“When I was a boy at Quimper,” said Duke Hoel, “I once tried to tame a wolf cub. I’ve heard of other men who’ve tried it, too. Lord Alain said that his wolf came into the middle of Talensac, but he never said it did any harm there. I think this beast must have been tamed as a cub, and went looking for human company because it was lonely.”
“They’re evil creatures!” exclaimed Raoul de Montfort angrily. “Yes, I’ve heard of men trying to tame the cubs. But I’ve never heard of anyone owning a full-grown tame wolf. The beast’s natural savagery always comes to the surface before it’s grown. It harms its master as much as it can, and is either destroyed or runs off to do more damage.”
“That’s what my father said when my wolf cub got into the chicken run,” said Hoel with a grin. “And it was destroyed, poor beast. You’re right; I’ve never heard of anyone having a full-grown wolf as a pet. All the more glory for me if I do, eh?” He bent over and patted the wolf’s shoulder defiantly. The wolf flinched and cowered.
Still more dogs and hunters straggled from the forest. The duke’s forester trotted up with the lymer on her lead. The brown and white bitch had been the first to solve every ruse the wolf set, but she was now limping with exhaustion. Hoel called to the forester to bring her over.
When the lymer came near enough to smell the wolf, she stopped suddenly. Her hackles rose and she stood motionless for a moment, nostrils wide and black. Then she gave a single short sharp bark.
Silence was imposed on all good lymers by breeding and training both. The forester immediately turned on her, gave her a slap, and told her she was a bad dog. Mirre looked embarrassed.
“Oh, be gentle with her!” exclaimed the duke. “She’s had hard work today.” He gave Tiher the wolf’s leash and went over to pat the lymer and pull her long ears.
The other hunters straggled in in knots of two and three. The dogs were rewarded for their efforts with a mixture of chopped mutton and bread brought for the purpose — food that they should have eaten from the stomach of the gutted wolf, as several astonished hunters pointed out. Tiher had the horns blow the appel de gens to guide in anyone who had lost the trail, and the retraite, to advise them that the party would return to the hunting lodge.
“Have them blow the prise, too,” ordered Hoel.
“But we haven’t killed the quarry!” protested Tiher.
“No — but we have taken it.” The duke had hold of his wolf’s leash again by this time, and he once more bent over and patted the animal delightedly.
The call was added to the other two, and the whole assembly began to move off. Raoul de Montfort and his men departed for their own manor, still shaking their heads over the folly of trying to keep a wolf as a pet, and the other lords who’d joined the duke for the hunt did much the same. The duke’s party turned back into the forest for the long ride back to Treffendel, occasionally blowing their horns to summon their companions and let the world know what success they’d had.
Alain de Fougères was still in the forest, walking his horse northward, when he heard the horns in the distance. The horse had gone lame shortly before noon; he’d whipped it and ridden on for a while, but it was no use: the beast could not carry him any more that day, and he’d fallen far behind the hunt. He stopped now under the bare gray branches listening intently. The appel de gens, the retraite, and the prise. His heart seemed to stop for a moment, and he remained motionless, listening, hoping the calls would be repeated. Quick and clear it came once more: the prise.
He crossed himself, then knelt down in last autumn’s leaves and thanked God. The monster was finally dead. And it was the right wolf this time: he was sure of it. He had sensed it somehow from the moment the beast was unharbored, and every twist of the trail, every more than naturally cunning ruse, had made him more certain. The shadow that had haunted the fringes of the manor, that made his wife wake weeping in the night, was no more. It was a shame, a great shame, that he hadn’t been there at the death himself, but he could go back to Talensac now and tell Eline that she was free at last. And nothing was discovered. They’d hardly blow the prise so cheerfully if they knew what it was they’d killed.
He wanted to turn toward Treffendel and see for himself that everything was indeed as good as it sounded — but it was miles to the hunting lodge, he hadn’t been invited to stay there overnight, and the household knights would be disdainful if he invited himself. It was a long way back to Talensac, going on foot, and he wouldn’t reach it until after dark as it was. Better to go straight there. Eline would be waiting anxiously for his news. He stood, brushed off his knees, and walked on toward his home, smiling.
Marie had almost reached the road when the ducal party turned back into the forest. She was mounted on her own mare, which was why she’d fallen behind. The vile-tempered Dahut had decided about noon that she’d done enough galloping in bad country for one day, and since then Marie had had to struggle hard to make her move at all. One of the household knights had stayed beside her to protect her, but he was, inevitably, not one of her favorites. Brient of Poher, his name was: a thin, awkward, silent young man whose notion of how to pay court to a lady was to suggest that they sit down and have a rest together, and then grope. She’d had two struggles to undertake at once: one with the horse, and the other with Brient’s offers of assistance. It was a relief when the others appeared at the forest edge, riding toward her.
“Honor to the war leader!” she called to Tiher, who was at the duke’s side in front of all the others. She spoke in the Breton which the whole hunt had been using all day: it now seemed so natural to her to slip between it and French that it was a shock to remember that only a year before she hadn’t spoken any of the language. “I gather from the horns that your plan of battle worked!”
“Duke Hoel’s plan of battle,” returned Tiher sourly. “But, yes, we got the victory and are leading the enemy captive home.” He gestured, and for the first time Marie noticed the muzzled wolf, towed on its leash behind the duke’s horse.
She was shocked. She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. When the party came abreast of her, she turned her mare in beside Tiher’s mount and let Dahut walk at the other’s pace. Brient, looking disgruntled, fell in behind.
Hoel laughed. “Lady Marie, that look said more than all the scoldings the others have given me. ‘Christ and Saint Michael!’ it said. ‘What is he doing with a wicked, stinking beast like that?’”
“My lord,” she replied, “you are hunting in your own forest: you have the right to do whatever you like with a beast you’ve taken.”
“Well said! Do you hear that, Tiher? Lady Marie doesn’t like wolves any more than you do, but there’s none of this ‘I won’t permit that’ from her, none of Lord Raoul’s ‘It’s an evil beast,’ none of that carping about the poor, tired hounds needing their reward. ‘I have the right to do what I like with a beast I’ve taken.’ That’s good!”
Tiher looked exasperated but restrained himself. “When the beast turned at bay, it ran through the dogs and jumped up to lick Duke Hoel’s foot,” he explained instead to Marie. “He thinks that it must have been tamed as a cub. It does seem tame, but I’d feel happier if I knew what had become of the man who tamed it.”
“If a man had been killed by a wolf he’d reared, we’d have heard about it,” said the duke confidently.
“Wouldn’t we have heard about it if a man had lost his tame wolf cub?” Tiher asked.
“Indeed we wouldn’t,” replied Hoel. “If a man’s tame wolf ran off into the forest, the next time any neighbor of his lost a beast to any wolf at all, or even to a stray hunting dog or fox, you can be sure his wolf would be blamed for it. No, a man who’d lost a wolf would be sure to keep quiet about it. But I won’t lose you, eh, Wolf?” Hoel glanced affectionately at the wolf, which walked dejectedly at his horse’s heels. “You’re a fine beast. I believe he’s the craftiest creature I ever hunted, Tiher. If we hadn’t had the luck to surprise him this morning, and that wonderful ly
mer bitch to help us, he’d have got clear away from the lot of us. That was a chase to remember! And a fitting end to it, too! But what did you mean, saying you wouldn’t ‘permit’ me, eh? — Marie, I told him to give me the collar to put on the beast, and he refused and said he would not permit me to take stupid risks!”
Tiher set his teeth. “My lord, how could any liege man of yours permit you to risk your life in such a trivial cause?”
“Huh!” said the duke, and beamed down at his wolf again.
It was perfectly plain to Marie that Hoel was very pleased with Tiher. It was odd that Tiher didn’t realize that. She smiled to herself.
Hoel caught the smile. “What are you grinning at, Mistress Cat?”
“I was remembering a compliment the duchess paid my judgment,” returned Marie. She glanced significantly toward Tiher.
The duke’s mouth twitched. “You’re lucky I like clever women. Tell me, what shall I call my wolf?”
“What does one call a wolf?” asked Marie. “Isengrim?”
“As in the fable?” said Tiher. “Reynard the Fox and Lord Isengrim the Wolf! A very wicked lord, as I recall, much like a Norman baron.”
“This wolf is a good Breton wolf,” the duke said reprovingly. “But the name … ye-es, I like it. I called the wolf cub I kept Wolf, but Isengrim is altogether grander. You hear that, Wolf? Your name is Isengrim! Good boy, Isengrim, good wolf!”
The wolf trailed after him looking more dejected than ever.
It was dark when they reached the hunting lodge, and the wind, which had gusted all day, had risen so that the bare branches of the trees rocked and hissed across the sky. It was beginning to rain, the cold, driving rain of early March, and the hunting party was very ready to go in by the fire. Instead it was forced to stand around discussing what to do with Isengrim. The Master of Hounds refused to have the animal in the kennels: “It would disturb the dogs.” Duchess Havoise, who appeared to greet her husband and was brought into the consultation, adamantly refused to have the beast in the house: “I’m sure it’s not housebroken.” It was eventually decided to chain the wolf in the boiling shed by the kitchen. This was only used to prepare boar carcasses in the season, and was empty. When a chain had been found, fastened to the collar, and secured to a cauldron bracket, the Master of Hounds reluctantly fetched a dish of the bread and offal mix fed to the dogs, together with a bowl of water. The forester fetched a long forked pole and pinned the wolf’s head to the ground with it so that the muzzle could be removed without any danger. Isengrim did not fight when this was done, and did not pay any attention to the food afterward. They left him crouching on the boiling room floor. The last thing Marie noticed was the red glare of the torchlight in his eyes.
She had not protested at the duke’s decision to keep the animal, but she was still horrified. Wolves for her were inextricably bound up with what had happened to her in the forest near Bonne Fontaine. The thought of the creature crouching in the boiling shed, eyes gleaming, hung heavy on her mind. She fell asleep easily that night, healthily tired from the exertions of the hunt, but before morning she was tossing uneasily in a nightmare.
She was in the forest again, and a wolf was hunting her. She ran, her face whipped by the low branches of the trees, her clothes torn by the clinging fingers of the thorns. The mud of peat bogs dragged at her feet, and the icy rain stung her. She tripped at last and fell. At once the beast was upon her, snarling horribly, and its teeth locked in her shoulder. She struggled to her feet and tried to pull away from it, and she heard a rip, and saw the animal’s red eyes glaring as it tore a long bloody seam of flesh from her back. She woke sweating and struggling.
She lay still for a minute, her heart pounding. She was alone tonight: the other ladies Havoise had brought to attend her were all married, and Marie had been given a bed and a partition all to herself. She’d rolled against the side of the bed and knocked her shoulder against the post.
She sat up, pressed her hands against her face, and said some prayers to steady herself. Her partitioned-off room was a corner of the hall, and she could tell from the soft breathing all around her that the rest of the hunting party was asleep. But she did not want to return to sleep, in case the wolf was waiting there to meet her again.
The cure for nightmares, she told herself, was to confront them. In sleep the wolf had hunted her, but in reality, she had hunted it. It was a poor, frightened animal and securely chained, and when she saw it she wouldn’t need to feel afraid. She pulled her gown on, picked up her cloak, shoved her bare feet into her shoes, and picked her way carefully around the side of the partition and across the hall of the lodge to the door. As she opened it, Mirre padded over to her from some corner — the lymer was a favorite of the duke’s and allowed the run of any of his houses. Marie patted her and allowed the animal to follow her out.
The sky was clear, and the rain-wet ground was dark with patches of ice. The sun was not yet up, but the stars were fading, and there was a smear of pink in the east. The servants were beginning to stir; she could hear sleepy voices from the kitchens, and the splash of water in a pail. Marie pulled her cloak over her shoulders and walked slowly toward the boiling shed.
The wolf was curled up in the middle of the boiling shed floor. He had drunk all the water left for him but had not eaten. The animal part of him was stunned with terror, and the human self bewildered with shame. He should never have begged for mercy. Twice he’d begged for it in thought and received none: he should not have degraded himself a third time. His life was not worth living, and he had been prepared to die bravely. It was only confusion, a moment’s forgetting of what he was, that had made him turn to his lord in hope. Against all likelihood, he’d now been granted mercy — and what did that mercy consist of? Muzzles and chains, and the condescending goodwill or loathing of those who’d respected him as a man. Good wolf, good boy! Even in his voiceless daze, the condition seared his heart, and he wished he were dead.
He lifted his head from his tail when Marie came to the door, but did not otherwise move. He recognized her at once: she was one of the few humans of the court whom he’d seen in his present form. She had waved a stick at him in the forest once, and yelled “Scat!”
That had been just after his betrothal to Eline: he had gone out into the forest as a man, walking at random because the joy had been so great he had wanted to treasure it to himself for a time. And in the middle of the forest he had been overcome by the desire to lose himself completely in the sweet drunkenness of Broceliande in Spring. He had occasionally left the human part of himself somewhere other than St. Mailon’s — casually, it now seemed to him, with a carelessness verging on the criminal. He’d left it then, and it was as a wolf that he’d seen the girl, and scented the robbers nearby, and reluctantly realized that he’d have to intervene. The human memory of how he’d found her imposed itself on the wolf’s memory of the first meeting: the one robber crouching on her feet while the other two peeled her clothes off. He had rescued her and brought her to safety, and she had honored him and been grateful.
And what had become of that honor and gratitude now? He was nothing more than a beast from which the woman recoiled. He had smelled the fear on her the previous evening, and he could smell it again now.
There was a dog with her, too, a bitch, a house dog, with the scent of humans and smoke clinging to her fur. She stood beside the woman with her head down and her hackles raised, making a low singsong noise in her throat, part whine and part growl. He did not growl back, only stared at them both impassively.
The dog stopped growling, shook herself, and gave a soft, bewildered “Wuff!” She took a step nearer, her nostrils flaring. He could smell her distress and confusion, and began to be puzzled by them. All the other dogs hated him. They would hate any wolf, but they particularly hated him, because they could sense something unnatural about him. This dog was different. It was the same one that had barked at him the day before, barked in greeting rather than defiance. It was a …
he dragged the word up, a lymer. He had once had one that he had particularly treasured. Mirre, he thought, it’s Mirre. And as he thought it, he understood suddenly that she had recognized him; that somehow, under all the other scents, she had smelled out the self, and was bewildered at where she found it. He climbed to his feet, pierced with joy. Someone, even if only a dog, had recognized him.
He whined, and Mirre gave up trying to understand what he’d done to himself, and bounded over. She licked his face and paws, her tail wagging so hard that her hindquarters slipped with a scratch of toenails back and forth across the floor. Here was the master. He had covered himself in wolf, for some reason, but it was him. Good girl, Mirre!
Marie hadn’t expected the duke’s prize dog to bound up to the wolf: lymers were not expected to attack prey, just to track it. She gave an exclamation of dismay, then stared in disbelief as the lymer fawned happily upon the wolf. “Mirre!” she called urgently. “Here, Mirre!”
Mirre whined and looked at the wolf. He licked her ears gently, and she lay down in front of him, ignoring Marie. Isengrim lay down as well, and rested his chin on the dog’s back, looking at Marie challengingly.
She suddenly remembered Tiarnán at his wedding, saying he was not afraid of werewolves because wolves are “gentler beasts than they’re given credit for.” The memory, which had been buried, leapt perfectly clear. She knelt down, facing the wolf, looking into the light brown, black-rimmed eyes. They were unreachably alien, yet they held neither malice nor hatred. The eyes of Éon’s wolf skin had been hollow, she remembered: all the savagery she’d dreaded had been in the human eyes beneath. Was that always the case? Wolves were dangerous: they killed sheep, and occasionally, so the stories said, children; they followed armies and fed on human flesh. But in the end they were far less deadly than men.
Without pausing to reflect, she extended her hand toward the wolf; even as the gesture was completed, she realized it was lunacy to try to touch an unmuzzled killer from the forest. But Isengrim only sniffed at her hand politely. Marie held her breath and touched him. The fur of his neck was unexpectedly soft and warm. Slowly she pulled her hand away and sat back on her heels, staring. The wolf stared back unblinking. He was, she thought, really a rather beautiful animal. “I won’t have nightmares about you again,” she said aloud.
The Wolf Hunt Page 26
