Page 45 of Wolf Duke

Ten

Wolf’s Gate, Chester, Northwest England

From this heavily fortified tower within the City Walls constructed centuries prior by the Romans, the view was nothing short of spectacular. Yet rather than a queen, Evaine now felt like a prisoner. The royal progress to meet her new subjects had become the stuff of bad dreams.

Alaric had summoned another fifty warriors to accompany them around the remaining stops in Wales; in the past two weeks they had continued on from Carmarthen to Cardigan, then more inland to Machynlleth and up to Bangor. Yet even when they changed lodgings or route, notes continued to arrive wherever they were, bleak and threatening, like they were being stalked. Either that or they had a traitor within the ranks, but Alaric refused to believe a member of his household would do so. Right now, she fully trusted no one other than her mate, Blanche, and perhaps young Wesley.

Worse, when Evaine woke earlier, she’d felt wretched with a nagging headache, aching limbs, and a mild fever that flared uncomfortably if she was even in the vicinity of a fireplace. In early February, Chester was much colder than the Welsh coast, but even in chilling winds she yearned to stand outside half-naked. If anyone complained, she would snatch up their hand and bite off a finger. Perhaps the entire arm if they were particularly vexing—and that included her mate.

Then again, it was far more than minor illness or the temperature outside keeping her and Alaric awake each night. Since crossing back into England, they barely slept or ate. Several banquets and meetings had been canceled, and even more warriors summoned from the surrounding towns and villages. The dark clouds of impending battle were gathering, and every Western wolf knew it.

“My queen…”

Evaine turned to see Wesley standing in the tower room doorway, his usual high spirits and mischief severely dampened in recent times. Even Alaric had admitted to wanting a prank or jest from his squire, just for the reminder that amusement was still possible. They all desperately needed it. “Come in,” she said softly, gesturing to a wooden chair and pouring a goblet of mulled wine. “This will warm your innards.”

The squire downed her offering in one hefty swallow, coughed a few times, then made a face. “I don’t understand how people enjoy mulled wine. It tastes like someone mixed a few herbs with used bathwater.”

At the hint of the old Wesley, she grinned. “Perhaps that is the secret ingredient. Now, tell me how the others fare. Truthfully.”

“Hmmm,” said the squire, tapping his chin. “Willie has aged about a century in the past few weeks—Bardolf will be shocked when they reunite. Then again, perhaps he has a secret appreciation for newly silver fur and shadowed, bloodshot eyes.”

Evaine barely concealed a wince. The marshal had perhaps suffered worst of all as he continually amended travel plans and organized more fortified lodgings, not to mention food and supplies for a significantly larger group. “Poor Willie. He is working very hard.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but I know he and King Alaric have had words several times about ceasing the progress and returning to Blackstone Castle. My king says he cannot neglect a third of his realm for the sake of a few notes, and he’s right, but…”

Evaine nodded. They were in an exceedingly difficult position. After Chester, the planned route included Liverpool, Preston, Lancaster, a special banquet at the most northern town, Carlisle, before traveling back down to Kendal, Bradford, Manchester, Stoke-on-Trent, Birmingham, then home. Another ten days at least. And while she absolutely understood the need for the king to be seen, for her to be accepted as queen, for meetings to be held and issues resolved, living like this brought back harrowing memories of her earlier years.

Perhaps it was time to stand firm and fight. To gather as many warriors as possible, on ground they knew, and lure their enemies to them instead of always reacting.

“How is Blanche?” she said instead. “And Larkin?”

Wesley sighed rather theatrically. “Unlike everyone else, Mother is eager and ready to lead an army. Alongside her duties with you, she ensures everyone has food and blankets, mends clothing, darns hose, sharpens swords and daggers, and portions out the ale. She scolds and praises and stands no nonsense; I’m convinced at least half the warriors are in love with her, which quite roils my gut.”

Now Evaine did laugh. “That sounds like she has taken over Larkin’s travel responsibilities. What is our chamberlain doing, then? Shoeing horses? A little carpentry?”

The squire hesitated. “In truth, my queen, I don’t really know. We hardly see him. Larkin says he’s on the king’s business, and often rides out by himself. He’s done that throughout the progress. And he writes mountains of letters. Once I asked who he was writing to so often, and he said wolflings were too foolish to know. But I’m not just any wolfling. I am the king’s squire!”

Evaine’s neck prickled and she rubbed it absently. Now that Wesley mentioned it, their chamberlain was often absent. Even on the king’s business, it wasn’t fair that Blanche was doing so much. If more messengers were needed, that could certainly be arranged. There was no reason for a castle chamberlain to be doing such menial tasks personally. Unless…

She shook her head to clear the thought. No. Any evidence was coincidental or hearsay at best. No wolf could be convicted on that. “And you are an excellent squire, Wesley. A credit to your sire and mother. Tell me, where is the king? He did mention something about sword practice this morning.”

Wesley sprang to his feet. “Follow me, my queen! I’ll take you straight to him. There is a room with no furniture that he has been using. Warriors take turns being his opponent, but, oh, King Alaric bests them all. He moves as one with a sword. I mean, he was already good, but whenever he sees King Darius, he gets more lessons and now he is brilliant.”

Evaine suppressed a smile. The way Wesley worshiped Alaric was rather endearing, and she absolutely understood the sentiment. Except during her mate’s right royal arse moments, of course. “Let us go, then.”

While Wesley bounded down the tower’s spiral staircase, she was forced to move at an irritatingly sedate pace. Perhaps that should be a training method, warriors sword fighting while a gown train tangled about their legs, pointed shoes pinched their toes, and coiled braids slapped against their ears.

“It’s just down here, past the portrait gallery,” called the squire over his shoulder as he loped along a narrow hallway.

Hurrying after him as best she could, Evaine glanced up, her gaze settling on a portrait of Hugh d’Avranches, the first Norman Earl of Chester. Apparently, the humans called him Hugh the Wolf due to his ferocious fighting style, but wolves knew what he really was. If faced with their situation, Hugh would certainly charge on until the bitter end.

Ahead, Wesley abruptly halted beside a door, then bowed. “In here, my queen. Be careful, though, I can hear steel clashing.”

Not wanting to interrupt and cause an accidental injury, Evaine tentatively pushed open the door. There was only one window, but with several candelabra lit, the room was brighter than a summer’s day. The stench of tallow candles made her grimace but no one inside seemed to notice; two exhausted-looking warriors, one male and one female, sat slumped by the east wall, dripping with sweat and spotted with blood. In the center of the room, Alaric fought another male. Wesley spoke true: her mate was indeed brilliant.

It was astonishing how graceful such a large male could be. Every step Alaric took seemed purposeful, he neither stood still nor bounced on his feet. But most impressive was the way he made the sword move with such deadly force: cutting and slashing yet easily deflecting his opponent’s blade. Just when it appeared a blow might land, Alaric twisted away or sidestepped then immediately counter-attacked. When at last he dislodged the other male’s sword and it fell to the stone floor with a loud clatter, Evaine couldn’t help but applaud.

Alaric clapped the warrior on the shoulder. “Excellent work. You nearly had me there. But I must greet my queen. To the victor the spoils, madam?”