Among Wolves

by Nancy K. Wallace

  Devin was thrilled to be outside. The spring rains had brought out new foliage on every tree and bush. The grass was brilliant green and multicolored crocuses peeked from below the hedges. The air was warm and fragrant.

  Gaspard was unusually quiet as they headed down the road. Devin wondered if he would have been happier staying at the château where he could spend the day riding, flirting with the serving girls, playing cards, and sampling Chastel’s extensive wine cellar. He realized he had given little thought to what Gaspard would do while he studied with Armand. The prospect left him vaguely uneasy.

  “You know I can’t guarantee your safety, Gaspard,” Devin said, reluctantly turning away from the lush countryside displayed outside the coach window. “But I’m very glad you decided to continue.”

  Gaspard grinned. “Don’t worry! I think my safety at home may be in question, too, with my father on the rampage. What are a few wolves in comparison to René Forneaux?”

  Devin laughed, feeling light-hearted for the first time in days.

  “The provinces hold worse dangers than wolves,” Marcus cautioned grimly. “This isn’t a journey to have undertaken lightly. I hope we can all return home in one piece but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “Ahh,” Gaspard chuckled. “Then you’re not a gambling man. I’ll bet you a hundred francs that all three of us return to Coreé. Dev, you can hold the money and put my bet in; don’t forget, I’m penniless.”

  Ombria’s Master Bard was quartered in a large stone house that faced the village square. The building rose two stories, with seven windows across the top and six below. The shutters had faded to a dusty blue; the heavy wooden door was painted red. It opened just as Devin raised his hand to knock.

  “Devin!” Adrian greeted him warmly. He ushered them into a spartan hallway, adorned with only a small wooden chest and a row of coat hooks on the wall. “How is your wrist? We’ve been worried.”

  “It’s well enough,” Devin answered. “Is there an inn here in town? Can you tell us where to go so we can leave our things?”

  Adrian’s smile dimmed. “So you have decided to continue, then? Armand wasn’t certain what you intended to do.”

  “Of course, I want to continue,” Devin said. “I’ve already lost valuable time. Is Armand here?”

  “He was a few minutes ago,” Adrian answered. “Come back to the kitchen.”

  Devin dropped his knapsack on the floor. Chastel had replaced his ripped and bloodstained woolen jacket with a beautiful suede one. As he hung the elegant chestnut garment on a hook in the hall, he thought it would probably provide Armand with another opportunity to make derogatory comments about the aristocracy. He followed Adrian and Gaspard to the kitchen, with a feeling of dread.

  Gaspard had stopped in the doorway, one arm draped languidly against the doorframe, his head tilted to one side.

  “Good morning, mademoiselle,” he said, his voice soft and silky. “No one told me that Armand had such a beautiful cook.”

  Devin ducked passed him to see Armand seated in a rocking chair by the fire, a striped cat curled on his lap. To his left, a pretty young woman with dark, curly hair stood barefoot, stirring an immense soup pot.

  Armand uncoiled from the rocker with amazing speed, sending the cat shooting into the corner, and swung his cane up as though he meant to strike Gaspard. He stopped it inches from Gaspard’s face and then lowered it to rest in the center of his chest.

  “The young lady’s name is Jeanette Vielle,” he said coldly. “She is my only daughter, and off-limits to any young men from Coreé.”

  Gaspard was surprisingly unruffled by Armand’s performance. He deflected the cane with one hand and strode into the room with the arrogance and assurance of a prominent Councilman’s son.

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” he replied curtly.

  Armand grabbed his sleeve. “I meant what I said, Forneaux!”

  Devin swallowed. Everything was already off to an explosive start and he hadn’t even greeted Armand yet. He stepped forward, hoping to placate him.

  “He meant no harm, Armand,” he said.

  Armand swung around to face Devin. “I don’t want any misunderstandings, Roché!” Armand shouted. “Having just come from Chastel’s château where serving girls are trained to cater to your every need, I don’t want you anticipating the same amenities here.”

  Devin was offended by his insinuation. “There was no catering…” he stammered, glancing at Gaspard for affirmation, “at least, not to my knowledge.”

  “Forneaux knows what I am talking about,” Armand replied, his eyes locked with Gaspard’s. “You’ve been ill, Roché. Perhaps, Chastel felt you weren’t up to it.”

  “Excuse me?” Devin said, angrily. “Should we go out and come back in again? Somehow, we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot this morning. I will apologize for my friend’s lack of courtesy but I fail to see how I have offended you. If you’ll direct us to an inn, we won’t bother you for the rest of the day.”

  “You can stay here,” Armand growled. “The province maintains rooms for my students. Adrian can take you upstairs. I expect the most circumspect behavior from the three of you. If there are any problems with any one of you, you will all be asked to leave.”

  “Understood,” Devin said, inclining his head. He was completely baffled by Armand’s behavior.

  He bowed to Jeanette. “Good morning. I’m Devin Roché, I apologize for any misunderstanding. Thank you for allowing us to stay in your home.”

  To his surprise, she smiled and extended her hand.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, monsieur. Welcome to Ombria’s Bardic Hall. My father gives performances every Friday and Saturday night, and the rest of the week he teaches. Most of his students are with us for a long time. I’m sure I’ll get to know you better.”

  Armand stepped between them, breaking Devin’s tenacious hold on Jeanette’s fingers.

  “This is a special situation, my dear. Monsieur Roché will only be staying a few weeks. He will be spending every available moment studying with me. There will be little time for anything else.”

  Jeanette lowered her eyes and stepped back. “Yes, Papa.”

  “Go and take your things upstairs,” Armand directed Devin. “Have Adrian bring you down to the Hall when you are done. We’ll start immediately.”

  Generally, Devin had a high tolerance for Gaspard’s impertinence, but this morning he was annoyed.

  “Why did you do that?” he hissed on the way up the stairs.

  Gaspard shrugged. “She’s a very pretty girl. How was I to know she was Armand’s daughter?”

  “Common courtesy demands that you determine her position in the household first, before you make any assumptions…”

  “For God’s sake, don’t you go all prim and proper on me!” Gaspard protested, throwing up his hand. “I’ve already had my fingers smacked. I’ll stay out of the cookie jar! I don’t need to hear it from you, too!”

  Ignoring the exchange, Adrian opened a door halfway down the hall.

  “Gaspard, you can use this room and I’ll put Devin and Marcus in the room next to you. Lunch will be…”

  “Thank you,” Gaspard interrupted. “But I intend to be out the rest of the day.” He didn’t even enter the room. He stood in the doorway and threw his knapsack onto the bed, making the shutters rattle.

  “Where are you going?” Devin demanded.

  “Why the hell do you care?” Gaspard replied, stalking down the hall. “Go learn your damn Chronicle, Dev, and leave me out of it!”

  Devin took a step after him but Marcus grabbed his arm.

  “Let him go. He’ll have his little tantrum and be back later.”

  “He doesn’t even have any money,” Devin protested.

  Marcus grunted. “Perhaps, that’s for the best.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Secrets

  Adrian took Devin downstairs; Marcus followed. Devin was certain that Armand would object to Marcus sitting in
on his sessions but he decided to let his bodyguard and Armand fight it out.

  “You need to choose your battles,” Marcus advised Devin on the way down the stairs.

  Devin smiled. It was as though Marcus had read his mind. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I mean,” Marcus replied, “that if Gaspard acts like an ass, it shouldn’t fall to you to apologize for it.”

  Devin sighed. “Well, Gaspard wasn’t about to.”

  “Then, it only makes him appear more churlish. If you apologize, it gives the impression that you are assuming responsibility. That could be a dangerous position to be in.”

  Devin laughed. “I wasn’t in the direct line of fire. The cane wasn’t aimed at my chest.”

  Marcus frowned, apparently annoyed by his nonchalance. “There’s a lesson to be learned from it, nonetheless. Someday, the weapon might not be a cane wielded by a cranky old man.”

  Devin bowed. “Point taken,” he murmured.

  Marcus grunted. “I wonder. Will you remember if the time ever comes?”

  Adrian turned to face them. “I’m sorry to say that Armand is always harsh when a new student comes. He claims that if he explains the house rules at the very beginning then it saves misunderstandings later.”

  “So, the only house rule is to stay away from his daughter?” Devin asked.

  Adrian shook his head. “Oh no, there are more. I’m sure he’ll tell you the rest today. He overreacted because Gaspard made him angry. He is just very protective of his daughter.”

  “That’s understandable,” Marcus replied, as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Most fathers are.”

  Adrian opened the door on the right and guided them into a large performance hall. Benches lined the walls and formed two rows in the center. A huge fireplace dominated the opposite end but Devin doubted that it would do much to dispel the chill of four stone walls. Armand sat alone on a stool, adjusting the logs over a newly kindled blaze. Adrian left them silently, closing the door behind him.

  Armand waved a hand at another stool.

  “Sit here. I’m trying to warm the room up a bit.” He turned to study Devin. “You’re looking very pale, Monsieur Roché. Are you certain you are up to this?”

  “I’ve been looking forward to it,” Devin replied. He sat down opposite him as Marcus drifted into the far corner. Armand followed Marcus with his eyes but he didn’t comment on his obvious intention to stay.

  Devin cleared his throat and decided to plunge in head first. If Ombria’s Chronicle was riddled with bigotry and personal opinion, then it wasn’t worth his time. He had to find out before he went any further.

  “When we were at Monsieur Chastel’s you told the ‘Beast of Gévaudan’, but you never finished the story because Chastel stopped you. Could you start with that?”

  Armand looked up from the fire a moment, his eyes cold. “Are you in the habit of telling your instructors where to begin your course of study?”

  “No,” Devin said. “But I would like to hear the end of your story.” He realized his inappropriate choice of wording as soon as it was out of his mouth but it was too late to correct it.

  “My story?” Armand asked in surprise. “Who else’s have you heard?”

  Devin didn’t meet his eyes. “Chastel gave me his grandfather’s diary to read.”

  Armand massaged his knee with one hand. “Did he? And what revelations did you find there?”

  “The injury to Charles’s head was caused by a fall from a horse,” Devin said. “You implied something entirely different.”

  Armand sat back and looked at him. “Why are you here, Monsieur Roché?”

  “I’ve already told you,” Devin replied. “I am interested in your oral tradition. I came to learn Ombria’s Chronicle.”

  “And…?” Armand prompted him.

  Devin sighed, acutely aware of Marcus lounging on a bench in the back of the room. “I have discovered that, in some cases, the historical records in the Archives and the Chronicles appear to present very different accounts of the same events. I want to know the truth.”

  “And yet, you have already decided that written accounts are more accurate.”

  “I never said that!” Devin objected.

  Armand held up a hand. “But that is what you believe. You have just read Jean Chastel’s journal, and already you are questioning me…and my integrity.”

  Devin threw diplomacy to the wind. “Yes, I guess I am,” he said. Marcus’s breath hissed out in disproval but Devin blundered on. “If the Chronicle is to remain true and accurate, it must be free of personal prejudice.”

  Armand pursed his lips. For a moment, the room was incredibly quiet.

  “I agree,” Armand said finally, “But did you know that any Master Bard may add stories of lasting historic value to the Chronicle?”

  Devin shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

  “There is a great deal you don’t know, monsieur. You would be wise to keep your opinions to yourself until you know enough to ask relevant questions. And by the way, I haven’t bastardized the Chronicle. The story I told at Chastel’s was only slightly different than the official account.”

  “Why?” Devin asked. “What has Chastel done that you would intentionally humiliate him in his own house like that?”

  Armand’s eyes closed briefly, like a cat feinting disinterest in a mouse. “How much do you know?” he asked.

  “I know that Jacques Vielle was your grandfather, and that the first Jean Chastel was the present Jean Chastel’s grandfather. I know his Uncle Charles was flawed in some way, unable to deal with people but drawn to animals. Apparently, he was fascinated by wolves.” Armand listened without comment. “And I know that the day he died, your great grandfather, Jacques, tormented Charles. He threw stones at him and knocked him down.” Devin’s voice lowered to a whisper. “And then Charles killed Jacques.”

  “Charles tore his throat out…like some vicious animal…like…a savage wolf,” Armand interjected angrily. “Did Chastel happen to mention that?”

  Devin nodded. “And then Jean Chastel wrote about shooting Charles.” He almost choked on the words. “He shot his own son, Armand, to keep him from being killed by an angry mob.”

  Armand’s head jerked back, his nostrils flaring. “Both Chastel and I lost family members in that particular catastrophe, and yet I feel your censure is directed against me personally. What part do you think I have played in all this?”

  Devin’s voice was shaking. “Your story implied that Charles was some kind of wolf-man.”

  Armand corrected him. “The word is werewolf, Monsieur Roché.”

  “It’s absolutely absurd!” Devin answered with more vehemence than he intended.

  “I would have thought one night in the forest with that pack of wolves might have made you a believer,” Armand responded.

  “In werewolves?” Devin asked incredulously. “Give me credit for a little intelligence.”

  Armand’s expression didn’t change. “Did Chastel tell you that the Beast was never seen again after Charles was killed?”

  “Yes, and he said that it was because his grandfather killed the Beast early the same morning that Charles died.”

  “And was that corroborated by Jean Chastel’s journal?”

  For the first time Devin faltered. “It wasn’t in the part I read. I was more interested in proving that Charles’s injury wasn’t caused by Emile’s poker.”

  Armand inclined his head. “Well, I don’t think you will find any mention, at all, of the Beast’s death in that journal. But by all means, ask Chastel the next time you see him,” Armand replied.

  “Its head is mounted in Chastel’s study,” Devin snapped. “I’m sure he would be happy to show it to you.”

  “The head is probably from a very large wolf. Unfortunately, Ombria is famous for them. I imagine that Jean Chastel even gave this one blue glass eyes when he had it stuffed. But I have no desire to see it,” Armand replied, rising to throw a l
og on the fire. He turned to Devin. “What is it you want from me, Monsieur Roché? We are wasting a good deal of your precious time. By my count, you have only twenty-three days left. Do you want to spend it arguing or do you want to learn the Chronicle?”

  “I want to hear the ‘The Beast of Gévaudan’,” Devin insisted, “the way it is included in the Chronicle.”

  Armand held up a hand. “There is a specific progression to these stories, Monsieur Roché, and you will learn it eventually, if you stay long enough. But I don’t intend to teach it to you today. Besides, you’ve already heard it at Chastel’s château. It ends when Emile and Jacque decide to move to Lac Dupré.”

  Devin looked up in surprise. “The part where Charles killed Jacques is not included?”

  Armand shook his head. “That is an entirely different story. A very sad one, I’m afraid.”

  “Then why did you add the part about the injury to Charles’s face?” Devin asked.

  Armand’s face was cold and impassive. “Because I hate Jean Chastel. Is that enough of an answer for you, Monsieur Roché, or must you pry out all the gory details?”

  Devin sighed in frustration. “I have the greatest respect for who you are and what you do, Armand, but I don’t understand you.”

  “What makes you feel that is necessary?” Armand asked.

  “I guess it isn’t,” Devin remarked, feeling curiously close to tears. “I expected more from you, somehow.”

  Armand laughed, a low, hollow sound that gave Devin chills. “So, I’ve disillusioned you, have I? A man your age should have lost his illusions a few years back. Your father must have truly sheltered you.”

  Devin clenched his hand but didn’t respond. “You’re right,” he said, sitting back down on the stool. “We are wasting time. Where did you intend to begin today?”

  Armand turned toward the fire. “With the lives of the saints, Monsieur Roché,” he said. “Perhaps, those holy men will live up to your expectations.”

  Devin grimaced. The lives of the saints always ended badly. They’d all been sainted for a reason. Most had died nasty deaths, been tortured, stoned, or maimed for their faith. Many had their heads or other body parts hacked off. But there was obviously no way to sway Armand into revealing any more about the Beast story than he already had. If Devin wanted to know why Armand hated Chastel, he would have to wait for another day.