light conquer shadow and all Nihtscua rejoice.”
“Did the wolf that killed Gertrude cry?” Freya asked.
“Aye,” said Wulfstan.
Jocelyn whispered in his ear, and her warm breath made him shiver. “So did you, my lord…on the mound.”
His blood stirred at the memory. He grinned and squeezed her waist.
Watching the two of them, Edith arched an eyebrow. “Did fire and ice embrace?”
Wulfstan and Jocelyn traded charged glances.
“We did,” he answered.
“Most definitely,” Jocelyn added.
Edith flashed a knowing smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Jocelyn slipped from Wulfstan’s hold and paced about the room as though searching for something. “A sacred horn,” she murmured. “That must be it!”
She bent over the shining hoard of artifacts and lifted a gold drinking horn adorned with precious stones. “Wait here,” she said and raced up the stairs. Moments later, she returned with a horn full of rainwater. She took a long draught, then offered the vessel to Wulfstan.
The horn felt heavier than he’d expected, but that was fitting. It held the weight of Nihtscua’s fate, of his dreams and his mother’s before him. He raised it to his lips and drank the cool, refreshing water. When he’d drained the horn’s contents, he set it on the table. A shift in energy—within the chamber and without—resonated deep inside him.
He turned to Jocelyn. “You did it.”
Her brown eyes shone. “We did it.”
Outside, the rain ceased in an instant. Freya laughed. Edith and Harold clasped hands.
“I suppose we should return to the keep,” Edith said. “The feasting will begin soon. You two are coming, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” said Wulfstan. “But if Lady Nihtscua and I could have a moment alone…”
“Say no more,” Edith said. “We’ll see you in the hall. Come along, Freya.”
Freya rushed up to Wulfstan and Jocelyn and captured them both in a boisterous hug. All smiles, she followed Harold and Edith up the steps.
Wulfstan turned to observe his wife. He was beyond fortunate, and he’d be forever grateful that the king sent her to him. The shadows of the past were laid to rest. Jocelyn had changed his world. They would build a new one together.
“So we’re alone now,” she said. “What is your wish, my lord?”
He reached into the leather pouch at his waist and pulled out her wedding ring. “Only to return this to its rightful place.” Lifting her hand, he slid the ring on her finger.
“I’m sorry I ever removed it.”
“I’m not. Everything has happened just as it should.”
She pursed her lips. “All except this unseasonable thaw. Do you think you could disentangle your moods from the weather? I actually like winter.”
He chuckled and pulled her close. “I’ll see what I can do.” Her nearness worked on him like magic.
She looked down, then back up at him and raised an eyebrow. “Is the little wolf hungry?”
He guffawed. “Little?”
“Big. I meant big.”
She smiled up at him. “I waited so long to hear you say that, to feel you near me. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.”
He took her hands in his and gazed into her eyes. Her beautiful, smoldering eyes. “I have enough,” he said. “Here. Now. With you. All that I am…all I ever want to be…is yours.”
A word about the author…
Judith Sterling is a pseudonym for Judith Marshall, whose nonfiction books My Conversations with Angels and Past Lives, Present Stories have been translated into multiple languages. Her historical romance, Flight of the Raven, was the first of The Novels of Ravenwood series.
She has an MA in linguistics and a BA in history, with a minor in British Studies. Born in that sauna called Florida, she craved cooler climes, and once the travel bug bit, she lived in England, Scotland, Sweden, Wisconsin, Virginia, and on the island of Nantucket. She currently lives in Salem, Massachusetts with her husband and their identical twin sons.
http://judithmarshallauthor.com
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