Among Wolves

by Nancy K. Wallace

  “I will insist on it,” Armand said. “This will be the most important story I have taught you so far. It is imperative that you repeat it flawlessly.”

  Devin nodded. “I promise, I will.” He flinched, as another stitch tore his skin. “God, will you hurry up, Mareschal?” he begged.

  CHAPTER 37

  “Remi Reynard”

  Armand patted Devin’s shoulder.

  “You’ll do fine,” he assured him for the second time. “Remember what I told you, begin with “Lisette’s Lament,” do “The Dead of the Dantzig” next, and then finish with “The Story of Remi Reynard;” I guarantee you a standing ovation.”

  “I’d bet you on that,” Devin replied, “but I’ve spent all my money.”

  Armand grunted. “It will be worth it, Monsieur Roché, mark my words.”

  They stood by the banister at the end of the upstairs hall overlooking the front door. The performance hall would be crowded tonight, Devin thought, judging from the steady influx of guests surging through the entrance. Had they come to hear the Chronicle, or did they just want to see the man responsible for bringing assassins to their little village?

  “Most of them have probably only come to catch a glimpse of you and Gaspard,” Armand said, echoing Devin’s thoughts. “But we’ll give them more than they bargained for tonight.” He glanced approvingly at Devin’s black velvet jacket and open collared white shirt. “Chastel came through, I must say. It was thoughtful of him to have his seamstress tailor that jacket for you. You look different, monsieur, far more like the aristocratic archivist that you are. The clothes were an excellent choice.”

  Devin didn’t feel any different. Although they’d spent most of last night rehearsing “The Story of Remi Reynard,” he still felt uneasy. Chastel’s hastily arranged costume hadn’t inspired any confidence in him. The jacket was twenty years out of fashion and the shirt was more suited to a young art student. But he guessed the overall effect implied wealth and authority, which was exactly what Armand had in mind.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Armand,” Marcus growled, from his stance behind Devin. “If anything goes wrong, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

  Devin glanced at his bodyguard. Tonight, at Armand’s insistence, Marcus had donned the blue and silver livery of the Chancellor’s Personal Guard. Together, he and Devin presented the very image Devin had tried so hard to avoid.

  “Nothing will go wrong,” Armand assured him. “These are good people.”

  “Who throw stones at innocent strangers,” Marcus reminded him.

  “Picoté is certain that it was only children who targeted Gaspard,” Armand told him.

  “Until I threatened to conduct my own investigation,” Marcus replied. “He took the incident more seriously then.”

  “Well, there will be no stones thrown tonight,” Armand said. “Come on, Monsieur Roché, the crowd at the door is thinning. Let’s make a grand entrance.”

  By the time they descended the stairs, only Adrian stood by the door. He gave them a grin.

  “A very good night,” he said, shaking a basket loaded with coins. “There is standing room only.”

  Marcus made an exasperated noise. “That will complicate security.”

  “Chastel has four guards on every wall, plus more outside,” Armand pointed out. “Anyone would have to be crazy to move against Monsieur Roché tonight.”

  “It’s been my experience,” Marcus muttered, “that every town has at least one or two crazy people in it. I doubt that Lac Dupré is any exception.”

  Armand ignored him.

  Jeanette appeared suddenly from the kitchen, her cheeks flushed and her dark hair curling around her face. Devin thought she’d never looked more beautiful.

  “I just wanted to wish you luck, monsieur,” she said brightly. “I’m sure your performance tonight will be wonderful.”

  “Thank you,” Devin murmured, touched that she took the time to wish him well. He wished fervently that he could spend a quiet evening in the kitchen with Jeanette, rather than have to face a crowd that might well have come to see him murdered.

  “Come on, Monsieur Roché,” Armand urged, dropping his arm over Devin’s shoulders in a show of support. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

  The room was packed. Every bench was lined, shoulder to shoulder, and people had gathered toward the back and along the sides, standing in small groups. At the feet of those in the front row, children sat giggling and tussling on the floor. Chastel’s men, their faces grave, stood at attention, rifles pointing at the ceiling. Conversation stopped when Armand and Devin entered the room. Inquisitive faces turned to watch them walk down the center aisle; furious whispering began as they passed, and continued as they reached the front of the room.

  Devin turned to face them, glad of Marcus’s imposing figure beside him. The roaring fire at his back did nothing to dispel his inner chill He stood slightly behind Armand and viewed the sea of angry faces, wishing the evening was over and done with.

  Armand raised his hands and the audience quieted.

  “My friends,” he said, beaming confidently at the assembled group. “Welcome to tonight’s performance. I am pleased to introduce Devin Roché, our Chancellor Elite’s youngest son. He has come to Lac Dupré as my student. Tonight is his first public performance of Ombria’s Chronicle.”

  He took Devin by the elbow and drew him forward. Devin bowed graciously, as though the audience had received him warmly. He retrieved Adrian’s harp from the stool beside him and sat down.

  “Good evening,” he announced. “My first selection will be ‘Lisette’s Lament.’”

  Looking up, he froze. Two late arrivals stood framed in the doorway. He exhaled as he recognized them. Gaspard and Jean Chastel had come in together. They walked behind the last row of benches, and settled against the wall next to one of Chastel’s guards. Devin gave them a shaky smile over the heads of the villagers. He was glad that he had apologized to Gaspard for his outburst over his gambling debt, and given him the money to settle up with Chastel himself. Now, at least, the restraint between them had eased.

  As he scanned the crowd he realized that Jeanette was conspicuously absent. A chill touched his heart. Had Armand excluded her because he thought there might be trouble? Jacques Picoté sat in the first row. Devin wondered if he’d come to represent authority or cast the first stone.

  He bent his head and ran his fingers over the harp strings. At the first notes, the room quieted. He tried to visualize little Mäìte before him, instead of a room full of bitter villagers who’d lost two of their cherished young men. They sat stony faced and unresponsive, totally unreachable, even though the harp begged their attention. Devin realized that it was only out of deference to Armand that they were listening to him at all. To begin with, he looked just over the heads of his audience, but as he neared the end of the song, he began to selectively make eye contact with a few of his listeners. He hoped it was not his imagination that he saw several faces soften as he finished.

  There was no applause, and he faltered, wondering whether to go on. Had they orchestrated this ahead of time, he wondered? Or was the feeling against him so intense that not one of them would recognize publicly that he had done an adequate job of storytelling? Instinct told him that this crowd could go from anger to riot with little provocation, and he longed to walk out now before the unthinkable happened.

  Armand touched his shoulder. “Continue,” he whispered.

  Marcus’s anxiety was palpable. His eyes flicked constantly over the crowd, his hand poised over the pistol in his belt. At the total lack of positive response from the crowd, Chastel’s men had stiffened, their weapons ready to be lowered at an instant’s notice. At the back of the room, Gaspard and Chastel were poised for flight, if things went from bad to worse.

  Please God, let them escape if there is trouble, Devin prayed, don’t allow anyone else to die because of me.

  “‘The Dead of the Dantzig,’”
he announced, willing his voice not to tremble or break. He stroked the familiar strings of the harp and began, concentrating exclusively on the music and the words.

  The Dantzig winds from Northern Seas

  To the southern Orleans shore.

  In frozen parts, its waters start

  Its chilling currents pour.

  Its flow across the continent,

  Divides Llisé in two.

  And no good land, escapes the brand,

  Of that water running through.

  And north to south the people speak

  Of the depths beneath those waves.

  And some maintain, those killed for gain,

  By its waters will be saved.

  For the Dantzig’s waters deep and cold,

  Preserve their dead with care.

  And legend tells, that those who fell,

  May one day, soon, be spared.

  For where those frigid currents run,

  The depths have not been probed,

  And bards will long recite in song

  The prophecy foretold.

  So mourning friends and family

  Still bear their ravaged dead,

  With tears and prayers, they leave them there

  In the river’s watery bed.

  So all of Ombria’s patriots,

  Her brave and valiant men –

  All those who’ve dared – lie silenced there

  And wait to rise again.

  For those who fight for Ombria

  Who for her rights have bled,

  Will all join ranks, along her banks,

  To greet the Dantzig’s dead.

  For when the fate of Ombria,

  Lies poised upon the scale,

  All men will fight to set things right

  And we will never fail!

  Devin allowed the last notes to linger and then stilled the harp strings with his open palm. The room fell deadly silent. He waited mutely for any response. Surprise had registered on several faces, confusion on others. Everyone in the room knew that Robert’s family had just returned from the three-day trip to bury his body in the Dantzig at Museé. The choice of interment had been a political statement, defining Robert as a hero, and Coreé and the Rochés as the enemy. The lines had already been drawn, but with Armand’s help, Devin intended to make a political statement of his own before the evening was over.

  A smattering of applause began and grew more enthusiastic. Devin realized their accolade was in honor of Ombria, not his meager performance, but it gave him hope, nonetheless. These people’s pride and allegiance was to their province not Llisé. But at least their response showed that things were going according to Armand’s well-orchestrated plan. It called for Devin to speak of love and patriotism first, and then at last, to remind them of Remi Reynard.

  The applause died away as quickly as it came. Devin wasn’t certain if what he heard next was the last few tentative claps or raindrops on the roof. Distant thunder confirmed the latter, and with it the tension in the room increased. All eyes were on Devin.

  He stood up, leaning the harp carefully against his stool.

  “For my last selection,” he announced, “I will tell ‘The Story of Remi Reynard.’” He ignored the gasps that followed. Armand had thought they might have forgotten. It was Chastel who had first put the thought in Armand’s head, when he’d mentioned at the funeral that Robert had aspirations to join the Chancellor’s service in Coreé.

  Devin cleared his throat and began:

  “Remi Reynard was born on a farm just outside of Pireé, the only son of a carriage maker. When he was only a little boy, he loved to hear stories of Coreé, where his father’s carriages graced the streets, and ten thousand oil lamps lighted the city at night. He told his father that one day he would join the Chancellor’s service. He longed to become one of the Chancellor’s Personal Guards, to defend him and protect him, and wear the blue and silver livery of that high office.

  “When Sébastien Rouse was elected Chancellor Elite of Llisé in 1787, the opposition grumbled. Rouse had won by only a few votes and they demanded a second tally. But Council allowed the election to stand after the first count, citing Rouse’s small but significant margin. Rouse began to prepare for his Grand Tour of the provinces while the opposition plotted his assassination.

  “Remi had just turned eleven. He looked forward to the Grand Tour with great anticipation. Only once in a Chancellor’s reign does he visit every provincial capital in Llisé and Remi was fortunate enough to live within walking distance of Pireé. The months seemed to pass slowly but at last, news reached Pireé that the Chancellor’s party should arrive by ship within the week. Unknown to the Chancellor, André Follett, a professional assassin, had already made the trip by land and waited quietly in the best hotel in Pireé for the opportunity to kill him.

  “People crowded the docks at Pireé for days, hoping to catch a glimpse of Chancellor Rouse when he arrived, some even prayed to venture close enough to touch his robes. Remi imagined that somehow he might attract Rouse’s attention and be allowed to join his entourage. His father tried to reason with him, explaining that there was no way that one small boy could be singled out for special notice among the thousands of people gathered in Pireé but Remi believed that somehow it would happen.

  “At last, on June 23rd, the Chancellor’s ship arrived. Remi climbed a high post so that he could see Rouse come ashore. Not far away, André Follett lay in wait, perched in the branches of huge maple tree. He ignored the gangly boy dangling excitedly from the post and aimed just under the child’s feet at the gangplank below.

  “Rouse came down the walkway preceded by a dozen guards and followed by a dozen others. Above him, Follett took aim. Remi had eyes only for the Chancellor, one hand waving frantically to catch his attention, the other anchoring him to the post. And just as Follett pulled the trigger, Remi slipped and fell. Follett’s bullet hit him in the center of his chest. Remi’s father caught him in his arms, but his son was dead before he hit the ground.”

  Devin heard a stifled sob from somewhere in the audience. He took a breath and continued:

  “The sound of the shot and the boy falling alerted the guards. Rouse was hustled back to the ship, unharmed. Follett was grabbed by the angry crowd as he tried to descend from the tree. He was beaten to death before Rouse’s bodyguards could obtain the names of the men who had hired him. Poor Remi lay dead, at the age of eleven, from a bullet through the heart. And yet, unknowingly, Remi had fulfilled his dream: he had saved the Chancellor’s life.

  “Rouse was grateful and humbled that a child had given his life for him. Remi was buried in the blue and silver uniform of the Chancellor’s Personal Guard. In honor of Remi’s sacrifice, Chancellor Rouse erected a statue which stands in the square at Pireé to this day. He hoped that it might offer some comfort to his family since Remi had given his life for the Chancellor he had yearned to serve.”

  Devin took a deep breath and looked out over the audience. He even saw tears on some of the faces of the men. Picoté refused to meet his eyes, and several rows behind the shériff, a pregnant woman sobbed openly into her apron. Devin had come to the hard part, now. Memorization was one thing but this next speech had to come from the heart. He cleared his throat.

  “Robert Foulard and George Matisse died for me. I don’t believe that they knew it at the time…or that it would have made their deaths any less horrifying if they had. I assure you that I would have spared them, if I could. But I had no way of knowing that a simple thing like my discarded jacket would lead to their deaths.”

  Devin swallowed hard and continued.

  “In my father’s name, I have authorized a statue in honor of Robert and George to be placed in your town square. This morning, I spoke to Claude Deville, the stone mason, and he will begin work immediately. I thought it was important that we employ someone local, who knew both Robert and George,” he gestured to include them all, “and who knew all of you. The Chancellor has also au
thorized a payment to each of the families of one hundred francs a year,” he said.

  There was a gasp from the crowd and he felt guilty that such a small amount would seem like a fortune to them. The money had actually come from Devin’s own pocket, but under the circumstances it was the least he could do. The monument and the gifts to the families had exhausted his reserve but he’d vowed not to think about that for the moment. He waited until the uproar died down before he spoke again.

  “In addition, you have my personal assurance that any male child from either family will be guaranteed schooling from this time forward.” Devin nodded toward the back of the room. “Monsieur Chastel has offered to oversee the educational arrangements.”

  The pregnant woman crossed herself. Clutching at her belly, she began to weep again. Devin exhaled before finishing.

  “As for myself, I cannot tell you how much I regret that my presence in your village has caused such tragedy.” He bowed his head. “I am profoundly sorry.”

  He held his breath, waiting in silence to receive their forgiveness or condemnation. For an instant, nothing happened at all, and then there was a roar of sound around him. People had risen to their feet. Some were clapping, some were crying. Others were hugging each other.

  Armand joined him, slipping an arm around his shoulders.

  “Breathe,” the bard instructed. “It’s over.”

  People began to line up at the stage to shake Devin’s hand. They greeted them together, Armand carefully introducing each person, so Devin could call them by name.

  Picoté wormed his way to the front.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?” he demanded. “It might have saved a great deal of unpleasantness.”

  “You didn’t ask,” Devin replied.

  “Money won’t replace two men’s lives!” Picoté blustered.

  Devin took a breath and looked him in the eye. “You’re right, it won’t,” he agreed. “But it will make life easier for those they left behind.”

  He turned to greet the pregnant woman, who Picoté had pushed aside. “Mrs. Matisse?” he asked, taking both her hands in his. “I am so sorry about your husband’s death.”