The Silver Wolf

by Alice Borchardt

  “The devil with my cup,” Lucilla said, hands gripping Regeane’s arms. “Are you all right? Never have I seen such an expression of terror on a human’s face. What happened? What frightened you so?”

  “There,” Regeane lifted the cup out of the bed of thyme. “Thank heaven it’s not broken.”

  Lucilla took the cup from her hands, filled it with wine, and held it to Regeane’s lips. “That’s better. The color’s coming back into your cheeks. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

  Regeane knew she could not. No one would understand the silver wolf, not even a woman as worldly-wise and clever as Lucilla. Regeane forced her whirling mind into a semblance of coherence. She’d lived with the wolf for most of her life, and deception had become second nature. She parried Lucilla’s question with another. “What would happen if I defied the king and became a courtesan like you?”

  Lucilla looked away from her abruptly, out across the dark garden. “I couldn’t be a party to that.”

  “Why?” Regeane asked desperately. “Is Charles so powerful?”

  “Yes,” Lucilla said, turning to stare back at Regeane. “He is. It would cost my life to cross him.”

  Regeane again felt the terror of her flight from Basil and the despair that filled her heart the night after her talk with Gundabald.

  When she first spoke to Lucilla in the square it seemed somehow miraculously a way of escape lay open before her. The demands made on a courtesan, the sale of her body for money, was repulsive. Yet, she could have borne such a life if it offered freedom to the beautiful, silent creature she was by moonlight.

  A courtesan lives alone. She could contrive excuses for her lover or lovers on those nights when the mistress of heaven commanded her heart.

  But apparently her encounter with Stephen and Antonius had slammed that door in her face. She was again trapped, with Gundabald and Hugo her only refuge. She had no assurance she could trust them once she had become their accomplice. Either one of them might betray her out of greed or simply spite.

  Lucilla stared at Regeane’s face, shadowed by the blue dusk that now lay over the garden, her brow furrowed and troubled. “Little one, tell me what it is you fear so terribly. Maybe it’s nothing so awful that it can’t be taken care of. Eh? Tell me. Is it the touch of a man, a man’s love? Believe me, that can be dealt with. I’ll show you what happens. Most women are afraid at first, but that turns quickly to tedium or, if the woman’s blood is warm enough and the man is reasonably skilled, joy.”

  She leaned closer to Regeane and placed an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll tell you a secret. Men love to please their wives and the most clumsy and stupid of them can be trained to pleasure even the most difficult women.”

  The look of desolation on Regeane’s face didn’t change.

  “Is it childbirth, then?”

  Regeane shook her head.

  Lucilla drew back. “I am at a loss.”

  “Suppose there are other women.”

  Lucilla laughed, a high silvery sound. “Is that all?” She patted Regeane’s hand, then kissed her cheek. “Oh, my little one, with your assets—beauty, grace, and a great name—it won’t be necessary for you even to acknowledge other women exist.” Lucilla sniggered. “Set out to enslave him and you will. I guarantee it. If you but learn a little of what I can teach you, he will worship at your feet.”

  Regeane pretended to be reassured. She sipped her wine. The light was gone from the sky, but it was not quite dark. The white flowers of the garden still glowed faintly against the darker masses of vegetation. The reflecting pool was beginning to fill with stars.

  Behind her in the open rooms of the villa she could hear the clatter of dishes and cutlery. Lights shone through the open doors and the voices of Lucilla’s servants called back and forth as they set the table for supper.

  It was beginning to be chilly. Lucilla’s arm embracing Regeane’s shoulders was warm, and somehow, in spite of the fact that Regeane couldn’t fully confess her fears, comforting.

  “Now, my dear,” Lucilla said, giving her shoulders a squeeze, “are you feeling better?”

  “Yes,” Regeane said softly, lifting the cup to her lips. She added hesitantly, “But there is one more art you could teach me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The art to which one appeals when all other arts fail.”

  Lucilla looked down at her, puzzled for a moment. Then she understood and stiffened. Her arms dropped from around Regeane’s shoulders and she drew away. “I see,” she said coldly. “You’re not as guileless as you appear. Is this your idea or was it planted in your head by that uncle of yours?”

  Regeane set the cup on the bench and rose to her feet. She stood facing Lucilla, a slender figure in the white stola, the older woman’s face just faintly visible in the light of the lamps in the room behind her.

  Regeane felt tears running down her cheeks, tears of rage and sorrow. “All right,” she sobbed out. “I am afraid, but not of men or of children or of my future husband’s wandering eye. The truth is … Oh, my God,” she faltered, “the truth is I can’t tell you the truth. How can you know what my life has been? These hours, these few hours I’ve spent with you, are the first happy ones in years. Since I first bled, since my womanhood came upon me, since …” Regeane clenched her fists and stared up at the moonless sky. “Oh, my God, how can I ever explain?” She cried out, covered her face with her hands and tried to run.

  But Lucilla stood up and clasped the girl’s trembling body to her, quieting her as she might a panicked child, stroking her hair and patting her back gently.

  “There, there. Don’t torment yourself so. I do believe you are as afraid as you say you are. I don’t know why you won’t tell me this dark secret, but I believe that it exists if only in your mind. And yes, if you so desperately wish it, I’ll teach you that final art. God knows it’s not difficult—a half dozen plants grow in this garden alone. Some in moderation help nature. Increase the amount and they harm it. Physicians steep the poppy capsule in wine. The one who drinks it enjoys a better sleep and freedom from pain; but too much of this potion renders that sleep eternal.”

  “I don’t want it for him,” Regeane said, “but for myself.”

  “What!” Lucilla stepped back. “Yourself?”

  “Some kinds of death are better than others,” Regeane said miserably.

  Lucilla’s eyes probed Regeane’s tear-stained face relentlessly. Finally she murmured, “I wish you could bring yourself to trust me with this terrible secret. I get the feeling there’s much more wrong here than …” She broke off as one of the maidservants left the lighted triclinium and approached them.

  “My lady, we await you at the table. Shall I bring the child?”

  “Oh, Elfgifa. I’d forgotten her, but no matter. There’s more than enough. Yes, yes, get her. She must be tired of waiting for us to join her.”

  The maid dimpled. “No, my lady. Right after her bath she fell asleep and awakened only a few minutes ago.”

  Another one of the maids approached, leading a yawning Elfgifa by the hand.

  “Come,” Lucilla spoke quietly, taking a still distraught Regeane by the hand. “I’m forgetting my duties as a hostess. Don’t upset yourself anymore. We’ll talk tomorrow. For tonight, enjoy yourself. Only light conversation at dinner. After all, we met only today. Why should you trust me with the secrets of your heart?”

  Regeane was quiet during the meal, her fears pushed into the background by the problems of dealing with the unfamiliar Roman style of dining.

  They ate reclining, the food brought to the couches and set before them by the serving girls. There was a separate table for each course. While this might have been a quiet, informal little supper to Lucilla, it was a grand affair to Regeane.

  The tables set before her were decked in embroidered white linen. The dishes and cups were of silver. Above her head, lamps in the shape of alabaster doves had flames leaping from their mouths. Painted on the walls of the ch
amber, songbirds played out their gentle rite of spring lovemaking amidst the flowers of a garden.

  Elfgifa, wide-eyed and on her best behavior, watched Lucilla’s every movement like a hawk and copied her carefully, as did Regeane herself.

  Lucilla treated them both with amused indulgence and, as promised, she kept the conversation light. Still, Regeane felt she was being instructed, since most of Lucilla’s talk concerned the multifold factions of the holy city.

  The food was simple, but beautifully prepared. Spiced olives and a white cream cheese covered with pepper were the gustato. The appetizers were followed by roast pork with a stuffing of bread, honey, red wine, and bay, served with a miraculous red wine.

  The taste astonished Regeane. “It’s wonderful,” she told Lucilla, awed by its smoothness and silken freshness.

  Lucilla laughed. “Oh, you Franks reckon wine ready to drink when enough of it will knock a man down, but we age our best, sealing it in clay jars. It mellows the flavor and softens and smoothes it. This is only ten years old, but I have tasted rare vintages upwards of forty and fifty years.”

  “Doesn’t it spoil?” Regeane asked.

  “Sometimes,” Lucilla admitted, “but those amphoras that survive make it worth the trouble. The worst that happens is that it becomes vinegar, and that may be used in cooking. This wine is from my own estate. Very few people bother to age wine these days,” she explained. “Fine vintages command a correspondingly high price. It’s much more lucrative simply to sell the young wine as soon as it’s drinkable.” She looked sad. “So these civilized arts vanish, but I set aside a few jars for my own table.”

  When the pork was gone, the tables were taken away and they relaxed over a chilled, sweet white wine served with honey cakes. It was late now, and Lucilla’s villa, set away from the bustling heart of Rome, partook of the quiet of a country farm. The only sounds Regeane could hear now were the faint night songs of insects in the garden outside and the whisper of the breeze that drifted cool and refreshing through the open door of the triclinium.

  A long day, a full stomach, and the half cup of watered wine Lucilla allowed her were all too much for Elfgifa and she fell asleep on the couch. She awakened only briefly when Lucilla signaled a servant to carry her off to bed. Elfgifa protested, but it transpired that the child only wanted a goodnight kiss from Regeane before she would allow herself to be settled in for the night.

  Regeane obliged, and Elfgifa went peaceably. When she was gone, there was a brief, awkward silence between the two women. Then they spoke almost simultaneously.

  “I’m sorry,” Regeane started to say.

  “I do apologize, Regeane …”

  They both laughed.

  Then Regeane said, “I’m the one who should apologize. I feel I made a fool of myself. I suppose I’ve allowed my fears to prey too much on my mind.”

  “Not at all, my dear. I shouldn’t have pressed you.”

  Suddenly one of the maids ran into the room from the garden. “My lady, there’s a party of men at the gates!”

  Regeane heard shouts and a crash. A woman screamed.

  Lucilla jumped up from her couch and ran past the girl into the garden.

  A half-dozen armed men stood in the atrium. The light of their torches reflected in the dark water of the pool. One of them stepped forward, and Regeane saw the face she remembered from the square earlier in the day.

  He pointed to her and shouted, “There she is. Take her.”

  Regeane cringed and turned, not knowing where to run, but Lucilla strode toward him. “Basil, are you mad?” she shouted. “We are under the protection of the Holy Father himself!”

  The men with Basil hesitated.

  Lucilla’s tall form, her chin lifted fearlessly, stood between Regeane and Basil. “I’ll have your heads for this! All of you!” she threatened.

  The men with Basil drew back, looking at each other.

  Seeing she had the upper hand for the moment, Lucilla stepped forward to press her advantage. “Leave my house this instant, and I’ll forget this unsavory incident ever occurred.”

  Basil laughed, his white teeth gleaming in his dark, bearded face. “My, what airs we give ourselves now, threatening us with the power of the church and the pope. This from the greatest whore in Rome. Whore and panderer.”

  Lucilla stiffened with rage, her face a frozen, beautiful mask of fury. Her reply to Basil was low, hoarse, and deadly. “One more step toward me, Basil. I won’t bother about your head. I’ll see you die in torment.”

  Basil returned her stare with a heavy-lidded look of contempt and turned toward his men. “What are you, children, that you fear the anger of a woman? I said, take the girl! And as for you, bitch,” he said to Lucilla, “interfere with me again and I’ll send you to ply your trade in hell.”

  Basil and the men with him advanced on Regeane and Lucilla.

  Lucilla caught Regeane by the wrist and whispered urgently, “It’s no good. I can’t hold them. Where in God’s name are my men? Run!” She darted toward the back of the garden, pulling Regeane along with her through a door.

  The abrupt change from the light of the torches to the darkness of the passage blinded Regeane. When she could see again they were stumbling across the furrows of a kitchen garden. Ahead, she could see the tree limbs, an orchard, and then a wall.

  Basil and his men erupted from the passage in a blaze of torchlight.

  Regeane’s foot kicked against something. Lucilla bent down and snatched it up—a hoe.

  The nearest of Basil’s men was less than six feet behind them. Lucilla turned and drove the handle of the hoe with a straight thrust into his groin. The man doubled over, howling.

  “Run, girl, run!” Lucilla called to Regeane.

  The rest of Basil’s soldiers hung back, perhaps a little intimidated by the fate of the first. Then another leaped forward and snatched at the hoe in Lucilla’s hand: a mistake. She fetched him a crack across the side of the head with the handle that sent him to his knees, clutching his skull. Then she chopped viciously at his face with the blade.

  Regeane couldn’t bring herself to leave Lucilla. She was sure Basil would kill Lucilla.

  Basil drew his sword, leaped past Lucilla, ignoring another swing of the hoe. He grabbed Regeane by the arm. She screeched and tore free, staggering, and fell on her face in the soft earth of the garden. Basil’s sword chopped into the furrow near her face, showering her head with mud.

  Regeane came to her knees, clutching a handful of soil. Basil caught her hair with one hand, stretching out her throat, positioning his sword up and back to cut off her head.

  Regeane let fly with the mud. Wet filth caught Basil full in the face. He gave a shout of fury and let go of her hair to clear his eyes.

  The darkness of the moon flooded Regeane’s brain. She was wolf. Shocked and terrified, she staggered. The light of the torches dazzled the wolf’s eyes more than it had the woman’s.

  In the wake of her shock and terror rushed a triumphant fury.

  Basil was still pawing at his eyes with one hand while hacking at Regeane’s discarded dress with his sword. He believed she was still in her clothes.

  The silver wolf lunged for him clumsily. He kicked her in the ribs.

  The woman’s will, still alive in the wolf, was overwhelmed by rage. The wolf made an eel-like turn around the legs in front of her, teeth slashing for a hamstring. Her fangs laid open the calf of his leg.

  Basil shrieked and chopped down at her with his sword. But the silver wolf leaped clear.

  Three men struggled with Lucilla, one holding her around the body, two grappling with her for her quarterstaff hoe. For the moment they had their hands full. A fourth stood back, torch in hand.

  “You damned fool,” Basil shouted. “Drive off that mad dog.”

  The fire flared in the silver wolf’s eyes, blotting out everything as the torch was thrust down toward her face.

  “Jesu mercy!” the man screamed. “That isn’t a dog!”


  She went back on her haunches. The woman commanded the wolf. The torches! Get the torches! In the darkness you are the stronger.

  The wolf backed, twisted away from the flames. The man holding the torch was trying desperately to draw his sword.

  The wolf, maddened by rage and fire, thought only of two things—throat and groin. With the merciless logic of a killer, she went for the groin. The throat was too far. She wasn’t sure enough of her powers.

  She uncoiled, driven upward like a striking snake. She missed the groin, but her teeth snapped shut in the soft tissue of the upper thigh. Blood, salt, and thick stinking of raw meat flooded the wolf’s mouth and nose.

  The man gave a piercing scream of pure agony, tore free, and bashed at the wolf’s back with the torch.

  The wolf dropped off, rolling.

  The man staggered backward, crashed into Lucilla and the other men struggling. They all went down in a heap. The torches fell clear and lay flickering, half extinguished by the damp soil.

  The garden was suddenly in darkness.

  The wolf lunged with a roar of fury at the men on top of Lucilla. They scattered, scrambling, crawling in all directions.

  Basil dived for a torch as Lucilla came up fighting, the hoe still in her hands. She slammed one man across the chest; a few of his ribs snapped. She caught another across the back, driving his face down into the mud.

  Screams and cries rang out from behind the wolf. More torches appeared. “The pope’s militia!” someone shouted. “They’re coming!”

  The garden blazed. Lucilla’s servants mustered to defend their mistress.

  Basil and his men ran. The wolf barrelled along behind them. She broke through a low screen of pomegranate bushes and raced among the tree trunks of the orchard toward a low wall. Basil and his men were up and over it in seconds.

  The wolf hesitated, then gathered herself. She had never really run free. One easy leap took her over the barrier. Basil and his men were already mounted and galloping away.

  For a second she stood still in the darkness; flanks heaving with exertion until a thunder of hoofbeats sounded from behind and sent her diving for cover.