The Lair — Part One
Information coming down from the mountains was often garbled, yet this disparity seemed extraordinary. For so many deaths Vayan would most certainly have considered more men. The forests in the Alps were deep and wide and it would be no easy thing to flush a single animal out and to dispatch it.
B y the time Vayan reached the outskirts of the village the fog had been reduced to wisps and the streets were busy with townsfolk. As he remembered, there was little to offer the discerning traveller here with only one dilapidated hostelry, a crooked wooden church at the end of the street, and the barest of amenities to keep the village alive through the seasons. Locals watched his progress along the main thoroughfare. Ruddy-faced women and rangy men studied him from the doorways of their shops or businesses. Children stopped their games and hugged the muddy alleyways. Vayan tipped his hat, but garnered no reaction. “Ingrates,” he muttered under his breath as he pulled the horse through an archway and into the inn’s stables.
The innkeeper emerged from a side door, rubbing his hands down his apron. He had one eye and hair like straw. Vayan didn’t recognise him.
“Afternoon.”
In innkeep watched as Vayan dropped onto the cobbles and pulled his musket free from the saddle.
“I’ll take a room,” Vayan said. “And stabling for the horse. I daresay your rates are reasonable?”
“Most reasonable in the valley. Come far?”
Vayan glanced back out onto the street. Scrawny urchins stood in the lee of the archway, one holding a kitten so tightly in her arms that the animal looked to be suffocating. “Lyon,” Vayan replied.
“Heading east then?”
“No. Here on business.”
“Business?”
“Yes, and I’m looking for your priest.”
“Father Capeu? He’ll be at the church.”
“Then have somebody fetch him for me. My name is Captain Vayan.”
The innkeeper’s one good eye widened. “Ah, of course! You must be the wolf hunter!”
“The Luparii, yes. Can you send a boy?”
“Of course! But leave your horse and bags. I’ll have someone see to them. Come through, you must be tired from the road.”
The interior of the hostelry was exactly as Vayan remembered: the same smell of stale beer, the same ugly furniture, the same three stuffed wolf heads positioned above the stone hearth. Vayan had forgotten just how impressive these animals were, as large as any he had seen on his many expeditions. But back when he had last visited the village, he had been hunting different game and so hadn’t paid them as much heed.
“Thirsty?” The innkeeper pushed his way behind a pine counter.
Vayan’s thoughts scattered, and he laid his hat amongst the cinder burns and tankard rings. “What do you have?”
“We have brandy, wine, but I recommend the ale.”
“Ale it is then.”
The innkeeper fetched a tankard off a hook behind him. After setting the cloudy drink down, frothing onto the counter, he went on: “You know there was another one of your kind came this way some months ago. Stayed at this very inn and drank where you are standing right now. He was a tall man with a black beard and a musket just like yours.”
“His name is Chaufrain.”
“Ah. Of course. Colleagues, eh? Well, he just stayed the one night and left the following morning. Never saw him again.”
“He didn’t return to Lyon either.”
The innkeeper leaned on the counter. “No surprise there, I’m afraid. He was hunting the Beast was he not?”
“Beast?”
“What would you call it then?”
“I’ve heard a wolf has caused some mischief in villages and farms around here.”
“Mischief!” the innkeeper chuckled grimly. “I’m not sure about that. And I’m not sure you would call it a wolf either.”
“Then what else could it be?”
The innkeeper dipped his head and was about to answer when the door to the inn opened and an old man dressed in a black smock entered. He was trailed by a dark haired, sullen looking boy. Vayan turned on his stool.
“Captain Vayan?” the old man said in a thin voice, his eyes narrowed. But when he shuffled closer, he grinned through the tobacco stains in his beard. “Why yes! It is you! Thank the Good Lord!”
“Father Capeu,” Vayan slid from the stool. He noted how the years since their last meeting had not been kind to the priest.
Even so, as they clasped hands, the old man seemed strong enough, despite his frail appearance. “I’m so glad you have made such a long and difficult journey my old friend,” the priest went on. “Please, let’s sit. We have much to discuss.”
With a quick glance at the innkeep, Vayan swiped the beer from the counter and snatched up his musket. He followed the priest to a table by the window while Father Capeu’s unnamed companion sauntered off to a chair by the fire, sitting under the snarling jaws of the wolf heads.
“Have you eaten?” the old man settled on a hard bench, splaying his vein-webbed hands across the table.
“Not yet.”
“You should try the stew here. It’s the innkeeper’s speciality.”
“He has a speciality?” Vayan muttered doubtfully.
“It really is rather good.”
Vayan shrugged and took a gulp of the ale, finding it strong and pleasantly sour. Perhaps the old priest was right about the food.
“I cannot begin to tell you how relieved we are to see you here again, Captain,” Father Capeu continued. “We thought when Chaufrain…when he did not return… it would mean our plight would be ignored — that we would have to rely on our own resources. I’m so glad your office responded to my letter.”
“The King takes these matters very seriously. But my priority is to establish exactly what happened to Chaufrain. That is what I have been tasked with. The matter of the wolf is secondary.”
“Secondary?” Capeau’s face fell. “Well, I should think the two matters are most likely entwined.”
“Perhaps, although there are many dangers aside from wolves in the wilderness, Father.”
The old man frowned. Then he said: “Exactly how much do you know about our particular difficulty, Captain?”
“I know that word came to us that you have a problem with a rogue wolf. That it has killed some cattle and attacked a farmer and perhaps some other people close to your village. That’s why we sent Chaufrain. I was away on other business, as it happens, so it might have been me. Either way, Chaufrain has plenty of experience in tracking what we call a grand vieux loup: a solitary male who no longer runs with the pack. It’s likely this wolf hasn’t the strength to stalk its prey so resorts to killing livestock and attacking people. Still, I have seen it many times before. It’s not uncommon.”
“Is that so?”
Vayan turned and indicated the heads above the fire. “There are some fine specimens on the wall. As big as anything I have seen. These rogue males can be powerful and dangerous animals.”
“Yes,” said Father Capeu slowly. “The forests near here are old, as you might remember, and much of them are unexplored. The animals there, left undisturbed, have grown large. But I should tell you that the creature that has terrorised the valley and our village has very little to do with your typical experience of the wolf, rogue or otherwise. I believe there is the mark of the Devil here, sir.”
Vayan sighed. Not this talk again! He supposed he should have expected it. Capeu had been the reason he had made the long journey to this backwater village all those years ago. But those were different times. A different profession ago. Not that he had ever been allowed to forget about what had been done here — especially in the company of Chaufrain. “So, you don’t believe it to be a wolf, Father?” he said wearily.
“To be honest we are not entirely sure what it is, Captain. But it has been roaming the forest and the valley for as much as four years, we think. In the last two it has become emboldened and we first began to notice a spate of livestock mutilations. And then people were attacked.”
“How many attacked?”
“At last count it was near to twenty.”
“Twenty!” Vayan raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“That is just an estimate. There may have been more in the hamlets higher in the mountains. It is not easy to tell.”
“And out of all these people how many have survived?”
“Why none of them, sir.”
Vayan leaned back in his chair. This was not what he had been told. Information coming down from the mountains was often garbled, yet this disparity seemed extraordinary. For so many deaths Vayan would most certainly have considered more men. The forests in the Alps were deep and wide and it would be no easy thing to flush a single animal out and to dispatch it. Perhaps that was why there had been no word from Chaufrain? Could there be a chance that so determined a man might be out there still, trying to track the animal?
“You see then what we’re up against?” Father Capeu continued. “The villages here are occupied by nothing more than shop keepers and farmers. Those who have gone to try and find the beast have not returned. We fall upon your mercy, sir.”
Tapping the side of his tankard with his ring Vayan said: “Like I said, my priority is to find Chaufrain. There could be a possibility that he may still be on the hunt.”
“I think that unlikely,” said the priest.
“Yet those are my instructions. Once I have established what has happened to him then we can talk about catching and killing your wolf.”
“So, you intend to go into the forest as soon as possible?”
“Of course.”
“Then I suggest you take as many precautions as possible. If you would consider coming to the church this evening, we could begin by conducting a small ceremony…a blessing that might…”
“Father…” Vayan interrupted. “I appreciate your efforts. But I require no special service to help me. My musket, my knife, my wits are all I need; all I’ve ever needed. Save your holy water and your prayers for the villagers, eh?”
Slowly the priest withdrew his hands from the table as if he had been slighted. His liverish eyes regarded Vayan shrewdly. “I am surprised,” he said.
“Surprised about what?”
“That you are so ready to reject God when a devil stalks these woods. Certainly, for a man who once worked for the Inquisition.”
Vayan set his jaw. “You know very well that I never worked for the Inquisition, Father. I worked for the City of Lyon — only for the City. Chaufrain was employed by the church.”
“And yet, he relied upon your skills did he not? When you were last here. And no wonder. He told me when he was here that you were always the better hunter.”
“Chaufrain said that?”
“Indeed. In this very inn. He was quite complimentary about you, actually, Captain; after a few drinks too, so we can rely upon his honesty. He said you could track almost anything once you set your mind to it. Not that he needed to tell me. We never would’ve been rid of that witch otherwise.”
Vayan regarded the old man’s face again, noting how ugly it suddenly seemed, steeped in such righteous piety.
“I hunted only criminals, Father,” Vayan said. “That’s all. I was asked, with others, to find them. I did my job.”
“And did it excellently. Which is why I have every faith you will succeed where Chaufrain has failed.”
For the first time since he had sat down, Vayan became aware of the boy behind him. He turned and was confronted by those dark, glittering eyes. He couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, Vayan thought, but his solemn, round face made him look much older and strangely unsettling.
“Well, as I say, Father,” Vayan turned back to the priest. “I don’t need faith. Faith will not protect me from a wolf’s jaws. Or anything else out there in the wilderness for that matter.”
“Ah,” the old priest muttered, with a tinge of disappointment. “I understand.”
“Good. Because there’s no mystery to the problems you have here, Father. A hungry wolf can be a destructive animal. There’s all there is to it.”
“So, what is your course of action then?” the priest was saying now, his tone abruptly business-like.
“Well firstly I need to work out Chaufrain’s route.”
“Ah now! That’s easy enough. He said he wanted to go to the hunting cabin.”
“What hunting cabin?”
“Trappers use it in winter before heading deeper into the forest. A few months ago, the boy found one of the bodies there.”
Vayan looked over his shoulder. The boy stared back, his eyes glassy and impenetrable.
“We tell the children to avoid the forest,” said the priest with a shake of his head, “especially these days. But this one has gypsy blood. I suppose they prefer the wilds to the towns.”
“Then might the boy draw me a map?” Vayan asked.
“Not so easily,” said the priest. “But the boy has requested that he take you out there. He took your friend, Chaufrain, some months ago and he says he feels responsible. He wishes to be of service to you.”
“Still, he would have to return on his own. I may be scouting for some days.”
“He is resourceful enough. And you will have difficulty finding it otherwise.”
Vayan lowered his eyes. He preferred to travel alone, but he couldn’t afford to wend his way blindly through the forest either. Eventually he gave a sharp nod. “So be it. I leave tomorrow early.”
“There it is then,” and the priest pushed to his feet. “I shall bring the boy to you at first light. I hope your stay is comfortable Captain. And we thank God once again for your help in our hour of need.”
After spending the better part of the afternoon attending to his supplies Vayan retired early to his room at the inn, watching as the sun crept behind the rooftops. He was tired after the day’s events but the bed had its lumps and he found himself longing for the cold, hard ground and a campfire in preference to the straw filled mattress that smelt pungently of stale sweat. Still, by the time room had darkened and the moon cycled up into the sky he was asleep. And with his sleep, as always, he dreamed: of footsteps creaking through snowy drifts; of lights from the farmstead twinkling in the blackness; of that preening peacock Allemand and Chaufrain himself: a heavy, feverish presence, eager as they approached the gates to the small holding. Not surprisingly, in Vayan’s dream — as it had been in life — the Quakers within protested their innocence, but they were dragged out into the snow and thrown to the waiting mob while Allemand and Vayan and Chaufrain swept inside, kicking their way through the sticks of rude furniture. When they found the opening to the coal cellar, they knew a rat’s nest had been discovered and it was Chaufrain who had delved into the blackness with his sabre in his hand, and dragged the three of them out: the woman and the babe and the child streaked with soot and dust.
Somehow the child had escaped, wriggling free and running barefoot into the night. They let him go. Their interest was in the woman. And after Chaufrain had wrenched the babe from her thin, pale arms, she stood shivering and helpless, her eyes like hollows as the mob slung up the rope into the branches of the tree.
“The King’s justice!” one of the peasants cried.
Chaufrain had laughed and the babe had howled, reaching for its mother. And even as the noose was slung over the woman’s neck, she made not the slightest sound as they hauled her into the falling snow.
Vayan awoke, gulping down cold air. For a moment he was lost in the horror of his dream and, beaded in sweat, he kicked off the course woollen blankets. Then he realised where he was, and he could hear the sound of the wind outside his window and the crackle of sleet against the glass. His heaving breaths steadied and he managed to calm himself.
But he could not go back to sleep. Instead, he padded to the ratty curtains and thrust them open. It was on the brink of dawn. A fierce wind whipped through the streets, toying with the creaking shop signs. Tiny crystals of ice jumped and danced on the rooftops. The weather changed so quickly in the mountains Vayan hoped it would calm before he was forced to set out. Then his sharp hunter’s eyes spotted something nestled in the shelter of a passageway opposite the inn: a figure, picked out by the gradual lightening of the skies. Vayan was convinced it was the gypsy boy standing there, cloaked in shadow, bedraggled by the wind and sleet. Was he looking up at the window Vayan wondered? Was he spying? But the figure did not linger. Rather, it shrank back into the darkness and the passageway was empty.
By the time they left the storm had passed and the sky was as hard and as bright as a steel blade. Vayan had a breakfast of pig’s liver and headed out to the stables to make sure his horse had been attended to correctly. As he was admonishing the stable hand for not grooming the animal to his own particular satisfaction, Father Capeu sidled into view with the gypsy boy in tow.
“Fine day for exploring,” he said.
Vayan cuffed the stable hand across the ear and sent him scurrying back to the inn. Then he saw to his horse himself in his favoured, meticulous routine of preparation.
“Has the boy got a mount?” he said by way of a greeting.
“I have a pony for him. It’s a good, sturdy animal.”
Vayan fastened his musket to his saddle, saying: “Once I have established what has happened to Chaufrain I will return to the village and we can discuss the wolf. It is likely I may need some volunteers to help me track the animal. Perhaps you might arrange that for me?”
The priest looked sceptical. “I doubt anyone will be prepared to leave behind their homes after all that has gone before. And Monsieur Chaufrain didn’t ask for any help.”
“Chaufrain liked to see things through on his own. But he was sometimes impractical. A lone wolf’s territory could stretch for hundreds of miles. It is often like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Oh, I don’t believe you should worry about finding the beast,” said Father Capeu solemnly.
Vayan turned from his horse and regarded the old man. “Oh? And why is that?”
“Well,” Capeu shrugged. “I expect it will come looking for you.”
There were no parting words between the old priest and the gypsy boy as he followed Vayan out of the stables. Indeed, he wondered if the boy could talk at all as they passed a gaggle of laughing children running down the street with a trailing rag, the black kitten pursuing them, pouncing at the cloth. But it was better that than incessant chatter. It was true that the road could be lonely sometimes yet solitude had never been a problem for Vayan. He preferred his own company. He could rely upon it. And there were so few people to rely on these days.
Soon the village dwindled into the hills behind them. The boy hadn’t looked back once as they had left, Vayan noted. He kept his black eyes focused on the road ahead; eyes that showed no interest in the sights or sounds around him. Perhaps, Vayan thought, the lad was incapable of speech? And he found himself intrigued. Such a silence from one so young doubtless came from a deeper place. Vayan had seen plenty of tragedies in his time. The cities were full of wretched creatures: half-starved and slack jawed, kicked from curb to curb like dogs. Indeed, they acted more like animals most of them; skulking on the edges of the markets, begging for scraps. And yet this boy wasn’t like that at all. There was a wariness about him that sparkled in those black little eyes of his, like the shiny eyes of a crow.
By noon the village was nothing more than wisps of smoke against the clarity of the sky and they paused amongst a stand of cypress trees and a set of ramshackle ruins that may have once been a goat herd’s shack. There were no goats or sheep on the slopes now and they could see the first swathe of the old forest, rising up until it dipped over the spine of the lowest hills. Vayan took out a spyglass and swept the tree line and thought it a strangely desolate place.
“We’ll eat at the next rise,” he said.
The boy gave no reply.
They moved on.
When they stopped to take lunch, the weather was already changing with the promise of rain sweeping in from the west. Vayan had tracked the cloud as they rode, boiling up over the mountains and into the valley and could see with the naked eye a band of rain like a vast flock of starlings chasing across the flank of the forest. There would be no way to outrun it and he expected by the time it reached them it would be getting on for evening.
“It’s going to be a miserable night,” he told the boy as he leaned against a splinter of rock, cutting pieces of apple with his paring knife.
On a patch of green lawn, the boy ate silently, chewing on a crust of bread. He did not look up from his food or acknowledge that he had been spoken to.
“Do you ever say anything?” Vayan said at last.
The boy’s eyes drifted over the top of the bread, eyes like shadows. “I speak some,” he replied softly.
“Ah! I thought for moment you were mute.”
The boy picked at the soft white belly of the crust. Another silence before Vayan spoke again: “So, the old priest looks after you, does he?”
The boy seemed surprised. “How do you know?”
“A guess, nothing more. Does he treat you well?”
“He feeds me. He clothes me. Sometimes he hits me with a stick.”
“Aye, priests are fond of their sticks. And I suppose he teaches you scripture too?”
The boy nodded.
“All fire and brimstone, is it?”
“I don’t pay much attention to it,” the boy mumbled.
Vayan smiled. “Good lad.” He pressed a piece of apple between his lips. “And what about your mother and father? What happened to them?”
“My father was a pedlar. He died when I was very small.”
“And what did he peddle?”
“Medicines…lucky charms…whatever people needed.”
“A gypsy, was he?”
The boy made a non-committal shrug.
“And your mother?”
To this the boy thinned his lips.
“She dead too?”
The boy wiped his mouth with the heel of his wrist and said, “No.”
“She abandoned you then?”
The boy shook his head.
“Then what happened to her?”
The boy looked up again and his dark eyes gleamed as he said, “I abandoned her,” before falling into a deep and brooding silence.
To Read ‘The Lair — Part Two’ Click Here.
