Werewolf

She stepped out of the hall into a world that had been transformed in her absence, a world that now seemed to her almost magical. There were a few small fires scattered around the quadrangle, with figures huddled around them, indistinct in the mist that had rolled in with the darkness. With the coming of the night, candles had been lit in the rooms of the castle and the stained glass windows that overlooked the courtyard were now a rainbow of colors – shimmering reds, iridescent blues, playful yellows. She marveled at the virtuosity of the men who had forged shards of colored glass into images of such power and beauty. The images were not gentle. Swords clashed in those rectangles of light. Limbs were severed, armor stained by blood. A maiden awaited with desperate anxiety the outcome of a deadly struggle. Wolves, red of fang and claw, tore at the throat of a struggling lion. But brutal as the images were, they took her breath away.

He whistled softly into the darkness and after a few moments, a figure emerged from the mist leading two horses. No two animals could have been more unlike. One was a magnificent black destrier, chomping at the bit, pawing at the ground, raising tiny clouds of dust, making no secret of the fact that it would be glad for the freedom of the wind in its glossy mane. The other was a snowy white palfrey, as tranquil as the surface of a lake unruffled by even the softest breeze. She seemed to be regarding her companion with a faint air of disapproval.

He reached into his pocket to extract a few lumps of sugar. The stallion nuzzled his palm eagerly, sucking up the lumps with a snort. He passed a few to her and said quietly, "Why don't you try?"

"Me?" she enquired, a little uncertain.

"Yes," he responded calmly, "she won't bite."

Brianna minced forward and hesitantly offered the lumps of sugar in her open palm to the mare who regarded her quizzically for a few moments and then nuzzled her hand softly, sniffing it, before daintily nibbling at the lumps. Brianna was enchanted. Her nose was so wet and ... so soft.

The mare bore a sidesaddle, a simple chair-like contraption, which would allow Brianna to rest one thigh on the horse, with her other foot in a stirrup. It was not the most comfortable arrangement, but she decided that she had little choice. It would just have to do. She felt his fingers wrap themselves around her waist and then she was hoisted in the air to be planted firmly in the saddle. He made her comfortable, her left foot securely in the stirrup, before mounting the stallion.

They set off at a leisurely pace through the woods, a pace that the stallion, who was snorting impatiently, didn't seem to approve of. The mare was happy enough and glided through the woods with a loose ambling gait that Brianna, who had never ridden a horse before, was grateful for.

"What's her name?" she asked, as she stroked the snowy white neck of her mount.

"Miranda," he replied, "and this," he said, patting the flank of the stallion fondly, "is Equus."

Hearing his name mentioned, Equus bared his broad white teeth at the two of them as though in greeting. He seemed in a particularly cheerful mood.

The path was a long one. But she didn't mind. She had never felt more at peace in her life than at that moment riding with this complete stranger through the night. The moon was not full, but it cast enough light to turn the charming little brook that she passed every day into a shining ribbon of silver. She had never known such silence as enveloped the woods, the only sounds the quiet breathing of the horses, the light scrunching sound of their hooves digging into the soft earth and an occasional little snort from Equus. It was as though the two of them, sifting through the moonlight, were all that was left of man. When they reached the edge of the woods, she almost felt a pang of loss. Her village lay ahead. This was as far as he would come.

He alighted from his horse to help her down. He picked up a mushroom, caked with earth, from among the ones she had gathered. He cleaned it with the pad of his thumb before tossing it dismissively back into the basket.

"I never acquired a taste for these," he said, half apologetically, "But there are enough in my grounds to keep your basket full for a year. I would be honored if you would come by again tomorrow. I'll have a servant pick them for you."

Brianna did not trust her voice enough to respond. She had assumed that the evening that had gone by was a passing interlude, magical yes but impermanent, in her otherwise uneventful life. She had not dared to imagine that he would invite her to his table again. The journey back to the village had been bittersweet on that very account. The realization that he did want to see her ... he did, didn't he? ... he did ask her back ... left her exhilarated. She didn't examine too closely why she felt so. There would be time enough for that when she was alone in her bed before sleep claimed her that night. She simply nodded, turned tail and ran off towards the quiet warmth of the lights that glimmered in the distance.

He was surprised too by his invitation, but he didn't regret it. He wasn't sure ... yet ... why she aroused his interest so, but somehow when the words had escaped his lips, they felt right. There was a small, niggling voice within him that told him that he was treading on dangerous ground, but he ignored it. He closed his eyes and his nostrils flared as he remembered the musky scent of her, a scent of earth and water, fresh grown grass and wood smoke.

The next morning, the sun was barely above the line of the trees and the meadow was still untouched by its creeping warmth when she was at the gates of the castle. There she hesitated. The evening before seemed almost like a dream and there was a part of her that feared that when she knocked, the doors would not open. But she finally summoned up the courage to lift the huge knocker in the shape of a lion's head and let it drop against the wood. For a brief space, there was complete silence and then the doors began to swing inwards.

And there he stood, in the middle of the quadrangle, as impeccably turned out as he had been the day before. She paused at the threshold of the fortress, once again consumed by shyness, until he smiled. She knew then that everything was alright and that she was where she was meant to be.

He led her this time into one of the wings of the castle. The grass that they strode across was wet from freshly fallen dew and she couldn't resist the temptation to kick off her cloth shoes and walk barefoot on the still awakening ground. A tiny smile that he struggled to hide tugged at the corners of his lips. The room that he led her into was huge and airy with rows of wooden shelves, dozens of manuscripts neatly arranged along their lengths. He reached above his head to retrieve a scroll from one of the shelves.

He walked across to a long table next to an open window and unrolled the parchment. She had not learnt to read and she did not understand the meaning of the letters that marched across the yellowing skin. But she was struck by the beauty of that page, by the clusters of black figures in the middle and a border so exquisite that she couldn't tear her eyes away from it. The border was a lush green vine, with flowers in a rainbow of colors scattered along its length.

And Raoul, in his turn, couldn't tear his eyes away from her – from the burnished copper of her hair, the soft brown of her eyes, her delicate upturned nose, her brow furrowed in concentration and her lips slightly parted as she traced a finger carefully along the sharp angular strokes. She seemed so fragile and ... so precious.

"Would you like to learn how to read?" he asked suddenly.

She turned to him, slack jawed with surprise.

"Would you really... teach me?" she stammered, scarcely willing to believe her ears.

"Yes," he replied, "I would be only too glad."

She was an eager pupil, conscientious and hard working, almost as though she were trying to make up for lost time. She seemed greedy for the world concealed in those pages. And she was. She thought often of those nameless monks hunched over small tables in their scriptoria, hidden away in a few dozen monasteries that jealously hoarded man's learning. She felt a stab of pity for them. She had been stricken when she learnt from Raoul that most of them turned blind before they were forty, their sight claimed by the pages that they filled.

She began to spend every day in the castle, poring over some obscure manuscript or warming herself on the battlements, wrapped in a companionable silence that both of them were reluctant to break. She had become so familiar a presence that even Zayev had stopped staring. But even so, there was much that she didn't know and didn't dare ask. Raoul rarely spoke of himself and while there were a thousand questions that danced on her lips, she held them in check. She suspected that the questions would not be welcome and consoled herself that she would probably have her answers in time.

There were, of course, some things that she already knew or had guessed. In all the time that she had been there, she did not sense a woman's presence within those walls. There was no hint of tenderness or delicacy ... or weakness. And she wondered why. He is so utterly desirable, she thought, what woman would deny him? And yet, there was something about him - a reticence, a hesitation - that she couldn't understand, as though he were holding his heart in check. She didn't know that she would have her answers soon enough.

That morning, as she walked across the quadrangle to the great hall, there seemed a subtle difference in the air that she couldn't explain, some unspoken hint of menace. It was reflected in Zayev's eyes when he opened the door. He cast a nervous glance at his master before letting her through. Raoul was on the high table and he stiffened perceptibly as he saw her. There was a hint of concern in his eyes before they hardened and became inscrutable.

He had company. The stranger at the table had her back to her and all that she could see was a dull brown tunic and the straggly wisps of gray hair surrounding his bald pate. Then the stranger sensed her presence and whipped around with surprising quickness. He had close-set eyes and a hooked nose that dominated his face. His lips were thin and bloodless – the lips of a corpse. His eyes were a cold gray. The surprise in them when she saw her was quickly replaced by something else that made her shiver. It wasn't lust that she saw in his eyes. He didn't look at her in the way the men of her village sometimes did. He looked at her with greed ... with a naked hunger that turned her insides into liquid.

"A girl," he rolled the words on his tongue as though he could taste them, "What an unexpected pleasure."

He grinned broadly, revealing a perfect set of teeth, the same startling white as the stubble of his beard. The smile did not reach his eyes. Brianna knew then, with a lucidity that was complete, that she was in mortal danger. She shot a nervous glance at Raoul.

"I didn't know you had company. Shall I come back later then?"

There was a note of entreaty in her voice that he couldn't have missed. But before he had a chance to respond, the stranger intervened.

"Oh, we wouldn't dream of it. You must join us. My presence is no reason for my friend to be remiss in his duties as a host."

She knew she could not decline. She sidled around the table on the opposite side from the stranger. But even the solidity of the table between them seemed to offer little assurance of safety. He sat with his hands on the table, crossed one over the other, regarding her with an intensity that was unrelenting. And then without taking his eyes from her face, he fluttered his fingers in the direction of Raoul and said, "Do me the honor of choosing a wine from your cellar for me ... something special ... something rich and full bodied."

She saw Raoul stiffen at the words. His eyes darkened and flashed what seemed like a warning to the stranger, who wasn't even looking. And then, ignoring the panic in Brianna's eyes, he slowly got up from the table and strode towards the winding stairs that led down into the cellar.

He had filled a pitcher of wine from one of the barrels in the cellar and was on the way up when he heard her scream. He let the pitcher drop and it shattered, drenching the stone ruby red, as he raced upwards. The hall was empty. His ears twitched and he detected the faint sound of a ragged breath above him from the tower. The scent of her fear was leaking down the stairs into the hall. He grabbed the cane and loped upwards, whipping around the winding stairs, drawn upwards by the scent of her terror.

She lay huddled on the floor in a tight knot, her limbs drawn against her body to protect herself. Her eyes were dilated with fear and her every breath was a sob. And he knew then, with a clarity that had eluded him for so long, the meaning of these past months. He knew then that she would not die ... not at this time ... not at this place ... because he wouldn't allow it. He couldn't allow it. He struggled to subdue the rage that was threatening to blot out reason and when he spoke, his voice was soft.

"Udolph."

The stranger did not glance at him. His eyes were fixed on the trembling heap on the floor. He waved a gnarled hand dismissively at the voice that had spoken his name.

"Go away, Raoul." His voice sounded almost cheerful. "I'm busy."

It was then that he heard the low growl that rumbled through Raoul's chest and hung in the air, making the walls of the tower thrum with menace. It made Udolph's scalp prickle. When he spoke, his voice was disbelieving.

"You would defy me over this ... this piece of meat." He almost spat out the last words and the contempt in his voice made the girl shudder.

"Her name is Brianna," Raoul murmured. His voice was still soft, but there was no longer mistaking the anger that tightened his throat.

And then suddenly, Udolph understood. He could scarcely believe it possible, but he knew that it was so.

"You are in love," he said. It was a statement, not a question, spoken in a tone that brooked no contradiction. From his lips, the words sounded strange as though they were spoken in a language unfamiliar to him.

Raoul's face betrayed no emotion. It was as though he had retreated to some place deep within himself.

"She is a guest in my home as are you," he replied, "And she'll leave it in safety."

When Udolph spoke, it was as though he hadn't heard what Raoul had said.

"You know it cannot be, Raoul." There was a sudden note of entreaty in his voice, a note of concern, almost of kindness, that was completely at odds with what he said. "Now you leave me no choice but to kill her to protect you."

"I don't need protection." His voice was flat, completely devoid of emotion. "It is time for you to leave."

"You know that cannot be," he sighed, "You know that I cannot leave." and then he added quietly, "You also know, Raoul, that if you persist, one of us must die."

Raoul's eyes were inscrutable, a swirling cloud of darkness that revealed nothing. He closed his eyes for a moment, drew a deep breath and murmured, "It is a good day to die."

"Don't tempt your fate, little one." There was a note almost of tenderness in the old man's voice. "I taught you everything that you know."

"Perhaps you taught me too well," he replied and then added after a moment's pause, "Master."

Udolph's shoulders sagged and when he spoke, his voice sounded tired.

"Let's finish it then."

For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, they were still, as though hewn from stone. And then they exploded into movement. Udolph reached for the sword at his hip and Raoul's cane became a sliver of light, its wooden shaft falling away to reveal the blade within. Brianna cringed at the whistling of metal through air and then it was as though time had slowed to a crawl. She saw with utter clarity the scene unfolding in front of her eyes. Raoul was on one knee, an arm outstretched, his blade glinting in the sunlight filtering through the narrow windows. She heard the soft liquid thump of Udolph's head bouncing down the winding stairs and then his dismembered body pitched slowly backwards, drenching her in the wash of blood pumping from the stump where his neck had been. And then she was screaming.

She felt the warm circle of Raoul's arms enfold her, draw her close. She was dizzy from the medley of scents that assaulted her nostrils – the musky fragrance of Raoul's skin, the hot stench of blood, the smell ... more subtle ... of her own fear. She heard his voice in her ear, soft, crooning, "Shhh ... you are safe now." She clung to that voice and to his body. It was her anchor in a world that had lost its center.

He gathered her up in his arms and gingerly made his way down the winding stairs, carefully avoiding the splashes of red that marked Udolph's passing. The head, the eyes now vacant, lay on a landing halfway down the spiral. Raoul shut his eyes against that vision and his mind against the sudden pain that wrenched his gut. It was not meant to end like this. Or perhaps it was, he thought. There had been something about Udolph this time around that had struck Raoul as not quite right. He had seemed weary, even more disillusioned than was his usual wont. Perhaps, Raoul thought, the old one had come to die. And what better way to go than in battle? Udolph would never have had it otherwise. He was not born to die in bed.

He carried the precious burden in his arms into one of the bedrooms in the west wing of the castle. Another room led from it. It was enormous and against one wall was an ornate claw footed brass tub. Zayev, who had been attracted by the commotion and was evidently feeling guilty for not having done more, quickly made himself useful. He filled the tub with warm water while his master gently peeled away Brianna's blood soaked robes. The old retainer paused for a moment as though he wished to say something and then thought better of it.

Raoul eased Brianna's body into the warm water. She sank into it gratefully and her lips parted in a soft sigh. He removed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his silk shirt. His heart lurched at the sight of her - her skin, pale as the finest marble, the swell of her breasts, the gentle flare of her hips, the soft curls like wisps of flame that framed the warm valley between her legs. His hands were trembling as he gently wiped her down with a soft cloth. She whimpered at his touch and her fingers fluttered lightly over his cheek.

As his hand wandered down over the curve of her belly towards her molten center, he felt rather than saw, by a tiny ripple in the water, her thighs whisper apart. He softly cupped her mound and pressed the cloth into the heat emanating from between her legs and her hips swiveled upwards pressing her flesh more firmly into his palm. Her eyes flickered open and her lips parted in a soft moan. They were so close – his lips and hers. All he had to do was to lean forward – just so – and she was his to claim. He felt himself drowning in the limpid pools of her eyes. If he let go, surely, he would never come to the surface again. With a supreme effort of will, ignoring her soft groan of protest, he tore himself away, from the beguiling invitation in those eyes and the tempting softness of those lips.

The water slid off her body as he gently lifted her out of the water. He dried her with a thick cloth and wrapped her in a silken robe. The robe concealed nothing. He could see clearly the soft brown of her nipples, now stiff and quivering, through the diaphanous silk, which had molded itself to her curves.