by Selena Kitt
Sibyl wanted Raife by her side, wanted his hand in hers. Instead he was pacing back and forth outside her door, growling at every passerby, while Sibyl labored in front of a warm fire, Beitris, the old midwife, tending her. Laina had come, in spite of her wolf form, knowing her presence alone would give Sibyl comfort, and it did.
“Do’na pay’tention t’em, lass,” Beitris soothed, putting a soft, wrinkled hand on Sibyl’s damp brow.
But how could she ignore them? She knew they were worried. They were worried that this baby would be a boy, who might threaten King Henry VII’s claim to the throne. The king’s first son, Arthur, had died of the English sweating sickness. Rumors ran rampant that King Henry had become paranoid, fearfully keeping a hold of his crown. Advisors of and protectors to the king, of which Sibyl’s uncle, Godfrey Blackthorne, was one, were telling Henry he must purge all illegitimate pretenders to the throne and raise up the only legitimate son had had left—Henry VIII—to take his place.
There was also talk of King Henry keeping his alliances with Spain by marrying off Arthur Tudor’s widow, Catherine of Aragon, to Henry VIII. The younger Henry was just a boy, though, still unable to enter a marriage contract. Sibyl had received a letter from her mother—all her correspondence went through Castle MacFalon, since they had maintained the wolf pact and their amiable ties with Donal, the new laird and warden of Middle March—stating that King Henry VII had lost not only his son, Arthur, but that Queen Elizabeth had died as well, and the old king had set his own sights on Catherine of Aragon as a way to possibly hedge his bets and secure the Tudors on the throne.
Sibyl didn’t care who the king married, as long as he didn’t remember his other, illegitimate son, Raife, and change his mind about leaving the wulvers in peace. Raife was her husband, her mate, and now, he was about to be the father of her child. His brother, Darrow, was worried, she knew—if the baby were a boy, King Henry VII might get word and feel his crown was being threatened. Of course, the rest of the pack was worried this baby would be a girl. They wanted a male, to lead the wulvers.
It didn’t seem to matter what gender child she gave birth to, Sibyl was stuck between a rock and a hard place. And at that moment, she felt as if she was pushing that rock uphill!
“King Henry’s got another son,” Beitris reminded her. “I’m sure he’ll have sons as well and the Tudors’ll reign long.”
““I don’t care if the Tudors have boys or girls or wulvers—as long as my mate and my children stay with me and don’t lay claim to any English or Scottish thrones,” Sibyl panted, trying to will the pain away.
“Women can’na lead!” Beitris laughed at the thought and Sibyl rolled her eyes. Even wulver women, who were so strong and capable, believed women couldn’t lead, whether it was a pack or a country.
“Maybe the Tudors will be ruled by a red-haired woman!” Sibyl snapped, feeling another pain coming on.
“Tis yer time,” Beitris soothed. “Do’na worry. This bairn’ll be leader’o’his pack.”
Sibyl didn’t care if this baby would lead the wulvers or follow another, she just wanted to hold it to her breast and see it open its eyes. Her first baby had been born too soon, a tiny wisp of a thing Raife could hold in one palm. She had insisted, then, he be at the birth, and he’d held her hand through the whole ordeal. But when she’d looked up at his face, when she’d seen the way his eyes clouded over at the sight of his tiny, dying son, Sibyl knew she couldn’t again put him through something so traumatic.
Men might deal every day in matters of life and death, but a woman’s heart was stronger than a man’s when it came to birth. So this time, Sibyl insisted he wait outside. Bad luck, she told him, for a man to be at the birth of his child. It was certainly true in her world, amongst humans, that men weren’t invited into the birthing chamber. This was women’s work. Her work. And she knew she had to do it alone.
“I wish Kirstin was here!” Sibyl moaned as the pain came again and she bit down hard on the leather strap Beitris gave her. Sibyl was trying to be as quiet as she could so as not to alarm her already anxious husband.
Laina licked the back of Sibyl’s hand, her tongue warm and soothing, as if to say, “I understand.”
But Kirstin was gone. Sibyl didn’t like to think about losing her friend, about the sacrifices Kirstin had made to be with the man she loved. Laina’s own sacrifice, the wolf’s sad eyes and soft whine, said enough. Too much. It broke Sibyl’s heart that she had failed them, that she’d been unable to really help the plight of the wulver women—even if she had, in the end, found a way to “cure” the curse.
“Oh no, not again,” she whispered, her fingers digging into Laina’s soft, white fur.
Sibyl thought she just might die from the pain alone. She’d thought, when she birthed Robert—named after her father—that it had been bad, but he’d been so small. This baby was full term, his head like a boulder she was trying to push uphill. She grunted and strained and tried not to cry out, but the pain was too intense. She couldn’t hold out any longer. The man she loved, the only man who had ever claimed her—mind, body and soul—was standing on the other side of that door, and she wanted him.
She needed him.
“Raife!” Sibyl screamed his name, feeling as if she was being split in two. This was pain beyond pain. She couldn’t even see straight. Her body had taken over. Everything was out of control.
“Sibyl!” The door burst open and Raife barged in. He was at her side in an instant, holding her in his big arms, the circle of his embrace safer than any she’d ever known in her life. “Are ye hurt?”
She couldn’t help her short, strangled laugh. She wasn’t hurt, no, but she was hurting. Beyond hurting. But with him there, it was instantly better. He made everything better.
“Tis almos’time,” Beitris told him calmly, pressing a warm cloth between Sibyl’s open legs. “Yer son’ll be’ere soon.”
“It could be a daughter!” Sibyl panted, clinging to her mate, cheek pressed against the broad expanse of his chest.
“Aye.” Raife chuckled, kissing the top of her head. “A bonnie red-haired lass like ‘er mother.”
“Tis ginger, that’s fer sure,” Beitris gave a nod between Sibyl’s thighs.
Sibyl blinked in surprise as Raife bent his dark head to look but then another pain hit and she was sinking. There was nothing but a red, thrashing haze of pain and an overwhelming urge to bear down.
“Noooo! Please! Raife!” Sibyl screamed, abandoning the leather strap and giving into the agony. She turned her face against his upper arm—the marked one. She carried a matching mark, intricate Celtic swirls, down her hip and thigh. Her marking had been painful, she remembered, but it had been nothing like this.
“Yer safe, lass,” he whispered, stroking her damp hair, her shaking body, as she strained and thrashed in his arms. “I’ve got ye. Let’im come. He’s strong. He wants t’meet ye.”
“Tis time!” Beitris was doing something between Sibyl’s legs but she didn’t know what. She had her eyes closed, face buried against Raife. “One more good push!”
Sibyl screamed, digging her nails into Raife, doing as the old midwife asked. The world was on fire. Everything burned.
“Balach!” Beitris announced proudly, as if she had been the one who had done all the work.
“A boy,” Sibyl whispered, opening her eyes to see the little red-haired, wailing child between her legs. “Raife, it’s a son!”
“Aye.” Raife’s voice caught in his throat as she lifted the child, still attached to his mother by the pulsing cord, and brought him to his wife’s breast.
“He’s perfect,” Sibyl whispered, glancing up to see Darrow standing in the doorway, watching. How long had he been there? She wondered.
Her usual modest nature had abandoned her. Now she just wanted everyone to see her child. Sibyl motioned for Darrow as Laina licked the baby with her pink, wulver tongue, making him startle. Robert, her little black-haired bairn, had been less than half this
boy’s size. No wonder she had felt as if she’d been pushing a rock!
“Balach,” Darrow murmured, taking a step into the room, and sinking to his knee before his brother’s new son. “What’ll ye call’im?
“Griffith.” Raife traced a cross over the newborn’s forehead with his index finger.
“Griff.” Sibyl pressed her lips to the baby’s forehead. The Gaelic name meant red-haired and was more than fitting. “Will he be a red wolf?”
“Aye.” Raife smiled fondly at her, running a hand through her red tresses as Beitris covered up mother and child with a sheet, tucking them in for warmth now that the hard work was done. “He’ll fulfill the prophecy a’last.”
“What prophecy?” Sibyl frowned at her mate, looking at Darrow and Laina as they both admired the little red-faced, red-haired child in her arms.
“The red wulver.” Beitrus, the old midwife, crossed herself, her wide, rheumy blue eyes meeting those of her pack leader’s. Raife gave a slow nod and met his brother’s eyes. Darrow looked like he couldn’t quite believe his own.
Laina threw back her shaggy, white head and howled. The sound never failed to send a shiver down Sibyl’s spine and this time was no exception. But Laina wasn’t alone. Out in the den, where the rest of the pack had been waiting to hear word of their pack leader’s new bairn, the call was returned. Answering howls echoed through the tunnel’s deep walls. Sibyl heard the word banrighinn being repeated in Gaelic out in the tunnel. Banrighinn meant queen. They were speaking of her, of the birth of their new leader.
“I told ye, lass.” Raife’s arm tightened around her. “I knew ye were meant to be me mate the moment I laid eyes on ye.”
Sibyl smiled at his words. She couldn’t imagine belonging to anyone else—man, wolf, or wulver. But what was this talk of some wulver prophecy? She had poured over the wulver text—what amounted to the wulver’s “bible”—and had never read anything about a “red wulver.”
“What is this prophecy?” Sibyl demanded as the baby in her arms squirmed. Laina whimpered, nuzzling her husband’s hand, and she knew if the woman had been in human form, she would have been forthcoming. “Beitris?”
Clearly the men didn’t want to tell her.
“The red devil’s savior.” Beitris whispered the words, crossing herself again.
“He’s jus’a bairn.” Raife scoffed, leaning over to look at his son. Sibyl noted he had Raife’s strong jaw and dimpled chin. But he definitely had her thick, red hair. “No need puttin’ too much on’him t’start.”
“His eyes.” Darrow’s voice broke as he looked down at the child in Sibyl’s arms. “He is the red wulver.”
Sibyl saw Raife’s expression change. She saw the face of a new father change from pride and wonder to something akin to awe and maybe even a little fear. She’d never seen her mate afraid of anything in her life and seeing that expression, even fleetingly, on Raife’s face, gave her pause.
Then Sibyl looked down at her newborn son.
He had opened his eyes, but instead of the deep, wulver blue she expected, they were red.
Redder than his hair.
As red as blood.
“Raife?” She turned her own, frightened face up to her husband’s. She was so surprised by her son’s features, she might have actually dropped the baby in her arms if he hadn’t turned his head and latched onto her breast, suckling deeply.
“Tis a’right, lass,” Raife soothed, smiling down at the bairn. He didn’t look frightened anymore. Now he looked resigned. “He’s perfect, jus’like ye.”
Sibyl glanced down again at the baby, whose eyes were still open, staring up his parents in his own kind of wonder. The red she’d seen in his eyes was gone. They weren’t wulver-blue, but instead green, like her own.
Had she seen it at all? Had it been a trick of the light?
Then the baby gave his mother a milky smile, as if he knew just what she was thinking.
Sibyl saw another, brief flash of red in her son’s eyes before he closed them and knew it had been no trick of the light. She wasn’t dreaming.
She’d given birth to the red wulver who would fulfill some sort of prophecy. The howls and wails that echoed off the walls of the wulvers’ den told her that every single member of the pack knew and understood what that meant.
Everyone except her.
Once again, she was an outsider, a human in a wolf’s den. She might have been their queen, mated to their king, but she had no idea what she was in for. As usual. She knew Raife would explain, as would Laina, and even Darrow. Whatever this prophecy was, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like it.
For the moment, she decided, she was going to pretend it didn’t exist. Mayhaps there was a God who pulled the strings and provided them with books like road maps, full of things like curses and prophecies and commandments.
Mayhaps the future was the future, and she couldn’t change it. Or mayhaps she could, and her son would lead the way toward a different one for all of them.
And mayhaps the Queen of England would someday be a red-haired woman, she thought, smiling to herself at that ludicrous idea.
All Sibyl knew was that this red-haired, red-eyed baby was her son, and she was going to hold onto him and keep him close as long as she could manage.
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Scotland
Middle March – Castle MacFalon
Year of our Lord 1502
“She’s goin’t’need a shave!” Giggles ensued, the high-pitched sort of laughter shared by women whose intentions were both wicked and cruel. “Wanna bring ‘er a blade?”
“Hush!” Moira waved the young maidservants out of the room, closing the door behind them after ushering them through.
Kirstin didn’t move from her place by the fire, still rolled in her plaid, staring into the flames. The room was warm, but she shivered, as if from fever. She knew the signs. Her moon time was coming, and soon. She would change then. She had no choice. The giggling maidservants who had laughed and poked fun weren’t wrong, after all. She was abhorrent, a monster, something sick and twisted and wrong.
She couldn’t blame the girls for being disgusted by her.
She wouldn’t blame Donal for not wanting her.
What man would?
“Pay’em n’mind, lass.” Moira picked up a poker to stoke the fire. “D’ye need anythin’?”
“Nuh.” Kirstin sat, pulling the ends of her plaid up around her shoulders and glancing out the window at the setting sun. The moon would rise soon, and she would be trapped. Trapped by her body, by her own nature. Trapped into her life as a wulver woman. She should just return home, as Sibyl had begged her to, and find a wulver warrior to settle with, to love and raise pups with.
But there was no wulver warrior who made her feel the way Donal did. She didn’t understand it, nor did she question it. Her nature might have been at odds with her heart’s desire, but she trusted her instincts, and every fiber of her being told her that Donal was the man she was meant to be with. It was the only reason she had stayed here in this castle with the MacFalons.
“Tis almos’time.” Moira said, sounding reluctant to mention it, and Kirstin knew she was. This wasn’t the first time they’d had an unpredictable wulver woman in their midst.
“Aye.” Kirstin sighed and stood, tucking her plaid into her belt as a knock came on the door.
“I’m’ere fer t’she-wolf.” Gregor stood in the doorway, sneering at Kirstin as she straightened her shoulders and tried to put on a brave, public face, prepared to face this horrible humiliation. He took a leery step back as Kirstin approached and she almost laughed. It was true, she could have torn the man’s throat out in an instant, the moment she turned. And part of her wanted to.
The man had been nothing but trouble since she arrived. He was still loyal to Alistair, although Donal had taken his brother’s place as laird of clan MacFalon.
“Nuh, I’ll take’er down.” Moira insisted, linking her arm with Kirstin’s and leading her out of the room. “T’isn’t fer t’likes’o’ye.”
“Lock’er up good!” Gregor called after the women as they made their way down the hallway. “We a’ready lost one laird—nuh gonna lose another!”
As if Kirstin ever would have hurt Donal, in any form, human or wolf. But she didn’t say anything as she and Moira made their way down the stairs. She expected to be led to the dungeon—where else would she be locked up? But Moira turned and led her down the hall, stopping outside the door of Donal’s chancery.
“He wanted t’see ye… before t’change…” Moira knocked softly on the door and Kirstin’s heart broke when Donal opened it.