.jpg)
The Wolves of Paris
by Daniel Mannix
Chapter One
The Fugitive
Even as the half-grown wolf cub made another desperate effort to force his way through the snowdrifts, he knew his strength was fading fast and soon his pursuer would be on him. Still he fought on through the quicksand-like snow. Make a two-foot jump. Bring the hind feet up beside the forefeet. Rest a few seconds. Jump again. His mouth was open now. His tongue hung out. Each burning breath he took sent puffs of white vapor into the cruel cold. No one could have guessed, watching the beaten, tortured animal, that a few years later he would be Courtaud, the Werewolf, who could drive a thousand men before him, hold Paris at siege for three months in the terrible winter of 1439, and every day devour a man as a dog might a bone.
A mile behind him came the louvetier, the professional wolf-hunter. The louvetier was a little man with high cheekbones, a flat nose, a short head, and skin the color of smoked beef. He was a Lapp, especially imported from Norrland for this hunt. For three months now, ever since this wolf had suddenly arrived from nowhere in the High Ardennes in northern France, he had been killing the peasants' sheep. Unlike ordinary wolves, who kill only what they need and devour their prey to the last shred, this strange wolf killed for pleasure. He had no fear of man. He would force his way into a fold, kill the guardian dog, and butcher twenty ewes, eating only the choicest portions from one or two. If the shepherd dared to challenge him, he would turn on the shepherd. At last the peasants living in this remote, inaccessible plateau sent for help to the Flemish merchants who purchased their wool, although it was well known that the Flemings had a purse for a heart and boasted, "We buy a sheep from the peasants for a groat and sell them back the tail for a guilder." Hard men of business the Flemings might be, but they had no wish to see the Ardennes flocks wiped out. So, through their connections with the all-powerful Hanseatic League, they had brought down this louvetier to eliminate the menace. The Lapps were experts at killing wolves. They had to be in order to preserve their vital reindeer herds.
Why did not the man sink in the soft snow when even the wolf's broad, furry feet could not support him? Strapped to the soles of the Lapp's boots were flat strips of wood, a palm's breadth wide and as long as the man was tall. These curious devices spread his weight over the snow and sustained him. By means of a pole held in either hand he propelled himself along, sliding over the snow as a skater might slide over ice. Although it was hard for him to go uphill, he could speed downhill faster than thought. People who saw him screamed and crossed themselves, calling on the saints to protect them from such witchcraft.
The little hunter seemed to carry no weapon except the skinning knife in his belt, but when he lifted his right-hand pole, the morning sun flashed on the tip. It was a spearhead, ground to such an edge that the man shaved with it. On the pole were three hundred notches, each for a wolf killed by the pole. Before noon, there would be three hundred and one and the louvetier would have the wolf's fell, or undressed skin, packed on his back and be able to claim the ten gold ecus he had been promised for the loup-garou's head.
For three days the louvetier had tracked the wolf, taking up the trail by a fold full of slaughtered sheep. Now with victory only a bowshot away, the tough little man was still apprehensive. He hated this curious country. It was studded with weird-looking hills that seemed to have sprung up by themselves, cut by ridges, and crisscrossed by deeply eroded rivers and narrow ravines, which made it very unlike the safe, broad, tundralike plains of his home. He looked up nervously at the hanging masses of snow clinging to the cliffs above him and prayed to his gods to bring him safe back to the flat country of Norrland.
Also, this animal he was pursuing was different from any wolf he had ever seen. The beast was enormous. It must weigh more than he did and, standing on its hind legs, be four handsbreadths taller. He could put his whole hand in the creature's footprint and leave space around it. Such a brute would have been unusual enough in the far north. Here in France it was unbelievable. Also, it was a curious russet color with a white mark on the chest. In addition to their usual gray, wolves ranged in color from black to white, but he had never seen one like this. Lastly, the animal's head was all wrong. The muzzle was shorter than a wolf's should be and the skull looked rounder. Ah well, he would soon be up to it and then he would see if the loup-garou, bogged down in the two-foot snow, could withstand his spearhead. As he prepared for the last rush, the louvetier dropped his fur jacket, tossed away his cap made of wildcat hide, and discarded his heavy gloves. Now, stripped to his shirt, trousers, and tipped boots, he was as light and unencumbered as possible. On the way back, he could pick up his clothing.
Several times during the last three fearful days the young wolf had considered turning to meet his pursuer. If the hunter had retreated or shown any signs of fear, the wolf might well have attacked. Unlike other wolves, he had no innate fear of man, yet he knew well that men could be dangerous. He was convinced that this man would not dare to follow him so, unless the creature possessed some deadly weapon. So he had fled. Now he could flee no longer. The time had come to make a stand. Even as the young wolf sensed this, he topped a little rise and saw below him the surface of a frozen lake, swept clean of snow by the wind.
At the sight, the wolf felt returning confidence. Half rolling, half swimming, he plunged down the slope and reached the ice. Although he skidded badly on the slippery surface, now at last he could run. And run he did.
When the louvetier reached the crest of the rise and saw the wolf speeding across the lake, he cursed, then with a jab of his poles he sent himself flying down the slope. On the hard, frozen surface of the lake his skis could get no hold, but by pushing himself with his poles he made fair progress.
Ahead was a single peak draped with snow rising directly from the lake shore. The rising sun caught this peak, turning it into a silver arrowhead. Like a giant tombstone the peak overhung man and animal; to the Lapp it seemed like an ogre bending down to seize him or fling the mantle of snow that clung to its crest over him as he would throw a net on a mired-down hare. He shrank from it, yet it was toward this peak that the wolf ran. The louvetier could not understand why: the snow had drifted so heavily here that the animal was sure to be bogged in it. Wolves kept to a specific range which they knew by heart and always followed the same route, especially when pursued, because experience had taught them that this was the easiest way to travel. Yet there was no sign of a trail through the drifts ahead, nor up the mountainside.
The wolf reached the end of the lake and hesitated. He ran back and forth, seeking some way through the drifts, only to find himself trapped. Then at long last he turned at bay. His head went down and his ears were laid back. His tail rose and went rigid. The muzzle wrinkled and the long canine teeth were bared in a snarl. He crouched slightly, gauging the angle of his spring.
At the sight, the louvetier became jubilant. He dropped his left pole and seized the other with both hands, aiming the spearhead at the wolf's white breast. Taking care that his skis did not slip from under him, he came on slowly. The wolf watched him with its yellow slit eyes, taut as a bowstring as it prepared for the charge. So big was he and so obviously determined to go down fighting that the Lapp was somewhat perturbed. To give himself courage and also to daunt the wolf, he shouted his tribal war cry.
At the man's shrill cry, the great curtain of snow that hung from the side of the peak seemed for an instant to gather itself together. Then a crack zigzagged across its top where it joined the stone. Almost as fast as a jagged flash of lightning, the crack jumped along the smooth face of the snowbank. For a while nothing happened. Then slowly and majestically the snow curtain left the side of the peak and began to slide downward. For a few seconds it seemed to float like a giant feather. Then its fall became faster and faster as the avalanche gathered speed.
So intent were man and wolf on each other that they did not notice the menace above them until the light was suddenly obliterated by the falling mass. Both looked up. The wolf reacted first. He spun around and threw himself into the nearest drift. Wildly he fought his way in deeper and deeper, while behind him came the roar of hundreds of tons of snow plunging down the slope. For a long time the wolf lay trembling as crash followed crash. Even when all was still, he dared not move but lay in his cave, gasping at the air filtering through the snow.
At last he began to dig himself out. It was a long task and, tired as he was, he had to rest several times. Finally the dark wall around him grew translucent and he burst out into the light and, best of all, into fresh air. He bolted mouthfuls of it into his lungs. Then he floundered out toward the lake.
Before him lay the body of the Lapp. The edge of the avalanche had caught the little man and hurled him against an ice-covered rock. The wolf crouched down, watching carefully for some motion. He could smell the heavy, rancid odor of the man but there was no scent of blood and, for all he knew, the man might also be crouched motionless watching him. Gradually he realized the man's eyes did not focus and he was limp, not tense. Still suspicious, the wolf rose and circled the still figure. He came closer, grabbed the man's leg, dragged him a few inches, let go, and jumped back. Still no response. Again the wolf came in and this time satisfied himself by both nose and eyes that his enemy was dead.
For three days the young wolf had taken violent exercise and had not eaten. He was wild with hunger and, curiously, had no fear of man-smell. He came in for the third time and began to feed on the corpse. It was the first time he had ever eaten human flesh, but he found it sweet and tender.
The wolf pup was born in the kennels of the Count Raoul de Villeneuve in the pays, or region, of Champagne. The count was only moderately fond of hunting so he maintained no more than six hundred dogs of various breeds in his castle (a true hunting enthusiast like Count Gaston de Foix had a kennel of 1,600 hounds). Hunting was not only a sport, it was a necessity, for the castle depended on wild game as its main source of meat. The pup was born on a cold, windy evening in March, together with five brothers and sisters. His mother was a bitch wolf that had been dug out of a den three years before and kept for her urine, which was used as a bait to trap other wolves. She was chained to an iron ring in the wall and after giving birth went frantic with anxiety, for all around her were dogs fascinated by the newborn pups and she feared they intended to hurt the tiny creatures. In her hysterical efforts to save them, she would seize a pup in her jaws, run back and forth seeking some place to hide it, and by shoving the wretched, squirming little thing into some crack, wedge it securely by pushes with her long nose, and then hurry back to grab another. She kept this up all night and by morning, only one of the litter was left alive.
When the chief veneur, the master hunter, came at daylight, he was furious at having lost the bitch wolf's litter. He had had no idea that she was in whelp, for there was no male wolf in the castle. He was the only human who could go near her, and the bitch wolf allowed him to unsnap her chain and even to pick up the one remaining pup that had survived the ordeal. The man took her with her pup to a quiet room, provided her with food and water, and then left mother and pup alone. After hiding the pup under some straw, the mother quieted down. Although she would not eat, she lapped some water and then retrieved the pup only just in time to keep him from being suffocated. She licked all the human scent from him and then with her wonderful, all-purpose nose guided him to one of her dugs. The blind, toothless, hairless baby instinctively began to gum the hard teat and after a little managed to make the glorious warm milk flow. He nursed and nursed until he fell asleep.
The pup grew quickly, for he did not have to compete with litter mates for his mother's supply of milk. When his eyes were open, in two weeks, the veneur took them back to the main kennels and the female was again chained to the ring. The pup was allowed to roam around as well as his clumsy baby feet could carry him and meet the dog pups that were about his age. Although the hounds were generally confined to the kennels, most of the other dogs were allowed the run of the castle and at meals fought over the bones the diners tossed among the rushes covering the floor.
At first the pup was almost pathetically eager to be friends with everything and everybody he met. He was so trusting and anxious to please that even the terriers with their hair-trigger tempers tolerated him. Utterly fearless, he several times wandered out of the kennels into the castle's bailey. This was a vast courtyard of almost constant activity. Women filled their buckets at the well, the count's men-at-arms — or gendarmes, as they were called — lounged about, squires in puffed sleeves and pointed shoes ran from the kitchen to the great hall bearing plates of food, and hawks screamed and shook their bells. Men galloped recklessly through the crowd on their way to the stables, and the pup would surely have been tramped to death or killed by an unfriendly cur if some well-disposed person had not carried him back to his overwrought mother. The pup accepted all this casually. To him, one place was as good as another.
This careless attitude began to change when he was a month old. By then, he was becoming suspicious of new places and strangers, either animal or human. His puppy innocence gradually left him and he came to realize that anything strange was potentially dangerous. At the same time, he began to react drastically to any sudden stimuli. A man's quick movement, a horn blown unexpectedly, the whiff of an unknown scent, caused him to recoil with incredible quickness. Even after he was satisfied that the alarm was needless, it took him some time to relax again. The dogs were puzzled and the men amused at his nervousness, but in a wild state either an animal reacts instantly to any strange event or it is dead.
Even though mother and pup were closely attached, each found the other's conduct confusing. Especially bewildering to the pup was his mother's attitude toward a certain great alaunt that strode grandly about the castle, the count's special favorite and the lord of all the other dogs. The alaunts were the biggest of all the dogs and were used on dangerous game such as wild boar and bears. They were also employed as watchdogs.
Whenever this particular alaunt went past, the pup's mother would put her tail between her legs, lower her haunches, hump her back, and put her ears down in token of abject submission. Often she would crouch down, whimpering, and try to crawl toward him. She always seemed astonished when he paid no attention to her. If the pup were nearby, his mother would pick him up in her mouth and hold him out to the alaunt as though she expected the haughty brute to be charmed by the little wiggling creature. When the pup was in the process of being weaned, his mother would regurgitate partly digested food for him, and the pup soon learned to encourage her to do this by nibbling and licking at the corners of her mouth. If the alaunt were there, the mother would stand back, holding her head high so the pup could not reach it, and watch the giant dog hopefully as though she expected him to join in the feeding of the pup, which, of course, he never did.
The pup was even more surprised by his mother's attitude toward fighting. When he was small, he and the other pups would tussle and roll about while his mother watched with pleasure. But by the time he was six months old and had his adult teeth, these squabbles ceased to be goodnatured play and became serious combats. As soon as his mother realized that the roughhousing had turned to fighting, she became uneasy. She herself seldom fought, and for that reason preferred to be with the raches, the hounds worked in packs, who were more peaceful than the aggressive terriers or fierce alaunts. If a dog attacked her, rather than use her murderous fangs, she would turn sideways and knock him over with a blow of her shoulder. The pup had early learned to assert himself among the other pups. He had too much wolf in him — and wolves are also pack animals — to go about with a chip on his shoulder, but he had enough dog in him to be ready to fight. Once when he was in a fight and had managed to get his opponent down, he suddenly found himself treacherously attacked from the rear. He spun around with a snarl to find his worried mother pulling him off his victim by his tail!
Least understandable of all was his mother's attitude toward humans. She stood in perpetual awe of them, except for the veneur, the only man she trusted. The pup had no fear of humans whatsoever. This was not to say that he did not fully realize that humans, under certain conditions, could hurt him. He took good care to keep out of the way of a man armed with any kind of weapon, even a stick; but if the man was unarmed, the wolf-dog was indifferent to him. Women and children he openly despised. Early he discovered that if they had food and he charged them, growling, they would drop the food and run. He also enjoyed chasing livestock. His mother, even when she was allowed to run free, never bothered livestock as long as she was well fed. To her, there was no reason to attack an animal unless you wanted to eat it. She could not imagine doing it for sport. But all the half-grown young dogs liked to hunt for fun until they were broken of the habit by liberal use of the whip. However, the veneur quickly found that the wolf-dog furiously resented punishment, which the dogs accepted without question. To the wolf-dog, punishment meant that he was being attacked. It was also futile to punish his mother; it simply made her wild with fear and rage.
Wolves are not aggressive. Dogs are, but they are also man-oriented. Through centuries of domestication they have come to accept man as their master and to obey him. From his father, the alaunt, the wolf-dog inherited a dog's aggressiveness, but because of his wolf blood he did not have a dog's respect for man. By the same token, he had none of his mother's instinctive dread of humans. She was as apprehensive of a small child as she was of an armed man. If the pup could have expressed himself in such terms, he would have said that his mother had a superstitious dread of humans.
Only in one respect was his mother belligerent. If a bitch approached the big alaunt, his mother would attack her. If the alaunt showed any interest in the bitch, his mother was furious. She might take out her rage even on her beloved pup, so he learned to keep out of her way at such times.
Autumn had come. The hips burned red in the thickets, the haws were black in the hedgerows, and the leaves had turned russet. The wolf-dog that someday would be known as Courtaud was lying in the lists — the open space outside the castle walls — half asleep in the sun. Below him was the barbican that marked the castle's outermost defense, a fortified double gate in the palisade of sharply pointed logs that ringed the lists. The palisade was not intended to withstand a serious attack; only to hold back an enemy long enough for the alarm to be sounded, the drawbridge raised, and the portcullis dropped. But no danger threatened this peaceful fall day and only a token watch was kept.
A string of serfs, each bent almost double by the great load of faggots on his back, was coming through the barbican and starting up the hill on which stood the castle. Courtaud watched them idly. Even though he could not scent quite as well as the raches, and was completely outclassed by the marvelous limiers that were used only to start game or unravel a difficult spot in a trail, he had far better eyesight than either and he could see the oncoming serfs easily. Like most animals, especially wolves, he was able to notice minute differences in gait, bearing, and attitude. He could also tell a great deal about a man or an animal by the way the creature moved. Now, watching these serfs, he felt there was something strange about them.
For several days now, serfs from the village had been bringing wood to the castle against the cold days of winter, and this group appeared to be no different from the others. Neither the porter in the barbican nor the castle servants going about their tasks bothered to give the toiling villeins a second glance, but Courtaud rose to his feet, growling. These men did not move quite like serfs. They did not carry their loads in exactly the same way. And, most significant of all, as they came closer they did not smell like serfs. That last was decisive.
Courtaud barked. It was very seldom that he barked, in contrast to the dogs, who were always barking. This was an alarm bark. It was sharp, followed by a more drawn-out note ending in a number of softer, lowerpitched barks. No one paid any attention to him, so Courtaud barked again and, as his warning was still ignored, he raised his head and howled, the rallying cry that should have brought all his comrades racing to his side. Only his mother, chained far away in the kennels, answered him. The dogs did not know what the sound meant.
Rumbling deep down in his chest, Courtaud approached the line of serfs stiff-legged. He would dearly have loved to nip one of their calves, but hesitated. If only there were an older, more authoritative dog with him to take the initiative! Still growling, he followed the men across the drawbridge into the bailey. Here they stopped and their leader dropped his load and raised his head to look about him.
It was definitely not the motion of a serf and Courtaud barked again. This time one of the men-at-arms looked up, called to him, and then glanced at the serf. Instantly the gendarme stiffened. The serf had light hair and blue eyes! For a moment the two men stared at each other. Then the serf cried in a strange tongue, "Out swords!"
No one in the bailey could understand the foreign words, but there was no mistaking his actions, for as he shouted he reached into the bundle of faggots he was carrying and jerked out a sword. The other men also threw down their loads and produced various sorts of weapons, from battle-axes to great bows as long as themselves. Together they made a concentrated rush on the twin round towers that stood on either side of the castle's entrance and supported the ponderous portcullis.
In the bailey, there was the wildest confusion. Women screamed, men shouted, trumpets were blown. A group of men-at-arms led by a knight wearing only jerkin and hose, but carrying a sword and shield, rushed across the bailey in pursuit of the invaders. Two of the strangers turned at the entrance to the nearest tower and held the narrow passageway against them.
Now came a fresh diversion. From the direction of the woods that came within a bowshot of the outer palisade a trumpet sounded, and at once a stream of horsemen broke from the cover of the trees and raced toward the castle. These were men in full armor, although the armor was of all different shapes and designs. Before the porter could secure the barbican gates, the galloping horsemen had burst through and were tearing up the hill on which stood the castle. A few arrows pattered among them, discharged from the sentinels on the castle ramparts. Then the riders were across the drawbridge and into the bailey. The little group of menat- arms were instantly ridden down, the others who were rushing out of the barracks were driven back, and the invaders were in possession of the castle.
Terrified, the young Courtaud fled to the only safe place he had ever known, the kennels, and crouched by his mother. Behind them came the tumult of the hounds and the barking of the alarmed, angry terriers. Outside, fighting was still going on. The cringing animals could hear the vicious hiss of arrows, the clash of steel, the war cries and the curses. Finally it died down. Now came a shout of "Break open the chests!" followed by shouts of delight. The looting had begun.
Soon the wolf-dog and his mother smelled smoke and the odor of cooking meat. They also smelled the sweet, tangy scent of wine as the casks were staved in. They heard shouts, laughter, and the screams and pleadings of women. All the dogs not locked in the kennels had run away, but Courtaud stayed with his chained mother.
An hour or so before sunset, some men came in. They were obviously very drunk. Courtaud could both smell it and tell by their voices and motions. They tried to grab him, but when he showed his teeth they let him go and drew their swords. Courtaud knew he had no chance against steel and allowed himself to be herded into the bailey. The men also tried to bring his mother, but she was plainly so terrified they let her go.
The bailey was strewn with bodies and the smell of blood and death was everywhere. They passed the corpse of Count Raoul, who had died sword in hand; beside him lay the body of the great alaunt, Courtaud's father, who had died fighting beside his master. A great fire had been lit and near it was a small herd of frightened cattle. Some of their number had already been butchered and were cooking over the flames on the ends of long spits held by weeping women. Not only cattle were roasting. Some of the men had cooked a baby and were now forcing the mother to eat parts of the burned little corpse while they howled with mirth. Though it meant nothing to the wolf-dog, these men were the écorcheurs — the 'flayers' — one of the roving bands of French, English, and German deserters from the armies who lived off the land and spared nothing, often skinning their captives alive.
Courtaud's capturers joined a group of men who had also managed to obtain a few dogs. Others had tied a long rope around the neck of a bull, fastening the other end to a ring in the wall.
Now the dogs were brought up and encouraged by shouts to attack the tethered animal. With their training against molesting livestock, the dogs were at first uncertain what to do and the bull was equally reluctant to open hostilities. To infuriate him, the men hissed, shouted, and waved their arms. Some began prodding him with their spears and twisting his tail. The bull roared with pain and fear as boiling water was flung on his testicles.
Courtaud, pushed forward with lance heads, stared at the tortured animal wonderingly. Unable to reach the men, the bull charged the dogs. One turned to flee, but the bull's horn caught him as he turned. He flew up in the air, yelping. Two of the men sprang forward and tried to catch him to break his fall but missed. The dog came down on the paving stones and lay squirming with a broken back.
Now the bull turned on Courtaud. Warned by the dog's fate, he kept as close to the ground as possible to prevent the bull from getting his horns under him. Frustrated, the bull was forced to try to impale the wolf-dog with his right horn, turning his head sideways. Instantly Courtaud seized him by the ear. The bull tossed his head and Courtaud in spite of his size and weight went flying through the air. He too would have come down on the stones, but two of the men used the butts of their lances to catch him in midair and ease his fall.
Shaken but unhurt, Courtaud faced his foe again. He would have liked to have gotten behind him. All his experience with cattle had taught him they are much easier to attack from the rear, but the bull's sweeping horns held him off. As the bull charged again with lowered head, Courtaud seized him by the nose.
The bull bellowed with pain and rage and tried to toss the dog, but Courtaud spread his feet and hung on. A bull's nose is one of the most sensitive parts of his anatomy, and the wolf's long canines were buried deep in the soft flesh. The bull could get no leverage to toss and Courtaud was holding him. The men were yelling with delight and making bets when the rope holding the bull broke. In an instant the animal was free.
"A lane!" shouted a dozen voices. The crowd opened as the bull by sheer strength forced the wolf back. Courtaud was forced to let go. Insane with pain, the bull charged blindly into the fire, scattering burning faggots in all directions. Flitches brought from the cellar took fire and their melting fat added to the flames. Tapestries brought from the looted castle flared up. The wine casks ignited and burst their bands. The hayricks by the stables went up.
Courtaud ran back to the kennels. His mother lay there dead with a dozen arrows sticking from her body. Some of the archers had amused themselves by using the helpless animal as a target.
Courtaud stood over the body uncertain what to do. Under ordinary conditions the wolf pup would have refused to leave the body for some hours if not for some days. But these were not ordinary conditions. Panicked by the smoke, the shouting, and the strange men, Courtaud turned and ran. He dashed through the bailey and over the bridge. Now in the open, he ran as he had never run before, seeking only to put as much distance as possible between him and the horror.
These were terrible days in France. Not only the écorcheurs were devastating the land: Burgundy fought against Champagne, England fought against the unhappy young king Charles VII, and the powerful barons fought each other. Courtaud passed through district after district laid in waste. Sometimes he found half-rotten carrion to eat in the burned villages. Sometimes he was able to catch a vole or a rabbit. On and on he went northward, until the ground began to rise and he found himself on a tree-covered hogback called the Schnee Fifel in the Ardennes mountains. Here were many old castles and heavily fortified churches, with little towns clustered at crossroads or in a river valley. There were cloud-topped ridges, deep sinkholes, and great caverns. There were also vast coniferous forests where an army could hide.
