Three hearts and three lions

14

THE KNIGHT’S DWELLING stood on a plaza of its own, opposite the church and otherwise hemmed in with houses. Kitchen and stables were separate buildings. The hall was unimpressive, a thatched wooden affair not much larger than the average bungalow in Holger’s world. It was T-shaped, with the left branch of the cross-arm rising in the tower he had noticed before. The front was at the end of the T’s upright, and closed. Light gleamed from shuttered windows; dogs clamored in the stables.

Hugi approached the iron-studded door. “Straight in here the warg fled,” he declared.

“With my master’s family alone!” Frodoart tried the latch. “Barred. Sir Yve! Can you hear me? Are you well?”

“Odo, cover the rear,” snapped Holger. “Alianora, get aloft and report anything unusual.” He rode up to the door and knocked with the pommel of his sword. The blacksmith gathered several men and ran around in back. Hugi followed. More people streamed into the square. By fugitive yellow torch gleams, Holger recognized some of the herders among them. Raoul the peasant pushed through the crowd to join him, spear in hand.

The knocking boomed hollow. “Are they dead in there?” sobbed Frodoart. “Burst this down! Are you men or dogs, standing idle when your lord needs you?”

“Are there any back doors?” Holger asked. The blood thudded in his temples. He had no fear of the werewolf, nor even any sense of strangeness. This was right: the work for which he had been born.

Hugi threaded a way among legs and rattled his stirrup for attention. “No other door, but windows eneugh, each locked tighter nor the last,” the dwarf reported. “Yet the warg ha’ no left this bigging. I snuffed everywhere aboot. E’en had he jumped from yon tower, I’d ha’ covered the ground where he maun land. Noo all ways oot are blockaded. We ha’ him trapped.”

Holger glanced around. The villagers had stopped milling; they surrounded the hall, packed and very still. Torchlight fluttered across a woman’s frightened pale face, a man’s sweating hairiness, a startling gleam of eyeballs in shadow. Weapons bristled above, spears, axes, bills, scythes, flails. “What about servants?” he asked Frodoart.

“None in there, sir,” said the esquire. “The house servants are townsfolk, who go home after dark, leaving only old Nicholas to do for the family. I see him yonder, as well as the stablehands... Get us inside!”

“I’m about to, if you’ll give me some room.”

Frodoart and Raoul cleared a space with well-meant if brutal efficiency. Holger stroked Papillon’s mane and murmured, “Okay, boy, let’s see what we’re good for.” He reared the horse. The forefeet smashed against the panels. Once, twice, thrice, then the bolt tore loose and the door sprang open.

Holger rode into a single long room. The dirt floor was strewn with rushes. Above the built-in benches along the walls hung weapons and hunting trophies. Dusty battle banners stirred among the rafters. Sconced candles lit the place fairly well, showing it empty down to a doorway at the end. Beyond must lie the crossbar of the T, private apartments of Sir Yve and his family. A yell rose from the men who crowded behind Holger. For that doorway was blocked by a form shining steely in the candleglow.

“Who are you?” The man waved a sword above his shield. “What is this outrage?”

“Sir Yve!” exclaimed Frodoart. “The wolf has not harmed you?”

“What wolf? What the devil are you up to? You, sirrah, what excuse have you for forcing your way in? Are you a blood-enemy of mine? If not, by God’s death, I can soon make you one!”

Holger dismounted and walked close. Sir Yve de Lourville was a tall, rather thin man with a melancholy horse face and drooping gray mustaches. He wore more elaborate armor than the Dane, a visored casque, corselet, brassards, elbow-pieces, cuisses, greaves, plus chain-mail. His shield bore a wolf’s head erased, sable on barry of six, gules and argent, which Holger found eerily suggestive. If some distant ancestor had been a full-fledged loup-garou, the fact might be hushed up by later generations, but could linger as a traditional coat of arms...

“I’m called Holger du Danemark. The werewolf appeared before me as well as many other people. Only by God’s mercy did we rescue the baby it had stolen. Now we’ve tracked it here.”

“Aye,” said Hugi. “The trail runs clear to yersel’.”

A gasp went among the commoners, like the first sigh of wind before a storm.

“You lie, dwarf! I’ve sat here this eventide. No beast entered.” Sir Yve jabbed his sword toward Holger. “None are present but my lady, who’s ill, and my two children. If you claim aught else, you must prove it on my body.”

His voice wobbled. He wasn’t a very good blusterer. Raoul was the first to snarl, “If matters be as you say, Sir Yve, then one of your own must be the fiend.”

“I forgive you this time,” said Sir Yve frantically. “I know you’re overwrought. But the next man who speaks such words will dangle from the gallows.”

Frodoart stood with the tears whipping down his cheeks. “Dwarf, dwarf, how can you be sure?” he groaned.

Sir Yve seized upon the question. “Aye, who would you trust—this misshapen mannikin and this hedge-knight, or your lord who has warded you all these years?”

A boy of fourteen or so appeared behind him, slender and blond. He had put on a helmet, snatched sword and shield, in obvious haste, for otherwise he wore the colorful tunic and hose which was the local equivalent of a white tie. Of course, thought Holger faintly, in an outpost of civilization every aristocrat dressed for dinner.

“Here I am, father,” panted the youth. His green eyes narrowed at Holger. “I am Gui, son of Yve de Lourville, and though not yet knighted I call you false and defy you to battle.” It would have been more impressive if his voice hadn’t developed an adolescent crack, but was nonetheless touching.

Sure, why not? The lycanthrope is a perfectly decent person, except when the skin-turning rage is upon him.

Holger sighed and put away his blade. “I don’t want to fight,” he said. “If your people don’t believe me, I’ll go away.”

The commoners shifted about, stared at the floor, back at Holger and Yve. Frodoart aimed a furtive kick at Hugi, who dodged. Then Odo the smith came in the door and forced a path for Alianora. “The swan-may would speak,” he trumpeted. “The swan-may who saved Lusiane. Be quiet, there, you muttonheads, ere I clobber you.”

A hush fell until they could hear the dogs howl outside. Holger saw Raoul’s knuckles whiten about his spear. A little man in priestly robe went to his knees, crucifix in hand. Gui’s beardless jaw dropped. Sir Yve crouched as if wounded. No eye left Alianora. She stood slender and straight, the candleglow shimmering in the coppery-brown hair, and said:

“Some o’ ye must ken my name, I who dwell by Lake Arroy. I mislike brags, but they’ll tell ye in places closer to my home, like Tarnberg and Cromdhu, how many strayed children I’ve fetched back from the woods and how I got Mab hersel’ to take off the curse she laid on Philip the miller. I ha’ kenned Hugi my whole life, and vouch for him. We’ve none o’ us aught to gain by slander. ’Tis your fortune that the finest knicht who ever lived has come by in time to free ye from the warg ere it takes a human life. Hearken to him, I say!”

An old man tottered forth. He blinked half-blind and said into the stillness, “Mean you this is the Defender?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Holger with some dismay.

“The Defender... he that shall return in our greatest need... the legend my grandsire told me gives not his name, but are you him, Lord Knight, are you him?”

“No—” Holger’s protest was drowned in a rumble like the incoming tide. Raoul sprang forward with spear poised.

“By heaven, he’s no master of mine who snatches children!” the peasant yelled. Frodoart swung at him with his sword, but weakly. The blow was turned by the spearshaft. A moment later four men had pinned the esquire down.

Sir Yve leaped at Holger. The Dane got his weapon out barely in time to parry the blow. He struck back so hard he cracked the other’s shield-rim. Yve staggered. Holger knocked the sword from his grasp. Two peasants caught their overlord’s arms. Gui tried to attack, but a pitchfork pricked his breast and drove him back against the wall.

“Get these people under control, Odo, Raoul!” Holger gasped. “Don’t let them hurt anyone. You, you, you.” He pointed out several big eager-looking youths. “Guard this doorway. Don’t let anybody past. Alianora, Hugi, come with me.”

He sheathed his sword again and hurried through. A corridor paneled in carven wood ran transversely to the main room, a door at either end and one in the middle. Holger tried that one. It swung open on a chamber hung with skins and a moth-eaten tapestry. The light of tapers fell on a woman who lay in the canopied bed. Her graying hair was lank around a handsome flushed face; she snuffled and sneezed into a handkerchief. A bad case of influenza, Holger decided. The girl who had sat next to the bed and now rose was more interesting—only about sixteen, but with a pleasant figure, long yellow tresses, blue eyes, tip-tilted nose and attractive mouth. She wore a simple pullover dress, gathered with a golden-buckled belt.

Holger bowed. “Forgive the intrusion, madame, mademoiselle. Necessity compels.”

“I know,” said the girl unsteadily. “I heard.”

“The Demoiselle Raimberge, are you not?”

“Yes, daughter to Sir Yve. My mother Blancheflor.” The lady in question wiped her nose and looked at Holger with fear blurred by physical misery. Raimberge wrung her small hands. “I cannot believe what you think, sir. That one of us is... is that thing—” She bit back tears; she was a knight’s daughter.

“The scent gaes hither,” said Hugi.

“Could either of you have witnessed the beast’s entry?” asked Holger.

Blancheflor shook her head. Raimberge explained: “We were separate in our chambers, Gui in his and I in mine, readying to sup, my lady mother sleeping here. Our doors were closed. My father was in the main hall. When I heard the tumult, I hastened to comfort my mother.”

“Then Yve himself must be the warg,” Alianora said.

“No, not my father!” Raimberge whispered. Blancheflor covered her face. Holger turned on his heel. “Let’s look about,” he said.

Gui’s room was at the foot of the tower, to whose top a stair led. It was crammed with boyish souvenirs. Raimberge’s was at the opposite end of the corridor, with a chestful of trousseau, a spinning wheel, and whatever else pertained to a young girl of shabby-genteel birth. All three rear rooms had windows, and Hugi couldn’t follow the scent in detail. He said it was everywhere; the wolf had haunted this part of the house night after night. Not that anyone need see the apparition. It could use a window for exit and re-entrance, when everybody else was asleep.

“One o’ three,” said Alianora. Her voice was unhappy.

“Three?” Hugi lifted his brows. “Why think ye the lady canna be the beast? Would she no ha’ her health as soon’s she turned wolf?”

“Would she? I dinna know. The wargs are no so common that I e’er heard talk o’ wha’ happens when one falls ill... Four, then. One o’ four.”

Holger returned glum to the feasting chamber. Raoul and Odo had established a sort of order. The men stood around the walls, Papillon by the main door. Yve and Gui sat in the high seat, bound hand and foot. Frodoart huddled beneath, disarmed but otherwise unhurt. The priest told his beads.

“Well!” Raoul turned fiercely on the newcomers. “Who’s the cursed one?”

“We dinna know,” said Alianora.

Gui spat toward Holger. “When first I saw you helmetless, I didn’t imagine you a knight,“ the boy taunted. “Now when I see you bursting in on helpless women, I know you’re not.”

Raimberge entered behind Hugi. She went to her father and kissed his cheek. With a glance that swept the hall, she called: “Worse than beasts, you, who turn on your own liege lord!”

Odo shook his head. “No, ma’m’selle,” he said. “The lord who fails his people is none. I got little ones of my own. I’ll no hazard them being eaten alive.”

Raoul struck the wainscot with his spear butt. “Silence, there!” he barked. “The wolf dies this night. Name him, Sir ’Olger. Or her. Name us the wolf.”

“I—” Holger felt suddenly ill. He wet his lips.

“We canna tell,” said Hugi.

“So.” Raoul scowled at the grim rough-clad assembly. “I feared that. Well, will the beast confess himself? I’ll slay him mercifully, with a silver knife in the heart. “

“Iron will do, while he’s human,” said Odo. “Come, now. Speak up. I’d not like to put you to torture.”

Frodoart stirred. “Before you do that,” he said, “you must peel my hands off your throat.” They ignored him.

“If none will confess,” said Raoul, “then best they all die. We’ve the priest here to shrive them.”

Gui fought back a sob. Raimberge grew death-still. They heard Blancheflor cough at the dark end of the house.

Yve seemed to shrink into himself. “Very well,” he said, tonelessly. “I am the wolf.”

“No!” Gui shrilled. “I am!”

Raimberge stood for a moment, until a hard smile touched her lips. “They both lie nobly,” she said. “The skin-turner is myself, though, good folk. And you need not slay me, only guard me until time that I go to my wedding in Vienne. That far from the lands of Faerie, I’ll be beyond range of the powers which forced me to change.”

“Believe her not,” said Gui. Yve shook his head violently. A hoarse call might have been Blancheflor taking the blame on herself.

“This gets us no further,” said Raoul. “We can’t risk letting the loup-garou go free. Father Valdabrun, will you ready the last rites for this family?”

Holger drew sword and sprang before the high seat. “You’ll not kill the innocent while I’m alive,” said a voice and a will he recognized with amazement as his own.

The blacksmith Odo clenched his fists. “I’d be loath to overfall you, Sir ’Olger,” he said, “but if I must for my children, I must.”

“If you are the Defender,” said Raoul, “then name us our enemy.”

The stiffness fell again, stretched close to breaking. Holger felt the three pairs of eyes bum at his back: careworn Yve, ardent Gui, Raimberge who had been so hopeful. He heard the wheezing of the sick woman. O Christ who cast out demons, aid me now. Only afterward did he realize he had said his first conscious prayer since childhood.

What came to the forefront of his mind was something else, the workaday engineer’s approach. He was no longer sure of his old belief that all problems in life were practical problems. But this one was. A question of rational analysis. He was no detective, but neither was the warg a professional criminal. There must be—

It blazed in him. “By the Cross, yes!” he shouted.

“What? What? What?” Men started to their feet. Holger waved his sword aloft. The words spilled from him. He didn’t know himself what he would say next, he was thinking aloud in a roar, but they heard him with wonder:

“Look, the one we’re after is shape-strong by birth. He doesn’t need any magical skin, like the swan-may here. But then his clothes can’t change with him, can they? So he must go forth naked. Frodoart told me, a moment before the wolf showed up, he’d just left his master full-armed in the hall. And alone. Though even with help Sir Yve couldn’t have gotten out of that armor, and back into it afterward, in the few minutes he had. So he’s not the warg.

“Gui tried to plead guilty too, to save whoever else was. But he’d already scuttled himself. He mentioned having seen me helmetless. I was for one minute, when I stopped to inquire my way here. I put the helmet back on when the racket started. The wolf couldn’t have seen that. He—no, she—she was inside a house. She broke in through the rear door and escaped out a front window, which had been shuttered. The only way Gui could have seen me bareheaded in the torchlight was from the top of the tower above his room. I noticed it sticking over the roofs. He must have gone up to watch the flocks being driven in. So he was not anywhere near the place we saw the warg.

“Lady Blancheflor—” He stopped. How on earth, on all the Earths, could he explain the germ theory of disease? “Lady Blancheflor has been sick, with an illness that the dog tribe doesn’t get. If changing into a wolf did not make her well, then she’d be too weak to dash around as I saw the animal do. If the change did make her well, the, uh, the agent causing the disease couldn’t live in her animal body. She wouldn’t have a fever and a runny nose at this moment, would she? In either case, she’s eliminated.”

Raimberge cowered back against the wall. Her father made a broken noise and twisted about, trying to reach her with his bound hands. “No, no, no,” he keened. A noise like the wolf itself lifted from the commons. They began to edge close, one mass of hands and weapons.

The girl dropped on all fours. Her face writhed and altered, horrible to watch. “Raimberge!” Holger bawled. “Don’t! I won’t let them—” Raoul’s spear stabbed for her. Holger knocked it aside and cut the shaft across with his sword.

Raimberge howled. Alianora dropped to her knees and caught the half-altered body in her arms. “Nay,” she pleaded. “Nay, my sister, come back. He swears he’ll save ye.” The jaws snapped at her. She got her forearm crosswise into the mouth, forcing lips over fangs so the wolf couldn’t bite. She wrestled the creature to a standstill. “Lassie, lassie, we mean ye well.”

Holger waded into the mob. Turmoil broke loose. But after he had knocked several down, with a fist or the flat of his blade, they quieted. They snarled and grumbled, but the man in the hauberk overawed them.

He turned to Raimberge. She had resumed her human form and lay weeping in Alianora’s embrace. “I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to. It came on me. And, and, and I was so afraid they’d burn me—Is my soul lost, Father Valdabrun? I th-think I must be in hell already. The way those babies screamed—”

Holger exchanged a look with the priest. “Sick,” said the Dane. “She’s not evil of her own will. She can’t help it.”

Yve stared like a blind man. “I had thought it might be her, “ he mumbled. “When the wolf ran’ in, past me, and I knew where Blancheflor and Gui were—I barred the door. I hoped, if this could only pass over until she departed—”

Holger squared his shoulders. “I don’t see why not,” he answered. “The idea is perfectly sound, as I understand the matter. Let her get far enough away, and the Middle World influence will be too weak to affect her. Till then, of course, you’ll have to keep her under restraint. She’s sorry now, but I don’t think that’ll last.”

“At dawn it will, when her human soul awakens,” said the priest. “Then she will indeed need comforting.”

“Well,” said Holger, “nothing too serious ever happened. Her father can pay compensation to the people who suffered loss and the parents whose kids were injured. Start her off for Vienne as soon as possible. I daresay a hundred miles would be quite far enough for safety. No one in the Empire has to know.”

Raoul, with a black eye, threw himself at Sir Yve’s feet while Odo, with a bloody nose, fumbled to release the knight and his son. “Master, forgive us,” the peasant begged.

Yve made a weary smile. “I fear ’tis I must ask your forgiveness. And yours above all, Sir ’Olger.”

Raimberge lifted her wet face. “Take me off,” she stammered. “I, I, I feel the darkness returning. Lock me away till dawn. “She held out her arms for the ropes taken off her father. “Tomorrow, Sir Knight, I can truly thank you... who saved my soul from hell.”

Frodoart embraced Holger’s knees. “The Defender is come,” he said.

“Oh, Lord!” protested the Dane. “Please, lay off that nonsense. I mean, I hate emotional scenes and I only came here to bum a meal. But could I have some wine first?”