The Wolf King Read online

  One was dark with lank, greasy hair; the other might have been a blonde but she was so filthy it was impossible to tell anything about her original appearance.

  “Is he your husband? Really your husband?” the older woman asked again.

  No. The idea, for a number of reasons, was ludicrous. But she wasn’t about to tell them that. She’d spoken in hope of protecting them both from any opportunistic lechery among what she was sure, by now, must be a nest of brigands.

  “What is it?” the woman shrilled. “Are you dumb like poor Morgana here?” She indicated the more wretched of her two companions, a child.

  “No, I’m not dumb,” she heard herself answering. “Yes, he is my husband. What are they doing to him? Where are they taking him? All we ask is shelter for the night, then we will leave in the morning and never trouble you again.”

  The blond one, the one called Morgana, began to whimper. She sounded like a dog, a dog whipped too often.

  The lank-haired one leaned toward her. “Look, look, Lavinia. She . . . has . . . jewels.”

  The woman reached forward haltingly, to fumble at her neck. The idea of being touched by any of these women was repulsive. She eased backward.

  “Don’t like us, do you?” the older woman taunted. “Don’t worry. When you’ve been here as long as we have, you won’t look much better. Fact is, you’ll probably look worse.

  “Sully here probably isn’t much older than you are. But right now he won’t be able to keep his hands off you. Forget about your man and be nice to the abbot. He rules here.

  “Sully, Morgana, bring her along now. Girl, you come with us. Don’t give us any trouble now and you won’t get hurt. Be a shame to spoil your pretty face.”

  Then the two slatterns closed in on either side and began to hurry her along the corridor.

  Again the weird feeling of dislocation. Her memory was a jumble of images, images she couldn’t sort out. Every time she moved, she felt dizzy and her head hurt. Every step sent a dagger of pain into one side of her face. The horse reared. She saw its head against a sky streaked with red, orange, and black, a sunset sky. The snow was blue in the failing light. She was a good horsewoman. Somehow she knew that she should have been able to control him, but this animal was insane with terror and it was falling. Falling. And there was pain. Pain then as now, like an ice dagger driven into her ear and cheekbone.

  Then he was fumbling with her dress. At first she was overjoyed, thinking it meant the end of the rearing horse, the pain, the cold. Not passive cold but a stinging burning chill in her hands and feet. A cold that crept, preceded by a buzz of agony, through her fingers and toes, then feet and hands. She had known she was freezing to death. Not a peaceful death, but an awesomely agonizing one as ice crystals formed in her flesh, bringing paralysis and pain on top of pain . . . driving deeper toward the bone.

  Then she was sure all this was part of a nightmare and she would wake safe and warm in her bed . . . with . . . and then she lost the trail in confusion. But he would be there and she had simply been dreaming. It took only seconds for her to realize warmth and safety had been the dream and the nightmare . . . reality. But he did have her over his shoulder, and he was insulting the Franks, her people, in Saxon. He’d wrapped her in this bearskin and seemed to mean her no harm.

  Then they were in a room and God, God, the stench. But the older woman, Lavinia, was lighting a many-branched oil lamp with her taper. The lamp flared temporarily, throwing a blinding light into what had been darkness only seconds before. When her vision cleared, she saw the older woman had something like horror in her eyes. Morgana crouched down near a fireplace in one corner of the room, shivering. Sully was pointing again at her neck.

  “Jewels, Lavinia . . . jewels. Can I have some?”

  Lavinia shook her head, was shaking her head over and over. She ignored Sully. “I knew it would happen one day,” she said. “They’d bite off something too big to chew or sink their fangs into, something strong enough to eat them. And now, by the look of you, woman, they have. What is your name, girl, and of what family are you?”

  She looked down at herself, trying to see what inspired such horror in the woman’s eyes. She was wearing a dalmatic of green silk brocade trimmed with sable over a divided riding skirt of soft suede leather embroidered with gold. Her mantle was white brocade, heavy material lined with ermine. She reached up to her throat. Sully was right. Jewels, at least a half-dozen necklaces; her hair was done up in a snood of soft metal chains; and if the necklaces and snood were a match for the rings on her fingers, the count was seven. They were all made of silver or gold and embellished with precious stones.

  “That’s a lot of jewels,” Sully said. “You think he will give me some?”

  “No,” Lavinia snapped. “What are you, half-witted like her?” She pointed to Morgana. “You could well be looking at all of our deaths. Do you think women dressed as she is wander about the mountains at night, free for the taking? No, her family will be looking for her and they won’t stop until they find her.

  “Girl, are you fool enough to let yourself be carried off by some pretty-faced scoundrel like the slave dragged off to the chapel?”

  “No, I wouldn’t run off with anyone.”

  “Husband. Husband indeed. That slave is no one’s husband. No, you belong to some great lord, husband or father, and he will be wild until he finds you. And when he catches up with you, he will probably kill every single one of us.” She slapped her forehead. “What to do? What to do? What is your name?”

  “Regeane.” The word passed lips that seemed to belong to someone else. “Regeane,” she repeated hesitantly. “Regeane is my name.”

  II

  When Maeniel returned to his stronghold, a few of his people greeted him. Gordo, a huge, bearded man, gave him the news.

  “What do you mean, she left? Two days ago? Did no one accompany her? What are you thinking? What were you thinking?” he almost screamed.

  Gordo managed to look pained and taken aback at the same time; it was rare for his leader to show strong emotion about anything. Maeniel’s present conduct amounted almost to hysteria. Disapproval crept into Gordo’s expression of concern. This simply was not done. “You forget the dignity of your position,” he admonished his lord.

  Maeniel ran his fingers through his hair. He raised one hand, then let it fall to his side. “Where is my wife?”

  He sounded dangerous. Gordo was unperturbed. “I’m trying to tell you. Please listen.”

  Maeniel took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “She worried about the weather,” Gordo continued. “She worried about you. She was afraid you might not return in time to join the king. She worried about the great Charles’s army, saying that one good blizzard could wipe out the Frankish warriors. We told her we thought that no great loss, these kingly quarrels being nothing but a nuisance to humbler folk. If they all died, so much the better for us, Matrona said—that, I didn’t.”

  Maeniel nodded. “I’m familiar with Matrona’s sentiments. Continue.”

  “The weather grew worse. We could all feel the storm but Matrona said they would beat it to the foot of the pass if they hurried. So she went.”

  “Not alone!”

  “No, not alone,” Gordo explained patiently. “She took Matrona. Gavin whined and moaned a lot about it being cold, but he, Antonius, and several others went with them. The storm came that night, and it’s been blowing ever since. With Matrona not here, there is no one to cook.” Gordo sounded disconsolate. “With your permission, I’m going hunting,” he said as he ambled phlegmatically out of the room.

  Maeniel hurried to his bedchamber. His wife could write. Possibly, just possibly, she’d left a note for him.

  His room was empty but not cold. The fireplace, a shallow opening in the wall, was overhung by a huge marble hood. Even in the coldest weather, the stone—once warmed—trapped enough heat to keep it comfortable. Assuming, that is, someone kept the fire burning. Someone
had.

  The Romans who built the fortress hadn’t envisioned this room as a bedchamber. It may have been the tablinium office belonging to the general who commanded the fortress.

  The room was lit by three large, round windows set high in the wall on one side. Each window was plugged with thick glass to keep out the wind and cold. One couldn’t see much through them, but they let in a lot of light. A door and two more windows were below. All were now closed by heavy oak shutters against the bad weather.

  When he’d first come here, the room attracted him. Not only because of the light, but the windows and door opened onto a private balcony with a view of a beautiful valley and the mountains beyond. Over the years he’d made the room into a place of luxury. Silk rugs from somewhere in the east covered the floor and hung on the walls, insulating the cold stone. The bed was a giant carved four-poster made of cedar and comfortably equipped with three layers of hangings. Silk gauze for warm summer nights; silk brocade for nippy spring and autumn ones; and heavy, woolen and silk tapestry for the worst winter weather.

  Fine, thick feather ticks filled the bed box. They were covered by silk sheets and a heavy fur comforter.

  She’d left no note, but her nightgown was thrown across one of the chairs by the hearth. He lifted it, brought it to his face, and inhaled deeply. It was permeated with her. She followed an ancient Roman custom, lavishing particular attention on it because she knew it especially delighted him. She rubbed oils of different fragrances into separate parts of her body. Her arms roses; hands citron; neck myrrh, as were her breasts; lavender, from the Frankish kingdoms, on stomach and thighs; sage and bay on legs and feet. A ravishing mixture of odors: food, fruit, and herbs at the same time.

  There were four chairs near the hearth and four board games scattered on a table. Her attendants each had an accustomed chair. Matrona, the one facing the fire; Barbara, across from her; and Antonius, her chamberlain, with his back to the fire. Gavin also left traces near the hearth. Maeniel considered him with a touch of jealousy. He was a bull in rut and would take anything offered, but Matrona kept him on a short leash.

  He could almost see them of an evening, laughing, drinking together, sharing a game of chess or backgammon. Gavin liked to gamble and sometimes played for high stakes, but Antonius, who usually took his money, kept him from plunging too deeply around the women. There had been an unpleasant moment when Antonius first came to the stronghold from Rome, with Regeane. Gavin accused him of cheating at cards and threatened Antonius with a sword. Maeniel wasted no time. He picked up Gavin and heaved him through the nearest window.

  Antonius had been horrified. But Maeniel conducted him to the window—the same window he’d thrown Gavin through—and pointed out the red wolf struggling in a snowbank. “He doesn’t like it,” Maeniel said. “His fur is short. And it takes him hours to work his way back to the gates. He won’t draw on you again.” Then he ambled away, but before he left he asked Antonius, “Did you cheat?”

  “Of course,” Antonius replied.

  “Don’t,” Maeniel said.

  And as far as he knew, Antonius hadn’t cheated again. But he won anyway, since he was—on his slowest day—at least twice as intelligent as Gavin—or any of the rest of them, for that matter.

  Maeniel moved back toward the bed. Regeane and Matrona had perfumed the sheets and coverlet. In their world few people slept alone. When Regeane retired for the night, she normally took one of her women with her when he was not there.

  Outside, the wind pounded the shutters. He could hear its whispering scream through walls five feet thick. “No,” he whispered. “No.” He didn’t care who had gone with her. He would leave tonight and . . . He turned and saw Barbara sitting in her chair by the fire.

  His body jerked in a startled reply; he averted the change with an effort of will, a conscious effort.

  “Barbara! You didn’t go?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You forget. I’m not up to dealing with the weather.

  “Antonius is a lot younger than I am,” she said. “I tried my best to keep her here, but no one would listen, least of all Regeane.” She rolled her eyes heavenward. “And as for the rest, when I suggested they restrain her ardor for travel in howling blizzards, all I got were some very peculiar looks.”

  “They can’t imagine interfering with another’s freedom of action,” he explained as he walked over and settled in Regeane’s chair across from Barbara.

  “That Gordo,” she went on, “that fool nearly didn’t bother to tell me you’d arrived. He just happened to mention it as he passed through the kitchen on his way to God knows where.”

  “He’s going hunting,” Maeniel said.

  “In this?” Barbara gestured toward the shuttered windows.

  “It’s probably not blowing as badly down in the valleys. Even if it is, he can always pile up somewhere and sleep.”

  “At least she rode Audovald,” Barbara commented.

  “That makes me feel better,” Maeniel said. “Audovald is a very responsible creature. That mare I gave her is a flighty female, too young and nervous—”

  “If she weren’t a horse, I’d call her a bitch,” Barbara said. “She’s only interested in one thing—”

  “I told her,” Maeniel said, “not until spring.”

  “Er, yes,” Barbara said slowly. “You told Regeane—”

  “No! I told the mare she might as well forget about it . . . and not to go stretching her neck out of the stall to lift the latch or try to jump over the half door.”

  “Yes,” Barbara mused. “You told the mare . . . Amazing. I’d like to know how you did that.”

  “I’ll show you sometime,” he answered absently. “But Audovald is sensible. He can find his way down the mountain in the dark. I’m glad he’s with her. What is this business about the meat? Why is Gordo going hunting? And don’t you find it disconcerting to live with us?”

  “I don’t know why he’s going hunting, and no, I don’t normally find you or your friends disconcerting. Compared to the average husband, you’re a breath of fresh air. Any other man would probably be taking out his temper on the rest of us.”

  “No,” Maeniel said. “I’ll just go after her. Right now.”

  “In this? With night coming on?” Barbara objected.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he replied.

  The shutters rattled and slammed as wind battered the building.

  “I hope none of them has started on the livestock,” he muttered as he was rising. “You tell them the sheep are here for wool and milk, the same goes for the bull, cows, and goats. No snacking, on pain of my grave displeasure. Got that?”

  Barbara nodded. “I believe they’re all present and accounted for. The livestock, I mean. As far as your followers are concerned, I can’t say.”

  “Need any money?”

  “No,” Barbara said. “I promised I’d stay here while she was gone.”

  “Fine. I’ll bring her home when I find her.”

  Barbara followed him downstairs, across the great hall, down another flight of winding stairs, and watched him as he melted into the night.

  It was bad, he thought as he made his way down the trail, but the wind was at his back and he could see fairly well. As wolf, he could travel even in a howling blizzard—as Barbara put it. But this wasn’t that severe a storm. “Of course,” he grumbled to himself deep in his throat, “there should be no storm at all. It is spring. The sky should be clear, not a pall of rolling billows shadowed by mist. The sun should be out during the day, warming the air and melting the frozen rivers and streams and turning the valley fuzzy green with new growth. But no, here is this last gasp of winter . . .” Abruptly he hushed himself. He stood stock-still. He waited for the wind to drop. It was blowing the thick ruff of fur at his neck up around his ears and battering his sensitive tympanic membranes inside with its harsh fluttering sound.

  The sound came again. A scream, a horse scream, a cry of pain, terror, and distress.
r />   Above the wolf the mountain towered, its top lost in cloud. Beside him on one side, an only half-seen gorge fell almost straight down to a river still locked in ice. A wolf can see in almost pitch darkness, but now there was little light for Maeniel’s eyes to use. He maintained his position on the trail by touch: the feel of his paws on the snow, his sense of wind direction, and the slope of the trail under his feet. He couldn’t travel any faster without putting himself in danger.

  He pushed his pace. He knew he was heading roughly in the direction of the sound he’d heard. That was all he could do at the moment.

  This was his domain.

  His domain in the human, legal sense. As the man Maeniel, he held it, courtesy of Charles, king of the Franks. Those coming up and over the pass followed his road and his rules. He’d not heard of any travelers coming this way, so the horse must be his and with his wife’s, Regeane’s, party.

  Audovald? He didn’t want to think so. No, Audovald was not simply a horse, he was an old and trusted friend, and Regeane—God, oh, God, Regeane had been on his back. He paused, a particularly vicious blast of wind flattened his fur, and the cold ripped at his skin. He shook himself violently to clear the snow from his pelt, thinking he had spent too long in the Roman city. The mild climate there softened me. If it is Audovald, he will know my voice. Maeniel lifted his head and howled. He gave the cry all he had, beginning in the deep baritone hunting call up and up, ululating through loneliness, then moving into the highest registers of grief and inconsolable longing, up, up almost beyond the range of human ears.

  He was answered. The sound was a whistling neigh of deep distress.

  Despite the wind and cold and darkness, he began to run. First bound was fine, but the second carried him out over and into nothingness.

  “Regeane,” she whispered, and turned toward the bed.

  “I wouldn’t look there, noble lady,” Lavinia said. “She was one of the abbot’s favorites and took poison. He likes them better dead than alive. So she’s still here, but smells bad and has bits and pieces falling off her now.”