“Look at this,” Marco said. “He’s one of them. A
loup-garou
.”
The men shrank back with cries of “My God!” and “Sweet virgin!” The man with the sword crossed himself with his free hand.
The prior snarled and jerked free. He drew up his hood to cover the wound, but this didn’t help matters, concealing his entire face now with only his rather lupine eyes staring out from the shadows.
“The witch did it to me,” he said. “She and her coven. We’ve burned the other two. When this one burns, the evil dies with her.”
“There’s no coven!” Lucrezia cried.
Nemours’s men looked torn. On the one hand, a highborn lady, beautiful, and gentle in appearance. And terrified, beset upon by men-at-arms; their natural inclination would be to defend her. On the other hand, this haughty Dominican and his young friar. Men of God, yes, and backed by the terrifying might of the Inquisition. But the prior was corrupted with something awful and they had seen the wolves inside the chatelet with their own eyes. Would Montguillon soon be at their throats as well?
“Arrest these men,” Montguillon said. “Do it at once.”
“You are a fool, Montguillon,” Lorenzo said, regaining his confidence. He didn’t lower his weapon. “She is no witch. She’s a healer. A woman of God,” he added for the benefit of the men-at-arms.
Montguillon hissed at this.
“If you rebuke her, nothing will save you. The moment she burns, you become a wolf man.”
“Liar.”
“And then we will kill you in revenge,” Marco added, his tone grim.
“You’re both liars and heretics. Seduced by this witch. And when we’re done with her, I’ll have some very hard questions to put to you, yes.”
“You won’t do anything of the sort,” Lorenzo said. “Because you’ll be dead.”
“The devil take you.”
Montguillon’s words maintained their hostility, but some of the fire had gone out of his voice. He looked uncertain. His face was pale behind his hood and sweat ran down his cheeks. That he was even on his feet was a surprise. How long until his face stretched, his teeth lengthened? Until his back bent and he let out a cry—half human sob, half wolfish howl—and completed his awful transformation?
Lorenzo softened his voice. “Father, I know what you’re suffering. I was changing too, even dreamt of the wolves, that I was one of them. But the lady’s tincture cured me. She can cure you, too.”
“You have nothing to lose,” Marco put in. “Let her try.”
Montguillon wobbled on his feet. Simon grabbed for his arm, but the prior shrugged it off. For a moment, he looked as though he would faint, then he steadied himself. “And when she fails?”
“If she fails, you can denounce her,” Lorenzo said.
Lucrezia chewed on her lip. He knew she thought it might be too late to save the prior. But the attempt would buy time. To secret Lucrezia from the chatelet. And if Montguillon turned, they could work on Simon, to get him to abandon his master’s accusation.
The soldiers lowered their weapons. Tullia stopped growling and struggling. Martin rubbed at his throat where the pikes had jabbed him backward. Simon looked conciliatory. One word from Montguillon would end it.
At last the prior nodded. “Very well, we shall talk.”
✛
“It’s ready,” Lucrezia said.
She had spent a few minutes preparing her tincture of poppy and monkshood, and a separate balm for the ugly wound itself. The prior sat in the large chair by the fire, his hood pulled back, neck exposed down to his hair shirt. He panted and sweated and looked like he would be sick. He had refused wine. The soldiers had left the room, as had Simon and Martin. The latter two stood in the hallway beyond the open door, studying each other warily.
Lucrezia approached.
Montguillon looked like he was trying to choke down bile. “Witchcraft,” he muttered. “Devilry. May God have mercy on me. But I must stop them. I must accept aid, even from a repellent source.”
Standing with his brother to one side, Lorenzo bit back the angry retort on his lips. The sheer ingratitude of the man. A horrible, seeping wound on his neck, and he had the temerity to continue with the witchcraft nonsense. Did he think she wanted to touch him? They should let him die—it would be justice served.
Lorenzo had conversed in low tones with Marco while Lucrezia made her preparations, and the brothers had concocted a plan. As Lucrezia reached out with the tincture in its vial, Lorenzo told her to wait.
“What for?” she asked, frowning.
“I don’t think this is sufficient,” he said.
“What are you doing?” Montguillon said. “If it must be done then do it.”
“You’re right,” Marco said, not to the prior, but to Lorenzo. “How can we be certain?”
”What is this?” Montguillon snapped. “Certain of what?”
“The lady will heal you,” Lorenzo said. “And what will you do? Denounce her anyway, no doubt. Here she is, trying to save your life—no, your
soul
—and you won’t cease your insults, not even for a moment.”
“You’re under her spell, both of you. Seduced by lust. Blinded. She’s a witch, she brought these wolves in the first place. Heal me or not, it won’t change that.”
“Then you can suffer in hell,” Marco said.
“I’m a man of God. I won’t go to hell.”
“When you turn into a wolf, you’ll serve the devil,” Lorenzo said. “And when we hunt you down and kill you, you will die as a servant of the enemy. Plead your case before the judgment bar of God. My lady, throw the tincture into the fire.”
Lucrezia moved toward the hearth. The glint in her eye said she knew exactly what the brothers had planned.
“Wait!” the prior cried.
She stopped and turned with a questioning look to Marco and then Lorenzo.
“Why should we?” Lorenzo said. “You said you’ll denounce her anyway. And you keep leveling accusations against us as well.”
“If she heals me—” Montguillon began.
“Yes?”
“Then I shall,” he continued, though the words seemed to choke in his throat. He spat them out. “I shall agree to her innocence.”
“Good,” Marco said. “Lorenzo, the contract.”
“Contract?” Montguillon said.
“We are simple traders from Florence. We do no business without written contracts. Otherwise, the florins slip through our fingers and we sink into penury.”
As his brother spoke, Lorenzo hid his smile and hurried from the room. Simon and Martin still waited in the corridor, the two men staring at each other without speaking. When Lorenzo returned moments later with his pens, ink, paper, and wax, he nodded to Simon.
“You need to witness this, friar.”
The young man followed him into the room.
Montguillon had fallen silent in Lorenzo’s absence. He closed his eyes and panted. His hands trembled and he wouldn’t leave his neck alone, scratching and rubbing. Marco stood a pace off with Lucrezia, patting Tullia’s head absently while he spoke in low, intimate tones to the lady. Lorenzo ignored them and went to the writing desk to compose the contract.
He wrote in Latin. This was no purchase order for ten casks of olive oil, so he used his finest, most beautiful letters. When he finished, he blotted the ink and handed the paper to Marco to read, then melted wax for the seal.
Marco read it aloud:
I, Henri Montguillon, Prior of the Dominican priory of Saint-Jacques, and member of the Holy Inquisition, do solemnly swear before God and in the name of the most Holy Roman and Catholic Church, that if Lady Lucrezia d’Lisle of Lucca relieves me of the illness that I suffer from the bite and scratch of the most unholy wolf man that pursued and attacked us on the Rue de Saint-Denis, that she shall be declared innocent of all crimes against the church, God, or my person. She shall not come under condemnation by the Holy Inquisition for any crime secular or ecclesiastical, either in France or abroad. In my duties and jurisdiction I do declare her pure and above reproach. I hereby declare her innocent of witchcraft or any other unholy or impure practice.
That if I do violate the terms of this contract I shall admit my guilt in the matter of the unholy wolves and their masters without sullying her innocence in any way.
This contract shall be valid upon signature and in perpetuity.
The Very Reverend Henri Montguillon, Prior of Saint-Jacques
Notarized by Lorenzo Boccaccio di Firenze
Witnessed by Marco Boccaccio di Firenze and Brother Simon of Paris, friar of Saint-Jacques.
12 of January, the year of our Lord 1450
When Marco finished reading aloud, he handed it to the prior, who reread it in silence and increasingly visible anger.
“This is an outrage. Simon, burn this.”
Marco snatched away the paper before the friar could take it. “Is the wax melted, Brother?”
“It’s ready,” Lorenzo said.
“I won’t sign it,” Montguillon said.
“A wise decision, Father,” Simon said. “It is an obvious trap.”
“Yes, you see? It is an insult to the church, the Inquisition, and my person.”
“You sign it,” Lorenzo said, “or you’ll turn into a wolf. Lucrezia won’t give you the tincture. I swear it on my life.”
Montguillon hesitated, then gestured for Simon to come to him. The other three moved away while the two Dominicans conversed in low tones. Marco further pulled Lorenzo away from Lucrezia and leaned in to whisper in his ear.
“You wrote a bad contract. There is no conditional after the first sentence.”
Lorenzo let the smile show this time as he whispered back, “Did I?”
“It exonerates her of all culpability, regardless of whether or not she cures him.”
“Indeed.”
“And is she?” he asked in an even lower whisper.
“Is she what?”
“Culpable? Are we sure she’s not involved? This whole thing is making me suspicious.”
Lorenzo met his brother’s gaze. “I cannot believe you would suggest such a thing.”
“I am sorry,” Marco said quickly. “She’s innocent, of course she is.”
“Very well,” Montguillon said. “Make a second copy of your infernal contract. I will sign.”
Lorenzo moved at once to obey.
“But if she fails, if this gets worse—by God, you will all suffer.”
That’s what you think,
Lorenzo thought. If there’s one thing a Boccaccio knows, it is a contract.
Chapter Eighteen
They stripped off Montguillon’s cloak, his scapular, and his robe. Finally, they removed his hair shirt. Blood and puss had seeped from his wound and stiffened his undergarments. It scabbed to his chest hair and stained a trail all the way to his belly. His body smelled like a leprosarium. Lorenzo shuddered in revulsion.
Old scars crossed his back and shoulders, so many threads from so many self-flagellations that the underlying flesh was thick and ropy. His bones stood out on his back and ribs. Lucrezia approached with her balm, her face like wax, her eyes never dropping to the man’s body.
“Let go of me,” the prior said. “No, not her. She won’t touch me. Keep her away!”
“Damn you,” Marco said. “Hold still. You,” he said to Simon. “Help us.”
Simon stood a pace back with his hands buried in his sleeves. “I can’t. I mean, to touch him in this condition—I won’t do it.”
Lorenzo had no idea if Simon was terrified that the attack was contagious, or if it would violate the man’s vows somehow, but he had no time for foolishness.
The brothers couldn’t keep Montguillon still by themselves. Not here in the chair. His wrists were slick with sweat and he wouldn’t stop struggling. He arched his back and bucked out of the chair when Lucrezia reached out her long, delicate fingers, which she’d dipped into her balm. He kicked out and his heel connected with her midsection at the top of her bodice. She fell back with a cry.
Tullia, who had been growling from her banishment in the corner, now sprang to her feet with a snarl.
“No!” Lucrezia snapped at the dog. “Lie down.”
“Get him to the bed,” Lorenzo said. “Martin, help us.”
Martin came in and the three men hauled Montguillon to the bed. They tied his wrists and ankles with belts and girdles from Lucrezia’s wardrobe. The prior’s flesh burned with fever. His protests turned to a raving, incoherent babble, a mixture of Latin, French and Provençal. His eyes rolled back in their sockets and his tongue dangled, with drool leaking from the corners of his mouth.
He cried out at Lucrezia’s first touch. “Harlot! Touch me not!”
“Shut your mouth,” Marco said. “I’ll cut out your tongue if you insult her again, by God.”
“No,” she said, her tone surprisingly gentle. “He’s out of his mind, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“You give him too much credit, my lady,” Lorenzo said.
The prior’s struggles weakened as Lucrezia’s fingers worked the balm into his wounds. His cries turned to moans. Tears ran down his face. Lucrezia didn’t stop and Lorenzo couldn’t help staring in admiration at her nerve.
Blood and pus fouled her hands when she finished. She plunged them into the water basin on the end table and scrubbed with the stick of hard Spanish soap in a basin to one side. Midway through, Lorenzo emptied the fouled water into the chamber pot and poured fresh water from a pitcher.
“That should keep the corruption from spreading,” she said, still washing. “But those wounds will need bandaging.”
“You can do that, at least?” Marco asked Simon.
“I could summon someone, my lord.”
“Oh, could you?” Marco said in a withering tone. “How very helpful.”
Simon left.
Lucrezia returned to the bed with her tincture. Lorenzo tightened the belts at Montguillon’s wrists in anticipation of more struggling, but the fight had gone out of him. Sweat beaded and dripped off his tonsured scalp. His chest heaved and his pulse throbbed at his temples. When Lucrezia lifted the vial to his lips, he barely resisted. She spoke in soothing tones, like a nursemaid. Very gentle, considering how he had belittled, insulted, and accused her of the most atrocious sins. He coughed and sputtered, but most of it went down.
Within moments of finishing the tincture, the prior turned his head to one side, released a tremendous sigh, and fell into a deep slumber. Lucrezia changed the water in the basin again and washed her hands once more, this time scrubbing until it seemed her skin would come off. Lorenzo handed her a goblet of wine when she finished, which she took with trembling hands.