Page 21 of Wolf's Return
A woman with a basket of wet clothing on her hip greeted them. A man outside his cottage whittling a stick nodded and smiled, muttering Monsieurand Ma Dame as they passed.
Now it was Constance who stared. At every villager, waiting, nay expecting someone to say something. About her, this stranger to their village with the odd colored eyes. Or, at the very least, to mention the large scarred black wolf trotting along beside her. Apart from a friendly greeting, the villagers paid them no mind at all.
“What a most extraordinary village.”
Monsieur D’Artagnon swiveled an ear in her direction.
“Do you not find it so? It is as if seeing a wolf walk through their village is neither here nor there. Nor am I stared at. Rumors must abound after supper last eve, yet nothing. Though I visit Langeais regularly, I am not afforded such grace as I am here. It is…” Her heart had never felt so…light. “Nice.”
Would that she had lived here. Had grown up here, in the shadow of the d’Louncrais keep. If she had, that child, or thatwoman, could easily have been her. Yet she had not. Certainly not after Jacques d’Louncrais had died, but not before either, when they had served him and been under his protection. “I wonder why my mother did not choose your village to live in?”
How different would her life be if she had? The connection with the Langeais wolves might well have remained intact. Her mother was long gone, and she had taken her reasoning with her to the grave. “Perhaps the old farmer with the boils would know?”
The black wolf padded beside her. Perhaps this woman with the second sight, cast out all those years ago, had sealedtheirfate, and forced her mother to seek other villages to live in and call their home. Had things changed since then? Could they change now?
She glanced at Monsieur D’Artagnon out of the corner of her eye. If she found a way around whatever kept him as a wolf, broke through what was holding him back and convinced him to return to human form, she would have proved herself to the Langeais wolves. To Seigneur Gaharet. Could she then ask a boon of him? Ask for a place in the d’Louncrais village?
Her heart swelled at the idea—of a little cottage amongst these people. Villagers who seemed no more bothered by her eyes, or her status as a witch, than they were of the rising and setting of the sun. No more living alone, eking a life from the forest.
Seigneur Gaharet’s word was law here. No one would cast her out, come for her with burning torches in the middle of the night. She would have more work, more means of putting food on the table. The village did not have a healer, and the d’Louncrais would benefit from having her close. No need to send a man on a half day journey should another turning require her skills. With more women coming from the future, Seigneur Gaharet would need her. What better place for her than in the d’Louncrais village?
First, she must do as Seigneur Gaharet asked. She eyed the black wolf again. And if doing so extinguished any chance of her vision coming true? She swallowed the lump in her throat. Or had her mother had been right, and her own hopes and dreams had swayed her second sight? Should she miss this opportunity to improve her life over something that would never come to pass? But…she was here. In the presence of anotherblack wolf. That had to meansomething.
Monsieur D’Artagnon nudged her with his shoulder, snapping her from her musings, and trotted toward a cottage second from the end of the row. Constance gathered her thoughts and followed. She had come here for a reason. Her reception here, what Master Tumas had to tell her, might change everything.
She rapped on the door, and it swung open to reveal a woman older than her, but younger than Tumas. “Good morrow. I am Constance.” She held up the bowl. “Seigneur Gaharet has sent me with a poultice for Master Tumas.”
The woman smiled and curtsied. “Monsieur. Ma Dame. Come in, come in. I am Georgette. Tumas is my father.”
Constance held up her hand. “Oh, I am not—” It was the dress. No peasant or servant would own such a fine garment. While she wore it, she would get the same reaction.
Monsieur D’Artagnon brushed past her and into the cottage, leaving Constance to follow. She stepped across the threshold into a cozy hut of mud-brick and thatch, much like her own. But there, the similarities ended. While her cottage’s thatched roof had gaps where the mice had defeated all her efforts to keep them out, this one had a tight weave. Where their table was of solid construction, hers was no more than discarded timbers cobbled together to provide something useful. Their bowls, pottery jars and mugs all matched. Their baskets and cooking pots were in good condition and by far more plentiful than her meager collection. And it was much, much bigger, withtwo sleeping nooks hidden behind fabric far thicker and of better quality than she had ever owned.
Tumas and his daughter lived as farmers, but it was clear the d’Louncrais looked after their people. She would not need a cottage as big as this one. Something small would more than suffice. She could have neighbors. And friends. She might never again feel the pinch of hunger in winter, when fewer people trudged out to the forest, braving the cold to see her. More reasons for her to want to live here in this village, cared for and watched over by the d’Louncrais.
Tumas roused from his seat. “There yer are, girlie.” He pointed at the bowl. “Is that fer me?”
Constance offered him the bowl and Tumas sniffed it, wrinkling his nose. He jabbed his finger in the sticky paste and grunted. “Can yer not”—he wiggled his fingers at her—“say a spell, or some such?” He scooped up some of the paste. It slid from his fingers and dropped into the bowl with a wet plop.
“You…want me to cast a spell? To heal your boil?” The man had been witness to a woman cast out of the village for witchcraft and he wanted her to perform a spell? Was this some sort of trap?
The old farmer’s scowl lifted. “Could yer? Save me walkin’ around with this sticky stuff on my neck, smellin’ like”—he sniffed at the bowl again—“whatever foul herbs Anne has mixed in this.”
“I…”
“Father.” Georgette heaved out a long-suffering sigh. “There are no simple solutions when it comes to healing. Your boils would be gone by now if you had only followed Anne’s instructions in the first place.” Tumas grunted and Georgette snatched the bowl from his hand. “Turn around and I will apply the poultice for you.”
She smiled an apology at Constance, as Tumas did as his daughter requested. “Do not mind my father. He is an old grouch, but it is all noise. Please, make yourself comfortable. I was about to serve up the midday meal. Would you care to join us?”
Constance was at a loss for words. When had a villager ever asked her to sit at their table? She made tinctures and poultices. She tended their illnesses and their injuries. They only called on her when they needed her skills. No one had invited her to join them for a meal. Not ever. Not when she had helped birth the tanner’s son or splinted the Fournier boy’s leg when he broke it falling from a horse. Nor when she had saved the life of the Bassett girl who had eaten the berries of the deadly nightshade.
Perhaps it was the dress, or the presence of Monsieur D’Artagnon, but Constance longed to believe it was because this village was different, that being in the care of the d’Louncrais, of werewolves, made the villagers more tolerant of each other.
Monsieur D’Artagnon leaped onto a seat, and Constance smiled at Georgette.
“That is very kind of you. Thank you.” Constance slid onto the bench seat next to him as Georgette applied the sticky paste to her father’s neck. Would what she learned here change how she viewed this village, these villagers? She shored up her courage. “Your father mentioned a witch at supper yestreen. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about her?” Her gaze flicked between Tumas and Georgette. “If you do not mind.”
“Of course. And you have come to the right place. Father is the oldest in the village. I doubt anyone else would remember her.” Georgette gestured to the bowl. “How often should I apply this?”
