The Wolves of Solomon (Wolves of Solomon Book One)

by R. L. Blackhurst

  ****

  Four days later Catherine sat on the edge of the bed, her feet planted firmly on the floor. Despite Galeren’s attempts to dissuade her from getting up she had been adamant that she had had enough rest and was ready for the next step, which at the moment consisted of getting dressed. She looked at the gown of blue wool that lay across the end of the bed which Parsifal had been sent to find only a few days before. It had a simple cut but was full in the skirt and had gold embroidery around the hem and neckline which was considerably faded, a sign that it was past its glory days.

  Provided with it was a girdle of woven gold and blue thread for around her waist and a cream silk wimple and veil which came with a fillet of blue braid. Catherine stood up and gathered the gown up, holding it against her. Though old, it still was a fine garment and she was impressed with Parsifal’s judgment and the fact that it looked like it would be a good fit.

  Galeren had not passed comment on the gown and had been morbid and reserved since their conversation of last, a few days before. She had been foolish to ask him such a question, how did she think he would respond? She liked to believe that perhaps he felt more for her than responsibility. She was sure she felt something between them but her heart was fragile and she would do better to accept that his kindness and care were just that. Yet her dreams were becoming more vivid and more real and he was always in them. She could never see him, only feel him . . . next to her at every step, within her, his heart beating in time with hers. She had always been a foolish romantic but she was aware of that and promised herself that she would not fall foul of any whimsical ideas that she may have.

  She dressed herself and secured the wimple and veil with the blue braid and now felt, more than ever, the loss of her lustrous black tresses that would have hung in a long braid down her back. Still, the gown was glorious compared to the dour white habit she had worn since entering the convent some fourteen months previous and she turned in a circle to see the skirt swirl out in its fullness and giggled with delight as it did. She stopped short when she heard movement in the doorway and quickly straightened her skirt. She looked up, with slight embarrassment, to find Galeren stood watching her. He must have only just arrived but he had a half smile on his face that rapidly diminished when he realised he had been caught watching.

  “Parsifal did well.” He said staidly, “It fits you?” It was a pointless question, the answer was so obvious.

  “It does, Parsifal has a good eye.”

  “Hmm,” Galeren said curiously. Parsifal had performed the errand he’d been sent on very well indeed. The gown had seemed tired and dull when Galeren had first clapped eyes on it but Catherine glowed in it; her beauty made it look fit for royalty. Galeren looked down to conceal his thoughts but wondered how long he could remain in close proximity to her and resist the bond.

  “You need not wear your wimple in our company. It is not our thinking that women should keep their heads covered, but of course do if we are to go to a public place.” Galeren said looking back at her, his composure restored.

  “Well, I am dressed appropriately then as I would like to go out.” She said confidently.

  “Really, you feel strong enough?”

  “Yes. I cannot bear to be cooped up a moment longer. I want to walk and savour my freedom.”

  Galeren smiled wryly, “I am afraid you are not free of me. I must accompany you in case . . .”

  “Oh, I know.” She smiled back, “I meant…” she trailed off. He nodded that he understood and then gestured towards the stairs, “Shall we?”

  “Yes,” she said taking a step towards him. He offered her his arm and she took it and together they left the cottage.

  “Tell me about the man who attacked me.” Catherine asked after they had walked for a time. The silence between them had been a comfortable one and she had been otherwise occupied with the new sensations that her body and mind were experiencing. The day couldn’t have been more glorious, the sun shone, the sky was cloudless and there was a cool breeze, a relief from the mugginess of the late summer they had experienced for the last week or so.

  Catherine felt born anew, for everything that she had previously known in the world now seemed more vibrant and alive. Colours dazzled and the forest was alive with smells that she had never before sensed. She tried to guess the identity of each of the new aromas; the drop of dew on grass, the pollen on a bee’s legs, the ooze of sap from a tree. She could hear the forest chattering around her, the flight of birds, the humming of wasps from afar and the shuffle of creatures in the undergrowth. The clarity of her new world thrilled her and all that had been before seemed dull in comparison. Galeren had been right; she did embrace her new existence and it embraced her. All the while Galeren’s arm had been there for support, and though she was strong enough to not need it she kept grip of it.

  Galeren winced at the question; he found it hard to stomach mention, or even thought, of Esquin de Floyran. However, he could have expected such a question and knew that Catherine would not allow him to be as reticent as he was wont to be with Parsifal. She was not his subordinate and she had nothing to lose by pressing him, but still he would do all to avoid having to think or talk about the man. He took a deep breath.

  “His name is Esquin de Floyran. I knew him in Acre and ’twas the last place I saw him alive and dead.” He shrugged.

  “Go on.” Catherine prompted.

  “There is nothing to say, ’cept he is cruel.” Galeren said brusquely.

  “I want to know about him.”

  “He’s not very nice Catherine, the less you know about him the better.”

  “Don’t patronise me, I am far from the fragile creature you think me.” She said crossly.

  Galeren stopped and looked at her earnestly. “I don’t see you as a fragile creature, just the opposite in fact, and if I had then I would have broken your neck as I ought and saved you the misery.” He sighed when he saw her frown. “As it is I find it hard to talk about him, even the mention of his name and –”

  “He is in my dreams,” Catherine interrupted, “every one.” She looked up at him, her eyes showed a little distress. Galeren cringed, even though he knew it.

  “He calls my name,” Catherine continued, her voice full of emotion, “and sometimes I feel his grip crushing my heart, it’s inescapable. I dread sleep, ’tis why I came to find you that night. He shows me things Galeren, dreadful things. How can I stop it?”

  “It’s alright,” Galeren said turning to face her, “those who are marked are linked to their initiator through their mind. He can communicate with you and you with him.”

  “I don’t want to communicate with him!” Catherine said aghast, stepping back from him.

  “You don’t have to,” he said reassuringly and took hold of her by her shoulders.

  “Can I stop him?” she asked.

  “I will, when I kill him,” Galeren said assuredly releasing her and pacing away to his left, he turned to look back at her. “But for now you can distance yourself from him. If he enters your dream then walk away from him in the dream. You can use your dreams against him. Turn your back, don’t respond, even to fear, he feeds on it. If you let him he will torment you. He is looking for you and if you react to him the link between you will strengthen.”

  Catherine nodded her understanding and then said, “There is another who enters my dreams and his presence is getting stronger.”

  “Oh?” Galeren said casually and looked away briefly. His eyes darted back to her and though they were cool she saw hidden depths. “We should be getting back.”

  “’Tis you Galeren, I know it.” Her soft grey eyes searched his face daring him to deny it but he did not and slowly he nodded acquiescence.

  “I sought to protect you. If you focus on me it will weaken the link.”

  “But don’t we want him to find me?”

  “No, I’ll find him when the time is right. I don’t want him in your head, I don’t want him anywhere near you, do you
understand?” he said ardently.

  “I do,” she nodded quickly, then added, “how is it you can enter my dreams?”

  “All werewolves can communicate with their minds when in wolf form and in close proximity. ’Tis how we speak to each other, one to one or in groups. You will see when you make the change, it comes naturally.”

  “And in human form?” Catherine asked the question Galeren hoped she would not.

  “We communicate as humans do, usually. But there is communication that can travel distance. It is unique between marked and initiator and . . .” Galeren paused, not willing to give her the answer she pressed him for.

  “And?” she put her hands on her hips. He smiled at her and wondered whether if he told her the truth he would be able to kiss her, as he wanted to. She pursed her lips and then raised her eyebrows expectantly. He was not ready and drew a deep breath.

  “’Tis late, we should go back.”

  Catherine frowned, “’Tis not. Finish what you started, how is it you can enter my dreams?”

  “Another time.” He said refusing to be drawn further on it. He would only end up saying something he’d regret.

  “Damn you Galeren, tell me!”

  He raised his eyebrows, surprised at her language and could see that she would not be easy to mollify. But he had had many years practice avoiding difficult subjects or those that he wished to keep buried. Difficult it may be but he would not be broken by her.

  “This is for another time Catherine,” he said, “and I will not be drawn on it further, not today.” He turned swiftly from her and began to make tracks back the way they’d come.

  He heard her follow after a bit and felt shamed by his behaviour. He wanted to tell her and he was also afraid to. The mark of Esquin de Floyran was upon her and it could never be removed and yet he felt just as powerful a connection to her as if he had bitten her himself. But he had not, and he needed to reconcile himself with that fact and decide whether he could survive the torture of it, if she was to be his.

  Chapter Nine