Page 6 of Wolf Duke

A huge smile wreathed Blanche’s face. “Leto’s protective and gentle hands have guided us to each other. How blessed am I to be trusted with such an important task. Come, princess. Let us away to the castle. Cook was roasting a side of venison when I left. There’ll be spiced lamb and salted pork as well. Nice blazing fire with plenty of cushions to stretch out in front of.”

The elder then sank onto all fours so Evaine could use her back as a step to climb onto the sturdy wooden cart. With her trembling limbs and hazy vision, it still felt like ascending a mountain, but eventually she settled onto a clean pile of straw. Blanche dusted the snow from her apron, expertly swung herself up onto the front of the cart, and with a click of the reins they were on their way.

It was a bumpy ride, as the snow hid all manner of rocks and ruts. But after leaving the forest they came upon a well-kept road, and soon they were less than a mile from the imposing visage of Blackstone Castle.

Evaine’s jaw dropped. The castle was actually black! Surrounded by snowdrifts and with bright noon light behind it, the massive structure gleamed like ink on parchment and boasted high walls, four soaring towers, and long ramparts with a burly guard every few feet. A wide, deep moat surrounded the castle, and a single gray stone bridge led up to an entrance with huge oak doors and a spiked iron portcullis.

It should have been bleak. Frightening. Yet the strangest sensation of warmth surrounded her as they approached, as though the castle was drawing her close for a loving embrace.

Welcoming her home.

How could she feel such comfort about a place she’d never been before?

“’Tis a fine castle,” Evaine whispered.

“Indeed,” said Blanche, looking pleased. “Now, not that I’m saying anyone here means you harm, but it might be best if you lie down for a while, Your Highness. Just until we’re in the courtyard proper. Then I’ll escort you to the Great Hall for all the food you can eat.”

“Is…is King Alaric there?” Evaine asked, even saying his name provoking a tingle of anticipation.

“Alas not, princess. He’s in London meeting the new human king, Henry Tudor. But he’ll be back in a few days at most. Ample time to bathe and feast, yes?”

In human form, her cheeks would be redder than cherries. “Can I eat in the privy chamber?”

Blanche burst out laughing. “I wouldn’t make you choose, Your Highness.”

For the first time since that fateful day in the Ashcross Castle gardens, a sense of peace washed over Evaine. She drooped wearily, crossing her front paws and dropping her muzzle onto them.

The new king would keep her safe, she was sure of it. He would be gruffly kind like her own sire had been, with silver-touched fur and a weathered countenance. Blanche had neglected to mention Alaric’s queen or cubs, but she couldn’t wait to meet them all.

Everything would be better now. Everything.

Eltham Palace

“Now, Sir Alaric, it can be quite overwhelming to meet a king, but you need not be afraid. His Grace is an amiable man, not given to bursts of temper or rash commands. And he is half-Welsh, like yourself! Oh indeed, King Henry will surely look upon you with great favor. Come along, this way, this way. Aren’t the tapestries magnificent?”

Alaric clenched his jaw as the young courtier prattled on, seemingly oblivious that Henry Tudor would be the fourth human king Alaric had personally sworn fealty to in the past two years. This wasn’t even the first occasion at Eltham; both Edward IV and Richard III had held the ceremonies here. Ugh. It was times like this that a wolf king’s average life span, around two hundred human years, seemed unendurable. And he couldn’t even share his impatience with Ranulf or Darius; they were now cooling their heels in an antechamber as the courtier had insisted each landowner be presented individually.

“Sir Alaric? Are you ready? It is a shame you didn’t have time to change your clothing, but I’m sure His Grace won’t hold a little travel mud against you. Do ensure you take a knee and bow with all due reverence. We herald a new dawn. The Tudor era shall be far greater than anything gone before!”

Alaric forced himself to nod gravely rather than turn the pompous slug upside down and wash his hair in the nearest chamber pot. Wolves tended to avoid human aristocrats and their gatherings for this reason; even an ice-cold king renowned for diplomacy had his limits.

Soon, a trumpet flourish sounded in the Great Hall, and the large crowd parted to reveal King Henry sitting rather awkwardly on a huge carved oak throne atop the dais at the north end. The human appeared tall but slender, with shoulder-length brown hair and delicate features, and wore black shirt and hose with a beautifully embroidered cream doublet. The heavy chains of state lay around Henry’s neck, and a plain gold crown sat atop his head. He was flanked by a small group of favorites including his mother, Lady Margaret; his battlefield savior, Lord Stanley; his uncle, Jasper Tudor; and the Archbishop of Canterbury, John Morton.

The courtier gestured for Alaric to halt, then stepped forward and bowed. “Your Grace, may I present Sir Alaric Dafydd Beaumont of the Welsh Marches, only son of Sir Cyrus Beaumont and Lady Siân Dafydd. A simple and faithful subject come to humbly swear fealty to his sovereign king.”

Not by a twitch did Alaric reveal his displeasure at the introduction. Nor did he growl, You mean you present King Alaric, undisputed ruler of the Western Lands, Alpha Male of the Beaumont gray wolf pack, son and heir of the revered King Cyrus now risen to the stars, and Queen Siân, his beloved mate.

Diplomacy meant wearing a mask at all times, of never revealing true thoughts or feelings. He couldn’t say it was only Hera’s spiteful curse that brought him within fifty miles of a human ruler, especially the bloodstained English crown. Alaric’s role was to trade in information and strike bargains without raising hackles or suspicions. If anyone knew he was angry, sad, or unsettled, then he’d failed in his duty, and Alaric already had significant obstacles to overcome: he was considerably taller and broader than most humans and would be deemed a threat before he even spoke in his low, growling tone. Even his sire had called him a big lad, while his mother smugly proclaimed him a true Welsh son with shoulders like a mountain range, coal-black hair, and eyes of the purest gold.

Unfortunately, in this hall he could already feel waves of resentment and fear from men gripping their sword hilts. Some discreetly moved closer to the double doors, and Alaric sighed inwardly. Once again, a human royal court needed to believe they faced no more than a gentle giant.

With languid grace, Alaric strolled forward then slowly, deliberately, dropped to one knee. Next, he began the same oath he’d made three times before: “Your Grace. As head of the Beaumont family, I become your liege man of life and limb and truth and earthly honors, bearing to you against all men who love, move, or die, so help me God and the Holy Dame.”

Surprisingly, King Henry stood and offered a warm smile. “Arise, Sir Alaric. You are most welcome in my court this Christmastide. I hereby recognize your ancient claim to lands in the Welsh Marches and your authority there. I accept your pledge of fealty. However, unlike previous kings, I do not feel a knighthood adequately honors the service of the Beaumont family in this realm now mine. So it is with good cheer that I confer upon you the title of duke. Henceforth, you shall be known as Duke of Blackstone.”

What vicious Hera-spite was this?

Somehow, Alaric managed to quell both his recoil and roar of outrage. Wolves abhorred human titles, and reluctantly accepted only the most minor ones to keep the peace. Every Beaumont before him had been a knight and completely content, because the only title that truly mattered was King of the Western Lands. Now, the tradition had been broken and neither wolf nor human would respect his new status. What had he done to warrant such a travesty?