I dreamt that you loved me still
And loved me forever and a day.
From beyond the mellow sea
I felt your spirit calling to me
And I dreamt that you loved me still.
—Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.
Rule Water Castle (known as Wolfe’s Lair)
Solomon de Wolfewas a very big man with a great, hairy beard and hands the size of trenchers. He had been dark haired back in his youth but age and ill health had seen his hair turn completely white while his beard was an odd shade of grayish-yellow. He knew the strange color was because his beard was dirty but he didn’t care. He took great pride in telling the women of the local village that he ran a bit of hot water through his beard after a long day and made soup out of whatever bits of crumb and meat scraps were caught there. He loved to see the look of disgust on their faces. Much like his sons, Solomon had a wicked sense of humor.
Rule Water Castle hadn’t been called by its proper name in decades, ever since the de Wolfe family from nearby Castle Questing had annexed the former Scottish garrison for the deWolfe barony of Killham. Everyone in Northern England and Southern Scotland knew the place as Wolfe’s Lair these days, an extremely fortified fortress that had a very odd look to it.
Much like infamous Hermitage Castle about a half-day’s ride south, seat of the terrible de Soulis family, Rule Water Castle was built in much the same design. It was square, box-shaped, and four stories tall. The walls of the keep were also the exterior walls of the fortress, as it had no fortification walls at all. It did, however, have a moat that was fed by a nearby stream, a wide and muck-filled ditch that was at least ten feet wide, probably more in places, and had a retractable wooden bridge that crossed it.
The impression of Wolfe’s Lair was one of intimidation. It sat on a flat plain, with rolling hills in the distance, and could been seen for miles. With its sheer, dark walls, it had the look of dread and danger about it. The entrance to the fortress was also much like Hermitage Castle in that it was a Norman arch, two stories tall, and had two enormous gates that had been forged from the strongest iron. These gates were thick, vastly heavy, and impossible to breach once closed.
The great gates protected the interior of the fortress, which included a hollowed-out bailey in the center. The stables, trades, great hall, small chapel, and kitchens were all on the lower level whilst the second level contained sleeping quarters for the soldiers. The third level contained living and sleeping accommodations for the family and the fourth floor was mostly the wall walk, a flat roof over the third floor that spanned the perimeter of the fortress.
Solomon ran Wolfe’s Lair like his own personal kingdom. He was a firm man, fair and decisive, and he never backed away from a fight. He had peace with his neighbors for the most part but he wouldn’t hesitate to send his garrison out if there was trouble. He had one hundred and twenty-seven men under hiscommand, all of them loyal and seasoned, and Solomon enjoyed his life at Wolfe’s Lair for the most part but he found in his later years that his thoughts weren’t so much on war any longer as they were on women. There were a few wenches about he would chase and pinch, but that was as far as it went. The last woman he bedded had been his wife, twenty-eight years ago. He wanted that particular coupling to be his last memory of the act. He still missed Rosalie, very much.
Therefore, it was a peaceful kingdom that Solomon ruled and this spring day dawned cold and clear, like any normal day. The guards changed shifts upon the wall walk and at the front gates as Solomon rose and broke his fast with hard cheese and warmed-over stew from the previous meal. He hadn’t slept well the night before and his wild hair was wilder, and his beard even more unkempt than usual. A good deal of Wolfe’s Lair’s function had to do with herds and herds of wooly sheep and as Solomon slurped up his stew, he was coming to think that it was time to assess his older herd, the one that was kept off to the north, to see if it was time to take them into town to discuss selling the wool to the local wool merchant.
But those thoughts of business as usual were interrupted by the sentries on the walls, taking up a cry of an approaching party. Solomon heard the cries but it didn’t deter him from his food until a soldier entered and informed him that a wagon and several riders were approaching. He waved the soldier off and proceeded to finish his meal until the same soldier returned and informed him that his son, Atticus, had been sighted. That was enough to get Solomon onto his feet.
“Great Bloody Christ!” he exclaimed. “My sons have come home? Did you see them?”
The soldier was an older man who had served Solomon for many years. He knew how much the old man missed his sons, for it was something Solomon spoke of frequently.
“I saw Sir Atticus, my lord,” he grinned. “I did not notice Titus but there are other riders. I am sure he is among them.”
Solomon flew into a frenzy. “My clothes!” he bellowed as he raced to a pile of clothing that was over against the wall. He began picking articles of clothing up, inspecting them, sniffing them, and then tossing them aside. “I must dress to see my sons. What is this? God, this stinks. And so does that. In fact, everything about me smells awful. Where is my soap?”
He was bellowing and the servants who tended the rooms and the hearths on that level began to race around, trying to find Solomon clothing that didn’t smell too badly. Solomon wasn’t the cleanest man in the world and a couple of minutes of sifting through tunics and torn breeches had them discovering at least one pair that wasn’t ripped or stained. Solomon, wearing a worn sleeping robe at this point, pulled his breeches up, struggling to secure them as an old male servant, so old he could hardly move about well, tried to pull the sleeping robe off in order to help Solomon on with his tunic. The elderly servant pulled too hard, Solomon lost his balance, and fell onto his hip.
Angry, Solomon howled as he fastened his breeches and grabbed for the tunic the old servant was trying to give him. He pulled it over his head, rolled heavily to his feet, and began to make his way down to the courtyard with the elderly servant following after him, helping him dress in a fur-lined cloak. By the time Solomon began to descend the stairs into the central courtyard, the great gates of Wolfe’s Lair were open and the party was entering the bailey. The first person Solomon recognized was his beloved second son, Atticus.
“Atticus!” he bellowed, waving his arms furiously. “Atticus, you have come home!”
Weary from four days of travel under terrible conditions, Atticus was unshaven and pale as he smiled weakly at his wild-looking father. Riding at the head of the party, he dismountedabout the time his father came off the stairs. Arms reaching out to Atticus, Solomon ran as he hadn’t run in years. He ran right to Atticus and threw his arms around him.
“My son,” he breathed with satisfaction, feeling his brawny son alive and warm in his arms. “I have missed you every day since we last saw one another. How long has it been? At least two years.”
Atticus was being squeezed to death by a smelly bear of a man with whiskers like thistles against his cheek. “It has been one year, ten months, and two days,” he grunted. “I have missed you, too, Papa. How is your health? Have you been well?”
Solomon let go of Atticus long enough to cup his son’s face between his two big hands, inspecting him, reacquainting himself with features that looked much as he had at that age.
“I am well enough,” he said. “My joints are worse and some days I cannot walk, but I have good days and for that I am grateful. There is a physic in Hawick who comes and visits me every month. He gives me potions to drink in the hope that something will help, but so far, there is little relief.”
Atticus nodded, not surprised to hear that his father’s swollen, aching joint condition was not improving. It was the curse of the de Wolfe family and in Solomon’s case had been getting steadily worse for years. He reached out and tugged gently on the wild and wooly beard his father was sporting.
“You look like a wild man,” he said. “When was the last time you bathed and shaved?”
Solomon chuckled, embarrassed. “There is no one to bathe and shave for,” he said. “Why should I?”
