Wolf’s Redemption (The Wolves of Langeais #3)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Renaud paced the chamber beyond the sacristy, plotting his next move. He doubted he could lure his informant to another meeting. What would they have to discuss? With d’Louncrais dead, the chevalier had achieved his objective. He grimaced. With Ulrik Voclain now free, he was no closer to his. Even if it were possible to convince the chevalier to meet, the man would be leery after the successful capture of Voclain.

He paused by the window. One of the brutish twins leaned casually against the outer wall of the bailey, watching him. Aubert? Edmond? Did it really matter which? The twin tilted his chin at him, and Renaud scowled. The twin tipped his head back and laughed. Edmond. Aubert had but one facial expression—a perpetual snarl.

Renaud turned away from the window. A black-robed figure stood in the doorway. Renaud glared at the angelic face of the young eveque. Everywhere he went—the keep, the chapel, the village—Faucher followed, monitoring his every move. The mere sight of the man irritated him. When would he leave Langeais? He had thought to order the eveque to other duties far from here, but for certain Faucher had instructions that repealed any command of his. Renaud needed a distraction. If he could use one problem to rid himself of another…

He repressed the smile threatening to form on his lips. “Come in, Eveque Faucher. Your timing is impeccable. I believe I have some information that may interest you, given your proclivity for the dark arts.”

The impudent git looked wary. “Less than a sennight ago, you ordered me to put aside such foolishness. What has changed?”

Faucher was wise to be suspicious. Renaud had a lifetime of scheming and manipulating people to his advantage. Faucher had not. He was young and overconfident in his abilities. To Renaud, he was merely an inconvenience and, perhaps now, a useful one.

Renaud touched his hand to his brow, allowing it to shake a little. “Forgive an old man his bad temper. I do not react as well to change as I used to. Come and take a seat. Perhaps I was a little hasty. It seems new information has come to me, and you may be the best to handle it.”

* * * *

With his worn clothing and his feet bare, Remi crept through the sacristy, down the corridor, leaned against the wall outside the archeveque’s chamber and listened. No one paid attention to a child. Less so to one from the streets such as him—a beggar, a street urchin. His last three years alone on the streets had taught him how to move about unseen and unheard. Snatching a loaf of bread here, a piece of fruit there, a coin or two from the chapel’s collection plate, or a fat purse picked from the folds of a merchant’s tunic. It was that or starve. A few clips around the ears from irate stall holders, screeches from cooks in fancy homes calling for retribution, had soon taught him how to be stealthy. How to not get caught. Until the day the big chevalier had grabbed hold of his hand as he had slipped it beneath the warrior’s hauberk.

Which was how he now found himself skulking through the chapel, spying for the big warrior by listening to the conversation of the highest-ranking churchman who had ever graced Langeais. Archeveque Renaud.

“There is a chevalier,” said the archeveque, his voice clear through the open doorway. “He will tell you he and I have been working together.”

Remi peered around the door frame. Archeveque Renaud sat hunched in his chair. The hint of silver thread spun through the black cloth of his cassock glinting in the weak autumn sun, Renaud stared out of the window with his hands clutched in front of him as though at prayer. Across from Renaud, with his back to Remi, sat Eveque Faucher. Young for an eveque, he had the hands and the countenance of one born to wealth and privilege, smooth and soft. Nothing so lowly as the son of a merchant or farmer. Luc glanced down at his own hands, grubby fingernails chipped and knuckles scraped. If not for the big chevalier, he would never have found himself near such illustrious persons.

“He claimed to be a werewolf,” the archeveque said.

Werewolf? Interesting. Rumor had it Eveque Faucher hunted witches and all forms of ungodly creatures. Not that Remi believed in such things. He had seen many a monster in his short life, all of the human variety. But he had long ago learned the nobility often had strange ideas, and if it earned him a few extra coins from the big chevalier, he cared not what they believed in.

“I thought only to help a troubled man,” continued the archeveque. “One whose grip on reality appeared to be fading. Now…” A deep inhale, a large exhale and a downturn of his thin lips.

Remi almost snorted. The archeveque should take a part in the next church playlet. Did the eveque truly believe this? Trust this? He had seen the young eveque arrive, had heard the confrontation between the two men. The old archeveque had been unhappy at the younger man’s arrival. Yet, now, Renaud wanted to work with Faucher?

And the villagers think I am crooked?

Eveque Faucher leaned forward in his seat. “You suspect this man is exactly what he claims to be? Of telling the truth?”

The archeveque’s shoulders slumped, and his gaze shifted from the window. Luc ducked back into the shadows of the corridor. “I fear…yes. I… It troubles me to break the sanctity of the confessional, but…”

There was the sound of a quill scratching across paper, and Luc screwed up his nose. The big chevalier would have paid more handsomely for a name, but he would not get it today. Perhaps he could pick the pocket of this visiting eveque. Remi had never learned how to read. Perhaps the chevalier had.

At the scrape of a chair and footsteps moving toward the door, Remi slunk away, slipping past Aumonier Touissant with his head bowed in prayer, out of the chapel and into the bailey. He pulled up short at the two men standing by the wall.

Two of them? Twins?

He smirked as he made his way to the two hulking men. Maybe he could make them pay double.

* * * *

Archeveque Renaud hid a smile as Faucher departed, the name of Renaud’s informant on the parchment clasped in his hands. Faucher would be relentless in tracking down the informant, but the chevalier was a wily one. The task should keep Faucher preoccupied and solve his problem of the chevalier.

He swiveled to stare out of the window. The little beggar boy he had spied eavesdropping on his conversation had joined the Montagne twins by the bailey wall. Edmond dropped two coins into the boy’s grubby outstretched hand, and the boy slipped away, trailing along behind the unsuspecting Faucher. Renaud rubbed his hands together. Things were working out rather well.

* * * *

“That will be all,” said Lothair, dismissing the three young chevaliers, his hand hovering over his mouth and nostrils.

Perhaps he should have insisted they wash before they responded to his summons. He had, after all, given the young chevaliers cesspit duty for their role in Ulrik Voclain’s escape. He strode to the window, banged open the shutters and breathed in sweet, fresh air. It could take weeks to get the stench from his chambers.

“Mon Seigneur Comte.” The capitaine of his guard entered the room. His nose twitched and his eyes watered a little. “You wished to see me, Mon Seigneur?”

“Yes. How goes the hunt for Voclain?”

The capitaine paled and pursed his lips. “There has been no sight of him, Mon Seigneur. I had men tracking him from the postern gate. He headed north, but we lost his tracks when he entered a creek. We are combing the creek bank now, trying to pick up his trail, but the storm has hampered our progress. I suspect he is heading for Blois.”

“Then you would suspect wrong.”

For all his impulsiveness, Ulrik was one smart chevalier, and he was loyal to his alpha. He would not abandon Gaharet. If Lothair was right, he would turn up where he least expected him to and, most likely, right under his nose. It was what he would do. No, Ulrik had not headed for Blois.

“I have a new target for you, Capitaine. A woman.”

Clement, and the young chevaliers who had manned the postern gate the night Ulrik had escaped, all concurred. The woman was unusual. She would stand out. Find her and they would find Ulrik. If he was anything like Gaharet, or Aimon—and Lothair suspected all werewolves would be—he would do almost anything to protect her. Renaud, it seemed, did have the occasional good idea.

“A woman, Mon Seigneur Comte?”

“A woman. With green streaks in her hair, skin markings on her arms, and silver in her ears and nose. Concentrate to the west of the keep, as far west as the d’Louncrais estate. Find her and bring her to me.”

The capitaine bowed. “I will see it done, Mon Seigneur Comte.”

With a wave, Lothair dismissed him. He rubbed the back of his neck. Perhaps he should abandon his plan. It had flaws. For all their strengths, werewolves had weaknesses. Wolfsbane and silver they could avoid, and once he had dispatched Renaud, none would know of them but the werewolves themselves. But this weakness for women, this possessiveness and protectiveness they each displayed for one woman, that he could not bear. It was something he could use to control any werewolf he turned, but if he were to become one, if he were to follow his plan through to its ultimate objective, then his enemies could use it against him, too.