Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
South Wales
I f humans truly wanted to defeat wolves, no bloodshed was required. Why waste strength on battle when forced wagon travel would turn any wolf quite mad?
Alaric scowled as he lifted the canvas cover and peered out at the beautiful rainswept countryside. Usually he would be on horseback, galloping his way around South Wales from Newport to Cardiff to Swansea in a few days. Instead, because Willie and his guards held such grave fears for his and Evaine’s safety after that strange note, they’d both been trapped in this torture device called a covered travel wagon for an entire damned week.
They’d both left Swansea very reluctantly; Evaine had been especially enamored of cockles gathered fresh from the bay and they’d devoured a small mountain, delighting in the change from venison, pork, and beef. But once again at dawn this morning, they had asked their bodies for forgiveness then climbed into the wagon for the next portion of the journey. This time: to the ancient town of Carmarthen. While it was only about thirty miles or so, Alaric desperately needed a distraction from the creaking and jolting and swaying. How did wagons manage to hit every rock and rut in the road with such precision?
Evaine scowled as she attempted for the thousandth time to find a more comfortable sitting position. “I really don’t know why we must continue traveling in this monstrous wooden trap. Surely if there was a threat, they would have struck in the places with a much larger population to disappear into. I swear my arse will be black and blue from this bench seat.”
“I know,” he replied, irritable beyond belief. “Yes, a royal progress requires constant travel, but there is no need to make it worse with wagons .”
“And it was just a note, promising information if I met with them. Not an actual threat.”
Alaric refastened the canvas flap, then settled back on the seat which still felt harder than stone despite the cushions. Even thinking about that damned note made him angry. Perhaps it hadn’t outright stated he’d had his first queen killed, but the implication was certainly there. Theda’s death—he couldn’t bring himself to call her his mate any longer—had occurred after a visit to Silas, her personal soothsayer. Silas had sworn under oath that Theda’s death was accidental, but had fled Blackstone the next day. If anything was suspicious, surely it was that!
“I know we discussed it until we were hoarse,” he said slowly, “but perhaps it would have been better to at least discover who the friend was. If they had any information about Silas. There are so many questions to be answered.”
Evaine leaned forward and patted his knee. “No. As you said, nothing was certain. We didn’t know if they even were a friend, some brigand wanting coin, or a mercenary tricking me out into the open. In truth, I’m far more concerned that a guard or trusted servant was persuaded by a stranger to put that note into my robe.”
“Unless it wasn’t a stranger,” said Alaric. Abruptly needing his mate closer, he took her hand and tugged her onto his lap so her knees were parted either side of his, and she could rest her head on his shoulder. As her delicious scent surrounded him, both soothing and sensual, his spirits soon lifted. “By the by, I might have an idea to pass the time.”
His mate leaned back a little, her eyes glinting with mischief. “I’m sure you do, my king. But I can think of a better one: tell me something interesting about Carmarthen, and…I’ll raise my gown.”
Alaric straightened. His mate truly was the most brilliant she-wolf in the realm. “Some say it’s the oldest town in Wales.”
She wrinkled her nose, then wickedly rubbed her breasts against his chest. “I said something interesting .”
His cock stirred. Goddess, even now the heady, musky fragrance of her cunt was drifting up to his nose. “Kings need inspiration. Show me your breasts.”
With a sly grin, Evaine lowered and raised her gown’s square bodice, teasing him with brief glimpses of her sweet pale pink nipples. Unable to resist, he clamped one hand around the back of her neck to hold her in place, then used his other hand to wrench down the velvet and fully reveal his treat. When he took one nipple in his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, even nipping it with his teeth, Evaine moaned and moved restlessly on his lap. “Suck me.”
“Edmund Tudor, the human king’s father, died of the plague in Carmarthen,” Alaric began, between rough, hard suckles. “He’s buried there in a tomb within the Greyfriars church.”
“Rather dark, but a start,” she replied, her head falling back a little, one hand cupping her breast to offer him easier access while her other hand gripped his shoulder for balance. “I’m sure you can think of something better.”
Sliding his hand down her back, Alaric lightly slapped Evaine’s arse until she rose up on her knees, and he could move the fabric of her gown aside without tearing it. Then he delved underneath, greatly enjoying the discretion: even if someone could peer into the wagon, his actions were hidden. Only he and Evaine knew that he was trailing circles along her inner thigh, inching closer and closer to her hot, wet center.
“Hmmm,” Alaric mused as he brushed his knuckles back and forth against her bush before parting the crisp hair and pushing his finger deeply inside her slick cunt, making her cry out. “Oh, do you need more fingers, sweetheart?”
“I want to spend. Hurry,” Evaine said, attempting to grind down onto his finger.
Smiling inwardly, he withdrew it, to instead circle her pleasure bud. “But I just thought of something interesting, my queen.”
“It better…oh, it better be…so, so good,” she snarled, panting for breath.
“Allegedly, Merlin was born in a cave just outside of Carmarthen.”
“I like that…oooohhhhhhh,” Evaine gasped as he knit three fingers together and plunged them deep into her sheath.
“Now, sweetheart,” Alaric murmured against her neck, kissing the silken flesh as he twisted his fingers and nudged her bud with his thumb. “You must be quiet. No wild cries or the guards will come running.”
To his great satisfaction, Evaine surrendered within moments to his tender ministrations, burying her face in his neck and screaming her release into his shoulder as her cunt spasmed around his fingers. How gloriously lusty she was! He truly adored how Evaine could be so fierce and bold, yet also submit so readily and completely to his touch.
When she moved on his lap, he grimaced as his cock strained against his hose, eager to be inside her. No. Not here. They were too close to Carmarthen to be knotted together when they arrived.
Evaine curled her hand around his cock. “What about you?”
His breath hissed between his teeth. “I’ll be quite well.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” she replied saucily. “Now, the knotting aspect only happens when your cock is in my cunt, yes? For conception? What if…what if you spent in my arse? I liked the gold dildo in there. I wouldn’t mind trying something much bigger, as long as you go slowly.”
His blood surged at the delectable thought. Goddess, he might not survive. “You don’t have to.”
Evaine smacked his shoulder. “I know. I’m offering .”
“I’ll be so gentle,” Alaric mumbled, even as he nearly tore the ties of his hose. “Go up on your knees again, Evie, I need to wet my cock in your honey.”
Taking a deep breath in a futile attempt at regaining composure, Alaric gripped his swollen member and guided it between Evaine’s legs. With the constant rattle and sway of the wagon it was almost impossible to be controlled, but he braced his feet against the base of the opposite bench seat for balance. Teasing them both, he swirled his cock in her copious juices, ensuring he coated as much of his length as possible.
“Do it,” Evaine begged as she rubbed feverishly against him. “I want to feel you inside me.”
By touch alone under her clothing, Alaric spread more wetness around her tight anus. Then he cautiously pressed a finger inside, easing it in and out until her inner walls seemed to welcome him rather than halt his advance. Goddess, he was so aroused he could scarcely see, and his mate’s needy whimpers, her panting gasps as her hips churned, would be engraved in his mind forever.
“Hold on, sweetheart,” he rasped. “I’ll enter you now.”
As he fitted the head of his cock to her anus and pressed in firmly, Evaine groaned, her back arching. Yet at the same time she pushed back on him, and soon the entire head was lodged snugly in her arse. Slowly, so slowly, Alaric carefully but relentlessly forced his cock a little deeper. The sensation was beyond words; she was so tight, so hot, it was all he could do not to spend at once and disgrace himself completely. But he needed to move. Every instinct insisted upon it, and he gently withdrew then advanced again.
“ Goddess ,” said Evaine unsteadily as she rocked her hips. “It’s like the biting ceremony. Pleasure and pain intertwined. The stretch burns, but it feels so good, too. Keep doing that. Don’t you dare stop.”
“Oh, you like that, my queen?” Alaric growled as he thrust harder and harder, burying his cock as deep as it could go. “My cock in your arse?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, her fingernails biting into his shoulders. “ Yes .”
A heartbeat later, Evaine burrowed against his neck once again to muffle her scream of pleasure. The startling ecstasy of her fangs lightly scraping his flesh unleashed Alaric’s own release, and his seed exploded inside her.
Utterly exhausted in the best way, Alaric rested his head against the wagon’s carved wood wall and lifted one hand to stroke Evaine’s back. “I just thought of another interesting Carmarthen fact for you,” he murmured, between kisses. “It’s where the King and Queen of the Western Lands enjoyed a most excellent wagon experience.”
She giggled. “I like that one best of all.”
“And how are you enjoying your stay in Carmarthen, my queen?”
Evaine smiled at the gathering of she-wolves, both younger and elders, as though she’d not already been asked the question ten times, and about one hundred times in each place they stopped on this progress. One important thing she’d learned: an audience really didn’t care what she liked, as long as she praised it lavishly. “Carmarthen is a lovely town indeed,” she replied. “Why, this manor house is simply delightful. So warm! And a charming view of the river.”
In truth, the house was delightful, two levels fashioned of white stone with large timber-framed windows, and built on a rise so the views were sweeping. The bedchamber reserved for royal visits was on the upper floor, spacious yet cozy, and boasted a splendidly large and soft bed which was entirely welcome after all their wagon travel. Carmarthen was different to most of their stops, though, for the local castle here was actually a human stronghold and wolves in the area tended to stay well away from it. Instead, they gathered at various manor houses, the females descending on solars to drink wine, eat honey cakes, listen to music, and discuss any matters they didn’t wish males or curious cubs to hear.
“And how does the king find our town this visit?” asked an elder eagerly.
Evaine almost blushed. She was still a little tender from their exertions in the wagon. “I know he has an even greater fondness for it.”
There was a collective sigh, and similar to all previous stops, she was forced to conceal her reaction as the she-wolves began openly discussing Alaric’s attributes: his smile, the sheen of his hair, the gold of his eyes, how tall and broad of shoulder he was, even the firmness of his arse. Wolves were frank about such matters and while Alaric tended to shrug it away, she might have to challenge someone to a duel…or at least bare some queenly fangs and claws. Those broad shoulders and firm arse belonged entirely to her!
“I’m going to bang some heads together,” Blanche muttered beside her.
“Perhaps some music?” said Evaine, a little desperately as her claws dug into her palms. A certain blond female sitting in the corner and waxing lyrical about her king’s lips would soon be losing a large clump of hair. “I do adore the harp…or the flute…”
A trifle grudgingly, the elder of the manor called for music. Soon, the glorious low tones of the harp filled the solar, and even more glorious, a chorus of voices in accompaniment. One thing Evaine had noticed throughout their travels: the Welsh loved to sing and were breathtakingly talented. While she didn’t yet understand many Welsh words, there was a cadence to the ancient language, the way soft sounds flowed into one another and even harsh sounds were melodic, that made English seem just a bit awkward. It was the same when Alaric spoke on the most mundane matters, his words had a lilt that made them seem sensual. On several occasions she’d been so distracted by his accent that she’d completely forgotten the topic of conversation.
“Beg pardon, my queen.”
Gritting her teeth at the interruption, Evaine turned to the hovering servant. “Yes?”
“Would you come and greet a group of peasants outside? They do not wish to intrude on manor land, but would like to make their bows and curtsies to the new queen.”
Evaine frowned inwardly. It was an odd request; in planning for the progress, she and Alaric had specifically instructed that there be a large number of informal gatherings so all wolves were welcome. Naturally, the royal guards insisted any potential weapons be set down first, but certainly no one had been refused entry because they weren’t landowners, wealthy or noble. Goddess, her own beloved mother had worked in a tavern! “Right now?”
“The family do not have much time, my queen, but they beg you to grace them with your presence,” said the servant smoothly. Almost too smoothly.
The back of her neck prickled. Could this somehow be related to the note? Perhaps this was the opportunity to discover the identity of their “friend” and get answers once and for all.
“Very well,” said Evaine, before turning to Blanche. “I’m going to greet some subjects outside, but will return shortly.”
The elder wolf hesitated. “Would you like me to accompany you?”
Evaine shook her head. “Stay here and enjoy the music. I won’t linger, I swear.”
Soon, the servant guided Evaine outside to a well-tended enclosed garden. On the other side of the fence, a small group waited, cheering loudly as Evaine approached.
“Evaine is queen. Long may she reign!” called one male, and the two neatly-dressed cubs next to him waved madly.
Charmed, Evaine walked to the fence. Their awe was palpable as they expressed their best wishes, and she enquired after the male’s mate and admired the cubs’ wooden toys. Just as she was about to scold herself for being so foolish, a silver-haired male joined the group, wearing the dark robe of a soothsayer.
“My queen,” he said with a low bow. “I am honored to be near you. Might I offer a blessing?”
Every instinct Evaine possessed bellowed no . But due to their connection to Leto, it would be frowned upon by all if she refused a soothsayer, so Evaine moved along the fence line until she faced him directly. “Good afternoon.”
“Your hand?” he continued, his tone pleasant but his gaze piercing. Ugh.
“I have but a few moments,” Evaine replied, reluctantly holding out her hand. Now that the friendly little pack had departed, the garden didn’t seem nearly so lovely, just cold and isolated. And where were her two guards?
True alarm jangled through her body, but before she could turn and leave, the soothsayer grasped her hand. His palm was damp, his grip far too firm, then he leaned close. “My name is Silas. You are in grave danger, my queen. I hoped we might meet at St. Briavels, but alas, you chose to ignore my generous offer. I know all. I know the truth about Queen Theda’s death, and that the same fate will befall you. The king is a killer.”
What?
“Only Leto knows all. How dare you,” Evaine snapped, both shocked and furious at his words. Yet she couldn’t free her hand from the soothsayer’s now-painful grip.
“I dare, because you must be told. Queen Theda did not fall down stairs—she was pushed. Murdered. A good female, cruelly treated by a cold male with a hot temper. You’ve seen the king’s rage. Lord and Lady Oxford experienced it, did they not? He nearly strangled them both.”
Even as she reeled at the accusations and his startlingly intimate knowledge of the humans’ visit, Evaine managed to glare at Silas. “ A good female ? Theda was a scheming liar who tricked her way onto the throne. And you seem no better, fleeing Blackstone so swiftly after her death.”
The elder’s gaze shifted left and right before settling on her once more. “Those who carry words of divine wisdom are often called to walk a new path. But beware of the king, or you will end up on the floor with a face the color of wine.”
Somehow, she laughed. “I have naught to fear from King Alaric. But you do. When he finds you…”
“Ah, I understand now,” said Silas softly. “You’re as mad as he is. I was wrong to appeal to a rational mind when you do not possess one. But it matters not. King Alaric…no, I’ll not call him king. The Duke of Blackstone is weak and will soon be removed from power. I see battle. I see death. I see your sister Isabel, on her knees sobbing—”
“Stop,” snarled Evaine, bracing her feet before twisting her wrist and tearing it from his grasp. “Leave these lands and never return. You are banished . If you are ever seen again, telling such evil lies, I will personally rip your heart out.”
“It is too late,” the soothsayer replied, bowing once more, his eyes aglow. “A mighty boulder is rolling down a hill and cannot be halted. Soon there will come a reckoning between yourself and King Guy.”
“The usurper? No. There is only one true King of the Eastern Lands,” said Evaine, her claws extending. “Lucan de Wynter. My brother will return.”
“Your brother is dead. King Guy has waited a long time to see you fall, and fall you shall. With the Book of Lore at his command, the throne of the Western Lands will be his as well. Enjoy the rest of your progress… Duchess .”
And with that, Silas strolled away as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
Her limbs trembling, Evaine collapsed onto a nearby garden bench, sucking in gulps of air as rage and fear twisted inside her belly. A part of her had always known that one day she would meet Guy Saville again. But was she ready to face that vile murderer in battle? And how would Alaric react, knowing the missing soothsayer who may have witnessed or even caused Theda’s death had returned?
“Goddess,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself and rocking on the bench. Right now it felt like she might never be warm again.
“My queen! Are you well?”
She glanced up to see the two missing guards sprint around the side of the manor house and hurry to where she sat. “Where were you?” Evaine cried. “Did you see that soothsayer? Did you stop him?”
One of the guards dropped to his knee, his expression confused. “Forgive us. We didn’t see a soothsayer, but a servant claimed there was a male at the gate with a dagger, threatening harm. We thought you were safely upstairs listening to music with Mistress Blanche, so went to investigate. When we returned, that servant was nowhere to be found.”
Evaine took several deep breaths, attempting to calm her jangled nerves. “Take me to where the king is holding his meeting. I must speak with him at once.”
This meeting had dragged entirely too long, and he was entirely too far away from Evaine. Everything was colder and duller without his mate, including activities he’d previously tolerated or even enjoyed.
Alaric drummed his fingers impatiently on the heavy oak table in front of him and glared at the dozen male noble wolves who were currently arguing over a particularly foolish potential amendment to the Western Charter: whether soothsayer robes should continue to be black, or change to brown. How was this even an issue, let alone a topic worthy of debate? Listening to passionate declarations about fabric color was a truly torturous process—he was quite certain Evaine wasn’t suffering so much with the she-wolves.
“Black!” he barked eventually. “The robes will remain black by royal decree. Now, are there any other matters of business, or can we adjourn?”
For a short while there was blessed silence, and Alaric almost stood and departed the damp and rather cool stone hall they were meeting in. It would probably be warmer to meet outside; this hall had just two fireplaces which wasn’t nearly enough for the size of the room, and most of the nobles kept moving restlessly and pulling their cloaks tighter.
Unfortunately, one of the wolves to Alaric’s left—a landowner near Witney, very close to the border with both the Eastern and Southern Lands—cleared his throat. “My king, if I might have the floor?”
Alaric sighed at the wolf’s tentative voice. Several present had used a similar tone today and while it was entirely his own fault, it still stung how fast his longstanding reputation for cool, calm diplomacy had been ruined by his actions toward the Oxfords. “Yes. Speak.”
The wolf actually gulped as he rose to his feet. “My king. Fellow brethren. I know this remains a very sore wound in our history, however before I came here, I received yet another petition from an Eastern Lands emissary. They are requesting the resumption of trade and diplomatic ties with the Western Lands…”
A loud chorus of “NO” erupted until Alaric held up a hand. “Let him finish.”
His face glistening with sweat, the landowner cleared his throat. “It has been ten years. While it brought us all great joy to learn Princess Evaine had survived her long ordeal, and to receive her as King Alaric’s fated mate and our anointed queen…er…we have heard nothing of Prince Lucan. Not even a whisper. Is it time to accept Lord Guy Saville’s claim by force and victory? The humans accepted Henry as their king after he killed Richard at Bosworth Field, and that was mere months ago.”
Pure fury surged through Alaric, and he clenched his fists lest he hurl the oak table into the neighboring county. After what his precious Evaine had suffered, what her two missing sisters and brother continued to suffer…the murders of Hugo and Magdalena, and the constant threat of mercenaries hunting in Guy Saville’s name for a bounty he would pay…there would be ice castles in the Persian desert before Alaric Dafydd Beaumont would break bread with anyone from that court.
“No,” Alaric said slowly and clearly, so there was no chance of misunderstanding. “As long as I’m alive, the only claim to the Eastern throne my court and all my councils will recognize is that of King Lucan de Wynter. There is no comparison between Guy Saville and Henry Tudor. The usurper repaid generous favor with treachery and murder. The human king at least has a few drops of royal blood, but far more importantly, will wed a princess of the blood to secure his throne. Saville has neither.”
“My king—”
“If King Lucan has in fact risen to the stars without an heir, then I would recognize Princess Isabel as Queen Regnant and her future line. After that, Princess Cecily and her future line. All before Guy Saville. In truth…I would recognize a half-eaten boar’s tongue before Guy bloody Saville.”
Complete silence filled the hall, and to his great dismay, Alaric realized his voice had been getting louder and louder, his last few words actually echoing around the room. Goddess. He may as well cease all diplomatic tasks immediately—he no longer possessed the skill or patience.
His longtime scribe, Peregrine, a plump, bald elder wolf with a grizzled gray beard and the most exquisite penmanship imaginable, looked up from his ink and parchment. “I believe King Alaric has made his thoughts on this matter very clear. On several occasions. If anyone requires assistance with their memory, say aye, and I’ll engrave it on your forehead.”
Alaric almost laughed. Indeed, there was a smattering of chuckles around the hall and it offered the chance to compose himself. While his opinion on Guy Saville would never change, and, he was quite certain, Evaine would concur, there was no need to roar at the messenger. That landowner clearly didn’t want to bring the petition any more than Alaric wished to receive it.
“Forgive the thunderstorm,” said Alaric ruefully, inclining his head in apology. “I am too long apart from my mate and quite out of sorts—”
“Alaric. Alaric, can you hear me?”
Evaine’s voice burst so clearly into his mind that he actually looked around the room for her. Naturally, she wasn’t there. “ Evie? ”
“ Oh! You heard! I wasn’t sure if our bond link would work this far apart .”
“ I don’t know either ,” he admitted. “ Maybe there is a distance limit, or perhaps we can each be in any place. Where are you? ”
“ On horseback, with my guards. We are about a half-mile away from you .”
“ Is something wrong? ”
She paused briefly. “ I must speak with you. Urgently. Face to face .”
Alaric stood so fast that his chair actually wobbled, before righting itself with an audible slap onto the floor. “I must take my leave. The queen is on her way here and requests an audience at once.”
All the dignitaries within the room stilled, their brows creasing in concern and surprise, and questions began firing at him like a flurry of arrows.
“Is our queen well?”
“Did something happen at the manor house?”
“Mercenaries? Surely they wouldn’t dare.”
Alaric clenched his jaw. “I believe Queen Evaine is unharmed. But something has happened. As soon as I know, I will pass on any necessary information.”
With that he turned on his boot heel and strode from the meeting, his speed increasing as he reached the hallway until he was leaping down the stairs and running for the front door, utterly uncaring if he knocked something over. He had one need: to see his mate, to know for certain that she was well. Evaine the Bold wouldn’t ride to him without cause. If anyone had upset or hurt her, he would personally disembowel them.
It seemed to take forever, but at last three riders appeared over the rise, galloping toward the estate. Alaric waited as patiently as possible even as perspiration gathered at his neck. When they pulled up, he marched straight to Evaine and lifted her from her horse. Then he curled his arm around her waist and guided her into an empty antechamber inside the manor house.
“Tell me everything, sweetheart,” he said simply.
Instead of answering, she wrapped her arms around his waist, burrowing against his chest. Instinctively, Alaric’s arms closed around her, holding Evaine tightly until she stopped shaking. Then his mate leaned back a little, met his gaze, and said one word: “Silas.”
Alaric froze. “Theda’s soothsayer?”
“Yes,” said Evaine, resting her cheek against his chest, her fingers restlessly tangling in his doublet fabric. “I was greeting a peasant family when he arrived…Silas lured me over by offering a blessing, then took my hand and wouldn’t let go. He said the most terrible, wicked things. I…I banished him, said that if he ever returned, I would personally rip his heart out.”
Alaric nodded at the fierce promise in his queen’s voice. Indeed, his courageous, passionate Evaine would never shy from a battle. But he didn’t like that she had skimmed over details like a rock bouncing across a stream. It was true: a strong bond meant sharing everything. “Good. Now tell me, what were the terrible, wicked things?”
Just briefly, her fingernails dug into his doublet. “They were about you. And Theda. Silas said you pushed her down the stairs and that I was next.”
Alaric braced for another ragestorm to overcome him. Instead, a strange, eerie calm descended. “I will have his head for that,” he said slowly. “Was there anything else?”
She nodded miserably. “Silas claimed there would soon be a reckoning between me and Guy Saville. A battle. And death. That we would be removed from power—with the help of the Book of Lore, Guy would take the throne instead.”
Filthy. Wretched. Bastard .
Abruptly, Evaine laughed, the sound very watery. “Yes. Yes, he is.”
Moving his hands to cup her face, Alaric blotted her tears with his thumbs, then leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You are more precious to me than all the gold in the Western Lands. Than Blackstone Castle. Anything or anyone. There is no way on Leto’s earth that I will allow any harm to befall you. Do you understand, Evie? You are my queen. My fated mate. Mine .”
Evaine turned her head, her lips brushing his palm. “I understand, my king.”
After taking her in his arms once again, they stood silently in the antechamber, just holding each other. But all the time, Alaric’s mind raced. The latest overture from the Eastern Lands emissary for peace and trade resumption made a certain malevolent sense now. They held out their hand to shake, while hiding a dagger in their sleeve.
Well. If Guy Saville wanted a war, he would get one. And if he or his little soothsayer Silas thought to raid and conquer the Western Lands, they would soon learn in the most agonizing, bloody way what a mistake that would be.
The only question remaining: when .