Page 9 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

A gentle tapping on her shoulder startled Constance awake.

Anne, the old cook, stood over her, a candle in hand. “Time to eat, child. The evening meal will be soon served. No doubt you are hungry.”

Constance pushed herself up and rubbed her eyes.

Her journey must have exhausted her more than she had realized.

She had fallen asleep. Worse, she had neglected to place a ward around the bed.

Constance had not slept without the security of a ward since…

well, never. Anyone could have come in here and stolen…

Her heart in her throat, she hunted around for her grimoire amongst the thick covers.

Anne handed it to her. “It is here, child. No one has taken your book. No one would dare. Not with D’Artagnon on guard.”

She grasped the book tight and searched the room for the black wolf. He lay by the brazier as he had before she’d fallen asleep.

“Come, child. Let’s get you ready for supper. You could do with a bit more meat on your bones.” Across Anne’s arm was a bundle of blue cloth. She held it up. “I have brought you a dress. One of Kathryn’s. You are similar in size.”

“Oh, I have a dress. I could not accept anoth—”

“Of course you can. I will not have it gossiped about in the village that we did not take care of our guests. Come, now. I will help you into it. The color will suit you fine.”

Constance suffered the unfamiliar sensation of having someone assist her to dress, smoothing her hands over the soft wool and running her fingers over the pretty embroidery along the edges of the sleeves.

Unease settled in her stomach. They had given her several new dresses before, but this one had belonged to Dame Kathryn and was far fancier than anything she had ever worn.

With its embroidered hem and cuffs, it was more suitable for a woman of the noble class.

She did not belong in such finery. She tugged at the laces at her waist.

“Stop fussing, love. The dress looks beautiful on you. As though it were made with you in mind. Come, sit, and I will braid your hair.”

Anne grasped her arm and propelled her into the chair, giving Constance little chance to protest. The old cook combed her hair, and with deft fingers, braided it, curled the braids around Constance’s head and secured them in place.

A lump formed in her throat. The last person to help her with her hair had been her mother.

Anne fixed her head veil in place. “There. All set. D’Artagnon will escort you down to the hall, and I will join you anon.

Once I have checked on the kitchen.” Disapproval creased her forehead.

“One cannot leave those young ones there alone for but a moment before they are getting up to mischief. Lord knows what state the food would be in were I not there to keep that kitchen running smoothly. Run along now, child.”

With little choice but to do as Anne instructed, Constance scooped up her book.

This keep was full of treasures which, if sold, would keep her fed and clothed for a lifetime, but nothing was more precious than the knowledge in her grimoire.

Neither Anne nor Monsieur D’Artagnon said a word about her mistrust, and she followed the black wolf from the room.

The murmur of many voices spilled into the corridor from within the great hall—male voices, female voices and bursts of laughter.

Constance paused in the doorway. So many people.

Maids, farmers, chevaliers, all gathered at the large table.

In their midst, Seigneur Gaharet and his mate, Dame Erin.

Seigneur Ulrik, deep in conversation with a big burly man with a ruddy complexion, sat at one end of the table.

At the other end, Monsieur Aimon and Dame Kathryn laughed with Seigneur Farren.

What she would have given to be wearing her old clothes. To wrap herself in their rough familiarity. She was but an impostor in this fancy dress.

Dame Erin beckoned her over. “Come and sit down, Constance. There’s a spare seat here.”

A furry muzzle nudged at her hand. D’Artagnon inclined his head toward the table and all the unfamiliar faces. Taking a steadying breath, she crossed the floor, the press of a large, warm body against her thigh a surprising comfort.

She slid into the seat Dame Erin had suggested and placed her book on the table. “Thank you, Ma Dame.”

No one gave Monsieur D’Artagnon so much as a glance. As if having a big black wolf join them for supper was a common occurrence.

Beside her, a grizzled farmer with a wrinkled face and a scowl looked her up and down, his rheumy gaze flicking between her and her grimoire. “Interesting looking book. You a witch?”

Constance stiffened. All talk around the table ceased, and an uncomfortable silence settled over the hall. To be ousted so soon.

“Tumas.” There was a warning note in Seigneur Gaharet’s voice.

“I mean nothing by it, Mon Seigneur.” The old farmer, Tumas, rubbed the back of his neck. “I have this boil here that will not heal. Anne has tried her best, but… This young lass looks the real thing, what with those eyes and all.”

Constance stared at her hands. Oh, why was I not born with normal eyes?

“Tumas,” Seigneur Gaharet growled.

“I mean no offense, lass. But I remember a time when we had witches in the village.” He jerked his knife at Seigneur Gaharet. “Was one in yer grandfather’s time. Not easily forgotten, that one. Handed out salves or potions if she had a mind to. Had eyes just like yers.”

Constance jerked her head up.

“Had visions, too. Yer get those?”

Eyes like mine? Constance nodded, too dumbfounded to speak.

“Such a shame. Could have done a lot of good, but she chose different. I was a boy when the villagers cast ‘er out for ‘er evil ways.”

Hope died a vicious death, stomped on by the superstition of others.

What had she expected? That the d’Louncrais villagers were any different from those of Langeais?

Or any other village in the county? Of course they were not.

But she would like to know more about this woman with eyes like hers.

Could it be all who were born with the second sight were marked so?

Her mother had been less than forthcoming on the matter than Constance would have liked.

As if she, too, was unsure how to manage Constance and her affliction.

“I shall prepare a salve for you, Master Tumas, and deliver it on the morrow.” She glanced at Seigneur Gaharet. “If that is acceptable to you, Mon Seigneur?” She would like to talk to Master Tumas some more about this witch, but not here in front of all these people.

A big, black furry body pushed in between her and Tumas, forcing the farmer to shift along to make space. Monsieur D’Artagnon sat on the bench seat on his haunches, looking for all the world as though he planned to partake of the meal along with everyone else.

A hint of a smile crept across Seigneur Gaharet’s lips.

“I will have someone to escort you on the morrow, Constance. But let it be known”—he raised his voice so all at the table could hear—“Constance is here at my request. There will be no casting her out for whatever nonsensical reason. And, if you have ailments, you will consult with Anne first. Anne will decide if your complaint requires Constance’s expertise. ”

Nods and mumbled agreements rumbled around the table. With the arrival of platters piled high with food, the conversation and attention turned away, much to Constance’s relief.

Anne sat her sizable bulk on the other side of Constance, placed a bejeweled pewter goblet in front of her, and filled it with wine.

The cook handed her a knife with an elaborate carved handle. “Do not be shy, child. There is more than enough food to go around. And it all tastes wonderful, if I do say so myself.” Anne placed a plate in front of Constance and filled it with meat, bread and spoonfuls of thick stew. “Eat up now.”

Constance slid her grimoire beneath her bottom, safe from food spillage and prying eyes, and picked up the bread and dipped it into the stew.

She did not have to look to know everyone was watching her.

Maybe they were not staring outright, but from the corner of their eyes, or with furtive glances between bites of food, or over their fancy goblets.

It was not the first time she had come under such scrutiny, so she did what she always did. She ignored it.

The big black wolf next to her was harder to ignore.

His fur brushed her sleeve, and the warmth of his body seeped through to her skin.

With his perpetual snarl, he stared down all who would look her way.

If they were not already curious enough, having a scarred wolf, one of the d’Louncrais, sitting next to her and challenging everyone at the table, would assure her place in the village gossip tomorrow.

Constance shuffled the food about on her plate with the tip of her knife.

More than she ever did when she visited the village of Langeais, she was conscious of her difference.

It did not matter she was not the only peasant at the table.

That beside her sat Anne, the cook, and across from her, the maid who had curtsied to her earlier.

Half the village had to be here, comfortable in their place at Seigneur Gaharet’s table.

Eating his food. Drinking his wine. Though she was here at his request, she was more an outsider than they were.

What she would not give to be one of them. Someone who belonged.

“Tell me, child, what other herbs would you use to cure cranky old Tumas’ boils?” Anne leaned closer and gave a conspiratorial wink. “Though I have a right mind to let him suffer this one on his own.”

Constance set aside her knife, grateful for the distraction. “What herbs have you already tried?”

“Well now, I started with a warm compress, and while that helped some, it is a persistent lesion. I suspect Tumas, like most men, only adheres to my instructions when it suits him.”

On the other side of Monsieur D’Artagnon, Tumas grunted.

“Then I used chamomile flowers to soothe the redness, willow bark for the pain and honey to prevent infection.”

Constance nodded. “You have a good knowledge of herbs. I would only add scrapings from the bark of a slippery elm tree and wash it with some vinegar. Perhaps you are right, Anne. Many a patient ignores advice about their health.”

This time, both Tumas and Monsieur D’Artagnon huffed. Across the table, Seigneur Gaharet bit back a smile. Beside her, Anne beamed.

Constance picked up her knife and poked a piece of meat and chewed on it without tasting it.

No matter how congenial, how much they tried to include her, she longed for the comfortable solitude of her rickety little cottage in the forest. She glanced at the black wolf beside her.

There she would be comfortable, but she would also be alone.