Chapter 11

Pierre was not used to being kept waiting. It was others who should wait on him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Was there no one working at the court office of the Parliament of Dole? And to not even offer him a chair while he waited – inconceivable.

He had insisted on travelling to Dole by private coach, an expense his father had taken care of when Pierre had informed him of his relationship with Monsieur Jacques Fontaine the elder. Pierre had written of his new professional connection and potential for obtaining an influential legal position in a provincial court. He had been careful to avoid any mention of werewolves in his letter, for his father would give that subject the same respect he gave Pierre’s interest in witches. A lie by omission was not the same as a falsehood. The same could not be said for Monsieur Fontaine, who had been intrigued by rumours of a werewolf in the Franche-Comté region and was only too happy for Pierre to use his name and letter of introduction to the President of the Parliament of Dole. While Monsieur Fontaine did not know the president personally, he was acquainted with the town’s public prosecutor, Monsieur Henri Camus.

With this introduction, Pierre could insinuate himself into any existing investigation, impress the provincial councillors with his skills and knowledge of the law, be named procureur général of the court and apprehend the werewolf himself. Then it would be his name spoken with hushed reverence throughout France. Soon after, he would be named magistrate and people would be drawn to his court to catch a glimpse of his greatness. His father would be among them, finally forced to acknowledge that the son had far surpassed the father. It was only a matter of time.

With the funds from his father and the letter from Monsieur Fontaine, he was well set up for an extended stay in Dole. This would be the making of him. He could feel it in his bones.

‘Who are you here to see, monsieur?’ asked a man dressed in the uniform of a gendarme.

‘The President of the Parliament of Dole,’ Pierre replied imperiously.

‘The president isn’t here.’

‘Then I wish to speak to the Chancellor of the Court.’

The gendarme shook his head.

‘Prosecutor Henri Camus?’

‘Busy.’

‘Then who am I to speak to?’ Pierre said in exasperation.

‘Come with me and state the nature of your business.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Jean-Luc Vasseur, Capitaine of the Gendarmerie.’

He could not be serious. Pierre almost scoffed. To expect a man such as himself to speak to a gendarme? What hope could he have of being understood by someone better placed to break up tavern brawls and disperse rabble? He certainly looked the type. A rough sort of man with the musculature of one more used to working with his hands than his mind.

‘This won’t do. I shall wait for the president to return,’ Pierre said.

‘You’ll be waiting a long time. He’s in Besancon. Not due back for two weeks.’

It seemed he had no choice. ‘Take me somewhere we can talk, then. Alone.’ For a moment Pierre thought the man would refuse, but then he nodded and showed him to a small room at the back of the court.

‘Take a seat, monsieur,’ the capitaine said, gesturing to a small chair that was little better than a stool. ‘One of my men told me you had information about the wolf attacks.’

Pierre produced the letter of introduction he had received from Monsieur Fontaine. ‘This explains it all.’

Capitaine Jean-Luc Vasseur looked at the paper but made no move to touch it. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

Could this oaf even read? Pierre wondered. ‘Shall I summarise its contents? I am here to offer my services to the parliament. My father is a royal official and confidant to His Majesty King Charles. I am at present working for Monsieur Jacques Fontaine.’ The latter was not entirely a lie; Monsieur Fontaine had said he would offer Pierre work if he were in a position to do so. ‘He has penned this letter of introduction to the President of the Parliament of Dole. I am a Doctor of Law and I have experience in the apprehension and interrogation of witches.’ A minor exaggeration: Pierre might lack direct experience, but he was confident of excelling when the situation called for his expertise. ‘Your criminal may be a werewolf and not a witch, but I can offer you a level of experience and expertise that you are unlikely to find here.’

While Pierre had been talking, the capitaine had been leaning back in his chair, watching him with a blank, unreadable expression.

‘Monsieur de Lancre,’ Capitaine Vasseur said, finally picking up the letter. He rubbed one large hand across his greying beard. ‘I do not know where you heard about the troubles in our town, but they are rumours, that’s all. Rumours and wolves. We’ve had reports of missing people – women and children mostly – but nothing unexpected in a town of this size. As for the wolf attacks, they are a part of our lives, being as close to the woods as we are. We’ve got one dead girl. Children die all the time; the wolves take them as easily as they take sheep. That’s likely what happened here. There is nothing to suggest otherwise. And I will not have an outsider fanning the flames of peasant superstition in my town. If this letter is what you say it is, then I can’t force you to leave but I can say this much: if you interfere with my work or my men, then a friend of the king or not, I will evict you from Dole.’

‘You think to threaten me, Capitaine Vasseur? When it is your town in need of me? I will stay and I will involve myself in any way I think best, because whether you can see it or not, there is evil in Dole. And I will cross any man to root it out and destroy it, including you. If you represent the quality of protection afforded the inhabitants of this town, then I pity their souls. You will be seeing a lot of me, capitaine, so you had best prepare yourself. I will not be spoken to in such a disrespectful way again.’ Pierre stormed out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind him. Head down, he paused only to spit against the side of the building as he made his exit.

His feet pounded against the cobblestones as he walked down the street in a rage until someone spoke a name that caught his attention. He halted and approached two men in the middle of a conversation. One was old enough to be his grandfather, while the other looked scarcely older than himself. He addressed the elder of the two. ‘Prosecutor Henri Camus?’

‘Yes?’ said the younger man. ‘Is there something I can do for you? One moment, monsieur.’

While Monsieur Camus exchanged a few final words with his aged acquaintance, Pierre attempted to dispel the shock from his expression. For one so young to have risen so high ... When the other man departed, Pierre quickly introduced himself and explained his relationship to Monsieur Fontaine. On hearing this news, Monsieur Camus gave him a different reception to the one he had just received from the capitaine.

‘Monsieur Fontaine is my mentor and a fine man. It’s been an age since we last spoke. Are you his current protégé?’

‘One could say that, yes,’ Pierre said, stretching the truth in an attempt to impress the prosecutor. ‘We worked together for a short while in Cologne. However, Monsieur Fontaine felt my talents would be best utilised elsewhere.’

Monsieur Camus tilted his head to the side, an expression Pierre found reminiscent of an expectant canine. The eyes, however, were sharp and focused. Even if the chin was weak. ‘And he sent you here? Well, you are a welcome sight.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I should not be speaking of this to an outsider, but Monsieur Fontaine would not have sent you here if you were not trustworthy. The truth is, we are in something of a crisis.’

‘Due to the werewolf?’

‘What? No, of course not. Politics, my man, politics. The president is in Besancon answering to the Duke of Alba on charges of gross inefficiency and ineptitude.’

‘What of the werewolf?’

‘Werewolf? We have none here. The last werewolf in this region was nigh on twenty years past. Although the rumours must have reached Rome, for they sent one of their own to lead the congregation at the new Notre-Dame. A man with great experience of werewolfery.’

Pierre was immediately intrigued. ‘Who is this man?’

‘Father Ignace. You can find him at the Collégiale Notre-Dame.’