The Golden Wolf Series Book 1

Tori Lennox

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Author’s Note:

While I have made every effort to be as historically accurate as possible while weaving this story, I have taken historical and literary license with the lives of Thor Sweynsson, King David 1 of Scotland, Queen Matilda of Scotland, and King Stephen of England, all of whom were real people. I have taken literary license as well with what I consider “minor things,” like portraying castles as having private living quarters approximately two hundred years before this was common practice.

While the Viking Age in England is considered to have ended with the Battle of Stamford Bridge on September 25, 1066, when Harold Godwinsson (Harold II) defeated the Viking army led by Harald Hardrada and Tostig Godwinsson to maintain Anglo-Saxon rule, Harold Godwinsson was then defeated by the forces of William the Conqueror at the Battle of Hastings, October 14, 1066, to usher in Norman rule. However, while Christianized, the Normans were descended from “Northmen,” so Viking ways and Viking beliefs still lingered in England and Scotland well into the Medieval Period.

PROLOGUE

Northumberland, England: 1106 AD

‘The beast must die! The beast must die! The beast must die!’ The words pounded through his skull to the rhythm of hooves striking the earth. ‘Yes, the beast must die, and he would kill him!’ Felling Magnus Manslayer would prove him worthy of being Sweyn Sword-Cleaver’s only son. In time, Thorauld Boar-Slayer would be heralded much as the mighty Beowulf in halls throughout the land!

That he was but a small boy pursuing a child’s fantasy never crossed his mind. His mission was vital. He had a boar to slay. One more than twice his age, possessed with the strength and cunning of a beast surviving to such an exalted age. While his opponent was daunting, he would prevail. Before the day was done, he would slay the uhyre and ensure his place in history as all mighty warriors did.

That his father warned the boar was much too dangerous for a boy of seven only fueled his determination to persevere in the face of challenge. Wasn’t he better at handling his sword and spear than the other boys? Did he not excel in weapons training? Was he not possessed with the size and strength of boys who were years older than he? Yes, to all of that. He was hardly an untried lad, and he would prove it! He was the son of the fearless Sweyn Sword-Cleaver. No one dared forget it!

Spurring his mount, Thor trailed behind the hunting party far enough to remain undetected. Despite his daring, the child knew he would be punished for his disobedience. Sweyn tolerated insubordination from no one, especially his son. Such behavior in the ranks posed a danger to everyone. Yet, he would rather risk his father’s wrath than lose the opportunity to make him proud! Bruises would heal, and forgiveness would come. Especially if he killed the mighty Magnus-Manslayer and earned the respect of every man!

The boy smirked when his father pulled away from the hunting party to circle back around the path everyone believed the boar was taking. The best tracker in the land, Sweyn knew better. Magnus was a trickster prone to misleading his pursuers, something his huntsman never took into consideration. Not this time. Shaking his head at such an obvious mistake, the boy watched Henri Fitz Hugh cut from the party to follow his lord. Uneasy with this newest turn of events, Thor shadowed Fitz Hugh unnoticed as both men penetrated deeper into the forest following the elusive boar’s trail.

Thor watched Sweyn halt to study his surroundings and listen carefully to the sounds of the forest around him. He saw his father dismount, either unaware or unthreatened by Fitz Hugh’s presence behind him. As he knelt to poke fresh boar scat with a stick, he studied the malodorous pile before rising slowly to his feet. Satisfied he was gaining on his quarry, Sweyn prepared to swing back into the saddle. Halting, he turned at the unexpected sound of Fitz Hugh’s voice behind him. It was one thing to have his lord’s back and another to interfere with his hunt.

Stunned, Thor watched Fitz Hugh spur his mount forward, sword upraised, to rip his father from chest to groin before he could cry a warning. He watched in horror as Sweyn gazed at the gaping wound in disbelief, instinctively clutching his midsection, vainly attempting to hold his organs in place. Small hands covered a silent scream as his father fell in a gushing torrent of blood and gore, dim eyes staring skyward. Valiant life ended in seconds; his father never heard Fitz Hugh’s traitorous cry, “A gift from your loving wife!” as his flesh rent beneath the sharpened blade. But his son heard every damning word.

Nightmare revelation flashing before his eyes, Thor jolted out of his stupor to the knowledge that his mother had ordered his father’s death. Aware of the peril surrounding him, the boy remained motionless, yet secure, in the knowledge that he was well hidden from Fitz Hugh’s murderous intent. Hidden, yet able to watch his enemy’s every move.

Henri drew Sweyn’s sword from the scabbard, wiped the blade across his blood-drenched shirt, and laid the weapon beside the dead man’s outstretched fingers. Carefully studying his surroundings, he gouged tree trunks with his dagger and broke low-lying branches along the path forged by the boar on his earlier journey through the woods. Dipping a branch in Sweyn’s blood, Fitz Hugh flicked crimson droplets along the trail as though the fleeing animal was wounded in their encounter. Surveying the scene around him, he lifted his horn to his lips and sounded the instrument.

Startled, Thor urged his mount deeper into the brush. Within minutes, the clearing swarmed with mounted riders as he knew it would. While out of sight, he heard every poisonous lie spoken by the foul murderer. How easily the words tripped from Fitz Hugh’s tongue! Soon after he’d found Sweyn, he’d gasped his last breaths. He’d tried to save his overlord, but the mighty warrior was beyond any help he could offer. He remained with his friend, offering what comfort he could until his passing.

From the scene around them, the boar had spooked Sweyn’s mount, causing the horse to throw its rider and run away. Though he’d drawn his weapon, their lord was laid open before he could impale the charging beast. From the droplets along the trail and the blood staining his sword, the mighty warrior injured the boar before succumbing to its mauling.

Thor watched his father’s men look at their slain lord before quickly looking away. There wasn’t a man among them who hadn’t seen a man or hound mangled by a boar. There wasn’t a man among them who didn’t fear the same fate. There wasn’t a man among them who wasn’t thanking God it wasn’t his corpse lying bloodied on the ground.

Carefully picking his way through the forest, Thor made his way back to his father’s keep. No one paid any attention to the boy in the hustle and bustle of daily life. No one even realized he was gone. Certainly not his self-indulgent mother. Stabling his horse, the child made his way inside the keep and through the labyrinth of secret passages known only to a handful of people.

Secreted away in his lair, Thor watched events unfolding below him. He watched his father’s body borne into the hall on a bloody litter and saw his mother rise from her embroidery to throw herself weeping and wailing on the corpse. A short while later, he watched Henri Fitz Hugh forcefully pry his mother away from his father and usher her into the arms of her waiting ladies. A few minutes later, the boy emerged to learn of his father’s death.

Later that night, Thor watched his mother lie with Henri Fitz Hugh in his father’s bed. Heard her admit the barbarian’s only crime was to blindly love a woman who never returned his love. With those words, he recognized the treachery of his mother and the danger he was in. In that devastating moment, he knew through the blinding loss and betrayal, one day he would be a man. That man would be a warrior. That warrior would not rest until Sweyn’s murder was avenged. When the day of reckoning came, may God have mercy on their souls.

CHAPTER ONE

Menteith, Scotland, 1135 AD

It was cold. It was very cold. Alexandria’s teeth chattered as she pulled her cloak tightly against her skin. Gazing out the window across the valley, her eyes came to rest on the carnage below. Great swathes of crimson hemorrhaged into blackened pools around the fallen as though each tried vainly to drag their damaged bodies to the aid of the others. In truth, each had. Their efforts were futile. All perished that day.

The knowledge that only she saw the carnage below drove the chill deeper into Alexandria’s bones. She’d never asked to see what others didn’t or know what they could never know. But this gift was hers. As it was her mother’s before her. Her blessing, not her curse. The Lord didn’t curse his own.

However, it wasn’t true only Alexandria saw what lay below, for he stood in the window, tall and straight, fiery mane glistening in the sun, gazing over the moors without. His eyes flitted here and there before shifting yet again as though searching for something he never finds. He didn't have to turn for her to recognize his features. The planes of his cheeks, the sharply jutting chin, the beak-like thrust of his nose were all familiar to her. She had known them all her life. His eyes were the deep blue of the wildflowers growing on the moors. His mouth was strong and stern. She knew so much, and yet so little, about this man. However, she well knew what Edward saw outside the window: a timeless land of cold gray mists and churning emerald seas. A breathtaking land that never changed, no matter the hardships endured by its people.

Swigging ale from the tankard in his hand, Edward’s stance shifted to the left as he stared into the smoky distance where the ancient talisman rose from swirling mists. Shrouded in mystery, bleached by the sun, worn by the ages, the lone Celtic Cross stood poised defiantly against the tempestuous silvery sky. Its creator long forgotten in the murky past; it was here Edward's eyes came to rest in the blood-soaked shadow of the cross. It was here where it all began: the bane of Drummond's past and present.

Fingertips pressed against throbbing temples; Alexandria closed her eyes against the tormenting specter, willing him to disappear. Eyes flickering open in defeat, she was consumed by Edward’s sorrow. Felt the torments he cannot flee. His despondency radiated through her as it always did, flooding her senses with emotions not her own.

Silent tears scalding her cheeks, Alexandria wept for Edward of Drummond. Wept for the cursed spirit eternally haunted by his past. Reaching out to comfort her great-grandfather, she sought to convey that this wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t begun the feud so long ago. He wasn’t to blame for the MacLarens’ crimes. He hadn’t brought this desolation upon their heads.

Watching her hand pass through him, Alexandria acknowledged the foolishness of her act. Edward seemed so real that she often forgot he wasn’t there. It wasn’t possible. Poor Eddie had lain in the kirkyard for the past hundred years or more. Turning, she gazed across the room towards the lord’s table.

Unlike her visions, the auburn heads bent close together were as substantial as they seemed. Her father and brother sipped ale and bickered over her future as though she weren't there. Yet she was. Listening to every hateful word. It was dreadful the way they calmly discussed their demise, and the responsibility falling on her shoulders once they were gone. It was agony hearing such talk, knowing she was powerless to intervene.

It was their fault! The MacLarens’ fault! So it was written in the Annals of the mighty Drummonds, faithfully kept since before MacAlpine came. How many times had she searched Father Lulach's carefully worded accounts seeking answers to end the madness destroying her family one by one? Too many and to no avail. Turning on her heel, she ran from the hall, fleeing their dismal words.

Racing into the stables, she leapt astride Loki, urging him towards the gates rapidly opening to let them pass. As the gates swung shut behind them, her mount galloped across the moors towards their place of solace. It was there that she felt closest to her mother. It was where Lady Elise rested in waxing and waning shadow beneath the ancient cross.

Leaping off Loki's back, Alexandria threw her arms around the tremendous marker, pressing her burning cheek against frigid stone. Embracing the mystical symbol, she felt the power of her ancestors coursing through her body. Felt their life force searing through her veins. Felt her flagging spirit revive. Gazing over the churning sea, Alexandria vowed to do what must be done to end this horror with no end. May Jesus forgive her for acting without honor. She is but a pathetic woman. Armed with nothing but her wits and appearance, she will use them as she must. Elise's visions would come to pass. They must. The survival of her people depended upon this.

Sliding down to perch at the base of the cross, Alexandria pondered the treachery bringing the Drummonds to the brink of destruction: misunderstandings, slights, harsh words, reckless actions. A century of wrongs never righted. It was so foolish, this wanton destruction. The Drummonds were but simple folk. They’d known triumphs and tragedies, gladness, and sorrow. They lived. They died. That was how it should be. For the Clan of Drummond, their lives were nothing but tragedy and sorrow. They had known little of triumph or gladness in her life.

"It will change with me! It will be as Mama saw in her visions. Drummond shall be delivered! The Dane will set us free, release us from death, and make us prosper again! Thoraud Sweynson, Sheriff of Ruthven, Lord of Tranent: Beware. I come to claim what is rightfully mine!"

Oblivious that she pledged her promise aloud, Alexandria was aware only of the tempestuous breeze whipping her unbound hair and the growing mists blanketing the moors. Lightning rent the roiling clouds as thunder ominously clapped. Embracing the storm, Alexandria stood defiantly beneath the cross in the drenching rain as she often did. It was at times like this that she heard her mother’s voice clearly in her head.

The Wolf and the Warrior