“Sir Holger du Danemark and two friends,” he said. No use explaining the long-winded truth. “We come in peace, and would like to stay the night.”
“’Olger?” A burly middle-aged man who seemed a leader let his spear down and scratched his head. “Have I not heard that name somewhere before, or its like?”
A murmur went among the men, but no one had an immediate answer and the livestock gave no time for reflection. Holger said quickly, “Whoever bears any such name is not me. I’m a stranger from afar, only passing through.”
“Well, sir, welcome to Lourville,” said the chief peasant. “I fear you come at an ill time, but Sir Yve will be glad to see you… You, there, head off that bloody-be-damned-to-hell heifer before she ends up in the next duchy!… My name’s Raoul, Sir ’Olger. Begging your pardon for this hurly-burly.”
“What’s the trouble?” asked Alianora. “I see ye’re housing your beasts within the toon this nicht, which ’twas scarce meant for.”
Holger overheard an older man mumble something about these foreign tourists and their scandalously unclad doxies. Someone else hushed him up: “I’ve heard of her, granther, a swan-may living a bit north and west of Lourville territory. They say she’s a kindly one.” Holger paid more attention to Raoul:
“Yes, m’lady, we’ve been grazing everybody’s stock in one herd, these last several days, and shutting them in the town after dark. This night, even the people must crowd within the walls; none dare be alone any more, on the outlying garths, when night’s fallen. A werewolf goes abroad.”
“Hoy, say ye so?” barked Hugi. “A skin-turner?”
“Aye. Much has gone wrong these past years, misfortune after misfortune in every household. My own ax slipped and laid my leg open this spring, and then did the same to my oldest son. We were three weeks abed, right in sowing time. Not a family but has some such tale. They—do say ’tis because of the marshalling in the Middle World beyond the mountains, sorcery grown so strong that its power reaches this far and turns everything awry. So they say.” Raoul crossed himself. “I don’t know, me. The loup-garou is the worst thing thus far. Christ guard us.”
“Could it not be a natural wolf that raided your folds?” Alianora asked. “Full oft I’ve heard folk say someone must be shape-strong, when in fact ’twas but a beast larger and more cunning than most.”
“That might have been,” said Raoul dourly, “though ’twas hard to see how a natural animal could have broken so many gates or lifted so many latches. Nor do true wolves slay a dozen sheep at a time, for mere sport, like a weasel. But last night the matter was settled. Pier Bigfoot and Bette his wife were in their cottage, three miles within the forest, when the gray one burst through the window and snatched their baby from the cradle. Pier struck with his billhook, and swears the iron passed through the wolf’s ribs without doing harm. Then Berte got wild and foolish, and hit the beast with an old silver spoon she had from her grandmother. He dropped the baby—not too badly hurt, by God’s grace—and fled out the window. I ask you, is that a natural animal?”
“No,” said Alianora, low and frightened.
Raoul spat. “So we’ll sleep within the town walls while this danger lasts, and let the wolf prowl untenanted woods. Mayhap we can discover who’s turning shape, and burn him.” In a gentler tone: “A great pity for Sir Yve, this, just when his daughter Raimberge was readying to travel west and wed the Marchgrave’s third son in Vienne. Pray God for a speedy end of our grief.”
“Our lord will not be able to entertain you as well as you deserve, Sir ’Olger,” added a boy. “He means to walk on the walls this whole night, lest the wolf overleap them. And his lady Blancheflor lies sick abed. But his son and daughter will do what they can.”
Holger supposed he should volunteer to help on sentry-go, but he didn’t think that after today he could stay awake. As she rode slowly on ahead of the flock, he asked Alianora to explain the menace.