Authors: Alice Borchardt
But she was stopped, held immobile by the woman’s cold knowledge that the man the gray wolf was by day might not be one the woman Regeane could ever consider loving. She could speculate. She could guess. She could hope, but she simply did
not know. To chain herself to such a one without knowing would be absolute folly.
Outside the litter she heard the sudden sharp clip-clop of a horse approaching the side of the litter. A second later her eyes picked him out of the blue twilight. She realized he was the captain of the escort conducting her to Maeniel’s villa.
He had a grizzled spade beard and a fall of salt and pepper hair hanging at his shoulder. “My lady,” he said sharply.
And the wolf looked back at him from Regeane’s eyes.
So quickly
, Regeane thought in alarm.
I never summoned her
. But then, perhaps, the wolf was angry at not being allowed her freedom. Regeane’s will pushed her firmly back, out of the world.
The man on the horse appeared slightly taken back. As though warned by some instinct of another presence. “My lady,” he said more quietly, “please close the curtains. With all due respect … if someone should see you … well, you would not wish us to have to shed blood to protect you. A rare prize such as yourself might tempt even the most craven thieves to recklessness.”
Regeane forced herself to smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I hadn’t thought.” She pushed the curtains closed and lay back against the cushions.
The litter was dark and stuffy. The perfume from her own body mixed with the dusty scent of the thick, silk cushion nauseated her slightly. That was how she knew the wolf was still with her.
She and the wolf met eye to eye in her mind. The lips drew back over the wolf’s teeth. Regeane felt as though she had never before fully confronted the beast’s power. She’d acted on raw instinct in killing the stallion. She’d put the wolf in motion in the insula and allowed her animal reflexes to carry her forward. But now, she and the beast were alone together. She realized the beast rebelled against the game of lies and deception she was carrying on. The wolf was making her bid and trying to drive her toward freedom.
“No,” Regeane said softly. “You have your wisdom, but I, the woman, have mine. Giving you free rein might kill us both.
Have done! Trouble me not at the banquet and after on the marriage bed. Be still tonight even when the moon is high in the sky. Wait! While I do what I must to free us both.”
THE BEAST CAME UNSUMMONED INTO MAENIEL’S dreams.
By day, by month, by year, he was chained by the man. But in sleep he returned and was always remembered, loved.
Maeniel the wolf lifted his head and read the wind blowing from the glacier above him. Spring was in the air. The sky was an azure crystalline pool. The mountains reared their clean, white crests against the blue.
In the pure air and clear light, the wolf tasted the greatest freedom of all—the freedom simply to be. The freedom simply to exist without thought, foresight, or memory. Those yokes that seem to burden humans’ every waking moment from birth to death. In this world, the wolf simply was, and every continued moment of life was a joy.
He gulped a drink from a freshet created by the snowmelt. Shuddered at the cold and stared out at the mountain meadow before him.
Emboldened by the warm air and melting snow, the herds of mountain sheep, wild goats, and aurochs drifted up from the lowlands to reclaim their summer pasture.
The wolf leaped easily to the top of a flat rock. He lay down, head on his front paws, watching a small group of wild cattle drift past. They were a tough-looking bunch, lean, rangy, some with dun coats, others spotted and blotched red on white. They all sported horns nearly as long as his body.
These were cows, most accompanied by a half-grown calves. They eyed him nervously as they passed, but without fear. None was even slightly intimidated.
Nor did he underestimate them in the slightest. One blow of a forehoof could cave in his skull or snap his spine, leaving him to thrash himself to death in a bloody froth of snow. The gigantic horns could toss and disembowel the strongest wolf.
These were not destined to be easy prey for anything. One barren cow unencumbered with a calf, paused, pawed the ground lightly, then snorted as if in derision.
The wolf lay still, seeming to doze, but his belly muscles tightened slightly. No, he would not choose her as an opponent. The cow moved on, casually switching her tail at a few flies.
Following the cows came an old bull. He was dark-bodied with a thick mane of lighter hair on his chest and shoulders. He was still powerful, but his muzzle was gray with age. His body jerked sideways when he caught sight of the wolf resting on the rock.
The wolf laid his ears back, then they flicked upright.
The bull walked on, blowing heavily from the climb. He paused at the same freshet from which the wolf had drunk earlier and dropped his muzzle into the water and quenched his thirst. Then, he pawed at the icy stream bank and bared the winter-killed grass. He began to eat.
On the rock, the wolf felt the spring sun warm his back. Slowly, he yawned, then sat up. Behind him, he could hear small noises among the boulders. The pack had seen him move and they were coming down toward him.
The gray wolf dropped from the rock and loped toward the bull.
Their eyes met.
Come
, the bull’s eyes said.
Come if you want. Come if you will. We have met before. I have always prevailed. If I do, I’ll trample you to bloody scraps. If I don’t, so be it
.
The gray wolf glided from a lope into a run.
The aurochs threw up his head with a snort of fury and fled.
The pack exploded out of the rocks around the gray in a semicircle behind the old bull.
He was slow, but seemed to gain speed with every bound, outrunning Maeniel easily.
The chase was silent. The old bull had no breath to bellow. No herd of cows to protect. The only sound was the thud of his pounding hooves, the whisper of the wolves’ pads in the snow, and the heaving breath of the hunters and the hunted. Too far away to be involved, the other herbivores in the meadow simply lifted their heads to watch the drama of pursuit.
The young females passed Maeniel easily. They were swift as racing greyhounds, and closed in on the bull’s flanks, leaping and slashing with vicious efficiency. Within seconds, the pale snow was stained with scarlet blood, trailing in streams from the bull’s hindquarters and flanks.
Maeniel began to drop back, then he saw the bull’s strategy. He was running for a pile of rocks near the center of the meadow. They were still black with the damp snowmelt and, here and there, stained by vivid patches of white.
When the bull reached the rocks, he turned and, with incredible swiftness, swung his horns at his pursuers. The females scattered, but one young male caught the blow full on. His spine snapped; his body, a bloody rag, was flung into the snow yards away.
The other wolves drew well back, but Maeniel increased his speed, charging faster and faster.
The bull dropped his head and, for the first time, bellowed a challenge.
Maeniel’s flying momentum carried him past the other cowering wolves and took him right into the bull’s horns. From the corner of his eye, Maeniel saw the horn hook, the blunt tip moving like lightning to impale him. But, at the last moment, he flattened his body. He felt the horn cross his back, pushing his belly into the snow. Then, his back legs were under him and he was up, leaping with all the force of his powerful hindquarters for the bull’s throat.
A last bellow deafened him to everything else … ending in a wheeze as his jaws crushed the bull’s windpipe. He clung. Up as the old bull in his death throes reared almost like a horse. Then, down, down, smashing into the snow that rose in clouds
around the thrashing bodies of the killer and his prey. The breath in his body wooshed out between his grimly locked fangs. His ears caught the sickening snap of a breaking bone. His or the bull’s, he didn’t know. Asense of utter rightness filled the wolf. Incomprehensible in human terms. Only as this is why we live and the way we are supposed to die. A moment’s straining from the lungs against his jaws. A pulsing in the throat from arteries insulated from his fangs by ripples of muscle and tendon echoed a heartbeat that faltered, struggled, and … stopped.
Maeniel the wolf rose, shook himself. He accepted the homage of his pack. They mobbed him, pressing against his body, giving him wolf kisses on the face and jaws.
His body felt strange to him. And he fought against the uncanny sensation taking hold of him. He wanted to go back, to stay with his companions, feed, sleep, and then sing with the rest in the blue moonlight.
He struggled, but was drawn away more and more quickly.
This is not real
, a voice whispered in his mind.
It is only a memory
.
He woke human, his body feeling leaden on a couch in the villa he’d rented in Rome. Through the door, he could see servants lighting torches in a peristyle garden. He sat up on the side of the couch, running his fingers through his coarse, dark hair.
Matrona came into the room. She brought no lamp or candle. She could see as well as he in the dark. She turned to face him, and the opalescent glow of her eyes reflected the torchlight outside. “Time to get up,” she said. “Bathe and dress for the feast.”
Maeniel rose to his feet. “Matrona, who is the strongest?”
“You are,” she said.
“Would any dare challenge me?”
“None,” Matrona said. “Gavin is, I think, the closest, but he only comes up to your shoulder. You are the oldest, the wisest, the fiercest, the best.”
“I must wed the woman,” Maeniel said.
“You are the leader,” Matrona said grimly. “A leader pays for his prowess by sometimes being the first to die.”
“This is hardly death,” Maeniel said.
“Don’t be a fool, O leader,” Matrona said. “The girl stinks of intrigue. Look at her friends. First, she has the backing of the pope.”
“How do you know all this?” Maeniel interrupted.
Matrona chuckled. “Augusta,” she said. “The scrawny wench was angry with Lucilla and wanted only a friendly ear to complain. She wouldn’t dream of gossiping, but was very anxious to impart information. Almost as anxious to communicate it as I was to hear it.”
Maeniel began to stroll toward the bath, shedding his clothes as he went. Matrona paid no attention. She had seen him naked often before.
“The pope wrote the marriage contract,” Maeniel said, diving into the pool.
“Yes,” Matrona said as he surfaced. “She snubbed her own blood relatives. A source of some shock to Augusta, but a sure sign of intelligence to me. They sound little better than what is found growing at the edges of stagnant pools.”
“Scum.” He scrubbed his face and body with a coarse sponge.
“Yes. And she is very close to Lucilla, the pope’s mistress. And, I understand, Lucilla’s very favorite son, Antonius, is to be Regeane’s chamberlain. You are surrounded.”
Maeniel stepped out of the pool. He began toweling himself dry. He was frowning, deep in thought. “What about this Frankish Count Otho who is to be here tonight?”
“Maybe the worst of the lot,” Matrona answered. “He has a reputation of being devoted to Charlemagne’s interests, but otherwise he’s unprincipled and completely ruthless.”
“Now why would he be so interested in my marriage?”
“This Charlemagne,” Matrona suggested. “He is going to be a very strong king. He is quick about bringing his noblemen to heel.”
“And I will obey,” Maeniel said.
“A little too quickly, perhaps,” Matrona said. “The fortress we inhabit is unique. Given a stout defense, I should say, impregnable.”
Maeniel began to dress himself. White linen drawers, embroidered cotton stockings, trousers, shirt, and, to top it off, a
white, silk dalmatic crusted with gold at the sleeves, hem, and neck.
“Lo, the bridegroom cometh,” Matrona chuckled. “Let’s see if he can make the bride do the same.”
“You are,” Maeniel said deliberately, “a nasty, salacious bitch.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” Matrona said. “Think she’s a virgin?”
“Almost certainly,” Maeniel said. “I don’t believe she would trade so valuable a prize as her innocence for less than a high net profit.”
“Your fortress,” Matrona said.
Maeniel was combing his hair.
“I believe,” Matrona continued, “you could hold it even against Charlemagne.”
“You and Gavin,” Maeniel said. “And neither of you knows anything about the strength of an army.”
“You are the leader,” Matrona said, “but watch your back. Wolves aren’t treacherous … men are.”
A few moments later, Maeniel was inspecting the dining hall. It was enormous, designed to impress a visitor with the wealth and importance of his host. Yet it had a slightly shabby, down-at-the-heels air. The elaborate wall paintings were faded and, here and there, flaking, showed white patches of plaster beneath.
The bronze lamps suspended from the ceiling were tarnished and looked as though they hadn’t been polished in years. The purple velvet on the dining couches was threadbare and worn, showing the occasional bald patch. Still, Maeniel judged it would seem magnificent enough by lamplight.
A few servants were bustling around, covering the worn tables with rich damask cloths.
From the baths came the screams and shouts of Maeniel’s people. Maeniel sighed because he could tell from the mixture of voices that the men and women were bathing together.
“Men and women,” one of the servants muttered to another. “Filthy barbarians.”
“Smile when you say that,” Maeniel remarked to the man as he passed by.
The bath was warm and steamy. Maeniel’s people were screaming, shouting, splashing, and dunking one another in frenzied abandon.
Matrona had hold of Gavin. She held his hair in a firm grip. Maeniel thought of letting loose with a howl, which was what he usually did when he wanted to get their attention, but decided not to. They might reply in their usual fashion and alarm the servants in the next room. He clapped his hands.