by Mary Stewart
Let us hope he will not even notice you. I must not enter the castle, but I can show you how you may go in and mix with the people there, until you can come near enough to Duke Otho to have a private word with him." He looked at John.
"Sooner or later, if you mix with the other boys, you will be called on like his other pages to do him some kind of service. When that happens, as it surely must, then you must show him the amulet, and tell him my story. Above all, let no one but he touch it, or even see it. Put it straight into his hand. He will remember the vows we made, and know that the amulet is a call from me for his help and trust. After that, it is with him. He will know how to deal with Almeric. Cripple or no, he is not Duke for nothing."
He slipped the amulet from his neck, and handed it to John. The boy received it gingerly, almost as if he feared it might burn him. He looked doubtfully at the werewolf. "But what if he simply doesn't believe me? What if he thinks we just found the thing, and have come for a reward or something?"
"Then hope is done. If trust dies, and vows come to count for nothing, then I must stay a forest wolf till they hunt me down to death. There will be no more reason for me to stay a man," said the werewolf.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The decision once taken, it was as if a load had been lifted from all of them: from the children, because somehow they knew this was what they ought to do–"what the enchantment happened for," as Margaret put it–and from the werewolf, because he was sure that the children's coming meant that the time was near for the breaking of the spell.
"How do we get into the castle?" asked John.
"If everyone is stopped and searched–"
"There's a secret way. I shall show you the way in myself. It leads to a secret room that no one knows of except myself and the Duke. We used it as boys, but have not been there for many years. You will not be found there. I shall take you there at night, so that you can wait and hide until morning, then, when you hear the castle waking up, you must watch your chance to slip out and mingle with the other youngsters. Take time, and have patience, and you will soon learn the way of things. And in time you may be sure that your chance will come to approach the Duke."
"'In time,'" repeated John. "I know, but what's bothering me is, what will our parents say? We've already been away all night–"
"No," said Mardian. 'Time is not the same. You will find, when you get home, that they will not even have missed you. So forget your own concerns, of your charity, and let us make our plans, for time here is growing short."
John nodded. It seemed reasonable. In fact both he and Margaret were already finding it hard to remember what "home" and "the holiday" had been like. Already they seemed to belong to this strange, rather alarming, remote and magic age where dukes ruled in lonely castles, and evil men ambitious of power stole a good man's life and happiness and condemned him to a long prison. They were too young to know that every age is the same, for men do not alter. But the trappings alter, and it must be admitted that the two of them thoroughly enjoyed trying on and choosing the clothes that their host produced from the chest in the other room.
"There should be some garments here to fit you," he said. "Old Gulda spent all her time mending and making for the children. Many a time she saved Otho and me a whipping, and made our torn hose as good as new after some escapade. Here, little maid, try these."
It was like the best kind of dressing-up. The clothes were real ones, not makeshifts or stage clothes; the belts were real soft calfskin and the buckles were silver-gilt studded with stones–turquoises for John, garnets for Margaret. Most of the garments were worn, and mended here and there, because, with everything handwoven and handmade, as Mardian explained, they had to last for many years. Certainly, when at last they were dressed to their satisfaction, both children looked as if the clothes had belonged to them for a long time.
There was a mirror, speckled and dim with disuse like everything else in the room. It seemed to be made of metal, and was spotted with rust. They studied themselves.
John wore hose–tights–in thick wool the colour of ivy leaves, and a dark-blue woollen tunic. He had rather hankered for a bright one of robin red, but the werewolf had shaken his head.
"It were best," he said, "to keep to the dark colours, and the greys. There may be need to hide, and to go softly in darkness."
So Margaret was in a grey dress which came down almost to her ankles, with a full skirt and long close-fitting sleeves. Over it went a loose, sleeveless garment of deep reddish brown; Mardian called this a surcoat, and said that the colour was "murrey." She carried a little purse of stitched leather at her belt, with her handkerchief and the silver piece that the huntsman had thrown to her. Both children found shoes that fitted easily, a kind of ankle-boot with pointed toes, of skin as soft as wash-leather.
What pleased John perhaps most about his costume was that from his belt was hung a hunting knife something like the one that Mardian wore. It was thrust through the straps of his leather pouch. Its hilt, like the belt and pouch, was set with turquoises, and it was very sharp.
"I'll have to watch not to cut my mouth," he said, feeling it. Then he looked up, wide-eyed, at the werewolf. "I knew–I didn't know–how did I know that?" he stammered, then said wonderingly: "Do I really use this knife for eating?"
Mardian nodded. "Yes. Do you not do so in your home and in your own time?"
John knitted his brows, trying to remember.
"Well, yes, in a way, but not like this. But I do know how you do it. Does this really mean that we, well, that we sort of belong here?"
"I think so. I think that already you are part of this world. You will not feel strange. Has it not struck you with wonder that you and I already talk the same language, yet you told me that you had come from a land across the sea, and knew nothing of the language of this country?"
"We'd already wondered about that," said John, "then we decided we were dreaming. It sounds just like English to us."
"Aren't you talking English, Mr.–Lord Mardian?" asked Margaret.
"I think," said their host, "that you had better not call me Mardian. You will have to keep that for the false Lord Mardian, and you must make no mistake. Call me Wolf. It's a good enough name, and an easy one. No, little maid, I do not speak 'English.' And to me your name sounds like 'Gretta,' and John's is 'Hans.' Now listen.
"If anyone asks you who you are, tell them this, and say that you are the grandchildren of the Lady Grisel. She is very old, and has long since lost count of all her descendants. Besides, her mind wanders now, and she lives in a world where past and present are confused and dim.
"Even if she says she does not know you, no one will doubt you. For the rest, your parents are dead, and you are wards of Duke Otho. This means that if any suspicion falls on you, you will be taken to the Duke, which is what we want. But I doubt if anyone will suspect you at all. Now, little Gretta, if you should be questioned, what will you say?"
Quite without thinking about it, Margaret found herself dropping a little curtsy, her grey skirts held wide. "So please you, sir, we are Hans and Gretta, wards of the Duke himself, and the Lady Grisel is our grand-dame."
The werewolf was smiling. "You see? You need have no fear that those in the castle will think you strange. Now, Hans, take the amulet and put it in your pouch, and keep it close. Then we must talk, and quickly. See, the afternoon is drawing on already, and once the sun sets, you know that I shall be able to tell you nothing more. Come, let us go back to the other room, and you shall eat and drink again, and we will make our plans."
They followed him into the outer room. "Wolf,"began Margaret, then stopped.
"What troubles you, little maid?"
She hesitated, then said in a rush: "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you did say you were going to take us after dark to the castle, and show us the secret room. Well, if you're–I mean, if you change–"
"If I am a wolf after dark, how can you come near me without danger?"
"Ye
s," said Margaret, miserably.
He looked down at her for a moment with those sad eyes, then turned away to the window.
He spoke with his back to the children. "Because as soon as the twilight falls I shall go out into the forest, in my beast form, and kill, and eat my fill. After that–only after that–I can count myself safe. You will be able to trust me until morning."
"Oh, but we do trust you–" began John.
The werewolf turned quickly. "Do not do so! Wait until I have been out, and come again."
He added strongly: "As soon as the sun sets you must go into the inner room there, and lock the door and put some heavy barrier–the clothes-chest–against it. Whatever you hear, do not open the door. I cannot answer for myself. Please believe me. And close the shutter on the window, and drop the bar. Do not open the door. I shall come back after the moon has risen, when all is safe. When you see moonlight through the shutters, open them and watch for me. Do you understand?"
"Yes. We promise," said John.
"But there's something I don't understand,"put in Margaret. "Won't it be awfully dangerous–for you, I mean–to go up to the castle with us?"
"As dangerous as any other night, but there is no choice, since we cannot go by daylight. You could not find the way into the secret chamber without me. Nor can I, in my wolf-form, open windows and doors to go in myself. So we go at night, together. Now–" this with a quick glance at the sky outside, "I must tell you how we will enter the castle. See, I have made a drawing of it, and here, near the drawbridge, is the window where once Otho and I pulled out the bars and made a private way..."
As the sun dropped at last below the tops of the trees, the werewolf rose, folded the parchment, and put it away on the shelf in the comer cupboard. During the warmth of the day, the fire had been allowed to die down. Now he kicked the remaining logs aside to blacken harmlessly on the hearth.
He turned and caught Margaret watching him. In spite of herself she looked scared. He spoke gravely. "You must not be afraid of what is to come now. Do as I have bidden you, and you will surely be safe. If the enchantment is stronger than I know, then you have your knife, Hans. And you, little maid, shall have this." And he reached into the cupboard again and took from it a wooden box filled with what Margaret recognized as pepper. "Even a forest wolf would quail before this,"he said, with a wry look. "It is a powerful spice, and one of great value. Old Gulda had a taste for spices and strong relishes, so when Otho and I served our turn as pages at the Duke's table, we contrived–do not ask me how!–to bring her such things from time to time. She used them sparingly, and some of her hoard still remains here." He took a pinch, sniffed at it cautiously, then grimaced. "As I hoped, it has lost none of its power. So, costly though it is, do not scruple to use it! You promise me this?"
"I promise."
He handed her the box, then shut the cupboard door. "And now we must make ready. Go into the inner room, and bar the door as I have told you, and put up the shutters on the window. Try not to be afraid of me. That would be the bitterest thing of all, were I to harm you, or even make you fear me."
The children went into the inner room. Just as the^door closed behind them Margaret saw Mardian turn away, not looking at them, his shoulders stiff and his head bent as if he was nerving himself for what was to come. On a sudden impulse she ran back to him, and took his hand between both of hers.
"Don't worry any more, dear Wolf. We're not afraid, and we'll manage. We know what to do, and we'll do exactly as you say. I–I hope it doesn't hurt too much."
His hand closed tightly over hers. "Tonight will be the first night that I have not suffered it quite alone. Good night, little maid. Good night, Hans. We shall see each other later in the night, but I shall not be able to speak with you. Now I wish you good fortune for the morrow."
They left him then, and shut the door. They ran to push the heavy chest up against it, and drive in the peg that held the latch fast. Then they barred the shutters, and, holding hands rather tightly, sat down on the chest to wait.
John heard it first. A sort of sliding thud, as if a heavy body had fallen to the floor, then the moaning, very soft, but somehow so terrible that he wanted to cover his ears to shut it out. Suddenly, as if it had been chopped off, the moaning stopped, to be followed by an even more dreadful silence. Then came a new sound, a long, whining yawn as if a big animal had just woken from sleep. There came the scratch and scrabble of claws on the wooden floor. Then a new kind of whining, eager and savage, and after that a long, soft snarl that raised the hairs along their arms and made them clutch each other's hands more tightly than before, and turn on their uncomfortable perch to watch the door.
The paws approached it, with a stealthy clicking of claws on wood. Something sniffed and snuffled along the gap at the bottom of the door.
More whining, and a slavering sort of howl, that choked off sharply as the heavy body hurled itself at the door.
The stout door creaked, rattled, and held firm. Once, twice, the wolf flung his full weight against it, his great claws raking down the planks, his breath coming short and hard and snarling. The children ran from the door, across the dark room, to crouch under the shuttered window. John had his knife drawn ready, and Margaret clutched the pepper-box with shaking fingers. They crouched there, their eyes on the gap at the bottom of the door, where the wild brute that was the enchanted Mardian leaped and howled for their blood.
He went at last. They heard him race across the room and out into the garden. But just as they drew breaths of relief, he was there at the window beside them. He could reach it easily.
His claws rattled the shutters. The whining breaths were almost in their ears. They ran again, this time to a far corner of the room, and huddled there.
He had warned them, but they had expected nothing like this. They began for the first time to understand the full cruelty of Mardian's fate.
During the day he slept, or ate sparingly of black bread with cheese or honey, but every night this gentle and noble man was doomed to hunt and kill some living thing. Worse than that, he was doomed each day to remember what he had done, and to think of it, not like a real wolf, but like a man. He had locked the children away like this because he had known the awful frenzy that would overtake him, and the real danger the children risked from him. If he were even to scratch them with those dreadful claws, he would suffer from it as much as they. But he could not help himself...
Then suddenly it was all over. The wolf left the window. They did not hear him cross the garden, but from the dark forest beyond the ruined wall they heard the long, eerie wolf-howl that lifts the hairs along the hearer's spine.
Then silence.
A long silence, and the hooting of the owl.
The children went back to sit on the clothes-chest, and to watch the cracks in the shutters for the rising of the moon.
It rose perhaps an hour later. It seemed a very long hour to John and Margaret, waiting in the dark with nothing to do, and only the coming adventure–which now seemed distinctly real and rather frightening–to talk about. But at last the moonlight showed, white and strong, between the shutters, and they could unfasten them, and watch for Wolfs return.
At length he came.
One moment the clearing was quite empty, with moonlight falling on the tangled brambles, and the foxglove spires standing up like silver ghosts; the next, the wolf was there, trotting out from the cover of the pines into the white moonlight. They could see him as clearly as if it were day, the gleaming eyes, the lolling tongue, and the black smears of blood on his jaws and chest. Neither then nor at any other time did they let themselves wonder what he had found to kill and eat, but he had certainly fed. He slipped quietly across the ruined wall into the cottage garden, then turned aside to put his muzzle down to the long, wet grass, and rolled, cleaning the horrible stains from his coat. That done, he stood and shook himself, then trotted to the cottage door and looked sideways up towards their window, with one paw raised, like a dog
asking to be let in.
"He wants us to come out now." Margaret's voice was not exactly shaking, but it was not steady.
"Well, so we come out," said John, rather gruffly. "And silly idiots we'd look, wouldn't we, if it wasn't the right wolf?"
But it was the right wolf. They hauled the chest away from the door, pulled the peg out and lifted the latch and went out, rather cautiously, into the other room. He was waiting for them there. He was bigger even than they remembered, bigger than any ordinary wolf, far bigger than their dog Tray. His shoulders were level with Margaret's chest, and if his head was up, his eyes could meet hers on a level. But his head was down as he faced them, and his tail, too. He was remembering what his wolf's nature had made him do, and with his man's brain he was ashamed.
I think it was at that moment that the children, without saying anything to one another, first realized how much they hated the false enchanter. However it was done, he had to be destroyed. However it had to be done, they would do it. Men who so imprison and degrade other men deserve the worst.
Neither of the children made any attempt to touch Wolf or caress him, as one would a dog.
John slipped the knife back into its sheath, and Margaret went quietly to put the pepper-box back on its shelf in the cupboard. Then they picked up their cloaks–John's black and his sister's dark brown–and put them on.
John tapped his pouch. "I've got the amulet safe," he told the wolf.
"And I've got food in case we need it," said Margaret, showing the big pocket inside her cloak. She added carefully, just as she would have done if he had still been the Duke's counsellor: "We are ready now, Lord Mardian."
The werewolf turned and trotted out into the moonlight, and the children followed him.
