Suffocated by its own blood, it let go, and he sprang away. His tail hurt horribly, might be broken — but a tail wasn’t something he needed for fighting. Strike while they’re off balance. He darted in toward the half-blind hound again, on its blind side, and ripped savagely at its forepaw. Then he circled behind both of them and ran to the far side of the pit, where he crouched panting to catch his breath. He had reached the state he had found sometimes in battle, when the noise and the hate and hitting gave way to a great, exhilarating clarity, and for all the pain in his tail he felt invulnerable.
Both limping now, the wolfhounds edged toward him. They still barked and bayed, but more hesitantly. They were beginning to be afraid of him. He howled again, tauntingly, and dropped to his side on the ground, as though he were in no danger and had decided to rest. Again they were bewildered, and again he took advantage of that instant of confusion to strike. He leapt up and shot diagonally in front of them to catch the half-blind one on its blind side yet again. The hind leg, this time; again the sweet salt taste of blood. He ran on to the other end of the pit, leapt to turn, and tore back eagerly to attack again; the less severely injured dog had turned to face him, though the blinded one cowered. He crouched snarling, muzzle to muzzle with it for a moment, then feinted at its injured nose. It flinched, and he twisted and tore at its foreleg, then danced off again.
The two dogs, both doubly lame, their muzzles rippled open and bleeding, crouched in their places, their hackles up and their tails down. The onlookers were shouting and screaming; Isengrim could make out the yell of the Count of Bayeux, urging them to attack. But the wolfhounds were afraid. This creature smelled like a wolf, but it didn’t behave like a wolf. And now that they were afraid they noticed the strangeness of their opponent: even the scent was wrong. They had been bred and trained to kill wolves, but this was an unnatural thing, and a deadly one. They wanted to run away.
Isengrim walked slowly along the wall of the pit toward them, and they backed away. He stopped and stared at them insolently, then turned his back on them and walked the other way. One of the wolfhounds picked up its courage at this appearance of retreat and made a staggering lunge; at once the wolf leapt up against the wall, turned himself against it, and crashed down upon the lame and half-blind dog. It managed to keep its head up, and its fangs tore his face as he landed, ripping open his jaw, but then he had pinned it to the ground with his weight and caught its heavy collar in his mouth. He drew his head upward, drawing the collar tight, and then twisted. The dog yelped and struggled, but with its cracked leg bone it couldn’t push him off, and he flung his weight repeatedly against its shoulders, banging it down again and again, and twisting the collar tighter all the time. The other dog ran forward, yelping and barking as it tried to work up the nerve to attack. Its fellow’s struggles were feeble now. Isengrim stopped banging it and met the other animal’s eyes. He held those eyes with his own as he strangled its fellow, and it stood, whimpering, until the other wolfhound was still. Then he let go of the collar and got up.
The remaining hound fell back. It put its tail between its legs, ran back to the kennel entrance, and cowered there, whimpering in terror. Isengrim stood in the center of the pit, bleeding from face and tail. His fury, no longer needed, ebbed away. Poor beast, he thought. The onlookers screamed and bellowed all around. Kill them both, the duke had said. But what honor was there in killing a terrified animal? He glanced about, looking for Hoel.
The duke was beside the king, in the front tier of onlookers, hanging beaming over the railings and banging the wall of the pit with his fists. “Good wolf, Isengrim!” he shouted, catching the wolf’s eyes. “Good boy! That’s it, you brave beast: he’s surrendered; spare him!” In his excitement he was shouting in Breton, but Isengrim understood that better than French. He grinned at the duke, and, turning his back on the cowering hound, went over to the space beneath the royal bench and sat down. Hoel swore, vaulted over the railings, and dropped into the pit beside him. He embraced the wolf, blood and all, then grinned up at the king and count of Bayeux. “Well, my lord Ranulf?” he said. “My wolf wants to spare your miserable cur. Do you want to have it taken out, or shall I tell Isengrim to finish it off?”
The half-blind dog would have been killed anyway, but the remaining beast might recover. The Count of Bayeux had his hound taken out, and the Duke of Brittany clipped the leash back onto the his wolf’s collar and led it victorious from the ring. The courtiers who’d placed bets on the wolf, and who hadn’t been able to retract them after seeing the dogs, rushed over with congratulations. The Normans came scowling and more slowly.
“You owe me twenty marks!” Hoel crowed triumphantly to Ranulf.
“The beast is a witch!” snapped the count. “It didn’t fight like any natural creature.”
“So? I’ve told everyone that he’s an intelligent animal, far cleverer than any dog. You trust too much to strength, you Normans. Skill counts, too. Twenty marks, my lord — or do you want to default on your bet, eh?”
The king appeared beside the count. “I owe you twenty marks as well, my lord Hoel,” he said. “And I’ll pay the sum gladly, and five times more as well, if you will let me keep the wolf.”
“Not for a hundred marks, and not for a thousand!” exclaimed Hoel. “Truthfully, my lord, if you were in my place, would you sell him?”
“If I were in your place, I would thank God and keep him,” replied Philippe with a smile. “Very well. You had better take him off and have his injuries seen to.”
For the Breton party, nothing was too good for the duke’s wolf. Most of them had bet on him to beat the dogs, and had the pleasure of collecting money from Parisians and, even better, from Normans. They went out and spent most of their winnings in the taverns of Paris, staggering home drunk and shouting out to all the world that Count Ranulf had had two wolfhounds, and the one was dead and the other turned coward because of one good Breton wolf. Isengrim had his lacerated tail bandaged in silk and was fed on steak, minced to spare the stitches in his jaw. For his own part, the wolf was glad to have shamed the Normans and delighted his liege. But the sweetest thing was to have fought beasts like a man, and won.
The following day, the king finally heard the case of the rival claimants to the manor of Chalandrey. Law was a man’s affair, and Marie and the duchess waited in their allotted quarters in the palace to learn the decision. Marie had profited from Havoise’s shopping expeditions to buy a couple of books, and she read to the duchess and her ladies from one of them. Inwardly, she was queasy with tension. She regretted declaring her intentions to the king. He might otherwise have decided on the evidence that Chalandrey was Hoel’s.
The court recessed at noon, and Hoel returned for a quick meal. No, he told them: there was no decision yet. He’d presented his evidence to the king and argued his case; now the Normans were presenting theirs. Afterward, both sides would sum up, and the king would give his verdict. Hoel kissed Havoise and went back to the court.
Marie sat down in the rushes beside Isengrim and scratched the wolf’s ears. He rested his head in her lap, on one side to take the weight off the slash on his jaw. It was a deep cut, and ran from the middle of his lower lip halfway down his throat, and it was sore and inflamed. Marie noticed the inflammation and fetched a basin of salty water and a sponge to bathe it. “Good wolf,” she whispered as she stroked the cut gently. He looked up at her affectionately.
She was sitting there, bathing the wolf’s injury and thinking about anything but the court case, when Kenmarcoc’s story about his night in the stocks leapt suddenly to her mind, and she finally realized why she had found it so disquieting. According to what the clerk had said, Eline had returned to Talensac after her husband had gone away for the last time, but before anyone realized he was missing. And yet she hadn’t wanted to be reconciled with her husband: she’d quarreled with Judicaël when he came to help her do just that, and Judicaël had not seemed to Marie a man given to quarreling. Marie remembered exactly
that voice in the darkness: “Marrying him was the greatest mistake I ever made, and I’m glad I’m free of him.” If Eline hadn’t wanted to be reconciled, why had she returned to Talensac?
Because she knew that her husband was already dead, and wanted to appear innocent of his murder.
Marie’s hand froze in midstroke, and she reasoned with herself. It was tragic that Eline should have decided to try for reconciliation too late. Tragic, not suspicious.
But Alain, who had loved Eline all along, had left Nantes shortly before Tiarnán disappeared. Marie could remember it now: the two journeys to buy hawks in St. Malo; the two returns hawkless, and Tiher’s caustic comments about it. Had that really coincided with Tiarnán’s disappearance, or was she misremembering? The first time Alain went to St. Malo, it had been about the time of the Feast of Saint Michael: that was a festival she’d always observed with special devotion, and she could remember he’d been absent for it. And the second time? A couple of weeks later. He’d even armed then: Tiher had commented on that, too, laughing at the absurdity of wearing all that fine mail just to buy a hawk. If there was no certainty that the fit was exact, still, it was close. Frighteningly close. He could have gone once to see Eline and hear her plea for freedom, and once to murder his rival, who was hunting alone and lightly armed.
Isengrim whined. She’d been pressing the sponge against his wound. She stroked his head apologetically, squeezed the sponge out, dipped it back in the brine, and began stroking the cut with it again. The possibility that had just occurred to her was monstrous, and it would be utterly wrong to breathe a word of her suspicions to anyone — yet. She would have to check some of the details first. She could talk to Kenmarcoc, find out exactly when Tiarnán had disappeared, and see if he had more to say about his former master and his hunting expeditions. That should be easy: Kenmarcoc was a talkative man, and particularly fond of telling anyone who’d listen about the excellence of Talensac in general and “the machtiern” in particular. The other thing that could be checked was more difficult: she needed to know if anyone had sent Alain a message before he went to St. Malo. But with thought … she could ask Tiher about ships, how one knew what ships were docking, how Alain had heard about that ship with the hawks …
Judicaël probably knew more. The hermit would reveal no secrets, though; she was certain of that. She remembered now, however, his baffling comment about how she should tell him when her judgment was complete. There was something he hoped she could determine — something he considered himself too partial to decide. Eline’s guilt.
Was it really her place to decide that? Was it good, even for Tiarnán’s sake, to question the matter any further? He had had a secret: Eline had made that clear, and Judicaël had only confirmed it. If she dragged the facts of his disappearance out into the light of day, the secret might come with them. Whether Eline were innocent or guilty, to pursue her might destroy the only thing her husband had left on earth: his reputation.
If Tiarnán really had been betrayed by his wife and murdered by her lover, then justice was due. All her beliefs cried out that it was false to think a crime could lie buried and poison no one as it decayed. If there really was a case, she would present it to Duke Hoel, and he would see to it that justice was done.
The door was flung open, and Hoel stalked in, his face crimson from his throat to the bald patch on the top of his head. He flung himself into his seat and glared at Marie. “Well!” he said. “The archangel won!”
“Well, at least the Normans didn’t,” soothed Havoise, jumping up and coming over to him. “My dear, have something to drink: it’s far too hot a day to talk law with a dry throat.” She nodded to Sybille, who hurried over with a jug of watered wine and a cup.
Hoel gulped the wine thirstily, then flung the cup into the fireplace, where it shattered. At this Isengrim got up and pressed his nose into the duke’s hand. Hoel softened at the touch and began roughing the wolf’s fur. “The archangel won,” he repeated, wearily this time. “King Philippe listened to all our summing up, and then said sweetly that the matter was too complicated to decide easily, but that since the rightful heiress to the manor had announced her intention of giving all her lands to Saint Michael, and since this was a pious and godly intention, and the prayers of the holy monks would support peace, the land should go to God. If Marie wants, we are to let her join St. Michael’s convent and take vows; if she doesn’t want, the land is still to go to the saint, but she may keep whatever goods the manor house contains and use them as her dowry. If she declines to give the manor to Saint Michael, the whole estate is forfeited to the crown. To the crown! What right does the king have to Chalandrey, I’d like to know?”
“My dear,” said Havoise after a moment’s thought, “I believe that if the archangel hadn’t entered the contest, the crown would have claimed the whole.”
Hoel snorted. “He could never have made that stick.”
“Which is probably why he decided on the archangel.”
Hoel laughed ruefully and ran his hand over his bald patch.
Marie was staring at him in confusion. Her heart was beating fast, as if with hope — but she could not believe she had any hope. “The king suggested that I give away the manor of Chalandrey but keep its contents?” she asked.
The contents of Chalandrey, as she knew very well, included an enormous amount of silver, plate, and jewels — spoils of England, which her grandfather had helped to conquer under Duke William. She had never before thought of the money as divisible from the house or lands. Like the serfs who farmed the estate, her grandfather’s wealth had been part of Chalandrey, a resource which its lord could draw on at need. Now she saw that it was indeed something that could be taken away, and that it would, indeed, form a perfectly respectable dowry.
Hoel grinned at her question. “That was a good thought of the king’s, wasn’t it?” he said. “He doesn’t want you to follow your lands to a convent any more than I do.”
Marie stared even more stupidly, like a young child who cannot understand her elders’ meaning. “Do you mean,” she said slowly, “that you don’t want me to go back to St. Michael’s when we return to Brittany?”
“Of course,” said Hoel, his eyebrows bobbing up in surprise. “Why would I?”
Havoise looked at Marie’s face and laughed. “My dear,” she said, “is it really so surprising that we like you? You know what the court’s like. It’s full to bursting with men, and noisy young men at that. There’s no pleasure in living in an armed camp all the time. Even the men don’t like it. A pretty, clever young woman like you adds more joy to the place than I can say. You’ve certainly been a delight to me ever since you arrived. Stay with us for a little while longer, at least, and don’t hurry to make up your mind to be a nun. You’ve got a dowry now, and I can think of at least one court official who might have been willing to take you without a penny.”
“Tiher wants land,” Marie stammered, blushing with embarrassed astonishment.
“Tiher will have land,” replied Hoel. “Just as soon as one of my vassals dies without heirs — and there are two or three that might pop off at any time. I’m not going to let a man like Tiher go wanting when idiots like his cousin hold manors. Let me give Tiher an estate, and then see if he doesn’t decide to take up the chase again, eh? But whatever you do, stay with us awhile longer.”
Marie looked from him to Havoise in confusion, and the duchess chuckled.
“There’s nothing I’d like better!” exclaimed Marie, running to kiss her.
And I’ll stay, she thought privately, at least until I can settle whether Eline has a case to answer or not.
XV
Duke Hoel returned to Brittany in the first week of June. His manor of Talensac, which had paid little attention to its overlord’s departure, paid even less to his return. For Talensac, that June would be remembered bitterly as the month Lord Alain doubled the charges at the mill.
Since Easter, Alain had been growing more and more desperat
e for money. When he’d returned home after the disastrous wolf hunt at Treffendel, he’d decided that the best way to stop his wife’s tears was to strip Talensac manor house of every trace of its former owner. He’d got rid of all the old furniture, burning what he couldn’t sell, and ordered new, of the best quality that could be made. He’d torn down Tiarnán’s hunting tapestries from the walls, bundled them up with all Tiarnán’s clothes, his armor, bow, spears, and the sword which had once sunk through Geoffroy of Bellême’s helmet a hand’s breadth into his skull, and he’d taken them to Nantes, together with the chestnut warhorse, and offered them to the Jew as partial payment of his debt.
The Jew did not really want them. All members of his faith were banned by law from riding horses or bearing arms, and he was a banker, not a merchant. However, he did not want to offend his debtor, and he knew the fabulous cost of warhorses and armor, so he accepted the things and placed them with a Gentile associate until they could be sold. Alain then went shopping with the fifteen marks left from what he’d borrowed, and spent it all. Vast amounts of new linen for the new beds, new blankets, a new cupboard, one new tapestry hanging … he ran out of money before he could buy the rest. He’d hoped that the quarterly rents, due on Easter Monday, would provide him with more. But the amount that came in was disappointing, and the household expenses had by then begun to grow alarmingly.
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