Page 23 of Wolf Duke

While only a select few witnessed the official mating ceremony, Evaine would be crowned in front of his pack on a specially constructed dais in the large castle courtyard. They would sit for a formal portrait sketch, which would later become an oil painting to be hung in the gallery. After their guests had been farewelled and returned home, he and Evaine would then lead a royal procession from the castle and spend a full month traveling around the Western Lands. This was an opportunity for all his subjects to kneel to their new anointed queen, and receive gifts of gold buckles or hair combs to commemorate the occasion.

Alaric sighed. Really, in this matter, they weren’t so different to humans. Except royal wolves were infinitely harder to kill.

Just briefly, his fangs and claws elongated. Only yesterday, one of his guards had brought word of a bloody tussle between villagers and a pack of outcasts on the road from Bewdley. While no one had been killed, two aspects had greatly concerned him: the ever-increasing size of the roaming pack…and how close they had ventured to Blackstone Castle. Within five miles!

Were the outcasts just hot-tempered, looking to fight anyone? Foreign wolves looking to establish a new territory? Or most concerning: were they actually mercenaries with one purpose, to collect the substantial bounty on Evaine’s head?

Alaric curled a fist and thumped it against the carved stone mantel. If anyone so much as looked upon his queen without reverence, there would be no leniency. No mercy. He would execute without regret.

“My king? Might I have a word?”

Alaric turned his head and beckoned Oliver into the library. His steward looked ready to heave everyone over the ramparts; entirely understandable given the circumstances. Planning and preparing for such an important event, one that would be spoken of for many years to come, and involve the presence of England’s royal packs, would turn any steward’s fur white. Not to mention this was the second time he’d had to do it. “What troubles you? Are you concerned about the outcasts?”

Oliver huffed out a breath. “I’m sure everyone is concerned about them, but I have decided to leave that particular burden to Captain Bardolf. He sent out another hunting party this morning; if the outcasts have come to the Western Lands with evil intent, Leto willing, our guards will return with a bulging satchel of fresh hearts to be burned.”

“Indeed,” said Alaric grimly. “I will tolerate no disturbance around my future queen. Not even a playful fight. Evaine is mine. She is…well, you understand.”

The steward actually smiled a little. “We all understand, my king. While it was certainly shocking to learn Lady Theda wasn’t your true mate, everyone is joyful beyond words about Princess Evaine. What it means for you. What it means for the Western Lands. Poor Larkin can barely move his fingers, he’s written so many letters. But, er, well…fated mates is why I am here. It is now January, and the start of rutting season. I don’t believe we’ve ever had a royal mating ceremony within this month. Have we, er…procedures to follow if our new queen, or perhaps other mated she-wolves, go into their breeding heat early while the castle is overflowing with guests? I know the risk is low, but…well, you never know.”

Alaric nodded slowly. It was an excellent and pertinent question. As he’d mentioned to Evaine, rutting season could turn even the most sensible wolves into feral beasts. It only took one mated she-wolf in the vicinity to go into breeding heat, and everyone in or near the castle would absorb that lust and run mad with it. His own pack would be enough for the guards and himself to manage. But with hundreds of guests…or if it were Evaine pouncing on him, demanding his cock, his tongue, his seed, all day and all night…

Goddess.

What if Evie was chosen? If she went into heat and conceived, there might be cubs in May, that most sacred of months, for it heralded an increasingly rare miracle in Wolfdom: new life. Leto had fought so hard to birth Apollo and Artemis, and this Hera-driven difficulty had continued on over the centuries. Between all the wars, mercenaries, and ancient restrictions around conceiving, the English wolf shifter population was steadily dwindling. But he and Evaine still had a chance to experience something very special. The birth of a cub. Perhaps even more than one. A litter!

Alaric swayed, actually having to reach out to the mantel to steady himself.

“My king?” said Oliver anxiously. “Forgive the impertinent question.”

“It wasn’t impertinent, but important,” replied Alaric carefully. “I just…it just hit me fully that this year it might be me caring for my mate in her heat.”

Oliver’s whole expression changed into one of warmth and humor. “Leto willing, you’ll know that blessed exhaustion, my king. Your sire generously gave me several days to recover both times with Blanche. She was…er…fierce.”

Now Alaric laughed. “I can only imagine.”

“I believe your sire required a week—”

“Stop! I beg you,” said Alaric, his shoulders shaking. Goddess, laughter felt good. It seemed he’d laughed and smiled more since meeting Evaine than all his years before that.

The difference of a fated mate.

Oliver beamed. “Do you have instructions, though? Naturally you will care for Her Highness should it be required, but what of a guest or pack member? One just never knows once the season begins.”

“A truth. Prepare two of the old hunting lodges, the ones down by the river. Fresh linens and firewood, the kitchens can easily supply food and drink if necessary. But if any female goes into her breeding heat, she and her mate must be escorted straight there. I cannot risk an entire castle losing their wits.”

“Very good,” said the steward, inclining his head. “Now, I—”

“Beg pardon, my king,” said a guard, as he rushed into the room without knocking, his face flushed pink from the frigid cold outside.

Both Alaric and Oliver went still.

“Yes?” said Alaric brusquely, his heart beginning to pound. What now? Another fight with outcasts? A mercenary attack? Some sort of written threat?

The guard mopped his brow with a sleeve. “A carriage pulled up at the bridge with a couple and their attendants, requesting lodging for the night. But they are…humans, my king. The Earl and Countess of Oxford.”

Alaric pressed his lips together, lest he unleash a roar of frustration. Poor Oliver just looked horrified. Naturally, when the entire castle was in a flurry of preparation for the impending ceremonies, bloody humans would arrive. And he couldn’t refuse them lodging, not these two at least. John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, had fought valiantly for the Lancastrians at Bosworth Field and been richly rewarded with several important roles in Henry Tudor’s court, including Lord Admiral, Constable of the Tower of London, a seat at the Privy Council, and Lord Great Chamberlain of England. His wife was no less illustrious; Margaret Neville had been sister to the Earl of Warwick, known to humans as the Kingmaker, and aunt to the previous Queen of England, Anne Neville.

“Tell Larkin to prepare a chamber,” said Alaric, unable to suppress a sigh. “A fine one. Everyone must behave—these are important humans, great favorites of Henry Tudor, and I need no added tensions right now. Also, ensure Princess Evaine and Queen Siân are aware.”