“A good day to thee, Wulfric!” sneered Willieblud, as he stepped into the hut, holding in his hand a cloth folded and tied in a knot, which he flung down upon an old coffer standing beside the wounded man; “I come to proffer thee work, knowing that thou art no laggard at billhook and wattle. Wilt bind and stack me a faggot pile? Wilt do it, I say?”
“I am sick,” replied Hugues, repressing the bitter wrath he felt at heart, and which, despite the physical suffering he was undergoing, flashed in his wild and haggard glances, “I am not in fitting trim for work.”
“Sick, gossip—sick art thou, indeed? Or is it only a sloth fit? Come, come, what ails thee? Let us see where lieth the malady. Your hand, that I may feel how beateth thy pulse.”
Hugues’ pallid cheek reddened, and for an instant he hesitated whether he should resist a solicitation, the object of which he too readily comprehended; but in order to avoid exposing the tender-hearted damsel to her uncle’s discovery, the maimed lover thrust forth his left hand from beneath the coverture, all imbrued with dried gore.
“Not that hand, Hugues; let’s have the other—the right one. Body o’ me, man, hast lost thy fist, and must I find it for thee?”
Hugues, whose flush of rage had alternately deepened and turned to a deathlike hue, replied not to this taunt, nor testified by the slightest gesture or movement that he was about to comply with a request as cruel in the nature of its preconcertion as the object of it was slenderly cloaked. Willieblud laughed with a loud, coarse laugh, and ground his great teeth together in savage glee, maliciously reveling in the mental torture he saw clearly he was now inflicting upon the sufferer. He seemed disposed to use violence rather than allow himself to be baffled in the attainment of the decisive proof he aimed at. Already had he commenced untying the napkin, giving vent all the while to a string of pitiless taunts—one hand only displaying itself outside the coverture, and which Hugues, well-nigh senseless with anguish, thought not of withdrawing.
“Why tender me that hand?” continued his unrelenting persecutor, as he imagined himself on the eve of arriving at the conviction he so persistently sought for,—”that I should lop it off? Quick! quick! Master Wulfric, and do my bidding! I demand to see your right hand.”
“Behold it then!” ejaculated a feigned voice, which belonged to no supernatural being, however it might seem appertaining to such; and Willieblud, to his utter confusion and dismay, saw a right hand, sound and unmutilated, extend itself towards him, as though in silent accusation. He started back, stammered out a cry for mercy, bent his knees for an instant, and then raising himself, palsied with terror, fled from the hut, which he firmly believed to be in the possession of the foul fiend. So great was his terror and consternation, that he left behind him the severed hand, which from that moment became a perpetual vision ever present before his bewildered mind, and which all the potent exorcisms of the sacristan, at whose hands he continually sought counsel and consolation, signally failed to dispel.
“Oh that hand! To whom, then, belongs that accursed hand?” groaned Willieblud, despondingly. “Is it really the fiend’s, or that of some wer-wolf? Certain ‘tis that Hugues is innocent, for did I not see both his hands? But wherefore was one all bloody? There’s sorcery at the bottom of it, nathless!”
The next morning early, the first object that struck his sight on entering his stall was the severed hand that he had left the preceding night upon the coffer in the forest hut. It was stripped of its wolfskin glove, and lay all gaunt and livid among the flesher’s viands. Such was his trepidation at the spectacle that he no longer dare touch the phantom hand, which now he verily believed to be enchanted; but, hoping to get rid of it at once and for ever, he had it flung into a well; and it was with no slight increase of perturbation that he found it shortly afterwards lying exposed upon his block in the vending booth. He next buried it in his garden, but still without being able to rid himself of the haunting apparition. It returned more livid and loathsome than ever to infect his shop, and augment the remorse which was unceasingly revived by the reproaches of his niece.
At length, flattering himself with the hope of escaping all further persecution from that fatal hand, it struck him that he would have it carried to the cemetery at Canterbury, and try whether solemn exorcism and sepulture in consecrated ground would bar effectually its return to the air and light of day. This was duly done. But lo! on the following morning, to his horror and mortification, he perceived it nailed to his shutter. Disheartened thoroughly by these dumb though awful reproaches, which entirely robbed him of his peace, and impatient to annihilate all trace of an action with which Heaven itself seemed to upbraid him, he quitted Ashford one morning without bidding adieu even to his niece, and some days after was found drowned in the river Stour. They drew out his swollen and discoloured body, which had been discovered floating on the surface among the sedge, and it was only by piecemeal that they succeeded in tearing away from his death-contracted clutch the phantom hand, which, in his suicidal convulsions, he had retained rigidly grasped.
A year after this event Hugues Wulfric, although minus a hand, and therefore a confirmed wer-wolf, married the pretty Branda, his faithful leman, and sole heiress to the stock and chattels of her uncle, the late unhappy flesher of Ashford.
Leitch Ritchie
(1800-1865)
Introduction
The Man-Wolf
I am unable to find the following tale of the werewolf previously collected in any anthology. It first appeared in 1831 and was penned by Leitch Ritchie in his two volume collection titled: The Romance of History: France. The stories contained within it are what we today term historical fiction. The political narrative and characters stem from Robert le Pieux and Henry I; the later of which gives us the name Hugues. It is from the Norman extraction as it related to the royal family. The tale is set in the early 11th century during the reign of Henry I and is the first werewolf short story to have a protagonist named Hugues, though others would soon follow.
Though little read now, Leitch Ritchie was popular in his day. He wrote other short story collections like The Romance of History: Spain, The Tale Book, and Winter Evenings.
Through his scholarship Ritchie has given us the first English werewolf short story to involve a monk, knight, and of course, a man named Hugues. It is the longest story of this collection and the second oldest. It will keep you guessing until the very end.
The Man-Wolf
(1831)
Oh, flesh, flesh, how art thou finished!
Shakespeare
*****
Je me souviens, en effet, qu’ à la table du sénéschal était un seigneur qui faisait rire les convives par la manière gauche avec laquelle il maniait la fourchette et les couteaux; mais comment me serais-je imaginé que je soupais avec un ancient loup?—TRISTAN LE VOYAGEUR.
IT WAS THE third day after the grand procession in honour of Saint Ursula and the other virgin martyrs, and yet the town of Josselin was far from having returned to its wonted repose. The bells of Notre Dame du Roncier still rang out every now and then, as if forgetting that the fete was over; crowds were seen rolling, and meeting, and breaking in the streets; banners floated from the windows, and flowers and branches tapestried the walls. The representatives, indeed, of the eleven thousand Virgins had begun to disappear from the gaze of an equivocal worship, like the flowers at the close of summer.
Every hour some glittering fragment was seen detaching itself from the mass, and as the beautiful pensionnaire, in her litter, or on her palfrey, raised her head sidelong to listen to the discourse of some wandering knight, whom chance, or our Lady of the Bramble-bush, had bestowed on her for an escort, she might have been observed to throw forwards into the distance a glance of fear, or at least distaste, to where the bars of her monastic cage seemed to gape for their accustomed prisoner. The ladies of the neighbourhood too, and the high-born cameristes of the nobility, as they floated homewards, surrounded by the chivalry of their province, sighed heavily wh
en the towers of the chateau of the house of Porhoet melted away in the golden sky; and the humbler damsels of the villages, to whom a part in the procession had been accorded, from the difficulty of finding so many virgins of high rank, waved mournfully their chaplets of blue-bells in token of adieu, and as the evening drew in, looked round in terror for the wandering fires of the sotray, and the dwarfs who dance at night round the peulvan.
A sufficient number still remained, however, to give an appearance of bustle and animation to the town; and it was thought that so great a concourse had never before been known to grace the annual ceremony of ducking the fishermen, which took place on the day when this history commences. The crowd which lined the river-side was immense. Ladies, knights, and squires, chatelaines of the neighbourhood, priests, bourgeois and villeins—all were jumbled together with as little distinction as it was possible for the feudal pact to sanction. Minstrels, trouveres, and jongleurs mingled in the crowd, some singing, some striking the cymbals, and some reciting stories. Tables were spread in the midst where savoury viands were eagerly bought by the spectators,—for it was now more than two hours since dinner, being past midday. Instead of tablecloths, the ancient economical substitute of flowers and leaves was tastefully arranged upon the board, and streams of wine and hippocras played from naked statues, in a manner which in our lime would be reckoned less delicate than ingenious.
The bells at last began to ring, and the trumpets to bray; and the judges of the place, surrounded with banners, and all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of authority, entered upon the scene. Having taken their station, a solemn proclamation was made, calling upon all the persons who had sold, during Lent, fish taken in the river, to compeer then and there, either personally or by proxy, and for the satisfaction of the lieges, and in token of fealty and submission to the lord of the fief, to throw a somerset in the said river, under pain of a fine of three livres and four sous.
A simultaneous shout arose from the multitude when the crier finished, and the air was shaken for many minutes by a burst of laughter like the neighing of a whole nation of Houyhnhnms. One by one, the fish-merchants answered to the summons; some defying the ridicule of their situation by an air of good-humoured audacity; some looking solemn and sulky; and some casting a glance of marked hostility upon the turbulent and rapid waters before them. These feudal victims, generally speaking, were stout young fellows; but a few among them were evidently quiet townsfolk, who had nothing to do with the catching of the fish they had had the misfortune to sell.
Two or three appeared to be the rustic retainers of gentlemen who had not scrupled to make profitable use of the river where it watered their estates, but who were altogether disinclined to do homage in their own persons; and these locum tenentes more especially looked with extreme disgust upon an element with which they were connected neither by habit nor interest. Owing to the late rains, indeed, the stream on this day presented an appearance, not very inviting to the unpractised bather. The black and swollen waters came down with a sullen turbulence, and an eddy whirling violently in the deep pool chosen for the scene of the divers’ exploits, was somewhat startling to the imagination. Some were followed to the water’s edge by the elder women of their families visiting and encouraging them, and others were egged on to the adventure by the sheathed swords of their masters, who seemed to enter into the joke with great gusto, shouting and clapping their hands at every deeper plunge.
The sport at length suffered some interruption from the backwardness of a country fellow, whose master in vain endeavoured, partly by fair words and partly by punches with the hilt of his sword, to drive him into the river.
“For the love of the Virgin,” said the recusant, “only look at these black and muddy waters! It was on this very spot I saw last Easter the Leader of Wolves step grimly upon the bank in the moonlight, followed by his hellish pack; and, now I think on’t, if he did not look at me fixedly with his dead eye, I am no Christian man, but a heathen Turk!”
“Thou shalt tell me the story again—thou shalt indeed,” said the master, a man in the prime of life, and a knight by his golden spurs,—“but in with thee now, good Hugues,—in with thee, for the honour of the house! ‘Tis but a step—a jump—a plunge; thou wilt float, I’ll warrant thee, like a duck. Now, shut thy mouth, wink thine eyes, and leap, in the name of Saint Gildas!”
“Saint Gildas, indeed!” said the man,—“I am neither a duck nor a saint, I trow. I cannot roost upon the waters, not I, with my legs gathered up into my doublet. Were it a league to the bottom, I should down. Neither can I tuck the waves under me like a garment, and sail away in the fashion of the Abbot of Rhuys, as light as a fly in a cockle-shell, singing, Deus, in adjutorium!”
“Want of faith, good Hugues,” returned the knight, repressing his vexation,—“nothing save want of faith.” But as the crowd began to murmur aloud, his choler awoke, and with a vigorous arm he dragged the victim to the water’s edge.
“Beast that thou art!” he exclaimed, “shall the honour of the house of Keridreux be stained by a blot like thee? In with thee, rebellious cur, or I will pitch thee into the middle of the stream like a clod!”
“I will then,” said the man, with a gasp, “I will indeed. Holy Saints, I had ever such an aversion to water! For the love of the Virgin, just give me a push, as if by accident, for my legs feel as if they were growing from the bank. Stay—only one moment! Wait till I have shut my eyes and my mouth. I will make as if I was looking into the river, and the bystanders will think we have been discoursing of the fish.”
The Knight clenched his hand in a fury, as the murmurs of the crowd rose into a shout; and while Hugues was running over the names of as many saints as he could remember in so trying a moment—Notre Dame du Roncier, Saint Yves, Saint Brieuc, Saint Gildas,—he lent him a blow that would assuredly have sent him beyond the middle of the stream, had not the Tictim, moved either by a presentiment of danger, or by some sudden qualm of cowardice, sprung round at the same instant, and caught, as if with a death-grip, by his master’s doublet. The force which he had exerted almost sufficed of itself to overbalance the knight, and it is no wonder, therefore, that the next moment both master and man were floundering in the river.
A rush took place to the water’s edge at this novel exhibition. The bourgeois clapped their hands and shouted to the depth of their throats; the ladies screamed; and those who had handsome knights near them fainted; all was noise and confusion among the crowd.
The knight, in the mean time, being tall, had gained a footing, although up to his neck in water; where he stood tugging at his sword, and casting round a bloodthirsty glance, resolving to sacrifice the caitiff who had so villainously compromised the dignity of the house of Keridreux, before emerging from the river. Hugues was carried out of his reach by the current, and dragged on shore amid the jeers of the bystanders; and the stout knight, as soon as he had become aware of this fact, rejecting indignantly the assistance that was offered him, climbed up on the bank, and clearing a space with a single circle of his sword, strode up to his intended victim. Another instant would have decided the fate of Hugues, who, having escaped a watery death, seemed to view with composure the perils of the land; but a lady, breaking through the circle of spectators, stepped in between him and his master.
“A boon! a boon! Sir Knight,” she exclaimed; “give me the villain’s life, for the honour of chivalry!” The Sire of Keridreux started back as if at the sight of a spectre; his sword fell from his hand; the flush of anger died on his cheek; and he stood for some moments mute and motionless, like an apparition of the drowned.
“The boon,” said he, at length recovering his self-possession, “is too worthless for thy asking. I would I had been commanded to fetch thee the head of the king of the Mohammedans, or to do some other service worthy of thy beauty, fair Beatrix, and of my loyalty!”
“Loyalty!” repeated the lady, half in scorn, half in anger. The knight sighed heavily; and after losing some moments in the purg
atory of painful remembrance, his thoughts, reverting to the circumstances of his present situation, fixed eagerly upon the object apparently best qualified to afford them ostensible employment.
“How, dog!” he cried, striding up to the still dripping vassal, “hast thou not the grace even to thank the condescension which stoops to care for thy base and worthless life? Down on thy knees, false cur—crouch!” and catching Hugues by the throat, he hurled him to the feet of his patroness.
“Enough, enough,” said the lady; “get thee gone, thou naughty fish-seller; St. Gildas be thy speed, and teach thee another time to have more faith in the water, when the need of thy lord requires thee to represent the worthy person of the Sire of Keridreux!” Hugues kissed the hem of the mantle of his fair preserver, and coasting distantly round his master, dived into the crowd and disappeared.
While with the grave pace and solemn countenance of a Breton knight, the Sire of Keridreux strode stately along in the townward direction by the side of the lady, his lank hair and dripping garments seemed to afford considerable amusement to the spectators. The bourgeois concealed their merriment only till he had passed to a distance at which it would be safe to laugh; and the nobles, partly from politeness and partly from prudence, were fain to put their gloves upon their mouths. The knight, however, seemed to have forgotten his late disaster and present plight, in considerations of more moment. He turned his head neither to the right nor to the left, but stalked mutely and majestically along, till on arriving at the house where his fair companion resided, the bubbling sound that attended his plunging into an arm-chair recalled his wandering thoughts.
“The beast!” he muttered,” the outcast dog! To serve me such a trick, and in her presence; after I had arrayed myself in all respects befitting the dignity of the spurs, and journeyed hither on purpose to get speech of her! Beatrix,” he continued aloud, and seizing hold of her hand with his wet gloves,—“fairest Beatrix, deign to regard with compassion the most miserable of the slaves of thy beauty!”
The Best Werewolf Short Stories 1800-1849 Page 4