“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!”