The Wolf King

by Alice Borchardt

  “Everything,” the Saxon said. “Everything. I wondered why the gods put such a heavy burden on my shoulders. The loss of all I was and had. Now I know. Someone had to be there to pluck her from the snowbank. To be sure she would live. I was chosen and must never count the cost.”

  On the other side of the bearskin, Matrona frowned.

  A few days later they looked down on Geneva. The town wasn’t much, but the lake was pretty. It mirrored the mountains and the dying light. When he found Regeane and the Saxon, Maeniel had sent for his people. Some had been out on a hunt with Gordo, but they joined the rest at his summons. So he had thirty warriors in his train. Most were part of his pack. A few like Antonius and Barbara weren’t.

  Matrona rode with the Saxon. She had remained beside him over the last two days. True, he had no more pain, but the burn inflicted by the abbot was a bad one and needed watching. So did he, Matrona thought. He rode like someone in a dream, one lifted out of himself by great sorrow or joy. At first she couldn’t tell, but by the second day she was sure it was joy.

  On the first night in camp, the gray wolf and the silver had vanished into the fir trees along the trail. “She is the silver, he the gray, you the black, and the captain of the guard is red,” the Saxon said to Matrona.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded.

  “Do you know Irmunsul?”

  “A tree of note,” Matrona said.

  “The tree of life.”

  “No,” Matrona said. “You don’t believe that?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “Her father?”

  “One Wolfstan,” Matrona said.

  He asked no more questions but when she looked again, she saw tears in the Saxon’s eyes. “Very emotional, these wild men from beyond the Rhine,” she told Maeniel a few days later.

  “Her father was a Saxon,” Maeniel answered. “He was murdered by Gundabald.”

  “Her late uncle?” Matrona asked.

  “Her very, very late uncle,” Maeniel answered.

  They were alone, walking in the snow together. The rest were gathered around the fires, getting ready to bed down for the night. Regeane and Maeniel had an elaborate pavilion to themselves. Maeniel glanced toward it and saw a shape moving within. “She will be undressing,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.”

  Matrona smiled. “No, that wouldn’t do at all.”

  “What is his interest in her?”

  “What is yours?” Matrona asked.

  “Don’t play games.” The moon was full. It painted the snow with blue light; the shadows were gray shapes etched on silver. His face was flushed and his nostrils were distended like those of a stallion. “If that’s the case, encourage him to leave. He has my permission. Give him anything he asks for. Money, weapons, horses—except Audovald—otherwise, I don’t care.”

  “I don’t think that will help,” Matrona said. “Her father was sacred to his people.”

  “She is a Frank,” the gray wolf said.

  “Half Saxon by her father’s blood. I think maybe the important half.”

  “No,” Maeniel said. “I killed more than one man for her, and I’d kill a thousand rather than see her parted from me for even an hour without my consent. I waited for her for a thousand years.”

  “Don’t kill this one,” Matrona said. “She wouldn’t forgive you.”

  “No,” he said, the “no” a snarl in his throat.

  “No, I warn you.”

  “That bad?” His eyes filled with a cold, pale light and glowed like a predator’s in the dim flare of the campfires.

  Matrona laid a finger on her lips. “Not a word; she doesn’t know. Now go to bed.”

  “Yes.”

  There was no further movement in the tent. The lamp dimmed.

  When he turned back to Matrona, he saw her clothing hanging from the stub of a tree limb, but the black wolf was gone. He knew she would watch the Saxon, but then, she watched everything.

  He hurried into the tent. The lamp was out, but even through the canvas the tent was filled with a moonlit haze. She was wearing a silk nightgown, but only for a little while.

  When they looked down into Charles’s camp at Geneva, everyone turned to Antonius. As chamberlain, he alone had met the powerful Frankish king whose name was resounding now throughout Europe.

  Antonius scratched his head.

  Gavin, the red wolf captain of the guard, began to laugh. “He doesn’t know how to approach him, either.”

  “Shut up, Gavin,” Maeniel said.

  “You say that a lot when Gavin’s around,” Regeane said.

  “Yes,” Matrona interjected. “And it never does any good. He just keeps talking.”

  “Not this time,” Maeniel said firmly. His eyes were on an approaching party of armed horsemen. They were led by an older man, but the troops were young and the quality of their arms and clothing proclaimed them as the kin of some of the great families of the Frankish realm.

  “All of you except for Antonius stay here. Antonius must accompany me.” Maeniel was riding Audovald. “Go on,” he said to the horse, and Audovald did. Antonius followed.

  When they reached the horsemen, both parties drew rein.

  “The scarae,” Regeane said as they watched from above. “I’ve heard of them, the king’s personal guard.”

  They surrounded her husband and Antonius. Regeane watched anxiously. “Matrona?” she asked. “Barbara?”

  “Something wrong?” Barbara replied.

  “I can’t tell,” Gavin said. “The wind is blowing the wrong way. I can’t smell them.”

  “It’s possible he’s being treated with honor by the king,” Barbara hazarded.

  Just then Maeniel turned. He caught his wife’s eye first, then switched to Matrona. He and the rest galloped away into the encampment of the Franks.

  “Something is wrong,” Matrona stated flatly.

  “Should we flee?” Gavin asked.

  “In a way,” Regeane said. “Find a campsite and set up the tents.” She looked up. The moon was visible, an almost transparent orb against a blue sky so clear it seemed formed of fine enamel work. The last sun was blazing gold in the west, and darkness blazoned with a million stars held the east.

  “And?” Matrona asked.

  “Change,” Regeane said, but when she turned her horse she saw more members of the scarae were behind them.

  Gavin pulled on his reins and the horse half reared. He reached for his sword.

  Regeane guided her mount in front of him and rode toward the one she was sure must be the captain of the scarae, a burly man with a face that was a mass of both scars and wrinkles. She bestowed a dazzling smile on him and was gratified to see the hardened warrior turn the color of a ripe plum.

  Barbara made a small sound of approval deep in her throat.

  Matrona whispered between her teeth to Gavin, “Fool, not here. You will get us slaughtered.”

  “My lord,” Regeane said. “You startled my husband’s captain.”

  “I was sent to conduct you to a campsite,” the warrior said. His smooth, cultivated accent belied his battered looks. “I am Arnulf of the Breton Marches.”

  Regeane smiled again and offered him her hand. The old warrior bowed over it in a courtly manner. “I will try,” he said, “to take you to a place of comfort.”

  It wasn’t a place of comfort where they were lodged. He led the party to the center of the camp. On one side were the tents of the scarae nobles, but on the other, the ox-drawn wagons holding the armies’ “comfort women” and purveyors of food and drink, especially drink. Once it had probably been an open meadow shaded by scattered groves of trees near the lake’s marshy shore, but now the winter-seared grass was trampled into mud and the trees cut for firewood, and the site was unbearably noisy, stinking of a combination of odors: human waste, spoiled food, liquor, and clouds of smoke from the fires nearby.

  Maeniel’s men gathered tightly around Regeane, Matrona, and Barbara. Gor
do sneezed. Joseph, a formidable warrior who wore a heavy beard and long mustaches, looked as if he might be ready to challenge Arnulf to single combat.

  “I cannot think,” Regeane said haughtily to Arnulf, “that the Frankish king would consign a kinswoman of his to such an unpleasant spot.”

  “My lady, in the absence of your lord, I and my men will see to your safety,” Arnulf said smoothly. “And I find it difficult to believe that a man of such high position as your lord would expose his wife to the rough and tumble of an army camp, rather than leave her safely bestowed at home with her weaving women.”

  Then he directed a gaze at Regeane that made her blush and turn away. He tried the same thing with Matrona. He was used to using an insolent stare to cow women.

  She gave him a look of cold-blooded appraisal, then spoke softly and all but inaudibly to him. “I wonder which is smaller, your prick or your brain, that you would insult a kinswoman of this king? I cannot think he is so weak a man that he will suffer it tamely.”

  “She but boasts of her connection.” He also spoke softly between his teeth. “Their relationship is both distant and dishonorable.”

  “That is not for you to judge,” Matrona said. “Now go away. It is not proper for my lady to suffer the insolence of underlings.” Matrona turned her back on him and addressed Regeane and the rest.

  “We are here, my lady, and had best settle in for the night.” She pointed to a few small trees remaining at the water’s edge. “You men cut some firewood and pitch the tents. We women will need to start supper.”

  Arnulf was still sitting on his horse, staring at them.

  “Go,” Matrona said. “We neither need nor want anything further from you.” When Matrona was finished speaking, Arnulf lingered. He was ignored and finally left, shooed away by the pack members.

  The camp was set up, everyone turning to his appointed task. The Saxon found them puzzling but refreshing. No one gave orders. The occasional outsider who did so was totally ignored. Tents were pitched, fires were lit. Matrona and Gavin found fresh reeds to floor the tents and bed ground, rather the way rushes were used in more permanent dwellings.

  The horses were fed and lined up on the edges of the encampment, forming a buffer zone between them and their more unpleasant neighbors. Audovald presided over the picketing and distribution of food, an unusual but efficient arrangement, since he knew where each animal preferred to sleep, and no one was ever hobbled or tied. None ever strayed, either.

  The horses found security in being draft animals. Since those at the mountain stronghold who did not care for the work were allowed to fend for themselves, food was the wage and the horses earned it.

  In spite of Matrona’s pronouncement, no one cooked. Regeane unpacked a cold meal of fruit, sliced meat, cheese, and wine. The Saxon, Regeane, and the rest of the women shared it.

  Gavin vanished as soon as it was dark, and the rest, including the powerful Silvia, followed.

  Matrona chafed at the confinement.

  “You could go,” Regeane said.

  “No, I won’t leave you here alone.”

  “Thank you,” Barbara said.

  “Barbara, don’t take offense,” Matrona said. “Nor you—whatever your name is,” she said to the Saxon. “You know what I mean. I told him to stay clear of these royal quarrels. They are almost always motivated by greed, a greed we don’t share.”

  “He didn’t feel he could,” Regeane said. “He was afraid for the rest of you, don’t you see that?” she appealed to Matrona.

  “No,” Matrona said, looking away from the candles on the table into the night. “Many wars as I have seen—and I’ve seen a mort of them in my lifetime—except for one or two when the people involved acted clearly in self-defense, nearly every one began in folly and ended in grief for all the participants.”

  “And how many have you seen?” the Saxon asked.

  “The first was too many,” Matrona said. The candle nearest her guttered, burned blue, and the night stalker’s mirrored gaze looked back at him. “War is said to be the sport of kings, and I cannot think their appetite for it will ever abate.”

  “Get more candles and light them,” Barbara told the Saxon. “If anyone came now and saw the eyes on the two of you, we would likely all be killed.”

  There was a shout and then a scream from outside.

  The Saxon hurried to the door of the tent and pushed the flap aside. Arnulf was standing there with four of his troopers; one was writhing on the ground.

  “I’ll have compensation for this. Your horse kicked my man.”

  “Horses kick,” said Regeane. “What was he doing near the part that kicks?”

  “They are not even picketed,” Arnulf shouted. “He wasn’t near the horse. It walked over, wheeled around, and kicked him.”

  One of the mares, Matrona’s mount, was standing near the fallen man, who was still moaning and gasping. Her hooves had caught him in the abdomen. She looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  “What were you doing here where you could be kicked?” the Saxon asked.

  “We came to call on the ladies,” Arnulf said. “To assure ourselves of their safety. None of the men seemed to be about.” His eyes raked the almost empty camp.

  “They are in the tents, asleep,” the Saxon replied. “As all the just and virtuous should be at this hour.”

  “It is late and the ladies are not receiving,” Regeane said. “Now, go away. See to it,” she told the Saxon curtly, then closed the tent flap.

  The Saxon stood quietly and folded his arms.

  Arnulf tried to stare him down. It didn’t work. The Saxon was six feet, two inches tall in his socks, two hundred and thirty-five pounds stark naked, carried a long sword with a one-handed grip that most men would have had to swing two-handed, and the expression on his face suggested he was spoiling for a fight. No one wanted to challenge him. Arnulf and his companions took the wounded man and beat an ignominious retreat.

  Maeniel and Antonius were taken to a tent near the main pavilion and placed in irons. Antonius protested volubly in Latin; Frankish, the Germanic version of Latin; Gaelic, a spoken Latin similar to Italian Latin; and other less recognizable dialects. When Maeniel tried to open his mouth, Antonius cut him off.

  “Retain the demeanor of a great nobleman. I am here to complain for you. This is what chamberlains, seneschals, and the like do.”

  Maeniel shrugged. “I can get out of these any time I want,” he said.

  “I know,” Antonius replied. “But don’t, please don’t.”

  “No,” Maeniel agreed. “One thing I found out early on in my association with humanity is a maxim I keep in the forefront of my mind at all times.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing is ever as simple as it ought to be or that I anticipate it will be.”

  “I wonder what happened?” Antonius muttered to himself.

  “I cannot imagine.” Maeniel spoke in a resigned fashion.

  “My lords.” A young man entered the tent. “I am Arbeo of Sens. My apologies to you, sirs, but what I have done is at the orders of my lord, the king.” Servants entered the room with a folding camp table and a bench. “Please be seated, and I will send for bread, cheese, and wine that you may refresh yourselves.”

  “I understand,” Maeniel answered courteously.

  It took Antonius about three seconds to take the young man’s measure. He wore an undecorated cuirass of boiled leather and the sword he carried was old with a plain, wire-wrapped pommel. Poor, Antonius thought, and therefore, if courteously treated, susceptible.

  They seated themselves at the table; the young man left to procure the refreshments.

  “You may understand, but I don’t,” Antonius said. “I don’t,” he repeated. “Not nearly enough. Give me one of your rings.”

  On Antonius’s advice, they had all dressed to the teeth. Maeniel wore a ring on each finger. He unscrewed one and handed it to Antonius, a priceless creation of heavy gold set
with a beautifully carved head of one of the Roman emperors, he didn’t know which one. But the stone was a large Indian ruby.

  “My,” Antonius said. “The things you come up with. Where did you get that?”

  “I forget,” Maeniel said. He hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to tell Antonius the story.

  Arbeo returned, followed by a servant with a platter of bread, wine, and cheese. The servant placed it on the table. Then, at a signal from Arbeo, he retired. Just to be sure, Antonius checked Arbeo’s boots. Bad, very bad. They were overlarge, so worn and scuffed as to be almost shapeless. He’d wrapped his legs in linen strips to keep out the cold; they were visible through the holes in the boots.

  “Sir,” Antonius addressed Arbeo.

  Obviously surprised to be so addressed, Arbeo developed an owlish look on his face. “Yes?”

  “My lord,” Antonius said, “wishes to be sure that you suffer no deprivation because of your courtesy. He instructs me to give you this,” and he offered the ring to Arbeo.

  The youngster took it gingerly and stared at it in wonder. “This is too much.”

  Antonius opened his mouth, but Maeniel spoke. “Not if you tell us what’s going on. Why are we being treated this way?”

  Arbeo weighed the ring in his hand, then, with a look of regret, he placed it on the table. “Sir, I was specifically forbidden to discuss anything about your arrest with you.”

  Maeniel fumbled in his scrip and found some silver. “Then take this. I still don’t want you to have to pay for our supper. And take the ring, if you care to. The lady who gave it to me would have liked you.”

  Arbeo half drew his sword, unscrewed the top of the pommel, and placed the ring in the hollow.

  “Won’t it rattle?” Antonius asked.

  “Can you tell me if my wife is safe?” Maeniel asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir, I can tell you that. She is. The lady is, after all, a relative of the king.”

  “Is Count Otho here?”

  “Yes.” The boy looked mystified.

  “Good. Can you take a message to my wife?”

  “The lady Regeane? Yes, sir! I would be honored.”

  “Fine. Tell her to roust that fat—”