The Wolves of Paris

by Michael Wallace

  “The mother of five children,” she insisted. “Two dead of the pox, three others fully grown. She must have been at least forty years old. Lost her bloom, they said, which was why he’d paid an enormous sum of money to gain an annulment. She’d retired to a convent to live the remainder of her days in contemplation. A lie!” Lucrezia’s voice rose. “The things they did to her. The unholy, awful things.”

  Lorenzo stiffened. She thought it was something she’d said. Maybe he didn’t believe her. She’d lost her mind—how could it be otherwise, when she told such an impossible tale?

  “Someone is coming,” he said.

  Then she heard footsteps in the hallway. The fire guttered in the hearth, as a draft blew down the chimney. Lucrezia, heart pounding already from the story, leaped for her dagger, which she’d left in its sheath on the chair by the hearth. The door opened as she drew the blade.

  It was only Marco. He stared at her, wide-eyed. His own hand went to the sword at his waist, but then it stopped as she lowered the dagger.

  “By the Virgin, what are you doing?” he said. “I could have killed you.”

  Lorenzo lifted himself in the bed and threw back the covers. “You mean she could have killed you. What do you want?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “My emotions were up. I was thinking about the wolves and you caught me unaware.”

  Marco looked back and forth between Lorenzo and Lucrezia with a deepening scowl. That suspicious look raised her ire.

  “You didn’t answer my question? What are you doing?’

  “I was nursing his wounds,” she said. “Why does that surprise you?”

  “Don’t blame her,” Lorenzo said. “It’s not like my own brother could be bothered to look in on me when I was feverish.”

  “What do you think I’m doing now?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s not looking after my welfare, or you wouldn’t have burst in like that. What is it?”

  “It’s the prior. He’s not in his right mind.”

  “It’s his own blasted fault,” Lorenzo said. “He should have taken Lucrezia’s tincture—it broke my fever already.” He turned to Lucrezia. “Is there still time to save him? Or is he too weak already.”

  Marco said, “Oh, he’s fine. Up and around and strong as ever. Physically, that is. Raving like a lunatic, of course. They hunted down our man Giuseppe in the dungeon. Would you believe that bastard Montguillon has him on the rack and is putting him to the question?”

  “My God, he is?” Lorenzo said. “We have to stop him.”

  “That’s not the half of it. Do you know what he wants Giuseppe to confess? That’s he’s a servant of the devil, under control of a witch. If only Giuseppe admits it, the pain will end. The witch, Montguillon insists, is Lucrezia d’Lisle.”

  Lucrezia’s knees wobbled. The strength had gone out of her legs. She grabbed for the mantle to keep from falling. All she could think about was the fire, burning Lord d’Lisle’s first wife. Gwynneth of Cymru had gone to the stake with her head held high, but with terror in her eyes. The fire—oh, saints preserve her, the awful fire. Gwynneth’s screams.

  “But I’m not—” she said. “I mean, I don’t know Giuseppe, I couldn’t possibly . . . ”

  Marco nodded grimly. “And what is worse, I think Giuseppe is on the verge of confessing it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  While Lorenzo dressed in gray leggings and a green-and-red tunic, Marco escorted Lucrezia to her room. When he returned, he said Martin had taken her to a safe place within the castle, together with the big mastiff, Tullia. They would guard her with their lives.

  “I wish we still had Luc Fournier,” Marco said. “Why did he have to fall behind? Those damned wolves—”

  Lorenzo didn’t want to think about Fournier, his throat torn out. Wolves with bloody muzzles, ripping off chunks of his flesh while he was still alive.

  “What about Lord Nemours’s men?” he asked as he pulled on his boots. “Can’t we trust them to guard her? He’s the king’s provost, and Lucrezia’s husband was the king’s cousin.”

  “Nemours isn’t here, and we can’t trust his men-at-arms, not if the prior orders them to seize her. They might turn on us. Our only hope is to stop Montguillon before he extracts that confession.”

  “I’ll kill him before I see him lay a hand on her,” Lorenzo said.

  “He’s a high church official. If you touch him, you will die. The family will be ruined.”

  “I don’t care. I won’t let him.”

  He strapped on his sword as the brothers gained the hallway.

  “And attacking Montguillon wouldn’t help her anyway,” Marco said. “Once the condemnation comes from the prior’s lips, it can’t be taken back. The young friar will hear, the provost’s men as well. It will spread and the Inquisition will find her. We have to convince him not to make that condemnation.”

  “Montguillon won’t listen to reason,” Lorenzo said.

  “No, he won’t. He’s out of his bloody mind.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “I don’t know what, damn it all.”

  Lorenzo stopped to gather his strength. He could barely stay on his feet. “She’s not his enemy, she’s the only one who can save him. Lucrezia’s tincture—if he takes it . . . we have to convince him.”

  “And how the devil do we do that?” Marco eyed him. “Come on, put your arm over my shoulder, I’ll bear some of your weight. Yes, like that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m only looking out for your welfare,” Marco said. “I hope you never forget that.”

  “A shoulder to lean on is one thing. But when you turn me over to men like Henri Montguillon, you do me no favors.”

  “Your piety demands—”

  “My piety?” Lorenzo shrugged his arm off Marco’s shoulder. “This isn’t about my piety. It’s about bruising my bones and bloodying my skin. It’s a warning to others. If you have dangerous thoughts, keep them to yourself. If you see a man suffering, turn the other way. And how dare you defy the church? We’ll break you for that.”

  They descended into lower, older parts of the chatelet. If the upper floors were apportioned like an Italian palazzo, and the main level like a lord’s castle, the cellars showed the remnants of the original fortress, the rough-hewn stone and low ceilings like a warlord’s stronghold from more lawless times. Torches burned from holders on the wall and their shadows cavorted across the walls like smoky demons.

  Lorenzo thought about the disturbing story Lucrezia had been telling him before Marco burst into the room. Lord Rigord Ducy d’Lisle, the man who’d carried her away from Tuscany. Lorenzo instinctively disliked the man, had endured jealousy’s cold burn when Lucrezia said he was handsome, but if it had stopped there, he could accept it. What man, having Lucrezia in his arms, would turn to another woman?

  No, that was not the problem. The duke was a monster, belonging to some secret society, practicing Satanic rituals. Montguillon should have been investigating him all along. What was the Inquisition doing, harassing scholars and natural philosophers when such horrors could be found in one of the finest, wealthiest households in France?

  And though Marco had interrupted Lucrezia before she could complete her story, Lorenzo began to stitch together threads into a larger tapestry. The men in wolf pelts. The chanting in the barbarian tongue. The duke’s first wife, unnaturally preserved and used carnally by the men.

  Cries of pain came to their ears before they reached the end of the long hallway. A hole opened in the ground, with a ladder protruding into the passageway. The cries came from below. The dungeon was a cellar within a cellar.

  Marco stopped him before they reached the hole. “It shouldn’t come from you. Let me convince Montguillon that Lucrezia might help him.”

  “It will help. Look at me. I took her potion and already I’m recovering.”

  “And don’t call it a potion, for God’s sake. The word sounds like witchcraft.”

&n
bsp; “The tincture. The medicinal concoction,” Lorenzo corrected himself.

  “Yes, but I’ll say it, not you. You’re suspect, little brother. You’re under the watch of the Inquisition already—although I notice that you foolishly forgot to pin on your yellow cross. Dumb, that.”

  Lorenzo flushed, knowing Marco was right. “I forgot in the rush.”

  “And your infatuation with Lucrezia d’Lisle is so obvious it’s disgusting.”

  “Says the crow, complaining that the raven is stealing grain again.”

  “My intentions are honorable,” Marco said. “Can you make the same claim? Never mind. The point is you won’t be helping. The more you defend her, the more you’re seen in her presence, the more you’ll cast suspicion on the both of you.”

  Very convenient for you, Lorenzo thought. And yet Marco was right. And as frightened as Lorenzo was to face more questioning at the hands of the Inquisition, he would not let them get to her.

  “Fine. But do something and do it quickly,” Lorenzo said. “That poor devil is in agony down there. Listen to him.”

  “There may be nothing we can do for Giuseppe Veronese. Let’s see.”

  They climbed down the ladder and found themselves in a circular chamber, with four gated cells around them. The ceiling was so low that Lorenzo had to bend his neck to keep from scraping his head. A single torch cast flickering light and filled the room with choking smoke. It didn’t block the stench of rot and human filth. The brothers lifted their sleeves to cover their mouths and noses, then sought out the cell with the open grille.

  “Let me go!” a man screamed in Italian. “I’ll kill you all!”

  A man answered in Latin. “Exorcizámos te, ómnis immúnde spíritus, ómnis satánic potéstas, ómnis infernális adversárii, ómnis légio, ómnis congregátio et sécta diabólica, in nómine et virtúte Dómini nóstri Jésu Chrísti.”

  We cast you out, every unclean spirit, every satanic power, every onslaught of the infernal adversary, every legion, every diabolical group and sect, in the name and by the power of our Lord Jesus Christ.

  Inside the cell, Montguillon and Simon bent over a long wooden table. They had a man in front of them, stretched with chains by the feet and wrists. The chains connected to a spoked wheel the height of a man’s shoulder. The younger friar held out a crucifix, which he waved over the chained man’s forehead while Montguillon continued to chant the rite of exorcism.

  Their captive was hairy, naked, his ribs and hip bones sharp against his taut, starved flesh. He had a black beard, streaked with gray, and he was so gaunt that Lorenzo couldn’t tell whether or not this was Giuseppe Veronese. Not for sure.

  One of Lord Nemours’s men stood to one side with his arms crossed, looking away from the spectacle, his face pale. He wore a sword and a breastplate, and one hand clenched a brass key as long as his hand.

  “Begone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man’s salvation,” Montguillon said. Then, “Give it a turn, Brother.”

  Simon grabbed the wooden handles of the spoked wheel. The chains on the prisoner’s ankles pulled taut where they attached to iron rings in the walls. Simon leaned his weight into the wheel and it stretched the prisoner’s arms painfully above his head, with his shoulder sockets flaring unnaturally open. The prisoner screamed.

  “By the blood of Saint Peter,” Marco swore. “What in the name of all that is holy are you doing to that man?”

  “Putting him to the question,” Lorenzo said. He didn’t suppress the bitterness that came into his voice like the bile that rose from his stomach. “What do you think that means anyway?”

  Montguillon ignored the two men. “Tell us. Give us her name.” He slapped the man on the table. “The witch, damn you.”

  “He won’t answer,” Simon said.

  “Give it another turn.”

  More creaking, more stretching. More cries of pain.

  “My God,” Marco said. “Is it Giuseppe?”

  The prisoner broke his screams. “It’s me! I work for Signore Bernardino Boccaccio. Make them stop, I beg you.”

  “Stop this at once,” Marco said, but his voice quavered.

  Again, Montguillon ignored him. Instead, with the cowl pulled up around his face, he bent over a smaller table with an open chest. Inside lay various pincers, thumb screws, and other devices meant to tear and break. Lorenzo recognized them all.

  “What do you think, Simon?” Montguillon said.

  “Stretch him some more,” the younger friar answered. “There is still resistance in his joints.”

  Montguillon leaned in. He said in Latin, “One more chance. No?”

  “I don’t understand!” Giuseppe screamed. “Lorenzo, don’t let him do it!”

  Lorenzo wanted to obey, but he was paralyzed. Memories of his own mortification of the flesh lay so near the surface, he could feel the cold iron against his own skin. Remembered every lash, every bit of bone-crushing pressure.

  Sweet Virgin. Make it stop.

  Simon pulled on the handle. The prisoner groaned in pain. The chains strained and the man’s limbs stretched until his arms looked ready to tear out of his shoulders.

  “I don’t know what you want!” Giuseppe cried.

  “Break him on the rack,” Montguillon said. His face remained hidden. “Lean into it. You will hear a pop.” He came up holding shears with sharp, overlapping points and probed tentatively along the man’s chest. “There’s no muscle here. This man is starved. Perhaps his manhood.”

  “Damn you,” Lorenzo muttered.

  He found his courage. He grabbed Marco’s arm in a hard grip and the two brothers shared a look of horrified understanding. They couldn’t let this go a moment longer. They reached for their swords.

  But at that moment the prisoner began a transformation. He arched his back and let out an inarticulate cry. There was no give in the chains, but somehow he managed to shake them back and forth. They tugged on the ring in the wall and pulled backward against the winch that Simon was trying to move.

  In the dim, flickering light of the dungeon, it seemed almost as though Giuseppe’s body was growing. His body hair seemed thicker, almost like a pelt.

  Montguillon dropped the shears and grabbed for the wheel to stop it from unwinding. He threw his weight into it with a cry. Furious, not yet understanding what was happening, Lorenzo grabbed for the prior’s robe and spun him around. The cowl fell away from the prior’s face.

  The scratch on his cheek had turned black and rotting, and the rest of his face was red and inflamed. Puffy, like a man with the plague. His eyes were jaundiced.

  Worse was his neck. Flaps of skin dangled from an open wound that wept pus. Black hairs sprouted along his collarbone. No, not hairs. Fur.

  The chains snapped. One broke off at the manacle, the other left a length of about four feet attached to a wrist. Giuseppe rolled off the table and landed on all fours. He lifted his head and screamed again, but this time it turned into a howl. There was something wrong with his face. It was too long. And his teeth . . .

  “Grab him!” Montguillon shouted.

  The man-at-arms drew his sword, a string of oaths running off the end of his tongue, one word blending into another. He came at the escaped prisoner, even as the prior shouted not to kill him.

  Giuseppe gained his feet as the guard fell on him. His back hunched, as if the rack had broken his spine, but he ducked to the side with surprising agility. He lashed with the broken chain still manacled to one wrist. The blow caught the guard across the face and drove him backward. Giuseppe sprang forward. He grabbed the other end of the broken chain and swung it around the guard’s neck, then pulled the man to the floor. They struggled on the ground. Giuseppe seemed impossibly strong, and jerked the chain back and forth as the other man tried to get free.

  Lorenzo and Marco had their swords drawn, but Giuseppe was behind, shielded by the guard’s body. So Lorenzo lowered his shoulder and barreled into them. Giuseppe flew to one side and lost his g
rip on the guard. Too late. The other man’s head twisted at an unnatural angle as he rolled away. He didn’t move.

  Lorenzo regained his feet and snatched up his sword. He whirled on Giuseppe as the man leaped at him. So fast. He dropped to one knee and thrust up with the sword. It bit hard. Should have disabled the man. But Giuseppe came up swinging with the chain. Lorenzo ducked out of the way. His opponent turned to run.

  “Stop him!” Marco shouted.

  He grabbed for the grille to slam it down on the cell. Giuseppe flew toward him, bounding on all fours. He bashed into Marco, kept him from pulling down the grille, and then he was out of the cell, running for the ladder out of the dungeon.

  And as he ran, his body continued to change. Hair now covered him from head to toe, and his face stretched and twisted. His snout elongated. It was only half a man who scrambled up the ladder and disappeared.

  Lorenzo bent over the guard to confirm he was dead. When he straightened, shaking and stunned, the other three men stared at the ladder where Giuseppe had disappeared moments earlier. Nobody seemed anxious to follow him out.

  “So now you see,” the prior said at last. “Simon, you will take note that these two men interfered with the office of the Holy Inquisition. Lorenzo Boccaccio di Firenze is a recidivist, an unrepentant advocate of heresy and guilty of aiding a known witch. His brother, Marco Boccaccio di Firenze, is hereby condemned as his accessory.”

  “You bastard,” Lorenzo said.

  “What would you have us do?” Marco said. “You were torturing him.”

  “Extracting information from a man under the power of witchcraft. Or will you deny what you saw with your own eyes?”

  Lorenzo approached Montguillon, who had drawn up his cowl again. He knocked it back to expose the man’s neck. “Witchcraft? Like what you’re hiding? I can smell you—you stink of wolf.”

  The prior put a hand to his neck. Fear crossed his face.

  “Don’t let that pus touch you,” Lorenzo said to Simon. “Not unless you want to suffer the same sort of hideous transformation as the Father.”

  Simon licked his lips. “Is there anything to be done?”