Page 4 of Wolf Duke

“The Welsh are emboldened by the rise of the Tudors, but what is won in battle can easily be lost. Henry is very, very fortunate that Lord Stanley turned for him. And that his mother is relentlessly ambitious,” said Alaric.

“Margaret is a formidable woman indeed. But it would behoove them all to treat Elizabeth of York kindly when she weds Henry. His claim is weak; ’tis her bloodline that legitimizes the throne. I’m not at all certain the Civil Wars are over.”

“Peace still seems a great distance away,” Alaric agreed.

Ranulf sighed irritably. “It chafes my hose that we must tolerate all this human foolishness with everything else. Hera’s vengeance is truly diabolical; forcing us royal wolves to disguise our age or one day pretend to be our own son because we live so much longer. Humans have one strength: they are plentiful. Imagine the wolf population if we could breed all year, without a fated mate. And they just replace dead queens…oh, Goddess forgive me. I meant no pain to you, my friend. I’m sure Theda dances among the stars with our revered ancestors.”

Alaric clenched his jaw and glanced down at the faded, slightly ragged royal mating mark etched under his left wrist. His dead mate was a delicate topic, but not for the reason Ranulf believed. Those stormy years with Theda were painful to recall.

Truthfully, he’d not been entirely sure about her, but after a night of revelry, he’d woken with a pounding head, inflamed wrist, and a naked Theda in his arms, sporting an identical mark on her nape. To this day he remembered nothing, yet Theda had explained in great detail all the ways he’d taken her and the marks did prove they were fated mates. However, as soon as she was crowned queen, everything changed. While she adored the jewels, fine clothing, and presiding over banquets and jousts, Theda merely endured him. There had been no affection, no desperate lust. She’d kept her own rooms, rarely joined him to hunt, and claimed other duties when he met with dignitaries. On the one occasion he’d questioned their lack of bonding link, Theda had furiously told him his cold nature prevented it.

That was true. He was cold. Not overburdened by anger, joy or fear, the reason he often judged disputes or undertook difficult diplomatic missions. But still, he couldn’t discard the feeling that a fated mate should rouse something in him. Possessiveness? Need? Even love? And surely their passing would be a crushing blow, like five summers ago when his sire had risen to the stars and Alaric reluctantly inherited the Western Lands.

Theda’s unexpected death in the spring—falling down stairs after visiting her soothsayer—had not broken him. Perhaps one had to be whole to break. But knowing he would never sleep entwined with his mate, never collapse in ecstatic exhaustion at the end of her breeding heat, never stand guard while his cubs were born, watch them frolic or teach them to hunt…it just made the sky seem grayer. The wind so much icier. Life as a solitary wolf stretched bleakly ahead of him; his eventual death wouldn’t bring peace but commence a battle between his cousins to inherit.

An even bleaker thought.

“I know you meant no pain, brother,” Alaric said abruptly. “Do not dwell upon it. But we should continue to the Great Hall, lest the humans think we plot rebellion. Has Darius arrived?”

“Yes. Our brother king is inspecting Henry’s armory,” said Ranulf with a grin. “I just pray Darius conceals the fact he owns tenfold more weapons. Humans like to believe they hold the most treasure.”

Alaric nodded. Darius Hawthorn, King of the Southern Lands, was Wolfdom’s supreme warrior, only content either planning battles or fighting them. He was a fiercely loyal friend…and a brutal, merciless enemy. Darius had never forgiven himself for arriving too late to assist the de Wynters; since then he’d attacked the usurper on several occasions but succumbed to the Book of Lore’s power each time. They now knew only the true blooded heir could reclaim the Eastern Lands…but Lucan de Wynter was nowhere to be found.

“Speaking of treasure,” Alaric said, as they crossed the cobbled courtyard toward the magnificent Great Hall, “I hear the bounty on each de Wynter has increased. Ten sacks of gold.”

Ranulf’s eyes flashed. “Saville is desperate. That scum knows if the cubs survived, they would be full grown now. If the princesses find their fated mates and Prince Lucan returns…the deaths of Saville and his accomplices won’t be swift. Or merciful. The River Yare will run red.”

“The cubs survived,” said Alaric firmly. “We would sense the end of the de Wynter line. Goddess knows how, but they are alive somewhere. I just pray they find sanctuary before the mercenaries find them.”

They exchanged a grim glance. While royal wolves could only die of old age or beheading by a pure silver blade, endless suffering could be inflicted. Usually, healing came swiftly, especially in human form. But when severely weakened they remained in wolf form, the healing process became slower and slower, resulting in agony.

Alaric’s fists clenched. His sire had grieved for weeks over the murder of Hugo and Magdalena, and sent out countless search parties for the cubs. Since inheriting, Alaric had done the same. But ten full summers had passed. Hope was indeed dwindling.

“Leto keep them safe,” said Ranulf, touching his heart. “I suppose we must meet Henry now. I hear conflicting tales…some say he is amiable, others say secretive and wary. But if he is scholarly, perhaps we may have something in common…Goddess, this Great Hall is impressive. Humans can build as well as wolves, I’ll concede them that.”

They truly could. Eltham Palace’s hall was near-new, one hundred feet long and over thirty feet wide. Tall, arched windows allowed plentiful light, rich tapestries lined the walls, and the soaring oak hammerbeam roof was a marvel of construction. Few places made a wolf feel small, but this one succeeded.

As Alaric and Ranulf approached the entrance, four Yeoman of the Guard stepped forward to bar their way.

“State your business,” said one, albeit visibly gulping as he studied the size of the two guests. The guard was right to be afraid; either wolf could end his life with a single claw swipe.

Alaric bestowed his diplomatic smile. “Sir Alaric Beaumont of the Welsh Marches and Sir Ranulf Armstrong of the Scottish Marches, here by invitation. We come in peace to swear fealty to Henry VII, king by the grace of God.”

The words almost stuck in his throat, but the guards swiftly stepped aside and nodded respectfully.

“You’re expected,” said the guard. “Welcome to Tudor land.”

Alaric and Ranulf exchanged an amused glance. London belonged to Darius.

“Thank you,” said Alaric politely.

Leto help them. Two days surrounded by humans would indeed be the longest of his life.

The Welsh Marches

For the first time in her life, Princess Evaine de Wynter truly wished for death.

Presently huddled in a tiny, dark, and pungent underground fox den, she didn’t even have the strength for a mournful howl. It was far too cold for that, so cold that the tears dripping from her eyes were freezing on her matted fur. Occasionally her stomach growled, but in truth, hunger was a sharp, constant ache now. While a wolf could survive without eating for a fortnight after a large kill, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d feasted. Her stomach hurt constantly, never sated on the foraging diet of leaves and berries, small freshwater fish, and the occasional unlucky rabbit that stumbled across her path. She was too weak to hunt. Too weak to flee. Most recently she’d lost the ability to change to human form. If she left this den, the mercenaries that had nearly caught her in Bewdley would find her and drag her all the way back to the Eastern Lands to be murdered by Guy Saville, the way he’d murdered Mother and Father.