The Wolf King (9 page)

“Did you think you were alone there?” she asked. “The worst part of the whole thing for me was knowing that in dying I would leave you, perhaps forever. I’m sure the dead don’t perish, but I’m not sure of anything else about the worlds beyond death. I have reason to believe death is a far more complex journey than any of the living understand, and who knows if we reach the places where our loved ones dwell or simply must wander on throughout eternity? Happiness in this life takes a lot of luck. Happiness in the next may also. I do know one thing—I don’t want to talk about it any longer.” She rose and walked to the curtain that separated their room from the rest of the tent.

Maeniel had equipped himself with a pavilion at least as large as any owned by the nobles. The front room held a dining and reception room. The entire household was gathered at a long table, all eating and drinking. Lacking anything better to do when they became wolves, they went hunting and had bagged two deer and numerous small game. They were feasting, at present, though the feast was winding down.

“Hungry?” Maeniel asked his bride.

“No, worried,” she said. “Antonius said you left the royal dwelling at high speed.”

“Antonius removed his own chains and made mine look as if they’d been forced,” Maeniel said. “Trust Antonius to cover all our asses.”

“I’d rather not,” Regeane said. “If you perform any miracles in front of Charles, I hope you have a good, solid explanation for them. Do you think anybody noticed anything?”

“No, I don’t, and if they did, they don’t believe their eyes anyway. Some seventeen tents burned. The entire camp was up in arms, thinking Desiderius somehow sneaked over the mountains and attacked the army by night. Charles almost had a rout on his hands before he ever managed to fight a battle. It took hours for him and his nobles to get them all calmed down. There were numerous minor injuries, burns, scalds; some people managed to stab themselves with their own weapons or almost suffocate themselves dragging their possessions out of the burning tents. So no, I don’t think anyone noticed a few dogs running around in all the confusion.”

“Otho?” she asked.

“He’s badly hurt but Matrona thinks he will live, and she’s not only usually right, she’s always right. At least about that. He’s in great bodily pain and also in great agony of mind because he believes he betrayed me and the king by listening to whatever that was—the creature who accused me of crimes.”

“You did kill Gundabald,” she said softly.

“Please! Are you sorry?”

She let the curtain drop closed. “No, no. Lucilla and Antonius were right. It had to be done. How about Hugo?”

“We never found out where he went. All the money Gundabald had was gone. Hadrian was convinced he fled, taking only what he could carry. We looked into the matter before you and I left Rome.”

“You didn’t tell me,” she said.

“You’d been through a dreadful ordeal. I didn’t want to worry you, but as far as I know, Hugo is running yet.”

Regeane nodded, but she still looked troubled.

“Tomorrow Otho is going to talk to the king,” Maeniel continued. “Charles saw him, and it was obvious he’d been brutally assaulted. Otho said enough to Charles to clear my name completely.”

“Where is he?” she asked.

“In the next room with Matrona and… Gilas. They’re looking after him.”

“She’s a sweet child.”

“She’s a whore,” Maeniel said.

“Who are you to be judgmental?” Regeane asked.

He nodded. “Your point is well taken, but I wouldn’t call her a sweet child. And for that matter, I’ve often wondered about your affection for Silvie. Setting her up with her own business, a standup wine bar in Rome, was a little ridiculous.

She did her very best to get you burned at the stake. Why not let her go on selling what she’s been selling all her life?“

“Silvie sells her body,” Regeane said quietly, “because it’s the only thing she has to sell. All I did was give her a place of refuge where she can make a little money, be comfortable, and sleep alone if she wants to. Gundabald used to beat her. He used to beat me, too.”

“Yes,” Maeniel said quietly. “I know.”

“No,” Regeane said. “I’m not in the least sorry you killed him. I’m just glad I didn’t have to do it myself. What I’m worried about is… well, you said he and Hugo disappeared?”

“Yes, they did. And so…”

“Who ate him?” she asked.

He frowned. “Probably… probably… Certainly not Matrona. She’s fastidious; even Silvia is too picky. Probably Gavin. He’ll eat anything.”

“You mean Gavin is Gundabald’s tomb?”

“Yes, I think so. I never broached the matter to him, but yes, presumably he is. Does that make you unhappy?”

“No. It’s just so staggeringly appropriate, that’s all. So completely and devastatingly appropriate that Gundabald should end as dinner for Gavin, that’s all.”

In the next room, Otho woke and asked for water. Matrona, who was napping in a chair by the bed, fetched it for him. He was pale and, while heavy, no one would call him fat any longer. He was wearing a clean dalmatic, one of Maeniel’s, his own having been lost in the fire.

“Are you in pain?” Matrona asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m wondering what to tell the king tomorrow.”

Matrona did not suggest he tell the truth. “Do you love the king?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then find a way to explain your actions to him in a plausible manner—one that he will believe—while clearing the lord Maeniel and lady Regeane of all wrongdoing. My lord is loyal to Charles and can be of great help to him in his present endeavor, but only if he is free to do so.”

“Yes,” Otho answered. “Will I recover?”

“Yes,” Matrona said. “If you do as I tell you. Possibly even if you don’t, but it would be much better for your health if you did, in the sense that I am an accomplished healer and you would not want to lose my services prematurely.”

“Oh, no. Definitely not. I fully understand your concerns and share them. Oh, yes, dear lady, you will never find me ungrateful for your services. You and your mistress saved my life and at no little cost to yourselves. I saw the fight, at least some of it. Of course, my mind and senses were somewhat disordered, so I can’t be sure about everything I saw but, trust me, I am not only willing but eager to be of service to your lord and lady. And I am more than willing to believe you can be of great assistance to the king.”

“Just so,” Matrona said. “So pull yourself together and get your story ready for when the king arrives in the morning.”

Out in the common room, Antonius, Barbara, and the Saxon were playing chess, or rather, Antonius and Barbara were playing and the Saxon was watching.

“Mate in three moves,” Barbara told Antonius.

He studied her position for two minutes, then picked up the board and turned it over.

Barbara began laughing.

“This makes the third game,” the Saxon said. “Why don’t you try something else? Knucklebones, dice… something she doesn’t know as much about. Here, have some beer.”

Antonius walked over to a side table that held wine, fruit, and cheese. “No! Lord deliver me from that German pig piss. And as for knowing the game, I… I taught her.”

Barbara laughed even louder and elbowed the Saxon in the ribs. “Sore loser. You can give me some beer. I won’t complain.”

The Saxon filled a cup and pushed it over to her. Antonius poured a cup of wine for himself, then returned and began to pick up the ivory chess pieces and replace them in their box.

Satisfied she would hear Otho if he called her, Matrona strolled in and joined the players. “Where are they?” she asked.

“All in there.” The Saxon inclined his head to indicate Maeniel and Regeane’s room.

Matrona took a cup of wine also. Then she walked over and pushed aside the curtain and peered in. “Oh, my heavens,” she said. “And here, of all places.”

“What are they doing?” Barbara asked. “We didn’t look. We wanted to, but knowing too much about some things that go on…” Her voice trailed off. She took another sip of the Saxon’s beer, a dark brew, malty and rich. “I like this,” she said to the Saxon.

He nodded, grunted. “It makes you piss a lot. More than wine. It’s healthier.” He looked virtuous. “Flushes your drains.”

“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard it put that way,” Barbara said.

“What are they doing?” Antonius asked Matrona.

“Just sleeping together,” she answered.

Antonius looked aghast.

“Sleeping. Just sleeping,” Matrona repeated. “If you like, go look.”

“No. I’m tired. It must be near morning. I think I’ll turn in. There are many things I don’t know and a still greater number of things I don’t want to know and this is one of them.” As a highranking court official, he had his own tent on a wagon.

The Saxon rose, wiped his mouth, went and pushed the curtain aside. The room was full of wolves. They were piled up on the bed, on the floor, and over the Persian carpets that covered the floor. As leader, the gray wolf was nearest to a brazier filled with coals. The silver wolf was nestled in the curve of his body, her muzzle resting on his neck. Gavin was pressed against his back. As the Saxon watched, he whined deep in his dreams, his paws twitching. The Saxon was able to recognize most of them even this way: Joseph; Gordo, a stray from the Spanish mountains; Silvia, fat as a woman and massive as a wolf. All sleeping deeply together as a pack. He let the curtain drop closed.

“Together as a pack,” he said, repeating his thought.

“Yes,” Matrona said. “They must remember that from time to time.”

Antonius and Barbara were gone. All the ladies had their own wagons.

“We honor them,” the Saxon said. “The wolf is a trustworthy friend, a bad enemy, faithful to his kind. Gentle with his woman, devoted father to his children, chaste, and attentive in his duties to his pack. What man could ask to be more virtuous?

“So it is said. So I believe. The gods placed the wolf here for our instruction, that we would know how to behave. Then they gave us a talisman, a mark of our covenant with them, that they care for us, as we care for them.”

Matrona went to the table and blew out the lamp.

“Then our way of life troubles you not at all?”

“No,” he answered. “I feel as if, after a long journey, I have come home.”

Then he got his bearskin, rolled up in it, and went to sleep on the floor.

Silvie had been up only a few hours. She peered through the shutters that sealed her wineshop, wondering if it was worthwhile to open so early. Most of her clientele didn’t begin to show up until after dark, and most of them were furtive even then, preferring shadows and dimly lighted eating and drinking places.

Silvie catered to them, keeping the lights low, the wine measures honest, and the food she served cheap, plentiful, and always fresh. To everyone’s absolute and utter shock, she was a very successful businesswoman. Though tavern keepers even in the most rundown sections of the eternal city wouldn’t have welcomed her customers, she accepted them for what they were and she prospered.

None were even remotely honest, so she only took cash. Most were thieves, with a sprinkling of assassins, bravos who fought for pay covertly, and a more open group of killer mercenaries who hired out to the quarreling nobles and any other splinter group in all of sundered Italy. They welcomed a quiet place to eat, drink, and transact business before beginning their nightly rounds. Silvie provided this.

And, in return, her grateful if violent clients kept the peace in her wineshop. Although there were quite a few killings in the immediate area around the shop, none could be traced to its now very respectable proprietress.

It was no more than the seventh hour, late afternoon. The only creature that could be seen was her neighbor’s calico cat, and all the cat was doing was sleeping in the sun, its white belly up, paws in the air, the picture of complete and utter relaxation.

Silvie yawned and thought about going back to bed. She might still be able to catch a short nap before nightfall. She was turning away when a man appeared and rapped on the shutters softly, so softly. The cat on the doorstep across the street didn’t even stir.

She thought about going upstairs and returning to bed and ignoring him, but she was pretty sure he was one of her regulars. Few others went hooded and cloaked on warm afternoons. So she pulled the bolt and folded one of the shutters back.

The man slipped in.

Silvie went behind the counter. “I don’t have any food cooked yet, but—”

Then she got a clear look at his face.

Hugo!

The slap knocked her down. He dropped to one knee and pressed a knife to her throat. “Where is your money? I know you own this place and it’s prosperous. Now, where’s the money?”

Silvie tried to pull away from him using her elbows. She was flat on her back on the floor, but Hugo grabbed her hair with one hand and pressed the knife closer to her carotid artery.

She hadn’t been afraid of Hugo before; he had been utterly dominated by his father, Gundabald. But she was afraid of this Hugo. He was thinner, looked much older, and was already beginning to lose his teeth, but he had a savage, feral cast to his features that he hadn’t had when he was a younger man. He looked as if he’d had to struggle to survive, and it hadn’t improved either his judgment or his temper.

“Silvie.” The knife tip drew blood.

“Yes, yes, Hugo,” she whispered. “Money. It’s upstairs in the bedroom. Let me up, just let me up. I’ll go get it.”

Another man entered the shop, followed by a third. They looked, if possible, older and more battered than Hugo. One’s ears were cropped and the third lacked a hand.

“Wedo, go get it,” Hugo ordered the crop-eared one.

Wedo hurried past them to climb the stairs at the back of the shop. The third man watched the street anxiously.

Silvie used the momentary distraction to get to her feet and try to put as much distance between herself and Hugo as she could.

“Go ahead. Go ahead,” the one-handed man urged Hugo. “She told you where it is. Finish it, you fool. Finish it.”

Hugo bared his teeth and lunged at Silvie. He stepped on the cat.

The cat wasn’t hurt—this was ascertained upon later investigation—but the resulting ghastly screech probably awakened everyone on the entire block from their siestas, and Silvie went over the bar. She wasn’t sure afterward if she high jumped, broad jumped, or just took wing and flew, but in one second she was over the bar and running down the street, letting fly with long, loud, wailing screams sufficient to end the siesta of anyone who managed to sleep through the cat’s cry of anguish.

A half hour later, she was sitting in Lucilla’s peristyle garden with Lucilla’s maids applying restoratives while the redoubtable Lucilla tried to get a coherent story out of her.

“You’re sure it was him?”

Silvie stopped her coughing and sobbing long enough to say, in high indignation, “Of course I’m sure it was him. He was going to killlll meeeee.”

“You’re beginning to make me wish he’d succeeded,” Lucilla snapped. “Get some control of yourself, woman, and answer my questions properly.”

Dulcinia, the singer, was with Lucilla, as she often was these days. Silvie had first run to Dulcinia, in terror that Lucilia might kill her. Hugo was, at best, a hunted man. Lucilla, the pope, and even just possibly the Lombard duke Desiderius would like to have a chat with him. The sort of chat one has in a room where racks, branding irons, and thumbscrews are the most prominent furnishings. Lucilla might believe—perish the thought—that Silvie gave him money of her own accord, or cherished some secret tenderness for him in her heart.

Dulcinia, seeing Silvie’s emotional condition, understood this was manifestly not the case and conducted her at once to Lucilla. She promised to intercede with Lucilla if the lady became testy.

“Please, Silvie,” Dulcinia pleaded. “Gain some control over yourself and try to tell our illustrious patroness what happened.”

Dulcinia wrung out a cloth in a basin of water and pressed it with her long-fingered hands to Silvie’s forehead and eyes, then handed her a clean handkerchief. “Now blow your nose, girl, and try to make some sense.”

Silvie blew, then took a deep breath. In the darkness, where she didn’t have to look at Lucilla’s disapproving face, she felt better.

“There now,” Dulcinia cooed. “That’s a good girl.”

“I really don’t know anything except that it was Hugo,” Silvie said. “He tapped on my shutters. He was cloaked and hooded, so I couldn’t tell who it was, so I thought… I thought—”

“We’re not interested in what you thought,” Lucilla said in a terrible voice.

Silvie burst into tears again.

Dulcinia ran out of patience. “Now, stop. Both of you. Silvie, stop yowling like an alley cat in heat, and you, Lucilla, stop frightening her.

“She thought it was one of her regular patrons. We all know what kind of people frequent Silvie’s establishment.”

Silvie gulped. “Yes, that’s what I thought. But it wasn’t. It was Hugo. I was on the floor and Hugo had a knife to my throat, and he said he wanted money. I told him where to find it.”

“There were others with him?” Lucilla asked.

“Yes, two. Outlaws.”

“Outlaws?” Lucilla asked.

“One had cropped ears; the other had only one hand. Hugo called the crop-eared one Wedo. He didn’t say a name for the other, the one-hand man. Anyway—” Silvie’s eyes were wide with terror. “That one told Hugo to finish it! He came after me and he stepped on the cat—”

“Who came after you? And what has the cat to do with anything?” Lucilla asked.

“Hugo came after me, and he stepped on the cat. The cat is a yellow, black, and white one. She belongs to my neighbor across the street and sometimes comes into my shop. To get scraps. I feed her because she catches mice for everyone, not only her owner, and besides—”

“I’m getting to know this cat entirely too well,” Lucilla interrupted. “Now, Silvie, take a deep breath and tell me what Hugo did after he stepped on the cat.”

“I don’t know, because when the cat screamed, everyone jumped, and I ran and I ran and I ran… until I got to Dulcinia’s villa. And…” Silvie began sobbing again.

“I don’t think there’s a bit of doubt. It’s Hugo,” Dulcinia said.

Lucilla rose and went to call her guards.

“Don’t worry,” Dulcinia told Silvie. “You have friends now, powerful friends. We will protect you. I’ll send one of my men to the shop with you tonight, and then we can meet again in the morning and decide what to do. Now, calm yourself and go lie down. Lucilla’s physician will see you.”

“I don’t need any physician. There’s nothing wrong with me,” Silvie added.

“Yes, you do, my dear. You may not have noticed it yet, but you have a very ugly black eye. Now, go with the servants and do as they tell you,” Dulcinia said as Lucilla’s maids shepherded Silvie away.

Dulcinia spent a quiet time alone until Lucilla returned. She wasn’t lonely, however. Music played at all times inside Dulcinia’s mind. She was famous for her singing and sometimes composed her own melodies for poems she set to music. Now she tried to find a theme to express the beauty of Lucilla’s gardens at dusk. The beauty of the fountains’ endless chime, the subtle aromas of the herbs and flowers growing along the paths and borders. A rose was blooming nearby, mixing its fragrance with white thyme and sage bearing soft blue flowers. Something—jasmine, perhaps— brushed her from time to time with its ravishing scent.

A wormwood with silvery foliage and downy yellow flowers glowed pale in the first moonlight. Lucilla returned and sat down beside Dulcinia.

“Thank you for bringing her here. This really is an important piece of information. I’m sorry I was so impatient with Silvie, but I find her histrionics maddening.”

“Yes, but you are irritable today. I think if I had the same experience Silvie had, I’d be hysterical, too.”

“Nonsense,” Lucilla said. “Never in all your life, not even as a child, did you behave as badly as Silvie at her best. When Regeane asked me to supervise that one’s ‘business venture,’ I was wild. But of course I didn’t show that to Regeane. I agreed. Regeane had done too much for me, for Hadrian, for everyone, for me to deny her that rather modest request. When I think of what that girl went through at the hands of her repulsive relatives, of the Lombard party, of all the squabbling factions here in Rome, it chills my blood. Tied to a stake, watching her champion fight for her life. Do you know they actually—”

“Lit the fire,” Dulcinia finished. “Yes, I was there. So was everyone else in Rome above the age of two and below ninety. And now one of those selfsame relatives is back. Ready to cause the child more trouble.”

“Not if I get my hands on him,” Lucilla said. “I alerted Hadrian, the papal guard, and sent my own people out to scour the city, but I don’t think we’ll find Hugo. Even that nasty little son of a bitch isn’t that stupid.

“Moreover, someone is with Silvie, and they will watch her shop day and night. I detest Silvie sometimes, certainly. I haven’t forgiven her for speaking out against Regeane, when the girl was only trying to save Silvie’s louse-ridden hide. Regeane forgave her and then even managed to put Silvie under my protection. And anyone under my protection is to be kept safe at all costs. My reputation demands it. What I’m doing now is trying to think of some way to discredit Hugo to Desiderius.

“Because depend on it, my love, it is to the Lombard duke that Hugo is going. No one wants to harbor the little rat any more than they want a large collection of leeches, bedbugs, or any other sort of vermin.”

“You’re sure?” Dulcinia asked.

“Certain. Hugo is probably destitute. They fooled us royally when they forsook Regeane and transferred their loyalties to the Lombard party here in Rome.

“Maeniel is a good-natured man and would probably have paid them to stay away, but when they tried to get Regeane judicially murdered, it was too much for even his stomach. Regeane had tried to get me to refrain from having their throats cut, and if they had remained in the background, I might have acceded to her wishes.

“But those bastards thought they could make a big score and get even with Regeane for crossing them. They failed. Gundabald is dead.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Lucilla said. “I’m sure. But none of us—not me, Hadrian, or Maeniel—could ever find hide nor hair of Hugo, and believe me, love, we all have different but highly efficient methods of searching. My guess is Gundabald told Hugo he was going to tell Maeniel what sort of wife he’d married. Maeniel knew already and the information was, shall we say, redundant.”

“This troubles me,” said Dulcinia. “I met Regeane. I liked her. But you and Silvie sometimes speak of her as if she weren’t quite human.”

“Yes, yes…” Lucilla answered. “But sometimes ignorance is a great deal safer than certain types of knowledge. So please don’t trouble yourself about it, my love.

“In any case, when Gundabald didn’t return, Hugo’s guts promptly turned to water. After he got off the pot, he probably ran as fast as he could. Between one thing and another, Gundabald had amassed quite a lot of money, so it took Hugo some time to run through it.

“Pity, I’d hoped someone would cut the little weasel’s throat for his ill-gotten gains, but it appears they didn’t. Now he’s come back to sell the only thing he has that’s worth anything—information.”

Dulcinia was pleased. She hadn’t seen Lucilla this animated in months. She was beginning to think her beloved was ready to succumb to old age, but now she seemed revitalized. Yes, Dulcinia realized Lucilla was simply bored. In her youth, Lucilla had been absorbed in a brutal struggle to survive. Then she’d been drawn into politics through her association with Hadrian and spent her middle years battling the Lombard party, who were determined to gain control of the papacy.

Now the Lombards were defeated, at least in their designs on the papacy. Hadrian was pope. Lucilla’s children were grown: her son Antonius was with Regeane, her daughter Augusta had married into one of the wealthiest and most socially prominent families in Rome. Lucilla was rich, secure, and in most quarters highly respected, but bored and lonely.

Regeane and Antonius were gone. Hadrian and Lucilla were still lovers, but he was more and more involved in administrative matters both secular and sacred. Fifteen minutes of Augusta’s conversation was sufficient to induce either a coma or rage, depending on whether she saw fit to instruct her mother on politics or society. Augusta knew nothing about the former and too much about the latter. In any event, Lucilla found herself alone with very little to do.