Sons of the Wolf

by Barbara Michaels

  He was already in the carriage, waiting; at first glance he looked like any other gentleman going for a drive as he sat in the open posting chariot with a rag covering his knees and his gloved hands firm on the reins. The seat beside him was plainly meant for me, and it was not until I had climbed into it that I realized the truth. Mine was the only real seat in the chariot. Mr. Wolfson was still in his invalid's chair, which stood beside me on the same level.

  He saw me staring and condescended to explain. (With him, it is condescension.)

  "The wheels are locked into position by a simple mechanical device." He demonstrated with his whip. "I had this carriage specially designed. I dislike being touched by servants."

  "The chair itself is lifted onto the carriage?"

  "No." Again the whip gestured, this time to one of the liveried grooms. The man reached down to the side of the carriage, where the steps would normally be, and unfolded a strange device. When fully extended it proved to be a ramp, hinged to allow being folded, with sliding bolts that held it rigid when in position.

  "How ingenious!" I exclaimed. It was also-I thought this, but did not say it-rather admirable. I respect a spirit of independence, and he has contrived matters so as not to rely on other people any more than he must. While I was meditating thus, the groom folded the ramp back into position, Mr. Wolfson lifted the reins, and we were on our way.

  He said coolly, "One is forced to be ingenious when one's physical resources fail. I am less handicapped than you might suppose, Cousin."

  "I never think of you as handicapped," I said truthfully.

  "Then you are unusually perceptive. But then I already knew that."

  The statement did not seem to demand a reply so I made none. Instead I looked out at the countryside. It was a lovely day, with white clouds moving leisurely across the sky like scrubbed sheep grazing on a blue meadow. A mist of green surrounded the boughs of the trees. Crocuses and daffodils made streaks of bright color, primrose and purple, along the carriage drive. The lodge gates were open and the gateman stood at attention beside them. Mr. Wolfson acknowledged his timid salute with a wave of the whip. Then we were through the gates and moving at a rapid pace down the main road across the fields.

  "Spring is a great event here, after the bitter winter," said Mr. Wolfson cheerfully. "It seemed only fitting that we make an occasion of it."

  "Where are we going?" I asked, settling back with a little sigh of pleasure.

  "I have business in Middleham. The village itself is ugly, but you like ruins, and there is a castle which may interest you."

  "It's wonderful just to be out. I do prefer a comfortable carriage to horseback. Oh-"

  "What is it?"

  "Your guards." I glanced down nervously at my feet. "Don't tell me you have forgotten them."

  He gave me a sidelong look from under his thick lashes.

  "I didn't want to distress you," he said, sounding like a worried schoolboy. The change from his usual poised manner was so disarming that I laughed.

  "Don't hold my foolishness that first evening against me. I've scarcely seen the dogs since then. It would be ridiculous to be afraid of them when they are obviously so obedient."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Sure!"

  "Then-" This time the whip gestured behind us. I had thought that the back seat of the carriage was filled with articles of some sort, covered with a carriage robe. Now I realized that the shapes beneath the robe were not inanimate. I managed not to gasp or flinch; the immobility of the beasts was a great part of the terror they held for me. "Very good," I said, turning around again. Mr. Wolf-son's eyes flashed approval and-I think-something warmer. "Very good indeed. You have courage, Harriet." "Not in this; Ada is the heroine with animals." "Ada's greatest charm-for a man-is that she completely lacks imagination, which is the mother of fear. To conquer a felt terror is the truer courage."

  I changed the subject; I didn't want to talk about my courage, which is strictly limited, or about the dogs. There was much to talk about, for the scenery was new to me and full of interest. Some fields were covered with a carpet of light green crops, but most of the area seemed devoted to pasture, and it was occupied by the most charming sheep-fleecy, gray-white creatures with black faces. The little lambs looked like children masked for a party.

  After a time we topped a low rise and I exclaimed aloud. Gone was the rolling pastureland with its cold but pastoral beauty. Before us, reaching to the near horizon, was a great stretch of empty country, covered with a flat wash or rusty brown vegetation. After the homely attraction of the other countryside, this was startling in its barrenness. I knew what it must be, but none of my reading had prepared me for the reality-the emptiness, the deadly color, like the stained floor of an ancient battleground.

  "Howland Moor," said Mr. Wolfson. "Try not to lose yourself there, will you, Harriet? Especially not at night."

  "I wouldn't willingly go near the place. How horrid it is!"

  "When the new bracken and wild flowers are full-grown, it has a kind of austere beauty. But there are dangerous patches of bog, and it is easy to get lost and wander in circles once you are out of sight of the road. There is not a hut or a house for twenty miles."

  I pulled the robe up around my shoulders.

  "How far are we from the village?"

  "Not far now."

  The interval passed quickly; he talks so interestingly that I was surprised when the gray stone houses of the village came into sight. Mr. Wolfson drove along the short main street into a small and barren square. He stopped the horses before an inn.

  The proprietor was on the threshold before the wheels stopped rolling. He had not even waited to put on a coat, and he stood bouncing up and down like an agitated ball, which he resembled in shape, rubbing his hands together in an effort to keep warm. Two loutish-looking men at once appeared and unfolded the ramp, and I watched with interest as Mr. Wolfson pulled a lever, releasing the wheels of the chair, and propelled himself down the ramp onto the ground. Although the slope was sharp he had the chair under control the whole time, with no undignified rush or bump at the end; even under his coat I could see the great muscles of his back and shoulders stiffen with the effort. Luckily the inn parlor was on ground level with no stairs-I wonder if that is why he goes there?

  I was so fascinated by this performance that I had not looked about me. As I turned to go in, however, my attention was caught by the massive walls of a structure which loomed over the humble houses to the right of the square. Crenellated and towered, they announced their identity at once-the dwelling of some prince of the Middle Ages, now abandoned to birds and creepers but still retaining its air of frowning grandeur.

  "In, in," said Mr. Wolfson, gesticulating. "It is too cold to linger out here, spring or no spring. I will tell you about Middleham Castle while we dine-if Henry can produce any food fit to eat."

  Henry, the host, burst into speech whose rural accent was intensified by his evident nervousness and anxiety to please. He led us at once to a private room-a pleasant, if rustic, chamber with blackened beams across the ceiling and a rough stone fireplace filling one entire wall. The crackling flames made me realize that I was indeed chilled, and I took a seat on one of the rude benches that flanked the fireplace. Mr. Wolfson drew up his chair before the hearth.

  I stripped off my gloves and held my hands before the fire; but after a few moments the greater attraction drew me away from the hearth to the window. Through its leaded panes I could see the distorted but overpowering outline of the castle walls.

  "We will dine first," Mr. Wolfson insisted, "while I lecture you about the castle. Then, while I transact my business, Dodds, one of my more trustworthy tenants, will go with you and let you prowl the ruins. I'll warrant that even your enthusiasm will not keep you there long; the wind on that height is bitter. We must start back by three; an open carriage is no place in which to spend the twilight hours."

  "I know what the castle is," I said, returning to my p
lace. "I had forgotten it was here, that is all. I read about it in the guide to Yorkshire."

  "Ah, I see! What a scholarly young woman you are! As soon as you learned you were to come into Yorkshire, you began studying its antiquities."

  I sensed at once that I had blundered, and the mocking note in his voice-for I could not meet his eyes-assured me that he had caught it. The man is a wizard; he can read my thoughts as clearly as if my skull were made of glass. He knew I had read the guide in search of information, not about the beauties of Yorkshire, but about him. Probably he also knew what that impertinent book had to say about him.

  Fortunately we were interrupted just then by the host, who burst into the room and proceeded to serve our dinner. Mr. Wolfson commands excellent service; within minutes a table was drawn up at his side, laid with silver and linen, and several smoking platters were placed upon it. The piece de resistance was mutton, and the meal was adequately cooked, if not up to Mrs. Bennett's standards.

  We were served by mine host himself, with the assistance of a girl who might have been his daughter. These country people are as timid as hares; the child hovered just outside the doorway, handing in dishes but never venturing into the room. The host, for all his cheery rubicund face, said not a word the whole time, except to ask in muffled accents if the food was satisfactory.

  Finally Mr. Wolfson dismissed him, rather curtly-his nervousness would make anyone impatient-and said we would wait on ourselves, which we did. Not until the meal was almost over did Mr. Wolfson revert to the subject of the castle.

  "Come, Harriet, you shall lecture me instead. Your study of the matter is much more recent than mine."

  "It is called Middleham Castle," I began bravely-and came to a dead halt. Staring down at my plate, I tried furiously to think. Surely I could remember something else from that book! A soft sound made me lift my eyes to Mr. Wolfson's face. He was laughing, softly but uncontrollably, and after a moment I joined him.

  "Very well, Cousin, I give in," I said, wiping my eyes. "You know why I was reading that book. I don't remember a word of it, except what it said about you."

  Our burst of hilarity had brought the host; the sight of his red face and popping eyes peering in the door set me off again, and it was some time before I could calm myself enough to beg, with mock humility, for the promised lecture.

  "You mustn't expect too much," Mr. Wolfson began. "The place is a shell; it was badly damaged during the Civil Wars. Before that it was the property of several interesting personalities. One of them was your own ancestor-Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick.'-'

  "Warwick the Kingmaker?"

  "No less. You know your grandmother always claimed descent from those very Nevilles."

  "Yes. But I was not aware that you knew."

  "Your grandmother was the one who kept up the feud, not our branch of the family." There was a touch of annoyance in his voice. "I know all about her-and you; it was my responsibility to watch out for her, though she never realized it."

  "Please go on," I said meekly.

  "Yes . . . Warwick the Kingmaker. He is, to my mind, one of the greatest names in our history. Only imagine it, Harriet-for a few years he did make and break kings, two of them. If he had not been killed at Barnet-"

  "In battle with King Edward, to whom he had sworn his oath of loyalty before God."

  "Those were rough and barbarous times. An oath meant less than it does today."

  "Loyalty is a pure virtue, not a local custom. Oh, I can see why a man might admire our revered ancestor, but to me there is something horrifying in such arrogance and pride. He made a bloody battlefield of England-not because he felt he was right, but just because he wanted power."

  "I forget you are a woman, however intelligent," Mr. Wolfson said coldly. "You will never understand ambition. I suppose the second owner of the castle will be no more to your delicate tastes. He was Richard of Gloucester, later Richard the Third."

  "Crouchback? Hardly! I remember weeping for the poor little princes in the tower when our governess told us about their murder by their uncle."

  "You have heard only the standard pap taught by semi-literate females," said Mr. Wolfson irritably. "Richard was not a hunchback; the contemporary portraits and descriptions show him without a trace of deformity. Nor is there any proof that he murdered his nephews or anyone else. These were slanders spread by Henry Tudor, later Henry the Seventh, after he defeated Richard at Bosworth. But I suppose you won't take my word for that, either."

  "I will take your word on any fact. It is only in interpreting motives that we differ."

  "Read Buck's defense of Richard-I have it in my library-and then we will have a good satisfying argument. And take a word of advice-don't call Richard of Gloucester 'Crouchback' here in Middleham."

  "Why not, for goodness' sake?"

  "He was governor of the North, with his capital in York, for years. After Bosworth, do you know what they wrote in the official archives here? After the battle, understand, when Henry Tudor was in control. 'This day was our good King Richard piteously slain and murdered, to the great heaviness of this city.' "

  The words lingered in air, echoing like some ancient dirge. Mr. Wolfson has, as I have mentioned, a beautiful speaking voice.

  "I never knew that. But, heavens, it has been four hundred years since Bosworth Field. Do you mean to say that Yorkshiremen, like elephants, never forget?"

  "Precisely. In fact," he added, with a curl of his lip, "if you mention your Neville ancestry, you will have them fawning at your feet. The Nevilles too were lords of the North."

  Lords of the North. What a ring the phrase has-like bronze trumpeting. It kept sounding in my inner ear as I stood on the dry slopes of the old moat and looked up at the overhanging gray bulk of the ragged battlements. I could almost feel a call of the blood, as if I had stood here once before-seeing not abused and battered stones but the bustling life of a long-vanished age.

  The wind soon blew that fancy away. It tossed my skirts about, tugged at my cloak and poked inquisitive tendrils under my bonnet. With the aid of my guide, a silent weatherbeaten man, I scrambled across the ditch and passed under the frowning portal.

  Dodds is as taciturn as all the other true Yorkshiremen I have met. I was grateful for his silence, since it gave me a chance to meditate in peace. Inside the walls the wind was not so strong. I visited the remains of what had been the chapel and stood in the vast but empty enclosure of the keep. The floors had fallen long since, and dried weeds and mud floored the lower chambers.

  The place was not ghostly, not in daylight, but as I prowled, dragging my skirts through damp patches and catching them on ragged projections of stone, a feeling of depression crept over me. Ada would say it is a dismal place. Physically, I suppose any ruin must be dismal, but this had an atmosphere of tragedy that had never quite passed away. One could call it an unlucky site; its most famous owners had met violent death and the destruction of their hopes.

  At last the brooding silence grew too much for me. I turned to my silent guide and tried to make conversation. But the weather, the castle, and the beauties of Yorkshire all failed; I drew no more than an "Ah" or "Aye" out of the man. His lack of response was challenging. I decided to see if Mr. Wolfson was right about the long memories of Yorkshiremen.

  " 'Neville,' " he repeated, and a spark of life animated his rock-hewn face. "Ah. 'Twas tha grandmother that lived here in ma father's time."

  That is a rough indication of his speech; at the time I found it hard to follow.

  "Yes," I said, after I had puzzled out his meaning. "My grandmother's mother was a Neville. She herself was born a Wolfson. Her father married twice, and Mr. Wolfson of Abbey Manor is the descendant of the second wife."

  I feared this might be too complicated for the man to follow, but Yorkshiremen, as I discovered, are fascinated by family history. He nodded.

  "That was how it come abaht. How long will tha be visiting, miss, at the Abbey?"

  "Until I find a
home of my own. Mr. Wolfson is my guardian and the guardian of my cousin."

  "Gardeen . . . Tha's living at the Abbey?"

  "Why, yes."

  An extraordinary spasm crossed his face. If it had been summer, I would have thought some insect had stung him. Then his harsh features subsided into their customary blankness.

  "We'd best be going back."

  Without waiting for a response he stumped heavily back toward the gateway. I followed, in a state of mingled amusement and annoyance.

  He waited for me just inside the gate. I hesitated, expecting him to assist me over the fallen stones that littered the portal, and once again I saw the struggle of some emotion on features which were unaccustomed to demonstrate feeling. After a few heavy breaths, he spoke.