A Tale of Wolves
Year 826 of the Divine House of Agnephus
On the other side of the Empire, the Emperor’s enemies were still enjoying their honeymoon.
Of course, Ophele had already been married for nearly eight months, but she had only felt married for a week or so. It was as if she had wandered into another, more beautiful world. Flowers were everywhere. The very air seemed more satisfying, as if she had never taken a proper breath before in her life. If her husband had his way, her precious feet would never touch the earth.
She didn’t even mind getting up early anymore, if it was Remin doing the waking. Back in Aldeburke, she had hated it; the person waking her was unlikely to be gentle and certainly not someone she liked, so for years she had slept in hidden places and awakened when it suited her. Remin’s dawn risings had seemed particularly sadistic at first, but that was before she knew that he was the handsomest, sweetest, bravest, most wonderful person that had ever lived. Ever.
Big hands caressed her into wakefulness. The feel of his bare chest at her back, always warm, solid as a stone wall. Ophele stretched, mewing with pleasure as his fingers slid over her breasts and moved between her legs, his mouth inscribing a biting caress at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Behind her closed eyelids she sensed a dim light, but her sleepy mind wondered no further whether it might be daylight or firelight; all that mattered was…
“Remin,” she murmured, squirming as his fingers found the new spot between her legs that they had discovered a couple days ago. She was still a little sore from the previous night—having found a new pleasure center, Remin wouldn’t leave it alone—but it felt so good that her breath caught, and he muffled her moan with a kiss.
“Good morning, my wife,” he whispered, his deep voice vibrating into her bones, and his hard length moved between her legs. His hand tightened on her breast, pinching her nipple between his fingers, and both of them sighed as he drew back and stroked against her again.
It felt so good. Normally he would have turned her onto her back and moved over her, but as she met his gaze, the same thought occurred to them simultaneously.
Could we do it this way?
“Yes,” Remin said instantly, his black eyes heating. Catching under her knee, he angled his body behind her, always game to try something new. She felt him catch at her opening and then press forward, stinging just a little as she stretched to take him. But it was an entirely new position, a new pressure, a new friction, and they gasped together as he sank inside. “I like this,” he said, his voice breathy, and he withdrew and thrust again. “Does it feel good?”
“Yes, yes,” she moaned. It was still so hard to be quiet, especially when his other hand was moving, his fingers circling that spot. “We can do it like this?”
“I don’t see why not.” His hair tickled her neck as he buried his face in her shoulder to muffle a groan. “I never heard that we’re only supposed to do it one way. Ahhh, haaa, you’re squeezing me, wife—”
“I can’t help it when you do that…” The words ended with another gasp and then neither of them could talk anymore, lost in the new sensations and drowning together, which was more or less how they had spent the preceding week.
Was marriage really supposed to be like this? The unions she had observed at Aldeburke had never hinted at any great passion, but maybe they were just better at hiding it. Ophele loved the games she and Remin were playing, teasing and touching and discovering so many surprises in each other’s bodies. Remin liked it when she bit his ears. Ophele melted instantly when he kissed her neck. At night, she barely even noticed the howls and cacklings of the devils because she was waiting in a fever of impatience for Remin to come home. Sometimes he didn’t even get all his armor off before he pushed her into bed.
Was she supposed to pretend that she didn’t like it? None of the romances she had read went further than the wedding, and though Remin promised that other women would soon arrive in the valley, there was still no one she could ask. Surely, it could not be right to lie to him. When he was holding her in his arms and looking at her with such love, the last thing she wanted to do was push him away. It was all so new and wonderful, like living inside a love poem, adoring each other and teasing each other and rousing each other all over again.
Unspoken was the knowledge that they would only have a little time for such play. For as the summer waned toward the harvest and the devils began to return to the mountains, Remin and his men had sworn to follow them and destroy them in their dens.
“You’re not getting up?” she whispered afterward, as they were lying together. Her fingertips traced the straight line of his nose. He had such a handsome nose.
“No.” Alone in their cottage, his face relaxed from its usual stern lines. “Today you get to lie abed as late as you want.”
“Why?”
“It’s your birthday, little owl,” he said, sounding amused. “Did you forget?”
“Oh,” she said, startled. “It is? I mean, you know my birthday?”
“Miche reminded me.”
She had forgotten her birthday. No one had celebrated it since her mother died, and only the Aldeburke cook Azelma had remembered it at all, slipping her a bag of cookies or a small cake to squirrel away. She wouldn’t have blamed Remin for forgetting when she hadn’t remembered it herself, but the fact that he remembered made her throat tighten.
“Thank you,” she said, a smile curving her lips as he roughly caressed her, drawing her against him until her breath came short and he rolled her over again, tangling his long limbs with hers.
Hours abed with him would have been gift enough, but she should have guessed that Remin would do this as thoroughly as he did everything else. In centuries to come, there would be no room for debate among scholars as to whether there had been a celebration for the Duchess of Andelin’s birthday.
Her first gift was a hot bath drawn by Remin himself, so that she would be fresh for her second: a new silk gown from Mistress Courcy, who had done an excellent job with some very vague instructions. It was a short-sleeved gown as green as summer leaves and worn without a kirtle, delightfully light and cool, with a skirt short enough to reveal pretty embroidered slippers. Ophele lifted one small foot to admire the scrolling suns on her shoes, overjoyed.
“Do you like it?” Remin asked, examining her with a refreshed expression. He always liked to see her in green, especially with her gleaming hair falling loose to her hips.
“Yes, I love it.” She beamed up at him and very nearly won another of his rare smiles. She had seen three so far, with teeth and everything. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
There was more. In the kitchen, Master Wen yelled at her and then gave her a basket of raspberry pastries. As they left the stables, they ran into Genon Hengest, who had a small parcel of herbs and spices that he said would make a fragrant, restful tisane in tea.
“It’s not medicinal, but it wouldn’t do His Grace any harm,” said the herbman, leveling a yellow eye at Remin.
“It was supposed to be a gift, not another one of your tonics,” Remin began with some heat. But Ophele, seated before Remin on his black horse with a pastry in one hand and the herbs in the other, lifted it to Remin’s nose.
“No, it’s nice, smell,” she said. There was a whiff of some subtle spice and the pleasant, earthy scent of chamomile. “I smell chamomile, what else?”
“What else would you put in a tea if you wanted a light sleep, my lady?” Genon returned, cheerfully putting her to the test.
“Evening primrose?” she guessed, surprised and pleased by the challenge. He had never asked her to try to apply her small store of herblore before. “And maybe lavender? Valerian would be too strong, wouldn’t it?”
“And a little ginger to warm the blood and add savor,” he said, with another one of his grimacing smiles, the scarred side of his mouth twisting. “Add a pinch of it to your tea in the evenings and it will relax you, without laying you out flat.”
Ordinarily, the gifts one made to a duchess on her birthday tended toward gold, jewels, and precious oils, the more rare and expensive, the better. But such things were not to be had in the valley, and the humbler gifts Ophele received that year suited her very well. At the north gate, Sir Tounot was waiting to present her with a dainty belt knife as if he had known she was coming, a gift on behalf of the guards of the watch.
“It would be our disgrace if you ever needed it, my lady,” he said, bowing his curly head. “But we give it in the hopes that you will have a great many more birthdays.”
“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “And please tell everyone else thank you, too.” She lifted a hand to wave at the distant guardsmen on the wall, who were shouting their good wishes.
She and Remin made the same tour of the valley almost every day, pitching in wherever they were needed, and that day there was a present waiting for her at every stop. The carpenters had made her a set of gorgeous carved combs, the hunters produced two feather fans, and the masons had made necklaces for her from small, polished stone beads. They were only common stones like jasper, quartz, and agate, but they looked as beautiful as jewels to Ophele. She put them on at once and thanked them so profusely, even the rough stonemasters blushed like boys.
As they approached the work at the north wall, they came across Master Eugene, bedecked with flowers in celebration of the day and led by a very grudging Jacot of Caillmar.
“Many happy returns, lady,” he said, extending a flower wreath to Ophele with a red face.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, immediately plopping it atop her head. “Did you make it yourself?”
“Might have done,” he said gruffly. “Don’t have nothing better.”
“No, no, I love it. Did you put the flowers in Eugene’s mane?” She scratched the little donkey’s forelock, admiring the daisies carefully woven into the coarse hair.
“No,” he said instantly. “Other pageboys done it. Sir Miche had ’em at it early this morning.”
“Please thank them,” she said, the corners of her mouth quivering with the effort not to laugh. She had learned something about the prickly pride of boys, but the idea of Sir Miche rousting them out of bed to adorn her pet donkey with daisies was both touching and very, very funny.
Sir Miche had to borrow a bucket of water from Jacot to douse himself before he was clean enough to present Ophele with her gifts, on behalf of the men of the wall. They had made three beautiful parasols for her, half in jest and all in seriousness, gifts to protect their lady from the sun.
“The first birthday parasols ever given to an Andelin duchess,” he declared, with an extravagant bow. He loved recording absurd milestones. “How do you like them, Your Grace?”
“And the first time an Andelin duchess ever opened—oh, look!” Ophele exclaimed as she examined the beautiful thing. The first parasol was made of woven grass in intricate stripes, from the pale gold grass that grew on the plateau, the dark green grass by the river, and the long purple grass from the edge of the forest. The second was made of waxed paper and painted with dogwood flowers, and the third was a masterpiece formed of hundreds of thin strips of wood, carefully sanded and polished to bring out the beauty of the grain. “Look at this,” she said, turning to show it to Remin, who looked impressed, even if his hands were too full of her other presents to examine it directly.
“The men made these themselves?” he asked.
“They had the apprentices gathering sticks for weeks,” Sir Miche replied, hooking a pastry from the basket. “Looks like someone should’ve made a wagon to carry your presents, my lady. We might contrive something to spare His Grace’s dignity.”
“I didn’t anticipate this particular problem,” Remin agreed, exchanging a wry glance with his knight. There had actually been some thought given about how to allow the valley’s population to demonstrate their fealty to their duchess without embarrassing her to death. Gifts were given to one’s liege both out of affection and to win their favor, usually with lengthy public ceremony in an avalanche of gifts, good wishes, and flowery speeches that would have made this lady wish to be swallowed by the floor.
“But more to the point…” Sir Miche bent to look her in the eye, cocking his head with comical gravity. “Are you happy, my lady?”
She blinked, instantly remembering the day months before when he had asked if she would rather have stayed in Aldeburke. Her eyes went to Remin and her cheeks turned pink.
“Yes,” she said. Remin was her happiness, but she knew that Sir Miche had been its chief architect. As a matter of fact, he had been looking after her since the day she got married. “Thank you.”
At supper, there were still more gifts to be given, traditional presents from Remin’s knights that were beautiful and expensive and must have been ordered months in advance. The fact that they had thought of her so long ago meant more than any number of jewels, and Ophele lined her gifts up at a careful distance from the platters of food: a small, jeweled peacock and pins that would join Remin’s glass bear on the mantle, a rosewood jewelry box inlaid with jade and opal, and an enameled thimble that she perched on the peacock’s head like a hat. She couldn’t believe they were really for her. But there was no doubt that Sir Justenin’s gift was her favorite.
“This is the first and third treatise by Vigga Aubriolot,” he explained as he handed her two leather-bound books. “I would recommend beginning with the first, my lady. It might color your interpretation of the later books.”
“I will,” she said, looking at the precious books with hungry eyes. “Thank you very much, Sir Justenin.”
“I will discuss them with you as you read them, if you like,” he offered.
“You will? Yes, please,” she said, brightening. She had so missed their conversations; it was as if he had vanished, once they arrived in the valley. But she had told herself that Sir Justenin was a knight, and a busy man; too busy for a silly girl’s nonsense.
“I thought about what you said last time,” she said shyly. “About how the spirit and the body are manifestations of the divine and physical world…”
“Overlapping, but distinct.” He nodded as if the conversation had occurred yesterday and took the seat on the bench opposite her. Unnoticed by Ophele, his gaze flicked to Remin, who nodded as if some understanding had been reached.
“Yes, it fits what we were discussing,” Ophele explained. “About how the imperfect world is the place where we can be imperfect. The body is the same, isn’t it? We act on the world through the body, and those actions might be imperfect and corrosive to the spirit, or virtuous and therefore refining it…”
Soon Sir Edemir and Sir Bram had joined the discussion, and though she looked at Remin a few times, wondering if he would contribute, he only waved her on.
“My tutoring did not include much theology,” he said, with such a complacent air that she smiled. “You’ll have to educate me, wife. Go on, I’m listening.”
She could have asked for nothing more. But there was pudding.
“Here, Your Grace,” said Master Wen, thumping a plate of pudding with rich cream and strawberry sauce before her as if he were throwing down a gauntlet. “There’s none can say that the Duchess of Andelin isn’t a credit to me cooking.”
“Pudding?” Ophele said, pleased with the treat and confused by the compliment, which sounded like he was calling her fat.
“Aye. Pudding.” He glowered, as if he were daring her to thank him for it. But she could only look at him with full eyes and a full heart, and after a moment the cook scratched the back of his thick neck and grumbled, “Blessings on your birthday, Your Grace.”
There was enough pudding for everyone at the table, which pleased her even more, and she watched Remin’s knights set to it, smiling to herself as Sir Bram stole a bite from Sir Miche’s plate, and Sir Edemir, who did not care for sweets, nudged his plate over to Sir Bram.
She couldn’t stop smiling. More than possessions, it meant so much that so many people had thought of her, had taken the time to gather sticks and stones and polish them into beautiful things. Her eyes went to the faces around her, friendly and familiar, meeting her eyes with smiles and lifted cups.
She loved them all. She loved Tresingale and everyone in it. She had never had a place like this, a place where she was safe and welcome, even loved. She had never dreamed that such a place could exist.
“It’ll be a few days before the rest of your presents arrive,” Remin said, low. “I’m sorry they didn’t all make it in time. Are you having a happy birthday, wife?”
The promise of further riches was almost too much. She could only look at him, fighting the traitorous quiver in her lips and the tightness in her throat, and all the thoughts filling her eyes were happy ones.
* * *
“Got it all right?”
All Remin could see of his wife was her hands on either side of the heavy wool mattress.
“Yes,” she said, muffled.
“All right, lift,” he said, hefting it from his end. It didn’t feel heavy to him, but it was an awkward burden, and it took some maneuvering to squeeze it through the door, setting it out to air on a nearby patch of grass. There wasn’t much to be done in the way of household chores, in a cottage so small; Ophele liked to dust and tidy it herself and Remin kept the woodbox full, but they didn’t need to cook, and laundry was a chore best not contemplated.
Their bed, however, was a problem.
With the shutters open to let in maximum light, Remin sat down on the floor and heaved the frame upright, timbers creaking in protest. Ophele crouched beside him, her long skirts pooling around her feet.
“It’s just…tied together,” she said, pushing at the loosely connected rail. There was a hole bored in the end so it could be tied to the post, and a web of ropes to support a mattress, which would have been perfectly fine for a single, motionless sleeper. Unfortunately, their bed had been getting a lot of hard use.
“I could tie it tighter,” Remin said, frowning.
“That won’t stop it squeaking, though.” Their eyes met in rueful acknowledgement of the real problem.
“Hand me the rope, wife. We could still go to the carpenters.” He knew she was going to shoot that idea down. He didn’t have a problem going and telling the carpenters that they wanted a bed sturdy enough to withstand Remin Grimjaw’s amorous activities, but Ophele would combust with shame.
“But they have to finish the work by the north gate. And the barracks. People are still sleeping on floors,” she said, plucking the knife from her belt to trim off a length of rope. And part of Remin would always fixate on the flash of the blade, his body automatically stiffening. But in his mind’s eye, he pictured the moment she had flung the knife away, hoping repetition would make him believe it.
“They can have our bed,” was all he said, grumbling. Looping the rope through the hole in the rail, he pulled it around the post, knotting it so tight the wood creaked. And even then, when he shook it, the damned thing still squeaked.
It wasn’t as if he needed more reasons to curse the Emperor, but the fact that he didn’t dare shrug off his guards so he could make love to his wife in the sturdy, soundproof confines of the storehouse was another. He was tired of being careful. He was tired of being quiet.
Though by now there were few residents in town who weren’t aware of a new…friendliness between their duke and his wife. Certain muffled noises had been heard from the cottage. Yvain and Dol, never known for gossip, had lately become very expressionless whenever Their Graces were mentioned. And more than once, passersby had reported giggling in the woods near the manor house.
This honeymoon period was hard on everyone. Riding along in company, it was as if the quality of the air would suddenly change around the duke and his lady, and Remin’s knights swiftly adopted thousand-yard stares to avoid seeing anything in the vicinity of a certain black warhorse. It was a sight so novel, so shocking, that even the Knights of the Brede weren’t sure how to handle it. Except for Sir Miche of Harnost, who could not stop laughing.
Remin was smiling.
He was as aware as anyone else of this uncomfortable state of affairs. He had been called Grimjaw since he was sixteen. But all it took was a look from Ophele to make him feel like the world was made of blue skies and birdsong. If it hadn’t been for his guards, the Emperor’s assassins could have killed him a dozen times over.
It happened again later that day. Remin tried to involve Ophele in all decisions regarding their house, and so he stopped by the cottage to pick her up that afternoon on the way to the manor, swinging her up onto Lancer at a trot to make her squeal with laughter.
“Master Didion wants to see us again?” she asked as he settled her before him on the horse.
“We have to pick our guardian dogs,” he explained. “They’re supposed to be built along with the house, apparently, but he had a fit when I told him to just put a mastiff or something there.”
“Are they meant to be something in particular?” she asked. “We had them at Aldeburke, but I never knew they meant anything.”
“Not that I know of. They had sand hounds at Ereguil,” he said thoughtfully. “And I saw all kinds in Segoile, one even had wings. You can ask him about it when we get there.”
The master architect had more to say on the subject than anyone in the world could conceivably want to know. Normally Remin would have cut him off after twenty seconds, but Ophele was listening with such fascination that it seemed a shame to spoil her fun.
“They are built in tandem with the house,” Sousten explained, gesturing to the empty pedestals at the foot of the steps, awaiting their occupants. “Dogs are one of the five great gifts of the stars, the companions and guardians of men, and it is only fitting to show appreciation for the blessing. And they will look quite distinguished among the pansies.”
“Mastiffs are distinguished,” Remin remarked. Honestly, he had no particular preference, except that Sousten stop asking him this question.
“Mastiffs are unimaginative,” the architect said scathingly. “The Duke of Andelin cannot have a common hound at the doors of his—”
“I am the Duke of Andelin,” Remin retorted. Sometimes it seemed like Sousten needed reminding. “The Duke of Andelin’s official position is that as long as it has fangs, I don’t care.”
“Does it have to be a dog?” Ophele wanted to know, glancing between them anxiously. “I mean, an actual canine?”
“The House of Melun has lion dogs in front of its house in Segoile,” Remin told her, so instantly gentled that Sousten’s lower lip edged out sulkily. “There’s some latitude.”
“Well, we do have a sort of dog in the Andelin…” she offered hesitantly. “But I wouldn’t want to offend anyone, I’m sure they’ve killed so many people….”
“The wolf demons.” Sousten’s eyes lit up.
“Lion dogs kill people, too. I want a wolf demon,” Remin said at once. Suddenly he cared intensely about what animal was guarding his house. “That’s my guardian dog. Sousten, I will have nothing else.”
“No, by the stars, what else could guard the Duke of Andelin?” the architect exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Let us make them your totem, Your Grace, chain the beasts and leash them to your door. It is perfect. I will need descriptions of the devils, or even better, sketches, if you have witnesses that could produce something…”
“It wouldn’t be blasphemous or anything?” Ophele asked, looking between them with growing enthusiasm. “They are devils...”
“They are our devils,” Remin said, giving her a rough caress in his excitement. Terrible as the devils were, they were only animals, and he did not fear them. One day, they would be nothing more than one of the legends of the Andelin Valley. The totem of his House.
He might have known his little owl would think of it. And blast it, he was smiling again, in full view of Sousten and his guards and the entire building crew, and when she smiled at him, he felt the warmth as if she were his own sun.
He felt like an ass, trying to settle his face after that.
Was this a weakness? Was it safe to show affection for her so openly? No one would dare to physically harm a child of divine blood, but surely it would be more dangerous if it were known that he loved her. They might fear to harm her, but kidnapping was certainly not out of the question. And that aside, he was the Duke of Andelin. He was supposed to be dignified.
It was almost as if he were discovering different versions of himself, a new person that even he didn’t know. It was fine, when he was alone with Ophele; it was such a relief to finally just be with her, without holding himself back. But he had lived most of his life around soldiers and knights, and now he was trying to be a husband and—increasingly—a lord, and finding the clothes an awkward fit.
He had a little more experience with being a lord. He knew he couldn’t be a general and snap commands at the village headmen. He didn’t want to rule that way. And when Auber’s clan finally arrived in the waning days of summer, he had to strike an even more delicate balance. They were the purest kind of peasant: farmers, the salt of the earth, and very clearly Auber’s family, down to the mild brown eyes and hair.
And by the stars, he was hoping they’d brought women.
He let them get settled in the cottages on the north side of town before he pounced. Normally, the arrival of a bunch of farmers would be far beneath the notice of a duke and duchess. But though Ophele never complained, Remin imagined she was dying to have other women about, and he was almost willing to fall to his knees if they would just consent to do her laundry. He had ruined three of Ophele’s chemises so far and neither of them had any idea how.
“Welcome, all of you,” he said as he and Ophele stood before the assembled Conbour family that evening. The wagons in which they had arrived were already empty, and smoke rose from the chimneys of their cottages. “You’ve come a long way and uprooted your lives. I can see that you’re industrious folk. The Andelin rewards courage and hard work. We have done our best, but I don’t mind telling you we’ll be glad of your help with the harvest.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” they murmured together, with a shuffling of bows and curtsies.
“This is my wife, the Duchess of Andelin,” he continued, drawing Ophele forward. He had to catch her hand before her fingers pressed together in her usual nervous gesture. She was still painfully shy before strangers.
“We’re very glad you’ve come,” she began, her eyes flicking to them and then swiftly fleeting away. “Sir Auber has been looking forward to your arrival. There aren’t any other women in the valley except us right now, I’m afraid. If you lack anything, please come to me. Or if anything troubles you.”
“Thank you, my lady,” they murmured again. Actually, they weren’t the only women in the valley; there was also two dozen prostitutes Remin was pretending not to know about, split between the masons’ camp and the Gellege Bridge gatehouse. But they were not fit company for the Duchess of Andelin, and Remin had no dealings with them other than to make sure she never laid eyes on them.
He had hoped there might be someone her age among Auber’s relations: a companion, even if there was no one fit to be a lady’s maid. But scanning the crowd, he only saw two women, closer to forty than thirty, and a little girl.
“For now, you can get your food from Wen at the cookhouse. You’re welcome to join the common meals or get foodstuffs to cook for yourselves, whichever you prefer,” he said, a little stiffly. “In time, more merchants will join us, and you can buy whatever you like. At the moment we have one, Istaire Guian.”
That was Ophele’s cue.
“I can show the ladies the rest of the town tomorrow. If you like.” Her cheeks were pink even before she began to speak, the color darkening along her hairline and spreading to the tips of her ears. “Mr. Guian p-promised to open his shop early. In c-case you need anything.”
The two women exchanged glances and then bowed very low.
“That is very kind, Your Grace,” said the shorter woman. They could hardly say anything else. Inwardly, Remin sighed and bid them all farewell as politely as he could. It would have been one thing, if they had been younger women. A pair of sturdy farmers’ wives were perfectly capable of finding everything they needed by themselves and would be unlikely to seek the company of a young noblewoman, let alone a Daughter of the Stars, sacred child of the Emperor of Argence.
“It’s all right,” he told her as they walked home together. “Others will come, wife.”
“I know.” She tried to smile, but he knew she was embarrassed. And though he was uncomfortably aware of the eyes that might be watching, he still closed her hand in his, squeezing gently. He didn’t know what to say.
He hadn’t considered this when he brought her here. There was no one anywhere near her rank. Even when his knights began to marry, Ophele would always be the Emperor’s bastard, recognized by her father and isolated by her illegitimacy. Even if he could persuade some of the higher nobility to make the long journey to the valley, she would never have peers.
But did that matter? Was there something immoral about Ophele socializing with farmers’ wives?
How did society get started, anyway? Was he supposed to do something? Was it his responsibility to see that his knights got married? How could he, when the reputable female population of the valley currently consisted of three married women and a nine year-old?
“I need to speak with you,” he told Juste at supper that night. This was something else he didn’t know how to do, but for Ophele’s sake, he was going to try.
