Ravening Heart of the Wolf

By Erin Eldridge

A brutal medieval warlord believes his lost true love has returned to him from the grave. A young girl is uprooted from the sheltered life that is all she has known and must learn to survive in a violent and pitiless world where man is wolf to man. A valiant young warrior loses his heart to her, but the unforeseen tears them apart. Fate conspires to throw all three into each others path with shattering results. A colourful cast of minor characters helps to create a stunning, stained-glass-montage of an adventure that will enthral readers young, old, and in-between.

By the author of Immortal Longings and The Ivan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Mar 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503504301

Erin Eldridge

I live in Christchurch, New Zealand, along with most of my family. I teach deaf students and love my job. I have been an English teacher for a number of years and have worked all over New Zealand as well as in Africa and Brunei and I have travelled extensively to many parts of the world. Besides my family, my interests include animals, reading, writing and having adventures.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Erin Eldridge.

ISBN:      Softcover       978-1-5035-0429-5

                eBook            978-1-5035-0430-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/25/2015

Xlibris

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Contents

Somewhere in Europe, 13th century AD

Prologue

Verouge

Epilogue

Somewhere in Europe, 13th century AD

Prologue

The young warrior dragged himself towards the sanctuary promised by the spreading skirts of the giant fir, grunting with pain and leaving a bloody trail on the snow behind him. Once he was reclining, breathing in ragged gasps, against the broad trunk of the tree, he forced himself to look down at his right leg, saw the white gleam of jagged bone protruding from his torn breeches and knew that the injury was a bad one. Fighting down nausea, he called to his horse, but it did not come to him. Terrified by the violence of their fall, it must have fled blindly homewards, but he did not feel abandoned. Rather, the thought gave him comfort. Once his riderless mount reached the settlement, they would begin to search, yet there was little time left before darkness fell. The lightly falling snow would also cover his tracks. Just the same, the dogs might find him. He knew in his heart that this was mere febrile delusion: they would not come till morning. He had to try and survive this night on his own.

Now he was shivering violently, with shock as well as cold, and he drew his sheepskin jacket more tightly about him, pulling the hood up over his thick, flaxen hair. The wintry woodland scene stretching in front of him swam dangerously as his vision blurred and he gritted his teeth, trying desperately not to pass out.

Darkness came swiftly, like ink swirling through clear water, without any preliminary twilight, and he knew they would pick up his scent soon, especially with the blood trail pointing like a treacherous finger to his vulnerable refuge. He’d seen what they’d done to the carcass of the stray horse and knew full well that this fate could be his too. Shaman had predicted a harsh winter, and the wolves were already starving. He tensed when he heard the first ghostly howl drift through the woods and struggled to draw his sword from its scabbard, laying it beside him. Then he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he saw a pair of slanting green eyes watching him from where darkness pooled under another large fir directly opposite his shelter. Clutching the sword, he worked himself harder up against the tree with his good leg, bracing for the attack.

The wolf moved with sinuous grace, drawing closer, and the man caught his breath as he was able to see it more clearly. It was huge, the largest wolf he’d ever seen, an enormous grey beast, the tips of its hackles gleaming silver in the light from the rising moon. He knew he had no chance against an alpha wolf this size, especially fighting from a sedentary position. It would not be such a bad death, he consoled himself. At least his spirit would be freed by an animal he loved and respected, an animal that held deep personal significance for him.

As he watched, heart pounding, it dropped on to its belly and began to crawl towards him, making a soft whining sound, dipping and weaving its great jaws rhythmically as it moved. The man watched mesmerised. He knew wolf behaviour and this was the lupine language of submission. Eventually, following its servile approach, the wolf was so close to him that he felt its warm, panting breath on the exposed flesh of his wounded leg. Its glowing green eyes were fixed on the instrument of death he held in his hand and he slowly lowered it, completely without fear, opening his fingers to let the sword drop noiselessly on to the detritus of the forest floor. He gasped as the wolf now moved swiftly to him, turned around twice and settled down beside him, pressing its great bulk into his, its warmth almost immediately flowing into his chilled body. The man lifted a hand tentatively, paused, and then lowered it on to the animal’s back. At his touch, the wolf gave a low growl and shifted its weight to press in even closer. Already feverish, thirst burned him and the great beast made no protest as he gleaned snow crystals from its back and daubed them on to his tongue.

The man leaned back against the tree, eyes closed. It was best not to question this kind of magic; just accept it for the miracle it was. He had his protector for the night. Despite the pain that had now bedded in, throbbing relentlessly, he dozed. His fingers entwined in the great beast’s fur, drawing comfort from feeling its body rise and fall with its steady breathing, its powerful animal musk filling his nostrils.

During the hours of darkness, the wolves came. Snapping awake, he could see their green eyes dancing like fireflies in the blackness as they stood off in a semi circle watching the man and his fearsome guardian beneath the tree. His wolf rose on its haunches and growled, softly at first, then building to a crescendo that climaxed in a snarl so ferocious he felt his brave young heart falter with terror. The cluster of green eyes opposite them disappeared and when his companion signalled that all was well by dropping its head back on to its trencher-sized paws, the man relaxed again. He touched the amulet that hung around his neck. ‘You’re my wolf, aren’t you?’ he asked hoarsely as his head sank exhaustedly on to its shaggy shoulder. The wolf made a soft thrumming sound in its throat and wormed itself closer.

When dawn broke, he was wakened by familiar voices calling his name amidst the baying of hounds and shouted joyfully back. The wolf was gone. Had he dreamed it? He reached out and plucked a tuft of silvery grey fur from the forest floor.

Ø

Verouge

‘Gran’mama!’ Manon reeled backwards, clasping a trembling hand to her stinging cheek, eyes brimming with tears as she stared in shock and disbelief at her grandmother, who had just delivered a very hard slap to her grandchild’s face. Never having received so much as a cross word from the gentle old lady in her entire life, Manon was rooted to the spot by this unprecedented volte-face.

Aveline’s lips twitched and her hands clasped and unclasped as she faced down the distraught young woman. ‘I told you never to go to the plaza when they are around! You disobeyed me!’ Seeing her granddaughter’s distress tore at her heart, but did nothing to assuage her fear. ‘I’ve warned you so many times what will happen if he finds you! One glimpse of your face and he’ll –’ She fell abruptly quiet, unwilling to express her most haunting nightmare yet again, for fear of tempting fate.

‘I couldn’t bear seeing you struggling with the pails of water! I’m young and strong! It makes sense for me to do it, at least until the rains come and the well fills again. I was going to tell you, but you were asleep and I didn’t want to disturb you!’ Manon rubbed her cheek, lips quivering as a large tear trickled down her face.

Aveline moved quickly towards her, gathering the girl into her arms, clasping her tightly and stroking her hair as she murmured soothing words. She brushed the tears from Manon’s cheek, which now bore the reddened imprint of her palm, stoking her self-reproach. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry. Forgive me. I was so afraid for you, that’s all.’ She stepped back, searching the girl’s face as she gripped her hard. ‘Did anyone see you? Tell me the truth now. It’s important.’

‘Nobody saw me. I filled the pails and came straight home.’

Manon felt a dark rush of guilt as she lied to her grandmother, another first for that day. She could hardly tell her about the young soldier who’d engaged her in conversation while she’d been talking and giggling with the other village girls. He’d offered to help carry her pails home, but she’d graciously declined and hastened away, blushing prettily and glancing back to see the young man looking after her longingly.

She’d no sooner reached the fountain in the plaza than a group of three warriors had arrived, eager to water their horses in the midday heat of what had been an unbelievably hot summer. Manon and the other girls had quickly withdrawn to a discreet distance, whispering and casting flirtatious glances in the young men’s direction.

There were no eligible boys their age in the village now, all of them having fled or been conscripted into Cordeleon’s army, lured away by pledges of rich plunder. It was a village of women, small children, and old men, where the elders vigilantly tried to protect their remaining female offspring from the rapine and bloodshed that flourished during that time of conflicting warlords, quick to exploit the power vacuum created by the lack of any strong central government. Since Cordeleon and his army had established their iron-fisted supremacy over the province, the villagers had enjoyed a degree of tranquillity, peace, and protection, in return for which they were quick to offer their allegiance — and their tithes. Manon understood only too well why her grandmother did not share the other inhabitants’ capitulation, and why she was so deeply concerned for her granddaughter’s welfare, but she was also young and tired of being locked away like a precious porcelain doll. She yearned for some excitement, wanting to be with her peers, while they too daydreamed about things common to all nubile young women. She was seventeen years old, a dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty and afraid of being left to wither away when she was ripe and ready to fall in love with life and all it had to offer.

Aveline released Manon, brushing a strand of hair away from the girl’s face in a gesture of appeasement, and a tenuous calm was restored. Manon emptied the two pails into the large stoneware water urn in the kitchen with shaking hands, and Aveline twisted its spigot to pour some into the teakettle. She carried it outside to settle it over the hearth in the summer kitchen before returning to the cottage’s cool interior, wiping her hands on her apron as she forced a smile for her grandchild, who watched her apprehensively. Aveline stood, hands resting on hips, in front of the shelf that held her array of dried herbs, frowning thoughtfully before she selected a jar.

‘I’ll make us some soothing linden tea and butter some bread. You can put a little raspberry conserve on it.’ She smiled serenely, belying the anxiety that gnawed at her.

Still shaken by their violent altercation, Manon smiled hesitantly at her in return. ‘That would be lovely. Why don’t you rest in the bower, in the shade, Gran’mama, and I’ll bring it to you.’

Aveline nodded happily. She crossed the room to stand close to Manon. ‘I love you so much,’ she said softly, stroking the girl’s still-reddened cheek tenderly as she looked into her eyes. ‘You’re all I’ve got left, remember?’

‘I’m so sorry I upset you, Gran’mama. I’ll never disobey you again.’

Manon set cups out on a wooden tray, along with a small jug of milk.

Aveline smiled. ‘We’ll have a talk about things over our tea. I do understand, you know, what it’s like to be young, rebellious, and full of optimism about life.’ She laughed. ‘I can just about remember!’ As Manon laughed with her, Aveline’s face became serious again as she reached over to squeeze the girl’s hand. ‘We’ll think of some ways to make your life a little – more pleasant. I promise.’

Ø

As the sun set in a blood-red fireball over the lowering stone fortress that dominated the countryside for many leagues around, Cordeleon, hated, feared and all-powerful warlord, sat slumped in his ornate, high-backed chair before the cavernous fireplace, scowling gloomily into its cheerless depths. One hand clutched a pewter goblet filled with wine, while the other stroked his beard in a gracefully repetitive motion. The deep-set eyes gazing unblinkingly into the fire-blackened hearth were as dead and remote as those of an ancient tortoise. On his knees rested a small oval portrait in a gilded frame: a portrait of a beautiful young woman with sloe eyes and a mass of wavy, midnight hair. He sighed deeply as he raised the goblet to his lips to take another draught. These days he craved oblivion, whatever the cost to his wellbeing.

From his origins as a humble farm boy, Jehan Barabel Cordeleon had risen to dazzling heights as one of the most feared and respected warlords in the Western Europe of his day. Cordeleon was not his real name, but a bastardisation of Coeur de Lion, or Lion Heart, King Richard’s sobriquet, and a nom de guerre that had always resonated deeply with the romantic side of his nature, prompting his adoption of the title. He was no longer young and vigorous, but he had accumulated enviable wealth, power, indisputable sovereignty over vast swathes of land, and had a fine son to succeed him. Yet, he was not a happy man, for he had been thwarted in love, and some of those closest to him claimed this heartbreak had deranged his mind, making him borderline insane. He could be shrewd, controlled, dignified, a brilliant tactician, but he could also fall victim to impulsive and unpredictable rages, characterised by a deep melancholy he seemed unable to rid himself of and which welled up from a source of sorrow buried deep within him, breaching its confines from time to time. While in the grip of these torturous passions, he found it impossible to sleep, being wont to roam the battlements of his castle in the witching hours of darkness, his cape swirling about him as he strode restlessly along the parapets, further inflaming his ill humour with his self-imposed exhaustion. When he was in one of these desolate moods, as at the moment, his minions tended to give him a wide berth. Among the oppressed villagers, rumours abounded that he had sold his soul to the Devil, and on nights when the moon was full he could be seen on the battlements, standing on the north tower, howling his rage at the lustrous orb like a rabid wolf, the whites of his eyes as black as pitch. Indeed, the wolf was his chosen heraldic crest, the head and shaggy mane of the beast surrounded by a corona of blood-red and golden light, the dripping fangs exposed in an ugly snarl, the glowing green eyes fiercely pitiless. It was claimed that veteran warriors quailed when confronted by this terrifying image. But Cordeleon no longer derived any joy from his conquests. What was the point of power and wealth if he did not have the only woman he’d ever loved to share it with? Now, exhausted by his current phase of nocturnal perambulations, he was in the grip of a merciless accidie, as deep as it was relentless. His life, he felt, had no purpose. Only tender thoughts of his son sustained him and dictated that he continue to draw breath.

His loyal lieutenant, Cassian Anglade, forewarned about his commander’s current malaise, would have loved to follow suit in avoiding his presence, but he had been ordered to report to his lord and master as soon as he returned from his most recent round of pacification. Now he stood outside the door to the potentate’s chambers, inhaling a deep breath to bolster his courage as he prepared to announce himself.

‘Enter!’ growled Cordeleon in response to Anglade’s jaunty rap on his door, while his bored bodyguard-come-servant sprang to open it, grateful for some distraction. Young Anglade swept in, smiling in what he hoped was a confident manner, bowed, dropped to one knee, and kissed the enormous ruby ring adorning the warlord’s finger as he extended a flaccid hand.

‘My Lord, I bear happy tidings.’ He rose to his feet, exuding youth and confidence. Cordeleon regarded him indifferently from deep-set, tormented eyes that glowered in a face once considered handsome, but was now thick-pored, fleshy and coarse, mirroring his inner depravity.

‘Did you quell the discontent then?’ he growled, cutting to the chase.

‘Most successfully, Sire. We executed the leaders of the rebellion and other malcontents, along with their kindred. The lesson was bloody but effective, and Sagria is firmly back in our hands! Your presence there in the near future would, however, have the desirable effect of sealing their humiliation.’ He knew this transparent flattery would nevertheless cheer his master who derived considerable gratification from his ability to instil terror.

Cordeleon nodded, but without a flicker of emotion lightening his lugubrious features. He was, nonetheless, pleased, more so because he harboured a genuine affection for his young lieutenant who had proved himself a capable and reliable warrior. The paranoid warlord trusted no one, but he came close to the sentiment with Anglade. He turned towards his attendant. ‘Bring us a ewer of wine.’

Anglade sighed with inward relief. Wine always soothed the great man satisfactorily.

As Cordeleon swung around in his chair to address his servant, the little portrait resting on his thigh slid to the floor with a sharp clatter. Anglade sprang forward obligingly to retrieve it.

As he picked it up, he paused, gazing in surprise at the image of the beautiful young woman pictured there, momentarily forgetting himself as he stood staring at the portrait instead of promptly returning it to its owner.

Cordeleon watched him carefully. ‘What is it, Anglade? You look at her as if you know her.’

‘I, I think I do, Sire.’ The young man’s gaze lingered over the striking image before he hastily returned the portrait to Cordeleon’s impatiently beckoning hand. ‘My apologies, Sire, but I was taken by surprise, since I saw this woman not two days hence.’

Cordeleon sat stiffly upright, clutching the portrait to his breast, a flicker of life returning to his dead eyes. ‘What did you say? You saw her? Where? For god’s sake man, speak!’

‘It was in the hamlet of Verouge. We paused there to refresh the horses on our return. Some village girls were drawing water in the plaza, from the fountain. This girl was among them. I engaged her in brief conversation.’

‘Verouge? You’re sure?’ The warlord gripped the arms of his chair, leaning forward.

Anglade nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, Sire, I’m certain. It was she. I have absolutely no doubt.’

Cordeleon rose to his feet slowly, ignoring his approaching servant bearing a tray with the requested wine and a second goblet. He crossed to the window and stood before it, adjusting his heavy cloak.

‘Verouge is one place I have overlooked, because of its loyalty,’ he muttered. He swung resolutely towards Anglade. ‘Have my horse made ready and bring a strong contingent of men, including yourself. We will ride for Verouge immediately!’

‘Now, Sire?’ asked the bewildered lieutenant, regretting the question as soon as he’d asked it.

‘Yes, now!’ thundered the warlord. ‘See to it at once! We will find Danae and you will escort her here while I ride on to Sagria. When I return we will have the wedding she denied me before. Now move, man!’

As the retainer executed a sharp about-face and fled back to his post, slopping the now forgotten wine in the process, and Anglade swept from the room, Cordeleon held the little miniature close, gazing at it tenderly, his eyes moist with emotion, hands trembling with excitement. ‘Danae,’ he whispered, ‘we will find each other once more, and this time nothing, not even death itself, will sunder us!’

Ø

Manon was sound asleep when her grandmother came into the bedroom clutching a candle. ‘Quickly!’ she said. ‘He has found us and you must go to the hiding place! Wake up!’ She shook the still sleepy, girl vigorously. ‘You did not tell me the truth, Manon! I knew this would happen, my deepest fear. Come now, dress quickly and go to the hideout! We don’t have much time!’

Without a word, heart in her mouth, Manon fumbled to dress herself as fast as possible, while Aveline frantically straightened the bedding