The Silver Wolf (3 page)

Gundabald laughed raucously. “A fairy tale made up by some strumpet to explain a clutch of bastard brats. She wouldn’t be the first or won’t be the last to spin a wild story to cover her own … debauchery.”

“You won’t listen to anything,” Hugo said petulantly. “She’s gotten worse since we came here. Even while her own mother was dying she …”

The silver wolf’s lips drew back. Her teeth gleamed in the moonlight like ivory knives. Even in the wolf’s heart, Hugo’s words rankled.

Pointless the smoldering anger. Pointless the brief, sad rebellion. The door stood between her and her tormentors. The barred window between the magnificent creature and freedom.

She began to pace as any caged beast will, obeying the wordless command: Stay strong. Stay healthy. Stay alert. Fear not, your time will come.

MAENIEL WAS A WORRIER. TODAY HE HAD A LOT OF worries as he stood on the half-ruined gallery once intended for the delight of a Roman governor.

He envied the man, who had probably stood here once, taking the air and complacently surveying his broad domains. Today, among other things, Maeniel worried about the hay. It didn’t seem to be ripening as fast as it should. And they needed that hay to carry them through the long, cold winter. Still, he sighed; the man had been too powerful to worry about hay. He’d
probably had other concerns, possibly even more troubling than Maeniel’s. Say, for instance, politics in Rome.

“Politics in Rome,” he muttered.

Gavin, the captain of his guard, sat dozing on a bench, his back against a mural of Perseus slaying Medusa. The gorgon’s head in the hero’s hand glared at him. This didn’t worry Gavin. Nothing worried Gavin. He opened one eye and repeated, “What about politics in Rome?”

“I was just thinking that even though the Roman governor didn’t worry about the hay as I do, he probably worried about politics in Rome.”

Gavin opened both eyes. “Let me get this straight. You left off worrying about the hay to worry about what a long-dead Roman worried about?”

“Yes,” Maeniel said.

“Thank you for clarifying that.” Gavin closed his eyes. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll go back to sleep.”

“It doesn’t seem to be ripening as quickly as usual,” Maeniel persisted.

“The hay, or politics in Rome?” Gavin asked.

“The hay.” Maeniel bit his lip.

Gavin sighed deeply, opened both eyes, and looked out over the surrounding countryside.

The land lay drowsing in the warm gold of the afternoon sun, a picture of tranquil, bucolic beauty. Three prosperous villages lay scattered along the mountainside surrounded by tilled fields, their deep green just beginning to bear the first tinge of autumn’s rich red, brown, and gold.

Higher up against the face of the mountains were scattered flocks of sheep, goats, and cattle, fattening in the high summer pasture. Beyond them, snowcapped peaks floated in delicate ethereal beauty against the sky.

“The hay,” Gavin said, “seems to me to be ripening much as it always has ever since we came here.”

“Do you really think so?” Maeniel asked hopefully.

“Yes,” Gavin replied, closing his eyes again.

Maeniel shook his head. “Still, I hear from Clotilde that it’s going to be a bad winter. She says the fleeces of the sheep have grown twice as thick as is usual and—”

“No,” Gavin said firmly. “I won’t listen anymore. Every year at this time it’s the hay. Then, when that’s in, the question will be, is it enough to carry us through the winter? Or should you send to the lowlands to buy more, to ensure the survival of our stock? Then, you will fret yourself about wood. Have we enough? Suppose a really bad storm comes and the snow is too deep for us to venture out to cut more? So we must cut more now, stacking it ever higher and higher until we must sleep in the snow because the wood fills all of the houses.

“In between, you will be venturing out in blizzards to visit every cow, sow, ewe, and nanny goat with a pain. To hold her hoof until she delivers. If one sneezes, you hear it in your sleep and come wake me up to commiserate with you. Hold the lantern up, Gavin. Ply your axe with a will, Gavin. Pull, Gavin. Push, Gavin. Take your men and fall on those brigands, Gavin. I know they are not on my land, but I like it not that they raided so close, Gavin.

“Now it is the worries of deceased Romans, and politics that concern us not at all in our mountains. At first I wondered when Rieulf, old and ill, placed his demesne in your hands. But after the first winter I understood the wisdom of the old man’s choice. He definitely knew how to pick the right man for the job.”

Maeniel listened meekly to Gavin’s tirade. They were old friends. He heard it several times a year when Gavin grew frustrated with him.

“I wish,” Gavin wound down, “that you would find something else to worry about besides hay or the sheep, goats, wood, and snowstorms. At least it would be a change for me to listen to.” His voice trailed off as he sniffed the air. “Fresh baked bread,” he whispered. “I forgot it’s Matrona’s baking day.” His body floated from the bench. He seemed pulled along by the enticing odor, his nose sniffing the air.

Maeniel placed one big hand on Gavin’s shoulder and pushed him back down on the bench. “Matrona has a lot of work to do on baking day. She becomes very irritable. Remember the time I had to rescue you? She was trying to push you feet first into one of the ovens. You had both feet braced against the wall on
either side of the door. You were screaming at the top of your lungs, and if I hadn’t—”

“You didn’t have to rescue me,” Gavin denied hotly. “It’s just that I’m a gentleman and didn’t want to hurt her.”

“To be sure,” Maeniel soothed, “to be sure. Besides you were right … I mean about the worry business.”

“You’re giving it up?” Gavin asked.

“No,” Maeniel said. “I have a new one.” He handed Gavin a letter.

Gavin gave it a cursory glance; then realizing its importance, he began to read more slowly.

“Not politics in Rome,” Maeniel said. “Politics in Franca. The woman comes recommended by Charles, the great Charlemagne himself. I had better marry her.”

“I wouldn’t,” Gavin said handing him back the letter. “I’d tell the
great
Charles to go fly his hawks or chase Saxons, whatever the hell a king does. Forget marrying. When some royal cousin comes here, lock your gates, sharpen your sword, and wish them Godspeed over the pass into the valley. I’m betting you’ll never hear any more about her.”

“I can’t take that bet,” Maeniel said quietly. “The stakes are too high.”

“No, they aren’t,” Gavin insisted. “You’re sitting in an impregnable fortress. This rock has never fallen to assault, not even in the time of the Romans.”

“And if Charles ever seriously decides to dig me out,” Maeniel said flatly, “he can. Why do you think I send Charles’ court a hefty sum of silver? Every year a nice present of gold and jewels is sent to the court in time for Christmas. I keep the roads clear of thieves and bandits, don’t overcharge the merchants traveling through the pass. In between I keep my fingers crossed. So far he’s left me alone.

“But no more. The reckoning has come, and in a form I can’t really quarrel with. He’s offering me a marriage with a woman of the royal house. I dare not refuse. The letter says she is young, comely, and—”

“The letter,” Gavin broke in, “does give every pertinent fact about the lady: her birth, her lineage, yes, every fact, but one. What’s wrong with her?”

“What could be wrong with her?” Maeniel asked.

Gavin stared out glumly over the village. “Now who’s the optimist? Aside from dire poverty, I can think of a few things. Promiscuity, drunkenness, insanity, dishonesty, stupidity, leprosy, cruelty, and greed. Any and all of the above. In addition, she’ll probably turn out to be a humpbacked dwarf with only one tooth remaining in her head and halfwitted in the bargain.”

“Sometimes I think it was a mistake for your father to send you to school. It stimulated your imagination no end,” Maeniel said.

“I know,” Gavin agreed. “I told him that every day until it was a question of what would wear out first—his arm, his belt, or my backside. As it was, you and I both ended up trying to run away to seek our fortune. Well, we found it, and now you must marry this … creature to keep it.”

“It’s a small sacrifice,” Maeniel answered.

“Let’s hope,” Gavin said.

“If she’s a humpbacked dwarf, she may have a pleasant personality. If she’s insane, I’ll see she’s cared for. Drunken, dried out at intervals; promiscuous, persuaded to be discreet. Cruelty and greed can both be restrained. And even leprosy, God help me, can be treated. At this altitude the sick either recover quickly or die.”

“That’s it,” Gavin said. “Look on the bright side. She may not survive the first winter.”

“Or she may be as the letter says: young, comely, and amiable. Poverty might be her only real fault.”

“No,” Gavin said. “If that were the only problem, they’d never be offering her to such as you. A down-at-the-heels Irish mercenary. If it hadn’t been for Rieulf, we’d still be earning our bread selling our swords hither and yon. As it was, you did him a service and he began to love you. You were lucky …”

“That’s true.” Maeniel looked out over the valley again, still somewhat preoccupied by the hay. “What do you think, Gavin? Should we get some of it now and—”

A loud yell erupted from the direction of the kitchen.

Maeniel turned. Gavin was gone. The lure of fresh-baked bread had proved too much for his captain to resist.

Gavin on a horse, sword in hand, might be the terror of every
brigand in the mountains, but when he fought Matrona, he invariably lost.

Maeniel decided to go rescue him. Leaving the hay and the future to take care of themselves, he started off in the direction of the commotion in the kitchen.

REGEANE WOKE NAKED ON THE BED THE NEXT morning. The wolf had paced the floor until moonset. Until the two in the next room were deep in sodden slumber and snoring loudly. Then, she climbed into the bed, rested her muzzle on the pillow and slept. She didn’t remember turning human. The bed smelled of warm animal, human and otherwise.

Her old, blue dress lay across the foot of the bed. Though she thought it blue, it had been faded by a thousand washings into a muddy gray.

As she stepped into it, she realized the dress, only months ago very loose, was becoming tight across the shoulders and breast. Once, she had been able to wear it only if she held the hem off the floor. Now, it barely covered her ankles.

The dress, when it was new, had broad bands of embroidery at the neck and sleeves. The thread was gold. A thing Hugo and Gundabald scrounged assiduously for among her mother’s possessions. One of them had long ago picked out the rich strands.

Outside, the light was bright.
They should feel safe
, she thought.

They must have. The heavy door opened at a touch.

Gundabald was sitting at the table. His eyeballs looked as if they were bleeding. Drool was dried in the stubble of his bristly
black beard, but he gobbled the dark bread, whey cheese, and sour wine with a good appetite.

Hugo knelt on the floor, retching into a chamber pot.

The large round loaf was in the center of the table. Regeane twisted off a big hunk. The bread was thick and smelled of olive oil and onions in the dough. Regeane’s strong teeth ripped into it. She had good teeth.

Little was left of the cheese but rind. She ate that along with the bread, biting her fingers twice in the process.

A brown terra-cotta bowl of figs rested next to the bread. She reached for a fig. The flat of Gundabald’s knife came down across the back of her hand. It made a slapping sound. It hurt.

She flinched and snatched her hand back. Her eyes met Gundabald’s.

He chuckled, spraying crumbs from his mouth.

Her hand was still on the table near the bowl. The fingers were long and tapered finely, so it was not noticeable that the nails were dense, narrowing to blunt points at the tips.

Gundabald hit her again; this time raising a weal on the backs of Regeane’s fingers. She didn’t flinch or pull away. Gundabald loved hurting people. To show pain only encouraged him.

He glared at the red marks his knife made, then back at Regeane’s face. He seemed baffled by her stoicism.

“Eat some more of the bread,” he said. “It’ll put meat on your bones. You need some.”

Hugo had finished vomiting. He was sitting in one of the chairs by the table. His face beaded with sweat. But he managed to turn an appreciative eye toward Regeane. “She’s not bad now,” he said. “That hair. Those eyes.” Then he applied himself to a cup of red wine. The first swallow gagged him. He hawked and spat on the floor, then very quickly gulped a few mouthfuls.

Gundabald eyed him, then Regeane.
She does have her points
, he thought. Her hair was long and dark, almost black at her scalp and neck, shading toward silver and, finally, white at the tips. It never tangled. He had himself seen it rise and fall back into position when the wind blew it too far out of place.

Her eyes were truly beautiful, large, warm, and dark—until they caught the light. Then they flared into gold, as water does in the setting sun.

Aside from that, she wasn’t much. Skinny, pale, and colorless. Gundabald favored women who allowed him to get a good grip—those who would squeal, moan, and give him a hard ride. He had a feeling she wouldn’t do any of the three. And God help the man who woke in bed with her by moonlight.

Still, she was nearly as helpless as any other woman by day and he needed to take measures to protect her. Charlemagne’s star was on the rise, and she was a potentially valuable property.

Hugo gulped more wine, presumably trying to keep his mutinous stomach from reacting to the insult. The wine was of strange substance. It stank. Between swallows of wine, he gnawed on some of the bread. He had less success at eating than Regeane and Gundabald did. Hugo had a few rotten teeth.

Gundabald drew his foot back slowly and carefully. Then slammed his heel into the unsuspecting Hugo’s groin.

Hugo didn’t scream. Regeane doubted that he could scream. He clutched at the spot between his legs. His eyes rolled back in their sockets until only the whites showed. His chair tipped over backward. His skull hit the wooden floor with an audible crack.