Abruptly it changed tactics and snatched up the crossbow. The silver wolf couldn’t disengage quickly enough. She’d just managed to get her jaws open when the crossbow bolt tore through her body.
Death! and everything stopped. The world became a pall of silence. The woman stood over the dying wolf; she was birth naked. She’d split herself once before when she went into the other world to obtain healing for Antonius. She looked into the bear creature’s eyes and felt the pull of its loneliness. The long, solitary, aching ages of silence and despair. She was in both places at once, trapped in her dying body, struggling for breath as the bolt tore her lungs to fragments and destroyed her living heart, clutching at consciousness as it fled down the darkening corridors of her brain. And woman, aware of the thing and its endless wailing, sobbing sorrow over what had been and would never be again. Feeling her form of flesh—arms, legs, hands, stomach, breasts, legs, and even the soles of her feet—pressed against the dusty cloth floor of the tent, and she saw the gray, his jaws closing on the wrist of the thing’s forepaw in a desperate attempt to deflect its aim. Oh, my love, she thought. That I should leave thee thus . . .
Something slapped into her outstretched hand. She knew the shape and feel of it and remembered always she who carried it. A blackthorn stick.
She struck out with it. Not to kill, because she pitied the thing for all its monstrous darkness. Banish it. I will banish it. Begone, she cried, but only in her mind.
Now I die, she thought. As my father died at the hands of Gundabald and my mother.
Then she fell, folding into the wolf shape below her, became a woman, conscious now that the wall of the tent was a sheet of flame. Looked down in shock at her own nude but unwounded and intact body. Became wolf again as the flames raced over the dry canvas roof above. Then, scrabbling desperately, she was on her feet, fleeing into the wild commotion and confusion in the night beyond.
Maeniel and Regeane sat in their tent and talked things over later that night. She was wearing the silk nightgown, but he wanted to talk and found her too distracting in silk, so he made her put on one of his long woolen nightshirts.
She also sometimes wore his ordinary linen shirts, but she was even more distracting in those since she didn’t wear anything under them. Sex is fun when one is young and in love, and she was. He wasn’t young any longer but it was fun for him, too, and always had been.
“Why didn’t you kill him?”
“I don’t know that I could,” she answered. “If Hildegard hadn’t come, he’d have killed me. But somehow she made time stop and then handed me her blackthorn stick. I knew it must be powerful; everything connected with Hildegard is. I chose to use it to banish him.”
“I don’t like it,” he said. “Hildegard belongs to Christ. We don’t. I salute Christ—so do you, I notice—but we don’t belong to him.”
Regeane shrugged. She was sitting in a camp chair across from him. She pulled the nightgown up, baring her legs.
“Stop that.” He looked away.
She grinned, then became serious. “I don’t know who people like Hildegard belong to. The first time we met, she defended me against a ghost—”
“And the second time she got you thrown out of the convent where you were living.”
“No,” Regeane said. “I left of my own accord. I had things to do. She came to warn me and the nuns that the pork roast was poisoned. I already knew. I could smell it, but they didn’t and some of them might have eaten it. Hildegard is good. She’s almost the definition of what goodness is. I didn’t want to kill even so evil a thing as he is, not with anything of Hildegard’s.”
“I don’t know how you can be sure about Hildegard. In heaven’s name, the woman was dead when you first met her.”
“Yes,” Regeane said. “She was.”
For a short space they were both silent.
“I almost lost you tonight,” he finally said. “It wasn’t one of my happier moments.”
“Did you think you were alone there?” she asked. “The worst part of the whole thing for me was knowing that in dying I would leave you, perhaps forever. I’m sure the dead don’t perish, but I’m not sure of anything else about the worlds beyond death. I have reason to believe death is a far more complex journey than any of the living understand, and who knows if we reach the places where our loved ones dwell or simply must wander on throughout eternity? Happiness in this life takes a lot of luck. Happiness in the next may also. I do know one thing—I don’t want to talk about it any longer.” She rose and walked to the curtain that separated their room from the rest of the tent.
Maeniel had equipped himself with a pavilion at least as large as any owned by the nobles. The front room held a dining and reception room. The entire household was gathered at a long table, all eating and drinking. Lacking anything better to do when they became wolves, they went hunting and had bagged two deer and numerous small game. They were feasting, at present, though the feast was winding down.
“Hungry?” Maeniel asked his bride.
“No, worried,” she said. “Antonius said you left the royal dwelling at high speed.”
“Antonius removed his own chains and made mine look as if they’d been forced,” Maeniel said. “Trust Antonius to cover all our asses.”
“I’d rather not,” Regeane said. “If you perform any miracles in front of Charles, I hope you have a good, solid explanation for them. Do you think anybody noticed anything?”
“No, I don’t, and if they did, they don’t believe their eyes anyway. Some seventeen tents burned. The entire camp was up in arms, thinking Desiderius somehow sneaked over the mountains and attacked the army by night. Charles almost had a rout on his hands before he ever managed to fight a battle. It took hours for him and his nobles to get them all calmed down. There were numerous minor injuries, burns, scalds; some people managed to stab themselves with their own weapons or almost suffocate themselves dragging their possessions out of the burning tents. So no, I don’t think anyone noticed a few dogs running around in all the confusion.”
“Otho?” she asked.
“He’s badly hurt but Matrona thinks he will live, and she’s not only usually right, she’s always right. At least about that. He’s in great bodily pain and also in great agony of mind because he believes he betrayed me and the king by listening to whatever that was—the creature who accused me of crimes.”
“You did kill Gundabald,” she said softly.
“Please! Are you sorry?”
She let the curtain drop closed. “No, no. Lucilla and Antonius were right. It had to be done. How about Hugo?”
“We never found out where he went. All the money Gundabald had was gone. Hadrian was convinced he fled, taking only what he could carry. We looked into the matter before you and I left Rome.”
“You didn’t tell me,” she said.
“You’d been through a dreadful ordeal. I didn’t want to worry you, but as far as I know, Hugo is running yet.”
Regeane nodded, but she still looked troubled.
“Tomorrow Otho is going to talk to the king,” Maeniel continued. “Charles saw him, and it was obvious he’d been brutally assaulted. Otho said enough to Charles to clear my name completely.”
“Where is he?” she asked.
“In the next room with Matrona and . . . Gilas. They’re looking after him.”
“She’s a sweet child.”
“She’s a whore,” Maeniel said.
“Who are you to be judgmental?” Regeane asked.
He nodded. “Your point is well taken, but I wouldn’t call her a sweet child. And for that matter, I’ve often wondered about your affection for Silvie. Setting her up with her own business, a stand-up wine bar in Rome, was a little ridiculous. She did her very best to get you burned at the stake. Why not let her go on selling what she’s been selling all her life?”
“Silvie sells her body,” Regeane said quietly, “because it’s the only thing she has to sell. All I did was give her a place o
f refuge where she can make a little money, be comfortable, and sleep alone if she wants to. Gundabald used to beat her. He used to beat me, too.”
“Yes,” Maeniel said quietly. “I know.”
“No,” Regeane said. “I’m not in the least sorry you killed him. I’m just glad I didn’t have to do it myself. What I’m worried about is . . . well, you said he and Hugo disappeared?”
“Yes, they did. And so . . .”
“Who ate him?” she asked.
He frowned. “Probably . . . probably . . . Certainly not Matrona. She’s fastidious; even Silvia is too picky. Probably Gavin. He’ll eat anything.”
“You mean Gavin is Gundabald’s tomb?”
“Yes, I think so. I never broached the matter to him, but yes, presumably he is. Does that make you unhappy?”
“No. It’s just so staggeringly appropriate, that’s all. So completely and devastatingly appropriate that Gundabald should end as dinner for Gavin, that’s all.”
In the next room, Otho woke and asked for water. Matrona, who was napping in a chair by the bed, fetched it for him. He was pale and, while heavy, no one would call him fat any longer. He was wearing a clean dalmatic, one of Maeniel’s, his own having been lost in the fire.
“Are you in pain?” Matrona asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m wondering what to tell the king tomorrow.”
Matrona did not suggest he tell the truth. “Do you love the king?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then find a way to explain your actions to him in a plausible manner—one that he will believe—while clearing the lord Maeniel and lady Regeane of all wrongdoing. My lord is loyal to Charles and can be of great help to him in his present endeavor, but only if he is free to do so.”
“Yes,” Otho answered. “Will I recover?”
“Yes,” Matrona said. “If you do as I tell you. Possibly even if you don’t, but it would be much better for your health if you did, in the sense that I am an accomplished healer and you would not want to lose my services prematurely.”
“Oh, no. Definitely not. I fully understand your concerns and share them. Oh, yes, dear lady, you will never find me ungrateful for your services. You and your mistress saved my life and at no little cost to yourselves. I saw the fight, at least some of it. Of course, my mind and senses were somewhat disordered, so I can’t be sure about everything I saw but, trust me, I am not only willing but eager to be of service to your lord and lady. And I am more than willing to believe you can be of great assistance to the king.”
“Just so,” Matrona said. “So pull yourself together and get your story ready for when the king arrives in the morning.”
Out in the common room, Antonius, Barbara, and the Saxon were playing chess, or rather, Antonius and Barbara were playing and the Saxon was watching.
“Mate in three moves,” Barbara told Antonius.
He studied her position for two minutes, then picked up the board and turned it over.
Barbara began laughing.
“This makes the third game,” the Saxon said. “Why don’t you try something else? Knucklebones, dice . . . something she doesn’t know as much about. Here, have some beer.”
Antonius walked over to a side table that held wine, fruit, and cheese. “No! Lord deliver me from that German pig piss. And as for knowing the game, I . . . I taught her.”
Barbara laughed even louder and elbowed the Saxon in the ribs. “Sore loser. You can give me some beer. I won’t complain.”
The Saxon filled a cup and pushed it over to her. Antonius poured a cup of wine for himself, then returned and began to pick up the ivory chess pieces and replace them in their box.
Satisfied she would hear Otho if he called her, Matrona strolled in and joined the players. “Where are they?” she asked.
“All in there.” The Saxon inclined his head to indicate Maeniel and Regeane’s room.
Matrona took a cup of wine also. Then she walked over and pushed aside the curtain and peered in. “Oh, my heavens,” she said. “And here, of all places.”
“What are they doing?” Barbara asked. “We didn’t look. We wanted to, but knowing too much about some things that go on . . .” Her voice trailed off. She took another sip of the Saxon’s beer, a dark brew, malty and rich. “I like this,” she said to the Saxon.
He nodded, grunted. “It makes you piss a lot. More than wine. It’s healthier.” He looked virtuous. “Flushes your drains.”
“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard it put that way,” Barbara said.
“What are they doing?” Antonius asked Matrona.
“Just sleeping together,” she answered.
Antonius looked aghast.
“Sleeping. Just sleeping,” Matrona repeated. “If you like, go look.”
“No. I’m tired. It must be near morning. I think I’ll turn in. There are many things I don’t know and a still greater number of things I don’t want to know and this is one of them.” As a high-ranking court official, he had his own tent on a wagon.
The Saxon rose, wiped his mouth, went and pushed the curtain aside. The room was full of wolves. They were piled up on the bed, on the floor, and over the Persian carpets that covered the floor. As leader, the gray wolf was nearest to a brazier filled with coals. The silver wolf was nestled in the curve of his body, her muzzle resting on his neck. Gavin was pressed against his back. As the Saxon watched, he whined deep in his dreams, his paws twitching. The Saxon was able to recognize most of them even this way: Joseph; Gordo, a stray from the Spanish mountains; Silvia, fat as a woman and massive as a wolf. All sleeping deeply together as a pack. He let the curtain drop closed.
“Together as a pack,” he said, repeating his thought.
“Yes,” Matrona said. “They must remember that from time to time.”
Antonius and Barbara were gone. All the ladies had their own wagons.
“We honor them,” the Saxon said. “The wolf is a trustworthy friend, a bad enemy, faithful to his kind. Gentle with his woman, devoted father to his children, chaste, and attentive in his duties to his pack. What man could ask to be more virtuous?
“So it is said. So I believe. The gods placed the wolf here for our instruction, that we would know how to behave. Then they gave us a talisman, a mark of our covenant with them, that they care for us, as we care for them.”
Matrona went to the table and blew out the lamp.
“Then our way of life troubles you not at all?”
“No,” he answered. “I feel as if, after a long journey, I have come home.”
Then he got his bearskin, rolled up in it, and went to sleep on the floor.
IV
Silvie had been up only a few hours. She peered through the shutters that sealed her wineshop, wondering if it was worthwhile to open so early. Most of her clientele didn’t begin to show up until after dark, and most of them were furtive even then, preferring shadows and dimly lighted eating and drinking places.
Silvie catered to them, keeping the lights low, the wine measures honest, and the food she served cheap, plentiful, and always fresh. To everyone’s absolute and utter shock, she was a very successful businesswoman. Though tavern keepers even in the most rundown sections of the eternal city wouldn’t have welcomed her customers, she accepted them for what they were and she prospered.
None were even remotely honest, so she only took cash. Most were thieves, with a sprinkling of assassins, bravos who fought for pay covertly, and a more open group of killer mercenaries who hired out to the quarreling nobles and any other splinter group in all of sundered Italy. They welcomed a quiet place to eat, drink, and transact business before beginning their nightly rounds. Silvie provided this.
And, in return, her grateful if violent clients kept the peace in her wineshop. Although there were quite a few killings in the immediate area around the shop, none could be traced to its now very respectable proprietress.
It was no more than the seventh hour, late afternoon. The only crea
ture that could be seen was her neighbor’s calico cat, and all the cat was doing was sleeping in the sun, its white belly up, paws in the air, the picture of complete and utter relaxation.
Silvie yawned and thought about going back to bed. She might still be able to catch a short nap before nightfall. She was turning away when a man appeared and rapped on the shutters softly, so softly. The cat on the doorstep across the street didn’t even stir.
She thought about going upstairs and returning to bed and ignoring him, but she was pretty sure he was one of her regulars. Few others went hooded and cloaked on warm afternoons. So she pulled the bolt and folded one of the shutters back.
The man slipped in.
Silvie went behind the counter. “I don’t have any food cooked yet, but—”
Then she got a clear look at his face.
Hugo!
The slap knocked her down. He dropped to one knee and pressed a knife to her throat. “Where is your money? I know you own this place and it’s prosperous. Now, where’s the money?”
Silvie tried to pull away from him using her elbows. She was flat on her back on the floor, but Hugo grabbed her hair with one hand and pressed the knife closer to her carotid artery.
She hadn’t been afraid of Hugo before; he had been utterly dominated by his father, Gundabald. But she was afraid of this Hugo. He was thinner, looked much older, and was already beginning to lose his teeth, but he had a savage, feral cast to his features that he hadn’t had when he was a younger man. He looked as if he’d had to struggle to survive, and it hadn’t improved either his judgment or his temper.
“Silvie.” The knife tip drew blood.
“Yes, yes, Hugo,” she whispered. “Money. It’s upstairs in the bedroom. Let me up, just let me up. I’ll go get it.”
Another man entered the shop, followed by a third. They looked, if possible, older and more battered than Hugo. One’s ears were cropped and the third lacked a hand.
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