She should have remembered, but she’d accepted Adalgisus’s word that she was safe. She should have known better than that, also. Now she was being invited by the bishop Karl to commit suicide. The wine jug was a sort of mercy left with her so that she could take that road in preference to death by starvation and thirst.
Above, the patch of blue sky was beginning to darken. Night was coming on. Lucilla sat on the figment of ruined Roman imperium, the column drum, sunk deep in physical and emotional misery and despair. She believed in her heart that she was going to die.
Memories drifted across her mind like cloud shadows across summer meadows: vague, fragmentary, and disconnected.
Like a great many others, Lucilla regretted her inability to completely turn off her mind and rest in mental silence and peace. Her father had been a prosperous farmer in the mountainous region of Italy known as the Abruzzi. He was a hard man. She realized now that, given the world he lived in, only a hard man could have survived. The life of a farmer in the mountains was not one forgiving of the weak or even the lazy. Her mother had been a kind and good woman, but she went in mortal terror of her husband.
But Lucilla had been a happy, hard-working child until her father caught her alone in the barn when she was sixteen years old. At first she’d wondered why he was touching her. He was not an affectionate man. But when he threw her down in a pile of hay, she understood, and she fought back. But he threatened her with a horsewhip—no idle threat, as he had one he used to discipline difficult animals, children, and occasionally his wife.
Lucilla lay still. It had been painful, but he had exclaimed at her tightness and been pleased. Like many another girl, Lucilla had tried to turn to the people in her life for help, but her older brother wouldn’t even listen. All her older sister said was that it was time she did her share to keep him occupied. Her mother said she didn’t believe her. Lucilla decided later it must have been pretense because then and at later times she would never meet Lucilla’s eyes, never look her directly in the face. So Lucilla tried to harden herself to the situation. She tried not to care.
But then he began to sneak up to the high pastures to pleasure himself with her tight, young body. To her this was an unbearable pollution. She had charge of their sheep and few cattle because she was fearless. Nothing, not wolves who moved in the cold night or the big mountain eagle who hunted young lambs, nothing was ever allowed to disturb the stock she guarded. And should any stray from the flock, she would climb sheer slopes that wouldn’t offer good handholds to a fly, or cross treacherous scree, moving through the dangerous rocks more surely than a mountain goat to bring them safely back.
This was her domain, where she was alone with the wind and the silence, the beauties of wildflowers in spring or the vast ocean of stars on cold autumn nights. The second time he came, she saw him on the footpath from her perch on the mountain. She had collected a large pile of rocks solely for this purpose. She pelted him with them until he turned tail and ran. That evening when she returned the flocks to the barn near the farmhouse, she expected that she would get a beating, probably a dreadful one. She thought he might even kill her, but she felt it was worth it simply to keep her own world hers. But she wasn’t beaten. She wasn’t killed. Instead she was sold to a slave dealer and in turn, since she was strong and still pretty when she reached the city—a lot of the children they dragged down from the mountains weren’t, by the time they reached the coast—she was sold into the sex trade.
Antonius, her son, wasn’t only her son, he was also her half brother. If she could have gotten her hands on her father, she would have seen to it that he died in torment. She would still, if she looked into his face tomorrow. But she understood why he had done what he had to her. A tyrant loves nothing so much as ruling, and her father was a tyrant, dreadful as any who ever scarred the pages of human history. They cannot bear to be opposed because it loosens their grip on those they rule. And he saw, mirrored in her, his own strength and determination. So he had needed, as he saw it, to destroy her. He tried and very nearly succeeded—because he knew she would never fully yield.
It was dark now and the sky was bathed in the star blaze. No, she would never drink that flask of wine. Whatever a being does, it cannot deny its essential nature, and she could not deny hers. Yes, she would probably die. But she would die trying to live.
She inventoried her possessions. She still had the knife, more opium and valerian, her cotton shift and woolen gown. Among the debris on the stone floor was some dried grass and a few pieces of wood. She selected one of the pieces of wood and made a notch in it. She would try to keep a tally of the days. Then she piled the dried grass into a bed. A mouthful of the wine wouldn’t kill her, and it would probably stop the headache she had and let her sleep.
So she drank that much, then stoppered the flask and put it aside with the bread. She was too nauseated to try to eat anyway. Then she lay down and went to sleep.
Regeane traveled by night and slept by day. She tried to put the woman out of her mind and become only the wolf. Matrona had told her this was possible, and it worked most of the time. But the things she’d learned from the bear haunted her mind.
Near any human dwelling, she saw shadows. A festively twined temple appeared in her mind even as her eyes gazed on ruins; she could see the brightly painted ornaments and statuary with eyes of crystal, jewelry of gold leaf and semiprecious stones, flesh covered in ivory. Jewels of brass or glass inlaid on the togas and gowns; the painted green leaves of ivy, artichoke, and acanthus decorating the capitals and dados in red or blue glowed before her as if newly created and first exposed shining in the sun.
Sometimes people long dead appeared before her, but these—unlike other ghosts she had seen—were utterly unaware of her presence. So she found her way, as Hugo had, to the coast, and unlike Hugo, she found the solitude a source of renewal. She had, she knew, come into her own. The criticisms Maeniel had made of her no longer applied. She was a competent hunter and could always find something to eat. She fished well and easily even in the surf.
Other wolf packs were no longer a problem, thanks to her experience with the bear. She would use her augmented sense of temporal positioning to investigate quickly the activity of any pack in the immediate vicinity, finding herself thereafter usually able to predict their movements. The same was true of prey animals. To become aware of a deer was to know where it had been in the last few hours and, therefore, she often knew where it was going.
Her senses, preternaturally acute because she was human and wolf, now stretched even further. Leaping and dancing in the surf near where Hugo had camped, she found that she could sense the presence of each and every living thing: a school of small fish flashing through the shadows, trying to outrun a feeding barracuda; a dozen mussels clinging to rocks in a shallow tide pool; the dark cold intelligence of something cruising the edge of the deeps. Even the ephemeral, feathery jellyfish, wave-borne flotsam and jetsam of the water column, registered on her consciousness.
She turned human and swam along a big sandbar that stretched out far into the sea, drifting among waves burnished by moonlight, then swam ashore near a rocky promontory and had a meal of raw shellfish and whitebait before she resumed her wolf form and slept in a sand cave near the deserted and ruined city where Hugo had his fateful meeting with the bear.
The next day she had to be more careful, because she was approaching the thickly settled countryside near Rome. She found a hilltop and scanned the low, rolling landscape, watching and letting her perceptions range until she felt she’d found a safe route. Then she curled up in an abandoned badger den until dark.
Not long after dawn she was leaping the wall to Lucilla’s villa and gliding through the beautiful herb and flower gardens near Lucilla’s triclinium. She was pleased when she saw Dulcinia sitting on a bench with a cup of her preferred tea.
Dulcinia looked up when she saw the wolf trotting toward her in a friendly way along the path. “A dog,” she murmured. “I didn
’t know Lucilla had a dog . . . That’s not a dog, it’s a—”
Just at that moment, Regeane chose to assume human form. “Dulcinia, would you—”
That was as far as she got, because Dulcinia let out a terrible scream and leaped to her feet. Regeane, her mind still involved with the wolf, heard feet running toward them from every direction. She snatched Dulcinia’s mantle and wrapped it around herself just as what seemed the entire staff of the villa descended on the garden, at least half bearing weapons or the nearest heavy or sharp object within reach. Dulcinia staggered against a yew tree, hand on her breast, gasping for her breath.
“I’m sorry,” Regeane said. “I thought Lucilla would have told you I could do . . . that.”
“Do that?” Dulcinia shrieked. “Do that? I didn’t know anyone could do that!”
“You mean she didn’t tell—”
Just then a wave of servants, soldiers, and farm laborers working on the grounds arrived, accompanied by a few strangers or passersby who had heard the commotion and came to see what was happening.
Explanations were in order. Regeane, who was stifling laughter, said, “I startled the lady Dulcinia.”
Dulcinia gave her a withering look. “Startled? Yes, I suppose nearly frightening me into a heart seizure might be described as startling . . . but I can’t think the lady Regeane means me any harm.”
She looked down at the broken glass beaker on the flagstones. “Except for the lady Lucilla’s cup, I don’t think any harm was done. Will someone please bring me some wine? I feel the need for a bit of a restorative.”
Then she left her position against the yew tree and, being careful to avoid the broken glass, she staggered back to the bench and sat down. The crowd dispersed. A tray was carried out, bearing wine and glasses. One of the maids came and swept up the broken glass, carefully collecting the pieces and carrying them away to see if they could be mended. Glass was valuable, a luxury for the rich. Breaking something was a serious matter.
“Where is Lucilla?” Regeane asked. “I came to see Lucilla. I received a message telling me to go to Rome.”
Dulcinia gulped half a cup of wine. “She’s not here. A message? Who gave you the message? Have you been in contact with her? Do you know where she is? If you do, in heaven’s name, tell me. Everyone is very disturbed; we’ve been—”
“Dulcinia, slow down. No, I don’t know where Lucilla is, and the person who gave me the message to go to Rome was . . . was . . . Well, let me put it this way. If the wolf bothered you, this one would really—”
“I’m afraid to ask,” Dulcinia said. “And you’re right, I’m not sure I want to know where you find things out. You’re right; I’m sure it would bother me.”
Regeane took another glass from the tray, poured some wine, and spiked it with water. She drank deeply, then said, “Dulcinia, I need food, clothes, and rest. I’ve been on the road all night. You understand? It’s safer if I travel at night.”
Dulcinia’s answering laugh was slightly hysterical. “Oh, yes, to be sure, much safer. If you meet any people, killing and eating them will be—”
“Dulcinia. I have never—well, only rarely and then almost always in self-defense, almost always, actually once or twice I had no choice, but—Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dulcinia. I’ll explain later. But I never, I positively never, eat them.”
“My, how comforting.”
“Stop. You’re just getting back at me for startling you.”
“Startling me? Oh, yes, remind me to look in a mirror when we get into the house. I’ll want to know if my hair has turned white.”
Regeane gulped some more water and wine. “Your hair can’t turn white. It’s an old wives’ tale.”
“Yes, well, I’m beginning to rethink every old wives’ tale I ever heard. Those old wives must know something. Look at you. I thought you were an old wives’ tale.” Dulcinia sounded outraged.
“Dulcinia, conduct me to the baths. I need clothing, food, and I need to clean up.” Her hair was wet with dew, as her coat had been. She shook her head and showered Dulcinia with droplets.
Dulcinia closed her eyes and clenched her fists. “You stop. I will become deranged. You are making me deranged.”
“How much wine have you had on an empty stomach?” Regeane asked.
“Too much. I’m not a drinker. I think I am a little tiddly, but why doesn’t it bother you?”
“I added water. Besides, if I get too swacked, I can just change, then change back. It seems whatever makes wine wine just burns away.”
“Oh, my God,” Dulcinia said. Then she rose, not too steadily, and led Regeane away.
Regeane bathed. Dulcinia sobered and found her temper, as opposed to it being lost. She was not a naturally rancorous person and when both women emerged, clean and refreshed, to breakfast in the garden, they were friends again. Dulcinia filled Regeane in on what had happened since she had left Rome, and in return, Regeane gave her a highly edited account of her own activities.
Dulcinia told Regeane what had happened after Stella died. “We tried to follow Adalgisus but lost his trail in the wilderness. We felt he probably rode to the villa Jovis, but it’s well fortified. Ansgar and Ludolf didn’t want to try an attack there. It’s practically a city and bristling with armed men. From there it would be impossible to tell where he went, so we returned and Ansgar sent me on ahead to Rome. Rufus and he are friends. You remember Cecelia’s Rufus?”
“Oh my, yes,” Regeane said. “I certainly do.”
“He arranged for safe conduct for Ansgar to come visit the pope. I think Ansgar is going to switch loyalties.”
“Does he blame Lucilla for what happened?”
“Yes and no,” Dulcinia said slowly. “He says nothing would have happened if she hadn’t come visiting and gotten Stella all stirred up, but he’s a fair man and says Stella shouldn’t have been so foolish as to send a message to Adalgisus. She knew as well as Ansgar the man was a fool. And this is what happens when women meddle in men’s affairs. But, in any case, Adalgisus should have had better sense than to take Stella when he came to capture Lucilla.
“Then Eberhardt and Dagobert behaved as stupidly as they possibly could. They both died, and Ansgar says good riddance. And if he had gotten his hands on them, they would have died a lot harder than they did.
“He blames the men more because he says they should have better sense, but he also says he has to secure his son’s future. If he has to swear allegiance to Charlemagne, to do that, he will. And he doesn’t object to Ludolf marrying me, if we want, but I’m beginning to have second thoughts.”
Dulcinia began twisting an elaborate ruby ring on one finger. “You see, I’m pregnant and Ludolf says he isn’t a man to make bastards. He wants his child to be brought up in his city.”
“Maybe he won’t object if the child is a girl. I mean, to her staying here in Rome,” Regeane said.
Dulcinia brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that possibility—that it would be a girl. Then Ludolf might not care . . .”
“But I would,” Ludolf said as he stepped out from behind a pillar on the walkway around the villa garden. He sat down and looked at Dulcinia.
“Ludolf, this is my friend and Lucilla’s: Regeane. She is related to the Frankish royal family, and her husband is the master of a duchy in the Alps.”
“Maeniel. Yes, I know. I am honored to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Regeane said. “And I, you.”
Ludolf turned to Dulcinia. “Father is with Hadrian now. I believe they will reach an agreement. Rufus made no secret of his pleasure in my father’s offer to join him in swearing fealty to the Frankish king. Between the two of them, they should be able to rehabilitate the wasteland between Rufus’s domains and our own.
“And yes, even if the child is a girl, I will still want her and you. I can understand some of your fears and doubts. You have carved out an independent position for yourself, as few women are able to, and I would not take that away from you. But th
e world is changing, and our town, though newly reborn, looks to be a prosperous one. Our little court might well become a center of art and culture, and I would hope that you would remain beside me to help in the building of such a place.”
“My dear,” Dulcinia said. “Are you sure? I do love you, but what will the world say to such a match?”
“Nothing. Or nothing that we—either of us—need concern ourselves about. They will talk the usual folly and nonsense as they always do, and we will live together—I hope—in bliss.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Don’t be afraid to try life.”
Regeane had an odd feeling. She tried to thrust it out of her mind, but it grew in intensity. The garden around her was filled with people. They walked in shadow but light shifted from one face to another: a magnificent dark-haired woman in pink silk wearing a crown; a dark man with thick, curly hair, black brows, frowning and angry; a pope in the most elaborate dress she’d ever seen, thin-faced, aesthetic, and angry; a warrior, looking more chaste than the pope. And then abruptly, before she could sort it all out, they were gone and she sat beside Dulcinia, as Ludolf held her hand to his lips still.
And Regeane knew time had annihilated itself again. She’d seen—what?
Her journey into the other world had given her godlike powers but they were worthless without a god’s concomitant knowledge. All she knew after her vision was that both of these people would leave descendants, but she couldn’t be sure if from each other or not. She had been given power to look beneath the smooth, time-driven universe that cradles life from birth to death, but she was far from understanding the meaning of her visions.
The Wolf King Page 40
