Cornelia looked outside and saw the troops riding up. “So it’s settled. Jova is a powerful warlock, and he and Daddy came to a truce after a fierce battle. And we’ll say that Sirius is a prince from a wealthy Spanish family. Sister and Sirius are to be married with me and Jova. Can we do a double wedding, Father?”
“Him a prince? That is rich, because he certainly isn’t,” said Angus. But then he nodded begrudgingly, likely thinking about the expense of two separate weddings. “Your sister is not going to be able to walk down the aisle, much less waddle like a river duck if we wait much longer. And it will be cheaper to do this just once . . .”
“Daddy!” the Howler protested. “I will not waddle one bit!”
“We can do a double wedding, but on one condition,” Angus said.
“What is that?” I asked. He wasn’t going to try and get my gold again, was he?
“Someone has to go through every inch of that dusty old church of St. Mary’s from its basement to its rafters,” he said, “and clear out each and every blasted spider!”
The next day the Howler, Garlic, and I rode in Harvis’s old wagon with Oliver, Jova, and Cornelia. Harvis and Molly agreed to take my gold and store it in the underground vault that Harvis and Oliver had built under the barn. Jova left half of his gold with Harvis for safekeeping, even though I assured him that no highwaymen would be so foolish as to challenge our well-armed wagon.
The Howler seemed to be growing bigger by the day, and I questioned if she really was going to be able to walk not waddle down the aisle of St. Mary’s. Angus and his troops had set out ahead of us to prepare the church and castle for the Lancashire event of the year—per Angus, all of Liverpool’s most important were invited. It was truly going to be quite a show.
Our first stop was London, where Jova rendezvoused with his ship and crew and offloaded Oliver’s wine, which the big troll then stored at the Meats and Cheeses, except for several choice barrels, which he loaded into the wagon to take to Lancashire for the wedding. Jova had wanted to pay Oliver for his wine, but Oliver showed him a vast underground cavern beneath the Meats and Cheeses, where casks of wine stretched out on great wooden racks for as far as the eye could see. “This cellar is but a small replica of the one at Don Indigo’s vineyard,” Oliver exclaimed. “Perhaps we can travel to Tuscany on your honeymoon, and I can introduce you to his heirs, and we all can sample his amazing work while staying at the House of Indigo.”
Jova and Cornelia clapped their hands with glee. I caught the Howler’s eye, and I knew from the curve of her belly that there was to be no honeymoon for us. Just as well, I mused, dealing with what was to come was more than I could likely handle anyway. In reality, I still could not fathom whatsoever the responsibility of this new family. I knew I was not going to be able to stay in Lancashire for very long with the cheery bit of vampire-loving happiness that was Angus. But just where would the Howler and I go? Maybe, just maybe I could convince her to return with me to Sa Dragonera.
We covered a surprising amount of distance each day and made it to the outskirts of Lancashire in what seemed like no time at all. The Howler knew the shortest and safest route, and we stopped at several inns at night, and with Oliver’s huge head hooded by day, we drew no unwanted attention.
I could sense the Howler was growing more and more anxious as we approached greater Liverpool. One night I pulled her aside from the others and attempted to both interrogate and console her at the same time, but it was to no avail. The Howler was not talking. And with all of us sharing space at the inns, there was certainly no ability to steal any intimate moments. At least that applied to me and the Howler. Jova was getting quite a premarital education from his betrothed, judging from his smiling, chipper face every morning at breakfast. Quite honestly, it made me want to smack the red streaks right out of his hair.
At the border of Liverpool proper, we were greeted by an honor guard sent by Angus Blackheart to welcome his daughters home. Soon the narrow dirt path we had traveled widened considerably, and Cornelia fairly jumped out of the wagon trying to contain her excitement. “We are close, Jova,” she squealed. “This is the old Northwich Road. Castle Blackheart is just a little ways off.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Must be named after your people, but I think it is a bad omen to name a road after a witch. I don’t care where she is from.”
“Not North Witch,” the Howler said. “Northwich. It’s a town east of here.”
“Oh,” I replied. “Tell me, do you really have a castle, or is it just a little field house with some stone walls?”
“No, it is a castle,” she said. “You’ll see. Father purchased it some years ago from the penniless heirs of Nigel, the first Baron of Halton. It was originally called Halton Castle, but Daddy likes to put his name on everything. Every one of his ships is named some version of Blackheart. I have not been here in a few years, but Cornelia tells me Father has been busy expanding and making it, in his words, ‘fit for a king.’”
“Oh my!” Oliver exclaimed as the wagon came around a corner, and Castle Blackheart hove into view. “Now that is a castle.” I nodded in agreement while Jova, who clearly was trying to muster the courage to stand up to Angus in his home territory, merely gulped. High up on a wooded bluff, Castle Blackheart sat, its many spires and turrets forming a great crown on a massive stone face looking down on the beautiful countryside and the Mersey River. We crossed Blackheart Brook, and I noted someone had taken great pains to grade the roadway so it was smooth as polished wood, and our wagon fairly glided along. When we reached the outer gate of Castle Blackheart, we were greeted by cheers from the farmers and the other castle workers, and I basked in their adulation, waving my hands with glee. Then a sinking feeling washed over me, and I frowned, unsure of what was causing my unease. Jova noticed, and looked at me with concern, so I shrugged and waved my hands even more vigorously. Yet the foreboding did not fade. What was bothering me?
At last we reached the castle, the horses fairly straining at their reins, seeking the comfort of the stables they could smell so tantalizingly close at journey’s end, and their hooves thundered across the drawbridge, finally stopping in front of the inner battlement, flecks of foam flying from their nostrils. Greeting us in his full battle armor perfectly shined and gleaming in the noonday sun was Angus Blackheart and every single inhabitant of Castle Blackheart dressed in their finest garb. Etched on Angus’s face was a smile that did not fade one moment, even when he laid eyes on me and the Howler, or even when I kissed the hand of my soon-to-be mother-in-law, Anne Blackheart, for just a little too long. Not that she minded, of course, like mother like daughter, apparently, judging from her seemingly inadvertent squeeze of my backside as our party crowded into Castle Blackheart’s great hall. She presumably was quite fond of vampires!
We were ushered to seats at the massive wooden table that occupied the hall, painstakingly carved with great care from a single gargantuan oak and painted with the Blackheart family crest of a snarling black wolf cradling a black heart in its massive jaws. Music started up, and a great banquet was served. Oliver had managed to get a barrel of his wine to Angus, who sampled it and roared with approval. We were all ravenous and tore into the most magnificent meal of lamb, deer, cow, and pig. “No scouse in my house,” Angus shouted, and the hall roared in approval. “To the Pack!”
I turned to the Howler. “What is scouse?”
“It’s a stew made from leftover meat with vegetables and potatoes,” she answered. “It’s all father ate as a child, so now that he is prosperous, he refuses to eat anything but a fresh kill.”
“I can relate, though we seem to have different definitions of what is a fresh kill,” I said, wishing my meat was a heck of a lot bloodier and less cooked than the werewolves seemed to like it. Garlic was not so picky, tearing into a leg of lamb with a vengeance. She caught my eye and woofed in approval. I laughed out loud—she would have no problem staying
in this castle, as long as the food kept coming. But that was the thing, I mused. After the wedding, Angus said we were on our own, and in my mind that meant leaving this place. I bit into a delicious lamb chop, overlooking the fact that it was a tad overcooked, and took a sip of Oliver’s fine wine and savored it. I would enjoy this life while I could, and I turned and smiled at the Howler. I leaned over to ask her what the deal was with all this Pack nonsense. Cornelia had said that it was the Howler’s onus, not hers. What was the onus of the Pack that the Howler bore like the children of ours she carried in her burgeoning belly? But my words failed me because she looked sick to her stomach, was white as a castle ghost, and excused herself to retire to her chambers with her mother and ladies-in-waiting holding her by her arms.
Angus did not seem to notice his daughter had left, and stood with his goblet while the room went silent. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we are going to have a wedding like Lancashire has never seen. Two of my daughters shall be given away in marriage at St. Mary’s, then we shall all return to Castle Blackheart for the feast of all feasts. And now let me introduce the grooms.” The crowd burst into a deafening applause, and much wine was drunk or, more aptly, chugged.
Jova leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Tomorrow? Did he say tomorrow?”
I nodded, “Yes, he did. So enjoy your last night as a single man,” I said. I noticed he, too, was looking a bit pale. Cornelia’s face was flushed with wine, and she did not seem to notice her groom was looking a little green around the gills. Was Jova actually nervous about marrying his one and only true love? Not possible, I thought. “Don’t worry,” I said with a grin. “Getting married is easy. In fact, the last time I got married, I did not even know it!” Jova did not look remotely comforted by my words, so I raised my goblet and drank, wondering if the Howler would be too sick to make it down the aisle.
Angus held up his hand, and the crowd grew silent. “Good people of Lancashire proper, this man seated at my table is a legend among his kind. He is a warlock beyond compare,” Angus said. “We battled in the outskirts of London for hours, nay, I say days, before we came to a truce. We found common ground, and Cornelia has found love—true love.” A whispered hush came over the crowd, and I could hear the people repeating “true love” to each other. Was it really that unusual? “Rise, Lord Warlock Jova of Hopkinshire and join me.”
Jova stood and walked over to Angus, who clapped him a little too enthusiastically on the shoulders amidst cheers from the crowd. I laughed to myself, as Angus was certainly full of bluster. Hopkinshire? Lord Warlock? I could not wait to see how he was going to explain me, and I wasn’t disappointed. When the cheering faded, Angus continued his presentation to his minions, arm still draped around Jova’s shoulder, which flung Jova around like a rag doll with every movement Angus made.
“And from the far reaches of fabled Spain comes Prince Sirius of Madrid, fifth in line to the throne of the Spanish Empire. Cheer, good people, for we have royalty among us,” Angus commanded. “Join us, fair prince, so we may toast your brides.”
I could not have been more shocked at Angus’s sincere platitudes. Royalty? Well, that certainly worked for me, so I put on my best royal face and did not make eye contact with the commoners as I joined Angus and the Lord Warlock. I put my arm around Jova and said, “Lord Warlock.”
“Prince Sirius,” he replied, stifling a grin.
Angus raised his goblet, and the Lord Warlock and I followed suit. We looked out into the cheering, drunken masses. “To the brides,” Angus said. “To the brides,” Jova and I echoed. After our toast and some more wine, Cornelia departed with her ladies after sharing one last prewedding kiss with Jova.
“The next time I see you,” she said, “I will be walking down the aisle at St. Mary’s to be your wife forever!”
“Right . . . forever,” he repeated. Had the aforementioned Lord Warlock of Hopkinshire drank too much, or did he look like he was going to lose his dinner for some other reason? Like marrying Cornelia, perhaps . . .
Cornelia kissed him one more time before a stern look from Angus sent her on her way. I pulled Jova over to the hearth, where we sat down to warm ourselves and share one more goblet of wine next to Garlic, who was reveling in the heat of the fire and the fullness of her belly. With great effort she crawled over to me and promptly fell asleep in my lap. “Now, that is a good idea,” I said. “We should get some sleep.” Jova merely nodded, and I could sense he was feeling nervous about the following day. “Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “It will be over before you know it. Now, go to bed.” Again, the Bogeyman just nodded and stumbled his way to his bedchamber. Oliver followed, shaking his head. Garlic and I, seeing the great hall was clear, were in no hurry to depart from the warmth of the fire and, finding a few plush furs, decided to bed down for the night right where we were lying. We both found sleep came easily and deeply that night for, in the wine-clouded recesses of my mind, the unease from earlier in the day was unable to muster any strength to disturb me, and for that I was grateful—or was that grapeful?
Chapter 11
I awoke refreshed and ready to face the day, and I was even getting a little excited about the prospect of getting married and actually knowingly participating in the ceremony. Jova and I were ushered out of the castle proper to avoid the slightest possibility of running into our brides and casting some serious bad luck upon our nuptials. Jova looked a little better, so Oliver and I took him into the village to get him some air. Garlic loped along beside us, sniffing at each new scent. Suddenly, she took off running, and I followed her, breaking into a sprint to keep up and drawing the attention of a few merchants, who could not fathom my rather unnatural speed. I slowed to a more mortal pace, and spied Garlic sitting next to a tavern. As Garlic happily lapped from a bowl of beer, a young serving wench was bending over to pet him, giving me an unfettered view of her ample bosom.
“Is this your dog, good sir?” the girl asked, looking up at me and pushing her long blonde hair away from her face and patting a long comb of pink flowers back into place. She looked to be about eighteen or so, and I found myself staring into inviting brown eyes flecked with bits of green and gray. “What is her name?” she asked.
“Her name is Garlic,” I said, stooping down next to my new friend, and noticing the stark contrast of her lips, which were the color of crushed strawberries, against her pale, milky-white skin. I fought to keep from gazing down her open blouse at my eye level . . . and failed miserably. “I am Sirius. What is your name?”
The girl smiled coyly. “I am Heather,” she said, rising, thankfully, to her feet as Jova and Oliver came up. “I have never seen you three here before. Are you here for the wedding?”
Before Jova could wax poetic to this lovely creature about his true love, I interjected. “Yes, yes, we are,” I replied. “Would it be possible, Heather, to get a beer to quench our thirst and a bit of breakfast before the ceremony?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Follow me.”
My eyes did follow her pert posterior as she stepped into the tavern. I sighed—my days of bedding tavern wenches had come to an abrupt end. Oliver had followed my eyes and accurately read my sigh. “Ah, poor Sirius,” he said. “I guess that will leave one wench in all of England that has not known your charms.”
“Right,” I said, feeling a bit annoyed. “Let us get a beer, some breakfast, and get Jova married.” Jova had not said much at all on our walk, and was very much lost in thought. “Jova,” I continued. “You are actually going to have to speak during the ceremony. You think you can manage that and a little conversation with your mates right now?”
Jova shook his head as if he was waking from a deep sleep. “I am okay,” he said. “Just thinking, that’s all. Tell you the truth, I am not feeling very hungry. I think I am just going to go down to St. Mary’s and wait for Angus’s tailor to bring me my waistcoat and breeches.”
Oliver nodded. “I think I wi
ll look after him,” he said. “We will meet you at the church when the bells toll four o’clock—that should give you ample time before the ceremony to get ready.” At that moment innocent little Heather came over and placed a frothy mug of beer and a warm plate of scouse in front of me. I would have preferred some fresh deer, but my growling stomach indicated this would do. She bent down and placed a bowl of scouse and some more beer on the floor for Garlic. Oliver had noted I had followed Heather’s every move like she was, well, prey. “And, Sirius,” he said, “your days of hunting are over. So make sure you keep your weapon sheathed until tonight.”
I ignored his disapproving look. “My weapon has already done its work—fourfold if you must know. Go take care of Jova and leave me to my drink. I will be fine, and so will young Heather. Don’t you worry, I have Garlic looking out for me.” Garlic looked up at Oliver and burped, then put her face back into her bowl. “See?” I said.
“Right,” said Oliver. “A word of caution, my good man. I cannot read her intentions because all I see is a big open smile on her face, so she is either a complete simpleton, or—”
“Or what?” I cut him off, digging into my scouse and watching Heather flit about the tavern like a pretty, blonde, cleavage-baring butterfly.
“That is just it, Sirius, I don’t know,” Oliver said. “That would cause the wise man to worry and have caution. But I can see from your face that your intentions are not pure. That alone on your wedding day is not wise.”
I took a long draught of beer and sat back in my chair. “My intention is to enjoy my beer in peace, so if you are finished with your sermon, you may go.”
Oliver took Jova by the shoulder and steered him out of the tavern, leaving Garlic and me to admire Heather’s work around the kitchen. Indeed, she did not talk much to the other guests or engage in any idle conversation with the other workers. She took customers’ orders, got the food and drink, and smiled at everyone with the most pleasant of bearings. Perhaps Oliver was right, and Heather was not the quickest mare in the pasture. But she sure was quite the filly to look at, and I fancied a ride. It wasn’t like I was married yet, and the Howler was certainly not going to be howling at the moon with me anytime in the near future.
My Ex-Wife Said Go to Hell Page 19
