Chapter 21

Léo had returned shortly after Sidonie departed for the hermitage. While she’d been hunting a hare with Apolline, Léo had been sharing his remarkable story back at the estate. Aunt Eloise had offered Léo a room in the house, but he wanted to stay in the stables with Fabien, who was glad to have him. It was among the mingled scents of hay and horseflesh that Sidonie’s joy upon seeing Léo was abruptly overshadowed by a dark cloud when she learned the identity of the murdered boy. It was Louis, the brother of the little girl she’d tried to save. She kept picturing the siblings, standing at the door, holding on tightly to one another’s hands. If only she had brought them inside, if only she had caught them before they left the estate or had pursued them beyond the boundary. They were too young to have been taken so soon and in such horrific circumstances. Pain stabbed through her heart, coupled with fear. For Léo had seen something that he could not understand.

It was Aunt Eloise who told her of the black creature with the arms of a man. Léo had slipped into a heavy sleep, Fabien remaining with him while Sidonie and her aunt stepped outside.

‘Not even Léo knows precisely what he saw,’ Aunt Eloise explained, watching her reaction closely. ‘My thoughts on the subject have not changed. There is no werewolf; of this I am certain.’

Sidonie rubbed her hands over her arms in a way that had nothing to do with the sharp chill in the air. ‘How else can you explain what Léo saw?’

Aunt Eloise did not hesitate. ‘I cannot. It is not my burden to do so, nor is it yours. Redirect your attention to something useful.’

Her aunt was right; Sidonie needed a distraction. More than that, she needed a purpose – something to mitigate this feeling of helplessness before it consumed her. ‘Have you sent for the surgeon to look at Léo’s arm?’

‘I had planned to send Fabien to fetch him, but now that you have returned, could I impose upon you to go?’ Aunt Eloise handed her a note. ‘I don’t wish to part Léo and Fabien so soon.’ Her voice had a tremor that wasn’t usually there. It spoke of her worry for the boy, much as she had tried to hide it.

‘Why do you think he went back to that house?’ Sidonie asked. ‘Why not return here where he would be protected? Why go to a boarding house where he has no family?’

‘I doubt he thought about it overmuch. He was hurt, and his instinct was to run home to his mother.’

‘Only his mother was not there. What happened to Léo’s parents? Did they die?’

Aunt Eloise shook her head. ‘His mother brought him here. His father is a poacher and was sent to prison. It was not his first incarceration. This time he would be gone for two years. Each time he was released from prison he came home meaner, more violent towards his wife and the boy. Did you know Léo can no longer hear from one of his ears on account of all the blows? His mother wanted better for her son, so she brought him to me.’

‘Why did she bring him to you?’

‘I have a lot of children working for me, in case it has escaped your notice,’ Aunt Eloise said with a smile.

That fact was impossible to ignore. Even now she could see three young girls in the chicken coop, scattering grain. She was certain she had never seen their faces around the estate before. ‘Will his mother return for him?’

‘She told Léo she would come back for him once she was settled. But she told me she could no longer care for him. Once her husband is released from prison, she will go back to him, as surely as a moth is attracted to a flame. I offered to assist her in finding work somewhere far from here, where she could take Léo.’

‘And she refused? Why?’

‘Because she loves her husband. Fool that she is. Still, she would give up her own life, but not that of her son. When her husband is released from prison and returns home to find his son missing, he will kill her. Make no mistake of that.’

‘I do not understand,’ Sidonie said. ‘If she knows this too, why would she stay?’

‘If only I knew the answer to that question. Perhaps she believes she does not deserve better? Or that her experience of love is so twisted with hate that she cannot tell the two apart.’ Aunt Eloise’s eyes lost focus as she stared over Sidonie’s shoulder. ‘Love cannot exist when one person inflicts harm on the other. Love is not something you feel, it is what you do – actions, words and promises that are kept. Léo’s mother cannot see any other life for herself without her husband. But she wants better for Léo. And I can give her that.’

Sidonie didn’t understand, not truly. She took Kelpie and headed into town. It felt good to be doing something purposeful, something that would help Léo. The sky hung low and heavy, the thick brooding clouds casting oppressive shadows as she rode along the main road. She found herself startling at the smallest thing – a hare in the near distance, a cart overtaking her, a loud nicker from Kelpie. She clenched the reins tightly, the leather pressing into the fresh cut on her palm. Her grip did not lessen until she reached her destination.

The surgeon occupied a small house south of the river that cut through the centre of Dole. The girl who answered the door wore the uniform of a maid and told her the surgeon was out visiting a patient. Sidonie handed her the note and asked her to give it to him as soon as he arrived. Having promised to do so, the girl bid her good day and closed the door.

As Sidonie turned to leave, she noticed a woman staring at her, dressed in a simple but elegant gown in a shade of yellow that reminded her of a wheat field ready for harvest. Her hair was pulled back severely into a knot at the base of her neck, and she wore no veil or cap. The woman took a couple of steps forward and raised her hand as if she would touch Sidonie’s cheek. Then she gave her head a little shake and lost the glazed look in her eyes.

‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘When I saw you, it made me think of my dear girl. She was taken, killed, while out tending one of our flocks.’

This must be the mother of the first child killed, the daughter of the sheep farmer . Sidonie’s heart filled with sorrow. ‘I am so sorry for your loss. May God keep her by His side.’

The woman’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you. That’s kind of you. My girl, she had only ten years. Since she died, I’ve imagined what she would have looked like, had she grown to be a woman. And when I saw you today. You look exactly how I imagined she would.’

A man appeared at the woman’s side. ‘Come, wife,’ he said gently. ‘We have sheep to tend and a farm to run.’

‘The work, it occupies me and stops me from thinking terrible things. Keep my daughter in your prayers, won’t you, mademoiselle? And pray that they capture this beast, so another mother does not have to live with this terrible ache.’

‘I will, madame,’ Sidonie promised. When next she did pray, she would keep the girl in her thoughts. It had been close to two weeks since she’d knelt before God and opened her heart. Ever since she had stayed by the bedside of the dying girl, she had been unable to do so. Every time she knelt at the foot of her bed, her knees pressed into the cold floor, all she could see was the girl’s face. And that of her own father. She tried not to think about the night the men had come to take her papa away. The night her maman had died. Sidonie had been plucked from Poligny like a flower in bloom and replanted in a hard and unforgiving earth, far away from her home. Not once in the intervening years had she heard mention of werewolves. And now, a tale from Olivier, a priest condemning them, children gone missing and turning up dead – all in the space of weeks, and she at the centre of it all. A woman whose own father had been executed for being a werewolf. Not that she had ever believed for a moment that it was true, even in her darkest moments.

A commotion on the other side of the river drew her attention. Men had gathered in a huddle and words were being thrown, shouts and taunts. Echoes of children picking on the weakest in the group. Only there were no children here.

‘Apolline?’ came a plea.

Gilles Garnier should not be in town. He should be at the hermitage with Apolline. That was where he belonged, in the forest, hunting. Here he was incongruous, something different, something other. He was dwarfed by the trees of the forest, but among the people of Dole he stood like a beacon, a full head taller than most. But despite his size they surrounded him. Brave as a pack. Frightened eyes looked out from a mass of wiry hair, for Gilles wore no cap and the hair on his head blended with that of his beard, a man with more hair than flesh. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms also covered in the same coarse, wiry strands. Only Sidonie, who had spent some time with him, knew the sound of fear in his voice, recognised panic in the way his eyes darted from side to side like a trapped animal. Leaving Kelpie tied up outside the surgeon’s house, she hurried over the bridge to the north side of the river.

‘Look at that idiot!’ said a man with a thin moustache.

‘Get that imbecile off the street!’ shouted another.

‘Apolline?’ Gilles said, his voice rising in pitch as he became increasingly frightened. ‘Apolline, where are you?’

The crowd began to mock him, calling his wife’s name and jostling him from side to side. A tomato flew from the crowd, connecting with Gilles’s head. He put a hand to his face, and it came away coated in juice and seeds.

Two gendarmes hesitated at the edge of the mob. Their sense of duty finally overcame their trepidation. ‘Come with us now. Let’s get you back to the hospital where you belong.’

‘No,’ Gilles struggled, turning around but finding nowhere to go. ‘Apolline!’ He wrenched his arms free and sent the gendarmes tumbling to the ground. He let out a sound midway between a scream and a roar, showing teeth that were long and yellow.

Sidonie recoiled. So did the crowd, their bravery forgotten. There was fear now, and with it, suspicion. This man was a stranger to them. He was different. He could be dangerous.

‘Werewolf,’ someone said.

The word, quickly fired from the mouth of a stranger, struck the assembled crowd with the force of a bullet. Sidonie froze as taunts turned to threats, sneers turned to snarls and hands reached for weapons. Her ears echoed with the word ‘werewolf’ as the crowd began to chant, stirring themselves into a frenzy with each repetition.

The gendarmes conferred and one ran off, presumably to fetch reinforcements. Sidonie had to do something. She had to get Gilles away from here and back to where he belonged before the people turned to something sharper than words.

‘Monsieur Garnier? Gilles!’ She pushed through the crowd and waved her hand in front of his face to get his attention. He looked at her but didn’t seem to see her.

‘It’s Sidonie. Mademoiselle Montot. Do you remember me? I’m Apolline’s friend.’

‘Apolline? Friend? You have a black horse.’

‘That’s right, I have a black horse. She’s right over there. Let me take you home.’ She took his arm gently and at first his muscles tensed, but then they relaxed. Head lowered, she didn’t meet the eyes of the men who circled them. Some animals hunted in packs, circling their prey before striking, weakening it until they could finish the kill. Sidonie and Gilles were bumped and jostled as she steered him away. The crowd followed her to the bridge, muttering and cursing. She knew with absolute certainty that it would only take one word, one ill-timed movement, and the crowd would be upon them. Then there would be no escape. Gilles shuffled along at her side, his head also lowered, his breathing laboured. Only the two of them stepped off the bridge on the other side of the river. She did not dare tempt fate by looking behind her. Only once it was clear they would not be pursued did she draw a deep breath, moving more swiftly until they reached Kelpie.

‘Home?’ Gilles whimpered. ‘I was hunting a hare and left the forest and then I got lost.’

‘Never mind that now. Let’s just get you home to Apolline.’

‘Apolline,’ he echoed.

Pierre watched the young woman lead the imbecile away. When he had heard the word ‘werewolf’ spoken in the streets, he had hastened over. Not to interfere but to watch. The brute certainly resembled the werewolves detailed in texts, even though in this form he was human. The woman who had hurried to his side, who’d approached him with such familiarity before leading him away, intrigued him. How she’d soothed him, as if a spell had been cast.

‘Who is that woman?’ Pierre asked the crowd, but he was met with blank expressions. The woman had already escorted the brute to the other side of the river where she collected her horse, heading for the road that led out of Dole.

Pierre knew that house. He walked over the bridge and knocked on the surgeon’s door.

Apolline yawned as she shifted the bucket of water to her other hand, her breath rising from her mouth like white smoke. Frost lingered on the leaves and grass, sparkling in the early morning light. She would’ve found it pretty if she wasn’t so tired.

When Sidonie had brought Gilles back the day before, she’d told Apolline what had happened in town. Gilles wouldn’t speak of it. He’d taken himself to her bed, curled up tight as could be. She offered him what comfort she could, pressing her body tight to his back until he finally ceased trembling and his breathing became regular. She’d given up on sleep a short time before dawn. The men who had taunted Gilles in town could easily find their way here. But she and Gilles needed water, and the stream was only a short distance away.

The men were waiting for her when she got back to the cottage. The five of them stood together as a group, their eyes narrowed, their muscles clenched and ready for a fight. They didn’t try to touch her, but she shrank from the anger in their eyes.

‘What do you want?’ Apolline asked, holding the bucket in front of her and gripping it with both hands.

‘Where’s your husband, witch?’ said a man with a hooded eye. He spat over his shoulder.

Witch. The word sent a chill through her body that had nothing to do with the cool of the morning. She’d tried to be careful with her herb-craft, but she hadn’t been careful enough. And now they’d come for her. Well, they would have to rip her from the very ground because she had no intention of making it easy for them.

But they made no move to grab her. None of them so much as touched her. They were looking at something else. Her husband appeared from within the cottage and slowly lumbered to her side, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

The men all froze as he approached.

‘I know you,’ he said, taking in the sight of them. ‘Why are they here, Apolline?’

‘By special edict of parliament, we’re authorised to hunt the werewolf that’s been killing and eating our children. You were seen, hermit,’ said the tallest and stoutest of the men, boldly stepping forward.

Trouble followed Gilles around – not that it was his fault for being so large. Gentle as a lamb, he was, and always had been. Since he first came to the Magdalene house.

‘He did nothing. He would never hurt anyone,’ she said.

‘Shut up, witch! Let him speak,’ said the one with the hooded eye.

Gilles looked between her and the men. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand!’ mocked the stout one. ‘Well, understand this. We’re hunting a beast and if we think that’s you, then you’re as good as dead. You and your witch!’ He kicked out and connected with the bucket. Apolline lost her balance and fell.

Gilles roared and launched himself at the stout man. His fist connected with the man’s face, and she heard bones crunch as Gilles broke his nose. The man lay on the ground, scrambling to get away while Apolline picked herself up and looked for a weapon. There was none she could see, so she threw herself into the fray.

‘No!’ Gilles said, pushing her away. ‘You stay.’

There was no way she would stand idly by while her husband fought five men. She picked up sticks, rocks, anything she could throw, and aimed them all at the men. When she could find nothing else to throw, she removed her shoes one at a time and threw those. Then she swung the bucket repeatedly at a man Gilles had thrown to the ground, beating him until Gilles pushed her off.

Finally, only two men remained, the others having run away. One charged at Gilles, but he caught the man’s arm in a tight grip and snapped the bone. The man screamed and dropped to one knee. The other remaining man wrapped his arm around the injured man’s waist and quickly led him away.

Gilles’s fists were bloodied, and he had a small cut above his eye. But other than that, he seemed unharmed.

‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed. ‘I didn’t want to hurt them.’

‘I know you didn’t.’ But he had. So had she. Broken bones could poison the blood. Those men could die. They would return to town, share their tale and then more men would come. And they now had a target for all their hatred, their fear and their shame.

She pulled Gilles’s head down to rest on her shoulder, stroking his hair as he sobbed.