The Eye of the Wolf

by Sadie Vanderveen

  Malachi’s face and his eyes. They drew her because they were Will’s. Mikayla blinked several times and tried to fool herself that she was only seeing that because he wasn’t there to laugh at her or the perfunctory tour she was being given. As hard as she tried to dismiss the image, Mikayla knew she was staring at the eyes and face of Will Chambers despite the 850 years that separated the men.

  “Come along, Dr. Knight, I shall show you some other rooms of the castle.” Dejeune gestured down the hall and began to lead the way.

  Mikayla tore her eyes away from the painting, but she took one last glance over her shoulder as she walked further down the hall. It was his face and his eyes. Even the sneer of King Malachi was Will’s sneer. How could that be?

  Dejeune was aware of Mikayla’s physical reaction to the painting of King Malachi, but he couldn’t understand why she would have such a strong reaction. “Is everything all right, Dr. Knight?” He inquired cautiously.

  Mikayla cleared her throat and nodded. “Of course, I was just struck by how much King Malachi looked like someone I met recently, here on the island.”

  Dejeune nodded. “Yes, I suppose some of our residents do resemble King Malachi in a certain way.” He smoothed the silver hair at his temples and folded his hands in front of him. “Of course, many of our residents can trace their own families back to before even King Henry came to the island. Most of the ancient families are connected to the royal family in some manner, usually through a distant relative. It’s a bit like being from Great Britain, I suppose. Everyone is related in some way to everyone else.” Dejeune continued down the long hall. He smiled mildly in her direction but his eyes were dark. A chill ran down her spine though she couldn’t explain why.

  Mikayla followed Dejeune through the antiquated rooms of the castle mentally taking notes of the cathedral ceilings and the ornate gold-leaf paint that adorned every carved and painted surface. As she tried to focus on the architectural lesson issuing from Dejeune, her mind returned once again to King Malachi’s painting. She had to get another look at that painting. There was something that drew her to it, and she knew that the pull she felt towards the painting itself was because of her preoccupation with her assistant, the mysterious photographer who had appeared in her life and completely commandeered any thoughts she had.

  Mikayla inwardly groaned and shook her head. This was very unprofessional. She had exactly seven weeks until the 900 years anniversary celebration would flood the island with tourists from all across the world, including the British royal family. She had work to do. She didn’t have time to be caught up in a romantic interlude with a handsome world traveler.

  She sighed. But, he was so charming and handsome and sexy and the kiss they had shared two nights before had taken her breath away. She rubbed a hand across her heart again, feeling the drumming the thought of Will created. Soothing the ache it created.

  Mikayla sighed. This would never do. She had to focus, and she was going to start right now.

  “Tell me, Monsieur Dejeune, how exactly did the Crusaders with King Henry arrive on Amor?” Mikayla circled a suit of armor, inspecting the workmanship and the links holding the suit together. Through cursory examination, Mikayla could tell that the suit was created in France during the early 1000s. She jotted that information down in her notebook before looking for more signature trademarks of the metalsmith of France who had manufactured the armor.

  “Well, Dr. Knight, local records and folk lore tell that Henry and his Knights landed on the shores of Amor after being blown off course on their way to Greece.” He gently took her arm and led her to one of the tapestries that adorned the walls.

  Mikayla examined the tapestry. It covered the entire wall from ceiling to floor and window to window. The wool and silk threads once had been vibrant in color, entertaining viewers with the tale of King Henry and his loyal knights. Now, those same threads had faded and begun to fray after 900 years of hanging on the walls to provide warmth to the cold, stone walls of the castle.

  The tapestry was a story, Mikayla could see, the story of King Henry and the early history of Amor. At the top of the tapestry, A group of knights rode on horseback through a countryside covered in mosques and sand. One of the knights wore a crown, similar to the crown in the Museum of History. That would have been Henry.

  Mikayla’s eyes followed the line of horsemen as Dejeune narrated the tapestry. “Following the sacking and rescuing of Jerusalem from the infidels.” Mikayla rolled her eyes at the use of the term infidel to describe the Muslims who had protected their holy city from the crazed Christians roaring in on horseback fortified by the belief that they were protecting the city from Satan and his followers.

  Dejeune’s voice washed over Mikayla just like a college history professor’s in its monotonous tone, inundating her with information. Boring her silly. She was pleased she didn’t really have to listen. The story unfolded before her with great detail and vitality.

  “From Jerusalem, Henry and his knights commandeered a boat and sailed into the Mediterranean with the intention of landing in Italy or Greece, no one is really sure which was their original destination. I suspect it was Italy since the Italians had been hosts to the Crusaders. While in the Mediterranean, a tropical storm arose and blew them off course. They were lost at sea for 40 days and 40 nights before one of the knights finally spotted land through a heavy fog that had descended on them during the night.”

  On the tapestry, a thread boat with its white sail and red cross was tossed among gales of water and wind and a sea serpent that arose from the waves to threaten the knights aboard that ship. Then, land was sighted rising from the gray thread that surrounded the white sail and red cross. It rose green and gray above the blue water.

  “The knights landed on the shore just below where we are now. They were greeted by the Greeks who were here. The Greeks who lived here were sailors and fishermen whose families had come to this island almost one thousand years before the arrival of the Crusaders.”

  Small fishing boats, rows of crops, and friendly faces greeted the Crusaders who stood on the sandy white beach of early Amor. The friendly faces offered large silver fish that glinted in the sunlight that filtered through stained glass windows in the room. Baskets of breads, grapes, and wheat sat beside the feet of the Greeks. Each knight and Greek lifted a glass of purple to one another. A toast in friendship and welcome.

  “Shortly after the arrival of the Crusaders, something happened among the peoples. A rebellion? A revolt? No one is sure, but there was violence between the two groups.”

  Red slashes of color flowed from fallen men in plain clothing while men in silver armor stood over, swords drawn. In the distance was the roughly hewn walls of the beginning of the Secluded City jutting from the rock of the island. Mobs of angry farmers marched over hills no longer green and alive but brown and dead. Pitchforks locked with swords and lances. Fishing boats burned bright in the darkening water, no longer pulsating blue. Horror echoed.

  “The majority of the Greeks who were here prior to the arrival of the Crusaders were killed in the revolt. Women, children, and the infirm were the only ones to survive. Henry was mortally wounded in the fighting. He died shortly after peace came to Amor again. His son, born to a native woman, was named Richard and would become king at the age of 16.”

  Women and children bowed at the feet of the Crusaders whose red crosses were bright against the dreary backdrop. King Henry, with his royal crown perched upon his head, was struck from behind by an unknown, dark man whose features were disguised by the black thread used to create the specter. Pyre flames bright as a small, young boy places the crown upon his head and looks to the distance. The spires of the Secluded City pierce through the dark clouds of the sky to shoot bright golden threads of sunlight down upon the boy-king. Knights in glinting armor kneel at his feet, heads bowed in supplication.

  Dejeune sighed with a content look upon his face. “Peace reigned for 200 years before the Seljuk Turks conquered al
l of the Mediterranean region. The knights of Amor, descendents of the Greeks and the Crusaders, repelled and displaced the Turks after 20 years of fighting. Even during that occupation, the monarchy begun by King Henry maintained itself and control of the people. That, Dr. Knight, is the record of the arrival of the Crusaders.”

  “Hmm…” Mikayla noised as her eyes followed the path of the Crusaders from arrival on the island to the sun illuminating King Richard at the bottom corner, larger than life. Richard’s boldness and strength shone through the wools and silks to engulf the viewer, to make the viewer believe in the rightness of the Crusaders taking control of the island.

  Mikayla knelt down and fingered the tapestry. The wool was rough against her fingertips. Dust floated out of the tapestry to tickle her nose. She examined the figure of King Richard carefully. Behind him was the Secluded City, shining in its glory, its draw bridge down and moat greenish-blue in the distance. Mikayla’s fingers traced the shapes of King Richard and the Secluded City, mesmerized.

  “It is an amazing piece of work, isn’t it, Dr. Knight.” Rene Dejeune rocked on his feet and looked the tapestry up and down. His pleasure with the work was obvious. “Have you ever seen its like?”

  Mikayla glanced over her shoulder and shook her head as she pulled a magnifying glass from her pocket. Her fingers were tracing something hidden in the stitching of the Secluded City, something similar to letters. It was very tiny, minute enough to be missed. “No, Monsieur Dejeune, I haven’t. Who is responsible for this work?”

  “Ah, wonderful question.” Dejeune nodded enthusiastically. “It was created by King Richard’s Queen Consort and then completed by the Queen Consort of King Malachi.”

  Mikayla leveled a magnifying glass on the tapestry and narrowed her focus on the stitching she had been tracing.

  ÀÃFbyJ

  It wasn’t letters but it was symbols, symbols that were familiar to Mikayla but not recognizable. She got closer to the tapestry and tried to choose the language that was stitched into the fabric. It wasn’t Greek; it wasn’t recognizable, yet Mikayla felt for sure that she had seen this very pattern before.

  “Did you find something of interest, Dr. Knight?” Dejeune squatted down next to her on the floor and peered over her shoulder.

  “Ummm,…” Mikayla took up the notebook she had dropped on the floor and copied the symbols down on the paper within the covers. She then hurriedly stood up. “I was inspecting the stitching in the lower corner, and I discovered this pattern stitched in.”

  Mikayla held out the notebook with its strange symbols. Dejeune adjusted his half-glasses and inspected the symbols. His hand beneath the notebook began to shake violently. He sucked in his breath. His eyes darted around the room like those of a scared rabbit who knows he is stuck in the hunter’s sights. Anxiety and fear filled his eyes as Mikayla’s own nerves began to sing.

  Chapter 12

  “Monsieur Dejeune, can you tell me what it means? Is it a native language?” Mikayla peered into his face searching for the cause of his obvious anxiety. Sweat broke out on Dejeune’s forehead. Mikayla shook Dejeune’s arm. “Monsieur Dejeune?”

  Dejeune looked into Mikayla’s eyes and forced himself to grow calm. He was threatening the project. He was threatening his work for the Wolf. He mustn’t allow anything to interfere with the plan the Wolf had put into play. He also owed it to this young historian to protect her. She was an innocent pawn in the drama that was playing out. They were just beginning the second act. He had a duty to protect her against the danger she was in regardless of her knowledge of that danger. It was also his duty to protect the secret of the Wolf.

  Dejeune drew himself to his full height and adjusted his dress jacket. “I apologize, Dr. Knight,” he handed the notebook back to her in a swift moment, his movements again having purpose and not being lost in dreams of ancient knightly quests. “I was not feeling well this morning, yet I insisted that I give you this tour. I suppose I should have stayed in bed.” He smiled coolly. His voice was clipped and all business, a stark contrast to the fear hidden in his dark eyes. “I apologize again for my brief moment of weakness. I haven’t seen anything of the like prior to this. I suppose it is the signature of one of the creators.”

  Mikayla frowned but took her notebook back without complaint. She highly doubted that it was the signature of the creator. Women of the Middle Ages did not sign their work just as artists prior to the Renaissance did not sign their paintings. It was a signal of humble piety. Dejeune gestured through another door, and they exited the Crusaders’ hall.

  “If you will follow me, the Princess Royale and the Crown Princess are waiting to meet with you in the Yellow Tea Room.” Dejeune led her into a large foyer. A large, curving staircase of pink marble that shone bright enough to see a reflection engulfed the majority of the foyer. A balcony circled the foyer from the top of the staircase. Sunlight twinkled through a dome in the ceiling of stained glass. Mikayla craned her head back to see the dome. The stained glass portrayed the image of King Henry rising to heaven, the halo behind his head bright, while his son, King Richard stood tall, holding his father’s sword, the crown set upon his head and light streaming from the clouds above behind him. Again, as in the tapestry, the framework and roughly hewn walls of the Secluded City stood tall behind King Richard. It was a breath-taking, if not propogandic, image.

  Mikayla followed Rene Dejeune up the curving staircase and to the door of the Yellow Tea Room. The guards who stood before the door bowed deeply to Dejeune and pulled open the doors.

  Mikayla followed Dejeune through the doors and into the room that was appropriately named, the Yellow Tea Room. The walls were covered in a faint, yellow, silk wall-covering. Heavy, gold draperies and a filmy white window treatment hung from gold braided valances over the large windows. A grand piano sat near the windows, its lid tipped up, ready to be played. Sheets of music sat on the stand tempting the tinkerer to sit and tickle the ivories. On a stand, beside the shimmering black piano, sat a violin of the most magnificent quality. Its burnished wood glowed in the faint light, like it had a life of its own. An aura surrounded it, beckoning to be played, with the hands of a lover, soft, gentle, and needy. A fireplace was set into the deep mahogany wood of the wall. The royal crest with its wolf’s head baying at the full moon was molded in bright gold and shone in the beam of sunlight that struck it. Three settees faced the fireplace, yellow brocade covering the seats and deep mahogany creating the arms and legs. A deep golden rug, luxuriously woven, covered the center of the finely polished marble floor.

  Mikayla took in the lavish surroundings in a glance. It was on her second glance that her eyes took in the two women seated on one of the settees near the fireplace. A silver tea service sat on a finely carved cart before the settee. The wood of the cart gleamed almost as brightly as that of the silver tea service. It warmed the room, but it also suggested that there was power here, power Mikayla would never understand as a simple historian from America immersed in this world of ancient beliefs and ancient powers.

  Dejeune led Mikayla to the chairs facing the brocaded couch with their backs to the ornate marble fireplace. He gestured to one with a hand that shook slightly and then he bowed deeply to the two women who had remained seated upon their entrance into the room. He waited a heartbeat or two before straightening and moving to the next chair to take a seat himself. Both women inclined their heads slightly in the direction of Dejeune but their piercing green, matching eyes, eyes like that of a cat or other animal who would need to see at night, remained fixed on Mikayla, raking her from head to toe in skepticism and cool reflection.

  Mikayla lowered herself into the Louis XIV chair slowly and with precision. Smoothly, she crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. She watched the women across the coffee table from her under veiled eyes as they calmly poured tea and placed small sandwiches on fragile china plates that were probably two hundred or more years old. No one spoke. The silence was deafening. It was also powerful. It su
ggested the power of the two women, women who would never sit on the throne of Amor, but who, in their own way, ruled from behind the scenes.

  The older of the women sat straight on the settee, her back never touching the plush upholstery. Although she was obviously older than the other woman, it was difficult to ascertain her age. She looked young yet wise, shrewd, cunning even with her severe chignon swept back from her finely lined brow. Her hair was the color of straw right after it has been cut, when it is still gold and fresh from being in the hot summer sun. She was tall, perhaps close to six foot, and slim. She didn’t look as if she worked hard to remain perfect, yet Mikayla knew that she probably did, just as most women did.

  Mikayla continued to take in the person of the Princess Royale, Elizabeth Chambers, as the delicate plates and cups were passed around to her. Elizabeth Chambers, a woman who once had been the star of the Viennese Symphony had married a prince, the heir to the Amorian throne and had given up her life as a violinist. Mikayla noted the long, tapered, delicate fingers that had once romanced a prince through the music that had come from her fingers to the violin she had embraced. Her face was pale, but suggested merely an interest in preserving her natural beauty rather than sickliness. Her nose was pointed, like that of an aristocrat, and it matched her defined cheekbones beneath a faint layer of blush.

  The Princess Royale was dressed in a simple cream suit with a simple strand of pearls around her neck with matching pearls adorning her perfectly shaped ears. Her skirt cut off precisely at the knee to accentuate shapely legs in cream stockings. Never in Mikayla’s life had she seen another woman who was so perfectly put together. Suddenly, she felt underdressed in her simple navy suit and very self-aware of her fly-away hair that had always had a mind of its own.