Page 2 of Wolf Duke (Medieval Wolf Kings #1)

Chapter

One

Eltham Palace, London, Christmastide 1485

I f 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?”

“The Welsh are emboldened by the rise of the Tudors, but what is won in battle can easily be lost. Henry is very, very fortunate that Lord Stanley turned for him. And that his mother is relentlessly ambitious,” said Alaric.

“Margaret is a formidable woman indeed. But it would behoove them all to treat Elizabeth of York kindly when she weds Henry. His claim is weak; ’tis her bloodline that legitimizes the throne. I’m not at all certain the Civil Wars are over.”

“Peace still seems a great distance away,” Alaric agreed.

Ranulf sighed irritably. “It chafes my hose that we must tolerate all this human foolishness with everything else. Hera’s vengeance is truly diabolical; forcing us royal wolves to disguise our age or one day pretend to be our own son because we live so much longer. Humans have one strength: they are plentiful. Imagine the wolf population if we could breed all year, without a fated mate. And they just replace dead queens…oh, Goddess forgive me. I meant no pain to you, my friend. I’m sure Theda dances among the stars with our revered ancestors.”

Alaric clenched his jaw and glanced down at the faded, slightly ragged royal mating mark etched under his left wrist. His dead mate was a delicate topic, but not for the reason Ranulf believed. Those stormy years with Theda were painful to recall.

Truthfully, he’d not been entirely sure about her, but after a night of revelry, he’d woken with a pounding head, inflamed wrist, and a naked Theda in his arms, sporting an identical mark on her nape. To this day he remembered nothing, yet Theda had explained in great detail all the ways he’d taken her and the marks did prove they were fated mates. However, as soon as she was crowned queen, everything changed. While she adored the jewels, fine clothing, and presiding over banquets and jousts, Theda merely endured him. There had been no affection, no desperate lust. She’d kept her own rooms, rarely joined him to hunt, and claimed other duties when he met with dignitaries. On the one occasion he’d questioned their lack of bonding link, Theda had furiously told him his cold nature prevented it.

That was true. He was cold. Not overburdened by anger, joy or fear, the reason he often judged disputes or undertook difficult diplomatic missions. But still, he couldn’t discard the feeling that a fated mate should rouse something in him. Possessiveness? Need? Even love? And surely their passing would be a crushing blow, like five summers ago when his sire had risen to the stars and Alaric reluctantly inherited the Western Lands.

Theda’s unexpected death in the spring—falling down stairs after visiting her soothsayer—had not broken him. Perhaps one had to be whole to break. But knowing he would never sleep entwined with his mate, never collapse in ecstatic exhaustion at the end of her breeding heat, never stand guard while his cubs were born, watch them frolic or teach them to hunt…it just made the sky seem grayer. The wind so much icier. Life as a solitary wolf stretched bleakly ahead of him; his eventual death wouldn’t bring peace but commence a battle between his cousins to inherit.

An even bleaker thought.

“I know you meant no pain, brother,” Alaric said abruptly. “Do not dwell upon it. But we should continue to the Great Hall, lest the humans think we plot rebellion. Has Darius arrived?”

“Yes. Our brother king is inspecting Henry’s armory,” said Ranulf with a grin. “I just pray Darius conceals the fact he owns tenfold more weapons. Humans like to believe they hold the most treasure.”

Alaric nodded. Darius Hawthorn, King of the Southern Lands, was Wolfdom’s supreme warrior, only content either planning battles or fighting them. He was a fiercely loyal friend…and a brutal, merciless enemy. Darius had never forgiven himself for arriving too late to assist the de Wynters; since then he’d attacked the usurper on several occasions but succumbed to the Book of Lore’s power each time. They now knew only the true blooded heir could reclaim the Eastern Lands…but Lucan de Wynter was nowhere to be found.

“Speaking of treasure,” Alaric said, as they crossed the cobbled courtyard toward the magnificent Great Hall, “I hear the bounty on each de Wynter has increased. Ten sacks of gold.”

Ranulf’s eyes flashed. “Saville is desperate. That scum knows if the cubs survived, they would be full grown now. If the princesses find their fated mates and Prince Lucan returns…the deaths of Saville and his accomplices won’t be swift. Or merciful. The River Yare will run red.”

“The cubs survived,” said Alaric firmly. “We would sense the end of the de Wynter line. Goddess knows how, but they are alive somewhere. I just pray they find sanctuary before the mercenaries find them.”

They exchanged a grim glance. While royal wolves could only die of old age or beheading by a pure silver blade, endless suffering could be inflicted. Usually, healing came swiftly, especially in human form. But when severely weakened they remained in wolf form, the healing process became slower and slower, resulting in agony.

Alaric’s fists clenched. His sire had grieved for weeks over the murder of Hugo and Magdalena, and sent out countless search parties for the cubs. Since inheriting, Alaric had done the same. But ten full summers had passed. Hope was indeed dwindling.

“Leto keep them safe,” said Ranulf, touching his heart. “I suppose we must meet Henry now. I hear conflicting tales…some say he is amiable, others say secretive and wary. But if he is scholarly, perhaps we may have something in common…Goddess, this Great Hall is impressive. Humans can build as well as wolves, I’ll concede them that.”

They truly could. Eltham Palace’s hall was near-new, one hundred feet long and over thirty feet wide. Tall, arched windows allowed plentiful light, rich tapestries lined the walls, and the soaring oak hammerbeam roof was a marvel of construction. Few places made a wolf feel small, but this one succeeded.

As Alaric and Ranulf approached the entrance, four Yeoman of the Guard stepped forward to bar their way.

“State your business,” said one, albeit visibly gulping as he studied the size of the two guests. The guard was right to be afraid; either wolf could end his life with a single claw swipe.

Alaric bestowed his diplomatic smile. “Sir Alaric Beaumont of the Welsh Marches and Sir Ranulf Armstrong of the Scottish Marches, here by invitation. We come in peace to swear fealty to Henry VII, king by the grace of God.”

The words almost stuck in his throat, but the guards swiftly stepped aside and nodded respectfully.

“You’re expected,” said the guard. “Welcome to Tudor land.”

Alaric and Ranulf exchanged an amused glance. London belonged to Darius.

“Thank you,” said Alaric politely.

Leto help them. Two days surrounded by humans would indeed be the longest of his life.

The Welsh Marches

For the first time in her life, Princess Evaine de Wynter truly wished for death.

Presently huddled in a tiny, dark, and pungent underground fox den, she didn’t even have the strength for a mournful howl. It was far too cold for that, so cold that the tears dripping from her eyes were freezing on her matted fur. Occasionally her stomach growled, but in truth, hunger was a sharp, constant ache now. While a wolf could survive without eating for a fortnight after a large kill, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d feasted. Her stomach hurt constantly, never sated on the foraging diet of leaves and berries, small freshwater fish, and the occasional unlucky rabbit that stumbled across her path. She was too weak to hunt. Too weak to flee. Most recently she’d lost the ability to change to human form. If she left this den, the mercenaries that had nearly caught her in Bewdley would find her and drag her all the way back to the Eastern Lands to be murdered by Guy Saville, the way he’d murdered Mother and Father.

Ten years, she’d been running. Ten years of barely evading capture by changing her name and appearance and village each month, living among the humans as a filthy, poverty-stricken widow to keep herself and others safe. But she was weary to the bone. Utterly consumed by grief. And lonely.

So very, very lonely.

Of the two warriors who had spirited her away from Ashcross Castle, one had been killed by mercenaries inside a tavern where he’d gone to purchase ale. The other had eventually fled after a few sword fights, saying she wasn’t worth his life. As for the two ladies, one had unexpectedly found her fated mate during their journey, a brief ray of sunshine in the gloom, and Evaine had wistfully wished her well. The other remained at Evaine’s side for eight summers, but as an elder, her destined time came to rise to the stars. Evaine had sobbed as she bid her companion a final farewell with all the flowers she could gather. Yet from then on, she became a lone wolf.

Everything was worse when alone in unfamiliar lands. The cold. The dark. The shadows. The screams.

However, there were times she might have sworn Mother appeared in a clearing or across a stream, urging her on. Or that she felt Father’s heavy paw on her shoulder, holding her back from revealing herself to enemies. But she’d never seen or sensed the spirit presence of her sisters and brother; the sole reason she believed them to be alive. This gave her a little solace, a tiny tendril of hope that one day they might be reunited. Yet after spending every waking hour with Isabel and Cecily and Lucan as cubs, their long absence from her life was far worse than hunger pangs. The ache was an abyss in her soul.

The sudden snap of a twig outside robbed her of breath. A predator? Or merely nature succumbing to snow?

Evaine peered through the tangle of brambles that concealed the den, her heart pounding.

Goddess. It was that silver-haired female again!

Yesterday at around noon, the warmly dressed, ruddy-cheeked elder wolf had placed food on a nearby tree stump, trying to coax her out. Evaine hadn’t dared emerge, knowing full well the danger of poison and how a cunning enemy would use a seemingly sweet elder to lure her into the open. But the scent of roasted mutton and buttered carrot and turnip had been sheer torment, and today she feared the last of her resistance would crumble.

The female cleared her throat. “Good morrow,” she began, her voice low yet urgent. “My name is Blanche. I know not why you hide—or who you hide from, but I cannot let you starve or freeze. Please let me help you. It is Christmastide. If you must leave, I can bring supplies. Food. Ale. A woolen blanket or warm cloak. Tonics or poultices if you are injured. If you can stay…I beg you, accompany me to the castle. My master the king is a generous host and I swear on my mate’s life that no harm would befall you.”

The king?

More tears filled Evaine’s eyes, almost blinding her. The humans in Bewdley had warned that the frightening, haunted Blackstone Castle was less than five miles away, but with her senses impaired due to exhaustion and hunger, she’d never found the right direction. Dare she trust this stranger? For if the female spoke true and escorted her to the ruler of the Western Lands, there was no question Princess Evaine de Wynter would be granted sanctuary. The other wolf kings had regarded her sire as a brother.

“You serve King Cyrus?” Evaine croaked, her voice rusty from disuse. Fortunately, only other wolves could hear her speak in wolf form; humans merely heard grunts or growls.

The other wolf sucked in a breath. “Oh, my dear…he rose to the stars some five summers past. I serve his rightful blooded heir, King Alaric. My mate, Oliver, is his steward.”

“This is the second day you have returned. Why do you do so?”

There was a pause, then the elder chuckled. “Oliver thinks I have lost my wits, setting out with horse and cart in this weather. But I am compelled to. The order will not leave my mind, as though Leto herself issues it. You must be brought to safety.”

Evaine closed her eyes, her whole body shaking with silent sobs. Could it really be true? She would soon be warm? Clean? Fed?

Soon she would be safe ?

Swallowing hard, she cleared her throat. “Blanche…I will come. But I may need your help.”

“Of course, my dear. Gently, gently.”

Slowly, painfully, Evaine shuffled along the narrow den tunnel toward the bramble-covered entrance, trying not to retch as the putrid dirt scraped her fur, and her stiff, weak limbs protested every movement. Yet she still paused a foot from the end, her sire’s warning of caution forever in her ears. Was the elder merely pretending? Could there be an entire army of mercenaries just waiting for a foolish princess to leave the den?

A shudder rolled through her body and her belly clenched and twisted in fear. This was it. She was about to place her trust in someone for the first time in two full years.

Leto protect me .

Bracing her paws as best she could, Evaine nudged aside the brambles with her head and launched herself out of the den entrance. The harsh light was blinding, her legs too weak to hold her up, and she collapsed onto the snowy ground at the elder’s feet.

“Oh, my dear!” Blanche fussed, leaning down to curve her arms under Evaine’s belly and help her rise. “Now, are you able to walk just a few steps to my cart? Then we can…GODDESS.”

Evaine froze as she met the elder’s shocked gaze. “Is...is something amiss?”

Blanche sank to one knee and bowed her head. “Your Highness! Forgive my overfamiliar speech.”

“You know who I am?” whispered Evaine, even now, not quite daring to believe.

“It would take more than grime and frost to disguise the green eyes of a de Wynter. May I ask which daughter of King Hugo and Queen Magdalena you are?”

“Their firstborn. Evaine.”

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 Sian 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 Sian, 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?

Alaric cleared his throat, his wolf senses near-drowning in the emotions hurtling toward him like poisoned arrows. Envy from those who had fought at Bosworth Field and been granted far less. Seething fury from the Yorkists who’d watched Alaric pledge to their own side so recently and hated Henry Tudor with every fiber of their being. And contempt from the rest who believed anyone with Welsh blood sat far beneath them. “Your Grace, surely that is too great an honor.”

Henry waved a hand. “It is long overdue, Blackstone . We shall meet in the treasury on the morrow before you depart; you’ll receive all the documentation and seals for your new title. In return, I’m sure you will offer generous tribute to your king.”

And there it was, the heart of the matter. Alaric’s elevation to duke had nothing to do with his pack’s service or Welsh blood, but their goldmines. Henry needed money, and one way to gather it was conferring titles then taxing the new titleholder.

No doubt becoming a duke in the human realm was a very costly exercise.

Alaric gritted his teeth and swept a low bow. At least now he had the measure of the man; Henry was also a diplomat of sorts, hiding a cunning and avaricious soul behind a pleasant smile. Perhaps he would hold the English crown for a while. “As Your Grace wishes.”

The human king nodded then turned and whispered to Lady Margaret, “See? I knew it would work. You fret overmuch, Lady Mother. I shall not be a beggar for long.”

Such impudence! Alaric took several shallow breaths, the urge to change, bare his fangs and claws, and unleash mayhem in the hall nearly overwhelming. That was yet another human flaw: their whispers were a shout to wolf ears. It was time to leave this palace while his sanity remained intact.

Straightening his shoulders, Alaric walked backward ten steps as protocol demanded, then turned and marched to the double doors. All eyes remained upon him, so he forced himself to be cool and calm, to not hurl bodies or tables. But to add insult to injury, the guards inclined their heads and murmured “Your Grace” as he passed them.

Needing friendly faces, Alaric continued directly to the antechamber where his brother kings waited.

Darius immediately sprang to his feet. The warrior was perhaps the only wolf in England larger than Alaric, with the scarred countenance and piercing amber gaze of one who embraced war. Human clothing never sat well on Darius, always appearing on the verge of splitting, and his wild brown hair was only partially tamed by a plait secured with a leather strip. Both wolves and humans avoided Darius if possible—he truly looked like Death and Destruction coming to claim them. And he was.

“Well?” growled Darius. “What news? The human king kept you long enough.”

Alaric scowled; only in their presence would he ever allow such emotion to show. “Henry conferred a title upon me. I am now a duke.”

Ranulf burst out laughing. “Imagine if he actually did. It might start a civil war between wolf and human, just for the insult.”

“I’m not jesting,” Alaric bit out. “Duke of Blackstone.”

Both his brother kings stared at him in shock.

“Henry has a death wish,” spat Darius, his lips twisting.

“What exactly did that wretched human say?” said Ranulf, all trace of amusement gone from his too-handsome face.

“That a knighthood did not adequately honor the service of the Beaumont family. Oh yes, and in an entirely unrelated matter, he expects the first generous tribute to be deposited in the treasury tomorrow.”

Darius snorted. “So, ’tis you who’ll be funding the Tudor court. I wondered who they might rob, for the Plantagenets bled the coffers dry and Henry barely has two pennies to rub together after his campaign. The others ennobled should be damned grateful they won’t owe as much, but I wager they aren’t.”

“No,” said Alaric. “They just glared. Mother is going to be furious about this, but at least she’ll understand that I couldn’t refuse the title. Others won’t. Damn Hera-spawned Henry. I wanted to avoid trouble, now he’s gone and put a target on my back. It’s one thing for wolves and humans to both want Beaumont gold, but must I be dishonored with the rank of duke ?”

“You have my sympathy, brother,” said Ranulf, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thank Leto we were not so blessed, Darius and I would not have borne it with your calm. The only remedy is wine. Let’s drain Eltham Palace dry, then hunt all their deer. Oh, and remember it could have been worse: Imagine Guy bloody Saville standing there watching.”

Alaric sighed deeply. As Bosworth Field was within the Eastern Lands, the coward Saville had already made his pledge. He rarely set foot outside the border, usually sending mercenaries to do his evil deeds.

In any event, wine would be a good start. Being Duke of Blackstone promised nothing but strife.