The she-wolf in the Tower

He finds it hard to wait

*Horace*

I don’t spend my time waiting for the post from London. That would be petty and beneath me. Besides, I sent my letter by one of my most trusted grooms, instructing him to wait for a response. Since I know the precise length of the journey from London to Brighton, there’s no need to consider the matter further.

Except…

I easily checked that ungainly emotion, lust, for the first twenty-two years of my life. I scorned the idea of paying for intimacy, and a mixture of fastidiousness and honor kept me from accepting cheerful invitations from married she-wolves. What’s more, I was betrothed at the time, although waiting for Rosaline to reach her majority. I certainly felt desire, but it never got the better of me.

That was before I saw Miss Rapunzel.

Now I’ve dropped the reins, and my sensual appetite is ferocious. I can hardly sleep for dreaming of her limbs tangled with mine. My mind constantly strays into imagery that would turn a priest pale.

I can’t stop myself, even during occasions demanding rational thought, such as now. Bardolph and I are working in the private parlor at the New Steine Hotel, waiting for the conference of bankers to reconvene at Pomfrey’s Bank; I’m reading letters and signing them while Bardolph reads aloud the report of one of my bailiffs.

I sign whatever Bardolph puts in front of me, and imagine I’ve taken my mate to my castle at Craigievar, where clan chiefs have slept for generations. To the bed where my ancestors consummated their marriages.

Rapunzel lies beneath me, her hair flung across the bed like rumpled, ancient Chinese silk. I lean down to caress her, my hand running down her bare shoulder, over skin like cream, and then I kiss her like a man possessed, and her eyes open, heavy-lidded with desire. Everything in me roars: ’You’re mine’, and she…

I’m brought back to sanity by the sound of Bardolph coughing.

I freeze, uncomfortably aware that my breeches are stretched to the utmost by one of the hardest erections I’ve had in my life. Thank the Goddess for the desk between us.

Slowly I reach out and take the letter waiting for my signature.

“The Chatteris wedding,” I say, glancing down at the page, gratified that my voice is steady, if rather guttural.

Bardolph nods. “Your gift of a rack of venison and twelve geese has already been dispatched from the estate. This note accepts the invitation the family extended to stay at Fensmore itself. I gather that the guest list is so long that many of them will be housed in nearby inns.”

I dip my pen into my inkwell. I hold it a second too long, and a large drop rolls from the quill and splashes on the letter. My secretary makes a noise like a dry twig snapping underfoot.

“I’ll travel with a small retinue: you, Sandleford, and Hendrich,” I say, pushing the letter back so it can be rewritten. “I finished reading Hendrich’s research into the textile factory in West Riding last night, so we’ll discuss. When we reach Cambridge, the three of you can return to London. Sandleford can return to the Royal Exchange, but first I’d like to hear his opinion about acquiring shares in that glass lighting utility in Birmingham.”

“A full complement of grooms,” Bardolph mutters, making a note. “Three carriages rather than four, I would think. The sheets and china must go with me for the journey, though not, obviously, for use in Fensmore.”

I stand up. “I’m going for a ride.”

Bardolph summons up one of his ready frowns. “We have yet fourteen letters to review, my Prince.”

I don’t care for dissension; I stride from the room without answering. Perhaps the Scot in me has taken over. I feel stronger and more alive than ever before, and my mind races with tender words and wild images. I want to take my mate into the woods and lay her on a white cloth in a field of violets. I want to hear her voice in the open air, the cry of a pleasured she-wolf, like that of a bird. I want…

I don’t want to be sane any longer, or to sit in that airless room reading fourteen more letters before I affirm each with my long and tedious signature.

I tell myself in vain that Rapunzel is a humorless dormouse. Frankly, humor doesn’t come into many of the plans I have regarding her. Images blossom in my heart like roses, each one in feverish counterpoint to the solemn intelligence of her letter.

I want to shower her with gifts, yet nothing I can conjure up seems good enough. If I had the heavens embroidered on a cloth, wrought with gold and silver light, I would lay it at her feet…

Nay, I would lay her on top of it, as tenderly as if she were Helen of Troy, and then I would make slow love to her.

I’ve lost my mind.

My imagination blooms with metaphors describing a she-wolf I’ve seen for scarcely an hour.

Later, that night, I wake from a dream in which Rapunzel raises her arms to me, the liquid gold of her hair tumbling almost to her waist.

“Ah, darling,” I’d been telling her, “I am looped in the loops of your hair.” Did I say that aloud? I would never do something so imbecilic.

I've lost my mind. I know why; I've kept myself away from she-wolves too long, and now my brain is enfeebled. What's more, although I'd never before thought twice about performance, I suddenly have an image of myself fumbling about in the act, not knowing what I am doing, being foolish.

Damn.

Then the letter arrived.

I read that paragraph three times and then break into a c***k of laughter. She'd picked up my Shakespeare reference and tossed another back at me.

I write with the worry that you have formed a false impression of me. I smiled a great deal on the night of my debut ball… because I was so ill that night that I could not bring myself to speak.

I mentioned this concern to my stepmother, Luna Goldtail, who is firmly of the belief that it is inadvisable for a couple to learn of each other’s character before marriage. But as she is not on speaking terms with my father, I consider her a less than reliable source of advice about marital happiness.

If Goldtail hadn’t been able to ascertain his wife’s disposition by a quick glance at her, I don’t think that all the time in the world would have helped them to a greater understanding of each other’s characters. I am sorry to hear that Rapunzel had been ill, though.

I also write to assure you that I am not mad, although my claim is of dubious value because I would likely insist upon my sanity regardless. We shall have to leave the question of my judgment or lack thereof to our next meeting, at the Chatteris wedding. You shall find me sane, but, alas, not as winsomely silent as I was during our dances.

The words are so lively that I could hear a she-wolf saying them, except I couldn’t remember what Rapunzel’s voice sounded like. I am burning to meet her when she isn’t ill.

For a moment the serene angel with whom I had danced wavers in my imagination, but I push her away. I much rather be married to a she-wolf who considered me pricked out for her pleasure. A thousand times better than being married to a placable dormouse, no matter how peaceful.

I should also confess to finding Rapunzel a name without music. However it is the one my parents chose..

With all best wishes from your future wife, who has good reason to pray for your continued health . . . given my expectations of sixty-five (seventy!) years of marital bliss,

Rapunzel