“Surely, we’ve bothered him enough,” Devin protested.
Mareschal waved away his objection. “It won’t be a problem.”
He swabbed Devin’s wrist with antiseptic again, and wrapped it in clean linen.
“Elevate your wrist when you’re lying down,” he instructed. “That will help with the swelling and the pain.”
He left a glass of red wine spiked with a few drops of laudanum on the night table. Now that he realized what he’d been given, Devin was reluctant to take it.
“Drink it and get some sleep while you can,” Marcus urged him after Mareschal had left them. “Who knows what kind of accommodations we will find at Vielle’s house.”
Devin grudgingly swallowed some of the red liquid.
“When did you write to your father last?” Marcus asked.
“Not since Pireé. We’ve been nowhere that we could send letters, anyway.”
“And yet a great deal has happened,” Marcus pointed out. “Your father promised the Council that you would be sending reports back from each province. Don’t make him a liar.”
Devin gestured at his wrist. “At this point, I’m not sure I can write.”
“Then dictate your letters to Gaspard,” Marcus suggested. “We’ve veered from your original itinerary. It’s important that your father knows where you are and what you’re doing.”
“Hearing that we were attacked by wolves won’t reassure him.”
Marcus sat down on his cot. “If he asked you to come home, would you do it?”
Devin considered it for a moment before answering. “I guess I would have to, if he insisted. I feel I have barely scratched the surface here. Armand has shared nothing with me except love ballads and cautionary tales. He continues to withhold the portions of the Chronicle I am most interested in.”
“Armand doesn’t trust you,” Marcus replied. “I’m not certain he trusts anyone but Adrian. It won’t improve the situation if you have to spend additional time here with Chastel.”
“Chastel saved my life,” Devin objected. “I will always be grateful for that, no matter what Armand thinks of him.” A pleasant lassitude was creeping over him and he lay back on the pillows. “Can we talk about this in the morning?”
“Of course,” Marcus said. But his lamp was still burning when Devin closed his eyes.
Devin wakened much later, when Gaspard sat down on his bed. The rays of the sun streaming in the window indicated it must be nearly noon. He pushed his tousled hair out of his eyes.
“I didn’t mean to sleep so long,” he apologized.
“I only got up a little while ago myself,” Gaspard replied. “I think all of us were exhausted. How do you feel?”
“Better, I think,” Devin answered. He flexed his fingers, and wished he hadn’t.
“Mareschal says you still have a fever. I’m supposed to call him when you waken.” Gaspard toyed a moment with the maroon fringed comforter, avoiding Devin’s eyes.
“What is it?” Devin asked, sitting up awkwardly.
“Armand’s gone,” Gaspard replied. “He and Adrian left this morning.”
“Gone?” Devin asked, his heart thumping. “Gone where?”
Gaspard pointed. “Just into town. His home is in Lac Dupré. Have you forgotten?”
“No,” Devin answered. “He’s just so unpredictable.”
“He was angry because Marcus told him that Mareschal wanted you to stay here for a few days more,” Gaspard continued. “He suggested that Armand could stay too, and teach you the Chronicle while you’re recovering.”
“I imagine that went badly,” Devin murmured. “What did Armand say?”
Gaspard gave him a sideways glance, a smirk spreading across his face. “Do you want a direct quote?” he asked.
Devin grinned. “Of course.”
“He said, ‘If Monsieur Roché is foolish enough not to take my advice and return to Coreé, tell him to come and find me when he’s done kowtowing to Jean Chastel.’”
Devin smiled; it was no worse than he would have expected.
“Armand advised me to go home last night,” he explained.
“Perhaps you should consider that,” Gaspard said, his dark eyes unreadable.
Devin shook his head. “I don’t intend to, but I think you should.”
“Go home without you?” Gaspard asked, raising his eyebrows. “I don’t think so.”
“Listen,” Devin said, “up until last night, it never occurred to me that one of us might actually die on this trip. I don’t want that person to be you. I can call on the resources my father gave me. We can purchase horses and guards to escort you back to Pireé. You can board a ship home and leave this all behind. It would relieve my mind if you’d go. If something happens to you, Gaspard, I will feel responsible.”
Gaspard laughed and shrugged. “I won’t go back to Coreé without you. We were attacked by wolves last night, and all of us survived. How much worse could it get, for God’s sake? Besides, so far, nothing’s happened to anyone but you,” he pointed out. His face turned sober. “Did Marcus tell you, I found another one of those creepy, little red crosses outside your door this morning?”
Devin felt a chill slither up his spine. “I haven’t even talked to Marcus this morning.”
Gaspard grimaced. “I probably wasn’t meant to tell you. It’s gone now. Marcus took it out onto the gravel drive a few minutes ago and burned it.”
Devin dropped his head back on the pillow. “Someone must be following us. I can’t think of any other explanation.”
“There are several other possibilities,” Gaspard hinted darkly. “But none that I would like to put into words at the moment. Maybe you should reconsider going home, Dev. I would go back to Coreé, if you’d come, too.”
Devin shook his head. “I can’t. Armand keeps hinting at all these dark secrets that the Chronicle contains and yet, so far, he has only taught me fairytales to prevent children from wandering off alone. He’s keeping the historical part of Ombria’s Chronicle to himself. I have to stay long enough to find out why he’s holding back. If I am supposed to be reporting to my father about the state of things in Ombria, then I need to be able to give him actual facts. And if I discover huge discrepancies between the Chronicles and the Archives, then I need to tell him that, too. He’ll expect the truth from me, if nothing else.”
Gaspard turned to look at him, his face deadly serious. “Your father’s the Chancellor Elite of Llisé, Dev; don’t you think he already knows the truth?”
CHAPTER 23
Family Secrets
When Mareschal returned to check on Devin, he left another glass of red wine mixed with laudanum. Devin didn’t drink it. He already felt lightheaded and disoriented, and he didn’t intend to spend the afternoon sleeping. When Marcus reappeared, Devin insisted on going downstairs to thank his host for agreeing to let them stay a few days more.
A servant directed them to the study, where he found Chastel seated at a huge desk. Three walls were lined by book shelves; the fourth was covered in framed portraits. Above the shelves, more hunting trophies encircled the room. It reminded Devin of a wing in the Natural Science Department at the Académie.
Chastel rose to greet Devin. “How are you this morning?” he asked kindly.
“Much better than I would have been without Mareschal’s ministrations, I’m sure,” Devin replied. “I simply want to make certain we are not causing you any added inconvenience by extending our stay. We can easily continue into Lac Dupré. I’m sure there is a physician there, as well.”
Chastel grunted. “There is only a midwife and an apothecary. So believe me, you are better off here. I am more than happy to be of assistance. Your father would expect nothing less of me.”
“Still,” Devin said. “Unexpected house guests are a bother.”
Chastel shook his head. “Not in my home. This is primarily a hunting lodge. My friends often spend a month at a time here. There is no lack of game and, despite the disadvan
tages of a healthy wolf pack, they provide exciting prey for my guests.”
The memory of snarling wolves hurtling across the meadow toward the defenseless deer rose unbidden in Devin’s mind. He put a hand on the back of a chair and took a deep breath.
“Please, sit down,” Chastel invited.
“Thank you,” Devin said, settling into the huge leather armchair in front of his desk. Marcus wandered off to examine the mounted heads along the wall.
“Can I get you some coffee or wine?” Chastel asked.
Devin shook his head. “I just ate. Your servants are very efficient. I had breakfast delivered to my room.”
“At my request,” Chastel said, dropping back into his own chair. “I thought you might want to spend the day in bed.”
“I may go back upstairs again shortly,” he admitted.
“Please, treat my home as your own. Whatever you need or want, you have only to ask.”
Devin smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”
“Tell me about your trip,” Chastel requested, “René Forneaux and I went to the Université together. We correspond on a regular basis. He mentioned your intention to tour the provinces with his son when he wrote to me at Christmas. I had hoped to be able to meet you both if you came through this area. I’ll admit, I was puzzled to find you on foot, though. Surely, you would be safer traveling on horseback?”
“I’m sure we would be,” Devin admitted. “But I didn’t want to call attention to myself.”
“Ombria’s roads can be dangerous,” Chastel warned. “It was prudent of your father to send a bodyguard with you. There is no love for the residents of Coreé in the provinces.”
“That is why I chose not to advertise my identity by arriving on horseback,” Devin replied.
“Well, you travel in strange company; I never expected to find you with Armand,” Chastel said, “but then, René did mention your interest in the Chronicles. He found it an odd obsession for an archivist.”
Devin shrugged. “I view the Chronicles as just another manifestation of history.”
“An imprecise one,” Chastel retorted. “Surely, Armand’s performance last night demonstrated that?”
“I can’t judge the merit of his story because I am not familiar with its historic context, but I feel as though I should apologize for Armand’s behavior,” Devin replied.
Chastel smiled. “Why? It is a quarrel of long-standing, and not anything you contributed to. Just because Armand and I must live in the same village, doesn’t mean we have to like each other.” He leaned back easily in his chair and laced the fingers of his hands. “All of the unpleasantness started a long time ago, before my lifetime, and despite his adamancy, long before Armand’s. And that is the crux of the problem. Little Emile in the story was Armand’s grandfather, and the nobleman was mine.”
Devin frowned. “So, the nobleman’s son was your father?”
Chastel shook his head. “He was my uncle, Charles Chastel. He died when he was sixteen.”
Chastel rose and walked partway around the room, pausing before a portrait. He beckoned to Devin to join him.
“The artist was very kind. The scar Armand mentioned was extensive.”
Devin studied the face of the boy in the portrait. His strange blue eyes were lighter than normal and fiercely feral. An l-shaped scar marred his forehead, rakishly ending above his left eye.
“I’m not certain what you are implying,” Devin said, afraid to draw his own conclusions. “Where did the scar come from?”
“He fell from his horse onto a stone wall. He almost bled to death. I think, it might have been better if he had,” Chastel said softly. He looked toward the window, his eyes unfocused. “My uncle was deeply disturbed. He was odd from the time he was born, fascinated by animals but unable to cope with people. He was large and awkward, and he never talked. The village children teased and chased him. They called him a monster. He was happiest out in the woods alone. People frightened him, even the servants here in my grandfather’s house. I have no doubt that he roamed the mountainsides half naked when he could evade his father’s bodyguards. He was fascinated by wolves, and my grandfather’s preoccupation with them only stemmed from trying to keep track of his son.” He pulled a leather-bound journal from a nearby bookcase. “Here,” he said, handing it to Devin. “I believe this is what an archivist calls a primary source.”
Devin flipped through the pages. Each dated entry contained intimate details about Charles’s life:
Thursday June 10 – Charles released all the rabbits from the game keeper’s cages. He is still smiling, going around the house humming those strange little wordless songs he invents when he is happiest.
Sunday Oct. 20 – Charles brought home a wolf pup. God help us, I believe he intends to keep it in the house. It follows him like a shadow and he murmurs strange sounds to it, as though they are actually communicating. I feel as though I have been given a changeling. I don’t know what to do with him.
Devin closed the journal and gave it back to Chastel.
“This is too personal. I don’t feel right reading it.”
Chastel’s face was flushed. “I want you to know that Charles was never some strange hybrid who could change from man to wolf at will, as Armand implied,” he said in disgust. “And yet, that was the rumor that developed about him, thanks to Emile Vielle.”
“So, there never was a Beast of Gévaudan?” Devin asked.
“No, there was; that part of the story is true and well documented,” Chastel admitted. “The Beast was just a huge, oddly colored wolf. My grandfather killed it.” He swiveled to view the wall behind him. “It’s mounted right there.”
Devin glanced up to see the snarling lips and vicious teeth of a giant reddish wolf. The glass eyes had been tinted blue as though in imitation of Armand’s legend. A sudden chill swept over him; a long violent shiver that shook him from head to toe. He rested a hand on the bookcase for support.
“You should be in bed, resting,” Chastel said in concern, “and here I am, keeping you from it, by droning on about my sordid family history.”
“No, tell me the end of the story,” Devin protested, folding his arms over his chest. “If your grandfather killed that huge wolf while Charles was still alive, then why did people come to associate your uncle with the Beast of Gévaudan?”
Chastel turned away from him, his face lost in shadow.
“My grandfather returned home from the forest, the morning after the Beast was killed, to discover Charles was missing. He rode to town with some of his men, where he saw my uncle fondling the lambs in the marketplace. He had released them all once before, and Jacques Vielle began to throw stones at him, shouting for him to go away. He hit Charles several times and knocked him down. Before my grandfather could reach him, Charles threw himself on Emile’s father, biting him on the throat.” Chastel’s voice trailed off and Devin leaned closer to hear him. “My grandfather shot him.”
Devin slid back down in the leather armchair, his heart beating erratically. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick.
“Your grandfather killed his own son?” he asked, unable to focus on anything else.
Chastel’s voice was devoid of emotion. “My grandfather had no choice. He was trying to protect him from the townspeople. You see, Charles killed Jacques Vielle. Dozens of people saw it happen. Can you imagine what that crowd would have done to him?”
“But your grandfather had a gun!” Devin protested. “He had his men with him. They should have protected your uncle! Surely, your grandfather could have used his influence to save him!”
“Save him for what?” Chastel asked angrily. “Weeks in a jail cell and then a hanging? A bullet was kinder.”
Marcus loomed up behind the armchair. “How did Charles kill Vielle?” he asked.
Devin had almost forgotten he was there. It was a relief to know he hadn’t been told this story alone…that there would be someone else he could talk to about it later.
“He crushed his windpipe, just like a wolf would do,” Chastel answered tightly. “And, of course, that just fed the legend further.”
Devin was speechless. Suddenly, Armand’s animosity made much more sense but then so did Chastel’s anger last night when Armand had told his version of the “Beast of Gévaudan”. It had been incredibly rude to tell that story here, to flaunt it in Chastel’s face. It was inevitable that such a dramatic tale would find its way into the Chronicle, but it was extraordinarily cruel of a Master Bard to subject a host to that kind of humiliation in his own home.
“Monsieur Chastel,” he stammered. “I am so sorry.”
Chastel exhaled audibly. “Armand would have told you the rest of the story eventually. I thought it best that you hear the Chastels’ side of it, too.”
Devin ran a shaky hand over his face. “Forgive me, but I still don’t understand the connection to the Beast. If dozens of people saw the attack on Vielle, they knew it was simply an angry boy defending himself.”
Chastel sighed. “But don’t you see? My grandfather killed the Beast the same day. People assumed that because they never saw it again after Charles died…that Charles and the Beast were one and the same.”
“But that’s insane!” Devin protested.
“To you or to me, yes, but these people were ignorant and superstitious. Emile told his story over and over again about seeing a man rise up from the bushes where the wolf had fallen. Maybe he actually saw Charles that night; we’ll never know that now. But I can tell you one thing for certain: Charles was not some kind of half-wolf, half-man.”
“What a tragedy,” Devin said.
Chastel grunted. “They refer to it locally as the ‘Curse of the Chastels’. And believe me, the curse still lives on. My mother gave birth to a stillborn baby the year before I was born. But the good people of Lac Dupré decided that it must be another wolf/child. They even claimed that my father killed it at birth rather than have to deal with another scandal.” He gave a hollow laugh. “And do you wonder that I have yet to find a woman who will marry me…their fathers all enjoy the hunting on my estate, but they don’t want Chastel blood in their grandchildren’s veins.”
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