The Wolves of Paris

by Michael Wallace

  “You will speak properly to the lady,” Lorenzo said.

  “It’s all right,” she said softly.

  Montguillon stared back. “I do not want to ride with her.”

  Marco dropped his knife to his plate with a clatter. “If you don’t like it, ride back alone. Take your chances with the wolves.”

  “Yes, perhaps I will. It will be daylight. I will order some of these men to escort me,” he added, gesturing to the pair of guards with pikes at the door.

  “Good,” Lorenzo said.

  “We’ll be followed, Father,” she said in a gentle tone. “It would be safer to travel together.”

  “Yes? And how would you know that? Are you privy to some special knowledge, perhaps?”

  “So help me God,” Marco said, “if you do not leave off the insinuations, my brother and I will feed you to the wolves ourselves.”

  “We’ll be followed,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “As soon as we leave these walls, the wolves will be on our trail, and they’ll pursue us all the way to Paris. Together with Martin, we’ll make six. Three men-at-arms makes nine on horse. Plus my mastiff, running alongside. But if you insist on traveling alone, you and Simon make two. Perhaps a guard or two, if you can convince them. Would that really make you feel safer?”

  Montguillon stared over her shoulder for a long moment. Then, briefly, his eyes flickered to Lucrezia’s. She looked down demurely, rather than stare him down.

  “Brother Simon?” the prior said.

  Simon sat on the prior’s left. He gave a slight nod. “It might be safer to travel together, Father.”

  “Very well. But once we reach Paris, I never wish to see her again.”

  “While still keeping your part of the bargain?” Lorenzo said.

  “Yes, of course,” Montguillon snapped.

  Simon leaned over to whisper in the prior’s ear.

  “I know that,” Montguillon said. “And what would you have me do, leave Satan’s work unchallenged?”

  “Not unchallenged, no,” Simon said.

  He leaned over and whispered again. The prior listened, the frown frozen into place. When the younger man finished, Montguillon let out a single grunt.

  “What’s this about?” Lorenzo asked.

  “I shared your proposal,” Simon said. “Father Montguillon is considering it.”

  The prior picked up his fork, but only to point it across the table. “Only I don’t want her around.”

  “That’s not up for discussion,” Lorenzo said. “We can’t do it without her—she’s the one with the knowledge.”

  “She doesn’t know the half of it.”

  Lucrezia addressed the two brothers. “Could I speak with you alone for a moment?”

  They pushed away and followed her to the other side of the room, where they stood next to a suit of armor, beneath a tapestry of la chasse, with hounds pursuing a fox.

  “We can’t talk here,” she said. “Not while the others are present.”

  “What other men?” Marco asked, sounding bewildered.

  She looked pointedly to the corners of the room. Lorenzo and Marco looked around, frowning.

  “What, the servants?” Marco asked.

  Two men-at-arms stood at the reinforced oak doors. A serving girl brought in a platter of dried figs, while a young man stood attentively at the head of the table, waiting to be called on to bring more wine, carry away plates, or whatever was needed. As servants, they were practically invisible.

  “Yes, the servants. They have ears and eyes, too.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Marco said.

  “It’s because of the wolves, isn’t it?” Lorenzo said. “We don’t know who we can trust.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “After Giuseppe changed, two wolves somehow crossed the drawbridge, passed through the portcullis, and entered the castle.”

  “I see,” Marco said. “You think they had help from the inside.”

  “They must have. Nemours’s men held Giuseppe for several weeks. One of the guards must have turned—maybe Giuseppe whispered to him, poisoned his mind. The guard let the wolves in.”

  “But I thought they couldn’t change back to human form,” Lorenzo said.

  Marco snorted. “How the devil would you know that?”

  Lucrezia nudged Lorenzo’s foot with her toe. A reminder not to share her story.

  Lorenzo didn’t react to the nudge. He shrugged. “Conjecture. I’ve been thinking that if they were bit or scratched or had been exposed to—what would it be, silver?—they would be unable to change easily between man and wolf.”

  “Why silver?” Marco asked.

  “Something I heard in the city about the loup-garou,” he said quickly. “Silver prevents them from changing.”

  “It’s an interesting idea,” she said before Marco’s deepening frown turned into more questions. “What if some can change and others cannot?”

  “This is conjecture,” Marco said, “but we should send these guards away. We don’t want to talk in front of them.”

  “It isn’t only the guards,” Lorenzo said. “I don’t trust this banquet room.” Turning to Lucrezia, he added, “My father drilled peepholes and listening posts in our palazzo in Florence. It’s underhanded, but other men do the same thing.”

  “My father has done the same,” she said.

  “Then outside,” Marco said. “Or we could meet the prior in the chapel.”

  “What if we wait until tomorrow?” Lorenzo said. “We’ll share information on the road. It will give us all day to convince Montguillon.”

  The older brother shrugged. “I suppose, so long as we don’t speak candidly in front of Nemours’s guards. You can ride, my lady? It will be a long day.”

  “Yes, but get me a proper saddle.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Marco asked.

  “I’ve ridden astride a hundred times on our estates in Tuscany.”

  They looked uncomfortable. Lorenzo glanced back at the prior and the monk.

  “On your private estates,” Marco said hesitantly. “The Blackfriars will think it’s obscene.”

  Lorenzo looked uncomfortable. “Understand that we don’t feel this way.”

  “Sidesaddle, then, if you can find me a palfrey with a smooth enough gait. I’ll manage.”

  “What about Tullia?” Lorenzo asked. “Will she be all right on the road?”

  Lucrezia touched his wrist. “It is kind of you to remember her. So long as we keep a measured pace, she’ll manage. But if she falters, if she slows us down, we’ll find a place to spend the night and complete the journey the second day.”

  “If that happens, you could leave her behind with Martin and continue on to Paris,” Marco said.

  “I don’t think she’ll do that,” Lorenzo said.

  Lucrezia shook her head firmly. “No. She stays with me.”

  “Either way, we won’t leave you behind,” Marco said. “If you stop, we all stop. Let’s go back—the prior looks irritated.”

  By the time they returned to the table, Montguillon was pushing away. He’d eaten none of the meat, and very little of the vegetables. A bite or two from a thick slice of bread. The table dogs rose hopefully to their feet and came out from where they’d been lurking. As the serving girl carried the plates back to the kitchen, she dropped the scraps for them to scarf down.

  “I’m returning to my quarters,” Montguillon said. “I feel poorly.”

  “You must be exhausted,” Lucrezia said, sincerely. “It was a crisis, and you only just pulled through.”

  “It’s nothing, really,” he said, tone still peevish. “But it will be no good to have me fainting on the road tomorrow. Simon, come along.”

  She reached out a hand to slow the younger friar as he passed. He flinched away from her touch.

  “I’ll visit him later,” she said. “But if he takes another turn, send someone for me at once.”

  “Don’t bother,” Montguillon said over
his shoulder. “My door will be barred—I won’t let you in anyway.”

  “Ungrateful bastard,” Marco grumbled as the two Dominicans left the dining room.

  “And you,” she told Lorenzo. “You need rest too.”

  “I slept a little more before supper.”

  “You’re flushed.” She put a hand to his forehead. “And you’re still hot. For all I know, you might take a turn tonight as well. We can’t risk that.”

  “I’ll stay with him,” Marco said.

  “No,” she said. “Montguillon can refuse care—I can’t stop him or change his mind—but I won’t take my eye off Lorenzo. I’ll spend the night nursing his health.”

  “Alone in his chambers?” Marco said with a scowl.

  She tried to disarm him with a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll be quite safe with your brother.”

  “I know that. But the servants will talk. Malicious rumors will follow you to Paris.”

  “After the last two days, the rumors have already galloped down the road ahead of me.”

  Lucrezia looked back and forth between the two brothers. So handsome, so earnest. Marco, devout, blustering, over-protective. Lorenzo, his head full of old books and heretical thoughts. But softer. Maybe too soft. It wasn’t just age that left Marco the heir to the Boccaccio business. Whether here or back home, one needed a hard edge to prosper.

  She made her decision. More than one decision, in fact.

  “But rumors don’t matter to me, not anymore. We’re going to fight the wolves. We’re going to destroy them. And then I’m going to return with you to Italy.”

  Chapter Twenty

  This time, Lorenzo knew he was dreaming. He knew he wasn’t running on foot through the forest, with wolves hunting him. He knew that if he could only wake up, end this nightmare, he would escape. He knew the wolves wouldn’t tear out his throat if they caught him. But it felt so real. And so he fled.

  Branches lashed his face. His feet ached, both with cold and from the pounding delivered by the frozen ground. His heart hammered in his chest and sweat ran down his temples to freeze in the frigid night air. He stumbled with exhaustion, barely able to see his path by the moonlight that flickered through the bare branches and reflected off the snow.

  A howl sounded to his left. Another to his right, and a third to his rear. He risked a glance and what he saw made him weak with fear. A dozen wolves paced from behind and on either side. The biggest wolf snarled. His mouth was red, his teeth long and sharp. Yellow eyes. It was the red wolf with the tip of his tail missing.

  Courtaud.

  “Run,” the wolf said. “Give us sport.”

  Lorenzo cleared the woods into a meadow. The snow was deeper here and he plunged in to his knees. The wolves bounded after him. They let him run for several seconds before they gave chase. Moments after that, they caught him.

  Jaws clamped on his arm and dragged him from his feet. He struggled to stay upright, but another wolf slammed into his back. And then they were on him, biting and tearing.

  “No!” a voice roared. “He is mine.”

  Stunned with pain, his cloak shredded, and wounds gaping in his belly, Lorenzo rolled over to see the huge red wolf standing over him, lips pulled back and baring his teeth.

  “Please, don’t kill me.”

  “Then submit to me. Worship me. Obey me.”

  “Anything,” Lorenzo cried. “What should I do?”

  “Give us the woman.”

  ✛

  He woke with a gasp and sat up straight in the bed. Lucrezia started from her chair by the fire, where she had slumped with her head against her chest, with Tullia at her feet. She rushed over.

  “Lorenzo,” she said. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”

  He was so terrified, his heart still pounding, that he didn’t notice at first that she had answered his familiarity from the previous morning. Not Lei, but tu. Intimate.

  “Yes,” he managed. “A dream. It was only a dream.”

  And yet he could still feel teeth on his flesh, the searing pain as they tore him open. And for a moment, he swore the thick, pungent smell of wolf filled his nostrils. Then it was gone.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  He opened his mouth to answer, but Tullia growled. Moments later, he caught the sound of a wolf howl. Lucrezia pulled back the tapestry to expose shutters that covered windows without glass panes. When she heaved the shutters open a blast of cold air rushed into the room, making the fire dance and smoke.

  The wolf howled again. It wasn’t inside the castle walls, to his relief, but some distance away. Another wolf answered, then a third and fourth. Soon, their long, eerie howls filled the night air.

  Lucrezia listened, her expression unreadable. Her breath frosted the air.

  Lorenzo imagined guards on the walls, cursing at the sound, crossing themselves, grabbing their testicles in their hands in the superstitious way of peasants. And knowing that one of their number must have let the wolves into the castle the previous night. He glanced at the door, relieved to see that it was barred. His chambers were on the second floor, the window high up a stone wall, so unless these wolves could fly, they wouldn’t gain entry to this room.

  Another gust of wind. Lorenzo pulled his blankets to his neck.

  “Close the shutters, my lady.”

  She obeyed. When the tapestry fell into place, the room seemed to warm. Outside, the wolves continued their howling, wailing, moaning, yipping.

  “It will be a tired company that sets out in the morning,” she said.

  “The prior’s rooms have no windows. Maybe he’ll sleep through it.”

  She sat at the edge of his bed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was so exhausted—I’m hardly being chivalrous. If you’ll hand me my robe, I’ll take the chair by the fire, my lady.”

  Her tone was tentative, almost a question. “Perhaps you could call me Lucrezia?”

  “Yes, of course . . . Lucrezia.” He kept the blanket wrapped around his waist and put his feet on the cold stone floor. “Please hand me my robe . . . could you?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of making you sleep in the chair—you need your rest. But perhaps . . . ”

  “Yes, my . . . Lucrezia?”

  “Perhaps I could share the warmth of the bed.”

  Before he could blurt his startled answer, she blew out the candles and threw back the covers. He edged onto the cold side of the bed to give her space, and when she was covered, she fumbled with her clothing. Then she reached out to place her folded gown carefully over the headboard. In the light of the fire he caught a glimpse of her bare arms and shoulders, the graceful curve of her neck, covered by her long, raven hair. She pressed against him wearing only her undergarments. As he was wearing only his nightgown, he felt her body against him—her breasts pressing into his arm, her leg against his.

  “You’re so cold,” he said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  She started to pull away.

  Lorenzo put an arm around her and drew her in. “Come here, I’ll help you stay warm.”

  Tullia came to lie at the foot of the bed, but she didn’t seem jealous to see her mistress in Lorenzo’s bed.

  “Please don’t think me a fallen woman,” Lucrezia said. “I know the Boccaccio are devout and I don’t want to offend.”

  “I am not that devout.”

  “It’s just that I’m so cold, and lonely. And afraid. I am not trying to seduce you.”

  “No, of course not,” he said, with a twinge of disappointment. “And I shall behave honorably, my . . . Lucrezia.”

  My Lucrezia? Could he stop saying that?

  “I know you will.”

  The wolves continued to howl. She shivered and he drew her in. She put one hand on his chest and stroked his cheek with the other.

  “You are a kind and gentle man, Lorenzo.”

  “And you are a lovely woman. A beautiful woman.”

  “Oh, really.” It wasn’t exactly a question.r />
  “The beauty of a Venus.”

  A sound came out of her mouth that sounded like a disappointed sigh. She drew away—only a fraction of an inch, but far enough. Why, he didn’t understand. Was she thinking about his brother? Thinking, yes, Lorenzo is a good man, but Marco is so much more. If only I were in his arms.

  To distract himself from Lucrezia’s soft, luscious body, so close and yet so unobtainable, as well as to turn both of their attentions from the awful howling outside the walls, he asked her if she’d like to hear some stories from Boccaccio’s Decameron that he’d committed to memory. She said at once that she would.

  She listened in silence. About twenty minutes later, he was reciting the story of Isabella burying the head of her murdered lover when he noticed her breathing had become soft and regular. He fell silent.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, her voice clear.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “No, I was relaxed, but still listening.”

  “Do you like the Decameron?”

  “I adore it. I commissioned a copy for my library, but it is different hearing it aloud. Is Giovanni Boccaccio a relation?”

  “According to family legend, he was my great-grandfather’s cousin.”

  “You have a strong voice.”

  “Thank you,” he said, pleased. “Perhaps some day . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “You could return the favor,” he continued. “And read to me from your copy of de Rerum Natura.”

  “Now why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

  While he was puzzling over exactly what this meant, she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Lucrezia joined the others at dawn as they pounded across the drawbridge and onto the open road. Lord Nemours’s guards surrounded her in a protective shell, faces stern and serious, but she wanted to be riding up front with Lorenzo and Marco, or with Martin. Her servant rode a couple of lengths back from the two brothers with Tullia running alongside him. At least Lucrezia wasn’t at the rear with the dour Blackfriars.