Chapter 20

‘How many children must die before you act? As Chancellor of the Court, it is within your power to declare these deaths the work of a werewolf.’

Pierre had uttered many variations of the same sentiment, but the man sitting across from him failed to listen. Parliament had not taken the young witness’s account as seriously as he had anticipated.

Each day since speaking to the boy, Pierre had entered the Parliament of Dole, the seat of justice for the entirety of the Franche-Comté region. It was one of two important buildings occupying the centre of town – the other being Notre-Dame. Like the cathedral, the parliament building was new, built for its purpose. A hive of bustling activity could be found within its walls, where prosecutors and advocates brushed past clerks and citizens. Where the business of life and death, of justice and the law took place. And before him, seated in a large leather chair, wearing the long robes and official insignia that denoted his privileged position, was the man who had power that Pierre could only covet.

‘Monsieur de Lancre, I agree that something must be done about these attacks. But I cannot agree that publicly identifying the perpetrator as a werewolf would be in the best interests of the citizens of Dole,’ the chancellor said.

‘What will it take, chancellor? Another two, three or a score of dead children? I request this be taken to the Chambre des Requêtes,’ Pierre said, naming the room where requests for justice would be examined by parliament and a decision made. ‘The people will not tolerate inaction. You must name the perpetrator a werewolf so a formal hunt can begin. Otherwise, the next dead child could mean a riot.’

A knock at the door and the prosecutor Henri Camus stuck his head inside. ‘Forgive the interruption, chancellor, but another body has been found.’

‘Another one?’ the chancellor said with a groan. ‘Send someone for Capitaine Vasseur at the conciergerie.’

No one had told Pierre to leave, so he waited with the chancellor until Henri Camus returned with Capitaine Vasseur.

‘I spoke with the man who found the latest body,’ the capitaine said. ‘A gruesome discovery.’

‘Did he see the attacker?’ the chancellor asked.

The capitaine shook his head. ‘He did recognise this fourth victim as the blacksmith’s son. As for who killed him, he could not say.’

‘Whom – or what,’ Pierre said.

The chancellor looked between the three men. ‘Capitaine Vasseur, take Monsieur de Lancre with you and examine the body. I want a definitive answer on whether these attacks were caused by wolves or a werewolf. The attacks are increasing, and we must be seen to be doing something about it. As you know, these are turbulent times. Reports of witches are spreading across France and the Holy Roman Empire. We must be careful, you understand, about whom or what we say is responsible for these attacks. Until we know for certain that what we are facing is unnatural, we must treat this as any other murder – with care and precision, and above all, discretion.’

Discretion? Pierre wondered if he had heard correctly. ‘Chancellor, I have spoken at length with Father Ignace about the attacks. Our course of action is clear.’

‘Father Ignace, did you say?’ The chancellor squirmed in his chair. It seemed even one of the most important officials in Dole respected the priest’s power.

‘The Church is aware of this threat, a threat not just to the lives of the people of this city but to their very souls.’

The chancellor looked uncomfortable. ‘While we greatly respect the Church, there is no need for them to be involved in this matter.’

‘All matters are a matter for the Church,’ Pierre said.

It seemed as if the chancellor wished to argue but thought better of doing so. ‘Go now. And come back with something we can use.’

Dole was encircled by fortified walls that were easily the height of five or six men. They were made of the same sandstone as most of the town’s buildings, although their appearance was rougher – the walls were less about pleasing the eye than keeping its citizens safe, and that included keeping undesirables out. Rain had been steadily falling, darkening sections of stone and raising the smell of excrement, which Pierre hoped was animal.

The body had been found in the shadow of the walls. A crowd had been forming ever since its discovery. The location was unusual, for the other three victims had all been found near the forest.

A fall from that height would almost certainly be fatal, Pierre thought, shielding his eyes as he looked up at the nearest tower. Although a fall would not account for the other injuries. And the location of the body was not the only thing separating this most recent murder from the others.

‘How old is the victim?’ Pierre asked, looking at the body. It had been lying there for some time, for the clothing was soaked through, the hair clinging to the sides of his pallid face. The smell of urine was even stronger here. He would not have called this victim a boy, as the chancellor had – hair sprouted from his upper lip and chin.

‘That’s the son of Duchamp the blacksmith. Same age as my girl. Six or seven and ten,’ someone called out from the crowd.

The corpse was also fully clothed. Like the previous victim, he was missing a leg, but the body was otherwise intact. The boy’s face looked peaceful; he could have been sleeping if his neck was not held in such a strange position. There was something else odd about the neck. Pierre leaned in closer.

‘His neck is broken,’ Capitaine Vasseur said, looking at up the wall. ‘Could have fallen.’

The same thought Pierre had had earlier. ‘Doesn’t account for the leg.’ Breathing through his mouth, Pierre leaned in more closely to examine the wound site. Unlike the body of the third victim who he’d seen in the surgeon’s house, there was no jagged skin to show the leg had been torn off. Even to his untrained eye, the cut looked clean.

Another darker thought had occurred to him. Men had been known to use the crimes of others to hide their own. There were too many dissimilarities between this body and the other victims of the werewolf – the location, his age, and the body showed no signs of being eaten. Someone who knew enough about the werewolf attacks but not enough to copy them exactly.

‘You,’ Pierre said, pointing to the man who had offered the information about the victim’s age. He wore a leather jerkin over a pair of red breeches. Good quality clothing. ‘What do you know of Duchamp?’

The man’s eyes went wide. ‘No more than most. He has his forge north of the river.’

‘And his son?’

‘Name of Etienne, if I correctly recall. He would run the forge when his father was absent. Duchamp has a daughter too, younger by a year or two. Only she went missing in the summer.’

It would account for the victim’s well-muscled frame. Someone may have wanted to be rid of this young man and was using the acts of the werewolf as a cover for his crime. He could not allow that to be known. The werewolf was close to being given legitimacy. If any seeds of doubt were sown, all that hard-won credibility would be lost.

‘Where can I find Duchamp?’

Duchamp the blacksmith was all muscles, sweat and coarse dark hair, with the rheumy eyes of a man who enjoyed his drink far too much. He stood before the open furnace of his forge, pounding an iron horseshoe with a heavy mallet, hitting it against the anvil, his eyes looking only at the metal implement being shaped in front of him.

The heat stung Pierre’s eyes and his skin broke out in a sweat. But he did not flinch as he told the man his son was dead.

‘Killed by the werewolf, may God have mercy on his soul,’ Duchamp said, banging at the iron.

Pierre did not respond.

‘Told him he shouldn’t leave the house; it wasn’t safe to wander about.’

Pierre remained silent.

‘And what are you going to do about it? How many of our children need to die before you stop it?’

With a heavy swing, he slipped and the mallet slid off the iron.

‘God’s balls!’ the blacksmith cursed. ‘Why don’t you leave? You’ve said what you needed to say, now go, leave me alone with my grief.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t leave just yet.’ Until the fools in charge of Dole acknowledged Pierre’s authority, he would impose it at his own discretion. ‘I have some questions for you about your son’s death.’

‘Why can’t you leave me be?’ the blacksmith said, throwing his hands up. ‘Did you hound the other parents about their dead children?’

‘Tell me about your son. Where is his mother?’

‘Dead. Why do you care? Who are you, anyway?’

‘I am here because Dole is under threat from a werewolf. I’m an expert in werewolf attacks. I know precisely what one looks like.’ Pierre hoped that Duchamp did not catch the lie.

He didn’t. ‘Then you know that’s how my boy was killed. The damned beast took his leg, didn’t it?’

Pierre’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Know what?’

‘That your son was missing a leg.’

‘You said so.’

‘I did not. His neck was broken too. You have large hands. Strong hands. A werewolf has teeth and claws; it does not need to use hands.’

The look on Duchamp’s face confirmed Pierre’s suspicions. The only problem was what to do with this information. ‘I have a problem, Duchamp. Word will have spread across town by now that your son is the latest victim of the werewolf. If I were to take you to the conciergerie, you would be found guilty of murdering him. They may accuse you of killing the other children as well. A big, hairy man like you could easily be mistaken for a werewolf. That won’t do, though. That would mean the real werewolf continues to roam free. However, if I say nothing, you will go unpunished. What am I to do?’

‘Am I to blame for this? Is that what you’re getting at? That son of mine drove me to it. Him and that bitch daughter of mine. You don’t know anything, monsieur . All these women and children going missing from Dole, and men like you don’t care.’

‘I’ve heard of the missing women and children. How does that involve you?’

‘Someone has been stealing our women and children. Taking our property! My property!’ Duchamp jabbed himself hard in the chest. ‘My children belong to me. They’re mine to do with as I see best, because that’s how God made it and that’s how it is. My daughter thinks she can leave me! Gave my son ideas that he could do the same! I’m not saying I killed my son, but they both knew what was coming to them when they crossed me. This is on their heads, not mine.’

Pierre stepped close to Duchamp. Close enough to smell the sweat on his skin. ‘I don’t care about your daughter. I don’t care about you. I care about saving this town from the werewolf that plagues it and I won’t have anyone – least of all a pus-filled sore like you – interfering with the will of God.’

‘And what’s the will of God?’

‘I am!’ Pierre shouted. ‘I will have you gone. And if you’re not gone by next morning, Duchamp, then you’re mine to do with as I see best. Do you understand me?’

The blacksmith dropped his eyes and muttered that he understood.

‘Speak to no one,’ Pierre said. ‘And perhaps you’ll save that worthless neck.’

The blacksmith dropped his mallet. ‘I’ll say one thing before I go. Something you’ll need to know.’

‘What of value could you have to tell me?’ Pierre sneered.

‘Those women and children aren’t running off on their own.’

‘You think a man is taking them? A slaver? Some other fanciful idea to absolve yourself of responsibility?’

‘It’s no man. It’s a woman. And a noble one at that. Women like that think they can do anything because they have money. She stole my daughter, and it’s because of her and her meddling that my son is dead. And she’s going to make a fool of you.’

Word of the latest attack tore through the town like a brushfire, burning away any last doubt in the minds of its citizens that a werewolf was responsible. Pierre did not even need to leave his lodging house to learn that radical reforms had been made in the court of the Parliament of Dole. While most ordinary citizens carried about their business with no thought of the men that governed them, Pierre rushed straight to parliament. He found Henri Camus in a state of agitation.

‘An edict from the Duke of Alba,’ the prosecutor stammered. ‘It arrived overnight.’

‘What care should we have for what a Spaniard has to say?’ Pierre retorted.

‘You, I and everyone else within these walls should take heed, for Dole is situated in the County of Burgundy, at present held by the Hapsburgs of Spain. We were all ignorant, save the president, of an inquiry ordered by the duke. Such an undertaking revealed gross inefficiency and malpractice across the entirety of parliament. The president and several councillors lost their positions with immediate effect.’

‘What a scandal!’ Pierre said. And what an opportunity this could present , he thought. ‘What of your position?’

‘Secure. His Grace did not find fault in the public prosecutor.’

‘How relieved you must be,’ he said drily, his hopes dashed.

‘Indeed,’ Henri said with a laugh. ‘Although surely a missed opportunity for you?’

Pierre chuckled without mirth. ‘What is to happen now? What of the hunt for the werewolf?’

‘Parliament – or what remains of it – is meeting now in the Chambre des Requêtes. We are ordered to expedite our business with greater speed and efficiency, under penalty of future accusations of negligence and maladministration. I think you will find circumstances progress more rapidly from here on. Come, they are starting.’

Pierre followed Henri into the Chambre des Requêtes where they separated, Pierre finding a seat while Henri joined the other members of the court. The reverberations from numerous footsteps echoed off the solid oak-panelled walls as the men found their seats. Devoid of windows, the room’s light came from a grand chandelier hanging prominently from the ceiling in the centre of the chamber, as well as candelabras strategically placed throughout the room. A distinctive scent lingered – that of unwashed bodies and damp wool. Pierre wrinkled his nose.

The men of parliament were dressed in coloured robes signifying their position and separating them from other notable men of the town. Once the steady trickle of men entering the room had ceased, only half the available seats were filled. Murmurs and whispers were everywhere about who was absent and who had not survived the Duke of Alba’s edict. Looking around, Pierre noted the significant absence of the clergy – with one exception. Father Ignace saw him as he entered and nodded in acknowledgement. From his spot at the edge of the chamber, Pierre waited for the proceedings to begin.

The chancellor entered the room and quickly moved to the centre, where he remained standing and called for silence. ‘Until a new president is appointed, I shall assume the role.’

A few grumblings filled the room, but they quickly dissipated. The chancellor was now the most senior official in Dole.

‘There have been four attacks now, the last two less than a day apart. We need to do something, and quickly, before the men of the town decide to take matters into their own hands.’

‘People are afraid, chancellor. My wife won’t let the children so much as open the door!’ said the head of the drapers’ guild.

‘My daughter’s neighbour’s son said that he saw that hermit who lives in the forest walking around with his clothes covered in blood. You should arrest him!’ said a grain merchant.

Pierre sat up straighter in his chair. This was the first time he had heard about a hermit. A man who lived on the edge of society was a man to watch.

‘It’s his wife who brought the Devil to Dole. She’s known for selling all manner of spells and potions!’ said a wealthy landowner.

Pierre caught the man’s eye and nodded. A good, Catholic man. He regularly attended mass at Notre-Dame.

‘I want to hear from Father Ignace,’ the landowner said.

‘That would not be—’ the chancellor began.

‘Let the priest talk!’ cried another voice.

The chancellor attempted to silence the assembly, but Father Ignace had already risen to his feet. One by one the voices in the room fell silent. All the while, the priest stood tall and straight, as immovable as a pillar of black obsidian.

‘We are in the shadow of a great evil,’ the priest said in a measured tone, pausing to let his words sink in before continuing. ‘The Devil walks among us in the guise of his bestial servant. We must do everything we can to fight the forces of darkness, lest we be overrun. We must act swiftly, for each day we delay, the further we shall descend into evil.’

Pierre rose to his feet and leant his voice in support. ‘Father Ignace speaks the truth. If we do nothing, evil will overwhelm us all and plunge this land into Hell. I came to Dole at your moment of need because I sensed that we were at a critical junction. Here and now, we must choose whether to side with God or with the Devil. I shall do whatever it takes to free this town. What will you choose? Who will join Father Ignace in the fight against evil?’

It began slowly, with one man stamping his feet. The gesture was quickly taken up by another, and another, and another, until the sound rolled across the room like the furious beating of a heart. Pierre smiled in satisfaction. There would be no turning back now.

‘Messieurs!’ the chancellor shouted over the din. ‘The court of the Parliament of Dole will bring down an order: the men of Dole are ordered to assemble, armed with clubs, halberds, pikes, harquebuses and other cudgels, to hunt down the werewolf. They who find him, may catch or shoot him.’ He gestured towards Capitaine Vasseur. ‘With the assistance of the gendarmerie.’

Capitaine Vasseur folded his arms, a gesture that radiated displeasure.

‘Do you want the beast dead or alive?’ a man shouted.

‘Alive, so it can stand trial,’ the chancellor said. ‘You are authorised to use whatever means are at your disposal, but you must operate within the boundaries of the law. Speak to your guilds, family, friends and neighbours, and form groups of men to locate the werewolf. It has been known to attack at any time of the day or night, so exercise vigilance.’

The chancellor called an end to the meeting. The men began to file out, their excitement palpable.

As Pierre walked out, he overheard Capitaine Vasseur say something to the chancellor.

‘I have grave concerns about this,’ the capitaine said.

‘It was our only course of action given the circumstances,’ the chancellor replied. ‘If we didn’t sanction the hunt, then they would have started it regardless. The talk of the hermit is troubling.’

‘You expect violence?’

‘I do.’

‘My men and I will be prepared.’

The chancellor sighed. ‘Let’s just hope we capture it quickly and pray no one else dies.’