Sons of the Wolf

by Barbara Michaels

  "Not if I told him of Ada's abduction-of your intention of forcing her-"

  "Well, possibly not. But I should, of course, attribute that tale to the hysterical imaginations of two flighty young girls. Harriet, Harriet-you could find a far worse husband. I have rather advanced notions about marriage. Marriage with me can be joy and excitement, not the genteel slavery to which you would be reduced by most men. Forget the silly prejudices about love which your prudish grandmother instilled in you, and give your own impulses a chance." It was in this mood that I feared him most. He was so reasonable and so restrained-and, though I fought it, some part of me responded to him and to his arguments. Was this the time to make my next move? He could see by my expression that I was affected. If I promised to marry him . . . There was no minister closer than Middleham. H I pretended to give in, he might let me go to Francis.

  I had learned nothing from my earlier experiences with him; I was still incredibly naive.

  "If I say Yes," I muttered, "will you let Ada go, now?"

  For a moment he did not answer. The firelight leaped up, and every contour of his face was redly lighted.

  "Do you say Yes?" he asked.

  "What else can I say?"

  "You agree to marry me, whenever I say?"

  "I-yes."

  There was something wrong. I felt it, like a blast of wintry air. Moving very deliberately he reached inside his coat and withdrew-of all things-a small black book. Balancing it on the palm of his hand, he held it out to me.

  "You will swear, on this Book?"

  I did not hesitate. I stretched out one hand and placed it on the Bible. I raised my eyes and met his eyes squarely.

  "I swear," I said, "to marry you whenever you say."

  Some strong emotion flared in his face. It was not passion; I knew that look now. My hand fell as he withdrew the Book, and for a moment he sat looking down at the little volume with his head cocked on one side. Then his left hand moved. It went to his cravat and, in one quick movement, untied the knot. He pulled it off and dropped it to the floor.

  I gave one small gasp. I saw into his mind and he saw mine; and I knew I was mad to think I could delude him.

  Slowly he turned his hand and the Book fell, striking the floor with a thud, sending up a little cloud of gray dust.

  "Your sworn word," he said. "I commend your lie, heart of my heart, but did you really take me for such a fool?"

  There was no need for me to speak.

  "I know your word isn't worth a damn," he went on contemplatively. "You would say anything. You must give me something more concrete than words."

  "Why?" I gasped. "Why?"

  "The obvious answer must have occurred to you. I'm not accustomed to waiting for what I want, and I've waited longer than you imagine. But there is another reason. I don't trust you, my wily darling; it makes me blush to think what you might say to a man of the cloth, tomorrow or next day. No. You will become my wife tonight-in fact if not in name. That will be sufficient confirmation of your promise."

  I sat with head bowed, avoiding his eyes. He took my silence for despair, but I was, in reality, thinking furiously. How long had I been unconscious? How much time had elapsed since Ada left? If she could find help in Middleham, I might postpone my decision long enough. If she had to proceed to Ripon or York, I was lost. But I had to act on the assumption that help was coming. If the worst happened, let me delay it as long as possible!

  "Let us end this," Wolf said harshly. "I have shown you the bright side of the coin; let me show you the other. If you refuse me tonight, Julian goes to Ada. My gentle Julian has some habits which you don't suspect." He caught my wrist and pulled me close. His eyes stared down into mine; they were luminous and shallow, the eyes of a wolf. "I'll show you another sight in the morning," he said. "My unfortunate son Francis seems to have disappeared, did you know that? I greatly fear that the poor fellow has met with an accident on the moor. It is a treacherous place-easy to lose one's way. I plan to send out searching parties in the morning, but if he lies out of doors for a night, in such weather ..."

  I cried out and tried to hide my face with my free hand.

  Wolf caught that wrist too, holding me so that he con study my tormented face.

  "Julian was right, then," he said. "It may interest y to know, Harriet, that Francis will be suspected of having abducted his poor little cousin. If he is found at the foot the tower and she is here-well, we may never get coherent story from her. The shock of such mistreatment might well disorder a young girl's mind."

  I did something then which I had thought of doing, t never seriously. I spat in his face. The gesture shock both of us.

  "Give me a few hours," I said. "Then I will decide.

  "One hour." Wolf released me, so suddenly that I f back on the bed. "One hour and no more."

  He arose-and the single movement transformed h from a virile, powerful man into a hideous cripple. As lurched toward the door, I let my eyes dwell on eve deformed step. He turned, and his face mirrored the deformity of his body when he saw my avid stare.

  "Stare as you will," he said. "You'll have ample opportunity hereafter to study my deformities. And while y sit scheming here, think of this."

  He took an object from his breast pocket. I recognized by the blob of red sealing wax-the letter from Grandmother. Holding it high, he tore it slowly across and then reduced the pieces to shreds. He opened his hands and little flurry of confetti drifted to the floor.

  "The only proof that a second will ever existed," said blandly. "The will itself, of course, is in my hands Now, Harriet-scheme away. I'll be waiting down below if you find an hour too long."

  As soon as the door closed, I went to the window. The boards were still loose; apparently they had fallen back into place and Wolf had not noticed them. I pushed the central one aside and leaned out.

  The night was cold and clear; the moon rode high, unobscured by clouds. The wind which howled among the eaves of the tower had blown them all away. From the airy height I could see a great distance, even to the white curve of the road far off that turned toward the south and Middleham. Below me, outlined in shadow, lay the courtyard of the old monastery. The block of cells was dark and silent; the light from that one window would not show on this side.

  I contemplated, quite in cold blood, going down to Wolf at once. Nothing moved on the distant road. Nothing would come. I was a child, still believing in fairy tales, to think it would. Francis might be dying. He filled all of my mind then. Ada was safe, and I was beyond saving. There was no way out for me that I could see; but by accepting the inevitable at once I might save Francis' life.

  The only alternative that occurred to me was to do as I had planned earlier, as a desperate last resort-to try to climb down the side of the tower. I considered it with mounting approval. If I got down safely, I could at least elude Wolf for a time and, in the process, try to see Francis. Perhaps my fondness had misled me; he might not be as badly hurt as I feared. And if, as was much more likely, I fell from the wall and hurt myself, I could win a postponement of my decision. Not even Wolf would insist on sharing the bed of a woman with a broken back or limb.

  I was about to lower the lifted board, preparatory to removing my long, encumbering skirts, when I finally did see something moving down below. It was a man on horseback, and as he advanced through the shadows of the gate, my heart gave a wild, stupid bound. Then the cold moonlight found the figure. It was Julian.

  I let the board fall back, leaving only a slit, as he rode out into the middle of the courtyard. There was no point in letting him see this possible, if dangerous, means of escape. He came to a stop just below the tower, staring up, and I realized that physiognomy is a deceptive science.

  With his cap and his long, dreaming face might have been a young monk.

  In the doorway that led to the cells a second figure appeared. It might have been that of an anthropoid, with its crooked legs and abnormally long arms. I could see why moonlight, or any other l
ight, might be abhorrent to it; it kept in the shadows and lifted one grotesque arm in peremptory summons.

  Julian joined his father, and for a few moments the two stood conversing. The silence was so profound that I could hear the murmur of their voices, but no words were audible. Then Wolf vanished back into the doorway and Julia rode across the court. He left his mount in the mined cloister and returned, on foot, crossing the courtyard ft vanish in turn through the same low doorway.

  I cast one last futile glance toward the stretch of road that lay white and empty under the moon. Then something else caught my eye.

  The dogs were out. They came wandering across the court, looking like savage statues that had been magically released from their stony immobility. The sight of them turned me colder than the wind could do; it would be long before I forgot the feel of the wet muzzle on my face.

  It was not until I had withdrawn back into the room that the implications struck me. The dogs were out. Somehow I had assumed that they would be guarding the door, as Loki had before. With Wolf and Julian in one of the cells- why, that meant that I had the freedom of the tower. A poor freedom, under most circumstances; if I tried to enter the court, the dogs would catch me. But just now I had no intention of leaving the ruins-not with Francis helpless down below. If those two were with him-

  I was halfway down the first flight of stairs before I had another sensible thought.

  The darkness slowed me. I did not dare to take a light and the enclosed stairwell was as black as the bottom of a mine. I had to feel my way on hands and knees and, despite the cold, my hands were wet enough to slip dangerously on the stone. Were they with Francis now? What were they planning to do?

  I found the door from the tower to the cells by groping for it. It opened, under the careful pressure of my hands, onto blackness which was less impenetrable. The light coming in from the courtyard door assured me that no one was in the corridor. They must be in one of the cells, probably the one where Francis was imprisoned. I had almost reached it before I saw the light; it came through the same narrow window which I had observed earlier, and my heart leaped at the sight of it. Thanks to the window I could both see and hear what was transpiring inside without myself being seen, and gain sufficient warning to retreat if either of them approached the door.

  I stood on tiptoe to see in.

  There was no fireplace in this room-part of the monkish mortification of the flesh, no doubt. The light came from candles, three of them. The yellow glow was deceptive, for it suggested warmth, of which there was none in that chamber. Wolfs breath and Julian's puffed from their mouths like clouds of smoke as they breathed. Wolf, seated on the only chair the room boasted, was enveloped in a heavy fur-collared coat. Julian paced up and down, slapping his arms against his sides.

  My eyes went at once to the third occupant of the room. At first I could see nothing save a dark unmoving bulk on the low couch. Then, as if in answer to my voiceless prayer, Julian took up one of the candles and approached the bed. He bent over, holding the light low. It fell on Francis' face, on his tumbled fair hair, the livid scratches on his cheek, and on his eyes-open and aware. I caught at the bars of the window with both hands. They would have seen my hands, and my pale face pressed up against the bars, if they had looked, but neither one did. They had another victim to torment.

  "He's awake," said Julian, over his shoulder. "I wonder how much he heard."

  "It doesn't matter." Wolf looked like a malignant idol gloved hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed.

  "No, wait-he's off again," Julian said lightly. "Brother-Francis-wake up."

  "Give him some brandy."

  Julian looked up in surprise. Then with a little shrug took a flask from his pocket and removed the top. Francis choked and coughed over the raw stuff, his struggle bringing an amused smile to Julian's lips. The brandy had its effect. When his coughing spell was over he tried to up and Julian, with a mocking parody of fraternal concern lifted him against the pillow.

  "Now that he's awake, what shall we do with him?" I inquired of his father.

  "Nothing."

  Julian took another turn about the room. He was wearing one of the new caped coats; it became him well, giving added breadth to his slender frame.

  "God Almighty, it's freezing here," he complained "How much longer must we wait?"

  "I said an hour."

  "God Almighty. Standing around this icehouse, when there's a nice warm bed upstairs-"

  Francis stirred at that, and Julian, seeking amusement turned back to him.

  "A nice warm bed, and something else nice and warm to go with it. Doesn't it increase your aches and pains dear Brother, to think that only your obstinacy kept you from being in my shoes?"

  The candle swooped low; Francis had to turn his head o it would have singed his hair.

  "I couldn't believe it," he said, in a shockingly changed voice. "Perhaps now-I'll change my mind."

  Wolf shook his head.

  "Too late." "Why?"

  "Can't trust you now." "We could sign something-an agreement." "Why should I bother?" Wolf asked indifferently. "She prefers me to Julian. It might be easier." An odd smile curved Wolfs mouth. He said nothing, but Julian could not resist the opening.

  'Prefers you? After that idyllic scene in the garden? That was a clumsy move on your part, Brother. It warned me that you meant to betray us, and it convinced Harriet that you were the villain." "Harriet?"

  "Oh, I forgot," Julian said blandly. "You are unaware of the latest developments."

  Wolf stirred; but Julian's back was turned to his father, and he went on gaily, "We all made a mistake, Francis. The old woman fooled us royally. She left a second will making Harriet the heiress. We found out just in time." "Harriet," Francis repeated.

  I was loath to take my eyes from his face, but for the :e of me I couldn't help watching Wolf. He was upright his chair now, and his cold gaze was fixed on Julian's k. If Julian had seen his expression, it would have cut babbling short. But he did not turn around.

  "Yes, Harriet," he said, watching Francis. "It doesn't matter, really. In fact, I would have preferred Ada. She's a pretty thing, and it would be a pleasure to tame her. Harriet rather repels me. But then she-"

  He never finished the sentence, which I cannot repeat, even here. In a burst of surprising strength Francis raised himself on one elbow and broke into the vulgar description with an equally vulgar epithet, spoken in a voice which was almost his old shout. The epithet was well chosen. Julian turned red, then white. He put the candle down on the floor.

  Francis was shivering violently, not so much from rage as from cold. His thin shirt was poor protection, and the fever that burned in his cheeks and unnaturally bright eyes must have intensified the chill.

  "Bad enough when it was Ada you were after! But not Harriet. Keep away from her, you simpering little sadist. No judge and jury for you-I'll break every bone in your body personally if you try any of your tricks on her, you-"

  I saw it coming. Francis must have too, but there was nothing either of us could have done to stop it. Julian's arm moved. I heard the sound of the blow, and Francis fell back, his head twisted at an odd angle. There was blood on his mouth-and on mine, as I sank my teeth into my lower lip to keep from crying out or moving. Surely Wolf would interfere. He could not let Francis die-not yet, not until he had served his purpose.

  Julian had strength enough in those fine white hands when he was in a fury. He twisted his hand in Francis' collar and pulled him up. There was no response; Francis' head fell back.

  "Leave him alone," Wolf said calmly.

  "But I-"

  "Leave him alone."

  His voice was disinterested; he might have been speaking of a sick dog. After a moment Julian's hand relaxed He turned to face his father.

  "He'll have to die," he said sullenly.

  "Not yet."

  "When? After he's on his feet and able to murder me? Good God, he'll be after me as soon as he can crawl! I'll be damned
if I'll take-"

  "You will take whatever I tell you to take." Wolf stared off into space as if the sight of his son's face were distasteful to him. His monstrous arrogance and his contempt for Julian were unchanged, but as I studied the youthful face that Wolf ignored, the hair on the back of my neck stirred in a reversion to some primitive ancestor. I had had too much experience with danger in the last few hours to miss the feeling of it now.