Among Wolves

by Nancy K. Wallace

  Armand gathered an audience near the flames and mesmerized them with his tales of early Ombria. His recitation went on for hours and yet the crowd never seemed to hear enough. Devin could tell the bard was beginning to tire, and yet, always there were shouts of “One more, Armand!” “One more!”

  When there was nothing more he could do to help his hosts, Devin found a spot along the wall. He sat down, his legs crossed in front of him, listening to Armand’s mellow voice weave its spell over the crowd. It seemed once again that he had miscalculated. He knew Armand planned to leave before dawn the next morning, and as the night wore on, the chance of speaking to him alone seemed more and more remote.

  Gaspard came to sit beside him, setting two glasses of wine on the wall between them.

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “Tomorrow?” Devin asked. Gaspard nodded. “I plan to go to Lac Dupré with Armand.”

  “Has he asked you, then?” Gaspard inquired cautiously.

  “No, but he will,” Devin replied confidently. “All I need is a few moments of his time and he will. I’m sure of it.”

  Gaspard raised his eyebrows. “Have some wine,” he recommended, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re strung as tight as his harp strings tonight.”

  Devin shook his head. “I’ve had enough wine. I need to keep my wits about me.”

  And then, just like that, his chance came quite by accident. A sudden gust of wind blew the smoke from the bonfire into Armand’s face. The bard bent double, coughing and wheezing. Devin grabbed a glass of wine and went to his rescue.

  “Here,” he offered, drawing Armand away from the fire. “Let Adrian take over for a while.”

  “Thank you,” Armand sputtered, walking with Devin back along the wall. “My voice was going, anyway. You can only do that for so long, you know.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Devin replied. He was nervous now that the time had come, and his voice faltered. “Could I have just a few minutes of your time? I want to tell you something.”

  Armand frowned, regarding him darkly under bushy gray eyebrows. “You’re not going to spoil the evening by making me angry again, are you?”

  “That’s not my intention,” Devin said. “And I swear to you before I start that the first and only time I’ve ever heard this song was last night when you sang it.” He took a deep breath and stilled his heart before he started, remembering Armand’s gentle rhythm and cadence. He began softly:

  In Lamm, a village by the sea,

  Antoine first met Lisette,

  Along the shore they pledged their love

  A wedding day was set…

  He sang each stanza word for word, exactly as Armand had delivered it the night before:

  He gathered wood and built a boat

  Out on the open sand.

  One day he sailed to meet the waves

  Till he lost sight of land.

  He traveled many days until,

  One dark and misty morning

  He saw the distant shape of land

  Draw closer without warning.

  When Antoine stepped upon that shore,

  He left his past behind.

  For here were fields and forests green,

  And birds of many kinds.

  He loosed the rope and set adrift

  His boat upon the sea.

  And back in Lamm his dearest love

  Cried, ‘Please come back to me.’

  But he had found what he had sought

  A world all unexplored.

  And so he left without a thought

  The one that he adored.

  Lisette sat out among the dunes

  And watched the waves come in.

  She never saw his ship return

  Nor held her love again.

  And yet they say she watches still

  And wears his wedding band.

  Her ghost awaits him in the dunes,

  A lantern in her hand.

  Devin stopped, hoping for some small sign of approval from Armand. The bard simply stared at him and then downed the rest of his wine in one gulp.

  “You’ve made your point, Monsieur Roché,” Armand said finally. “Your lessons will begin tomorrow on the road to Lac Dupré. If you are late…I will not make the offer again.”

  CHAPTER 15

  A Bard’s Life

  The day dawned sunny and clear. Despite the cool breeze, Devin stuffed his jacket into his knapsack before they’d walked the first mile. It would take two days to reach Lac Dupré, and Armand set a brisk pace, despite his cane. Conversation was sparse this morning. They’d all had little sleep. The celebration had lasted well into the night and they had risen before daybreak. The first rays of the sun had revealed several revelers sound asleep in the trampled garden and an inebriated goat tottering around the empty wine barrels. They’d delayed their departure just long enough to clean up the courtyard and dismantle the temporary tables, after Armand had insisted that Adrian come with them.

  Devin had seen Armand draw Adrian aside last night after he had finished his storytelling. Their conversation had been lengthy and intense. Once, Adrian had put a hand on Armand’s shoulder but Armand had shaken it off. Devin had turned away, guilty at seeming to eavesdrop. Then this morning, Adrian had explained to his disappointed parents that he wouldn’t be staying another week as he had promised but would be traveling back to Lac Dupré with his old tutor, instead. Perhaps, Devin thought, Armand had decided that it would be better to designate his successor too early rather than too late.

  As they walked, the melody from “Lisette’s Lament” ran through Devin’s head incessantly. “Where was Lamm?” he asked Armand, when they stopped in a grove of trees for lunch.

  Armand unfastened his cloak and folded it neatly beside him.

  “Why does it matter?”

  Devin shrugged. “Well, Antoine crossed an ocean – he either left Llisé – or he came here. Which was it?”

  “I don’t know,” Armand replied. “Perhaps, it wasn’t an ocean at all, maybe it was just the Dantzig. To a primitive man that river would seem like an ocean.”

  “The Dantzig doesn’t have dunes,” Devin pointed out. “If he crossed the Dantzig he would have traveled from one province into another one. Then the story would be included in the Chronicles of two provinces.”

  Adrian looked up from unpacking the food his mother had sent with them. “Perhaps it is,” he said.

  “Is it?” Devin persisted, bending to pick up a heart-shaped stone.

  “Not that I know of,” Armand replied.

  “Then the ballad can’t refer to the Dantzig, can it?” Devin asked.

  “What difference does it make?” Armand asked, as he laid out his portion of bread and cheese on his handkerchief.

  “But what if he came to Llisé from somewhere else?” Devin said. “Which direction did he travel, do you know that?”

  Armand rolled his eyes in exasperation. “It doesn’t say, Monsieur Roché. Let it rest, will you? You ask far too many questions! By God, I’m a man of my word but you make me regret having struck a bargain with you.”

  Admitting defeat, Devin got up and walked to where Gaspard and Marcus were sitting. He pulled his knapsack from his shoulders and slumped down on the ground. Gaspard handed him bread and cheese, and then leaned closer.

  “Give Armand a break,” he whispered. “It’s going to be a long month if you keep this up.”

  Devin bit into the cheese and shook his head. “It won’t be a long month at all, Gaspard. It will be a very short one. I need to learn as much I can, as quickly as possible.”

  “Well, Armand can’t tell you what he doesn’t know himself,” Gaspard pointed out. “He’s a man who’s used to being in charge, Dev. Don’t push him. Accept what he is willing to give and admit that you may have to leave with some questions unanswered.”

  Devin worried a root with the toe of his boot. “Surely we can work it out so both of us are satisfied.”

 
“You asked him a favor,” Gaspard reminded him. “Accept what he’s offering without badgering him.”

  Perhaps, he was pushing Armand, Devin thought, but it was hard to restrain his excitement. Even though there was so much he wanted to know, he could hardly hound the man all day with questions. He would have to make a conscious effort to contain himself, even though he was interested in where the men originated who first settled in Ombria.

  Marcus silently passed him a bottle of wine, but avoided making eye contact. Devin thanked him and took a drink. The restraint between them was beginning to wear on him. First, he had alienated Marcus and now he had annoyed Armand. With any luck he would offend Gaspard and Adrian before the day was over, too.

  He ate the rest of his bread and cheese in silence. While the others finished, he amused himself by examining two more monoliths which had been incorporated into the fence that bordered the road. He longed to ask Armand if the Chronicles contained any explanation for their presence but he didn’t initiate any other conversation. When Armand signaled that he was ready to move on, Devin walked between Gaspard and Marcus and let Adrian and Armand go ahead of them.

  After about an hour, Armand glanced over his shoulder.

  “I promised you a lesson today, Monsieur Roché. Walk with me.”

  Devin joined him obediently.

  “Let’s assess what you already know,” Armand said. “Sing ‘Lisette’s Lament’ for me.”

  “I’ve already memorized it,” Devin reminded him.

  “You knew it well enough last night,” Armand responded. “That doesn’t mean you remember it this morning. Repeat it now.”

  At the end of the first stanza, Armand stopped him. “You said wedding day, it’s wedding date. Begin again.”

  Devin started again. He reached the fourth verse before Armand stopped him again. “You said he’d lost sight of land. It’s he lost sight of land. Begin again.”

  Behind him, Gaspard snorted. “Spare us, Armand. Must we listen to Devin sing all the way to Lac Dupré?”

  Armand cut him down with a look. “Yes, if necessary. He’ll repeat it until it is perfect or he loses his voice, whichever comes first. Tomorrow, we will begin with that ballad again…and the next day and the day after that. The Chronicles require precision. Each word must be exact or I will not authorize him to perform them in public.”

  That was the last mistake that Devin made. He sang the ballad perfectly the next time but Armand made him repeat it ten times more just to be certain his concentration didn’t slip with multiple attempts.

  The rest of the day went by in a blur. By late afternoon, Devin’s feet hurt from walking and his throat was sore from singing. Armand never slackened in his training.

  “Who was Ombria’s first Master Bard?” he asked.

  “Belami Facette,” Devin answered.

  “Name the eight different types of stories included in the Chronicles.”

  “Chanson des Gestes, beast tales, fabliaux, romances, legends, historical tales, cautionary tales, and religious tales,” Devin replied.

  “What are the three types of religious tales?”

  “Lyrical, allegorical, and the lives of the saints.”

  Armand nodded his head. “Good. Now sing ‘Lisette’s Lament’ again.”

  “He’s hoarse,” Adrian protested. “Leave off for today, Armand.”

  Armand’s face hardened. “Did I ever grant you any mercy?”

  Adrian smiled. “Once or twice after I had demonstrated my dedication.”

  “When he demonstrates his, I will consider it. Remember, you had a year to learn the Chronicle; Monsieur Roché boasts he can do it in a month. I intend to prove him wrong or break him in the process.”

  Devin refrained from comment even though Armand had made him angry. He was certain that all of this was a test and he wasn’t about to be tricked into failing it.

  “Armand,” Adrian protested. “Devin will either learn this or he won’t. There is no need to turn it into a contest.”

  “I wasn’t the one who issued the challenge,” Armand pointed out. He slashed his hand through the air. “Enough, we have work to do!”

  He turned to Devin. “Sing!”

  Devin’s itinerary had them stopping in Nance but Armand called a halt outside of Purview at a small farm.

  “There is an inn in Nance,” Marcus suggested. “We could reach it by nightfall.”

  “It is suicide to travel these roads after dusk,” Armand replied. “Besides, inns cost money. I am welcome in any home in this province and a good many outside it as well. Any man with me will be treated to the same courtesy. You’ve slept in a barn before, Marcus, I doubt you will find this one any less comfortable than the last.”

  Devin was certain Armand and Adrian would rate a spot by the hearth but he kept his opinions to himself. He dropped back to walk with Gaspard.

  “I need a bath badly,” Gaspard confided. “And I’ve no clean clothes in my knapsack.”

  Devin laughed and lowered his voice. “I’ve noticed Armand has a certain air about him, too. No one seems to care here. Perhaps we’ll pass a lake or a river tomorrow where we can take a quick dip.”

  “And catch our deaths from pneumonia, no thank you!” Gaspard protested. “I’d rather stink than die at twenty-three.”

  Armand tapped Devin’s shoulder. “Sing your ballad again, Monsieur Roché. You’re giving your first performance tonight. It’s time you earned your room and board.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Mäìte

  The gray stone farmhouse had only a small shed attached to it. Ivy covered the roof, dripping down from the eaves in thick garlands. Behind the house, a walled cemetery lay strewn with headstones. It gave the place a forlorn, deserted look and Devin felt as reluctant as Marcus to spend the night.

  A tiny old woman answered Armand’s knock. She stood a moment, blinking out into the fading light, and then giving a soft sound, wrapped her arms around Armand. Her head barely reached his chest.

  “Grandmère Mäìte,” Armand murmured. “My friends and I are in need of some food and a place to sleep.”

  She beckoned them in, smiling and bowing. An old man sat at a rickety handmade table, a bowl of stew before him.

  “This is my grandfather Emile Vielle,” Armand said, with a sweeping bow that was suitable for some great dignitary.

  “Who is it, Mäìte?” Emile asked, standing up with difficulty. He was still a bear of a man, despite his age and infirmity, and when he saw Armand, he enveloped him in a hug that might have hurt a smaller man. “You are always welcome here, Armand,” he said graciously. “Very welcome. Who’s this with you?”

  They recognized Adrian and treated him to the same enthusiastic greeting. With Devin, Gaspard, and Marcus they were more reserved but no less friendly. They pulled up two stools and a bench to the table. More bowls were produced and filled with stew and a loaf of bread was sliced.

  There was only one bottle of wine for the entire table to share and Devin barely wet the bottom of his glass. He felt guilty accepting their hospitality when he thought of the unlimited budget his father had given him access to. This morning before he had left he’d hidden ten gold francs in the bread basket for Adrian’s mother, as well as a substantial gift for the new bride and groom. These country people had so little and yet seemed so willing to share. It made the prosperous residents of Coreé seem selfish, in comparison.

  Little Mäìte gathered blankets and quilts and spread them on the soft hay in the shed. In truth, the rickety structure was nearly the same size as the tiny house. If tonight, they shared their beds with a half dozen chickens and an old cow, Devin felt it only added another dimension to the experience of touring the provinces. Marcus was not so philosophical. He liked their days to go according to a prearranged plan and the present arrangement did not seem to suit him at all. He left his belongings reluctantly with a wary eye toward the insubstantial roof.

  All afternoon, Devin had restrained the impulse to la
sh out at Armand when he had teased and belittled his ability to learn the Chronicles. But tonight, when Armand insisted that Devin sing, he had unwittingly presented him with the perfect opportunity to show off his talents.

  Both Adrian and Armand told tales after dinner. First, Adrian told the story of Emeline and Renèe, two little girls, who wandered into the forest and were eaten by wolves. Laced with warning and regret, Devin recognized it as one of the cautionary tales. It was short and sad, and Devin committed it to memory as quickly as Adrian told it. And yet, he knew it was a tale he would never enjoy telling. When Adrian finished, there was only hushed silence. Their host nodded gravely, and Grandmère Mäìte turned away, her lips trembling.

  “Devin is my new apprentice,” Armand announced. “He’s only learned one ballad but I’d like him to sing it for you. Forgive his voice; he’s been working hard all day to perfect it.”

  Gaspard pushed his half-finished wine in front of Devin, who took a sip and then stepped to the hearth. He leaned down to whisper to Adrian.

  “May I use your harp?”

  Adrian gave him a puzzled look but lifted it from where it lay nestled on his lap and handed it over. Devin’s mother had insisted he learn to play the pianoforte; but it had been his own idea to cultivate the folk harp. He had become quite accomplished at the Université, and for the last two years had been asked to perform at the Académie’s Gala de Noel. He tested the pitch, adjusted two strings, and settled down on a stool. He was not about to imitate Armand: Armand was a master and he knew instinctively that any attempt he made to emulate him would be a mistake.

  “‘Lisette’s Lament,’” he announced quietly. He sang the ballad with sensitivity and reserve, intentionally avoiding Armand’s flamboyant style. As he told how Antoine left Lisette, his hostess’s eyes filled with tears. They trickled randomly through the deep wrinkles of her face. It almost unnerved him, sending a sympathetic yearning through his own chest for that kind of undying love and devotion. He quelled the urge to stop and comfort Armand’s little grandmother.