Page 38 of Wolf Duke

The warden coughed. “Is aught amiss, Your Grace? I received no word you were coming.”

Henry actually smiled. “Perhaps I merely desired some time alone, away from the royal court and wedding preparations. At one of my hunting lodges.”

Weary of the game, Alaric slapped the table. “You wished to speak to me. I’m sure Lord Oxford wasted no time with his report.”

Henry sat back as though relaxed, but his brown gaze was watchful. “Ah yes. That. A story so far-fetched he surely dreamed it. Imagine, a battle-hardened earl claiming he and his wife were picked up by the throat and shaken about like feather pillows. That would take uncanny strength. Even for a Welshman! Why, it sounds like one of the ancient myths my uncle Jasper told me around the campfire when we were in exile. I always pressed him for more tales about werewolves. Now, what was the word in Welsh? Bla…blade…”

Oh, this human was cunning.

“Blaidd-ddyn?” asked Alaric politely, as though the topic bored him.

“That’s it! Apparently, they walk among us. Large creatures, with the strength of ten men and the ability to turn into wolves at will. Ruled by kings, worship an ancient Greek goddess, but unlike other realms, born rather than bitten or cursed…I always wondered if it might be true. Surely in Wales, the land of dragons and lake maidens, anything is possible. What say you, Blackstone?”

His heart thumping, Alaric studied the human intently. “I certainly agree that anything is possible, Your Grace. Werewolves…a Lancaster wedding a York and bringing peace to the realm…”

The heavy silence stretched as two kings assessed, measured, and judged the other. Robert hadn’t so much as blinked, but sweat glistened at his temples.

Abruptly, Henry set down his tankard and cleared his throat. “The Oxfords were presumptuous to impose. I shall caution them to refrain from wine, lest they have more fanciful dreams. The English throne has enough enemies; I desire no more. Especially not…well. I propose we be friendly neighbors who tend our own gardens and strive not to encroach. Is that agreeable?”

“Quite,” said Alaric, nodding slowly. “In that spirit, my mate…er, my duchess and I will certainly send a generous purse to celebrate your wedding once you receive papal dispensation.”

“Thank you,” said Henry, as he stood and bowed deeply. “I know Elizabeth will join me in receiving it most gladly. Good morrow, Blackstone. Sir Robert.”

And with that, the human King of England departed the room.

Robert exhaled heavily and slumped in his chair. “Goddess. You were so calm, my king! My claws were all the way out and I nearly shredded my hose. I did not want to disembowel Henry Tudor, but…”

Alaric smiled and rotated his rigid shoulders. “I think he understood that was a distinct possibility and I’m glad he chose to extend a hand of friendship. It’s rather even…we might have the strength, but he has the numbers. Now, shall we drink?”

“Several barrels. At least.”

Wrinkling her nose at the sour wine smell, Evaine shook her head as she stared at the sleeping, softly snoring form of her mate. Fully illuminated in the pale, early dawn light streaming through the large gatehouse window, Alaric was half-dressed, wearing one boot, and lay exactly where Wesley and two sturdy guards had placed him mere hours ago, on a fur-covered pallet beside the smoldering fire.

The previous evening, she had initially been alarmed when so much time passed and Alaric didn’t return. Then Margaret arrived, apologetically explaining that after Henry had departed, her mate and King Alaric had immediately opened a barrel of wine, and were now on their second. Although both she-wolves were deeply curious to know what had transpired, they decided to leave their mates be. After enjoying a delicious supper of roasted pork and hearty vegetable broth, and playing some games with the cubs, each retired to bed. Not even Alaric’s high-spirited squire was foolish enough to put his drunk king into bed with her; no doubt Robert would be waking in an equally uncomfortable place with a sore back, roiling gut, and crumpled clothing after his night’s efforts.

For now, Evaine was torn between tossing dried fruit at Alaric’s partially opened mouth, emptying an entire bucket of frigid spring water onto his head, or perhaps sounding a horn next to his ear. Unlike him, she was rested, refreshed, and ready to hunt. It was entirely too long since she’d been able to do so, and her whole body nearly twitched with the desire to bound along a flattened forest track, to leap over rocks and fallen logs and tiny streams in pursuit of deer or wild boar. Her fangs were tingling at the thought of sinking into warm flesh, her claws ready to rake and shred.

She was a she-wolf, after all. A lean, nimble killer.

“Good morning, my queen.”

Evaine swallowed a giggle. Her mate peered up at her with bleary, bloodshot eyes, the glittering gold currently dull. His glorious ebony hair was a matted mess, and his chin and jaw covered in beard shadow. “Good morning, Alaric,” she trilled, loud enough to wake everyone in the gatehouse.

He winced. “Such cruelty toward your king. I suppose I should ask forgiveness for drinking with Robert rather than returning to your bed?”

Evaine rolled her eyes. “That depends,” she replied sweetly. “Do you ever wish to return to it?”

Alaric struggled to a sitting position, groaned and clutched at his head, then looked at her so morosely that this time she couldn’t hold in her laughter. “Do I truly look as bad as I feel? We should not have opened a third barrel. Foolish mistake.”

“Yes, yes, and yes,” said Evaine merrily, her heart softening enough to cross the chamber and fetch some fresh water for him to sip. “Here.”

After taking several gulps, Alaric splashed the rest on his face. “Much better. I don’t suppose now you’d like to give me that special sponge bath?”

“I think not,” she said with an imperious glare. “It is dawn and time to hunt. If, however, you impress me in the forest, then I may consider…rewards.”

A slow smile curled his lips. “Challenge accepted.”

With Wesley’s assistance, Alaric bathed swiftly and downed some foul-smelling tonic, then he and Evaine both dressed in heavy robes to walk downstairs. In the ground floor antechamber, they hung their robes on iron hooks provided, before changing into wolf form. These days it barely hurt at all, and Evaine tossed her head and arched her back, tapping her claws on the stone floor as she stretched. Indeed, after all the wagon travel and endless meeting rooms, she was eager to feel moss and dirt under her paws and the wind ruffle her fur. To be the hunter rather than the hunted.