The Wolves of Paris

by Michael Wallace

  “I don’t like him.”

  This surprised her. “I always heard you were a devout man.”

  “Yes, but I’m devout in my own way.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  “I thought you might. And do you? Dislike him, I mean?”

  She thought about the way he’d accused her of witchcraft, how he’d burned two women at the stake. How he’d ordered Lorenzo beaten. Anger bubbled to the surface and it took effort to fight it down.

  “It’s not the time to harbor grudges. We might need the prior and I know he needs us.”

  “So you trust him?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted. “I trust him to fight the wolves, but after that, I fully expect him to turn on me, no matter what he has or hasn’t promised.”

  “We shall see,” Nemours said. He raised his voice loud enough for others to hear. “Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about how to face these brutes. There’s nothing more frustrating than seeing your enemy but not knowing his strength. But you say they’re only men in wolf clothes.”

  “I’d rather face regular wolves,” she said. “Or men. Not both at once.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’ve got the strength of wolves, but the cunning of a man. And they’re evil the way only men can be.”

  “We’ll be in the city soon enough. I can draw on as many arms as I require. And it’s still the middle of the day—they won’t attack us on the open road in daylight.”

  Lorenzo drew his horse next to the provost. His brow furrowed with worry. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, my lord. I think we’re being hunted even now.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Lorenzo pulled into the lead where he could get a better view of the road and the surrounding fields. His horse was happy to push ahead. The winter air was cold, clear, and quiet, but his unease had been growing for the past fifteen minutes. He saw nothing amiss.

  So why did he feel unsettled? And what about his horse? She had stiffened beneath him while Lucrezia and Lord Nemours chatted on the road. It was the slightest tensing of her shoulder muscles, a tug at the reins to pick up the pace. She was a strong gray mare and had carried him well. Like the other mounts, the horse had begun the day at a good pace, but began to limp toward their goal as hours spent on the frozen road took their toll. And so he was surprised at her renewed energy.

  It had been a long, tedious journey. He’d spoken to his brother about trade, and for a time he drifted back to engage Montguillon to try to pry loose information about the wolves. But the prior was gray from his illness and struggling to stay in the saddle. He waved off questions. Simon claimed to know nothing. He shot looks at the prior as he said this, and Lorenzo wondered if this were true or if he were simply afraid to answer without Montguillon’s approval.

  Later, when Lorenzo tired of re-imagining the feel of Lucrezia’s body pressed against his, he thought about how to defeat the wolves. He was sure that a strong enough force could defeat them, but how to lure them into open battle? They were clever beasts; they may be bold enough to attack armed men on the road, but they would be more cautious inside the city, where they could be trapped in alleys or attacked by archers from open windows.

  “What’s wrong up there?” Nemours called as Lorenzo continued in the lead.

  He scanned the road ahead. Still nothing. Maybe he was wrong.

  Lorenzo shrugged and let his horse drift back with the others. The fear of attack faded, but didn’t disappear entirely. Gradually, the horse relaxed as well.

  Over the next hour, woodland and meadow gave way to farms, then villages. In late afternoon, they crested a hillock and caught a view of the walls and towers of Paris, still several miles distant. A haze hung over the city, the fires from twenty thousand hearths, fighting the bitter chill. The only time he remembered such cold was a winter spent in Stockholm and Danzig as a boy during a trade mission to the Hanseatic League.

  Lucrezia, riding sidesaddle, caught up to him as they approached a monastery that sat in a field to the left of the highway. Tullia ran alongside, tongue lolling. The poor dog looked exhausted. A mastiff wasn’t like a sheepdog that could follow its flocks thirty miles in a day. It was a stocky animal not built for long runs.

  “I need to stop at the abbey,” she said.

  “Why now? We’re so close.”

  “That is Saint-Denis. They took me in when my carriage couldn’t carry me through the snow. They loaned me horses and a sledge—I lost them both. And I abandoned my own team and carriage. Martin will attend me. You ride on ahead with the others.”

  Lorenzo eyed the abbey with a frown. Saint-Denis sprawled in a field to the left of the road, a quarter-mile in front of them. Small outbuildings—a water mill, housing for the lay brothers, and a blacksmith shop—clung to the exterior walls like mushrooms sprouting from a fallen tree trunk. The gates hung open, and smoke drifted skyward from chimneys within the abbey. A few sheep milled about on the muddy path that led from the highway to the gates.

  Meanwhile, the horses were breaking into a trot down the road, as if anticipating a final run to the safety of Paris. If Lucrezia stopped, the company would shortly leave her far behind.

  “Hold up,” Nemours cried at his men from the rear. “We’re still too far out and they’re exhausted. Bring it home at a walk.”

  “It will only be a few minutes,” Lucrezia told Lorenzo. “I’ll tell the abbot what happened and promise to return in a few days to settle matters. Then I’ll catch up to you on the road.”

  Before he could protest, she called to Martin and the two of them began pulling ahead of the company. Lorenzo went back for Marco. He was telling his brother Lucrezia’s plans when Nemours caught up with them.

  “What is Lady d’Lisle about?” Nemours asked, sounding irritated. “There are wolves on the road. Tell her to come back here at once. We’ll ride in together.”

  “She’s not riding with us to Paris,” Lorenzo said. “She wants to stop at Saint-Denis.” He explained what Lucrezia was planning.

  “And she insists on doing it now?” Nemours said with a grunt. “Doesn’t that woman see the danger?”

  Lucrezia and Martin were well ahead of the group now, with Tullia jogging along several paces behind.

  Nemours gave orders to follow her up to the abbey. They turned off the highway, and Lucrezia turned as Lorenzo and Marco caught up with her. Worry pinched her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Lorenzo asked.

  “It’s so quiet. Something is wrong.”

  “Were you expecting trouble? Is that why you wanted to stop?”

  She didn’t answer his question. “Where are the lay brothers? Why are those sheep milling about with nobody to tend them? The blacksmith shop is quiet—there’s no smoke coming out of the furnace chimney.”

  “But there’s plenty of smoke coming from inside the abbey,” Marco said.

  “Too much of it,” she said.

  Lorenzo saw she was right. It billowed upward in several places, more than there had been only moments earlier. The smoke carried a pungent odor as it settled in the air, like burning paper and pitch, not the cozy wood smell of a small cook fire.

  “What is going on here?” Nemours said.

  “Back to the road,” Lucrezia said. “It’s the wolves.”

  “Are you certain? Where is that prior? He would know.” Nemours looked behind him. “Father Montguillon! Come up here.”

  Montguillon and Simon had been content to linger behind most of the day, keeping to themselves and their own council. Now they were forcing their mounts into the center of the riders, even before Nemours had called for them. The prior was growling for men to move out of his way. His voice was pinched and anxious.

  “Dear Lord,” Marco said. “Look at that.”

  Behind the company, a trio of wolves stood in the road where the highway met the path to the abbey gates. Another wolf stood on a stone wall marking a crofter’s field just off the shoulder. It lifted back i
ts head and let out a long, moaning howl.

  Marco hissed. “It’s the red one.”

  Courtaud.

  The company of men and horses milled in the path with the abbey in front of them and the wolves blocking their return to the road at the rear. The trio of wolves trotted toward them, while the bigger wolf dropped its head and stared. His eyes gleamed.

  “Quickly, into the abbey,” Montguillon said. “Bar the gates.”

  “No,” Nemours said. “Back to the highway. Draw your swords,” he commanded his men. “We’ll run them down.”

  The guards obeyed as the company turned to face the threat to their rear. Lorenzo and Marco were already drawing their swords. Lucrezia reached into her robe and drew her dagger. The sidesaddle, with all its ladylike appearance, now seemed rather foolish. Her legs dangled off the left side in an inviting target. And it limited her mobility. Lorenzo cursed himself for not insisting she sit astride her mount as she’d requested.

  Then Lorenzo looked behind to see five more wolves emerging from the open gates of the abbey. Blood dripped from their muzzles. The sheep that had been milling about the fields caught one glimpse of the wolves and scattered in all directions.

  “Forward,” Nemours said. The company bunched into formation, nervous horses stepping high, tossing heads. “Slowly. You in the back, keep those devils off our tails.”

  The snow on the path between the road and the abbey had already been tramped down by feet and hooves before their approach, and now it was doubly packed down. The horses found their footing and swiftly closed the distance to the wolves.

  “Stay together!” Nemours said.

  As the riders approached, the three wolves turned and sprang from the road. Together with Courtaud, they leaped to safety over the wall. Rather than chase them into the fields, Nemours wisely ordered them forward. The instant the party was past, Courtaud and his smaller group joined the five emerging from the abbey, already breaking into long, loping strides.

  Back on the road, Nemours ordered them into a brisk trot. No panicking, only a steady ride toward the safety of the city.

  The wolves paced them for about ten minutes, then, without warning, charged. They came up snarling and howling into the middle of the horses. Lorenzo heard a shout. He turned to see the two guards at the rear struggling to get their mounts under control. One of them, a short, stocky fellow named Bruno, who rode a roan-colored gelding, found himself separated from the others. Wolves swarmed him.

  Lorenzo shouted to get Nemours’s attention, but it was already too late. A wolf leaped onto the roan horse’s back. Bruno twisted in the saddle trying to get his sword up and ram it into the animal’s gut. But the wolf grabbed his sword arm in its jaws and shoved off. Man and beast flew from the back of the horse and slammed to the ground.

  The wolves fell on him. As they howled and snarled, the man’s horse fled down the road, eyes rolling back in terror. It galloped riderless toward the city. Bruno screamed and flailed. The others could only draw up and watch.

  “Break them apart,” Nemours shouted. “Run them down.”

  Most of the company turned to obey, but the Dominicans and one of the two remaining guards kept riding toward Paris. Instead of ten riders, they were suddenly down to six and the mastiff. Martin shouted a warning.

  Half a dozen more wolves sprang over stone walls and poured onto the road. They fought their way into the larger pack, still tearing at Bruno, whose screams died. Courtaud snarled and bit at haunches to get them back into the attack, but they were too busy fighting over the body.

  “Bloody hell,” Nemours cursed. He was looking back and forth between the wolves and his deserting guard and the fleeing Dominicans and it was hard to tell what left him more agitated. “Back to the city, all of you.”

  They took advantage of the distracted wolves to put distance between themselves and the carnage. Moments later, the wolves came pouring down the road after them, the hunt renewed. The riders reached the houses and ramshackle buildings on the outskirts of Paris. Peasants stared as they approached, but when they saw the wolves, they threw down bundles of sticks, grabbed the hands of small children, and barricaded themselves in mud and thatch huts.

  Lorenzo looked back. The wolves were closing the gap.

  “Tullia!” Lucrezia screamed.

  The dog had fallen several yards behind. Most of the pack continued after the riders, but two wolves veered away to attack her. They paced Tullia on either side. One leaped for her back. The mastiff fell, and the two animals came up rolling. The wolf yelped and struggled away. Tullia emerged with blood on her muzzle.

  Lucrezia jerked back on her reins. The horse tossed its head, balking, but she got it around and charged at the two wolves.

  “Marco!” Lorenzo shouted.

  His brother turned, wide-eyed. Without another word, the two brothers veered around and galloped after her. The others pounded away toward Paris. Nemours was shouting at them to turn around and help, but only Martin followed him back. The last guard fled for his life.

  The wolves surrounded Lucrezia, blocking her from the dog. One leaped at her where her legs hung over the sidesaddle, but a deft kick struck it in the jaw and sent it sprawling. And then Lorenzo and Marco were into the fray. The pack had been so intent on their new victim that they didn’t notice the new attackers until they were upon them.

  Lorenzo leaned out of the saddle and swung his sword. It drew blood. A wolf yelped and shot away from the pounding hooves. Then Martin and Lord Nemours came storming in. Swords flashed and bit hard.

  Courtaud stood to one side, watching, not fighting. Suddenly, he raised his head and howled. At once, the attack stopped. Wolves ran or limped away down the road. One lay in the snow, bleeding heavily, trying to gain its feet. Lorenzo leaped from the saddle and thrust his sword between its ribs. It howled, flopped once, then lay still. Lorenzo looked around, gasping for air.

  He could hardly believe their fortune. There had been fifteen of the beasts, if not more, against four men, Lucrezia, and an exhausted, wounded mastiff. Watching them flee, he expected them to turn and charge in with a new attack, but the sound of a trumpet caught his ears.

  He looked toward the city as he climbed back into the saddle. The walls were no more than a quarter-mile distant now, and figures watched from behind the crenelations on the walls. One of them blew his trumpet again, a long, clear note. Lorenzo realized through the pounding of his own pulse that it had been sounding for several seconds.

  A company of riders galloped from the city walls, twenty strong. They lowered lances with steel tips that glinted in the late afternoon sunlight.

  Lord Nemours pulled up beside Lorenzo. He was panting, and his face was flushed in spite of the cold. A long tear ran down his tabard, and blood dripped from his arm, but it wasn’t his own.

  “I don’t know who sounded the alarm,” Nemours said, “but I swear before God that I will give that man a knighthood. As for those worthless guards of mine, I’ll see them both hanged, damn them.”

  “Don’t judge them too harshly,” Lucrezia said. “They couldn’t control their mounts.”

  She had dropped to the ground to cradle Tullia in her arms. The dog was exhausted, but uninjured.

  “You had no problem controlling yours. If a woman—” He stopped. “But for your sake, my lady, I will see them flogged and their pay docked five livres, which I will donate to the Hôtel Dieu in your name to care for the orphans and widows of this plague. My God, you are a brave woman. I’ve never seen the like.”

  “You are too kind.”

  Martin jumped down to help her back into the saddle.

  Nemours grinned at Lorenzo and Marco. “Please tell me that one of you hot-blooded Italians is courting this fine lady. Widow or not, she’d make a fine wife for any man.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Nemours turned to Lorenzo. “And you were right, my friend. They did attack us on the open road. Those devils fear nothing.”

  Lorenzo was still watc
hing the departing wolves, who disappeared into a copse of trees that marked a stretch of broken forest several hundred yards away.

  “They’re getting more dangerous by the day,” he said. “Will you help us destroy them?”

  “Yes!” Nemours slapped his sword in his gloved hand as the riders approached. “And when I am done slaying them for the glory of God, I shall take up the cross and lead a new crusade against the Saracens.”

  The provost hurried up to greet the company riding out from the gate. Lorenzo shared an amused look with his brother. A crusade? Never mind that nobody had waged a holy war in generations, or that the Ottomans controlled the eastern Mediterranean, Nemours seemed quite sincere.

  “All the same,” Marco said, “I’ll take his help over that bastard Montguillon’s. He rode off, the coward.”

  “We’ll need both their help,” she said. “And the monks were unarmed. They couldn’t have helped anyway.”

  “Like Nemours said, you really are too kind,” Lorenzo said.

  Marco nodded. “Maybe he could have, maybe he couldn’t have, but he didn’t bother to try.”

  Because of Tullia, exhausted and barely able to stumble forward, the brothers brought up the rear as they escorted Lucrezia the final stretch to the city walls. Wooden plague panels sat on posts on either side of the road as it reached the barbican, with its raised gate. Skulls grinned from the panels, warning of the pox that was sweeping over the city.

  “At last we enter the protective womb of Paris,” Lucrezia said dryly as they passed through the barbican and into the city. “What could possibly touch us within the safety of her walls?”

  Behind, the portcullis clanked to the ground, sealing them inside.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The group broke apart inside the city walls. Nemours stopped at the walls to brief the guards and order the sergeants to send out a large, well-armed hunting party to pursue the wolves. He also said he wanted peasants gathered from the surrounding countryside and brought within the enceinte. Everyone seemed to know that the beasts could come and go at will, but they would tear through those cottages with ease.