“Yours!” Robert shouted back. “She’s not yours! She belongs to Duke Robert!”
“She’s my wife’s cousin and a member of my household!” replied Hoel furiously. “And if she really has said she won’t marry a Norman, it’s because she’s finally realized what sort of people you are!”
“I did say I wouldn’t marry a Norman,” said Marie, wiping blood off her chin. She pushed Havoise’s supporting arm away and stood straight. “But it wasn’t because of that.” Inside her like a pillar of bronze rose the conviction that she didn’t belong to anyone but herself and God; that all these people who clustered about her, protectively or aggressively, were building nets to catch the wind. She turned to King Philippe. “My lord, you know yourself that there are strong claims to Chalandrey on both sides. If the matter were straightforward, why would we all be here awaiting your judgment? Duke Hoel says he can prove legal title; Duke Robert has been the recognized overlord for forty years. I am bound to respect my father’s loyalties, and I have done so. But I am also bound to respect Duke Hoel’s claims, and I am, besides, indebted to him and to Duchess Havoise for the favor they’ve shown me. I said to Lord Robert here, and I repeat to you now, that whatever you decide about the manor, I myself will betray neither loyalty. If I am not permitted to choose a husband, still, canon law and custom allow me to refuse one. I say now that I refuse to give Chalandrey to anyone but God and the abbey convent of St. Michael’s. Anyone else who takes it will have to disinherit me first.”
There was a stunned silence. Then King Philippe smiled.
“So, my two barons are now contesting this manor with an archangel?” he asked. “A fearsome adversary! But, my lady Marie, the case has not been heard yet; it would be better to leave such declarations until it has.”
She curtsied. “Forgive me, my lord.”
The king greatly admired handsome, high-spirited women: it was the reason he’d run off with Bertrada. He gave Marie a warm smile. “My lady,” he said, “I think I’d be prepared to forgive a woman such as yourself almost anything. As for my lord of Bellême” he turned to Robert, “sir, you have struck one of my guests at my own table and drawn your sword in my hall. You will surrender your sword and go down on your knees and apologize, to me and to this lady, or you will leave this court tonight and never return.”
Robert glared. Ranulf of Bayeux glared back at him. “Apologize!” he ordered. “Or I’ll give the same order in Duke Robert’s name.”
Not even a vassal as insubordinate as Robert of Bellême could afford to have two out of three overlords angry with him at the same time. Stiffly and reluctantly, Robert knelt down and grated out an apology, first to the king, then, even more reluctantly, to Marie. He unbuckled his sword and handed it to Philippe. Hoel laughed.
“That makes twice I’ve seen you hand over your sword, my lord of Bellême,” he said. “Once to me, and once to the king. I remember I made you pay ten marks to get it back; I hope he charges more.”
Robert gave him a bloody look. “Next time we meet, I pray God permits me to put my sword somewhere better than your hands.”
“You think you can manage against me better than your brother Geoffroy did?”
The look became even more savage. “The knight of yours that killed my brother isn’t here,” he said. “I heard he met with an accident in the forest. I hope he died slowly, and I pray that God rewards all your knights with such an end!”
“It’s true that I’ve been deprived of the services of Tiarnán of Talensac,” Hoel replied proudly. “But God has given me many other brave men to fight for me. And even if he took one of my finest, still, he gave me another servant from the same forest where the man was lost.” He rested his hand on Isengrim’s head. “Even this animal rushed to defend what was mine.”
“Though you’re afraid to let him fight,” Ranulf put in quickly.
“By God, I am not!” exclaimed Hoel. “I wasn’t afraid when Lord Robert here invaded my lands, and I’m not afraid to set a good Breton wolf against a pair of Norman dogs. Bring them on, my lord Ranulf; bring them on by all means. Isengrim will see them out, won’t you, boy? Just as I’ll see out any Normans who treat my lands and people with contempt. Bring on your dogs tomorrow morning, my lord, and Isengrim will kill them both.”
XIV
I sengrim lay in the corner of the duke’s chamber, watching as Havoise washed Marie’s bruises. Hoel sat beside him, in the chair just above, one dangling hand toying with the fur of his neck.
“Oh, Hoel,” sighed the duchess, “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
The wolf understood her easily. He could follow most conversations now, Breton or French, though still only with an effort of concentration. If he relaxed, the human noises flowed over his head in an unmeaning blur. He was concentrating now.
“Isengrim can kill Ranulf’s dogs — can’t you, Isengrim? Did you see the way he snarled at Robert? Scared the man witless.”
“Not that,” said Havoise impatiently. “God knows, I’d be sorry enough to see the beast killed or maimed — but I’ll be sorrier still to see Robert of Bellême invading again. And you practically invited him to try.”
Hoel’s hand in Isengrim’s fur went still, gripping painfully hard for a moment. “Havoise,” he said, “I am a duke. I have a place to keep up for the honor of Brittany.”
“You were angry, and you let your pride run away with your tongue,” said Havoise. “Marie, you’d better lie down, and I’ll make you a compress of borage leaves to take up that bruising.”
“Well, I was angry,” said Hoel defensively. “It was a vile, loutish blow.”
“Yes, but he’d been reproved for it by his overlord’s steward and the King of France! He was a bull being led off by the nose already. You know the bull will charge for any provoking rag, so why provoke him?”
“If he invades again, he’ll get the same response he did last time,” said Hoel. “Only with luck, we’ll be able to kill the brute and have done with him. You can’t expect to have peace with a neighbor like that, and Robert of Normandy has never done anything to check him.”
“Hoel, my dear,” said the duchess in exasperation, “you and I both know that the Normans are stronger than we are. Don’t provoke them!”
“Oh, I know,” said Hoel wearily. “I know we’re not even going to get Chalandrey outright. I saw that the evening we arrived, when there were more Normans and Parisians at the high table than Bretons.” He began roughing the wolf’s fur again. “All the more reason to give them a bit of a fight, eh, Isengrim?”
“I’m sorry,” said Marie, suddenly sitting up with the compress of borage leaves pressed against her face. “I wish I had given you Chalandrey. Robert will use it as a base to invade you, won’t he?”
“My dear, I don’t think he’ll be able to,” said Havoise. “King Philippe is unlikely to give it to Duke Robert outright, either. Don’t worry: the person who’s behaved best throughout this whole dispute is you. I was so proud of you this evening. Did you see the way old Ranulf’s jaw dropped? He looked like a carp. I couldn’t have been more delighted with you if you were my own daughter.”
Hoel snorted. “She’s sunk whatever chance we had left of getting the manor. King Philippe’s never going to miss an opportunity like that. If two dukes and an archangel can claim a manor, and either duke will be offended at losing it to the other, it’s not hard to guess that piety will triumph and the archangel carry the day.”
Havoise smiled. “And do you mind that so very much?”
Hoel looked at her a moment, then got up, crossed the room, and kissed her. “Well, it was never a question of rents anyway, was it? If Saint Michael has it, he’ll at least keep the border secure.”
Marie all at once bitterly regretted her own proud devotion to honor. She should have given them Chalandrey. She should have married Tiher and given Chalandrey to Brittany. But it was too late now. The king would award it to Saint Michael, and she would be left to the convent, with her cold
honor uselessly secure. She began to cry silently into the duchess’s compress of borage leaves.
The tears were invisible behind the compress, but Isengrim could smell them. He came over and pressed his nose into Marie’s hand, then licked her chin. Her skin kept its sweet taste, even under the sharpness of the borage and the salt of tears. For one aching moment he had an image of himself as a man, stroking back her hair, lifting the compress of leaves away, and telling her not to cry. He could almost imagine her eyes meeting his own, and the way her lips would part as he leaned down to kiss her — but he could not remember the color of her eyes. He was not a man. He was only an animal, and what comfort he could bring her was limited. He had leapt furiously to protect her that evening, but he knew with infinite grief that his protection, like his love, was the inadequate offering of an inferior.
His touch was still enough to make Marie fling her arms around his neck and cry into his fur. The pressure of her body meant nothing to his now, but the closeness was comforting to them both. “Oh, Isengrim!” she said after a moment, sitting up straight again and stroking his head. “I wish you weren’t fighting tomorrow!”
Isengrim merely licked her hand. He was perfectly happy to be fighting tomorrow. He’d never been reluctant to fight for Hoel as a man, and he was no less willing as a wolf. It was just a pity that his opponents would be dogs, not men. He would have been glad to fight Robert of Bellême. It would have been easy to kill the man in the hall that evening — cut round to his left, brace against the bench, and leap on his sword arm from behind. Robert wouldn’t have expected the move from an animal. He would have dropped his sword, and it would have been a matter of seconds to tear his throat out. Isengrim would have died himself afterward, of course: an animal that killed a baron would undoubtedly have been destroyed. But Hoel’s bitter enemy would be dead, and the insult to Marie avenged. Alain de Fougères, unfortunately, would have been left secure — but still, it would have been a notable deed for a wolf, and a glorious end. Killing a couple of dogs would be a lot less satisfying.
He ate a good meal that night and settled down to sleep quickly and easily. In the morning, when he was offered only water, he overrode his protesting instincts without difficulty: it was better to fight fasting. He stood still to have the leash clipped to his collar, and followed the duke out into the king’s hall.
The court was excited about the fight, and bets were being placed eagerly, most of them favoring the wolf. Isengrim stood motionless in a crowd of admirers while Hoel ascertained where the fight would take place. There was a bear-baiting pit in the palace garden, and it emerged that the king had already gone there with Count Ranulf to decide its suitability for a wolf fight. Hoel and the rest of the court threaded their way through the maze of the palace into the garden to join the king.
The royal garden lay on the very point of the He de la Cite, which jutted out into the river like the prow of a ship pointing downstream to the distant sea. They crunched down gravel paths among the beds of herbs, under an arbor of newly leaved roses, and found the bear pit. It was sunk into the ground more deeply than a man was tall, and its sides and floor were lined with stone rubble set in cheap mortar. The pit itself was ringed with banks of seats for the spectators. King Philippe was standing at the entrance to these, talking to Ranulf. Both men turned and greeted Hoel cordially when he appeared. “What about this, eh?” said Philippe, waving a hand at the bear pit. “Do you think it would sit?”
“It’s a bit small,” said Hoel, glancing into the pit. “A confined space will favor the dogs, my lord. But my lord Ranulf’s dogs probably need favoring. Yes, it will do.”
Ranulf smirked. “You sound very sure of your wolf, my lord Hoel.”
“He’s a good wolf,” replied Hoel, patting Isengrim. “I’ll back him for twenty marks against your dogs.”
“Taken,” said Ranulf at once, and shook hands on it. King Philippe looked uneasy. “And you, my lord,” Ranulf said, turning to him, “will you be placing any bets?”
Philippe hesitated uncomfortably. “I think I will bet on your dogs, my lord,” he said slowly. “But I think Duke Hoel should see them before he accepts the bet.”
Ranulf gestured to one of his attendants, and a moment later, the two dogs were led up.
Isengrim had expected a pair of alaunts, the usual hound for wolf or boar — tall, handsome dogs about his own size. Ranulf’s hounds were a good four inches taller than he was at the shoulder — hairy, heavy-chested beasts with the massive, crushing jaws of a mastiff. Their ears flattened when they scented him, and their hackles rose. They lowered their powerful heads and began to growl. He could smell their hatred. One of them might be a fair match for him. Two of them — two of them could kill any wolf.
Isengrim’s mind went dim, numbed with shock. He was aware of the duke protesting, and of Ranulf taunting him smugly — “You didn’t specify the breed of dog, my lord of Brittany. These are wolfhounds, a gift from my cousin in England. Are you afraid for your good Breton wolf?” The duke’s leg, pressed against the wolf, began to shake with anger and indignation. But the wolf realized that Hoel would not, could not back out after all his boasts. Rather than give up, he would allow his wolf to be torn apart before his eyes. Isengrim glanced back at the rest of the Breton party. Havoise’s scent was sharp with anger, and Marie’s, still bruised and smelling faintly of borage, was salty with distress. Isengrim looked back at the wolfhounds. The human self struggled up inside him and said, If I am a man, I am more than equal to these dogs. If I’m not, I should have died before now. And if I die now, fighting for my liege lord, it’s a good end.
He licked Hoel’s hand, and the duke looked down at him angrily. He trotted forward to the end of the leash and snarled deliberately at the two wolfhounds. At once they both flung themselves toward him, nearly dragging their handlers off their feet. They hung against their collars, choking, growling, and barking with rage. He coolly sat down just beyond their reach and glanced back at Hoel. I’ll fight them, he tried to tell the duke with his eyes. You will not be made ashamed.
Everyone, even Ranulf, exclaimed at him. Hoel, with an oath, accepted the king’s wager as well as that of the Count of Bayeux. But there were tears in his eyes when he led Isengrim down to the barred door of the underground passage that was the bear’s entrance to the bear pit. The king’s man opened the door, and Hoel bent and unclipped the leash — then knelt and put an arm around him, rubbing his ears. “You’re a brave beast,” said the duke, not in court French but in plain Breton. “The best I ever owned. By God, I’ve been glad of you.” He kissed the wolf’s head. Then he stood up. “Kill them both for me, Isengrim!” he shouted in French for the courtiers to hear. “Kill them both!”
Isengrim whined and trotted into the round pit, and the door swung shut behind him.
The dogs were still behind their door, in the other kennel entrance to the bear pit. Isengrim sat down in the pit’s center, gathering himself for the combat. He had to be prepared for death, but he hoped to live. The dogs were bigger and heavier than he was. They were stronger and had a longer reach. Their jaws were terrible. One bite in the wrong place, and he’d be crippled and torn to pieces. And from the look of the wolfhounds, they’d fight like mastiffs: once they got a grip, they’d hang on. On his side, he was probably faster than they were, and more agile, though these were not qualities an animal could use to full advantage in the cramped, sheer-walled pit. Even if he did somehow manage to kill or maim the dogs enough to end the fight, if he were crippled himself, he’d die. Hoel might prize a pet wolf, but he’d certainly destroy it if it were maimed. Yes, the wagerers above, now busily readjusting the odds in the dogs’ favor, were right. A wolf’s chances here were bad.
But he had another advantage, one that none of the wagerers above was aware of. He shaped it in his mind, forcing himself to use words: I am not a wolf. He glanced upward at the wild, white faces pouring along the benches all around to watch, smelling the excitement and the lust for bloo
d. I am one of them, he told himself. Crippled though his reason was, he still had more than an animal’s cunning, subtlety, and the power to deceive. He had once been reckoned one of the best fighters in Brittany. If he could strike first, fast, and hard, he could win.
The door opposite was being unlocked now, and he got to his feet and reached into himself for that familiar rage that had always accompanied him into battle. You black-dog-shit bastards, he thought, the Breton words coming for once without effort. Come get me then. You’ll regret it.
The door opened, and he could hear the wolfhounds beyond it begin to bay. He howled.
Howling, for dogs as for wolves, was a call for the gathering of the pack and for the shared communion after a kill. It was not a reply to a bloodthirsty bay. The two dogs that rushed into the pit were momentarily bewildered, and in that instant’s bewilderment, Isengrim leapt on them. He must cripple at least one of them at once or he had no chance of surviving the fight. He sprang past the belatedly flashing teeth of the nearest and sank his own fangs deep into the middle joint of its hind leg. He tasted blood and felt the bone crack. The wolfhound yelped in pain. It lunged at him, but he was already away from it. He sprang against the wall and used the force of his rebound to turn, bringing him down at the second animal’s side. He landed running and slashed at its muzzle as he passed, tearing it open from nose to ear, blinding it. Then he danced away, licking the blood from his lips. Good, good, good! screamed the fury inside him.
He could hear shouting above him, but he paid no attention, all his concentration focused on the dogs. His wolf’s body remembered the man’s instruction in weapons: strike quickly, strike hard, and strike while they’re off balance. He must not strike directly, though, like a true wolf: he must confuse them. Both dogs were running to attack him, but the one he’d lamed was slower, giving him the opportunity to take them one at a time. He turned as though he were trying to flee, then leapt against the wall of the pit again and used it to change direction, bringing him down, this time directly on top of the half-blind dog. He twisted while they fell together to the ground, looking for a place to strike. The hound’s head was stretched up in its effort to bite him, and he tore at its throat, but his teeth caught harmlessly in the heavy collar. And now the second wolfhound had caught up. It flung itself snarling and yelping onto his back and sank its jaws into the base of his tail. He pulled his nose away from the first hound’s throat and twisted to get at the second. His instincts screamed at him to slash stingingly and pull away, but he ruthlessly overrode them, remembering the mastiff grip. Instead he closed his own jaws on the hound’s nose.
The Wolf Hunt Page 32
