Page 3 of Wolf Duke

“Please, Mother,” whispered Isabel, as she rubbed her muzzle against Cecily’s. “We aren’t ready to go alone.”

Magdalena fell to her knees, gathering her cubs close as best she could and nuzzling their heads, her heart already shattering at what this day could mean. “My sweet, precious young. I know you have your sire’s great courage and daring, but you must stay far away from this battlefield. And you will be protected.”

“Why can’t you come with us?” asked Cecily, her tail swishing wildly.

“I fight at my mate’s side,” she replied simply. “That is what it means to be queen. Together. Always.”

Evaine shuddered and tried to burrow closer. “What if…what if Uncle Guy wins the battle? He does have the Book of Lore.”

Pure icy fear trickled down Magdalena’s spine. Indeed, in a fair fight she would wager on Hugo and his warriors every time. But if Guy’s black heart unleashed the book’s power for evil purposes…not even the gods could save them. “He does, my daughter. That is why you must change to human form and leave. We will come for you at battle’s end and eat honey cakes until our bellies groan. Also know this: as long as there are stars in the sky, your father and I will love each of you.”

“But it hurts to change,” whimpered Isabel. “We hate it.”

Magdalena’s heart twisted. The more cubs and wolflings changed, the easier the process became. However, because it was so very painful for cubs, she’d been lax in insisting they practice. This day, it was essential they change. In human form, her young could pass for children of perhaps eight or nine summers. That would gift them time.

Helplessly, Magdalena exchanged a glance with Hugo, who abruptly knelt and encircled them all in his massive arms. “Here, now, why all the fuss about changing and hiding for a while? ’Tis only a battle. Have I ever been defeated?”

“No,” said Lucan, puffing out his little chest. “You’re the greatest king ever. Come, sisters. I know a hollowed tree in the forest that the traitor will never find us, and in human form, we’ll all fit. You’ll feel foolish at supper for being so scared.”

Hugo ruffled Lucan’s fur. “I know you’ll make me proud, son. But remember everything I’ve taught you. Be cautious. Tread softly. Keep still and alert. Now go. May Leto and her divine twins bless and keep you all.”

And with that, after one last, lingering look, their four cubs bounded away.

Magdalena swallowed an anguished sob. Why did it feel like she would never see her young again?

“My queen…” said Hugo, rising to his feet and holding out his hand. “I must away to the armory. The warriors need guidance, to know the truth of what they face. But if you wish to flee with our cubs…I understand. Guy may spare you.”

She hissed. “I shall not spare him. And if it is not my sword that ends his life…I beseech Leto, may it be the sword of my young. Guy will rue the day he challenged my mate and my pack. I am Magdalena de Wynter, Queen of the Eastern Lands, and this I vow.”

“Then let us fight how we love,” said her mate, his gaze humbling her with the depth of feeling as he laced their fingers. “Together.”

“Together, my king,” said Magdalena, squeezing his hand. “Always.”

Chapter

One

Eltham Palace, London, Christmastide 1485

If it weren’t for the humans, he would like this castle very much.

Alaric Dafydd Beaumont, King of the Western Lands and Alpha Male of the Beaumont gray wolf pack, glanced approvingly at the red brick palace as he guided his black stallion over the moat’s stone bridge.

Truthfully, what he envied most was the palace’s thousand acres of prime hunting land. Even in the frigid cold of late December his senses were drowning in the scent of deer, and he yearned to change to wolf form and feast. But no. That wasn’t the purpose of his visit. As a landowner of significant means, he’d been invited to celebrate Christmastide with—and swear fealty to—the new human king, Henry Tudor. Known as Henry VII, the Welshman had won his crown the old-fashioned way, defeating the unlucky Richard III at Bosworth Field in August. After being crowned at the end of October, Henry then declared his reign began the day before the battle, making everyone on the opposing side a traitor.

Alaric snorted as he smoothly dismounted within the Great Court, slung both traveling satchels over his massive shoulders, then handed the reins to his young squire, Wesley. While wolves were certainly dangerous, vicious, and cunning foes, humans were not far behind. If they lived longer and possessed more than a fragile collection of skin and bones easily felled by a simple cut, bad ale, or wet hair, he might even dread them. But having to pledge ‘fealty’ to someone with no idea of who—or what—he really was remained infuriating, and it was all due to Hera’s spite.

Leto had defeated the queen of the gods, and birthed her divine twins Apollo and Artemis. However, Hera had immediately struck back with two eternal decrees: first, that wolf shifters were forbidden to reveal themselves to humans. Second, wolf kings must forever publicly submit to the human ruler of their realm, a truly grievous insult. Gah. He could almost see Hera’s scornful glee as she spoke of Leto’s dogs kneeling to their master. But if any wolf king failed to obey, he and his subjects would be cursed. Death, plague, famine, thrones snatched by usurpers…

Alaric winced. Many claimed it was mere coincidence that King Hugo and Queen Magdalena had been murdered and their four cubs lost just a few years after failing to re-pledge fealty to Edward IV when he regained the English throne. But in Alaric’s mind, Hera’s evil hand was clear in Guy Saville’s victory and the sole reason for journeying to London as human kings came and went. To do otherwise was far too dangerous. Besides, it was only a few days, then he could return to Blackstone Castle, his remote and sprawling estate in the Welsh Marches.

“Brother King.”

At the low hail, Alaric smiled as Ranulf Armstrong, King of the Northern Lands, approached. The lean, scholarly gray wolf was an expert apothecary and ruled all past Hadrian’s Wall. Unfortunately, in the managing of both Lowland and Highland wolves, he rarely knew peace; Ranulf often jested he would search for his fated mate the moment his subjects behaved. Apart from Alaric’s own pack, the wry, humorous, deceptively deadly Scot was one of the few wolves he would trust with his life.

“Brother King,” said Alaric, briefly embracing Ranulf and touching foreheads in the manner of affectionate respect. “What news from the North?”

“Aye, the usual,” grumbled Ranulf. “James III is a feckless, witless human who will certainly be overthrown by his son afore long. And whether human or wolf, Lowlander and Highlander cannot even drink ale without drawing swords. How fares the West?”