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.