The Beast of Gévaudan
Devin arrived late for dinner, his wrist swathed in bandages. Dr. Mareschal had let him go with a stern warning to report back to him if there were any signs of fever or infection. Marcus had hovered like an anxious mother during the doctor’s examination and then followed Devin silently downstairs afterwards.
They found the others in the dining room, gathered around the lower half of a massive table. Five candelabras lit the long expanse of white linen, while sconces illuminated the walls with golden pools of light. The heads of deer, wolves, and mountain lions, stuffed and mounted, stared down on the gathering with sightless, glass eyes.
Chastel rose from his seat at the end of the table when Devin entered.
“I trust everything is well?” he asked, his eye on the bandages.
Devin, who was blessedly insulated from pain after a glass of red wine laced with a strong pain killer, affected nonchalance. “There’s no permanent harm done,” he answered.
“Except that you might have lost a hand,” Marcus observed ominously, “or bled to death.”
A servant pulled out a chair, seating Devin at his host’s right. Chastel settled back down beside him, pressing a glass of wine into his hand.
“Perhaps a taste of home will ease some of your discomfort. This wine comes all the way from Sorrento, from your father’s own vineyards.”
Devin accepted it with thanks, obediently sipping the proffered glass before considering any of the food spread out before him. Dr. Mareschal’s treatment had been painfully thorough, including a meticulous swabbing of the wound with strong antiseptic and at least a dozen stitches. Though he was trying hard not to show it, he felt shaky, and sick in his stomach, and would much rather have stayed upstairs in the guest room Chastel had assigned him.
Marcus helped himself to bread and several thick slices of roast venison.
“Your wolves seem especially aggressive, Monsieur Chastel,” he said offering the platter to Devin.
Devin shook his head after one look at the meat. The sight of deer flesh, prepared for human consumption, was revolting tonight. If anyone pressed him to eat it, he would be forced to leave the table.
“They are not my wolves,” Chastel corrected Marcus. “The wolves of Ombria have always had a reputation for ferocity. Our Chancellor has wisely instituted a bounty on wolf pelts to reduce the population. Our governor encourages our residents to capitalize on it.”
“Most people have neither the weapons nor the training for such a dangerous undertaking,” Armand protested.
“I agree,” Chastel answered. “That is why I consider it my duty to protect the people of Lac Dupré by conducting a quarterly wolf hunt. Thank God, my men and I arrived when we did tonight.”
Marcus speared a large piece of the dark red meat. “This is excellent venison, monsieur.”
Devin took another swallow of wine and looked away. He noticed that, although Gaspard was toying with his meat, he had yet to put a piece of it in his mouth.
“I have never known wolves to attack a party of armed men before,” Marcus said, wielding his knife with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.
Chastel shrugged. “The wolves do not fear the local men who cross my forest because they do not carry guns.”
“The law forbids peasants to own firearms,” Armand pointed out coldly.
Chastel continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “I’m sure you noticed the yips interspersed with the howling tonight. That is the young pups calling to the pack. Early May is whelping season, by June the bitches are hunting to feed their young. That’s why more people are killed and injured by wolves in early summer than any other time of year.”
“Surely, there are some safeguards that could be put in place?” Gaspard said.
“Wise men avoid this forest at dusk,” Chastel said, looking at Armand. “You were raised here, Armand. Surely, I do not have to remind you of how dangerous this area can be. Why did you risk the lives of your friends tonight?”
Armand’s fork clattered onto his plate; his face flushed with anger. Before he could respond, Adrian sprang to his defense.
“We intended to reach Lac Dupré by late afternoon, Monsieur Chastel, but the weather delayed us. The bridge at Beaulieu washed out. We had no alternative but to take the long way around.”
Chastel grunted and then gestured with his knife in Armand’s direction. “My apologies, I did not know about the bridge. I’ll send some men in the morning to assess the damage. I’ll see it is repaired and back in service as quickly as possible.”
Adrian inclined his head. “Thank you, monsieur, and thank you for rescuing us earlier.” He hesitated a moment before adding. “Your hospitality tonight is very welcome.”
Chastel smiled. “Ombria’s Master Bard is guaranteed food and lodging in any home in this province. Surely, you never thought that mine would be excluded.”
“I could have slept with both eyes shut in my own house,” Armand muttered.
Devin winced at the insult but Chastel merely seemed amused by his guest’s continued resentment.
Their host waved a hand airily. “Fortunately, you must bear with my poor accommodations for only one night. Tomorrow, my men will see you all back to town safely.” Chastel held up a finger. “I must admit I intend to require the normal compensation for the lodging of a bard. Tonight, Armand, you must favor us with several tales from the Chronicle when dinner is over.”
Devin downed another glass of wine in the hostile silence that followed Chastel’s request.
After dinner, Chastel directed them to gather by the fire in the sitting room. Devin would have given anything just to go to bed but he rose to follow the others. When he stood, the floor swayed disconcertingly beneath him. He put one hand on the table to steady himself.
Gaspard took his elbow. “God, Dev, are you drunk?” he hissed.
“Maybe,” Devin responded. He’d had multiple glasses of wine and nothing to eat.
Gaspard grunted. “Well, I can hardly blame you,” he confided, as they walked. “After today, I’ve even considered going home.”
Devin stopped unsteadily to look at him. “Have you?”
“Haven’t you?” Gaspard retorted. “God, you almost died twice today. I didn’t sign on for this and neither did you. Are you certain this business with the Chronicles is worth it?”
Devin resumed his progress down the long paneled hall. “I don’t know,” he murmured.
When they reached the sitting room, Devin slumped into an armchair by the fire, not certain whether he would be able to get up again without help. Everything around him had assumed a pleasant haziness, which just made him want to close his eyes. He passed a hand over his face and tried to focus on Armand.
He’d half expected Adrian to take Armand’s place tonight as storyteller. Armand’s face had been gray with fatigue at dinner. Now, as he stood before the fire, his stance was rigid. Whatever quarrel he had with Chastel, it was obvious tonight’s rescue had not improved Armand’s opinion of the man.
Armand waited for them all to settle around him and then bowed dramatically. It seemed that he refused to allow exhaustion to alter his performance.
“The Beast of Gévaudan,” he said, introducing his story.
“Many years ago, in the Mageríde Mountains just north of Lac Dupré, there were many wolves. In the spring, they decimated the flocks and stalked the shepherds’ children. Each season it seemed the wolves grew more aggressive and the peasants were less able to protect their flocks and their families. Even though they build great bonfires at night to protect their sheep, every morning at least two or three more were missing. At night, the wolves crept in silently, always attacking the sheep at the back of the neck, breaking their spines or tearing out their throats.”
Devin’s hand involuntarily cradled his right wrist against his chest, imagining what might have happened to him, had he not imposed his arm between his throat and those snapping jaws.
“…th
e peasants appealed to the powerful nobleman who owned all the land around to kill the wolves. But the nobleman seemed more interested in studying the wolf packs instead. He watched them from the safety of his château, and took notes about them in a little book he always carried with him. He even followed them into the mountains, to observe their behavior. Rumor claimed he had acquired a wolf cub as a pet. He fed it on the scraps from his table and trained it to obey his commands. As time passed the cub grew much bigger and stronger. Soon people saw a huge wolf running with the pack. It was twice the size of a normal wolf and its fur had a reddish tinge. The shepherds began to call it the Beast of Gévaudan.
“Now, at the foot of the mountain, lived a shepherd named Jacques and his ten-year-old son Emile. Emile’s mother had died the winter before and there were only the two of them raising their sheep together. Little Emile watched his father’s flock during the day but at night his father insisted that he stay safely inside the house. Each night, Emile’s father told him to bolt the door and not to open it until light dawned on the mountain above their cottage.
“One night, just before Emile went to bed, he heard the howling of the wolves. It started in the forest below the house and came closer and closer. Emile thought of his father alone on the slope, watching the sheep, and he took the poker from the fireplace, weighing it in his hand. He stood inside the door of the cottage, his heart beating like a drum, and waited. Soon the sheep began to bleat and Emile could hear his father’s voice trying to calm them but the howling came closer and closer. Then the terrified cries of dying sheep filled the night, and above that sound was the anguished cry of a wounded man. Emile knew it was his father. Without hesitation, he unbolted the door. Carrying the poker in his hand, he ran out to save him.
“Now, that night the moon was full and Emile could see the wolves silhouetted against the light of the bonfires. The sheep were scattered, they lay dead or dying, but what chilled him to the bone was the sight of the Beast of Gévaudan poised above his father’s still body. Emile took no thought for himself but ran toward his father, brandishing the poker in his hand.
“The Beast raised its head, its muzzle smeared with blood, and growled at Emile. And in that instant, Emile noticed its reddish fur and its strange haunting eyes; round and blue like a man’s. And then Emile swung the poker, striking the wolf across the face. The wolf cried out and backed away, and Emile struck it again across the shoulders. The wolf threw up its head, howling in pain. It backed away, slinking into a clump of bushes on the hillside.
“Emile bent down quickly and began to drag his father toward the house. But suddenly he heard rustling in the bushes, and he stopped, raising the poker again. In the moonlight, Emile saw a naked man stumble from the bushes. Blood dripped from his forehead and his back. As he ran off into the forest, the other wolves followed him in a pack.
“Now, Emile saved his father’s life that night, but all their sheep were dead. They had no way to make a living there at the foot of the mountain. So, when Jacques was able to travel, they packed up their few belongings and moved to the town of Lac Dupré, away from the mountains, and the forest, and the wolves.”
Devin realized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled, releasing his clenched fist. Armand’s stories rarely ended happily and he was relieved to find that this one had.
But then, Armand held up his hand. He hadn’t finished.
“On the day that Emile and Jacques left for Lac Dupré,” the bard continued, “they passed the nobleman and his son out riding. Now the son had always been a big, handsome young man with red hair and blue eyes, but now Emile saw that he bore a terrible l-shaped scar across his forehead. It was exactly the same shape as the poker Emile had used to fight off the Beast.”
“Enough, Armand!” Chastel protested, rising. “You disappoint me. You insist on the authenticity of your Chronicle, and yet you spout off fairytales to frighten the children.”
Armand’s gaze was cool and steady. “As Master Bard, I assure you that my information comes from a reliable source.”
Chastel shook his head. “A frightened ten-year-old boy is hardly a dependable witness.”
“In your opinion,” Armand said.
“In my opinion,” Chastel agreed. He took a deep breath. “Perhaps we should call the evening to a close.” He glanced at Devin. “Young Monsieur Roché would be better off in bed, and so would the rest of you. I pray tomorrow will be a better day for you all.”
When Devin made no attempt to drag himself up from the depths of the armchair, Marcus offered him a hand. It was as though he had just watched a stage production where Armand and Jean Chastel were both actors. He felt peculiarly distanced from the action and yet apprehensive at the same time, as though this conflict might somehow expand to involve him, if he wasn’t careful to avoid it.
“Goodnight,” Devin said to Chastel. “Thank you again for your help.”
“I was glad to be of assistance,” their host answered. “Please, sleep as long as you like in the morning. And don’t hesitate to call for Mareschal in the night should you need him.”
When they walked upstairs, Devin pulled Armand aside in the hallway.
“I don’t understand what went on here tonight,” he said. “Chastel has been nothing but courteous to us, and yet you continue to antagonize him.”
“You have no idea what he is capable of,” Armand replied. “I have known him and his family for a long time.”
“Whatever he may have done in the past, he saved our lives tonight,” Devin reminded him. “I have no illusions; I would have died, if he and his men hadn’t arrived in time to drive off those wolves.”
“I have been trying very hard to like you,” Armand said, his face set into hard lines, “even though we come from very different backgrounds. At first, I thought you were merely young and naïve, but now I fear you are short-sighted as well. Things here are not what they seem and you would do well to look beyond the obvious.”
Devin ran a hand over his face, trying to reorder his thoughts. Tonight, he was poorly equipped to fight verbal battles.
“All I know is that I owe Chastel my life,” he replied. “I would much rather be here than back in that forest among wolves.”
Armand’s smile was strangely feral. “You are still among wolves, Monsieur Roché, and you aren’t even wise enough to realize it.” He tapped Devin’s chest with one finger. “Go back to Coreé while you still can. You don’t belong here.”
CHAPTER 22
Unavoidable Delays
By the time Devin crawled between the crisp linen sheets, in one of Chastel’s guest rooms, he was almost too tired to appreciate them. The drug and alcohol induced stupor that had allowed him to remain upright all evening was beginning to fade. His head ached dully, his wrist throbbed, and the shoulder he’d wrenched in the fall on the cliff trail hurt every time he moved it. He slept fitfully, dreaming of savage packs of wolves and vicious snapping teeth.
Wakening once in the middle of the night, he was certain that he heard the click of claws on the floor outside his room. The sound repeated, growing louder and then softer, and then louder again, as though an animal crossed in front of his closed door time and time in the darkness.
Softly, the door opened. Candlelight flickered in the hall. Claws tapped across the threshold then muffled as they hit the thick carpet by the bed. The plume of a tail fluttered once above the footboard as a shaggy head appeared beside the bed, tongue lolling, blue eyes glowing softly in the darkness.
Devin jerked upright. “Marcus!” he yelled. The wolf vanished; the door closed soundlessly an instant later.
Marcus emerged from the covers on his cot in the corner.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“There was a wolf…,” Devin began. “I heard it in the hallway!” He stopped before putting his thoughts into words. His waking dreams made everything he experienced during the night suspect, and he was reluctant to share his fears with Marcus.
“
It’s only Chastel’s wolf hounds,” Marcus said quietly. “I heard them earlier in the night and got up to look. They seem to pace endlessly up and down the hall. It gave me a start, too, after Armand’s story.”
Devin’s laugh was shaky. If only he could believe Marcus’s explanation. “I was dreaming of wolves. I thought I’d imagined them here, too.”
“How’s your wrist?” Marcus asked him.
Devin didn’t answer. The bandage felt tight and even his fingers throbbed. He suspected that, despite Mareschal’s thoroughness, the wound might be infected.
Marcus lighted the oil lamp by his cot. “Let me see,” he said, rising to examine Devin’s puffy fingers and bandaged wrist. “Your hand and arm are warm. Do you think you’re feverish?”
“I have no idea,” Devin answered. It had been years since he’d suffered from any childhood illnesses and their symptoms were long forgotten.
“Let me send for Mareschal,” Marcus said. “If nothing else, he can give you something to help you sleep.”
Mareschal arrived promptly, a cloak thrown over his evening clothes. It was obvious that he had yet to retire for the night but he seemed unwearied and affable.
“This isn’t unexpected, Monsieur,” he said, folding his cloak over the back of a chair. “Those puncture wounds were deep and there was significant tearing. I would have been surprised if you escaped without infection. Let me examine your wrist again, and then I’ll give you more laudanum for the pain.”
Laudanum? So, that’s what he’d been given earlier. Devin should have suspected as much. He’d felt oddly detached all evening but he hadn’t made the connection.
“That’s hardly necessary,” he protested.
When Mareschal unwrapped the bandage, Devin’s wrist looked red and swollen. Several tooth marks still oozed blood. Mareschal took Devin’s pulse and put a hand against his forehead.
“You are running a fever but it’s not particularly high. I insist that you stay here a day or two until I’m certain there’s no further cause for concern. I’ll speak to Chastel.”
Among Wolves Page 13
