by Chanel Smith
But presently even Petra could no longer lie to herself. The adulterous couple became more public in their trysts. This felt worse than the excommunication for Petra; this was brand new for a woman of such beauty and rank. She had to face the talk of the Court alone. She, whom comforted others in losing their husbands to younger, wealthier women. She never thought it could happen to her. The agony was startlingly unbelievable, and Petra had no idea how to assuage it.
In 1152 she finally allowed him to annul their marriage on the basis that he was still married to his first wife who had recently died leaving him free to marry Arabella. She immediately fled Court with her beautiful head hung low in shame and disappointment. And this is where known history diverges from reality. Petra moved to her sister’s country estate and faded from society. Towards the end of the year she made the decision to travel back to her motherland. On her voyage back to England she contracted a fever and died before port was ever reached.
This is the story the history books tell. But the Captain’s log tells another story. His account does not show that Petra was aboard the ship when it docked on English soil; post mortem or otherwise.
And she wasn’t. The ship had made a brief stop in one of the Channel Islands at the behest of the Queen, and when it left for England, it did so without Petra.
Petra disembarked from the small dinghy that ferried her to shore to feel solid rock under her feet. She felt instant relief as she took in the sights before her. The island had a mysterious beauty and here no one but her knew her past. This freedom was just what was needed after the gossip of court, and the awful mortification of being lost; a husband who’d torn her heart from her chest and left her for dead.
That she’d been blind to his nature simply astounded Petra, she had always prided herself on her wit and intelligence. Never in her life had she made such a drastic miscalculation and it ate at her like a mouse at a chunk of cheese.
The Captain, who generously took her ashore, accompanied her to an intimate and beautiful inn that was nestled into the South facing cliff of the island. This is where he left her. So, alone she requested the innkeeper reserve her room ad infinitum.
That night she couldn’t sleep and went for a long walk along the cliffs. It was a bright night; the moon was full. Petra stopped after a mile and paused captivated by the moon’s reflection on the sea; shining out as if creating a moonlit path to the edge of the world.
What possible good was her life now? She’d dreamed of a humble life. Summers in the country so Raoul could enjoy the hunt, winters at court with her sister and the newly crowned King. She would be mother soon enough and birth his male heir. After a year or two, a girl to bring life and beauty to their home. She’d even written of her dream life in her journal. It made the black days of their excommunication tolerable. She had a chance to live part of that life she dreamed of, once they’d been permitted to return to Court and into the grace of the church she was in raptures! But then there was Arabella and her pocketbook to contend with.
And now there was nothing but blank pages and no way to fill them. She’d not have another husband that much was sure. Her life was ruined she saw that clearly now as if the moon’s reflection set a path, clarifying her thoughts. It was just her, the moon and the sea; the waves pounding against the beach far below.
If she chose to stay in France, her life at most would consist of sitting back and watching the lives of those she loved flourish. Her beautiful sister: Queen, wife and mother. Raoul her charming ex-lover, his new wife, the children they would raise on their beautiful estate. Even her lady’s maid could look forward to more than she. Such a thought was beyond awful; intolerable. Petra had always been a power behind her older sister, her constant advisor; the name that propelled those around her into good favor at Court. But she’d always known her own life was as important and Raoul destroyed that hope and her reputation. The needs of her sister were not enough to hold her in France.
As Petra stared consumed by despair, out over the English Channel she heard a distant howl. It startled her for a moment but she cared not if wolf or beast came for her. Her dark thoughts continued, what did it matter now.
Her thoughts were bleak and Petra saw but one recourse. It would be quick and easy: no one she knew would find out soon, and if they did she would not be present for any of the consequences. She had been excommunicated once already and her soul was, despite the Pope’s decision, more than likely doomed to a fiery afterlife for her sins of this life. She made up her mind; she took the few steps that lay between her and the edge of the cliff. Brightly lit, the cliff fell to the sea at such an angle that no living creature could walk or climb down. She lifted her head proudly, closed her eyes, and took one large final step forward.
Instead of air rushing past as she plummeted, something large hit Petra with the force of a running horse. She was knocked twenty feet to the right and landed head-first against an oak tree.
As her head spun and rang from the force of the blow, Petra wondered what on earth had happened. Something had hit her from a dead run, that was for sure. But what?
As her head slowly cleared she became aware of something panting heavily nearby. Opening her eyes was difficult, the world swam at each attempt but finally she succeeded and found herself looking into exquisite gold eyes.
Her own eyes widened with shock when she realized what stared at her with those eyes; quite the largest wolf she’d ever seen. There was no doubt what had knocked her back to safety. She felt a medley of emotions; strangely curiosity was one of them.
Petra’s thoughts made her nauseous, how could this reality be possible. Wolves didn’t have the intelligence to observe a woman’s despair; to save a human’s life. Did they?
“Not your normal wolf, no,” a voice that was not her own spoke to her clearly in her mind. She had no time to question what she heard; the mammoth golden-eyed beast lunged at her as rapidly as a snake sunk its sharp teeth into her arm.
That was enough for Petra to give up. No more questions, no more despair, no more hope. She welcomed the darkness that engulfed her.
When Petra woke she found herself alone in unfamiliar surroundings, to comforts that were not offered to her at the Inn the Captain left her at the previous night. The over-sized bed embraced her with the help of the cotton sheets and feather-down pillows. From where she lay she could see the fisherman’s bay. The open window was positioned in such a way that when she looked through it from the bed it felt like she was still outside standing on the cliff’s edge, the sea stretched out in front of her; it seemed the sea was the only constant in her new reality: its rhythmic pounding; the salty-sea air you could taste and smell; the strong northern winds.
Slowly the events of the previous night came back to her. She had attempted to end her life! But something had knocked her from her path and her feet to rescue her. She was sure that something was a wolf; with golden eyes deeper and more inviting than even those of her Raoul. She remembered the wolf biting into her forearm, but what struck her most what that before the wolf bit her it spoke to her, with a voice from within her head that was not her own.
“Nothing made sense,” she thought. Her eyes searched the room for a chamber pot. She left the safety of the bed and rose to her feet to retrieve it and relieved herself.
Breakfast arrived shortly thereafter; delivered by a young girl who smiled widely but said nothing. She took several covered plates off a tray, one by one and set them on a table beneath the window. These acts of gracious hospitality made Petra feel a little less anxious in these unknown surroundings—
An unmistakable metallic aroma rose up from beneath the cloche, but she could not pair the scent with a meal she was familiar with. For a moment she squinched her eyes tightly shut, afraid of what she’d see. She opened them at the same time as she lifted the cover from the first plate; she was a lot of things, but coward wasn’t one of them.
“Goodness! Was that a… it couldn’t be,” she thought as she caught a gli
mpse of her breakfast.
It was a large meat steak: bloody and raw. Her eyes darted around immediately in search of a knife and fork. This seeming reflex shocked her more than the sum of all the events she had recently experienced. Her body was reacting with a base craving to the sight and smell of the fresh bloody steak. Her stomach felt as though it had climbed up into her throat and was threatening to leap out of her mouth to grab the meat, and return.
As if in a dream she watched herself reach out and pick up the bloody steak, without utensils, and delivered it to the body that—She didn’t have the chance to finish that thought as abruptly the plate was empty but for a small pool of fresh blood.
She gagged, but then realized how wonderful she felt, as if she’d slept for a solid week, eaten a large meal and was now in a state of rest.
“Yes, there was nothing comparable to feeling like this,” Petra thought. Like nothing would ever feel so wonderful again.
There she was wrong, she’d learn that when the moon rose that very night. But that wouldn’t happen for hours: first she must meet her hosts, a pair of women who’d lived together for many years, they told Petra as she emerged from her room.
Charissa was the eldest, and the one who had been shocked to find a woman leaping from the cliff but at one hundred yards from their cottage, was her mate Erigny who spoke with a laugh.
According to the tiny blonde Erigny, Petra was no longer fully woman. Once a month she’d turn into a wolf and stay in that form for several days. She wasn’t limited to change at the rising of the full moon, Erigny assured her; at any other time she could change at will. She was also informed that as a Werewolf, there was no longer a time limit on Petra’s life. Unless she allowed herself to be killed, she could live as long as she desired.
It didn’t sound bad to Petra, who didn’t quite believe the tale. Eternal life? Enough funds gathered throughout the years so that the women could live as they liked or not? Highly unlikely, but worth a shot. Petra had never backed away from anything in her life and she wasn’t about to start now. As such when the two ladies asked her to disrobe, she obediently obliged, stripping naked and following them to join the rest of the wolf pack who went outside to meet the moon as she rose. Having no idea what to expect, Petra sat on her rump and watched as the others lay prone and curled onto their sides.
Then the moon came into view at the edge of the horizon, and Petra felt a strange pull, a yearning for something she didn’t comprehend. Suddenly she fell onto her side with a heavy thump. A chorus of short barks nearby sounded suspiciously like laughter. She attempted to sit back up again, but again rolled sideways as her long tail was directly beneath her.
“Wait just a moment. Her what was where?”
Petra froze where she was and took stock as she stretched.
“Four legs: check.
“Extremely sensitive ears: check.
“A long nose which picked up every scent for miles? Check.
“The knowledge that life had permanently changed; was now eternal and could be enjoyed with a freedom that no woman of this time has ever had? Check.”
It took her several tries, but Petra succeeded in standing on all four feet without pitching forward or sideways. Once she was up, she began to walk until another wolf shot past her like a star in the night. Her heart leaped. That certainly looked like fun! With one enormous bound, she landed next to the other wolf and then promptly broke into a smooth run herself. Tantalizing scents arose and faded as the three wolves shot through dense forest, swerving around trees and leaping logs with abandon. Once Petra skidded to a stop in a clearing, drawn by the enormous round moon just above the trees. She threw her head back and howled instinctively at length.
Almost at once there was a response: the hair on Petra’s back rose with bliss. She wasn’t alone, and never would be again. She howled for a final time that night and set off running once again, wild and free.
Born in Wallachia, one of the principalities that would become Romania, Michael Raya Pătraşcu lived with his mother and father and two other entire families in a tiny three-room house deep in the forest. His father made a meager wage collecting nuts and selling them: by eighteen, Michael was determined to leave the forest and make something of himself. He’d heard talk about Castle Bathory, some eighty kilometers from his home. Apparently a beautiful young Countess was married to the Count of Bathory who was more than twice her age. She had a reputation for enjoying the company of young warriors. Just what Michael aspired to be, coincidently.
Perhaps the Count would train Michael to be in his personal army. He was big enough; a rare six feet and four inches tall and his dad had trained him in arms as best he could with his limited knowledge and experience. Yes, Castle Bathory held the key to Michael’s future. On his eighteenth birthday, Michael kissed his mom and set off on the long trek.
Having lived in the woods all of his short life, Michael was unprepared for some the sights en route to the castle. He passed through several villages where he saw people so unbelievably poor that they resembled walking skeletons. How could such things be, when on the other side of the same street men in uniforms carried women in outrageously rich clothing along at a trot? And if the small group ever passed the paupers, mostly there was no reaction whatsoever from the wealthy parties. Occasionally someone would throw part of what they were eating at one of the skeletons, but that was the only interaction Michael noticed.
Even the dogs looked more healthy than those poor souls.
As Michael hastily left a village behind for the open road, he was forming opinions that would be with him all of his life—a life that would prove to be a lot longer than he or his family could ever have imagined.
Finally Michael arrived at Castle Bathory, but felt too filthy to present himself. He needed a bath at the very least. Having passed a stream, he turned around and went back.
Somewhat cleaner but still in the same worn clothing he’d had for years, Michael passed through the castle gate and was immediately challenged.
“Name!”
“Occupation!”
“Reason for visiting Bathory!”
Evidently his answers weren’t pleasing, as the gate-keeper held his palm out in the universal ‘stop’ movement: “Denied! Next.”
Michael dropped his head and moved back to watch how others got through. It was easy enough, he learned: offer enough money and you were in.
People dressed worse than he was offered coins and were passed through, to Michael’s distress. How was he ever supposed to make his own way if he couldn’t get his foot in the door?
In despair, he shook his head and dropped it into his large hands.
“You, there. What’s your name?” A female voice spoke.
Michael pulled his head upright and there she was: the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Ever even imagined. She had long, pale hair freshly brushed. A long dress with familiar symbols painted down one side. At one time he’d had to memorize those symbols but it had been years ago. He doubted if he could—
“Read me the first three of these, Michael,” the woman demanded in her light, wealthy sounding voice.
Michael gulped in absolute panic. Obediently he stared at the top of the line of symbols, and the first one suddenly made sense: it looked like a pair of ears glued together. Hearing. That’s what it meant. The second one, though—try as he might, all Michael saw there were, well, nothing he’d tell a lady about. Not that he was right! He had no recollection of Dad ever teaching him about a symbol that meant THAT. The third one was once again obvious. A fist held in the air: off to war.
Great. He had one and three but the second one eluded him. Before he could lose his courage, he blurted that out to the woman. To his surprise, she demanded to know what he thought that second symbol meant.
“Nothing I’d ever tell a, uh, lady,” the young man stammered.
The blonde woman slowly grinned. “Whoever said I was a lady? Go on, give it a guess.”
Mi
chael felt an incredible heat rising in his cheeks as he stared at that second symbol in sheer desperation.
“Not a penis,” he mumbled as he tried to focus harder. “Not a damn penis. NOT a pen—”
“That’s precisely what it is,” the light voice broke into his thoughts. “It’s the symbol for starting a family.”
“Makes sense,” Michael mumbled. “Should have guessed that.”
“You’re not the best reader, but maybe you’re strong and fast? Make a good warrior?” the woman said with a smile.
Michael brightened. “Yes Doamnă. That’s just why I came. I can hit anything at 200 stânjen with a bow and arrow, and at half that with a spear. Oh and I can climb a tree faster than anybody I know.”
It was the woman’s turn to choke back a laugh.
“Know what? I believe I’d like a demo of that last talent.” She looked around and pointed at a wide white oak tree. “Can you climb that one?”
Michael’s eyes followed her gaze. White oaks had luxurious, thick leaves covering branches that looked deceptively wide and strong. From past experience, Michael knew that many branches started out thick, then swiftly narrowed to a width that wouldn’t support a fat raccoon. Yet, this was a challenge.
“Yes, doamnă!”
“Right, then. One, two, three. GO!”
Michael took off at a dead run. As he reached the oak, his superior height allowed him to make a massive leap upward where he just caught a branch no other man could have reached without climbing to it. From that branch, he climbed rapidly upward and reached the top in seconds to open delight and clapping from the woman below. Instantly he headed back down, aware that the faster he went, the less pressure he’d apply to these thin branches.
“You’ll do, Michael. You’ll do!”
And that is how Michael found himself being regularly beaten black and blue by a squadron of lads a year ahead of him in training. However, that meant nothing to Michael considering what else he was learning: the finer points of that second symbol, to his own disbelief.
