Just as you saved the badly injured Vill, you might heal another wounded little wolf.
My grandson, Lukaz.
Perhaps even my shattered son, Cardin.
Basati. The Basque Wolf of Biarritz.
****
A few days before the summer solstice, Laudine’s son Bastien arrived atle Château de Landucwith an entourage that included his own two sons, Gunnar and Haldar, his nephew Lukaz, and a dozen knights fromle Château de Beaufortin Finistère.
As the travelers dismounted, Bastien’s knights headed toward the lodging where they would reside until the imminent departure for Lancelot’s castle. Quentin, the Master of Horse at Castle Landuc, and several attentive grooms led the horses to the stables.
Laudine hugged Bastien and her three beloved grandsons.
“By the Goddess, how you’ve grown! You’re nearly as tall as I am.” She kissed ten-year-old Gunnar’s smooth cheek, brushing a curly lock of dark brown hair that so resembled his father Bastien’s. “And Haldar, you’re as strong as an ox.” Golden sunlight gilded her grandson’s auburn hair and highlighted his freckled, smiling face. Although two years younger and a bit shorter than Gunnar, Haldar had the broad shoulders and hefty bulk of a future fierce warrior.
Dark brown waves framed the timid little face where eyes as blue as the Breton sea watched Laudine in silent wonder. She held out her arms to the wounded little wolf. And pulled Lukaz into her loving, welcoming embrace. “Bonjour, mon chou. By the Goddess, I’ve missed you. And I am delighted that you’ll be here with us for the whole summer.” Laudine kissed his six-year-old head and looked up at her husband Esclados, who was greeting the two older boys. “Papi,” she said, using the French term for grandfather, “could you please bring the boys to see the new colt you’ve chosen for Lukaz? I’m sure they’d all like to meet him. And I would like to speak to Bastien for a few minutes. We’ll come join you at the stables in a little while.”
White teeth gleaming against his coppery skin and black hair streaked with grey, Esclados le Ros—the famed Red Knight and Lord of Castle Landuc—beckoned his three young grandsons. “C’mon, boys. Let’s go see the fiery Friesian destriers. And meet Lukaz’ magnificent foal.”
With whoops and shrieks of unbridled glee, Gunnar, Haldar, and Lukaz dashed off to the stables with their robust, laughing grandfather.
****
Alone in the kitchen with her middle son—heir to the throne of Finistère through his royal marriage to Princess Gabrielle, daughter of King Guillemin fromle Château de Beaufort—Laudine read sorrow and concern in Bastien’s troubled gaze as she served him a mug of golden mead. “What’s is it,mon fils? Please tell me what’s wrong.”
Bastien took a long pull of the honeyed wine, wiped his mouth with the back of a swarthy hand, and set the silver goblet down upon the oak table. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his sinewy arms over his expansive chest, and sighed in exasperation and grief. “It’s Lukaz. He’s become withdrawn and despondent. The squires at the castle taunt him, calling him a bastard because he has no father. One of the older boys—with a cruel, vicious streak—accused Lukaz of killing his mother just by being born. Needless to say, that was devastating. Gabrielle and I tried to soothe him, reassure him, but he was inconsolable.”
Bitterness and scorn blazed across Bastien’s bearded, forlorn face. “And yet—it’s the despicable truth, isn’t it? Cardin abandoned his son at birth. Because he wrongly blames Lukaz for Charlotte’s death.” Chiseled jaw clenching with fury and frustration, Bastien lowered his head into shaking hands, raking desperate fingers through his thick, dark locks.
“Lukaz needs his father. And Cardin—as much as he denies it— needs his son to heal his own broken heart.” Laudine sipped her chamomile tea and eyed the impassioned face of her loving, generous son. “That’s why I’ve called him home.”
Laudine set her teacup down and leaned forward, grasping Bastien’s calloused hands. “I swear to you that I am healthy and hale, but—Goddess forgive me—I am feigning a grave illness. So that Cardin cannot refuse to come home, as he has done every year since Lukaz was born.” She smiled at his bewildered expression. “Do you remember Ulla, the young priestess who came here to live when her parents died in Normandy? You were already married then, living in Finistère with Gabrielle atle Château de Beaufort.But you might remember the holiday seasons here at Landuc—when Ulla played the harp and sang the most glorious Yuletide carol.”
Bastien swallowed a large gulp of mead. “Yes…she had exceptional musical talent and a sublime singing voice. I remember she came back to Landuc a few years ago, when her husband and babe were killed. She’d become mute from the horror. She was living like a recluse in one of the cottages at the edge of the woods. Does she live there still? Why do you ask if I remember her?”
“Because I had her pose as my healer and write a letter to Gaultier, informing him and Cardin that I have a serious illness and have called them both home. I asked Ulla to write that it is my dying wish to have my three sons—and five grandchildren— gathered here at Landuc for my last Yuletide season. But I am not truly ill—it’s just a ruse. A necessary lie. To force Cardin to come home. And finally become a father to his abandoned son.”
Bastien scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s a shame you have to resort to such drastic measures just to get Cardin to come home.” He downed the rest of his mead, wiped his mouth, and grinned. “But I admire your ingenuity,Maman.You’ve arranged for Lukaz to be here. You’ve called Cardin home. And you’ve told everyone that it’s your Yuletide wish to have them stay through the holidays. That gives you the rest of the summer, all of autumn, and most of the winter to reunite them. Your clever plan just might work.”
He rose to his feet and kissed Laudine’s cheek. “I’m going out to the stables to join Papa and the boys. I’m anxious to see this new foal that he’s chosen for Lukaz. That’s exactly what the boy needs. Something to look forward to. A magnificent horse of his very own. The chance to develop his riding skills. Excel at something. And be proud of himself.” Bastien kissed her other cheek withla biseof goodbye. “See you soon,Maman. bientôt. I love you.Je t’aime.”
****
That evening, Esclados arranged to have his son Bastien and three grandsons—Gunnar, Haldar, and Lukaz—join him and Laudine in the private solar ofle Château de Landuc. As servants refilled goblets of watered ale for the boys and fine French wine for the adults, an exuberant Lukaz effused about his majestic new colt. “Papisays I can ride him in three or four years, when he’s strong enough. He’s so beautiful,Mamie! He’s got a glossy black coat and shiny mane. Long, sturdy legs—which means he’ll be a fast runner. He’s going to be my very own destrier. For when I become a squire. I can’t wait to ride him!”
“In three or four years, when the colt is ready, you’ll be a more experienced rider, Lukaz. By then, you’ll be nine or ten years old. And—with lessons from Lord Quentin, my Master of Horse—you’ll be as fine a horseman as your Uncle Bastien. He used to be the Master of Horse for King Guillemin atle Château de Beaufort. That’s how he met yourTatieGabrielle. But I’m sure you already know that, don’t you?” Esclados affectionately ruffed Lukaz’s wavy brown hair, so similar to his father Cardin’s dark, thick locks.
“Oui, Papi. Uncle Bastien told me that story lots of times before. How he used to give myTatieriding lessons. And he taught her how to wield a sword!” Lukaz took a hearty bite ofmanchet, tearing off an eager mouthful of the finely ground wheat bread with obvious relish.
“That’s right, I did. I was her weapons master for several years. YourTatieGabrielle is descended from Viking Valkyrie, you know. Women warriors who fight as fiercely as men. And I’ll teach you, too, Lukaz. You’re turning seven this Winter Solstice. That means you’ll be old enough to start training to become a knight. And next summer, when Gunnar, Haldar, and I go tola Joyeuse Gardeto train with Lancelot and his men, you’ll come with us, too.”
“Sir Lancelot has promised me a warhorse from his stables when I turn fourteen and become an official squire. A robust Percheron, like Papa’s horse Drach. I might even get to choose one from the new colts born this summer. I can’t wait!” Ten-year-old Gunnar, the oldest of the three boys, beamed, nearly bursting with pride.
“And your horse, Haldar, will be ready to ride next summer. Have you chosen a name for him?” Esclados took a swallow of rich red wine and raised an inquisitive eyebrow as he looked at his auburn-haired grandson.
“Roux, because he has red hair. Like me.” Amidst a splatter of light brown freckles dusted across his impish face, eight-year-old Haldar grinned from ear to ear.
