“But you’re only a girl. You shouldn’t have to -.”
“I’ll find the dirt floor far more comfortable than that table in the asylum,” I said, ending the argument.
She settled into the bed, sliding quickly under the covers to keep from exposing her bare legs any further. I stood in front of her, my cloak shielding her from the others. It felt strange to be suddenly aware of our position as the only two women in an underground room crowded with strange men. Of course, we had nothing to fear from them, as we all shared the same misfortune. No one here would give any unwanted attention to a young girl or an elder married woman. As awkward as it felt, sharing this onceprivate room with twenty-six strangers, I imagined that we all shared the same concern: what were the Lycanthru planning next and how would we stop them? Assuming we survived it.
“Is everyone ready?” I asked, preparing to blow out the candle. As I spoke, it seemed even stranger that I had assumed the role of a leader among these adults. I was used to taking charge of situations with the Lycanthru, but not directing a large group of people.
“Go ahead,” Marceau said. I still saw the hint of a smirk on his lips.
I kicked off my boots, removed my cloak, and blew out the candle. Then I laid down on the floor beside Madame Serrone, drawing a blanket over myself.
In the darkness, Marceau and Dureau chimed in a singsong tone, “Good night, ‘Red’!”
Everyone laughed. It seemed that Pierre’s daring kiss was still fresh in everyone’s minds. Perhaps they weren’t thinking about the Lycanthru after all.
“Oh, shut up,” I said, as they all laughed more.
Sunlight seemed to burn through the cracks in the ceiling, where someone was knocking hard. “Helena! Everyone! Wake up!”
I blinked, quickly remembering where I was. Not in the nightmare of Asile de DeSarte, but on the floor of Father Vestille’s longhouse, below my old cot where Madame Serrone now slept. I sat up slowly, looking around at the other men who started to rouse themselves. Why was someone shouting?
“Helena!” Father Vestille called again. I shook off sleep and stood quickly, losing my balance and nearly falling onto a man sleeping close by. I stepped past him to the ladder. “We’re awake, Father Vestille,” I croaked.
The trap door opened and Father Vestille descended, followed by Touraine and Pierre. I blinked again, wondering how long we had slept.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“About nine in the morning,” Touraine said.
“What?” Dureau asked. “We’ve barely slept five hours.” “I know,” Father Vestille sympathized. “So have we.” My head started to pound. “What’s wrong?”
“This,” Touraine said, handing me a sheet of paper.
“They’ve been posted all over town.”
“Papa found one and woke me to ask about it,” Pierre said.
“So I told him I would ask around. Then I alerted Father Vestille
and Monsieur Touraine.”
I read the note:
Citizens of La Rue Sauvage:
Helena Basque, an inmate of Asile de DeSarte, has escaped and returned to your province, along with several other inmates that she illegally released. She is delusional and extremely dangerous, and has convinced other inmates that her stories about men transforming into vicious wolves are true. She is trying to form an army to attack innocent people, whom she insists are wolves in disguise.
She and the other inmates must be detained and returned to Asile de DeSarte immediately. If anyone knows where they are hiding, please report their location to the Lieutenant-General. A security detail will arrive this evening from Asile de DeSarte to collect them all.
Thank you for your assistance.
Father Séverin DuChard, on behalf of the Director of Asile de DeSarte
MY REVOLUTION
49.
I stood in the back room of La Maison, listening to the noisy din of people milling about in the tavern. I dared not show my face. Even from the noise of conversation, it was clear that this was not the usual crowd that frequented Touraine’s place, especially at eleven o’clock in the morning. Unlike the raucous evening crowd, these villagers’ conversations were reserved and precise, yet full of anxiety. Father Vestille, Touraine and Pierre had posted new announcements beside the old ones, instructing everyone to meet at La Maison to discuss DuChard’s orders to surrender me to the asylum. Along with the other twenty-six inmates who stood silently with me in the back room. Pierre and Touraine had found trousers for Marceau and a few others, which made them look more civilized. Nevertheless, I felt as though I stood among condemned prisoners waiting to be brought out and hanged.
“All right, everyone, quiet down,” Touraine said, starting to get everyone’s attention. “Come on now, settle so we can get started.”
The noise continued. I met Marceau ’s eyes as he swallowed. It wasn’t a good sign.
Touraine tried a few more times, getting some of them to quiet down. Then a louder voice rose above his.
“Excuse me, please!”
It was Monsieur Leóne. The room soon fell silent.
“Monsieur Touraine has called us here and hosted this meeting. We should find out why.”
All murmuring ended. I didn’t know whether I should be grateful that Monsieur Leóne – Séverin DuChard’s greatest supporter – had brought order to the room.
“Thank you, Frayne,” Touraine said. “We called everyone here because of the notice posted around town. Before we respond to it, we thought there were some things you should know.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” one man demanded. It sounded like Andre Denue.
“Me and Father Vestille,” Touraine answered. “I’ll let him talk to you. Father Vestille?”
I heard Father Vestille shuffling forward as the room remained quiet.
“Thank you all for coming,” Father Vestille addressed the crowd. “We’ve all seen or heard about the warning that Helena Basque escaped from Asile de DeSarte along with several other inmates, and we’ve seen it was issued by Séverin DuChard.”
“You mean ‘Father DuChard’?” a woman asked.
“No,” Father Vestille said flatly. “Séverin DuChard is no priest.”
A murmur rose among the crowd.
“What exactly are you saying, Father?” asked another man with calm precision. It had to be Monsieur Verdante, Celia’s father.
“What I’m saying, Jean-Pierre, is that Séverin DuChard has deceived all of us. He claimed to be a priest sent from Burgundy. I have made inquiries and I am waiting to hear back from the church there to confirm that they did not actually send him.”
“And what leads you to believe they did not?” Monsieur Verdante prodded.
“We have reason to believe that Monsieur DuChard is using his guise as a priest to garner our trust, in order to work against us. All of us. And this recent notice is part of that.”
More murmuring arose.
“Who’s suggesting that Father DuChard is not a priest?” Andre Denue asked. “He’s been here serving us for the last month.”
Father Vestille paused. “Helena Basque,” he said.
The crowd erupted in protest.
“She’s insane!” someone shouted.
“She’s a murderer!” cried another woman.
“Why would you believe her? Have you lost your senses?” another man demanded.
“Not at all,” Father Vestille shouted, but the uproar continued.
“Everyone, please!” Monsieur Leóne shouted, quieting everyone once more. I marveled at the influence he had over the town as I pictured him raising his hands to gather their attention. I suddenly realized why. Nearly everyone had come to his shop at one time or another for furnishing or tools. As a supplier of vital resources – tools, horseshoes, wagon hitches, and so on – he garnered as much respect as Touraine or Father Vestille, perhaps more. Especially where the subject of wolves – and the Red Rider
– were concerned. “We all have reason to question this,�
�� Monsieur Leóne continued. “But you’re not letting Father Vestille explain himself. Please continue, Father.”
“Thank you, Frayne,” Father Vestille said as the crowd continued to murmur. “We can believe Helena Basque because we know her parents. We’ve known them for years. And we know Helena. She grew up on her father’s sheep farm. You may not know what has happened with the many wolf attacks in our area, but we all know that Helena was attacked as a child, when her Grand’Mere was killed.”
“Which is why she still imagines seeing wolves everywhere!” a man shouted. Others in the crowd grunted approval.
“She is not imagining them,” Father Vestille countered. “I have seen them myself. As has Gerard Touraine and others in our community, including many of you who attended the royal ball a few months ago. Were it not for Helena, none of us would have survived that night.”
“Those were ordinary wolves, not monsters,” another man called.
“Who says so?” It was Touraine speaking now. “Who told you that what you saw wasn’t real? After you saw for yourself, men changing into wolves?”
The crowd fell silent.
“Well, who was it?” Touraine demanded.
I heard Andre Denue speak up. “Someone told me that – Father DuChard had suggested it.”
“Exactly,” Touraine said.
“We know Helena and her family,” Father Vestille continued. “But we do not know Séverin DuChard, who he is or where he actually comes from. Nor do we know much about the people of DeSarte. So I caution you all against taking orders from them about a young girl who grew up here and has rescued us time and again from these wolves.”
Everyone waited. Then Monsieur Leóne spoke. “What do you suggest, Father?”
“I suggest you listen to her. Helena?”
I inhaled slowly, catching Marceau’s eye. He nodded to me, though he and the others would not come out until they were also called. Still, the support he and the others showed me gave me more confidence.
I strode to the entrance and stepped into the outer tavern.
The entire town seemed to fill the room, all gaping at me in shock. I saw the Denues, beside the Verdantes, with Celia standing before her father and staring at me in wonder. Near them, the Leónes gaped, Madame Leóne looking confused while Pierre leaned slightly forward. Some gasped. A woman even shrieked. Then men began pointing, their eyes raging.
“Why is she here?” someone demanded.
“She’s insane!” a woman screamed.
“She’ll kill us all!” a mother cried, pulling her teenage son close.
How short a time, to go from “Hero” to “Monster”. I had escaped the skillet and fallen into the fire, all my sacrifices forgotten.
Father Vestille raised his hands. “Calm down. She’s no threat to anyone.”
“She’s a threat to everyone!” a man shouted. “Either she’s crazy or she’ll bring the wolves with her! Get her out of here, before they destroy us because of her!”
“Grab her!” another man ordered, as he and several men rushed forth.
I crouched to defend myself, ready to fight my own neighbors. Ready to be swallowed up by them.
They stopped suddenly, falling back with wide eyes. I looked behind me to see Marceau and the other inmates pouring into the room, ready to fight. The crowd stood gaping, uncertain what to do next, as both sides stared at one another across the room.
“Are you starting the war early?” asked a man at the entrance.
We turned to see Duke Reichelon’s bored expression, as he stood in the doorway, flanked by armed soldiers, holding his cloak over his arm.
The room fell dead silent.
Duke Reichelon raised his eyebrows. “You all look like a spectacularly confused painting,” he said. “Please. Don’t let me interrupt your eloquent discussion.” He waited as everyone stared back at him. He finally shrugged and entered. “Or you can choose to allow it. I understood you were having a strategy meeting to decide how to address your current crisis. I thought I should make myself aware of your progress.”
“I’m not going back,” I said, clenching my fists.
The Duke blinked slowly at me. “That is yet to be decided.” He strode farther into the room, commanding everyone’s attention as he passed. “As I understand it, young Helena here has accused Father DuChard of being, not a priest, but a –.” He turned to me, as if expecting me to answer. “– a wolf, yes?”
I said nothing.
Duke Reichelon continued. “And that he is, in fact, the leader of these wolves who attacked everyone last season, and have, in fact, been attacking good people here for decades. But no one fully believes her, as her facts do not all add up. Nasty wolves capturing her, letting her go, capturing her again, letting her go again. A dead man she killed, one of those men who can turn into a wolf, suddenly alive again and appearing all over town. So her trusted associates unearthed the man’s body, only to find it intact, disproving her claims.”
“Not exactly, Your Grace,” Father Vestille said, stepping forward cautiously.
“Oh, no?” the Duke asked, whirling to see him. “And you are?”
“Abier Vestille,” he replied. “I am the priest of la Chapelle de Saint Matthieu.”
“Ah, yes, her priest. One of the gravediggers.” The Duke smiled. “Continue.”
Father Vestille cleared his throat. “We did find a body, but it was a trick, made to look like a human.”
“I see,” the Duke said. “And do you have this facsimile to demonstrate?”
Father Vestille’s face fell, as did Touraine’s. “No. It was buried again. We didn’t know it was an illusion, at the time.”
“Of course,” the Duke said, waving him off.
“Siegfried Simonet is alive,” Marceau hissed, stepping forward. “We’ve seen him at Asile de DeSarte for years, and in the last two days since Helena was committed there.”
The Duke eyed Marceau’s tunic and those of the others. “Has anyone besides you and your fellow inmates from Asile de DeSarte witnessed this dead man roaming about?”
No one spoke. Marceau and Dureau looked around the room, shifting their feet.
“As I suspected,” the Duke said, turning to pace before the crowd. “And now the asylum requests that we surrender Helena and these other inmates to return where they belong, before they can spread any more dangerous lies, while Helena and her friends claim the asylum is a place of torture – by the wolves. Have I missed any details?”
“Just one,” I said. “Lieutenant-General Vitton is also part of the Lycanthru. You notice he’s not here among us.”
Duke Reichelon surveyed the room, confirming what I had said. “Most interesting. One would expect him to bring his men directly to the tavern to escort you back.”
“But he’s not,” I said. “Because we know their weakness, so they can’t risk fighting us directly. So they want everyone else to help capture us for them.”
The Duke folded his hands behind his back and crossed the room, smiling away in thought. “An intriguing theory. One that gives your story more credibility, however little. In any event, Mademoiselle, I have come all this way to observe your gathering, and I am sure you have much more to say. So please – entertain me.”
He moved to a chair in the center of the room. A family hurried to evacuate the entire table there as the guards moved in to clear space around it. The Duke sat in the wooden chair with a look of supreme satisfaction.
The crowd settled and resumed their positions, following the Duke’s example. I greeted each face in turn, and swallowed in the cold silence. From the corner, both Pierre and Father Vestille nodded for me to continue.
I cleared my throat. “Uh, I – I fought the wolves. But they’re not actually wolves. They’re men. Part of a cult called the Lycanthru, that worships wolves and practices witchcraft to turn themselves into wolves.”
“That’s ridiculous!” a man shouted.
“I’ve seen it,” I said.
&nb
sp; “So have the rest of us,” Touraine added. “Let her talk.”
The crowd settled again and I went on. Celia Verdante wouldn’t sit in place, but kept fidgeting and looking in all directions to see what others were doing or thinking, while trying to focus entirely on me. While Duke Reichelon continued to watch and wait, looking amused. “Father Vestille has been learning about them for years, long before I knew anything about them. He was often absent for weeks at a time, visiting other provinces where they’ve attacked, in Burgundy and other places, including DeSarte, where there are many of them. The reason he was searching so hard –.“ I paused, realizing I had said too much. But Father Vestille nodded his approval to me, and so did Marceau. “– is that he was searching for his brother, who reported one of the wolf attacks. No one believed him, either, and he was locked away in Asile de DeSarte. But now, here he is.”
I indicated Marceau, standing beside me.
We now held everyone’s attention. Celia Verdante seemed ready to march straight up to join us, while others like Andre Denue scowled all the more.
“Asile de DeSarte isn’t an actual asylum for the disturbed,” I said. “It’s a prison for anyone who speaks out against the Lycanthru. Séverin DuChard is the asylum director. He only came here, posing as a priest, to deceive all of us and trap me, so that no one would come looking for me. So that no one would protect any of you.” I felt myself shudder. “They – They tortured me in the asylum. Just like they’ve been torturing these people with me for decades. They want us back so they can silence us, while they attack you and your families.”
The crowd continued to scowl as several of them muttered to their neighbors.
“Whether you believe me or not,” I said. “Whether you turn us over to them or not, they’re coming. We didn’t call you here to fight with you. We’re asking you to fight the Lycanthru with us. If you don’t, they’ll continue to attack us and take away everyone we love.” I swallowed back pain and anguish, steeling myself against the memories of Mama and Papa and Suzette.
“I told you!” a man shouted to the crowd. “She’s bringing the wolves down on us.”
“Nonsense!” another man shouted. “How can we believe a word she’s saying? She belongs in that asylum with the rest of them, talking about men changing into wolves.”
Red Rider Revolution Page 33