The Curse of the Singing Wolf

by Anna Lord

“Sarazan!” cried one of the Bogomils when a man appeared at the top of the ridge.

  The Countess was in the best position to take a shot and did not hesitate. Sarazan leapt back in surprise and cried out but appeared unharmed because a few moments later he could be seen signalling to someone down below to hold fire. In the meantime one of the bandits had managed to scramble closer to where the donkeys were tethered. He was about to cut them loose when a dagger flew through the air and found a home in his chest. He cried out and crumpled in the dust. Velazquez, crouching behind a rock, took credit for the timely kill.

  With three bandits down and a stand-off stretching into a cold November night looking the likeliest scenario, Sarazan, to everyone’s astonishment, suddenly gave a whistle. His men fell back then began to retreat. Colonel Moriarty, astounded by this turnaround, and thinking it might be some sort of ruse, quickly clambered to the top of the ridge and managed to wound another brigand as he and his cohort fled on horseback. Fedir followed and brought down a fifth.

  Gradually, the party of travellers crept out of hiding and re-grouped near to where the horses stamped and pawed the dust. Velazquez was limping. He had twisted his ankle when the first shot rang out and he jumped in fright, landing awkwardly. One of the Bogomil boys suffered slight concussion when he fell and hit his head on a rock. Milo had pinpricks of blood all over his face from the thorns. Dr Watson tended to the injuries as quickly as possible. Reichenbach ordered Velazquez and Milo to collect all weapons and ammunition from the dead brigands. Desi retrieved the dagger. The ambush had set them back and they needed to get underway as soon as possible. Travelling after dark in these parts was nothing short of a death wish.

  They soon began the ascent, following a narrow snaking road that had been gouged out of the rock centuries ago. The wind grew stronger the higher they climbed. The temperature dropped dramatically. Collars were raised, scarves tightened and hats firmly secured. When they reached the place where the cottages of the servants were tucked into the hillside they dismounted, took stock of their surrounds, and paused for breath. There did not appear to be any brigands pursuing them or lying in wait to ambush them a second time.

  From this point on the road zigzagged sharply up the slope, making it impossible to stay in the saddle, so the rest of the journey was completed on foot. The pack donkeys struggled with the steep incline and everyone breathed a sigh of relief when a raised portcullis came into view.

  It led them into the outer bailey, now a grassy courtyard where the stables were situated. The horses and donkeys went no further. A set of stone steps took the intrepid travellers higher. Through an open arch was a smaller courtyard, the inner bailey. At the far end yet another archway led them even higher. The fortress was stepped up, built on several levels for defensive purposes, and because it was easier for the original masons to follow the natural contour of the rocky terrain.

  The Countess looked back down the mountain through the open gate and then up at the thick stone walls and vertical towers rising steeply at her back. Did men ever climb that high? What drove them to place one rock after another with such painstaking perfection that this bastion was still standing strong today? Chanteloup was an extraordinary structure, a monument to place and time and suffering. It sat halfway between earth and sky, neither in heaven nor in hell, yet there must have been many times in its long history when it was viewed as one or the other. What was it now, she wondered, heaven or hell?

  Heaven, decided the Countess when she ascended one last set of stone steps and found herself inside great vaulted hall with a fireplace big enough for ten men to stand upright. It devoured not logs but entire tree trunks and threw out an enormous amount of heat which was just as well for the dimensions of the hall were immense. This was the donjon, the keep, the most secure part of any castle, with the thickest, sturdiest, strongest walls. In the middle of the hall, stood a massive stone column that resembled a giant palm tree. It fanned out across the vaulted roof with each frond of the so-called palm tree branching off to form a separate vaulting. The donjon was so vast it served as entry, sitting room, dining room, library and chapel. A series of lofty lancet windows invited thin beams of oblique light to enter which illumined the vast chamber and dispelled the gloom between dawn and dusk. The windows also helped to vent wisps of smoke which might otherwise have gathered in the cavernous vaults of the ceiling. The furnishings were reminiscent of the provincial Spanish and French furniture found in the Hotel Louve. There were no actual timber doors in the donjon; instead the doorways were hung with tapestries depicting scenes from the Chanson de Geste. There were four in all, leading to the east and west wings, a spiral staircase, and the kitchen stairs. They also served to keep out unwanted courants d’air.

  The travellers congregated by the fire and fortified themselves with a local Muscat de Rivesalles while the Singing Wolf slipped out of sight.

  “I say,” began Dr Watson, “that was a damn good bit of knife throwing by Velazquez.”

  “Incredibly accurate!” agreed von Gunn.

  “Must be a skill he honed as a toreador,” supplied the Baron.

  “Lucky for us he spotted that blackguard by the donkeys or it would have been curtains to our luggage,” added the Prince.

  “Well, gentlemen,” interrupted the Countess, gazing up at the multitudinous vaulting of the donjon, “what do we think of Chanteloup?”

  The response was unanimous: “Staggering! Stupendous! Splendid! Breathtaking!”

  “No wonder our hostess keeps it to herself,” summed up Dr Watson. “It was certainly worth the arduous trek.”

  Had our travellers not been so weary they might have explored the castle and found that the east and west wings spanned the length of the plateau, adhering to no formal design, jutting in and out, rising and falling, according to the lay of the land. The long corridors lit by flaming torcheres in fixed iron holders supplied both light and warmth. Every window faced inwardly onto paved courtyards. The un-breachable outer walls were all windowless. The rooms with fireplaces had been converted into comfortable bedrooms. Copper hip-baths full of hot water sat ready and waiting beside the hearths. Tucked into the thickness of the end walls were garderobes - cloakrooms that doubled as medieval latrines - still doing the job they were built for.

  On a lower level, between the stables and donjon, they would have discovered the domestic rooms. Here were the kitchens and storerooms where sacks of grain, barrels of wine and jars of oil were kept, plus the all-important well-head that allowed access to a massive cistern, vital in times of siege, protected in an enclosed space of its own. Some of the rooms might have been workshops for weavers, leather workers and boot-makers. The old caretaker couple, Almaric and Hortense, slept in what had originally been the bakery. It had a large fireplace and a hive of bread ovens. An adjoining scullery now served as their bathroom.

  Underground, they would have found the armoury and dungeons, along with a torture chamber fitted out with all the usual grisly playthings.

  The young Bogomils scoffed down some bean soup and crusty bread and hurried back down the zigzag path to the cottages before darkness fell. It was the Chanteloup servants who saw to the unloading of the luggage, settled the guests in their rooms, and then likewise retreated to their cottages despite it already being dark for they knew every zig and zag in the path.

  “I say,” began Dr Watson when they all reconvened refreshed and in high spirits in the donjon dressed in formal attire prior to dinner, “our hostess has proved herself to be remarkably well organized.”

  “She dashed off a telegram to Lourdes straight after she invited us to come to Chanteloup,” explained von Gunn as he offered the doctor a German cigarette. “I overheard her giving directions to Felipe. She entrusted that El Lopes fellow with organizing transport and provisions and instructing the servants to ensure every comfort was in place upon our arrival.”

  “Well, she thought of everything,” approved the Baron, helping himself to a generous measure of Musc
at. “My bones welcomed that hot bath. I didn’t expect such luxury.”

  The Countess didn’t want to sound unappreciative. Her bedroom was comfortable but hardly luxurious. Perhaps she just had higher standards. “A view of the surrounding countryside would have been the icing on the cake,” she offered solicitously.

  “Here! Here!” came the chorus.

  8

  Rockslide

  “Merde! What the hell was that!” The Prince leapt to his feet so abruptly his dining chair crashed to the floor.

  “It sounded like an earthquake,” exclaimed von Gunn.

  “Yes!” agreed Dr Watson, sounding alarmed. “I felt the tremor.”

  “I did too,” said the Baron, replacing his knife and fork in preparation for flight.

  Colonel Moriarty’s eyes darted up to the stone vaulting, searching for cracks in the masonry. He resembled the biblical Samson, head shorn, bracing himself for imminent doom.

  “Do not be alarmed, gentlemen,” said the Singing Wolf with apparent unconcern. “It was merely a rockslide. They are frequent hereabouts, especially following a heavy rainstorm. My servants are constantly clearing rocks from the track.”

  Prince Orczy and Colonel Moriarty retook their seats, feeling suddenly foolish for over-reacting. Both men took a gulp of local Gaillac wine to settle their nerves, and then refilled their own glasses to save the servants the trouble. The other men followed suit.

  “Is this region known for earthquakes?” pursued Dr Watson tensely.

  “Not particularly,” replied their hostess reassuringly. “There is the odd tremor but you must remember that Chanteloup has been standing for hundreds of years.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” pronounced the Prince to lighten the tone.

  They all laughed and the Countess decided to change the subject. She broached a question that had been niggling since the ambush.

  “Is it my imagination or did the outlaw who attacked us from behind appear to be dark-skinned?”

  “Sarazan, you mean?” clarified Moriarty.

  “I thought the same thing,” concurred von Gunn.

  “Yes, definitely dark-skinned,” agreed Prince Orczy. “I was standing front-on and a shaft of sunlight broke through the cloud and caught him full on the face. He was much darker than the Spanish gypsies who inhabit the Pyrenees.”

  “But not as dark as Desi,” added the Baron.

  “Yes,” confirmed the Singing Wolf. “Sarazan is of Moorish descent. The original ruler of Lourdes was called Mirat the Moor. Mirat, so the legend goes, was attacked and besieged by Charlemagne. Legend also has it that when an eagle appeared in the sky and dropped a trout in his compound, he interpreted the act as a bad omen, surrendered at once, took himself off to pay his respects to the Black Virgin of Puy, and immediately converted to Christianity.”

  “How long has Sarazan been terrorizing this region?” asked the Baron, chest-puffing out at the mention of his illustrious ancestor, Charlemagne.

  “For as long as I have been here,” replied the Singing Wolf.

  “The French Army should do something about it,” declared the Baron.

  “The French army regards the south of France as a foreign country,” said their hostess.

  “That sort of thing would not be tolerated in Prussia.”

  “Nor Germany,” vowed von Gunn.

  “The Balkans is overrun with outlaws,” countered Prince Orczy wryly. “It adds to the romance of the place. Women find dangerous men and wild places exciting and erotic. Germany and Prussia lack soul. They are too industrialised, too urbanized, too sterile. Wolves and bears and lynx are being killed off in huge numbers…”

  “Speaking of wolves,” interrupted Moriarty who was not in the mood for a lecture from a penniless princeling whom he had noticed aiming more than a casual glance at the Countess. “I’m sure I heard a wolf howling as I was dressing for dinner.”

  “Do not worry, gentlemen,” teased their hostess. “The gate is barred. The portcullis is down. You are safe. Nothing can get in.”

  “Or out,” joked Dr Watson, feeling immeasurably relieved the building wasn’t about to crash around their ears. “I must congratulate your cook. The jugged hare for entrée was delicious but this venison du chasseur is superb.”

  “The black truffle sauce was a brilliant accompaniment,” complimented the Baron, mopping up the noir-ish juices on his plate with a tranche of bread.

  Velazquez came to clear the plates and they all congratulated him of his knife-throwing. The handsome toreador seemed embarrassed by all the praise and limped away awkwardly, juggling an armload of Sevres china. Everyone held their breath, but no violent crash could be heard. He had made it safely down the stairs to the kitchens.

  Inez and Desi brought out a lemon posset for dessert and it rounded off the meal wonderfully.

  Prince Orczy turned to the Countess. “I meant to tell you yesterday but, well, with everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours I hope you will forgive me.”

  “Yes,” she prompted, curiosity rising.

  “Princess Roskovsky died the day we set off for Chanteloup.”

  “Died! No! Pas possible!”

  He continued sadly. “I’m afraid it’s true. She was run over by a carriage on the rue de russie as she was crossing the road to the Orthodox church.”

  “How do you know?” quizzed Moriarty, who was not the sort of man to accept announcements of sudden death at face value.

  “I heard it from the cabbie the morning of the fire. I was heading off early to the casino and had hailed a fiacre. The cabbie had just come from the rue de russie and he thought that since I had a Slavic-style accent I might be interested to know that a Russian princess had just been killed.”

  “Did the carriage driver stop?” asked the Countess.

  “No, that’s the thing – he just kept going as if nothing happened.”

  “What sort of carriage was it?” she probed further.

  “I put the very same question to the cabbie and he told me it was a brougham.”

  “Cabbies are maniacs!” declared von Gunn vociferously. “I was nearly run down on the rue des pins. I was forced to leap for my life as a landau tore past with total disregard to pedestrians and perambulators alike.”

  “Did the brougham have a monogram?” pursued the Countess.

  “The cabbie said it had no coat of arms and no markings of any sort,” replied the Prince.

  “It could not have been a private carriage, then,” reasoned Moriarty.

  “It is akin to murder,” concluded Dr Watson gravely, his sympathy going out to his counterpart, for though he had not taken a liking to the Russian barnacle, he would not have wished her dead.

  “Yes, indeed!” expostulated the Baron. “The Princess Roskovsky was murdered by a lunatic in charge of a horse. Such things would never be allowed to happen in Prussia.”

  “Nor in Germany,” vowed von Gunn.

  The two men glared at Prince Orczy, daring him to say such things were commonplace in the Balkans – he did not disappoint.

  “Pedestrians are run down and killed every day in Montenegro. It is practically a national pastime.”

  “I suppose it adds to the romance of the place,” sneered von Gunn.

  “And the erotic danger,” jibed the Baron.

  “Let us not make light of death, gentlemen,” interceded their illustrious hostess solemnly. “The Princess Roskovsky is dead. I will light a candle for her departed soul. Anyone who would like to join me in the chapel will be welcome.”

  The simple altar was graced by a distinctive Occitan cross made of solid gold with hollowed out arms and three small spheres on the end of each arm. Candle-stands fitted with dozens of beeswax candles were reflected in the tripartite golden arms.

  The men went down on one knee, resting an elbow on the other knee so as to support the chin in the classical pose of the thinker. The two ladies knelt on both knees. Heads were bowed and each person made a silent prayer.
Their hostess sang a mournful hymn and everyone felt choked by the sadness of the melody for there is no doubting that music by-passes the brain and goes straight to the heart. The lyrics were in the ancient language of Oc but heartfelt emotion is universal and everyone understood the sentiment. At the end of the hymnodia they blew out the candles and drifted into the sitting area where comfortable settees and tapestried wing chairs faced toward the fire which was no longer blazing fiercely. Prince Orczy passed around a humidor in the shape of a Cathar castle. Baron Reichenbach handed out glasses of Madeira. The atmosphere at Chanteloup was far less formal and thus far less constraining than they were accustomed to in the stately homes of Europe where guests interacted within a rigid set of social rules. Here, in this ancient stronghold that had seen social customs come and go, things were far more relaxed. There were no servants hovering behind their backs for a start, and they took pleasure in doing things for themselves instead of being waited upon hand and foot. That’s probably what helped them to drop their guard and speak more freely. Dr Watson set the ball rolling with a candid confession.

  “I was thinking while I was praying for the Princess Roskovsky that there must be many murderers who are never brought to justice.”

  “Yes,” agreed their hostess, smiling benignly at the doctor while holding her cigar steady for Moriarty to light. “I’m sure we can all remember an incident where a murder has occurred and no one has been brought to justice.”

  “What an odd thing to think while praying,” mused the Prince as he lit his own cigar using a faggot from the fire. “I was thinking of numbers spinning on a roulette wheel.”

  “You would,” jibed the Baron sardonically.

  “My mind was blank,” admitted von Gunn, puffing on a fat cigar. “That’s what happens whenever I step foot inside a church.”

  “Lutheran dogma will do that to you,” derided Moriarty, half in jest. “I wish my mind would go blank in church. I think about battlefields and picture limbless men and writhing horses. It’s the horses I feel sorry for.”