The Army of the Night

by Paul Collis

5

  Bellanger reached Versailles to see an uncommonly bright sun illuminate the work of a mid-March frost; the splendid lawns had become dazzling, feathery carpets of white. Inside the imperial offices the Emperor greeted him with concerns about the weather’s effect on the supply of goods to his armies — the cold slowed the fingers of the nation’s workers, and the frozen, rutted roads delayed the carters. And the damned ice on the canals prevented horses from towing their damned barges.

  Napoleon then dismissed his secretaries and asked his agent for his report.

  Bellanger replied that he could reveal his findings on one condition; that they were both at least five hundred paces from any other human.

  His master reacted like anyone else. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Never more so, Imperial Highness.’

  ‘Those doors are oak and the thickness of a fist. You think my guards listen at the keyhole?’

  ‘I doubt it, but it’s possible.’

  ‘And this news of yours is that important that I must leave the shelter of the palace to hear it?’

  ‘Of its importance only you can be the judge, sir. You alone. I have not told the Director because, even if he believed me, I’m not sure he would pass it on to you. My news is beyond strange. Yet I believe it to be true.’

  ‘As you wish. We’ll take our horses to the middle of the park. In truth, it’s not much colder outside than in, and at least our mounts will keep us from freezing.’

  A few minutes later, viewed from the stable gateway, they had become one small, dark spot in an expanse of white and blue. When their animals stood nose to tail, breathing plumes of cloud in front of them, the agent spoke. He set the scene by describing St. Jean as a small and sleepy town at the foot of the Pyrenees, surrounded by duchies and other baronies that have, over the centuries, provided respectable livings for their farmers and modest tithes to their owners. And then he flexed the muscles of his notable memory (perhaps the most crucial weapon in any spy’s arsenal) and recounted this story:

  ‘A hundred years ago the 9th Baron of St. Jean lost his family home and estates in a game of chance. This baron was a good man, but his taste for wine and gambling proved to be a costly combination. A poor judge of odds even when sober, he was tricked out of his lands by a neighboring viscount, a man distanced from his family but yet powerful in his own right, with his own small army. The swindler chose to stay in his own, more impressive castle, and installed his grateful cousin in his victim’s seat. Ashamed of his loss, and unable to raise enough men for a fight, the baron exiled himself to the edge of his land, at the foot of the Pyrenees, where he lived the life of a peasant.

  ‘When he had money he would spend it in the local tavern and tell his story to anyone who would lend half an ear to a rambling drunkard. The locals never took him seriously but, about a year after his downfall, a traveler sat at his table and listened to his claims. The traveler, a tall, weather-beaten but robust man in the prime of life, told him that, if what he said was true, there was a way to regain his lands, but it would be expensive; it would cost him perhaps half of whatever was retrieved. The baron was incredulous; how could a mere passer-by help him?

  ‘The man explained that he had many friends like himself, scattered about the mountains from the Atlantic coast to the shores of the Mediterranean. All they wanted was some land to farm and call their own, a place where they could live peacefully and independently. Their fortunes were slim, but even if they had the money to pay for it, land was seldom bought — it was inherited, or given, or fought for. He and his friends were unlikely to inherit any land, or be given it. But they could fight, and fight well, for a suitable reward. The baron gladly promised half his fiefdom.

  ‘After the baron gave his promise, the traveler asked for the exact location of the baron’s chateau and its new owner’s description, details about the viscount’s bastion in the mountains, various names and dates, and some facts that only the baron could know. The traveler said that he would investigate the baron’s claims, and if he found them to be true he would return to the tavern in exactly fourteen days. If a single word rang false, the baron could expect to be a peasant forever, and maybe worse—’

  ‘I’m glad my gloves are warm, Bellanger, for I fear this tale is not a short one.’

  ‘The details of the background are important, your excellency. I think I need to tell it as it was told to me, because if not... then I doubt you would believe me. Ten minutes more?’

  Napoleon nodded. ‘Twelve if it’s important as you say.’

  ‘Thank you. Exactly fourteen days later the baron returned to the tavern and was overjoyed when the traveler entered the gloomy room. The man’s deeply hooded cloak seemed inappropriate for the warm summer’s evening, but each to his own, thought the baron. The traveler spoke. ‘It seems that what you say is true. And what I have to tell you is also true, but I cannot tell you here. Let’s go to a place where we will not be seen or overheard.’

  ‘The men walked to the edge of the village and a mile or so beyond, up a steep trail to a cave in the side of a cliff, a refuge sometimes used by shepherds. The mouth of the cave was fitted with a strong wooden door that had an iron bolt on the inside of it. The men talked for a while, and the traveler gave the baron some instructions that made the poor man increasingly nervous, but only when he was able to repeat them perfectly was the traveler satisfied. The traveler then went to a ledge at the back of the cave and took down a length of heavy iron chain and some rope. He wrapped the chain loosely around his back and across his chest, like a double bandolier, and then walked to a small clearing between two boulders. He wound the chain around the heavy rocks and secured the ends in front of him with a large padlock. He turned the key and gave it to the baron, who then tied the man’s hands together tightly with the rope. The baron then retreated to the cave, bolted the door (as he’d been ordered) and put his eye to a small gap between its heavy timbers.

  ‘It wasn’t long until a shaft of silver moonlight appeared above the cliff-tops and crept across the clearing. When it reached the chained man a scream came from his throat as if the light had burned him. The baron watched, terrified, as the man grew larger by half his size again, stretching the chain taut as a bowstring, gouging it deep into the stone as he struggled. Although he managed to snap the rope binding his hands, he could not pull himself free of the chain. As his body changed it burst through his clothing, revealing a thick covering of hair. The screams turned to inhuman howling. The baron watched in horror, noting the glints of light on fang-like teeth and the yellow blaze of beastly eyes, and he prayed as never before, shouting his petition in an attempt to drown out the frightful growling from among the rocks. When the moonlight passed from the clearing and left it in shadow he could see nothing distinctly, but could still hear the beast’s frustrated howling coming from the darkness.

  ‘He sat down, his limbs shaking; he knew that what had taken place was impossible, but he’d seen it and he believed it. After some hours the first trace of dawn appeared, and he waited several more before he dared to look out. By then sunlight flooded the place, the chain lay on the ground, and the traveler was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘The baron came out of the cave and gingerly retrieved the chain, replacing it on its ledge in the cave as he’d been instructed. He then retraced his steps to the tavern and asked for brandy. It was early in the day but the landlord took a draught himself, for he too needed fortifying — in the twelve hours between leaving the inn and returning to it, the baron’s dark brown hair had turned to ermine white.

  ‘The baron nervously returned to St. Jean and met with a faithful retainer, who recognized his old seigneur despite his humble clothes and aged hair. The servant informed him that the household, the men at arms, the merchants and the commoners were all unhappy with their new master. The baron told him to contact the captain of his old guard and arrange a meeting.

  ‘When they met, the officer told him with regret that there could be no h
ope of an uprising; he could rally nearly twenty soldiers and perhaps fifty men at arms, but their master would send messengers to his cousin the viscount. and two hundred men with muskets and cannon and fifty warhorses would arrive and slaughter them all. The baron told him not to worry; there would be no bloodshed in the town. The viscount would not be a problem, and his cousin would merely leave. All they had to do was present themselves at the viscount’s fortress on the morning after the next clear night.

  ‘Three days later, after a starry night undimmed by cloud, the baron and his small, nervous band of soldiers set forth at dawn, while his usurper was still asleep. After marching for six hours the men of St. Jean arrived at the castle, where they were met without a word of greeting or challenge by a group of stupefied civilians who milled around the lowered drawbridge. The people let the baron and his men enter the courtyard where they came upon a scene from hell. Corpses were strewn everywhere, not one intact. All had lost a limb or head; some both. A priest stood shivering, mumbling silent prayers next to a row of carts loaded with bodies for burial; when asked to describe what had happened he made no sense. The ground, and even the walls, were awash in the blood of three hundred men, all soldiers. Women were pumping water and scrubbing the battlements, creating a crimson stream that flowed out of the yard, past the portcullis and into the moat. The captain from St. Jean found the Viscount’s head displayed on a pikestaff, and the baron ordered it put in a basket and tied to his horse. The baron then told everyone in the courtyard that, from that day forward, they were free to do as they pleased. The few men at arms who wore the viscount’s colors and had survived were wrecks, either gibbering or dumbstruck, and they surrendered their arms without complaint. The baron said nothing, but turned and walked away.

  ‘His own men, all of them greatly shocked, could not imagine how the carnage had been wrought and by whom, or how the baron was involved. As night approached, the baron suggested they set up camp by a stream. The captain told him that the men were restive, and would have to know how their lord had known about the massacre. The baron immediately told them that he had seen it in a dream, the most vivid and frightening dream of his life. He told them that ‘he had been avenged by the spirits of his ancestors’. Their silence signified a universal disbelief, and one man spoke up. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘your ancestors were never ones for fighting much. It’s hard to think their ghosts, if they exist, could be so brutal. So brutal and so… bloodthirsty.’

  ‘The baron had known his answer would be unconvincing, if not laughable, but he knew that the truth was even less credible. Yet it was all he had and, no matter how unbelievable, he could tell it with conviction. ‘What you say is right,’ he replied. ‘The barons, apart from the first, have not been known for their battle honors. I’m sorry; I will not try to fool you again. The cause of what you saw today, in truth, is this, and only this: my place among you has been restored by werewolves. Werewolves with whom … I see you doubt my sanity. Then consider the horrors that you saw this morning. Could ordinary men inflict that … butchery? What of the dead? They were all the viscount’s men, were they not? Not even one of their attackers were found. Not one.’

  ‘But sir,’ said the captain, ‘you’re an educated man. Surely you don’t believe in such beasts?’

  ‘The baron looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Three weeks ago I did not. And then I met a man who said he and his friends could restore my rightful house and lands to me, if I paid their price. I agreed to the deal, and then he showed me just what I had agreed to. From the safety of a locked and gated cave I saw him change into a wolf, a snarling, howling beast of enormous strength. So yes, captain; I believe in werewolves, as the color of my hair now testifies. And it seems that last night they honored their part of the bargain. Whether you believe me or not, there’s no need to concern yourselves about your future safety — my end of the bargain is mine alone to pay.’

  ‘Whatever the men thought of his answer, they no doubt spent a restless night. The next morning they returned to St. Jean and entered the chateau, and the baron presented the viscount’s cousin with the viscount’s head. The dumbstruck man and his retinue left immediately.’

  The agent took a breath and was glad to see that, even though Napoleon said nothing, he was still attentive.

  ‘The next day the baron rode out alone to the cave in the cliff. The man who had been transformed into a beast was waiting for him, and this is what he said: ‘You’ve seen our work is done, as I promised it would be. And here’s how you shall pay us for it. Take this map and find this place that’s marked on it. As of yesterday you are the owner of it — a valley in the mountains, a long and fertile meadow with springs and a waterfall that sits between two crags. On either side of its northern entrance are two high cliffs, topped by spires. You will build a wall between those cliffs. Here are the working drawings, all the details you need. I was an architect at one time, so build it as I describe and it will stand for centuries. You’ll pay the wages of many men; masons, carpenters and laborers. You’ll supply the tools and equipment, all the ropes and pulleys and wooden beams and chisels. When the wall’s complete, you’ll leave all your equipment behind. And after the last man from St. Jean walks back down the trail to his home, no one comes back up it. No one. Ever. Not even a dog. Do this, and you’ll keep all your lands without further trouble. Generations of your family will be live in peace — but only if we are left alone, behind this wall. We’ll build our lodgings behind it, plant crops in the meadow and orchards on the slopes. Our sheep and goats will roam the hillsides. All we ask is privacy. That’s all. You have two years from today.’

  ‘The baron was confused. ‘What if I have to hire craftsmen from outside the town? When they ask me what we’re building, what will I tell them?’

  ‘Tell them it’s a sanctuary,’ the man replied. ‘In thanks for your recent gains, you’re building the boundary wall of a sanctuary for an order of reclusive monks and the lepers in their charge. Whose desire for privacy is as strong as the curses they’ll invoke on those who disrespect it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the baron ‘that’s believable, a sanctuary for lepers. Even the rumor of it will keep strangers away.’

  ‘So. The baron and his benefactor parted. The baron employed every one of his soldiers and craftsmen and laborers who could be spared. He paid them well, and told them all of the intended purpose of their labor. He also told them that anyone who thought otherwise, and gave voice to that thought, would be banished from their farms or businesses and their homes; their possessions would be confiscated; and they would be brought before the Bishop and excommunicated from their God. And so the men built the wall and closed their lips. Not one of them, or their sons, or their sons’ sons, has said a word since then.’

  The Emperor gazed into the distance for a few moments before addressing his agent. ‘And you believe this story?’

  Bellanger considered his reply. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous. But I have seen and held documents that describe it, sir. I have seen the terror in the eyes of those that believe it. I have seen and touched the great wall of the sanctuary itself. It exists. And I have met one of those ‘monks’ who live behind it. He appeared in front of the wall as if from nowhere, a man much more skilled than I at tracking. A tall and powerful man, whose strength was not just in his frame, but in his eyes. His eyes were, if anything, the most impressive thing about him. He was a man, I’m not ashamed to say it, who made me fearful. That, sir, is my report. That is what I have found in St. Jean.’

  Napoleon looked at him calmly. ‘Alain. You are telling me, in all seriousness, that you have discovered werewolves? You say werewolves survive, here in France?’

  ‘Either an entire town is under some sort of spell or, yes, werewolves exist. I believe tha—’ Bellanger stopped himself, distracted by the vocabulary of his master’s question. ‘You said ‘survive’, sir.’

  ‘You caught the word, but perhaps not its significance.’ Napoleon turned his horse. ‘Come
. Let’s get warm. Tonight you’ll be privy to what was once known only by kings, and now by an emperor. May God save you.’