The Wolves Of Paris
by
Daniel P. Mannix

Also by Daniel P. Mannix

 The Fox and the Hound

The Killers

Troubled Waters

 The Healer

 Drifter

A Sporting Chance For Young People

The Outcasts

The Wolves of Paris A NOVEL

Daniel P. Mannix

Drawings by Janny Wurts

E.P. DUTTON - NEW YORK

In memory of my dear little wife, Jule.

Our last book together.

Copyright 1978 by Daniel P. Mannix All rights reserved.

Printed
in the U.S.A.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system
now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the
publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in
connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper
or broadcast.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Mannix, Daniel Pratt, 1911 The wolves of Paris.

1. Title.

PZ4.M285Co [PS3563.As4] 813'.54 77-18004

ISBN: 0-525-23587-6

Published simultaneously in Canada by Clarke, Irwin & Company
Limited, Toronto and Vancouver

First Edition

Introduction

There has never been an authenticated case of wolves
in this hemisphere making an unprovoked attack on a human.

The North American wolf and his European cousin are virtually
identical, yet we have numerous stories of wolves attacking humans in
Europe.  As late as 1918, a woman was killed by wolves in France, and
even today there are accounts of wolves killing villagers in Russia.

Is the European wolf, then, more aggressive than the North
American, or are these tales merely legends?

There is no doubt that there have been man-eating wolves.

The most famous of these was La Beite du Gevaudan, who lived in
France during the middle of the eighteenth century and certainly killed
at least sixty people and possibly over a hundred.  This wolf-or
possibly wolves, as there may have been two of them-preyed on humans
from 1764 to 1767.  He then attacked a girl, who stabbed him in the
neck with a homemade bayonet.  The wolf ran off, but was followed and
shot by a M. Antoine.  The girl was able to identify the stab wound.

This animal was five feet, seven ever, continued, and another wolf
was shot after it had devoured a child.  The remains of the child were
found in its stomach.

Some wolves that attacked humans were probably rabid.

However, neither of these animals showed any signs of rabies.  One
was mated and had cubs.  Both were well fed and healthy.  Still, it may
be that they were not pure wolves, but wolf-dog crosses.  They were of
an unusual color and the formation of their muzzles and heads was
unlike that of ordinary wolves.  Wolves have a natural fear of
gressive.  Domestic dogs that have gone feral will often attack humans,
especially children.  For this reason, I have made Courtaud a wolf-dog
cross, although nothing is known of his background before he appeared
at the gates of Paris in 1439.

During the Hundred Years War in France, conditions were ideal for
producing man-eaters.  The country was desolated, corpses were common,
and mortally wounded men, women, and children who could offer no
resistance lay in the ruins of the sacked villages.  This is the
classical pattern for producing man-eaters.  The two lions that killed
so many coolies working on the Mombasa-Uganda Railway in East Africa
during 1898 that construction of the line had to be stopped for several
weeks, became ManEaters in much the same way.  Many of the coolie
laborers died and burial units were paid to inter them.  While I was in
Kenya, I was told by several men who remembered the lions (although J.
H.
Patterson, who finally succeeded in killing the man-eaters, does
not say so in his famous ManEaters of Tsavo) that the burial teams
often simply left the bodies in the bush to save themselves trouble.

The lions found the corpses and, since lions, like wolves, are
scavengers, learned to eat them.

The lions would then run toward the burial teams expecting to be
fed, which they promptly were, as the men dropped any body they were
carrying and fled.  Soon the lions would run toward any group of men
and if the men did not feed them, the lions in a rage would attack
them, apparently feeling that the men were withholding their food.

These lions became so wedded to human flesh that they would ignore
freshly killed zebras or live goats to seek out humans.  They were
finally lured in by using live humans as bait, protected by a cage made
of railroad rails.

The bears in Yellowstone Park exhibit a similar .  pattern.

They go to cars expecting to be fed.  If no food is forthcoming,
the angry bears often attack the people.  This has become so common
that now visitors are forbidden to feed the bears.

During the Middle Ages, wolves were so.much dreaded that special
shelters called "spittals" were built in .  Scotland where travelers
could take refuge overnight in wolfinfected areas.  In their
outstanding work, The Wolves of North America (pp.  12 8-149), Stanley
Young and Edward Goldman give a long list of apparently genuine cases
of wolves attacking humans.  Virtually all these cases occurred

ri

in Europe, and the few attacks recorded in North America are not
well authenticated.  Mr.  J. Curran of Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario,
Canada, offered a reward for any proven case of wolves attacking humans
in this hemisphere.  None was forthcoming.  In 1940, Mr.  Curran
expressed the opinion, "Any man who says he's been et by a wolf is a
liar."

It must be remembered that when Europeans arrived in North
America, they had firearms.  The medieval peasant was generally unarmed
except for a staff and a knife.  It is true that the American Indians
had no better weapons than the serfs, but they were experienced
woodsmen and, moreover, they had no domestic animals (except dogs)
which served as bait to lure the wolves in.  Also, there was plenty of
game in this continent, so that the wolves were not tempted to attack
humans.  The great battues, or hunts, that swept the forests clear of
game in the Middle Ages forced wolves in Europe to find other food, and
the constant wars made human flesh readily available.

My information on Courtaud comes from two sources.

One is Ernest Thompson Seton's Great Historic Am7lials (New York:
Charles Scribner's Sons, 1937).  The other isLe journal d'un bourgeois
de Paris sous Charles VI et Charles VII, de 1405 d 1449, Modern French
text by Roger H.

Guerrand (Paris: Livre club du libraire ' no.  138, 1963).

The bourgeois tells us that in one week of September 1439,
Courtaud (or Courtaud as it is sometimes spelled) and his pack killed
fourteen people.  He was held in such dread that the usual farewell to
anyone leaving the city was "eware of Courtaud!"  My account of his
death comes from Seton.

The present efforts on the part of "sportsmen" to exterminate the
few remaining wolf packs in this hemisphere are, of course, completely
unjustified.  They are apparently prompted by gunners who think this
will leave them more caribou and deer to slaughter for their own
purposes.

Wolves are perhaps the most interesting and intelligent of all
wild animals, and should be preserved.  D. P. M.

The Wolves of Paris

ONE The Fugitive

Even as the half-grown wolf cub made another desperate effort to
force his way through the snowdrifts, he knew his strength was fading
fast and soon his pursuer would be on him.  Still he fought on through
the quicksandlike snow.

Make a two-foot jump.  Bring the hind feet up beside the forefeet.

Rest a few seconds.  Jump again.  His mouth was open now.  His
tongue hung out.  Each burning breath he took sent puffs of white vapor
into the cruel cold.  No one could have guessed, watching the beaten,
tortured animal, that a few years later he would be Courtaud, the
Werewolf, who could drive a thousand men before him, hold Paris at
siege for three months in the terrible winter of 1439, and every day
devour a man as a dog might a bone.

A mile behind him came the louvetier, the professional
wolf-hunter.  The loztvetier was a little man with high cheekbones, a
flat nose, a short head, and skin the color of smoked beef.  He was a
Lapp, especially imported from Norrland for this hunt.  For three
months now, ever since this wolf had suddenly arrived from nowhere in
the High Ardennes in northern France, he had been killing the peasants'
sheep.  Unlike ordinary wolves, who kill only what they need and devour
their prey to the last shred, this strange wolf killed for pleasure.

He had no fear of man.

He would force his way into a fold, kill the guardian dog, and
butcher twenty ewes, eating only the choicest portions from one or two.

If the shepherd dared to challenge him, he would turn on the
shepherd.

At last the peasants living in this remote, inaccessible plateau
sent for help to the Flemish merchants who purchased their wool,
although it was well known that the Flemings had a purse for a heart
and boasted, "We buy a sheep from the peasants for a groat and sell
them back the tallow for a guilder."  Hard men of business the Flemings
might be, but they had no wish to see the Ardennes flocks wiped out.

So, through their connections with the all-powerful Hanseatic
League, they had brought down this louvetier to eliminate the menace.

The Lapps were experts at killing wolves.  They had to be in order
to preserve their vital reindeer herds.

Why did not the man sink in the soft snow when even the wolf's
broad, furry feet could not support him?  Strapped to the soles of the
Lapp's boots were flat strips of wood, a palm's breadth wide and as
long as the man was tall.  These tamed him.  By means of a pole held in
either hand he propelled himself along, sliding over the snow as a
skater might slide over ice.  Although it was hard for him to go
uphill, he could speed downhill faster than thought.  People who saw
him screamed and crossed themselves, calling on the saints to protect
them from such witchcraft.

The little hunter seemed to carry no weapon except the skinning
knife in his belt, but when he lifted his right-hand pole, the morning
sun flashed on the tip.  It was a spearhead, ground to such an edge
that the man shaved with it.  On the pole were three hundred notches,
each for a wolf killed by the pole.  Before noon, there would be three
hundred and one and the louvetier would have the wolf's fell, or
undressed skin, packed on his back and be able to claim the ten gold
ecus he had been promised for the loup-garou's head.

For three days the louvetier had tracked the wolf, taking up the
trail by a fold full of slaughtered sheep.  Now with victory only a
bowshot away, the tough little man was still apprehensive.  He hated
this curious country.  It was studded with weird-looking hills that
seemed to have sprung up by themselves, cut by ridges, and crisscrossed
by deeply eroded rivers and narrow ravines, which made it very unlike
the safe, broad, tundralike plains of his home.  He looked up nervously
at the hanging masses of snow clinging to the cliffs above him and
prayed to his gods to bring him safe back to the flat country of
Norrland.

Also, this,.animal he was pursuing was different from any wolf he
had ever seen.  The beast was enormous.  It must weigh more than he did
and, standing on its hind legs, be four handsbreadths taller.  He could
put his whole hand in the creature's footprint and leave space around
it.  Such a brute would have been unusual enough in the far north.

Here in France it was unbelievable.  Also, it was a curious russet
color with a white mark on the chest.  In addition to their usual gray,
wolves ranged in color from black to white, but he had never seen one
like this.  Lastly, the animal's head was all wrong.  The muzzle was
shorter than a wolf's should be and the skull looked rounder.  Ah well,
he would soon be up to it and then he would see if the loup-garou,
bogged down in the two-foot snow, could withstand his spearhead.  As he
prepared for the last rush, the louvetier dropped his fur jacket,
tossed away his cap made of wildcat hide, and discarded his heavy
gloves.  Now, stripped to his shirt, trousers, and tipped boots, he was
as light and unencumbered as possible.  On the way back, he could pick
up his clothing.

Several times during the last three fearful days the young wolf
had considered turning to meet his pursuer.  If the hunter had
retreated or shown any signs of fear, the wolf might well have
attacked.  Unlike other wolves, he had no innate fear of man, yet he
knew well that men could be dangerous.  He was convinced that this man
would not dare to follow him so, unless the creature possessed some
deadly weapon.  So he had fled.  Now he could flee no longer.  The time
had come to make a stand.  Even as the young wolf sensed this, he
topped a little rise and saw below him the surface of a frozen lake,
swept clean of snow by the wind.

At the sight, the wolf felt returning confidence.  Half rolling,
half swimming, he plunged down the slope and reached the ice.  Although
he skidded badly on the si' ippery surface, now at last he could run.

And run he did.

When the louvetier reached the crest of the rise and saw the wolf
speeding across the lake, he cursed, then with a lab of his poles he
sent himself flying down the slope.  On the hard, frozen surface of the
lake his skis could get no hold, but by pushing himself with his poles
he made fair progress.

Ahead was a single peak draped with snow rising directly from the
lake shore.  The rising sun caught this peak, turning it into a silver
arrowhead.  Like a giant tombstone the peak overhung man and animal; to
the Lapp it seemed like an ogre bending down to seize him or fling the
mantle of snow that clung to its crest over him as he would throw a net
on a mired-down hare.  He shrank from it, yet it was toward this peak
that the wolf ran.  The louvetier could not understand why: the snow
had drifted so heavily here that the animal was sure to be bogged in
it.  Wolves kept to lowed the same route, especially when pursued,
because experience had taught them that this was the easiest way to
travel.  Yet there was no sign of a trail through the drifts ahead, nor
up the mountainside.

The wolf reached the end of the lake and hesitated.  He ran back
and forth, seeking some way through the drifts, only to find himself
trapped.  Then at long last he turned at bay.  His head went down and
his ears were laid back.  His tail rose and went rigid.  The muzzle
wrinkled and the long canine teeth were bared in a snarl.  He crouched
slightly, gauging the angle of his spring.

At the sight, the louvetier became 'Jubilant.  He dropped his left
pole and seized the other with both hands, aiming the spearhead at the
wolf's white breast.  Taking care that his skis did not slip from under
him, he came on slowly.

The wolf watched him with its yellow slit eyes, taut as a
bowstring as it prepared for the charge.  So big was he and so
obviously determined to go down fighting that the Lapp was somewhat
perturbed.  To give himself courage and also to daunt the wolf, he
shouted his tribal war cry.

At the man's shrill cry, the great curtain of snow that hung from
the side of the peak seemed for an instant to gather itself together.

Then a crack zigzagged across its top where it 'Joined the stone.

Almost as fast as a jagged flash of lightning, the crack jumped
along the smooth face of the snowbank.  For a while nothing happened.

Then slowly and majestically the snow curtain left the side of the
peak and began to slide downward.  For a few seconds it seemed to float
like a giant feather.  Then its fall became faster and faster as the
avalanche gathered speed.

So intent were man and wolf on each other that they did not notice
the menace above them until the light was suddenly obliterated by the
falling mass.  Both looked up.  The wolf reacted first.  He spun around
and threw himself into the nearest drift.  Wildly he fought his way in
deeper and deeper, while behind him came the roar of hundreds of tons
of snow plunging down the slope.  For a long time the wolf lay
trembling as crash followed crash.  Even when all was still, he dared
not move but lay in his cave, gasping at the air filtering through the
snow.

At last he began to dig himself out.  It was a long task and,
tired as he was, he had to rest several times.  Finally the dark wall
around him grew translucent and he burst out into the light and, best
of all, into fresh air.  He bolted mouthfuls of it into his lungs.

Then he floundered out toward the lake.

Before him lay the body of the Lapp.  The edge of the avalanche
had caught the little man and hurled him against an ice-covered rock.

The wolf crouched down, watching carefully for some motion.  He
could smell the heavy, rancid odor of the man but there was no scent of
blood and, for all he knew, the man might also be crouched motionless
watching him.  Gradually he realized the man's eyes did not focus and
he was limp, not tense.  Still suspicious, the wolf rose and circled
the still figure.  He came closer, grabbed the man's leg, dragged him a
few inches, let go, and jumped back.  Still no response.  Again the
wolf came in and this time satisfied himself by both nose and eyes that
his enemy was dead.

For three days the young wolf had taken violent exercise and had
not eaten.  He was wild with hunger and, curiously, had no fear of
man-smell.  He came in for the third time and began to feed on the
corpse.  It was the first time he had ever eaten human flesh, but he
found it sweet and tender.

The wolf pup was born in the kennels of the Count Raoul de
Villeneuve in the pays, or region, of Champagne.

The count was only moderately fond of hunting so he maintained no
more than six hundred dogs of various breeds in his castle (a true
hunting enthusiast like Count Gaston de Foix had a kennel of 1,600
hounds).  Hunting was not only a sport, it was a necessity, for the
castle depended on wild game as its main source of meat.  The pup was
born on a cold, windy evening in March, together with five brothers and
sisters.  His mother was a bitch wolf that had been dug out of a den
three years before and kept for her urine, which was used as a bait to
trap other wolves.  She was chained to an iron ring in the wall and
after giving birth went frantic with anxiety, for all around her were
dogs fascinated by the newborn pups and she feared they intended to
hurt the tiny creatures.  In her hysterical efforts to save them, she
would seize a pup in her jaws, run back and forth seeking some place to
hide it, and by shoving the wretched, squirming little thing into some
crack, wedge it securely by pushes with her long nose, and then hurry
back to grab another.  She kept this up all night and by morning, only
one of the litter was left alive.

When the chief veneur, the master hunter, came at day light, he
was furious at having lost the bitch wolf's litter.

He had had no idea that she was in whelp, for there was no male
wolf in the castle.  He was the only human who could go near her, and
the bitch wolf allowed him to unsnap her chain and even to pick up the
one remaining pup that had survived the ordeal.  The man took her with
her pup to a quiet room, provided her with food and water, and then
left mother and pup alone.  After hiding the pup under some straw, the
mother quieted down.  Although she would not eat, she lapped some water
and then retrieved the pup only just in time to keep him from being
suffocated.  She licked all the human scent from him and then with her
wonderful, all-purpose nose guided him to one of her dugs.

The blind, toothless, hairless baby instinctively began to gum the
hard teat and after a little managed to make the glorious warm milk
flow.  He nursed and nursed until he fell asleep.

The pup grew quickly, for he did not have to compete with
littermates for his mother's supply of milk.  When his eyes were open,
in two weeks, the veneur took them back to the main kennels and the
female was again chained to the ring.  The pup was allowed to roam
around as well as his clumsy baby feet could carry him and meet the dog
pups that were about his age.  Although the hounds were generally
confined to the kennels, most of the other dogs were allowed the run of
the castle and at meals fought over the bones the diners tossed among
the rushes covering the floor.

At first the pup was almost pathetically eager to be friends with
everything and everybody he met.  He was so trusting and anxious to
please that even the terriers with their hair-trigger tempers tolerated
him.  Utterly fearless, he several times wandered out of the kennels
into the castle's bailey.  This was a vast courtyard of almost constant
activity.  Women filled their buckets at the well, the count's
men-at-armsr gendarmes, as they were called-lounged about, squires in
puffed sleeves and pointed shoes ran from the kitchen to the great hall
bearing plates of food, and hawks screamed and shook their bells.  Men
galloped recklessly through the crowd on their way to the stables, and
the pup would surely have been tramped to death or killed by an
unfriendly cur if some well-disposed person had not carried him back to
his overwrought mother.  The pup accepted all this casually.  To him,
one place was as good as another.

This careless attitude began to change when he was a month old.

By then, he was becoming suspicious of new places and strangers,
either animal or human.  His puppy innocence gradually left him and he
came to realize that anything strange was potentially dangerous.  At
the same time, he began to react drastically to any sudden stimuli.

A man's quick movement, a horn blown unexpectedly, the whiff of an
unknown scent, caused him to recoil with incredible quickness.  Even
after he was satisfied that the alarm was needless, it took him some
time to relax again.

The dogs were puzzled and the men amused at his nervousness, but
in a wild state either an animal reacts instantly to any strange event
or it is dead.

Even though mother and pup were closely attached, each found the
other's conduct confusing.  Especially bewildering to the pup was his
mother's attitude toward a certain great alaunt that strode grandly
about the castle, the count's special favorite and the lord of all the
other dogs.  The alaunts were the biggest of all the dogs and were used
on dangerous game such as wild boar and bears.  They were also employed
as watchdogs.

Whenever this particular alaunt went past, the pup's mother would
put her tail between her legs, lower her haunches, hump her back, and
put her ears down in token of abject submission.

Often she would crouch down, whimpering , and try to crawl toward
him.  She always seemed astonished when he paid no attention to her.

If the pup were nearby, his mother would pick him up in her mouth
and hold him out to the alaunt as though she expected the haughty brute
to be charmed by the little wiggling creature.  When the pup was in the
process of being weaned, his mother would regurgitate partly digested
food for him, and the pup soon learned to encourage her to do this by
nibbling and licking at the corners of her mouth.  If the alaunt were
there, the mother would stand back, holding her head high so the pup
could not reach it, and watch the giant dog hopefully as though she
expected him to 'join in the feeding of the pup, which, of course, he
never did.

The pup was even more surprised by his mother's attitude toward
fighting.  When he was small, he and the other pups would tussle and
roll about while his mother watched with pleasure.  But by the time he
was six months old and had his adult teeth, these squabbles ceased to
be goodnatured play and became serious combats.  As soon as his mother
realized that the roughhousing had turned to fighting, she became
uneasy.  She herself seldom fought, and for that reason preferred to be
with the raches, the hounds worked in packs, who were more peaceful
than the aggressive terriers or fierce alaunts.  If a dog attacked her,
rather than use her murderous fangs, she would turn sideways and knock
him over with a blow of her shoulder.  The pup had early learned to
assert himself among the other pups.  He had too much wolf in him-and
wolves are also pack animals-to go about with a chip on his shoulder,
but he had enough dog in him to be ready to fight.  Once when he was in
a fight and had managed to get his opponent down, he suddenly found
himself treacherously attacked from the rear.  He spun around with a
snarl to find his worried mother pulling him off his victim by his
tail!

Least understandable of all was his mother's attitude toward
humans.  She stood in perpetual awe of them, except for the veneur, the
only man she trusted.  The pup had no fear of humans whatsoever.

This was not to say that he did not fully realize that humans,
under certain conditions, could hurt him.  He took good care to keep
out of the way of a man armed with any kind of weapon, even a stick;
but if the man was unarmed, the wolf-dog was indifferent to him.  Women
and children he openly despised.  Early he discovered that if they had
food and he charged them, growling, they would drop the food and run.

He also enoyed chasing livestock.  His mother, even when she was
allowed to run free, never bothered livestock as long as she was well
fed.  To her, there was no reason to attack an animal unless you wanted
to eat it.  She could not imagine doing it for sport.  But all the
half-grown young dogs liked to hunt for fun until they were broken of
the habit by liberal use of the whip.  However, the veneur quickly
found that the wolf-dog furiously resented punishment, which the dogs
accepted without question.  To the wolf-dog, punishment meant that he
was being attacked.

It was also-futile to punish his mother; it simply made her wild
with fear and rage.

Wolves are not aggressive.  Dogs are, but they are also
man-oriented.  Through centuries of domestication they have come to
accept man as their master and to obey him.

From his father, the alaunt, the wolf-dog inherited a dog's
aggressiveness, but because of his wolf blood he did not have a dog's
respect for man.  By the same token, he had none of his mother's
instinctive dread of humans.  She was as apprehensive of a small child
as she was of an armed man.

If the pup could have expressed himself in such terms, he would
have said that his mother had a superstitious dread of humans.

Only in one respect was his mother belligerent.  If a bitch
approached the big alaunt, his mother would attack her.  If the alaunt
showed any interest in the bitch, his mother was furious.  She might
take out her rage even on her beloved pup, so he learned to keep out of
her way at such times.

Autumn had come.  The hips burned red in the thickets, the haws
were black in the hedgerows, and the leaves had turned russet.  The
wolf-dog that someday would be known as Courtaud was lying in the
lists-the open space outside the castle walls-half asleep in the sun.

Below him was the barbican that marked the castle's outermost
defense, a for'lied double gate in the palisade of sharply pointed logs
ti that ringed the lists.  The palisade was not intended to withstand a
serious attack; only to hold back an enemy long enough for the alarm to
be sounded, the drawbridge raised, and the portcullis dropped.  But no
danger threatened this peaceful fall day and only a token watch was
kept.

A string of serfs, each bent almost double by the great load of
faggots on his back, was coming through the barbican and starting up
the hill on which stood the castle.

Courtaud watched them idly.  Even though he could not scent quite
as well as the raches, and was completely outclassed by the marvelous
liniiers that were used only to start game or unravel a difficult spot
in a trail, he had far better eyesight than either and he could see the
oncoming serfs easily.  Like most animals, especially wolves, he was
able to notice minute differences in gait, bearing, and attitude .

He could also tell a great deal about a man or an animal by the
way the creature moved.  Now, watching these serfs, he felt there was
something strange about them.

For several days now, serfs from the village had been bringing
wood to the castle against the cold days of winter, and this group
appeared to be no different from the others.

Neither the porter in the barbican nor the castle servants going
about their tasks bothered to give the toiling villeins a second
glance, but Courtaud rose to his feet, growling.

These men did not move quite like serfs.  They did not carry their
loads in exactly the same way.  And, most significant of all, as they
came closer they did not smell like serfs.  That last was decisive.

Courtaud barked.  It was very seldom that he barked, in contrast
to the dogs, who were always barking.  This was an alarm bark.  It was
sharp, followed by a more drawn-out note ending in a number of softer,
lower-pitched barks.

No one paid any attention to him, so Courtaud barked again and, as
his warning was still ignored, he raised his head and howled, the
rallying cry that should have brought all his comrades racing to his
side.  Only his mother, chained far away in the kennels, answered him.

The dogs did not know what the sound meant.

Rumbling deep down in his chest, Courtaud approached the line of
serfs stiff-legged.  He would dearly have loved to nip one of their
calves, but hesitated.  If only there were tive!  Still growling, he
followed the men across the drawbridge 'into the bailey.  Here they
stopped and their leader dropped his load and raised his head to look
about him.

It was definitely not the motion of a serf and Courtaud barked
again.  This time one of the men-at-arms looked up, called to him, and
then glanced at the serf.  Instantly the gendarme stiffened.  The serf
had light hair and blue eyes!

For a moment the two men stared at each other.  Then the serf
cried in a strange tongue, "Out swords!  " No one in the bailey could
understand the foreign words, but there was no mistaking his actions,
for as he shouted he reached into the bundle of faggots he was carrying
and jerked out a sword.  The other men also threw down their loads and
produced various sorts of weapons, from battleaxes to great bows as
long as themselves.  Together they made a concentrated rush on the twin
round towers that stood on either side of the castle's entrance and
supported the ponderous portcullis.

In the bailey, there was the wildest confusion.  Women screamed,
men shouted, trumpets were blown.  A group of men-at-arms led by a
knight wearing only 'jerkin and hose, but carrying a sword and shield,
rushed across the bailey in pursuit of the invaders.  Two of the
strangers turned at the entrance to the nearest tower and held the
narrow passageway against them.

Now came a fresh diversion.  From the direction of the woods that
came within a bowshot of the outer palisade a trumpet sounded, and at
once a stream of horsemen broke from the cover of the trees and raced
toward the castle.

These were men in full armor, although the armor was of all
different shapes and designs.  Before the porter could secure the
barbican gates, the galloping horsemen had burst through and were
tearing up the hill on which stood the castle.  A few arrows pattered
among them, discharged from the sentinels on the castle ramparts.

Then the riders were across the drawbridge and into the bailey.

The little group of men-at-arms were instantly ridden down, the
others who were rushing out of the barracks were driven back, and the
invaders were in possession of the castle.

Terrified, the young Courtaud fled to the only safe place he had
ever known, the kennels, and crouched by his mother.  Behind them came
the tumult of the hounds and the barking of the alarmed, angry
terriers.  Outside, fighting was still going on.  The cringing animals
could hear the vicious hiss of arrows, the clash of steel, the war
cries and the curses.  Finally it died down.  Now came a shout of
"Break open the chests!"  followed by shouts of delight.

The looting had begun.

Soon the wolf-dog and his mother smelled smoke and the odor of
cooking meat.  They also smelled the sweet, tangy scent of wine as the
casks were staved in.  They heard shouts, laughter, and the screams and
pleadings of women.

All the dogs not locked in the kennels had run away, but Courtaud
stayed with his chained mother.

An hour or so before sunset, some men came in.  They were
obviously very drunk.  Courtaud could both smell it and tell by their
voices and motions.  They tried to grab him, but when he showed his
teeth they let him go and drew their swords.  Courtaud knew he had no
chance against steel and allowed himself to be herded into the halley.

The men also tried to bring his mother, but she was plainly so
terrified they let her go.

The bailey was strewn with bodies and the smell of blood and death
was everywhere.  They passed the corpse of Count Raoul, who had died
sword in hand; beside him lay the hod of the great alaunt, Courtaud's
father, who had died fighting beside his master.  A great fire had been
lit and near it was a small herd of frightened cattle.  Some of their
number had already been butchered and were cooking over the flames on
the ends of long spits held by weeping women.  Not only cattle were
roasting.  Some of the men had cooked a baby and were now forcing the
mother to eat parts of the burned little corpse while they howled with
mirth.  Though it meant nothing to the wolf-dog, these men were the
corcheurs-the "flayers"-one of the roving bands of French, English, and
German deserters from the armies who lived off the land and spared
nothing, often skinning their captives alive.

Courtaud's capturers 'Joined a group of men who had also managed
to obtain a few dogs.  Others had tied a long rope around the neck of a
bull, fastening the other end to a ring in the wall.

Now the dogs were brought up and encouraged by shouts to attack
the tethered animal.  With their training against molesting livestock,
the dogs were at first uncertain what to do and the bull was equally
reluctant to open hostilities.

To infuriate him, the men hissed, shouted, and waved their arms.

Some began prodding him with their spears and twisting his tail.

The bull roared with pain and fear as boiling water was flung on
his testicles.

Courtaud, pushed forward with lance heads, stared at the tortured
animal wonderingly.  Unable to reach the men, the bull charged the
dogs.  One turned to flee, but the bull's horn caught him as he turned.

He flew up in the air, yelping.  Two of the men sprang forward and
tried to catch him to break his fall but missed.  The dog came down on
the paving stones and lay squirming with a broken back.

Now the bull turned on Courtaud.  Warned by the dog's fate, he
kept as close to the ground as possible to prevent the bull from
getting his horns under him.  Frustrated; the bull was forced to try to
impale the wolf-dog with his right horn, turning his head sideways.

Instantly Courtaud seized him by the ear.  The bull tossed his
head and Courtaud in spite of his size and weight went flying through
the air.

He too would have come down on the stones, but two of the men used
the butts of their lances to catch him in midair and ease his fall.

Shaken but unhurt, Courtaud faced his foe again.  He would have
liked to have gotten behind him.  All his experience with cattle had
taught him they are much easier to attack from the rear, but the bull's
sweeping horns held him off - As the bull charged again with lowered
head, Courtaud seized him by the nose.

The bull bellowed with pain and rage and tried to toss the dog,
but Courtaud spread his feet and hung on.  A bull's nose is one of the
most sensitive parts of his anatomy, and the wolf's long canines were
buried deep in the soft flesh.

The bull could get no leverage to toss and Courtaud was holding
him.  The men were yelling with delight and making bets when the rope
holding the bull broke.  In an instant the animal was free.

"A lane!"  shouted a dozen voices.  The crowd opened as the bull
by sheer strength forced the wolf back.  Courtaud was forced to let go.

Insane with pain, the bull charged blindly into the fire,
scattering burning faggots in all directions.  Flitches brought from
the cellar took fire and their melting fat added to the flames.

Tapestries brought from the looted castle flared up.  The wine
casks ignited and burst their bands.  The hayricks by the stables went
up.

Courtaud ran back to the kennels.  His mother lay there dead with
a dozen arrows sticking from her body.  Some of the archers had amused
themselves by using the helpless animal as a target.

Courtaud stood over the body uncertain what to do.

Under ordinary conditions the wolf pup would have refused to leave
the body for some hours if not for some days.  But these were not
ordinary conditions.  Panicked by the smoke, the shouting, and the
strange men, Courtaud turned and ran.  He dashed through the bailey and
over the bridge.  Now in the open, he ran as he had never run before,
seeking only to put as much distance as possible between him and the
horror.

These were terrible days in France.  Not only the corchezirs were
devastating the land: Burgundy fought against Champagne, England fought
against the unhappy young king Charles VII, and the powerful barons
fought each other.  Courtaud passed through district after district
laid in waste.  Sometimes he found half-rotten carrion to eat in the
burned villages.  sometimes he was able to catch a vole or a rabbit.

On and on he went northward, until the ground began to rise and he
found himself on a tree-covered hogback called the Schnee Fifel in the
Ardennes mountains.  Here were many old castles and heavily fortified
churches, with little towns clustered at crossroads or in a river
valley.  There were cloud-topped ridges, deep sinkholes, and great
caverns.  There were also vast coniferous forests where an army could
hide.

The forests were rich with game, but none of it easy for sionally
he was able to catch a marmot as the woodchucksized rodent was
gathering food preparatory to its winter sleep.  Once he had the great
good fortune to capture a ilzie nearly the size of a turkey, while the
big black caperca bird was busily eating red whortleberries.  He chased
varying hare, which were beginning to turn white, but these were too
fast for him.  The blue grouse that lived in the white birch groves
seemed to have an eye in every feather, for he could not even get close
to them.  He had a little better luck with the hazel hens that ran
through the elder thickets with wings drooping and tail partly
extended, but even these could nearly always elude him.

Courtaud disliked having to catch small prey.  The amount of food
he obtained did not compensate him for the effort required.  He needed
to kill large quarry.

Large quarry meant deer.  The most conspicuous were the red deer.

Courtaud was careful to leave the stags, with their great antlers
worn smooth digging for forage throulgh the snow, strictly alone, but
once he did dare to attack a herd of hinds and calves under the
guidance of an old matriarch hind.  They were eating the bark off a
fallen tree when he approached them, hoping to cut out a calf.  The old
female turned to face him while the young mothers hastily gathered
around their young to protect them.  Circle as he would, Courtaud was
always faced by a ring of lowered heads.  At last, made reckless by
hunger, he charged in.  The old hind reared back and struck with her
forefeet.

Courtaud was knocked down, and luckily for him the ground was
soft, or he would have been killed.  He managed to escape with no worse
damage than sore bones, but he did not attack red deer again.

Roe deer were safer.  These were no bigger than large dogs and
spent most of their time deep in the spruce forests, but one evening he
surprised a few eating willow shoots and rushed them instantly.  The
ear-splitting alarm scream of the nearest buck startled him and gave
the herd a head start.  Although expert at dodging, they were not
especially fast, so he w'a's able to overtake an old female and drag
her down.  Courtaud gorged, devouring half of the fifty-pound animal.

He lay up a few yards away and returned the next morning to finish
his meal, only to find that the foxes, ravens, and magpies had done it
for him.  After that, Courtaud always buried any surplus meat, adding a
dab of urine to the spot to make it easier to find.

Unfortunately, the roe deer were difficult to locate.  They left
almost no scent and hid themselves deep in the forests.

More common were the fallow deer, about the size of an American
whitetail.  At first, Courtaud tried to run them own as he had the roe,
but they were much too fast for that.  He tried stalking them, only to
find there was always one sentinel deer on guard duty.  He did not
succeed until after a blizzard when they were caught among the drifts.

One afternoon, Courtaud came upon a lone fallow doe walking
through a grove of birch trees.  Warned by previous failures, Courtaud
did not attack directly.  Instead, he paralleled her course.  Alarmed,
the deer began to run.

There was about a foot of snow and the deer's long legs could go
through it and reach the ground while the WolfDog floundered in the
soft stuff.  She easilyoutdistanced him and then unwisely crossed a
frozen lake-the same lake where later Courtaud would meet the Lapp.  On
the ice, swept clear of snow by the wind, Courtaud could go faster than
she and, putting on a spurt began to overtake her.  The frightened doe
managed to reach the other side a few yards ahead of him, and once in
the snow she started to gain.  She stopped on a ridge to look back and,
finding the wolf still following her, turned and ran along the ridge.

Seeing her direction, Courtaud left her trail and cut across to
intercept her.  The doe spun around and ran, only to find herself in
one of the "cups" scoured out of the side of the cliff by the harsh
winds sweeping across the plateau.  Before she could recover, Courtaud
charged forward, knocking her over.  While she struggled in the snow,
he bit her through the base of the brain.  She died in seconds.  This
time, he cached the surplus meat in the snow and lay over it for the
next two days until there was nothing left but bones and a few shreds
of hide.

Ever since he had come to the Schnee Fifel, Courtaud had
encountered scent posts where one of the several packs of wolves that
roamed the Ardennes had left their urine marks.  The wolves used any
conspicuous object as a scent post: a lone tree, a prominent rock,
sometimes even a deer skull.  The first time Courtaud had come on one
of these posts and smelled the fierce, wild odor, he had cringed and
looked about him fearfully.  Then he had run to the nearest ridge and
scanned the countryside to make sure the pack was nowhere around.

After testing the air, he was partially reassured and returned to
the scent post, which was the stub of a dead spruce.  He need not have
been so alarmed.  The scent was several days old.  There were about ten
wolves in the pack-the males had urinated on the stump and the females
on the ground beside it-and Courtaud could easily tell the scent of
each individual animal.

They were well fed-the odor of the rich food drove the
half-starved wolf-dog wild-and two at least were old animals, for their
urine smelled weak and fetid.  He noted with great satisfaction that
none of the males was as big as he.  In triumph, he boastfully urinated
on the stump, showing that he could fling his fluid a handsbreadth
higher than the others.

He paid another visit to the scent post a few days later.

The pack had been there in the meanwhile and he knew at once by
the odor that the males, at least, were furious.

They had gone to great efforts to obliterate his contribution and
then scratched up the ground around the post in their fury.  They had
also left musk from their tail glands.

This gland is located on the top side of the tail, about three
inches from the base.  it is surrounded by a circle of stiff black
hairs that can be spread when the musk is discharged.

Courtaud sniffed the heavy musk thoughtfully.  He had such a gland
himself, but because of his dog's blood it was not functional.  He was
not quite sure what the significance of the musk was, but he strongly
suspected it was a warning.

Even so, he was drawn to the pack.  Not only was he desperately
lonely, he also wanted to be with animals that were so obviously well
fed.  Every week, as winter advanced, it was harder for him to find
food.  The marmots, his mainstay, had hibernated for the winter;
catching birds was almost impossible and the deer were too fast.  By
now he had come to know the range of the pack fairly well; it was
roughly marked by the scent posts, and also he knew what trails they
followed.  He began to follow them more closely.

Two days later he came upon the pack sunning themselves on an
outcropping of black rock that projected above the snow.  He approached
them cautiously, cringing, his tail wagging, ears pulled down, and lips
drawn back into an ingratiating grin.  The wolves stood up instantly to
study him.  When he was a few yards away, he rolled over on his side,
exposing his throat, and whimpered, moving his tail sideways.  The
wolves seemed more curious than hostile.

Several even wagged their tails slightly in response.  Greatly
encouraged, Courtaud wriggled like a worm, moaning humbly.  Then,
without any warning, the wolf baronthe leader of the pack-charged him.

For a fraction of a second, Courtaud was uncertain of the baron's
intention, but only for a fraction.  The baron's tail was stiff and
rased above the level of his back.  The lips were wrinkled in a snarl
and the ears erect and pricked forward.

Courtaud bounded to his feet as the baron struck him and knocked
him down.  Now that the baron had shown his intentions, all the wolves
in the pack attacked.

Hopelesslyoutnumbered, Courtaud thought only of escaping.  He was
knocked down twice again and badly slashed on the shoulder before he
could shake them off and run.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that after a few hundred yards,
all the pack had given up the pursuit except the baron, who still
followed him vindictively.  Seeing that his enemy was alone, Courtaud
stopped and again tried to show his good intentions by fawning before
the baron.  It did no good.  For the second time the baron attacked.

Again, Courtaud had no choice except flight.  When he had made
good his escape, he paused to look back.  The baron, his tail
stifflyout, trotted proudly back to his band, who surrounded him,
licking his face, pushing him with their noses, and gently chewing his
muzzle.

Courtaud had seen men behave in this manner.  When the Count Raoul
returned triumphant from battle, his seigneurs would surround him in
just this way, slapping him on the back, kissing him, and shaking his
hand.

Courtaud gave up any idea of being able to 'from the ack.  Alone,
unskilled in hunting, he would have starved to p death had he not found
the sheepfolds in the scattered villages.  By both night and day he
raided them.  In his ecstasy at finding so much good food, he killed
recklessly, sometimes taking only a few bites from a carcass, sometimes
killing merely for the thrill.

Never before had the villagers seen a wolf that would come openly
into a village and showed no fear of man.

They had never found it necessary to have shepherds- a few boys
and girls were enough to keep the sheep from straying and the wolves
had never dared to molest them.

This animal-this loup-garou-charged the children if they tried to
drive him off and gave every evidence of being as willing to attack
them as the sheep.  The village dogs were panic-stricken by this
monster who was twice their size, with enormous, punishing jaws.  Grown
men armed with billhooks and homemade spears had to guard the flocks
day and night, and they were needed for other duties.  In their
despair, the villalers sought help from the Flemish merchants, who sent
them the Lapp.

Courtaud discontinue his sheep raiding.  He rightly connected the
determined little man with his attacks on the flocks and did not want
another such human on his trail.  Yet sheep were his only source of
food now.  Alone, he could not catch game.

There was nothing for it.  He had to join a wolf pack or die.

TWO

The Pack Courtaud was much more cautious how he approached the
wolf pack this second time.  He was growing weaker and he well knew the
baron would kill him if the big wolf got the chance.

He began by following the pack, keeping about a hundred yards in
the rear.  The baron was the only wolf that showed any real animosity
toward him, although when the baron chased him away, the rest of the
pack would 'join in the attack.  Courtaud always ran instantly.  He
made no self that the wolves would not follow him any great distance .

Chasing this "loner" was tiring and accomplished nothing.

Courtaud found an unexpected advantage in this constant following.

After the pack had gorged themselves on their kills, they would
retire and Courtaud, watching from cover, would steal in and eat their
leavings.  He drove off the other scavengers, like foxes and ravens,
that also followed the pack.  Unfortunately, there were seldom much
leavings an ' d often even the weaker members of the pack had to go
without food.  Rare indeed were the great days when the wolves were
able to pull down an adult red deer or separate a half-grown calf from
a hind so it could be easily killed.

On such occasions, the pack made up for their long periods of
fasting and gorged until they were drunk with meat and blood.

The baron especially resented Courtaud's constant trailing and
tried to shake him off.  He would suddenly turn off the plainly marked
main trail and take the pack along windblown ridges bare of snow and
down into the canyonlike ravines to where the rivers ran under their
ceilings of ice.

As Courtaud's nose was not especially good, these tricks would
have succeeded if the wolf-dog had not learned to watch the ravens.

The ravens followed the pack as he did and in winter were virtual
parasites on the wolves, depending on them for food.  It was impossible
for the pack to lose the ravens.  The birds' beady black eyes missed
nothing, and whenever they were at fault they would soar high until
they caught sight of the long line of wolves trotting single file
through the snow.  By watching the ravens, Courtaud was able to keep
track of the wolves.

As game grew scarcer, the pack divided.  Smaller packs could hunt
more efficiently than a single large one.  The main advantage of a
large pack-that it could pull down bigger game than a small group of
wolves could handlemeant little now, for the pack had already killed
the few red deer too weak to defend themselves and so the wolves were
dependent on fallow and roe deer, which had to rely on their speed
rather than their strength.

Courtaud followed the group that kept with the baron.

Then came an especially bad time.  For a week it snowed almost
constantly.  Afterward, the weather became comparatively warm, followed
by a cold spell.  The melting snow froze, making a light crust through
which the wolves broke.  For a week they were unable to hunt and
Courtaud, who had been half starved already, barely had enough strength
to tail along behind when finally the snow became hard-packed enough to
support the pack's weight.

Late one afternoon, while the pack was trotting along at their
usual loping gait with Courtaud limping after them, the baron abruptly
stopped, his nose up.  The rest also stopped and sniffed the breeze.

Courtaud, imitating them, could just make out the odor of some
large animal perhaps a quarter of a mile away.  He had never smelled
anything quite like it, although he was able to identify it as a member
of the deer family and therefore eatable.  He trembled with hope,
wondering if the baron would signal an attack.  Very often, after
studying a scent, the baron would decide against making an attack for
some reason Courtaud could not understand If he did so now, there was
nothing left for Courtaud to do except lie down in the snow and die.

He could not go much longer without food.

This time the baron decided to make the attempt.  The pack
gathered around him, wagging their tails excitedly and licking his
muzzle as he conveyed to them by the motions of his body and his
eagerness that they were going into battle.  The baron swung off the
trail and with the pack following him in single file, headed to where a
stand of birch thrust their skeleton branches into the air.  After them
Courtaud shuffled along, glad it was they who had to break the trail
through the snowfields.

The trees cut off the slight breeze and the wolves had trouble
owning the scent.  Courtaud could get only occasional wisps of it.

Then, as they stood at a loss, the wind brought it to them strong
and clear.  The baron turned at right angles and bounded through the
cover, the pack streaming behind him.

Before they had gone three hundred yards, they came upon a group
of half a dozen gigantic creatures browsing among the birches.  They
were even bigger than red deer, the lone male having enormous antlers
which, instead of resembling candelabra, were broad and thick-shaped
like,-, a bird's wing.  The creatures' muzzles were very long, somewhat
like the muzzles of enormous shrews, and from the throat hung a long
bag of skin that swung as the animal moved.  Although Courtaud did not
know it, he was looking on some of the last elk, called moose in North
America, left in Europe.

At sight of the wolves, the elk started running.  Their longer
legs gave them a great advantage in the deep snow and the wolves were
speedily left behind.  Seeing pursuit was useless, the baron stopped.

As the rest of the disappointed pack turned back, still another
elk jumped up from where she had been lying and started to run, only to
find herself in the midst of the pack.

The wolves sensed instantly that this was a weak animal.

She stumbled and did not move with the easy, swinging gait of the
others.  At once, they closed in from all sides.

The baron seized her by the haunch.  Another wolf locked his teeth
in her belly.  Others nipped at her feet.  The elk fell, rose again,
and for a moment was able to shake off her attackers.  Then, as she
tried to run, they were on her a second time, hanging to her rump and
flanks.  She managed to drag them a few yards through the trees before
they pulled her down.  Again she fought to her feet and this time
struck the baron such a blow with one of her forefeet that he rolled
over.  She sprang forward to finish him off but the other wolves
attacked her so fiercely from the rear that she was forced to turn on
them.  The baron regained his feet and limped away.

None of the rest of the pack dared to close with the big animal
again, yet neither would they let her go.  Leaning against a tree,
gasping for breath, the cow watched them while the hungry wolves
swallowed chunks of the bloody snow.  When she finally reeled off, the
pack followed at a respectful distance.  All that night and the next
day they followed her.  When she lay down to rest, one wolf would leave
the others and approach her, forcing her to stagger to her feet.  If
the full pack had been there, they would quickly have put an end to the
business, but with only a few animals, they did not dare attack.

When night came, the cow tried to escape under cover of darkness.

She nearly succeeded, for the wolves were tired and most of them
sleeping.  When at dawn they found her gone, they were furious.

However, the blood trail was clear and they soon caught up with
her.

The cow was weakening fast.  Now when a wolf approached her, she
was unable to rise.  The pack saw the signs and closed in.  Stiff
though he was from the pounding he had taken, the baron charged in as
befitted his rank and seized her by the throat.  The rest swarmed over
her weakly kicking body and soon it was all over.

Courtaud could hardly resist the sight and smell of the rich meat,
yet he knew if he tried to approach he would soon be as dead as the
cow.  He had to content himself with eating bloody snow.

As he was some distance away from the carcass and his nostrils
were not completely full of the blood scent, he was the first to detect
the presence of the bear.  Jumping back, he gave the warning bark.

Instantly every wolf was on his feet, spinning around to face the
danger.  Through the trees was trundling the vast form of the bear.

Although the wolf-dog did not know it, he was responsible for
bringing the big brown beast out of his winter's hibernation.  The
avalanche that had killed the Lapp had also destroyed the bear's den
and forced the great animal out into the inhospitable winter weather.

Eventually he would find another den and return to his sleep, but
this was an irritable old male who did not like his habits changed and
stubbornly refused to behave sensibly.  He had stumbled on the bloody
trail of the wounded cow and had been following it hopefully.  Now his
patience was rewarded, for here was enough meat even for him.

The wolves gave back and the bear confidently waddled forward.

Nothing, not even man, had ever dared to oppose him, and he minded
the wolves no more than he did the ravens that had alighted around the
hill, waiting their turn.

When the bear saw the dead elk, he broke into a lunging gallop.

The wolves opened to let him through and closed in from behind as
he bent over to sniff the raw elk flesh.

Then the baron attacked.  He darted in from behind, nipped the
bear's ample haunch, and sprang back with a mouthful of fur.  The bear
roared more with astonishment than pain and swung around.  Another wolf
dove in from the side, but the bear turned on him so quickly he barely
managed to escape.  Again the baron got in a bite while a third wolf
distracted the bear.  Now the bear got his back against the dead elk,
which afforded him some protection as he ' faced the wolves, his head
swinging to and fro, spittle running from his huge jaws, his little
eyes snapping with fury.

Each member of the pack responded to this challenge differently.

A big black wolf hung in the background, refusing to go near the
bear's great paws.  A little white female almost silver in color ran
fearlessly up to the animal, ducked her head down between her forepaws
as though she were playing a game, and leaped aside at the last
instant.

A wolf that was almost orange ran back and forth, madly excited,
in an aimless manner.  A dark wolf sprinkled with yellow guard hairs
watched every motion of the baron, rushing in to attack whenever the
bear turned on the head wolf, always ready to distract the monster so
the baron ish wolf who did his best to duplicate the other's technique.

The bear would occasionally make short rushes, which the wolves
easily avoided.  Then he took up his stand against the elk and dared
them to come on.  This was far more dangerous for the wolves, but they
refused to lose their hard-earned quarry.  The baron took up a position
on the bear's right while Yellow Hairs kept on his left.  Brownie went
to and fro between them, favoring Yellow Hairs.

The bear rocked back and forth, his head moving in a snakelike
fashion as he watched them.  The baron and Yellow Hairs came toward him
step by step, making sure to keep exactly the same distance from their
enemy, tense to leap away if he charged.

Then the baron gave a sharp bark coupled with a short howl.  It
was a signal, for instantly Yellow Hairs leaped at the bear's shoulder.

The bear made a snatch for him, using both forepaws as a man would
use his hands, but Yellow Hairs ducked under the grab.  At the same
time, the baron bounded in and tore the bear's ear, throwing himself
back just in time to avoid the long claws clutching for him.

Now Brownie moved in to distract the bear, although he did not
dare to come as close as had the other two, and Silver helped him,
dancing in and out so gracefully she seemed unconscious of the danger.

The baron and Yellow Hairs had caught their breath and moved in
again from opposite sides to repete their maneuver.

Compared with the wolves, the bear appeared doltish, clumsy, and
unsure of himself.  Now, seemingly goaded beyond endurance, he suddenly
charged Yellow Hairs, plunging laboriously through the snow.  Yellow
Hairs sprang back, keeping just out of his reach, luring the bear on
while the baron darted in.  With astonishing speed, quicker than even
the wolves could move, the bear, who had apparently been intent on
pursuing Yellow Hairs, spun around at the exact moment the leader
sprang for him.  Perhaps if the baron had not been stiff from the
mauling the elk had given him he could still have avoided the
clutching, clawtipped paws, but the right paw hooked him.  He snapped
at it, trying to tear himself free, and the other paw clamped on his
side.  He was helpless, even though the entire pack hurled themselves
on the bear in reckless disregard of their lives, tearing out mouthfuls
of hair while Yellow Hairs even sank his teeth into the old male's
testicles.  The bear's jaws closed on the baron's neck.  Courtaud,
watching, wild with excitement, could hear the bones crack.  Then the
bear dropped the dead baron while he turned to deal with Yellow Hairs.

The wolf was knocked down but managed to escape.

The bear sat licking his injured parts, growling to himself, while
the wolves circled him.  He was too sickened to eat and finally got to
his feet and lurched away.  The wolves followed him a short distance,
but when he roared and turned on them, they fled.  Once they were sure
he was well away, they returned to the kill.  Only Yellow Hairs took
any interest in the dead baron.  He sniffed the body for a long time
before he 'Joined the others at the elk.

tended to spend the night by the remains of the elk, Courtaud made
his move.  With the baron gone, he felt bolder.

He came forward, tail held high.  So exhausted were the pack by
the long hunt, followed by the battle with the bear, that most of them
did not even rise, only regarding him fixedly.  Yellow Hairs did stand
up and came toward him stiff-legged, his tail raised slightly higher
than the level of his back.  However, the wolf did not snarl or put his
ears back.  The two animals circled each other slowly.  Then Yellow
Hairs presented his anal region for Courtaud to smell, at the same time
sniffing at Courtaud's.

This rite told each animal several things about the other.

First, it established the other's sex, approximate age, general
physical condition, and whether the animal was fearful or would fight
if attacked.  As there was no suggestion of adrenaline in the odor,
both animals knew the other was confident-'and would put up a grim
resistance to any .  aggression.  This knowledge was reinforced by
their actions.

A nervous animal would drop his tail to cover his anal region so
the other could not examine it.  Yellow Hairs was clearly uncertain
what to do.  With the death of the baron, he was the most prominent
wolf and would take charge of the group-at least until it reunited with
the other packs, in which case there might well be another claimant for
the throne.  This strange animal-who did not move or smell quite the
way a wolf should-had not made the sign of submission to him.  If he
had, Yellow Hairs would have accepted him at once.  Unlike the dead
baron, Yellow Hairs was not an aggressive animal; he was also too tired
to want to fight, and the small pack was more ready to accept a
newcomer than the full pack would have been because there was less
competition for food and social position.

Yet this new wolf refused to make obeisance to him as was proper.

On the other hand, the stranger made no effort to establish his
own authority.

The situation would probably have ended in a fight in which the
other wolves, or at least Brownie, would have entered on Yellow Hairs's
side.  Luckily for Courtaud, at this moment Silver came over.  Dainty
and demure herself, she was clearly fascinated by the big stranger.

She minced up to him, put her head down, waving her tail
alluringly, and tried to play.  As Courtaud stood on his dignity
watching Yellow Hairs, she playfully pulled at the broad tufts of
whitish fur that reached down and outward from his ears.

Courtaud stood rigid at this familiarity, not quite knowing how to
take it.  Silver curtsied to him by putting her tail between her legs,
lowering her haunches, and humping her back.  Next she put one forepaw
around his neck and licked him on the side of the mouth.

Seeing that Silver was so ready to accept the stranger, Yellow
Hairs relaxed.  He moved back to the others, keeping an eye on Courtaud
as he went.

Silver continued her playful overtures, but Courtaud was not
interested.  He was too hungry.  Turning away from the gay little
female, he went to the elk and tore off a slab of flesh.

Immediately the whole pack was on their feet.  It was one thing
for this stranger to join them; sharing their kill was quite another
matter.  All except Silver, who plainly felt this big, handsome
stranger could do no wrong, rushed at the wolf-dog with bared fangs and
snarls.

Courtaud refused to run.  He crouched, holding the precious meat
in his jaws, rumbling deep within his broad chest.  At the last moment,
the pack halted, nonplussed.  It was against all pack ethics to take
meat away from another wolf.  They might and usually did fight over a
kill, but once a wolf had a piece of meat actually in his jaws, it was
his.  So they hesitated.  Then Silver came over and lay down by his
side, daintily nibbling at some fat, while Courtaud continued to bolt
his portion, still growling.  The pack continued to stand uncertain.

If Yellow Hairs had given the signal, they would have fallen on
this impudent stranger, but Yellow Hairs was still not sure of his
authority and held back.  Finally, some of the wolves came to feed on
the elk merely as a sign of ownership, while the rest lay down again,
allowing Courtaud to gorge himself.

Courtaud was now an accepted member of the pack, largely through
Silver's good grace, but because of his youth and inexperience he was
held in a subordinate position.  He hardly had time to establish
himself when they met one of the other splinter groups.  By now, Yellow
Hairs had been accepted as the new baron of his own group while a wolf
with a black mantle over his back and neck had become the baron of the
other pack.  Courtaud took an immediate dislike to Black Mantle.  His
sole qualification for his new position was apparently a sullen nature
and a quickness to bite, both most unusual characteristics in a wolf.

He had a habit of marching up to a wolf and staring at him until
the other animal was cowed into making the sign of absolute submission.

Courtaud's submission was so obviously reluctant that Black Mantle
attacked him.  It required only a few slashes from the older wolf's
long canine fangs to convince Courtaud that he was outmatched, and he
lay writhing abjectly on the snow.  For a moment it seemed as though
Black Mantle would not accept his surrender, but something about the
half-grown wolf-dog made the victor hesitate.  There was a look in
Courtaud's eyes and a set of his fangs that convinced the wolf baron
that if he went too far, Courtaud would put up such a fight that even
if the baron won, he would be left severely injured and perhaps
permanently crippled.  So he contemptuously turned away.  Yellow Hairs
did not seriously challenge Black Mantle's claim to leadership and
returned to his subordinate position without question.

Gradually, Courtaud grew to know each member of both groups and
how he or she was likely to react.  There was Blackie, the big, lordly
animal who turned out to be cowardly.  There was Browru'e, who lived in
Yellow Hairs's shadow.  There was White Mane, a gentle female who kept
to herself.  There were the Cubs, both about Courtaud's own age and
obviously littermates, who were boisterous, good-natured, and
inseparable.  There was the Gray with a light face, who was so nervous
that she always stayed away from the main pack for fear of attack.

There was Orange, who, although full-grown, behaved like a
mischievous puppy.  There was the Old Man, an elderly wolf with teeth
worn down to the gums, who was unable to hunt, had become a pensioner
of the pack, and was allowed to accompany them even though he could
hardly chew his food.

There was also the varlet, a wretched animal, despised by all for
no apparent reason Courtaud could see, who trailed after the others and
had to be contented with scraps.  It would be pleasant to report that
Courtaud, remembering when he had been an outcast, took pity on the
varlet and tried to make life easier for him, but unfortunately the
truth was that Courtaud despised the underwolf quite as much as the
others.

Later, a third group 'Joined them, also part of the original pack.

There were now about twenty-five wolves in the band, although the
number was not constant, as some individual animals or couples would go
off on affairs of their own for a few days or a week and return later.

Roughly three quarters of the wolves were youngsters two or three
years old.  The rest were mature animals.  There were also two much
older wolves, a male and female that kept largely to themselves.  Not
even the arrogant Black Mantle demanded that they do homage to him.

From the respect paid them, Courtaud got the impression that
nearly cept for a few, like himself, who for some reason or another had
been permitted to 'join.

There were very few fights among the group.  Black Mantle not
infrequently felt it necessary to show his authority by mauling some
animal, but the victim always submitted without protest, so injuries
were never serious.

There was occasional bickering between pack members, but if the
quarrels ever turned into a real fight, all the other wolves interfered
and attacked both the combatants impartially so the battle was broken
up.  Even so, there was a constant undercurrent of tensions, each wolf
hoping to advance himself in the hierarchy.  Mated couples were jealous
of any wolf that showed too great an interest in either husband or
wife, and there were constant disputes over food.  So the pack was a
group of individuals competing against each other, yet all forced to
stay together for mutual assistance.

Right from the beginning, the gay, playful, and fearless little
Silver had attached herself to Courtaud.  She taught him games such as
Catch the Bone.  She would find a bone, bring it over to him, and drop
it a few inches from his muzzle.  When Courtaud tried to grab the bone,
she would snatch it away and start running, with the big wolf-dog after
her.  He was faster but she was quicker at dodging.

When at last he managed to get the bone, she would throw both her
forelegs around his neck and lick the side of his mouth when he tried
to chew it until both were rolling over and over on the snow, tussling
and biting at each other.  These bouts usually ended with them Ing side
by side, Silver giving him little love nibbles with her teeth so
delicately that he could barely feel the touch, although Silver's jaws
were quite capable of cracking open a deer's leg to get the marrow.

Courtaud enjoyed the play and Silver's company, but as he grew
older he became annoyed by such puppy pranks.

Because of his size and the sudden outbursts of ferocity that came
from his alaunt blood, he had become the acknowledged leader among the
young wolves, but it was hard to be dignified with the merry, vivacious
Silver.  Also, she could be something of a nuisance at times.  He
noticed the other females were submissive to males and never dared
approach them without encouragement, so except when he was ready to
make the overtures, he haughtily ignored her.

If she came to him, he stood rigid, holding his head well up so
she had trouble reaching it for her kissing, and sty refusing to play,.

The pack had had a good hunt and killed two fallow deer in the
bottom of a ravine, an unusual piece of luck.

Courtaud had fed well and like the rest of the pack slept late the
next day.  When he awoke it was late afternoon, almost time for the
evening hunt.  He stood up, yawned, stretched himself, and looked
around for Silver.  There was no sign of her.

Courtaud missed her.  She was a nuisance, true, but a nuisance he
had grown used to.  He went looking for her.

Some of the other wolves were awake and two or three of the
females indicated that they were willing to romp with him, but he
wanted Silver.  She was nowhere to be found and Courtaud became
seriously concerned.  He looked everywhere for her and finally by
chance caught a wisp of her scent on a puff of wind.  He followed it
and found her by herself behind a rock.  She was lying stretched out
with her long nose between her forelegs, watching him intently with her
bright golden eyes, but she made no move as he came over.  He nudged
her with his nose, expecting her to roll over, crying with delight, but
she remained still.  When he nudged her harder, she whined angrily and
nipped himnot a playful nip, but one that hurt.

Courtaud stood back, astonished and angry.  Silver lay on her
side, her mouth half open in a threatening snarl.

This was no way for a female to behave to a male.  Courtaud felt
his alaunt blood rising in him.  Silver, watching him intently,
suddenly leaped to her feet and started running.

Courtaud pounded after her.  They tore up .  the side of a ridge
and d."own the other, crossed a frozen river, and here Silver turned at
bay with open mouth and ears laid back.

Courtaud stood over her threateningly but she refused to cower.

After a moment's pause, he turned and walked away, only to give a
startled yelp.  Silver had stolen up behind him and bitten his
tail-hard.  He whirled around and was after her again.  This time she
ran back to where the pack were lying under a stand of aspen and threw
herself down between two of the biggest males who had previously showed
her attention.

Puzzled, Courtaud went off and dug up a fine bone he had hidden in
a snowbank.  He brought the bone back and dropped it hopefully in front
of Silver.  She sniffed it disdainfully.  Clearly she felt that he had
a very poor taste in bones.  Rising, she went off and dug up a bone of
her own, which she chewed with every evidence of satisfaction.

Courtaud went over to her and sniffed the bone.  Silver watched
him warily, ready to bite.  Completely baffled, Courtaud turned away,
only to find the bone dropped in front of him.  Uncertainly, he picked
it up, not knowing what to do.  As he did so he felt a soft head rubbed
against his shoulder and heard a low whine.  Dropping the bone, he
turned and saw Silver looking up at him happily.  He grabbed her muzzle
in his great jaws and moved it back and forth while she moaned with
delight.  They spent the rest of the evening lying side by side apart
from the others, rubbing each other with their noses or kissing.  From
then on they were always together.

At last the winter was over.  Streams formed by the melting snow
poured down the gullies.  The ravens began looking for nesting sites.

The grebes returned to their favorite ponds.  The first grass
appeared and the wolves ate large quantities of it as a tonic after the
months of cold.  The young beech trees took on a translucent green and
the woods were carpeted with anemones.  Primroses appeared by the
streams and purple vetch among the rocks.  The adult female wolves were
already in estrus.

Among the younger wolves, there was no breeding.  The females were
not able to breed until they were two years old; the males Lintil they
were three.  However, attachments were formed that kept couples
together as though they other year or so.  Courtaud and Silver were as
much a recognized pair as were the old pair who had originated the
pack, although these were now too old for breeding.  In sexual matters
the wolves behaved much like humans.

They usually mated for life, though this was not always true.

Black Mantle showed an interest in Silver but Silver would have
none of him, keeping her tail tucked between her legs to cover herself
and sitting down if the baron grew too attentive.  At first, Courtaud
was uncertain of Black Mantle's intentions, as he was too young himself
to know what it was all about, but he did know the baron was molesting
Silver, so the next time the older wolf bothered her, Courtaud moved
his bulk between them.  Ordinarily, such a show of defiance would have
meant a fight to the finish, but Black Mantle recognized the fact that
Courtaud was defending his mate.  A wolf of lower rank could defy the
baron only on two matters: when he was refusing to be robbed of meat
actually in his mouth, and when protecting his mate.  So, with a snarl,
Black Mantle moved away.

Finally there were three breeding pairs, each a member of one of
the smaller units: Black Mantle and a determined female who had forced
herself on him after Silver's rejection, Yellow Hairs and Gray, and one
of the top-ranking males and Vhite Nlane.  The rest were too young or
too old or not compatible.

As soon as the frost was out of the ground, the happy couples
began digging dens, generally in high areas that afforded a good view
of the countryside and always near water, for the mother would have to
drink several times a day to manufacture nillk for her pups.  The dens
were quite elaborate, going twenty and sometimes even thirty feet into
the ground.  There was a large room at the end for the female and her
pups and a smaller room near the entrance for the male.  In their
enthusiasm, the couple usually dug two or three other dens in likely
places before the female made up her mind which she liked best.

One morning in April, Courtaud and Silver came on Yellow Hairs
standing glumlyoutside the entrance to his den, looking worried and
hurt.  They touched noses with him, then Silver went over to the mouth
of the den to see if she could find out what was the matter.  No sooner
had she put her nose inside when a bansheelike scream made her jump
back.  The usual quiet Gray was squalling and ished and then Yellow
Hairs tried to enter.  Such an explosion of rage followed that he
hastily backed out again.

Bewildered and a little frightened, the younger wolves moved off,
leaving the mated couple to solve their problems in their own way.

It was two weeks before Gray would allow her mate to enter the
maternity ward.  When she did, he emerged half mad with excitement.

After tearing around the area as though chasing his own tail, he
hurried off.  Hunting was simple at this time of year because the deer
had young which were easily caught.  Yellow Hairs returned carrying a
dead fawn.  He left it at the entrance and Gray devoured it.  But it
was another week before the mystery was solved for the rest of the
pack.  One morning, four furry, bluntnosed, round-headed pups were
found lying in the warm sun at the den's mouth while Gray and Yellow
Hairs stood guard.

The whole pack were as delighted as though the pups were their
own.  Silver promptly adopted them to such a degree that Gray was
rather resentful, even though she was glad of the opportunity to rest
and go hunting.  So many contributions of food were brought that even
though most were buried, the spot was soon covered by blowflies and the
cubs had to be moved to one of the extra dens.  As the pups became
weaned, not only the parents but all the wolves gorged themselves on
food which they afterward regurgitated for the pups in a partially
digested state.  This served as pap for the youngsters.

The other two pairs had their pups a few days later, and each time
there was the same general rejoicing.  The pups ate so much and were so
active, it required the combined efforts of the whole pack to take care
of them.  If all the wolves had mated and had offspring, the mortality
rate among them would have been murderous.  Even so, when the lush days
of summer passed and winter came again, most of the louvarts-or
six-month-old pups-would not make it to spring.

Courtaud continued to grow.  He was now seven and a half feet from
the tip of his nose to the end of his tail and weighed more than a
full-grown man.  His great poniardlike canine teeth were as long as a
man's little finger and only Black Mantle could match the crushing
power of his jaws.

He had learned to work as a member of the pack, his most difficult
lesson, for by nature he was independent, but he was still impatient
and lacked the careful, controlled discretion of the pure wolves.  To
him, their caution seemed like weakness.

The third winter, the pack had been unable to make a kill for two
weeks and the animals were starving.  The elderly wolf who had followed
them for so long was dead and now it was the turn of the old original
pair.  Unable to keep up with the pack, they had gone away together,
united in death as they had been in life, and no one saw them again.

Silver was growing noticeably weaker, although she continued brisk
and gay.  Often now Courtaud thought of the sheepfolds and how if the
pack did not make a kill soon, he would be forced to return to stock
killing.

Then one morning they came on the track of a red deer.

The pack seldom bothered to follow a track unless it was smoking
hot.  Experience had shown them it was a waste of strength to track
prey for miles, only at last to lose the line or find that the quarry
was too strong for them.  This track was not particularly fresh nor was
it especially old.  After sniffing a long time, Black Mantle made his
decision and they started off on it.

Three hours later they came on their intended victim stripping
bark from a birch tree.  He was a ten-point stag.

Ordinarily they would not have dared to close with him, but by now
the pack was desperate.  The fact that he was alone probably meant that
he was old, so they circled him and Black Mantle and Yellow Hairs moved
in to test him.

This old stag knew all about wolves.  He turned and trotted away,
to the great delight of the pack, who considered this a sure sign that
he was afraid of them and could be pulled down from the rear while he
ran in panic.

They bounded after him, but the stag went only as far as a stand
of pine.  Turning, he wedged his vulnerable hindquarters among the
trees so tightly that the branches snapped.  Then he lowered his dagger
antlers, his mane rose, his ears flattened, and he pawed the snow.

The wolves stopped at this awesome sight and reconsidered.  Again
the two leaders approached step by step, their legs bent under them for
a spring backward.  The stag let them get almost to him.  Then he broke
from the thicket and charged in a series of great bounds, his feet
stamping the snow as he came.  Both wolves fled, and only barely in
time.  At once the stag backed into his impregnable position and stood
threatening them.

Yellow Hairs made one more attempt to find some weakness in the
old warrior.  He came on slowly, supported by the ever-faithful
Brownie.  The stag stood motionless until the wolf was almost on him.

Yellow Hairs leaned forward, snapped, and jerked back.  Still the
stag stood with hanging head as though completely beaten.  Yellow Hairs
stole forward a second time, more confidently.

Suddenly the stag reared, coming down on the wolf with both
forefeet.  The hoofs cut like knives.  Brownie rushed in, hoping to
divert the attack, but the stag was intent on his victim.  In seconds,
Yellow Hairs was a mass of trampled bloody hide and raw flesh.

Black Mantle rose and turned away, giving the signal to retreat.

The rest of the pack obeyed him; all but Courtaud.

The smell of blood, the excitement of the fight, all were too much
for the wolf-dog.  Ignoring pack etiquette, he hurled himself at the
stag.  Remembering his battle with the bull, he locked his jaws in the
stag's nose and hung on, straining away as far as possible to avoid the
hoofs.  The stag tried to toss him, but he weighed less than half as
much as the bull had and Courtaud was a far bigger animal than when he
fled the castle.  They struggled together while the pack watched in
astonishment.  Then Silver dashed in and fastened to the stag's hock.

Brownie ran under the animal and attacked his belly.  Now the rest
of the pack surged forward and the stag was pulled down and torn to
pieces while still alive.

From then on, the wolves regarded Courtaud with a new respect in
spite of his youth.  Even the older males lowered their tails humbly
when he passed.  Black Mantle hated him.

Not only had Courtaud defied his authority and attacked the stag,
he now began to usurp the baron's rightful place and led small groups
of wolves on private hunting expeditions.

When spring came, Courtaud and Silver mated for the first time.

When wolves copulate, the male's organ is locked in the female's
body for a period of twenty minutes to half an hour.  He cannot release
himself and both animals are helpless.  Black Mantle had never dared to
attack Courtaud openly.  He chose this moment to fall on his rival.

Hampered as he was, Courtaud tried to swing around to meet the
attack, Silver helping him as best she could.  The odds were too much
against him.  Black Mantle's right canine tooth ripped open his side
and then the wolf baron had him by the throat.  It was all over now.

Then Black Mantle let go.  Brownie had seized him by the left hind
leg.  The baron turned on Brownie, but now both Orange and the Cubs,
who had often accompanied Courtaud on his hunting expeditions, joined
the combat.  In their excitement they indiscriminately attacked all the
others, but they served to break up the fight.

From that day forward, Courtaud knew that eventually he would have
to fight Black Mantle for leadership in the pack.

THREE Pack Baron

Silver was as bewildered by the miracle of birth as the other
females had been, and Courtaud, for all his size and strength, was
forced to wait outside the den for fear of being attacked by his
hysterical mate.  The den had been dug on top of a ridge that commanded
a good view of the countryside, and Courtaud spent much of his time
lying a little above the entrance where he could maintain watch.  But
Silver could not keep the glorious news to herself for long.

Even before the pups' eyes were opened, she brought out one in her
mouth for Courtaud to see.  The tiny cub was nearly engulfed by the
wolf's great jaws, for she was forced to carry it far back in her mouth
to make sure that her daggerlike canines did not injure the morsel.

She would not let Courtaud touch the mewling, writhing puppy, only
sniff it respectfully from a safe distance; then she hurried back with
it to the main chamber.

There was the usual group excitement among the pack which the
sight and smell of infants always produced.

When, at the end of a month, the pups were old enough to come out
and play, the whole pack gathered around to watch their antics.  All,
that is, except Black Mantle.  In spite of all the encouragement his
mate could give him, the wolf baron had been unable to copulate with
her that year.

He was growing increasingly nervous and suspicious, constantly
demanding abject submission from all the pack, ready to attack any
animal that did not grovel before him.

By mutual consent, he and Courtaud avoided each other, neither
being eager for the duel both knew must come.

The pups were constantly wrestling and playing together, but as
the days passed, these juvenile encounters became more serious.

Courtaud rather enjoyed the pups' quarrels.  Not so Silver, who
was constantly separating them.

All her wolf instincts went against serious fighting, for it
disrupted the unity of the pack and nothing could be allowed to do
that.  To her wolf-dog mate, unity was less important.

The pups were intensely curious about everything and completely
fearless.  With the pack to protect them, they could afford to be.

Either one or the other of their parents was with them constantly,
quite ready to die defending the litter, and the other wolves were only
slightly less devoted.

It must be admitted that after two months of doting motherhood,
Silver did begin to grow restless.  The pups were big enough now so
when they pulled her tail, tried to nurse at her dry nipples, or
roughhoused with her, they could be painful.  Also, she longed to go
hunting with the pack again.  Luckily, at this moment the despised
varlet ventured to approach.  After writhing on the ground before the
couple, he dared to eat some of the surplus food left around the den.

The parents would have driven him off had not the pups been
delighted by this new toy.

They united in jumping on the varlet who, only too happy to have
some notice taken of him, gladly submitted.  He soon grew so adept at
taking care of the pups that they would o to him rather than to Silver.

If one of the pups wandered too far and refused to return when
Courtaud gave his warning bark, the big father would grab the
recalcitrant youngster with no gentle grip and drag him back to the
den.  Now the varlet actually interfered with the discipline, nd would
run to get the pup himself to make sure the youngster would not be
punished.  Courtaud permitted this liberty, much as a strict father
will allow a nurse who he knows is devoted to his children to intercede
for them.

When the other members of the pack found that the varlet had been
accepted by the mighty Courtaud and his popular mate, they also
accepted him and so the varlet was restored to full membership.  Alas,
it seemed necessary for the pack to have one individual to serve as a
scapegoat, so another wolf was assigned to the position of varlet and
forced to follow behind the rest.

After the pups were two months old, they could follow the pack for
a few miles, although they were still too young to join in hunts.  The
pack would leave the small group of youngsters (there had been only one
other litter that year) in some safe place to play while they set about
the serious business of finding food.  After a kill, they would return,
collect the pups, and take them to the kill.  This kept up until the
pups were strong enough to keep up with the hunting pack, although it
was still a long time before they could help in making the kill.

At this time, the young wolves began to join in the important
ritual of howling.  Howling among the wolves took the place of
community singing among humans.  Before departing for a hunt, the pack
would gather together for a howling session.  Each animal had a
different voice and took care not to imitate the voice of another.  By
shaping their mouths and using their tongues, the wolves could produce
a large variety of sounds.  Aside from the pleasure they derived from
these communal choruses, the howling also served to notify other packs
of their presence, for the howling could be heard for miles.  After a
howling, the pack would keep quiet for half an hour or so, listening.

If there were another pack within earshot, it would howl in reply.

The wolves could tell the location and numbers of the strangers.

This, together with the scent posts, helped the various packs keep
to their own territories and avoid wars.

Besides the communal singing howls, there were indiidual howls
that had special meanings.  A deep, single v howl followed by barks was
the leader's means of assembling the pack.  There was a high but soft
call, usually given at night, that meant the animal was lonely.  An
eager, deep howl was the mating call.  An animal separated from the
pack would go to the highest point he could find and howl.  The others
would answer him so he could find them.

Different packs had different calls, so the young -vyolves had to
learn the cries of their own pack.

Most important of all the new experiences that the louvarts had to
learn was the art and science of hunting.  On this their lives would
depend.  There was a nice balance between the predators and their prey.

If the predators found it too easy to capture their quarry, there
would soon be no quarry left.  If too difficult, the predators would
cease to exist.  Over the centuries, a balance had been created.  Only
the strongest and most intelligent of the predators survived.

The others died, usually in the first winter.

Hunting usually took place at night when it was cooler and the
scent was better.  Late in the afternoon, Black Mantle as baron would
go about waking the other wolves.

First the pack would do homage to their leader by gathering around
him with wagging tails, and lick his face to show their loyalty.  This
ceremony would be followed by a howl, much as soldiers sing a marching
song before going into battle to keep up their spirits.  Then the pack
would start off, in single file, the baron leading.  The baron knew the
easiest paths, the ridges free of vegetation, and in winter the frozen
rivers kept free of snow by the wind.  The pack generally traveled at a
steady lope, averaging about five miles an hour.  They often covered
fifty miles a night.  One of the few old adages about wolves that is
true is "a wolf lives by its feet."

The pack depended on four means for finding game.  First was their
knowledge of where game animals were likely to be.  Second was coming
on a fresh track.  Third was airscenting the quarry-catching wind-borne
scent.  For this reason, they nearly always traveled upwind.  Fourth,
and most important, was sheer luck.  Sometimes a single wolf would be
dispatched to a high point to look around and report what he saw.

Unlike hounds, which depend almost entirely on their noses, the
wolves had excellent eyesight.

When prey was located, the pack would perform an elaborate stalk,
crouching down when the game animal lifted its head to look around,
creeping closer when it resumed feeding.  If the animal was big and
powerful and stood its ground, the wolves were reluctant to attack.

Instead, the baron and some of the biggest males would move in
slowly, watching carefully for signs of weakness.  If they could detect
none, the wolves would usually seek easier prey.

Courtaud could never understand this caution.  His alaunt blood
was all for a head-on attack.  His great strength and size enabled him
to engage quarry that the rest of the pack considered too formidable,
for when the giant Courtaud charged in and took his fearsome nose grip,
even the largest stag was held helpless.  As a result, most of the pack
admired the great wolf-dog.  Black Mantle did not.

The rivalry between the baron and the wolf-dog became especially
apparent in ibex hunting.  These majestic goats with their sixty-inch
horns made formidable quarry.  They usually grazed in the open, so they
were hard to stalk, and in addition the herd always had a sentinel
watching.  On the level the wolves could outrun them, but once the ibex
reached the rocky sides of the mountains, they could easily outclimb
the pack.  They thought nothing of jumping forty feet from one ledge to
another, and would even stop and watch the toiling wolves with what
seemed to be amused contempt.  Most wolf packs refused to bother with
them, but Black Mantle had worked out a system for ibex-catching that
was often successful.

Instead of trying to run down the ibex on the level, the baron led
the pack along the highest part of the hills.  If they came on a party
of ibex feeding on the flat plateaus, they were above the goats.  If
the ibex stayed where they were, they were at the wolves' mercy, but to
reach the safety of the heights they had to run the gauntlet of the
pack.  The wolves toolc only kids and females, not caring to tackle the
heavy horns of the big rams-all, that is, except Courtaud.  He attacked
the rams by preference.  As the rams were usually the last, allowing
the more agile females and kids to go ahead of them, they were easier
to catch.  The pack depended on him to take care of the defending ram
while they concentrated on the weaker animals, and the wolf baron hated
the hybrid for his prowess.

There were also conflicts between them when hunting deer.  Here
the pack departed from their usual single-file method and spread out
like hounds to beat the cover.  Even if they could not scent the
quarry, they could often hear the frightened animals crashing through
the thickets.  Usually they counted on the weaker animals dropping to
the rear, but sometimes the wolves split into two packs and one group
would drive the deer toward a spot where the rest waited in ambush.

Another trick was to take deer by relay running, one group chasing
the herd until they tired, when the pursuit was taken up by a fresh
lot.

They also used decoys to distract the deer.  A single wolf would
display himself where he could be easily seen.  The deer did not
automatically run at the sight of a wolf, for often the wolf might not
be hunting and the deer did not want to expend energy unnecessarily,
especially in winter.  They would stand watching the wolf, who would
trot past them in an unconcerned manner, stopping to scratch himself or
mark scent posts.  While the deer were watching the decoy, the rest of
the pack would sneak up on the herd.

It was a dispute over deer that led to the final conflict between
Black Mantle and Courtaud.

The pack had split again, and both the wolf baron and Courtaud
were in the same unit.  The unit, which numbered only six wolves, was
trotting along when by chance they jumped a fallow deer.  It so
happened that Courtaud was in the lead, a most unusual circumstance as
the baron generally went first, and he instantly took off after the
deer.

The deer went uphill and drew ahead of the wolf-dog, but then came
a broad plateau swept clean of snow by the wind.  Here Courtaud began
to gain.  The deer came to the end of the plateau, only to find the
slope too precipitous, and after hesitating a few seconds, turned to
the left.  This pause was disastrous.  Courtaud was able to cut across
and intercept the fugitive.  Just as Courtaud's jaws were about to
close on the deer's haunch, Black Mantle with the rest of the pack
burst from cover and pulled the quarry down.

The wolf baron had seen how the deer was running and swung the
pack to ambush him.  Now the wolf baron sprang forward, snarling and
with tail raised, to drive Courtaud from the kill.

This was too much.  Courtaud hurled himself at his ancient enemy,
confident that his superior weight and right to his prey would bring
speedy victory.

Black Mantle had not become wolf baron without knowing how to .

fight.  He avoided the full force of Courtaud's charge sideways
and taking the shock of the charge, swinging wolf-dog's blow on his
shoulder.

As Courtaud tried to seize him by the throat, he was met by bared
fangs that gritted on his.  He struck again and again and always the
fangs were ready for him.  It was like two swordsmen, each parrying the
other's thrust with his own blade.  After the exchange, both animals
had minor cuts on their lips and gums but were otherwise unhurt.

The rest of the pack stood back to watch, although several were
whining unhappily.  If it had been a fight between two ordinary wolves,
they would have interfered, but the baron had begun this encounter and
it was up to him to finish it.  Had Black Mantle had any close friends
in the pack, they would have joined him, but he was not a popular
leader.

The baron stood with his head rased and slightly turned to expose
the jugular vein, daring Courtaud to bite.  This i display of bravado
should have caused the upstart to submit.

Instead, Courtaud sprang for the tempting target.  The baron was
ready for him.  Twisting, he caught Courtaud's bite on his shoulder, at
the same time tripping the WolfDog with one of his long legs.  Courtaud
went down, with the baron feeling for his throat.

In his eagerness to finish off his opponent, the baron neglected
to guard himself, and Courtaud was able to fasten to his foreleg.  The
baron rolled with him like a wrestler.  Courtaud lost his grip and both
animals broke apart.

For an instant they eyed each other.  Then the baron reared and
mounted Courtaud from in front, grabbing him by the left stifle, the
'Joint of the hind leg.  Courtaud'fought desperately, planting his hind
feet well apart and straining to break the other's grip.  There was no
more growling or snarling; only a subdued grumble as the wolves
struggled together.  The punishment was more than Courtaud could take
and he turned head and shoulders away from the baron.  This was the
signal of defeat and the whole pack knew it.  Except by their tension
they gave no sign; only Silver whimpered and ran forward, but even she
did not dare interfere.

If the baton had relaxed his grip, Courtaud would have slunk away,
permanently beaten.  But in his fury Black Mantle strove to crush his
enemy's leg.  Wild with pain, Courtaud managed to writhe around and
locked his 'jaws on the baron's muzzle.  For a few seconds the baron
continued to work his teeth in to reach the bone until he felt
Courtaud's grip crushing his jaws.  Then he let go, throwing himself
down and trying to roll.  He tore loose, but before he could regain his
feet, Courtaud had him by the nose a second time.

In his satisfaction, the wolf-dog actually grinned and wagged his
tail.

The baron tried to push him away with his forelegs, but Courtaud
had locked his 'jaws.

Blood was pouring from the baron's wounds into the snow and he was
weakening fast.  At last he went limp.  Courtaud shook him a few times
and then stood back.  The other wolves came up to sniff and turn away.

Black Mantle was dead.

Not even the adult males challenged the big wolf-dog's right to
leadership.  Proudly he led the pack into territories where they had
never ventured before, past white farmhouses glued to the sides of
cliffs, along sheep trails that lay like tangled skeins of thread
scarring the rocky ridges, under 'agged peaks that soared upward taller
than the spires of cathedrals, and over ranges so high they could look
down on the woolly white clouds below them.

When the fog came in, cutting down on visibility, he took them
into the great forests where the lines of trees stood like the pillars
of a church and the soft snow held a lacework of tracks.  Where the
wind swirled, there were cups in the snow around the base of the trunks
and the snow was blue in the shadows.  And to the pack's astonishment
and alarm, Courtaud would defiantly trot past the little villages, each
built around a central fountain, and even use the stone crosses as
scent posts-to the great alarm of the village dogs when they came
investigating the next day.

Courtaud would not have been so successful a baron if it had not
been for Silver, who trotted by his side, although slightly to the rear
as became a female.  Perhaps Courtaud did not know how greatly the
slender little wolf influenced him.  He took naturally to some of his
duties as baron.  He patrolled the pack's fief, checking the scent
posts and making sure the neighboring packs kept their distance.  He
broke up fights and figured as the rallying symbol to the pack, as the
Count Raoul had figured as a rallying symbol to his followers.  As with
humans, the wolves had to have an individual on whom they could fawn,
follow with confidence, and feel was always right.  They were prepared
to follow the waving plume of Courtaud's tail to the death.

Silver sensed that the pack was uneasy because of Courtaud's
unwolflike habits.  It made them nervous to see him recklessly
attacking formidable game; it was positively frightening for him to be
contemptuous of man.  The pack shrank back in terror when they saw
Courtaud scatter flocks of sheep and challenge the child shepherds.

Courtaud, not understanding their apprehension, ignored it.

Silver did not.  The wolf baron liked to have her at his side and
if she held back, he stopped to wait for her.  When the pack showed
reluctance to follow him, Silver hung back too.  Gradually, Courtaud
learned first to watch her for signs of alarm and then to watch the
pack.  In spite of his position as baron, he could not force the pack
to obey him, for the pack was made up of independent animals.  He was
tireless, as was Silver, but when the louvarts began to limp, she
slowed down, forcing him to do the same to spare the yearling cubs.

Gradually the pack came to trust him, and if any wolf had
challenged his leadership, Courtaud could have counted on the older
males to support him.  None had supported Black Mantle.

When spring came and fold after fold of the ridges emerged from
their shrouds of snow, the roe bucks barked in the alder thickets, and
Our-Lady's-mantles appeared in the sheltered nooks, several pairs of
wolves had pups.  The pack was well fed and felt secure, so several
litters were born.  No more louvetiers had been sent against them, for
Courtaud had spread his raids over a vast distance and no one community
suffered greatly.  That autumn the pack reached the unheard-of number
of forty-four animals.  All the other packs fled before such a host,
and the terrified peasants who came across the pack's fore swore there
were a thousand animals following the giant loup-garou who had no fear
of man.

When winter came, the growth of the pack brought increasingly
serious problems.  The great difficulty was finding enough food.  The
peasants now kept their flocks guarded in stone folds patrolled by men
and dogs, and the wi 'Id game was hard to catch.  Also, tensions within
the pack; there were more quarrels, more competition for mates and
rank.  It would have been better for the pack to have split into
smaller groups and for these to move to fresh hunting grounds, but none
liked to leave the magic presence of the mighty Courtaud.

Early one evening while they were trotting through a beech forest,
keeping a sharp lookout for wild pigs that might have come there after
beechnuts, Courtaud came on man scent.  He stopped at once, so abruptly
that the following wolves nearly ran into him and Silver had to drop to
avoid a collision.  Courtaud sniffed cautiously, for although he was
not afraid of man, he was suspicious of him.  His educated nose picked
up and separated a number of scents, much as a man interested only in
certain objects can receive a number of visual impressions which he
ignores while concentrating on the desired articles.  In addition to
manyjess interesting odors, Courtaud smelled the tracks of a man, a
dog, and several red deer.  Raising his head, he could airscent the
deer.  They were several hundred yards away in a thicket.  The man
smelled somewhat different from a peasant.  In fact, his scent reminded
Courtaud of the veneurs p he had known at the castle so long ago.

Courtaud could remember a scent better than most humans could
remember a face.  The dog was a hound.  He suspected it was one of the
heavy, bloodhoundlike animals called limies.  The man, then, would be
the valiet de limier-the veneur whose sole duty it was to work with a
single limier, puzzling out trails.

A twig had been broken and put in the slot mark of one of the
deer.  Courtaud sniffed the slot.  The twig meant nothing to him,
except that it was heavy with man-scent, ably a ten-point stag or
better.  Even with the full pack behind him, Courtaud would be hesitant
about attacking such an animal.  Nearby was a pile of fewmets, the
stag's droppings.  They had been disturbed by the man and seemingly
some taken, for they were scattered around.  The scent of the fewmets
told the wolf-dog even more strongly than the odor of the slot that
this was a dangerous animal.

Even so, there might be weaker animals in the herd.

With Silver at his side, he assembled his followers and informed
them by his motions that he intended to charge the herd.  They
responded by tail-wagging and licking.  Then he led them deep into the
grove, the pack following in single file.

They were in luck.  Almost at once Courtaud picked up the trail of
a hind with a half-grown calf and, judging from the calf's sent, it was
sickly.  When they put up the herd, it turned out that the calf could
hardly run and the hind remained behind to protect it.  Both were
easily killed.

Even the youngest louvarts fed well that evening.

The next morning, the blood-red sun was just breaking through the
mists and the birds were beginning to whistle to each other, when
Courtaud heard one of the attendant ravens screaming at something.  He
raised his head to listen, testing the wind.  The breeze was against
him, yet the bird was surely most upset.  Slowly and reluctantly
Courtaud got to his feet as the bird with an outburst of warning cries
took to its wings.

Through the beeches a man was coming, holding a large limier on a
fourteen-foot lead.  Well behind him came two other men, each leading
two raches coupled together.

The whole wolf pack were on their feet instantly and running, but
not Courtaud.  Far away came the sound of hunting horns, awakening old
memories.  The sight and smell of the men and the hounds stirred him
deeply.

Eagerly, he ran toward them.  The distraught Silver tried to
follow and then turned and fled.

The shocked men cried out at the sight of him.  None of them was
armed except with a dagger.  The valet de limier snatched the bugle
horn he wore on a baldric around his neck and hurriedly blew the
"777ene"-the signal that a wolf was about.

Courtaud stood wagging his tail and grinning happily.

These men were not peasants.  They were veneurs and veneurs were
his friends.

Answering horn calls came from behind.  The lewterers, who handled
the hounds that hunted by sight, were bringing up the livriers-the big,
fighting greyhounds.  Voices were calling "A 7iioi!  Tristan!  Hector!

Brun!  Roland!"

Courtaud was growing alarmed.  This did not sound friendly.

Still he remained, smiling and waving his tail.

The livriers came tearin(y through the trees, not knong what to
expect but ready to fight anything, including the raches if they were
uncoupled.  When they saw him, the le'vriers charged, clearly with the
deadliest intent.  At the same time, the men started yelling "Lar loup!

Tayaut!"

and the cruel hiss of an arrow whispered past Courtaud's ear,
followed by a "thuck!"  as the head buried itself in a tree trunk, the
shaft vibrating like a plucked harp string.

Courtaud needed no more.  These men were enemies.  He turned and
ran, with the livriers a spear's length from his brush.

Fortunately for him, there were a number of blowdowns and thickets
in the woods which he knew and was able to avoid while the greyhounds
plunged into them.  In a few hundred yards he came on Silver, who had
hung back to see what had happened to him.  Side by side they raced on.

In the open they would have soon been overtaken by the fleet
livriers, but the sight-hounds had no noses to speak of and were at a
loss whenever the cover hid the wolves.  The raches had been slipped
now and were coming up strong, their baying rolling through the trees.

The wolves left the woods and Courtaud led the way up the side of
a hill.  Glancing back-as the ibex had often done when he was pursuing
them-he saw that the livriers were stretched out in a long line, one
far in advance of the rest.  He dropped down behind some rocks and lay
quietly while Silver went on.  In a few moments the leading livrier
tore past, intent on the white form before him.  The greyhound probably
never knew what hit him.  He went flying up into the air and was dead
when he hit the ground.

Courtaud ran along the side of the hill toward a ridge he knew.

While hidden from the hounds, he jumped over the ridge and waited.

He could hear them racing past, their cat feet barely touching the
rocks.  He waited until he could hear only one.  Then he jumped over
the ridge, killed the straggler with a single bite through the brain,
'Jumped back, and was gone.  The other two vriers kept on, thinking he
was still ahead of them.  When the toiling raches arrived, they over
ran the scent where Courtaud had jumped back over the ridge and kept on
after the greyhounds.  When they finally realized that they were no
longer on the line, it was too late for them to try back.

Courtaud heard Silver give the pack howl and went to where she was
waiting for him on a spur.  They trotted side by side to the top of a
bluff overlooking a valley and howled together.  Listening carefully,
they could barely hear the answering call of the pack.  They headed
toward the noise.

They had to be careful, for the Ardennes were full of men and
hounds of every description, especially the black St.  Hubert's hounds
bred in the nearby monastery of St.

Hubert.  These magnificent animals were generally considered the
finest of all scenting hounds.  Although not especially fast, they were
staunch, had good noses, and were reckoned terrible fighters.  Two of
them were considered the equal of one wolf.  The wolves could hear the
vanchasers (the first pack to be released) tonguing on a hot line while
the horns were sounded to tell the hounds they were on the right scent.

This business of baying on a trail seemed strange to the wolves,
as they always ran mute.

A few moments later, the ten-point stag bounded past, his tongue
protruding.  The wolves hurriedly turned away as the pack swept past
but they had no need to be alarmed.

The hounds would not have quit the line for any other quarry, not
even wolves.

Twice the wolves encountered nets strung across the trails, partly
to force the hunted stag to stay on a certain line and partly in the
hope that he might entanlyle his antlers.  The wolves avoided the nets
easily-although Silver was frightened by the strange, man-smelling
things-and finally rejoined the anxious pack, who smothered both of
them with kisses and pats with their forefeet.  Safely hidden, they
listened while the midel, the second pack, were put on the line after
the vanchasers had tired, and then the last pack, or partifters.

These were slower but trusty, older hounds, for now the stag was
tiring.  He doubled back toward the wolves and all the pack rose in
alarm, but the stag was headed for a pond into which he plunged in
hopes of throwing off his pursuers.  This was a trick he had often used
with wolves and it was generally successful.  The hounds followed him
into the water, some even climbing on his back, but he would have
succeeded in escaping if the hard-riding piqueurs had not come up.

They forced their horses into the water and one of them stabbed
the exhausted animal to the heart with his dagger.

The hunt continued for a week, for this was a gran battue intended
to supply the local castle with meat enough for the entire winter.

Virtually every animal encountered was killed; a wooded glade was
turned into an abattoir, and wagons jolted over the rutted paths to
carry away their loads of venison, pork, and goat meat.  The wolves
kept well away until the slaughter was over.

For the next few days, the pack lived high.  There was enough
waste to feed many packs of wolves.  They grew so particular that they
would touch only the best parts such as the fat clinging to the
intestines.  Gradually, the wasteful feast was over.  The pack turned
to the less-favored portions.  Then to the hides and bones.  Finally,
when the last scraps were exhausted, they went hunting again.

But there was nothing to hunt.  The Ardennes had been swept clean.

Driven by hunger, they intruded on the fiefs of other packs, an
unforgivable wolf sin, only to find these were also barren and the
neighboring packs in as hopeless a condition as themselves.  Then came
the snow.  For days hunting was impossible.

When the storm stopped, the hungry animals plunged and struggled
through the drifts, uselessly expending their strength.  Even when the
snow packed down sufficiently to hold them, they were living in a dead
world where nothing existed save themselves and a few birds.

Once again Courtaud led them to the villages, where the appetizing
scent of sheep and cattle hung on the wind.  The peasants had been busy
reinforcing their byres with boulders, a tribute to the awe with which
the mountain people regarded Courtaud and his pack.  The louvarts were
dying fast now and the females were weakening rapidly.  Even Silver was
no longer her gay self and Courtaud saw that she had not long to live.

One bleak morning, standing on top of a ridge looking over the
white landscape, Courtaud saw far below him the lowlands, where there
would be food and ease from the strangling snow.  There would also be
danger, great danger, but it was that or certain death.  The packs had
never ventured there because of their fear of man.  Courtaud did not
share this fear, dangerous as he knew man to be.  To him, man was only
another animal, to be dreaded no more and no less than a stag or an
elk.  On this historic morning which would never be forgotten in
France, the great WolfDog led his wild followers down from the Ardennes
into the flatlands, toward Paris.

FOUR The Man-Eater

The depleted pack was reluctant to leave the familiar Ardennes.

When the wolves saw that Courtaud was leading them to the unknown
lowlands, they hesitated and refused to go on.  Even the loyal Silver
whimpered and lay down.  There was no way the wolf baron could force
them to obey him-, he was obliged to resort to pleading.  He ran back
and forth, whining, lying down to show his good intentions and then
springing up to take a few more steps down the slope.  At last Silver
rose and followed him, and then that year's cubs.  Several of the older
wolves turned back, but when they saw and smelled the blizzard raging
above them, they followed Courtaud as the lesser of two evils.

Perhaps they would have balked at leaving the wellknown coniferous
forests if by good luck Courtaud had not happened on a flock of blue
grouse buried in the snow.

The position of each bird was marked by a sunken spot where the
heat of its body had melted the ice.  Courtaud stumbled on the first
one by chance; after that he found the rest by sight and scent.  There
were only a few of the birds so only a few of the pack got as much as a
mouthful, but they were all encouraged by the presence of prey and went
on more willingly.

After another few hours of trotting, the snow was so light that it
was invisible except against the dark pines.

Then they were below it, in oak and beech woods.  Here they
stopped for a rest, for even the adult wolves were tired.  They slept
for twelve hours before going on.

Compared to the windswept Schnee Fifel, here it was almost balmy.

In sheltered nooks, hellebore was in blossom.  They passed through
a hazel coppice where the purple catkins were beginning to form, and in
the morning they heard the larks singing as the birds rose in their
circling flights.  None of this interested the wolves.  They were
famished and except for the grouse there had been no sign or scent of
food.

So far they had not encountered any traces of humans, for the
serfs seldom went into the forests.  To them, the forests were haunted
places full of evil spirits and unknown dangers, but that night the
pack came on a statue of Ardhuina, the ancient hunting goddess.  It was
well hidden in the forest, for if the priests had known of it, they
would have had the old idol destroyed.  Someone knew of it, though, and
still worshipped there, for on the altar lay the arcass of a skinned
fox and a dead owl, left as sacrifices.

c They had been partly eaten by ravens and magpies and the wolves
quickly finished what was left.  They spent the day here, sleeping
under a giant linden tree that must have seeded itself in the waters
left by the Flood.

In the morning, the ground was gray with hoarfrost and a scum of
white ice lay in the hollows.  Reluctant as he was to travel by day,
Courtaud decided to push on.  He had to find human habitation, for
there would be food.

That afternoon they came on a village, but it was deserted.  It
had been sacked and burned.  Here and there showed the sharp points of
gables, known as "Knolles' miters" after the English leader who
systematically burned every village he encountered.  There was nothing
but the blackened, charred bracken that had served as thatching, now
fallen in.  There was a little spilled grain that the birds had not
found and the bones of men and cattle, all wellpicked.

Silver found the remains of a dead dog with a little meat on them.

That was all.

For the next three days the pack traveled over country where not a
rooster crowed nor a hen clucked.  Every village they found was nothing
but briars and bracken.  The bridges had been destroyed and they were
forced to swim the ale-colored streams.  Courtaud stopped trying to get
through the woods with their thick undergrowth and went openly along
the deserted roads, barred by the shadows of the poplars that lined
them.  There was no danger here except from starvation.  The pack met
no passersby.  It was said in those days that the roads of France were
paved with corpses rather than stones, but unfortunately for the
wolves, other scavengers had long ago disposed of the corpses.

France, which formerly had been the garden of Europe, was now a
burned-out trash heap.  This was the height of the Hundred Years War,
which had been going on so long that no one could remember when there
had been peace.

The country was split between the English, the Burgundians, and
the forces of the weak Charles VII.  Meanwhile, bands of outlaws looted
the helpless land.

Every day now wolves were dropping out of the pack, too weak from
hunger to go on.  There was game in the forests but they did not know
where it was and they were daunted by the scent posts of the local
packs they encountered.  Not only was poaching on another pack's fief a
deadly sin, but also Courtaud did not dare start a war with his
followers in such a weakened condition.  Most of them had not eaten for
a week.  Once they managed to surprise a bustard on the ice of a frozen
pond and were able to outrun the big, fifty-pound bird.  Once they
trapped two large swans by a tangle of osiers.  The woods were as full
of squirrels as a lake is of minnows, but they were small and almost
impossible to capture.  They caught a few rabbits.  Deer, their basic
diet, seemed to have disappeared, for they found no sign of any.

After a night's hunting, they were resting in a halfovergrown
clearing dating back to the golden days before the war, when serfs
called hospites-men who were willing to travel about, opening glades in
the forest for cultivation.  The morning mist lay low, but in the
distance came the call of curlews.  Courtaud was sleeping when the
slight breeze brought to him the stench of men, horses, and leather.

Instantly he was awake.

He was about to rouse the rest of the pack when there came the
'Jingle of bits, clump of hoofs, and low voices.  The pack sprang up,
and then copied their leader who had crouched down, his ears pricked to
hear every sound.

A troop of men armed from head to foot were riding down a path cut
many years before by the hospites and now much overgrown but still
passable.  Each man rode a palfrey, leading his great destrier, or
war-horse, on his right hand.  The destriers, enormous animals coming
from the Perche Hills, were known as Percherons.  They could carry the
weight of a man equipped with the heavy new armor, so massive it could
withstand even the arrows shot from the terrible English longbows,
which could drive an arrow through chain mail as though it were a
cloak.

These men were covered in plate mail from their great visored
bascinets to the steel sabatons over their feet.  They carried
fourteen-foot lances whose butts fitted into metal sockets fastened to
their stirrups.  The war-horses too were armored en-barbed; that is, on
their heads were peytrals, or helmets, on their sides flanchards, and
on their flanks cruppers, both being strips of armor plating.  The men,
or war party, moved in various units, each under its own flag: the
square banners of the barons, the forked pennons of the knights, and
the triangular streaming penoncels of the squires in the second rank.

The pack lay quietly, letting the host pass them, and even after
the last had gone still did not dare to move.  Finally Courtaud stood
up, sniffing the air.  The rest imitated him.

He was about to leave the glade in a different direction than the
men had taken when suddenly a stag, wild with fright, dashed past them.

It had been put up by the army.

For a moment Courtaud was prepared to give chase, but the stag was
in prime condition and going far too fast.  Regretfully he saw it
vanish among the trees.

Far to the left came a series of halloos, given in different
accents from the tones of the mounted men.  Another group of men had
seen the stag and were shouting at it in sport.

The sound of the horsemen was still audible but now it abruptly
ceased.  The men had also heard the shouts and were listening.  A few
minutes later, Courtaud heard them leave the path and go through the
woods toward the shouting.

The pack was impatient to be gone, running back and forth and
whimpering.  They hated anything to do with humans.  Courtaud, however,
had other ideas.  He recalled from former days the oily scent of armor,
the smell of horses, and the clank of arms.  In those days, when he had
always been well fed, it had mattered little to him, but he connected
it with the smell of blood and blood meant food.

To the unbelieving horror of the pack, he followed the men, at a
discreet distance.

The pack had followed him too long to stop now, although they
shivered as they slipped among the trees, avoiding the worst of the
underbrush.  In the distance they could hear the horses crashing
through the cover.  Then the noise stopped.  At the same time, the
trees ahead of them thinned and they came to the edge of the woods.

They were on top of a long ridge and below them was open land
covered with broom and heather.  A few hundred yards away the land rose
again to another ridge running parallel to the one where they lay, but
bare of trees.  A road ran along the top of this second ridge and
another men was moving over it, but a mcnie very different from the one
that had passed the wolves.  Most of the men were on foot and wore no
armor but boiled-leather 'jackets with the Cross of St.  George marked
on them and wickeork helmets with crosspieces of iron on the top.

These men carried great bows longer than themselves, with quivers
of arrows either slung over their shoulders or fastened to their belts.

They also carried long stakes, bound with iron and sharpened at
both ends.  There were also a few mounted men in full plate armor, as
well as baggage carts and sumpter mules heavily loaded.  Courtaud
watched the bowmen especially.  He had a horror of bows and their
ability to kill at a distance.

There was noise from the men near the wolves.  The men were
mounting their destriers.  A moment's pause.

Then came the clear, high notes of a trumpet and the men debouched
from the woods.  They paused for a moment to form ranks.

Then the trumpet spoke again and the men began to trot down the
side of the ridge, their lance points flashing in the sun.  They rode
so closely together that a glove thrown among them would not have
touched the ground.  The necks of the horses behind lay on the cruppers
of those in front.

There was a flicker on the hill as the opposing war host made
ready to receive them.  The archers took up positions on the flanks and
with great mallets that had been slung ver their backs drove their
stakes into the ground slanting toward the oncoming horsemen.  The
mounted men took up their position in the center.  The trumpet spoke
again.

At the signal, the lances of the attacking force swayed down until
they were leveled low, the riders bending over until their heads
touched the horses' manes.  The big horses broke into a ponderous
gallop, clods flying from beneath their hoofs like startled birds.  The
wolves could feel the roll of the hoofs through the ground, and they
trembled.

On the hill, the bows of the archers swayed upward.  For an
instant they held motionless.  Then a blizzard of arrows leaped away
toward the charging horsemen.  It was like a black snowstorm except
that each snowdrop was tipped with steel.  Horses went down on their
knees, screaming, their riders pitching from the saddles.  The rest
pushed on, hurling over the smashed tangle of the dead and dying.

Another volley of arrows sprang away.  So deadly was the bowmen's
aim that if a man raised his visor, he never closed it again.  The
archers had time for one more volley before the van of the charging men
reached them.

Repulsed by the stakes, the horsemen concentrated on the opposing
mounted men.  As they came together, there was a crash that made the
wolves jump.  After the first shock, the lances were useless and both
sides drew their swords.  Sparks flew as the swords struck on ailettes
and pectorals that protected their shoulders and chests.  Men went down
with cloven helms, vomiting blood and spitting broken teeth.  The
pennons reeled and tottered.  The wolves could smell the blood and hear
the shrieks of the wounded as the horses trampled them.  The archers
dropped their bows, drew their daggers, and, running in, hamstrung the
horses and dragged the men off their backs.  In their heavy armor, the
dismounted knights were virtually helpless.

Watching, the wolves saw a mounted man turn his horse's head and
ride wildly away toward the comparative safety of the woods.  Two more
followed him.  Then half a dozen.  Then all that was left of the
attacking force shredded away in panic.  The brief engagement was over.

The archers climbed over piles of the fallen, prying open helms
and unriveting armor plate to see if the men inside were alive.  If one
was, and promised a large ransom, he was taken prisoner.  Otherwise,
the bowmen cut his throat.

Some archers took four and five prisoners, enough to make them
rich for life.  The mounted knights disdained to hunt for loot so
openly, but they rode about and if any man called to them, their
squires took him prisoner.

After an hour or so the Free Company, one of the many bands of
unemployed mercenaries who were virtually ban dits, continued on Its
way with its prisoners.  Such skirmishes occurred almost daily.  It was
the way the Free Companies made their living.

When the men were gone, Courtaud rose and, crossing the little
valley, fell on one of the dead horses.  He did not feed daintily.  He
tore off great gobs of flesh and bolted them.  Slowly the others
followed him, hungry but repelled by the man-scent.  The louvarts were
the first to eat, and then Silver.  Gradually the rest of the pack set
to.  The human dead they did not touch; there was no need.  There were
plenty of horses.  Soon ravens and magpies 'Joined the feast, picking
out the eyes of the dead as breaking through the hide was too
difficult.  The birds made no discrimination between horses and humans.

Food was food to them.

For the next three weeks, the wolf pack followed the Free Company
as the ravens had followed them in the Ardennes, and lived well.  They
grew used to the odor of humans and ceased to mind it.  They also
learned to eat human flesh.  Occasionally the Free Company would find
some village overlooked by former raiders and destroy it.

After killing the inhabitants, they would slaughter the cattle and
have a feast, but generally there were few cattle left, hardly enough
for the men.  It had always been difficult to carry cattle over the
winter months because of the shortage of fodder.  Now, with so much of
the land laid waste, farming had ;become almost impossible, so except
for a little breeding stock, all animals were slaughtered in the fall.

The wolves would have gone hungry if they had been forced to rely
on the leftovers of the feasts, but there was no need for that.  There
was always plenty of human meat and now that their dread of human scent
was removed, they ate it readily.  In this as in all matters, Courtaud
led the way.  He had never had any reluctance to have dealings with man
as long as he was sure the man could not hurt him.

Occasionally a wolf would seize what he thought to be a corpse
only to have the corpse cry out and move.  At first this frightened the
wolves, but soon they came to regard it as only an annoyance.  They
found that the badly injured people could put up no effective
resistance.  If there were plenty of genuine corpses lying about, they
ignored the living; but if there was a shortage of food, they took the
attitude that the wounded, in resisting, were trying to deprive them of
their rightful meal.  With Courtaud setting the example, they quickly
discovered that humans were easy to kill-far easier than a red deer or
an elk or an ibex.

A wolf might go toward an injured man or woman and draw back when
the person struggled.  But when another wolf approached the person, the
first wolf would defend his right to the quarry, seizing the victim and
growling to establish that it was his rightful kill.  The second wolf
would then rush in and grab another part of the helpless wretch, and
between them they would pull him apart.  But they still would not
attack an uninjured person able to defend himself.

The Free Company soon discovered that the pack was following them
and regarded it as a great joke.  They jested that it was now
unnecessary for them to exterminate the French-the wolves would do it
for them.  "In other lands, wolves run from men.  In France, men run
from wolves," they boasted.  They gave their leader the title of "Wolf
Feeder."  He was delighted.

As the Free Company penetrated deeper and deeper into the country
and closer to Paris, they began to encounter increasingly powerful
enemies led by warriors who had become familiar with their tactics.

These experienced warriors did not launch head-on attacks into the
midst of the murderous arrow storm.  Theyoutflanked the company or
pinned them down by surrounding them and strove to starve them out.  In
this the French chivalry had finally developed as much intelligence as
a wolf pack, which would never dream of making a frontal attack on
dangerous quarry if they could possibly take it from the rear, and
always strove to wear down their prey before moving in for the kill.

The Free Company may have been composed of brutes, but they were
powerful brutes, skilled in war.

Time after time they were able to break through the French
encirclement and escape, but eventually they realized that this could
not keep on.  Reluctantly, their leader gave the order to leave the
district.

The wolves now were left without the kind friends who had fed
them, yet they no longer cared to suffer the efforts and privations
involved in catching wild game.  Indeed, they had almost forgotten the
techniques.  They had become virtual parasites on man.  As the Free
Company had gone, they would have to become raiders in their place.

They were now in a part of France that had missed the worst
effects of the war.  Here there were still castles that had been able
to resist all attacks, and at the feet of the castles, villages where
the inhabitants were still able to grow some crops and pasture cattle.

These peasants depended mainly on their herds, for in time of
trouble, the animals could be quickly driven into the enceinte of the
castle, the drawbridge lifted, and the portcullis dropped.

It would be a bold group of adventurers indeed who would undertake
the siege of a castle.  But the crops could not be so easily moved and
in case of an attack would be lost.

For that reason, only land within a bowshot of the castle walls
was cultivated.  It could be protected by covering fire.

After a day's aimless searching, the pack came on a whitewashed
chapel in the woods that had miraculously escaped detection.  There was
nothing to eat, only the cent to put flowers in the shrine and the
wolves backtracked them.  Within an hour they came upon a cluster of
mud-and-wattle huts huddled under the tower of a church, the only stone
building in the place, to which all the winding lanes ran.  Most of the
hovels had enclosed yards where grew cabbages, onions, parsley, and
sweet herbs.  Behind the houses were larger vegetable gardens with
cherry and apple trees.  Beyond that ran the river, flowing past the
gallows where the bones of two men hung.  Near the river were the pens
for the pigs and a few tethered cows.  Small shelters housed ducks and
geese.  The mill was clacking away and at the forge the wolves could
hear the smith's hammer strokes and see the sparks fly.  The herdsmen
were driving the cattle into the byres and the shepherds their flocks
to the folds against the night.

To the east, built on a rocky outcrop by the river, stood the
castle.  The central keep was twenty times as tall as a man and had
taken five years to build.  So many villeins died from the corve'es-the
forced labor-that it had seemed at one time the count would rule over a
desert when he had completed the work, yet because of it, not only the
Free Companies but even the English armies had left the dread place
alone.  Yet even so, two men stood constantly to battle on the top of
the keep, keeping watch over the lord's demesne, their horns slung over
their shoulders to sound the alarm.

The pack lay and watched, invisible except for their red tongues
and golden eyes.  Luckily, the wind was in their favor-otherwise the
serfs' dogs would have scented them -and they waited for sunset.  Even
after the church's bells had rung vespers, they remained still,
although the glorious scent of live meat was constantly in their
nostrils.  The red light of fires gleamed through the cracks of the
huts and still Courtaud refused to make his move.  It was not until the
compline rang from the church that he rose, stretched, and turned to
the pack.  The excited animals went through the formalities of the
group kissing, patting with forefeet, and feverish tail-wagging they
always indulged in before an attack.  Then, with Courtaud in the fore,
they advanced on the village.

For all his astuteness, Courtaud had not bothered to mark any
particular byre or fold for his initial attack.  He avoided the lanes
and swung around behind the houses, the pack following him.  The many
scents confused him and he could not tell in just which buildings the
cattle were.

Suddenly it seemed as though all the dogs in the village began
barking at once.  The sound excited the wolves rather than alarming
them.  A breath later came the frantic ringing of sheep bells as the
sheep, mad with fear, dashed back and forth in their folds.  Then came
the roll of hoofs as the horses strove to escape even though they were
hobbled.  There was the sound of splintering wood as the cattle broke
out of their byres.

The pack knew now that they had been scented and no more
concealment was possible.  Courtaud rushed at the nearest hut.  He
could smell cattle within, for most of the serfs' huts were both stable
and home, the animals separated from the people by only a few palings.

Wealthier peasants who owned a number of animals generally kept
them in a separate building.  There was a space of a few inches under
the door and Courtaud thrust his long muzzle in, sniffling loudly.  From
within came loud screams and the sound of men's voices,
shouting in alarm.  Courtaud flung his weight against the door.  The
wattle trembled but the leather hinges held.  Courtaud tried again and
again while the screams grew louder.  Now an ox was bawling, a cow
mooing, and pigs squealing.

Again, Courtaud threw himself at the door.  As he did so he heard
the terror-stricken cry of a horse.  The wolves had found one of the
hobbled animals and were pulling it down.

Courtaud left the hut and ran to be in on the kill.  Cattle,
sheep, and horses were running, crazed with fear, and among them ran
the wolves, sometimes hard to tell from the sheep in the darkness
except that the wolves' yellow eyes shone green in the moonlight.  In a
nearby byre Courtaud heard the cattle slipping and falling on the soft
dung they had voided in their terror.  The wolves had gone mad at the
sight of the running beasts and lost their usual discipline.  Though
there was quarry and enough around them for the taking, they struck at
the doors of the huts to get at the beasts inside.  An old deaf woman
opened her door, thinking that it was one of her neighbors seeking
entrance.

When she saw her error, she tried to slam it shut again but a wolf
seized the door in his teeth and worried it while the woman screamed.

Courtaud passed another screaming woman.  She had been caught in
the garderobe, or privy, and the wolves had overturned it.  She lay
there trapped inside like a rabbit in a snare, screaming, although the
wolves paid no attention to her.

In front of Courtaud, a cow went down on her knees and instantly
he put his forelegs on the animal's shoulder, pushed her over, and
ripped out her throat.  Silver was right behind him.  Together they
tore out the unborn calf and began to devour it.  One of the
louvarts'joined them.

Courtaud felt something hiss past him and saw the louvart leap in
the air, spin around, and then fall gasping.

Hungry as he was, he dropped the calf and turned around.

Men with bows were shooting at them from the open doorways and
windows.  Courtaud gave his warning bark, which Silver instantly
obeyed, and both animals ran.  Although no more oral warnings were
given, the pack sensed and saw the fear of their leaders and followed
at full speed.

Within seconds they were clear of the village, frustrated and
raging.  They had been robbed of the great gorge they had promised
themselves.

Down the road came a cart pulled by a pony and making a great
noise, for the driver had hung it with tins, bells, and bird scares
which were believed to keep away wolves.

The man was jean Dubois from Laon and with him were his wife and
little son.  In the cart was a tethered sheep which jean was taking to
Paris to sell.  The road being bad from rains, he had been delayed,
reaching the village where he had meant to spend the night long after
dark.

Before jean could cross himself, the wolves were around the cart.

They paid no attention to the people, but Courtaud himself sprang
for the pony's throat.  Down he went with Courtaud's teeth in his neck.

Others of the pack leaped into the cart and started pulling out
the sheep.

Dubois was a man of great, stubborn courage and not many brains,
for he tried to save the pony that was now under a pile of wolves.

jumping from the cart, he struck at the wolves with his peasant's
billhook.  They took no heed of him until he tried to force Courtaud
away.  To the wolf baron, he was on his lawful kill and he refused to
retreat.  Half a dozen wolves were tearing at the pony, who screamed
the terrible scream of a horse in agony.  Dubois tripped and fell over
the body and the wolves, ripping the pony apart, made no distinction
between man and beast.

Dubois died with Courtaud's teeth in his throat.  This was the
first uninjured man an of the wolves had killed and had he not
interfered, they would have spared him.  Although they devoured the
pony and the sheep, the pack ignored the woman and child who sat dead
with fear in the cart.

The pack were still hungry when they went on, but Courtaud did not
dare to return to the village.  It did not take the wolves long to
discover that the frightened cattle had scattered through the fields,
where they could easily be tracked down and killed.  So heavily did the
pack feed that night that it was all they could do to drag themselves
to the woods when daylight came.

When hunting wild quarry, the pack had never killed more than they
needed.  There was a good reason for this.

Wild quarry was too difficult to catch.  With the helpless
domestic stock, they went wild.  Many of the animals escaped mutilated
but still alive.  A cow had her belly badly torn, still reached the river
where she drank till she could hold no more.  Next morning, her
owner had to kill her as she was beyond help.  Several sheep were
smothered when they piled up in a corner of the fold.  Three horses had
their tails bitten off where the pursuing wolves had grabbed them from
behind and tried to pull them down.

Others were badly slashed by the wolves' long canines.  Of jean
Dubois, there was nothing left except the head and intestines.

Usually, the pack would have laid up for a day or two after such a
gorge, but they had gone hungry so long that their bodies used up the
nourishment rapidly.  By evening, they were ready to take the trail
again.  The pack had spread out through the trees and Courtaud howled
to bring them together-a howl that made the listening serfs cringe .

I Soon ' the shadows under the trees became alive.  Hungry eyes in
pairs glowed in the gathering darkness.  They were prepared for another
blood glut.

The wolf baron first made a sweep to see if any kine had escaped
their notice the night before and were still wandering in the woods,
but all survivors had been rounded up by the villeins.  Only slightly
disappointed, Courtaud led the way toward the village.  As soon as it
was completely dark, he would lead another attack on the folds and
byres, scatter the kine, and then cut up the stragglers in the forest
where his pack could not be shot at ambush from the huts.

A rising wind blew through the trees with a noise like horses
galloping.  A scud of rain was flung in their faces.

Courtaud smelled thyme, and swung to avoid it, for the herbs
always grew near water and he disliked getting his feet wet.  Then they
reached the edge of the woods and stopped dead.

All the village livestock were being driven toward the castle.

There were several sounders of swine, a herd of cattle, three
flocks of sheep, and horses, oxen, and geese.

The drawbridge was lowered to receive them and the portcullis
raised.

To Courtaud, this was a wondrous opportunity.  One swift charge
would scatter the livestock, which would then be at the pack's mercy.

He rushed forward, making tenfoot bounds.

The wolves were among the domestic animals before the
slow-thinking serfs realized what had happened.  They then panicked,
calling on the men-at-arms for help.  The wolves flowed like water
through the tame beasts, seizing their quarry by the hind legs and
flanks.  A cow, mad with pain and terror, ran dragging a wolf hanging
to her tail.  At last he pulled her to her knees.  Another grabbed her
by the nose.  The cow used her fore hoofs as well as her horns but the
wolf who had her by the nose stretched her out until his comrade could
hamstring her.  A horse went down with four wolves tearing at him.  His
hind legs kicked a few times and he was dead.

Courtaud had singled out a heller.  He seized her by the throat
and by sheer strength jerked her head over heels so she came down on
her back.  The wolf baron turned over as well but recovered himself and
stood back, allowing his vassals to finish the business.

Inside the castle, trumpets were sounding the alarm as though for
an attack by a human mein'e.  The archers on the parapet could not use
their bows for dread of hitting the cattle and serfs, and none of the
men-at-arms was eager to close with the wolves, for there would have
been small need of a leech for any man they got their teeth into.  As
the kine poured into the bailey, the excited pack followed them, led by
Courtaud.

The count alone kept his head, for he shouted, "By the Apostle
whom the penitents seek, we have them!  Porter, uphaul the bridge!  Let
the portcullis fall!"

Until now Courtaud had not realized that he was leading his pack
into a trap.  He had seen only the kine and sought to stampede them so
they would scatter.  Looking about him, he perceived they were
surrounded by the castle walls and there was no escape save by the
barbican by which they had entered.  Drunk as the pack was by sight
andcent of the rich feastaround them, Courtaud turned and ran.

Instantly the rest did the same.

It ' was in the nick of time, for the bridge was beginning to
rise.  Encouraged, the men-at-arms rushed forward with their pikes and
Courtaud turned to face them with Silver at his side.  The men shrank
back from the snarling wolves, although they would have instantly
closed with armed saries.  Then the porter released the portcullis
suspended between the entrance towers.

Without turning his head, Courtaud could see it falling, for as
wolves have eyes on either side of their heads they can see backward
more easily than a man.  The wolf baron was brave, yet not redeless.

He turned and sped for the gateway with Silver beside him.  It was
a race between the wolves and the falling portcullis and all who
watched held their breath.  An instant before the portcullis struck,
Silver slipped under it, but the larger Courtaud was not so lucky.

He dodged under it, it is true, but one of the iron spikes caught
him by the tail and held him.

A great shout went up and a dozen men sprang forward as the wolf
baron struggled for his life, tearing at the flagstones with his sharp
claws and turning to bite at the tail that held him.  "Throw a noose
around his neck and strangle him," shouted the count.  "I would have
his fell whole and unmarked."  While men ran to get a rope, Courtaud
made one last great effort.  He tore himself free, leaving the greater
part of his tail on the spike.  In three bounds he was on the upraising
bridge where Silver had already passed, scrambled up it as though up a
sloping wall, reached the top, and sprang clear.  He fell into the
moat, swam to the far side despite the arrows that splashed around him,
and climbed the bank.  For an instant he turned to look back, and then
was gone.

The next morning the body of an old shepherd was found, together
with his dead dog and all his sheep.  The old man had not heard the
reeve-who acted as the count's overseer-give the order to bring all
livestock into the castle.  Not one of the sheep had been eaten,
although Courtaud had partly devoured the man, for his great fore was
around the mutilated corpse.

This, then, is how Courtaud came to get his name, that is to say,
Cut-Tail.  From that day on, Courtaud never met a man he did not try to
kill, and he taught his pack to do likewise.

FIVE The Outlaw

Three weeks later the pack was lying up in a little glade they had
come to regard as their home.  A spring bubbled up here so strongly
that the water seemed to be boing over the white sand.  In this
sheltered spot white clover, tufted vetch, and star-eyed daisies were
beginning to grow.

Like a tent, a vast beech with silver bark overhung the glade, the
tree's gnarled roots covered with climbing mosses.  This tree was
considered by the few humans who had ever visited the spot as sacred to
the fairies, and in happier times children had hung garlands from the
branches as tributes to the Little People.  A few of these faded
garlands still remained.

The stump of the wolf baron's tail had almost healed by now.

Silver had been an excellent nurse, keeping the raw flesh clean
with her tongue and driving away the early flies and gnats.  She
herself had sustained an arrow wound in her shoulder that gave her some
trouble, but she ignored it in worrying over her mate's mutilation.  In
addition to the pain, the loss of his great banner had humiliated
Courtaud, as he had used his tail to signal his moods and desires to
the pack.

The wolves had not confined their activities to the demesne of the
castle where Courtaud had met his accident.  They hunted over a wide
area, seldom striking twice in the same place.  They could travel
seventy miles in a night, while a journey of twenty miles was
considered difficult for humans over the miserable, robber-infested
roads.  So by the time one of their raids had been reported, they were
many miles away in a different lord's demesne.

As few lords dared to trespass on another lord's fief, this
rendered the pack virtually immune from pursuit, as it did human
raiders.

Both because of the loss of his tail and the problems of keeping
the pack organized, Courtaud had paid little attention to Silver even
after she came into estrus, so the female was forced to make the first
advances.  Often a wolf would select some object as a keepsake and
prize it highly.  Courtaud had selected the thighbone of the shepherd
he had killed as a trophy and kept it buried near the spring.  He would
often dig it up to play with it and no other wotf was allowed to come
near the keepsake.  Like every wolf in the pack, Silver knew all about
the bone and now that they had returned to the glade after a two-day
raid, she dug it up and carried it past Courtaud with an air of great
nonchalance.

For a few seconds, the wolf baron could not believe such sacrilege
had actually been committed.  Then he sprang up with a growl that ended
in a roar of rage.  Silver fled, still holding fast to the bone, with
Courtaud after her.

Once among the trees, she could outdodge him but as soon as she
caught the angry scent of his anal glands, the little female knew that
she had gone too far.  She dropped trieved his prized possession.  He
was contemplating running Silver down and punishing her after he had
cached the bone, when he saw her stop as abruptly as though she had run
into some obstacle and stand motionless except for her twitching
nostrils.

Reluctantly, Courtaud shoved the bone under some dead leaves with
his nose and then raised his head to test the air.

He could detect only the usual morning smells: the dewlaid dust,
the grass and herbs crushed by the pack's feet, woodsmoke and the scent
of torches quenched at dawn from the distant village.  There was also
the odor of horses, oxsweat, and the faint smell of dogs.  He listened
carefully.

The first birds were cheeping, he could hear the dull blows of a
woodsman's axe, and cows lowing to be milked.  Nothing alarming.

Silver was alerted, although not alarmed.  She seemed curious and
somewhat interested in whatever it was she scented.  Courtaud left his
precious bone and swung at his easy stride to pick up the same current
of air she had found.  The moment he had done so, he also stopped dead.

A strange yet delightfully tantalizing odor was carried by the
breeze.  Like all wolves, Courtaud was intensely curious and would have
investigated any unusual smell but this odor drew him with a
fascination that was akin to a sexual drive.  It awoke cravings in him
that he could scarcely control.  All he wanted was to find the source
of that thrilling scent and roll in it.

The odor was that of long-dead fish.  The heads, tails, and
backbones of fish had been left to rot in a clay pot and then cupfuls
of the rank, oy muck had been tossed along the trail at intervals.  To
any member of the canine family, the smell was irresistible.

The two wolves followed the odor as though in a trance.

From a distance, the other members of the pack saw their
preoccupation and followed.  They, too, were seduced by the smell and
followed it blindly.  Then Courtaud encountered another odor.

It was musk from the anal glands of another male wolf.

At the scent, Courtaud stopped, growled, and then pressed on
fiercely.  Yes, here was a spot where the impudent stranger had
sprinkled a tree.  Silver smelled the spot too and her tail rotated
with uncertainty like a puzzled squirrel's.  The urine smelled stale,
as though very old, yet the sprinkling was recent.  The yellow drops
still glistened on the trunk of the tree.  The ground around the tree
smelled of cattle dung, yet there was no odor of cattle.  Silver did
not like any of this.  She withdrew hurriedly, tail going between her
legs, but not forgetting to use her nose.  The manure smell persisted
all along the game trail.  Silver quietly got off the trail and
retreated to the safety of the woods.

Courtaud was too furious to notice such niceties.  All he knew or
cared about was that a strange male had invaded his territory and
deliberately left a challenge.  The hackles on his neck rose, a deep
war growl rumbled in his throat, and even the bewitching odor of the
rotten fish, although now stronger than ever, was forgotten.  The other
males mitated his deep-mouthed threats and duplicated his actions as he
contemptuously obliterated the foreign scent with copious splashes of
his own urine.

The pack continued down the path, tension growing as they
encountered another scent post.  Silver followed nervously through the
trees.  She knew too much to interfere with a male defending his
territory, yet something was terribly wrong, of that she was sure.

Then the pack came to a sudden halt.

Before them was a circular enclosure of woven osier and from it
came the strong odor of dog.  Although the fence was too tall for the
wolves to see over, in the center was a mound that stood higher than
the fence and on top of it they could see a dog tied by a chain-the
most terrified, abject dog in the world.  He had long before scented
the wolf pack and knew what his fate would be, for there was a feud to
the death between wolf and dog.  Unless they were hungry, wolves were
indifferent to other animals except dogs.  They never lost an
opportunity to kill a dog.

Courtaud alone held back.  He had been raised with dogs and was
part dog himself and did not share the wolfish hatred for their first
cousins.  Still, seeing that the pack clearly expected him to lead them
in the attack, he was starting forward when Silver burst from the
thicket and flung herself before him in the attitude of extreme
submission, lying on her back and wetting.  She was whimpering as
though in terror and Courtaud hesitated.

Blackie did not.  Even though he was the most cowardly of the
pack, he had learned that he could kill dogs easily.

He had never been up against the hard-biting alaunts or the fierce
livriers, and the ordinary village dogs were helpless against the big
wolf's powerful jaws and great weight.

Now, for once seeing his usually redoubtable leader hold back,
Blackie decided to assert himself.  He rushed forward and with an easy
bound cleared the fence.  Wild with excitement, two other wolves
followed him.  The dog screamed with terror and despair.

The pack stood waiting to see the chained victim torn apart.  Some
of them ran back and forth, whining with eagerness to be in at the
kill, but most held back, waiting for some signal from their leader.

Nothing happened.  The dog continued to cower against the stake to
which he was chained in the center of the mound but of the three wolves
there was no sign.  They had completely vanished.

Then there came a frightened yelp, seemingly from deep within the
earth.  Usually wolves take punishment in silence, whether in a trap or
under the teeth of a pack of wolfhounds, and only rarely do they
venture a cry for help.

Stiff-legged, testing every inch of earth he walked on, Courtaud
slowly approached the fence.  After satisfying himself that it was
harmless (the anxious Silver, who had followed close behind him, was
not nearly as confident), he reared and put his paws on the top of the
barrier.  So tall was the half-alaunt that he could just look over the
I edge.

' Instantly the mystery was explained.  Just inside the osier
fence a deep ditch had been dug with sides that slanted inward, making
it impossible for the trapped wolves to climb out.  The earth from the
ditch had been used to build the mound so the dog would be visible from
without.  At the bottom of the ditch, the three wolves were running to
and fro, vainly seeking a way to escape.

Furiously, Courtaud attacked the fence.  He tore at the osiers,
and finally Orange and then two more of the pack came to help him.

Before long they had torn a hole in it and were able to look down
directly into the pit, but then they could do no more.  In his rage and
hopelessness, there were several times when Courtaud was at the point
of 'Jumping into the pit himself.  All his instincts were to help his
entrapped comrades, but he was helpless.

From behind him came the alarm signal-the short bark followed by a
quick howl.  From the manner in which it was given Courtaud knew men
were coming.  Instantly the pack melted into the woods like smoke, only
Silver momentarily hesitating.  Courtaud alone stood his ground.  If
there was only one man and he was not armed, the wolf baron would
defy him.

He caught the sound and smell of horses even before he could see
them.  From the way they moved, he knew they were being ridden.  There
were more than one and he knew that almost invariably mounted men were
armed.

Resistance was impossible, and yet he lingered a moment, hoping
against hope there would be some way he could get his teeth into these
hated creatures.  Three horsemen came down the path, flecked with
splotches of light.  Their leader saw him and, with astonishing
quickness, snatched a crossbow that hung from his saddle and, putting
one foot through the iron stirrup at the bow's end, pulled the string
back until it engaged in the release mechanism.

There was something strange about the hand he used to cock the bow
and the way he employed it.  Courtaud was conscious of the strangeness
but did not know what it was.

The truth was that the man had no right hand; he had a crudely
fashioned iron hook instead.

Belligerent though he was, Courtaud did not wait for more.  He had
never seen a crossbow before but he recognized it as some sort of
weapon, quite possibly capable of sending a missile at him.  When the
man reached into a quiver at his belt and pulled out a short, deadly
bolt, the thing looked enough like an arrow to confirm the wolf's worst
fears.  In two great bounds he was gone, long before the man could put
the bolt in place.

The men dismounted by the fence and looked down into the pit.

From their shouts and laughter, it was obvious that they were well
pleased.  In spite of Silver's almost inaudible whimperings, Courtaud
crept back until he could see what was going on.  If the men could have
known how tempted he was to make a sudden rush and kill at least one of
their number, they would have spun around and stood with their boar
spears braced.  Although they had all heard of the man-eating wolf
pack, they did not believe the tales.  Wolves never attacked men unless
the animals were "wood"-that is to say, mad or rabid.

The man with the crossbow raised it and aimed into the pit.  He
squeezed the trigger and Courtaud heard the dull, flat crack of the
release, so different from the twang of a longbow.  There was no sound
from the pit but the men shouted with satisfaction, and a few seconds
later Courtaud could smell wolf blood and with it the odor of death as
the stricken animal voided its bowels.  Again the bow was cocked and
another bolt sent on its fatal errand.  This time there was a faint cry
and Courtaud could hear the animal leap into the air and crash to
earth.

Now the men changed their technique.  The one with the hook put
down the crossbow and, taking a hatchet from his belt, came toward the
woods where Courtaud was hiding.  The wolf sank down, his head
between'-his forepaws, ready for flight or attack, but the man only
took a few steps among the trees and cut down a forked branch.  The
stranger was as big for a man as Courtaud was for a wolf.  His head
especially was gigantic and Courtaud could have put one of his great
paws between the man's eyes.  The man was black as charcoal, with a
broken nose that spread over his face and thick red lips that resembled
newly sliced meat.  He had no ears.  He wore a 'Jerkin of tanned
leather and a cap of wildcat skin.

His hose were of bull's hide fastened with strips of bark.

Courtaud's twitching nostrils tried hard to pick up the man's
scent, but he was too far away and there was no breeze there.

The man returned to the fence with his forked stick and slid into
the pit with it.  Courtaud could not see what was happening but after a
short pause the man shouted to his friends, who dropped down into the
pit beside him.

A few minutes later Blackie was hoisted out, his long muzzle tied
together with leather thongs and his neck strapped fast in the fork of
the stick, which had made him a prisoner.  Then they tied his feet
together until he was helpless.  Courtaud saw his old companion put on
the back of a horse.  One of the men gave the imprisoned dog some food
and water to keep him alive and the broken fence was repaired.  Then
the men rode away.

When he was sure they had gone, Courtaud stole out and tried to
pick up their scent.  To his astonishment, he could smell nothing but
cattle dung.  The men had buried the wooden sabots they wore and their
leather gloves in a pile of dung overnight and this concealed their own
scent.

If Courtaud had not seen them, he would not have realized that man
had found his retreat in the forest.  Yet only for a time was the wolf
baron at a loss.  The men were not as cunning as they thought
themselves.  They had brushed against the leaves and undergrowth and by
stretching up Courtaud was able to get their body scent in such places.

He inhaled it deeply to be sure of recognizing it again,
especially the scent of the big man with the hook.  Courtaud had the
feeling that it was this man who represented the real danger.

He was right.  Gilles Gamier was a braconnier, that is to say, a
poacher.  He had been caught twice.  The first time, the lord's
foresters had found him in the woods with a limier on a leash.  For
that, he had lost his ears.  The second time he was found with his
crossbow cocked and a bolt in place.  For that he had lost his right
hand.  If he were caught again-it meant death.  So Gilles had become
cautious.

When he went to visit the willow nooses he used as snares for
rabbits, he made sure that they had not been found by the foresters who
might be lying up and watching them.  He always went downwind of the
snares with his limier, knowing the dog would signal him if men were
about.  He was careful where he spread his birdlime for the lord's fat
pigeons that did so much damage to the serfs' crops.  At night when he
went fishing with a torch and a spear, he made sure all the foresters
were either safe in bed or drunk.  When he stretched nets across the
game trails to entangle deer and an occasional wild pig, he first spent
long days checking to be certain the foresters never visited those
particular trails.

In spite of all his precautions, Gilles would long ago have been
dangling at the end of his own bowstring, had not he come to an
unspoken agreement not only with the foresters but even with the lord
himself.  My lord's valet de liviiier did not track Gilles too
carefully for fear that on the day of some great hunt, when the valet
had harbored an exceptionally fine stag whose impressive fewmets, or
droppings, had delighted the visiting nobles, Gilles would wait until
11

the valet had departed and then alarm the animal so when the hunt
arrived, there was no quarry and the valet would be in danger of losing
his place.  The for esters knew that if Gilles took his toll of the
lord's game, he was even more zealous than they in protecting it from
other braconniers.  When Gilles found the nets or snares of another
poacher, he would promptly inform the foresters and then they would get
the credit for apprehending the scoundrel.  If a wildcat were taking
too many chickens, a wolf too many sheep, a goshawk too many pheasants,
or an otter too many fish, a word to Gilles would stop the ravages-and
the foresters could then report that due to their cleverness all was
well.

It was even rumored that if a traveler was seen with a well-filled
purse at the local inn, the man never left my lord's demesne, although
his body was never found by even the best-nosed limier, and the
contents of his purse went into my lord's treasure chest, except for a
few small coins.  So as long as Gilles did not commit the major crime
of killing a good stag, or take so many pigeons that the lord could not
have his pigeon pie, the foresters turned a blind eye on his doings.

Now, however, it had been decreed that Courtaud and his pack were
to be destroyed and Gilles was to be the executioner.  If he failed, he
would pay the penalty for his ' many crimes.  So it was against this
ruthless and experienced man that Courtaud found himself matched.

Naturally, the wolf baron did not allow his pack to return to the
fatal fence with its imprisoned dog, but as he soon found, Gilles had
other devices at his command.

Returning early one morning from a raid on a distant village,
Courtaud was aware of the smell of cattle dung.

He stopped at once, as did the rest of the pack.  Their I glade
was no place for cattle to be.  Advancing cautiously, he came on some
scattered bits of meat.  This puzzled him.

He cast around to see if he could pick up some man-scent.

While he was about this task, he heard an angry growl from Silver.

One of the louvarts had bolted a piece of meat.  The youngster
shrank back from the dominant female's anger and the rest left the meat
severely alone.

Stretching out one paw carefully, Silver scratched at one of the
pieces.  She could not tell why she distrusted the meat except that it
had no business there.  Under her sharp claws, the meat came apart.

There was something inside.

Suddenly the louvart gave a yelp of pain and sprang into the air.

He fell on his side, writhing with pain gaspng and trying to
vomit.

The rest of the pack gathered I 11

around anxiously and Courtaud left his sniffing and hurried over.

The young wolf was obviously dying.  When Courtaud licked his
muzzle in an attempt to comfort him, the wolf baron could taste blood.

The louvart was hemorrhaging internally.  For an hour, the pack
stood around their mortally injured comrade, whimpering with sympathy
and desperate to help, but they could do nothing.

Slowly the young wolf died in terrible agony, blood pouring from
mouth and anus.

When there was no question that he was dead, Silver returned to
the meat.  With remarkably delicate touches she picked it apart.

Inside was a short length of supple wood, sharpened at each end,
bent into a circle held together with a horsehair.  Silver scratched
again.

The motion snapped the hair-as stomach acids would also do-and the
splinter of wood straightened out with a snap.  It-was strong enough to
pierce the lining of a wolf's intestines.

Even though none of the pack understood how the abominable
contraption worked, they knew it was deadly and left the other pieces
of meat alone, except to urinate on them to show contempt.

The pack, especially Silver, was learning to dread anything
unusual in the woods, especially if it smelled of man.

Courtaud, with his early training, still had no fear of man as
man.  His fearlessness nearly proved his undoing.

They now no longer went to the glade, apprehensive of what they
might find there, but spent the days on a low tor that rose out of a
marsh, covered with the silken tassels of bog grass.  The wolves liked
this place because they could see for several hundred yards in any
direction and nothing could approach them unobserved.  They did not
realize that if they could see, they could also be seen.

They were lying about one afternoon, waiting for the sun to drop
low enough to go hunting, when the wind brought an odor that sent every
wolf to his feet.  It was the scent of Blackie.

Courtaud waited only long enough to make sure and then plunged
into the swamp with the rest after him.  Even dred yards into the
forest they came on a curious arrangement of sticks that looked like a
figure 4. The odor of Blackie's anal glands was overpowering.  It was
coming from the contraption.

Silver began to whimper and crouched.  This was surely man's work.

Courtaud pressed on.  The scent was coming from the horizontal
crossbar.  Directly above this bar was suspended :i boar spear,
weighted by two great stones, its razor sharp head pointed downward.

Incredible as it seems to a human, this sinister arrangement did
not alarm the wolves-except for Silver, and she would have been equally
alarmed at the sight of a silver spoon hung from a string.  None of the
pack was able to realize that this was a deadfall, or to grasp its
ominous implications.  The reason for this is simply that nothing in
their lives had trained them to cope with such a device.

It was entirely foreign.

Only a little doubtfully, Courtaud went over to sniff the
crossbar.  Yes, here was the strong scent of Blackie's anal glands.  He
was about to touch it with his nose when he was pushed aside.

Blackie had mated the year before and his mate, a young female,
had been passionately attached to her big lover.

She had mourned him continually since he had been carried off,
growing so thin she could scarcely keep up with the others.  Now, mad
with excitement and hope, she flung herself forward, defying even the
omnipotent leader.  She struck the fatal crossbar.  The falling spear
pinned her to the ground and she died almost instantly.

These triumphs over the pack were valuable to Gilles beyond being
able to produce dead kN,olves.  Courtaud and his pack had begun to be
regarded with superstitious fear throughout the district.  Never before
had the serfs seen wolves that deliberately preyed on people.  The
cunning of the pack seemed to them supernatural.  When raiding a
'llage, one wolf would seize a pig or chicken-anything vi that could be
counted upon to set up a loud noise-and run with it.  The tumult drew
off the men and dogs, and while they were gone the rest of the pack
would attack.

Whether or not the wolves deliberately decoyed the men away, the
serfs thought they did.  Knowing that the pack would attack women
rather than men, some of the boldest foresters dressed as women and
went out alone as ng bait for the pack.  The wolves were never
deceived.  The peasants thought that they could detect the imposture
only by some fiendish guile.  It did not occur to them that men walked
differently than did women and the wolves were able to detect the
slightest shades of altered behavior , just as they could tell with
uncanny skill whether a red deer was strong enough to put up a
determined fight or not.

Gilles had had trouble, even with the foresters, getting anyone to
help him against these werewolves, but when he was able to show that
the wolves could be killed by such obvious devices as pitfalls,
deadfalls, and aiguilles (as the sharpened sticks in the meat were
called), people began to lose their awe of the pack.

There was one group of humans who did not bother the wolves, and
the wolves did not bother them.  This was a party of charcoal-makers
who lived in the forest.  These men were always well armed, so the
wolves left them alone.  For their part, the men had no wish to provoke
such dangerous adversaries, so there was a truce between them.

In bad weather, instead of lying on the tor, the wolves would
congregate in the woods under a great oak near a path often used by the
charcoal-makers for their great, unwieldy carts with creaking wheels
pulled by a team of oxen.  So used did the wolves grow to these men
that they let the carts pass within a few yards of their lying-up
grounds without doing more than glance at them.

After a spell of wet weather, the wolves were lying in their usual
spot when the carts appeared toiling along the road.  In them were the
charcoal-makers, covered with smut as usual, lolling against the sides,
glancing only casually in the direction of the oak.  They had hardly
appeared when Courtaud leaped up and bolted for the woods, instantly
followed by the entire pack.

The carts came to a stop and the foresters disguised as
charcoal-burners leaped out, cursing in astonishment and
disappointment.  Bows were produced and unstrung, for there Avould
clearly be no need for them now.  Most be ildered of all was Gilles
Gamier, who had kept hidden w in the bottom of the first cart.  For the
first time, the braconnier began to wonder if the tales of the
cut-tailed wolf were true and he had supernatural powers.  How had he
been able to tell that this was not one of the charcoalmakers' carts
and the men in it were his enemies?

The wind had been blowing from the pack to the carts so he could
have scented nothing The carts were identical with those used by the
charcoal-makers.

The carts were identical except for one item.  The
charcoal-makers' carts had squeaking wheels.  The wheels Courtaud
missed the familiar sound and instantly knew something was wrong.

Soon Gilles had another problem to puzzle him.  He had a trap of
wood, shaped something like a sabot, except that within it were two
flexible sticks with a flat piece of wood between them.  When the flat
trigger was forced down between the horizontal side sticks, they
snapped together, holding the leg of any animal that had been careless
enough to step on the trigger.

Gilles had a number of these traps made by a wheelwright in return
for a haunch of venison.  Now, by chance, after the wheelwright had put
out the traps to weather, the pack raided the village.  Several of the
wolves ran across the traps, which, not being set, caused them no
damage.  Gilles was delighted when he was told of this, for it clearly
showed that the supposedly clever animal had no fear of traps.

Even so, Gilles was taking no chances.  He buried the traps in the
dung pile for two days and when he removed them he wore leather gloves
soaked in blood.  He had bags on his feet which had also been buried in
the manure pile and, when he carried the traps into the woods, he was
careful not to rub against any branches.  He located several of
Courtaud's scent posts and buried the traps around them.  To help him
set the traps, which had to be done by two people using short poles as
levers to press back the flexible side sticks, he took along his blowsy
woman, who was almost as strong as he was and was the only human being
in the world who cared for him.  Like Gilles, she wore blood-soaked
gloves and had dung-soaked bags on her feet.  After the traps were set
and buried, Gilles covered them with dead leaves and then sifted earth
over the leaves.  Lastly, he smoothed the earth with Blackie's tail.

y When he had finished, it seemed incredible that any creature
could tell that something was concealed there.

Yet Silver could.  When the pack paid its weekly visit to the
post, Courtaud smelled the dung odor and pulled back.  Remembering how
that smell had in the past been connected with danger, he went about
sniffing at twigs, although this time they told him nothing.  While the
rest of the pack hesitated, Silver looked around.  It had rained since
Gilles and his woman had set the traps and this the poacher had
regarded as great luck, for it washed away any trace of man-smell that
might linger behind.  But the rain also dampened the dead leaves and
caused them to sink into the traps.  Silver noticed the minute
depressions.

With the greatest of care, she extended one foreleg as far as it
would go and scratched until she touched the trap.  In the damp air,
she could scent the fresh-cut wood and knew it had no business to be
there.  Taking infinite pains, she slowly uncovered the trap.  Then,
after several false starts, she seized the strange object in her teeth
and shook it as she would a rabbit she was killing.  The flat trigger
pan was dislodged and the side sticks snapped together.

The effect was that the trap exploded in her face.

Silver dropped the weird object and she and the rest sprang back.

For a long time they did not dare return, but as the trap lay
there and did not move again, they inched toward it.  This time it was
Courtaud who picked it up and shook it, but it would not explode for
him.  Now Gray, a sharp little female, located another trap and
succeeded in digging it up and springing it.  Soon it became a game.

When all the traps had been found the wolves collected them in a
pile and took turns urinating on them.

0. When Gilles returned to the place with some foresters i and
their limiers (they had expected the wolves to run off with the traps
on their legs and that they would need the hounds to track them) and
found what had happened, they were more convinced than ever that the
wolves were in league with the devil.  How else could it be explained
that the wolves had had no fear of the unset traps in the village and
yet, once they were set, had taken such elaborate precautions to spring
them?  The animals had certainly never seen traps before; Gilles was
one of the very few men who knew their use.

The explanation was simple, although it never occurred to the men
because they were men and could reason and so supposed that the wolves
could do the same.  The village was full of man-made objects and the
wolves expected to find them there.  The forest was not.  Therefore, a
manmade object in the forest was highly suspicious.  The wolves had no
idea of the nature of a trap or how it operated.

If the traps were set in a village street, whether concealed or
not, the wolves would have walked straight into them.

This the men did not realize, and so never used the traps again.

The whole pack had come to recognize Gilles Gamier as their
implacable enemy, yet even though he often came to the woods alone,
they did not dare to attack him.  He was always armed and they knew him
to be dangerous.

They were many and he was one and a single determined charge would
have settled the affair, yet they did not dare to make that charge, not
even Courtaud.  But let the braconnier be at a disadvantage-like a stag
that had allowed himself to get mired in a bog or gone lame-ah, that
would be another matter.

The pack now maintained a sort of patrol through the forest.  The
sentries kept in sight of each other.  If one saw other wolf saw him,
he would do the same, and in a surprisingly short space of time the
alarm would be passed throughout the pack.  Then several of the older
wolves would secretly trail the intruder, always keeping carefully
upwind of him so he could not scent them-for the wolves, as did the
men, attributed to the other species their own abilities.

Courtaud awoke late one fine spring morning and lay luxuriating in
the little hollow he had dug as a bed the night before..  A cuckoo and
a throstle were singing and he could smell the strong scent of the
pines around him as well as the coolness of the woods.  The pack now
seldom slept twice in the same place.  This time they had selected a
coppice of birch, beech, and oak that formed a finger of the forest
that stretched down into the pasturelands of a lord's demesne.  Below
them a river wiggled past, frosted with white foam.  Mist was rising
from the hollows like the breath of cattle on a frosty morning.

Far away they could see a peasant harrowing with a harrow of
thorns tied to the tail of his horse.  Behind him walked his wife,
breaking the clods with a mallet.

tentedly.  He had managed to pull out most of his old winter's
coat on brambles and felt much better.  The long, matted fur had
itched.  Most of the pack were asleep but a few were up, eating grass
as they always did in the spring or turning over stones with their long
noses to look for mole crickets.

Silver trotted over to him.  She humped her back, put her ears
down, and playfully waved her forepaws.  Courtaud lazily sniffed her
lips and licked them to see if she had found anything to eat.  Nothing
but crickets.  He was feeling mildly peckish himself.

Somewhere a 'ay began to scream.  At the sound, the whole pack
froze.  The freeze was against them and, cock their cars as they might,
they could hear nothing but the jay.

One of the sentinel wolves came running up.  She was a female and
she squatted nervously to urinate.  Courtaud went over to her while she
lay down, tilted her head to one side, and raised a paw.  Another of
the sentinels appeared: a male.  He stopped to look over his shoulder,
barked, and then growled.  He also scratched fiercely with his hind
legs.  There were intruders in the forest.

Courtaud decided to investigate personally.  He set--off, El
backtracking the two wolves by their scent.  Silver came too and
several of the older animals.  The rest waited.

When the sentinels showed by their nervous motions that they were
coming near the place, Courtaud gave a "spy hop"; that is, he gave a
great jump straight up.  He could just make out something moving, so he
swung around downwind.

Instantly he recognized two scents: one was Gilles Gamier and the
other was a dog.  He did not know the dog.  He also recognized the
odors of two harts: a comparatively young animal and one much older.

Gilles and the dog were moving upwind so the dog could scent
anything ahead.  That was perfectly natural to Courtaud.  He always by
preference traveled upwind for the same reason.  Now he followed the
two like their own shadows.

He came to a little bed of flowers where the man had been digging.

Courtaud sniffed the spot suspiciously, suspecting another trap.

The flowers were yellow and seemed to be encased in little hoods
of leaves.

The man had dug up several and taken the roots.  Courtaud skirted
the place and pressed on after his quarry.

Soon he was in sight of them.  With the dog, he had to be far more
wary than if Gilles had been alone or with another man, but Courtaud
did not realize this, for it never occurred to him that men had no
sense of smell.  Still, as long as the breeze remained steady he was
safe.

The limier was straining on his lead, although far too well
trained to give tongue.  A moment later, the two harts appeared moving
among the trees.

The larger hart had antlers with six tines.  The smaller animal
was a'spike buck that went ahead of his companion to test the wind and
expose himself to any danger.  Such close friendships between two male
animals, one much older than the other, often occurred.  Gilles dropped
the limier's lead, paused a moment to study the direction of the wind
from the movements of the leaves, and moved behind a crab apple tree.

He raised his crossbow but the younger hart saw the motion and
froze.

Gilles remained motionless in spite of the torture of the gnats
that buzzed around his face.  After a long wait, the hart relaxed and
the deer began to feed.

Gilles steadied the bow against the tree trunk and squeezed the
trigger.  The bow gave its flat report and the younger buck sprang into
the air, then darted away with his older companion after him.

Gilles recocked his bow and called over the limier, which had sunk
down and awaited quietly the outcome of his master's hunting.  The
poacher sat down with his back against the apple tree and, taking out a
rosary, said it three times.  It was not an act of piety.  Gilles knew
that a wounded deer, if not pursued, will lie down.  In forty-five
minutes the animal will stiffen so that it cannot rise again.

At the end of the required time, Gilles picked up the lead and put
the hound on the harts' trail.  As they moved off, Courtaud followed
them, with the pack trailing him.

At once, the wolf could smell the odor of blood and knew the deer
had been hard hit.  He could not see the scarlet stains on the dark
leaves although they stood out distinctly.  Being color-blind, the wolf
saw the red as black.

Gilles could not smell the blood but could follow the red
splotches easily even without the hound's nose.

They had gone only a few hundred yards when the came on the dead
hart with his friend standing beside him.

The older deer bounded away as soon as he saw them.

Gilles took something from his pocket and, putting down the
crossbow, bent over the dead animal.  With a small knife he made holes
in the body and put something in them.  Courtaud grew tense with
excitement.  His mane stood up and his tail stiffened.  The other
wolves, knowing the signs, also pulled themselves together for an
attack.

The wolf baron knew that at last the man was in his power.  Gilles
was weaponless, bent over, and completely unconscious that Courtaud was
near.  The wolf baron began his stalk.  When the man straightened to
rest his back, the wolf dropped down.  When he bent over again, the
wolf resumed his stalk.

The limier was growing increasingly restive.  He could not clearly
scent the wolf, yet he was sure something was wrong.  He began to
whine.  At the sound, Courtaud charged.

He was on the stooping man in five great bounds.  Ever since that
day long ago when he had seized the bull by the nose and found this
grip gave him an advantage, he had gone for his opponent's head by
choice.  Courtaud's great jaws closed on the poacher's skull.  It would
have been quicker and better to have broken the man's neck, which the
big wolf could have easily done.  Instead, Courtaud tried to crush the
man's skull.  One of his great canines sank into the braconnier's
temple.  Gilles screamed with pain and terror and tried to stand, but
Courtaud's weight dragged him down.  The wolf locked his jaws, crushing
the cranium and tearing the scalp loose.  Gilles never screamed again.

He died in the act of striking backward with his little knife.

While Courtaud devoured his kill, the pack moved in and attacked
the dead deer.  For three of them, it was a fatal mistake.  Within an
hour, they went into convulsions, retching in a vain attempt to vomit
up their lethal meal, and fell with blood pouring from their mouths.

Courtaud sniffed at their muzzles.  He recognized the odor of the
yellow-flowering plants with the tiny hoods.

The same odor was also in certain places on the dead hart.

Courtaud had no idea that the innocent-seeming plant was known to
humans as monkshood or wolfsbane, and contained the deadly poison
aconite.

From then on, the pack never ate anything they had not killed
themselves.  Courtaud went a step beyond that.  He seldom ate anything
but humans, whom he was convinced were safe food.

That evening, Gilles's woman found what was left of her husband's
corpse.  She threw herself on it and refused to leave, even after she
saw the eyes of the wolf pack gleaming green in the moonlight as they
closed in on her.

SIX The Battue

It was a cold, wet morning.  Every hill had a cap of mist; every
leaf was fringed with pearls of moisture.  Rain squalls, driven by an
east wind, whipped across the open fields and infiltrated the woods.

In a tangle of hazel scrub the pack was lying up near their kill
of the evening before-a woodcutter and his yoke of oxen.  The pack had
killed the oxen and Courtaud the man.  The wolf baron had cracked the
woodcutter's skull, a method of killing that was to become his
trademark.  The wolves were lying on a sodden mass of last year's
bracken, most of them sleeping, although occasionally a wolf would slip
through the scrub to drive the ravens away from the kill, the pack
always being fiercely possessive of anything they regarded as their
property.

Courtaud and Silver were lying together, one of his long forepaws
across her neck and her muzzle nestled under his chin.  The wind was
blowing from the kill to them, so if humans discovered it, they would
know immediately even in their deep sleep.  Both were somewhat more
nervous than usual.  The day before they had found a dead horse in the
forest where a horse had no right to be.  A4ore suspicious yet, the
animal had been dragged nearly half a mile.  They had followed the drag
from curiosity and found a local I pack at the carcass.  As they had no
use for the animal, refusing to eat anything they had not killed
themselves, and respecting as much as they could the territorial rights
of the other packs, they had withdrawn discreetly.  Still, it was
vaguely disturbing.

The wind shifted slightly and brought with it the smell of smoke.

Instantly the pack awoke.  They all looked at Courtaud.  The wolf
baron opened one eye, yawned, sniffed, and went back to sleep.  The
pack at once relaxed.

Now came the sound of a horn, being blown a reat distance away .

A man could not have heard the sound, but y Courtaud stiffened and
cocked his ears ."He recognized it as I an oliphant, a hunting horn.

Not only did the wolves have a much greater hearing range than did
men-they could hear notes both higher and lower than could humans-they
could also identify a greater variety of sounds.  By a slightly
different intonation in their barks, growls, howls, and whines, they
could convey to each other very fine shades of meaning.  The horn meant
that there were hunters in the forest.  They were probably after game,
but it was unsettling.

The wailing note of the horn bothered the wolves' delicate ears.

One of the younger males put back his head and howled.  Courtaud
rose and gave the youngster a hard look that sent him cringing.  This
was a time to listen, not to make noises themselves.

Seeing that the wolf baron was alert, the rest of the pack
promptly rose and stood listening and sniffing.  The wind shifted
slightly again-it was cold and damp, perfect for carrying scent-and the
smell of smoke became very strong.  With it came the odor of men,
horses, and dogsmany of them.

Courtaud trotted off, dodging through the thorn thickets and
scrub.  The pack followed him, wading up to their bellies in the
ground-clinging mist and pouring like water through the trees.  For
once, Courtaud did not go upwind, for that was where the danger lay.

So he could not smell what might be ahead of him, and that
bothered him as much as if he were forced to run with his eyes shut.

The wolf baron was right in fearing danger.  In a forest glade, a
great assembly had gathered at the rendezvous.  For once, several lords
had agreed to suspend their constant feuds and 'from forces to take the
man-killer "by force," that is, to hunt him down with hounds.  Five
hundred serfs had been impressed as beaters.  The night before, the
lords' provosts had gone from hut to hut telling the villeins that
their lord demanded a "love boon"-a day's labor in addition to their
usual tasks.  They would receive no pay, as Uling the wolves was for
their benefit, but it would be a wet boon," that is, each man would be
given a free flagon of beer and a dish of pease porridge.  Even though
the peasants feared and hated the wolves, they were reluctant to turn
out.  A day lost in the spring of the year was a serious blow to their
ragged economy, and fighting their way through underbrush all day was
more than most of the half-starved creatures could endure.  Many of
them would have run away if possible, and they had to be closely
watched by the provost's men.

The nobles looked forward to the sport.  They were seated around a
great fire where servants were cooking food, unloaded from the
leather-topped panniers strapped to the backs of mules.  A cask of the
light wine which came from that pays, and was therefore called
champagne, had been breached, and cup after cup was being filled.

Whereas the serfs wore their simple tabards and smocks, the nobles
were mag ificent in jerkins of velvet with strappings of gold, hose of
broadcloth fastened by points tipped with silver, and velvet shoes.

Many had felt caps with hawk feathers held by a 'jeweled brooch.

Their baldrics were gold chains.  Their saddles were also
gorgeous, often being of gold covered with engravings of various wild
animals.

The seats were covered with buckram and over this was another
cover of silk, the flaps hanging far down.  Every man was armed with
either a lance or a sword.  In hunting the lordly stag, etiquette
permitted only the use of a dagger, but wolves were vermin which could
be killed in any way by any means.

To hunt down the man-killers, there was a pack of four hundred
raches, which resembled foxhounds: thirty livriers, the fighting
greyhounds; and ten great alaunts with spiked collars.  Only these
giant dogs had any chance against a wolf single-handed.  The raches
were coupled togetheran old hound being coupled with a young one-atrd
the berners who handled them kept them well away from the
short-tempered livriers and alaunts.  One of the great problems in
using these fighting dogs was to keep them from attacking the raches
once they were slipped.

In addition, there were the foresters, many carrying spears with
notched shafts, each notch standing for a wild boar it had killed; the
mounted piqueurs, who acted as whippers-in; archers with rain-slacked
bowstrings; and the horse-holders.  There were many horses, for each
rider would need at least one remount before the day was over.

The horses varied from the delicate-looking snow-white Libyans to
the powerful Spanish barbs and the graceful Andalusians.  Men were
still coming in, with mustaches and eyebrows dripping moisture from the
woods, rubbing the cramp out of their bridle hands while hailing old
friends.

A little apart stood the head piquezir, or huntsman, wearing
much-stained hunting leathers and with a blanket tied behind his
saddle, for long experience had taught him that on a wolf hunt one
never knew where he might spend the night.  He was an old man, his
hands knotted like a furze root and his face mottled with red dots like
a trout's belly.

Over his shoulder hung an oliphant made from the horn of the
almost extinct auroch, the great wild ox that still inhabited remote
parts of Europe.  it was on a horn like this that Roland had called
Charlemagne back from a distance of eighty-four miles, according to the
legend.  The head piqueur was listening to the report of the valet de
ll ier whose wise bloodhound had winded the wolf pack and shown his
handler their location.  To the piqueur's disappointment, Courtaud's
pack had not been decoyed by the dead horse.  1-he horse had been
dragged to a place in the forest where it could easily be surrounded,
thus trapping any wolves feeding on the carcass.  Now the piqueur
foresaw a long hunt ahead of him.

He went over to the gentlemen drinking around the fire, bowed, and
explained his plans, drawing a map of the area in the ashes with a
stick as he talked.  There was considerable discussion, as every
lordfelt himself to be an authority on hunting.  The piqueur listened
politely while trying to conceal his impatience.  Every minute they
delayed gave the wolves that much more opportunity to slip away.  He
was relieved when the nobles finally decided to launch I'attaque and
the count said, "Take your trysts, gentlemen."

The piqueur spoke to the head I)erner as he mounted his Orkney
hunter.  The berner ordered five of the oldest, steadiest hounds to be
uncoupled and called them over to him by name.  He also mounted and,
with the valet de liiiiier, started off, the hounds following.  These
chosen hounds were the rapprocheurs, which would start the quarry.  A
forester followed, with a aroup of men carrying stakes sharpened at one
end and a running noose attached to the other.  These men hoped to be
able to surround the pack and plant their stakes around the wolves in a
circle.  When the wolves tried to escape, some of them at least would
run their heads into the open nooses and be caught.

A blood-red sun began to show through the mist.  Birds started
whistling to each other from the trees and a woodpecker scolded.  The
valet de liviiier touched the piqueur's boot and pointed downward to a
broken stick he had left when he had been here earlier with his hound,
the break pointing in the direction of the hazel thicket where the
limier had indicated the pack to be.  He and the hound had had to be
careful to keep downwind of the thicket, to prevent the wolves from
smelling them.

The men with the stakes and nooses were sent to surround the
thicket, but even as they left, both the piqueur and the berner knew
from the actions of the rapprocheurs that the pack was already gone.

Still they waited.  A hall came from a forester who had stumbled
on the dead oxen and the woodcutter.  The men hurried to the sound.

The piqueur cursed and shook his head at the sight of the half
eaten corpse, and the berner turned away hurriedly before he became
sick.

Here were plenty of wolf tracks as well as the print of Courtaud)s
great fore.  Following the piqueur's orders, the berner put the
rapprocheurs on it.

The scent was stone-cold, for Courtaud had not returned to his
kill during the night so the hounds could not own it.

The men had to guide them, following the tracks in the soft earth,
which meant nothing to the hounds, until they reached the woods.  Here
the scent had been caught and held by the bushes and while the men were
helpless, the hounds were able to track.  Slowly they moved off, heads
down, tails wagging.  The scent was so light they did not feel
'Justified in giving tongue.  The men waited outside the hazel tangle
for the hounds to throw their voices.

They waited the length of time it would take to say six Hail
Marys.  Then came the deep, bell-like voice of Brochart, the oldest of
the rapprocheurs.  "Oyez d Brochart!"  cried the berner.  "Cy va!"

("Hark to Brochart!

To him!") Suddenly all four of the other hounds burst into full
cry.  "Lar loup!"  ("They are on the wolf!") "Tayaut!"

("The game is raised!") shouted the valet de limier, mad with
excitement.  The head piqueur put his oliphant to his lips, but the
berner shook his head and the huntsman waited.  Above the babble of the
rapprocheurs could still be heard the mefhodicall well-spaced bay of
Brochart, one cry every fifteen pulse beats.  Brochart was going in an
entirely different direction than the other hounds.  He was paying no
attention whatever to the eager baying of his comrades, who were
obviously on a hot scent.

The piqueur looked at the berner irritably.  "Either all the
others are wrong or old Brochart is at fault.  I am calling up the
vanchasers."

The vanchasers were the first of the three running packs to be
loosed, each pack having approximately fifty couples I of hounds.

"Wait!"  said the berner, still listening intently.

The piqueur sat fuming with impatience.  His horse, sensing his
nervousness, began to cavort.  The piqueur pulled him up savagely.

A crashing in the scrub made all three men start and the valet de
linzier half-drew his hunting knife.  A daguet-a young, spiked
buck-burst from the cover with a couple of the hounds virtually on his
flank.  The dagitet paused for a moment, kicked at the hounds, swerved
for a moment to toss at them with his foot-lone, spikes, and then with
one easy bound cleared a hedge of restharrow as tall as a man.

The second couple of rapprocheurs appeared, hot on the daguet's
line.  "Le change!"  shouted the piqueur.  "Assemble!  War!  War!"  He
spurred his horse to turn the hounds while the berner shouted at them.

The piqueur's whip cracked and the startled hounds shrank back.

In the distance still came Brochart's steady bay, now going in a
rhythmical sequence about as.  fast as a man could breathe.  "Oyez a'
Brochart!"  cried the berner.  "Menie!"

The piqueur sounded the "?nenie," the signal that the true line
had been found.  For the first time, the two couples of rapprocheurs
paused to listen to their comrade.

Then they turned and dove into the scrub.

Leaving the valet de limier, who was on foot, the two mounted men
turned their horses and galloped around the hazel thicket.  As they
came out in a stand of beech,- they heard all two and a half couples of
hounds give tongue together.  Then in the distance came the "laisser
courre"-a series of short blasts-and the "vue."  The wolf pack had been
sighted.

The head piqueur at once gave the call to uncouple the vanchasers.

These horn calls were a difficult and clumsy way of signaling: the
horns were capable of producing only one note, so to make the various
calls the note had to be cut short, prolonged, or a series of blasts
had to be made -three long calls followed by two short, for example.

To add to the problem, all the nobles had their own horns, which
they enjoyed blowing either to signal each other or simply for
amusement.

This time the head piqueur was fortunate enough to have his
message received promptly.

Listening intently, he heard the piqueur who had the vanchasers
answer the summons with his own horn, and a few minutes later had the
satisfaction of seeing the man come trotting up, followed by the first
pack.  After them came the hunt, straggling among the trees.  A wildly
excited serf came running up to report that he had seen the
rapprocheurs (the ignorant fellow simply referred to them as "five
dogs," knowing nothing of hunting terms) and that they were hot on the
trail of the wolves.  One of his friends had seen the wolves themselves
and had promptly climbed a tree.  The wolves were in full flight, but
might at any time stop and turn on the rapprocheurs.

The berner was very much afraid of just this disaster, and he
loved his hounds.  Taking the peasant up behind him, he galloped off,
the peasant showing him which way to go while the piqueurs brought up
the running pack.

Within five-'minutes they sighted a forester, waving his hand and
shouting.  He had seen both the wolves and the rapprocheurs and run up
to within twenty steps of where they had passed.  Closer he did not
dare go, for fear his scent would foul the line.

The second piqueur brought up the vanchasers, now bunched so
closely together a large rug would have covered the whole pack.  He put
them straight on the line.  It required an agonizing few minutes for
the hounds to make sure of the line-there were so many of them that
they got in each other's way-and even after they had hit it and iven
tongue, they ran about in circles trying to decide which way the wolves
had been running.

The head piqueur set them right-every second counted now-and at
last they all streamed away, the forest full of their baying.

It was I'attaqzie.  Every horn sounded a fanfare.  Everyone was
galloping, lapwings flushing under the horses' feet as they crossed a
field.  The head piqueur, his head touching his horse I s mane to avoid
branches, was calling " Volez, iiies chiens!  Aprs!  Mes valets!  Mes
amis!"  ("Off you go!

After them, my helpers, my friends!") Incautious riders were swept
from their horses' backs by the trees and suffered serious falls.  Some
horses also went down with broken legs.  These were put out of their
pain by a dagger stab in the 'mint between the first and second bone in
the i neck, the stroke being delivered from above.  The death of either
animal or human was not allowed to delay the hunt for a moment.

The cry of the pack, the silver mountings on the horns flashing in
the sun, the brilliant costumes of the nobles, all vanished among the
trees.

The wolves, as usual, ran in a straight line.  In various places
in the forest, nets had been hung on sticks set at an angle, in the
hope that the wolves would knock them down and become enveloped, but
Courtaud led his followers safely through the obstacles.  He also
avoided archers placed to intercept him and swept around a series of
stake-andbinder fences intended to guide the wolves into a pitfall
covered with a lid of woven vines.  Ahead were more nets, these
designed like purses so if a wolf ran into one, the net pulled together
at the mouth and held him.  Seeing the pack was turning away from these
devices, the head piqueur sounded "le bibuchj," to let the rest know
that the quarry had left the district.  The call was answered by the
third piqueur, coming up with the midel, the second pack.  The head
piqueur waved to this helper to bring the midel around to turn the
wolves if possible.  The man did not understand the motion and came
straight on.  He crossed the wolves' trail and the hounds, following
him, caught the scent and burst into full cry.  Swerving together like
a flock of birds, they took the line.  The head piqueur swore.  Now the
second pack was largely wasted.

There was still one more pack-the partifters.  If possible, these
should be brought around to head the wolves so they would be caught
between the two packs.

So far, the wolves had been running together.  Now they began to
scatter.  The hounds also scattered, following different trails.  The
"recheat," or recall, was blown but only a few of the raches answered
it.  Brochart, the wise old rapprocheur, was brought up riding on the
horn of a piqueur's saddle, and put down.  He was allowed to work out
the line of Courtaud while the berner whispered to him, "Swef, mon amy,
swef!"  ("Go softly, friend, softly!") Among the scores of scents, the
uncanny nose of the old hound finally picked out Courtaud's and gave
tongue.  The remains of the pack were put on while Brochart was allowed
to rest.  His running days were over and the head piqueur said sadly,
"Ah, if we could only put old noses on young legs!"

Courtaud and Silver were running together.  They went straight
across country, stopping for nothing.  They tore through a village,
scattering humans and animals in their rush, plunged into a river, swam
it, climbed the far bank, and kept on.  The hounds lost them in the
village and when the head piqueur tried to cast them in a circle,
outside the miserable huts where there would be no confusing scents,
the hounds could find nothing, for the river had cut off the wolves'
trail.

Brochart was far to the rear and the head piqueur was at a
complete loss.  The few serfs who had stayed up with them were of no
use.  They were taking a malicious satisfaction in destroyino, the
crops of these strangers.

The second piqueur galloped to his side and pointed.

"See those cattle!  " he exclaimed.

In a field a hundred paces on the far side of the river a head of
cattle was running panic-stricken, the herd boys unable to control
them.

The head piqueur needed to see no more.  He glanced up and down
the stream, hoping to find a bridge.  There was none.  He sounded the
recheat and, once he had the hounds around him, shouted, "Avaunt, sire,
avaunt!"  ("Forward, sir, forward!") and, sounding his horn, forced his
horse into the swift current.  A few hounds followed him.  The rest
held back until the whips and cries of the piqueurs sent them into the
water.

The dripping hounds climbed the far bank and loped after the
rider, guided by the sound of his horn as much as by sight.  They were
scattered over the field like the stars in heaven.  The head piqueur
spurred forward, watching the ground.  He came to where the cattle had
started to run, swung to the right, and blew the "apel."  The nearest
hounds ran to him, casting around hopefully but unsuccessfully.

A young hound suddenly gave an eager, doubtful yelp.

The rest of the pack stopped questing and stood with raised heads,
watching him uncertainly.  The youngster spoke again, his adolescent
bay unlike the deep note of the older animals.  At last, an old hound
trotted over and tested the spot while the puppy stood back, watching
anxiously.

A few sniffs, and the old hound burst into full cry.  That was
enough.  In a moment every hound in the pack was racing to the spot.

"Oyez a' Beaumont, oyez, assemble a' Beaumont!"  cried the head
piquer.  "Beaumont has found the coward with the short tail!"  The pack
streamed away, screaming with excitement on the hot scent.  "Bien
aller!"

("All goes well!") joyfully proclaimed the piqueur's horn, and the
triumphant cry was taken up by the horns of everyone still able to keep
up.

Ahead of them came the notes "Boo, boo, boo, rara, tabo!"  The
piqueur's heart leaped.  By some miracle, the berner in charge of the
partifters had managed to bring his pack around to intercept the
wolves.  The fresh pack would be slipped in the wolf's face-"le
relais."

The head piqueur blew "Boo sto, boo sto, mon amy!"

("Keep going!") and heard the response.  Oh for the fast livriers,
but they had been left far behind.  He did not know how many wolves
there were and only hoped that the raches could hold them.  He had
never seen any scent hounds that would stand up to a wolf, but they
might be able to hold the man-eaters until the alaunts could be brought
up.  Actually, the killing was virtually always done by men.

A groomgalloped up leading a fresh mount, which the piqueur
accepted gladly.  They must have gone nearly ten leagues.  Wolves, he
knew, could run for double that distance; more than the stoutest hounds
could do.  That was why the partifters were so vital.

Ahead came an explosion of noises-hounds screaming with rage and
excitement, and over and over the horn notes of the "vue."  The newly
uncoupled partifters must have run right into the wolves and were now
hunting by sight.  The piqueur put spurs to his fresh horse and sped
after his own pack.

The noise ahead increased, but now it was mixed with yelps of
pain.  The wolves were among the hounds.  The piqueur groaned to think
how many good hounds would be lost and then hardened his heart.  It was
worth it to get the man-eater.

The noise died down.  The wolves must have fought their way clear.

Ahead was a newly plowed field and here the midel lost the scent.

The piqueur drew rein beside a thatched cottage with mud walls.

The sun had come out, turning the thatch to old.  The distant
hills were still 'led by a white mist and flocks of gulls rose from the
field, their shrill cry not unlike the cry of the hounds at a
distance.  On the slope of the hill, sheep were standing watching, each
with a lamb at her side.

The piqueur rode through the field looking for tracks.

He could find nothing.  Sounding his horn, he took the pack across
it and cast them on the green slopes on the far side.  They swept over
the slope like low-flying swallows.

They came together, and rushed forward.

Then they hit the line.  The men could hear them break into full
cry.

The second piqueur was a light man on a fast horse.  He moved into
the lead.  His horse, going all out, stepped into a badger hole and
went down, his rider flying over his head.  No one stopped to aid the
man.  The hunt was too important.

They came on some astonished serfs who were repairing drainage
ditches.  Yes, they had seen the hunt pass near to them.  There were
two wolves: a great one and one much smaller.  They pointed the
direction and the men spurred on.

They topped a rise and there, less than a mile awayy, saw two
speeding specks going up a distant slope, followed at a respectful
distance by what was left of the three packs, mostly the partifters.

At this moment, a cart appeared with a berner and ten of the
lvriers, the greyhounds.  The berner had guessed how the wolves would
run, commandeered a peasant's cart, and, coming by back roads, had
arrived in time.  The head piqueur was happier to see him than he would
have been to see a vision of the Blessed Mother.  One of the livriers
was handed up to him and he held the gazehound high so he could see the
distant quarry, knowing well that scent meant little to the livriers.

The greyhound studied the distant forms, struggled to be put down,
and set off, his lithe body nearly forming a ball as he sped over the
ground.  His comrades hurled themselves out of the cart and followed
him, although they had no idea what the quarry might be.

Now, indeed, the horses were taught what spurs were .  In fact,
children were none too safe from them, especially if the children
panicked and ran.  The horses were tired now and stumbled, but their
riders forced them on.  A wood Intervened, but they found a path
through and dashed on in single file.  On the far side, they saw the
two hounds had 'fanned out, exactly as wolves did when running down a
deer, so no matter if the quarry turned right or left, there would be a
hound to stop him.  The leading livrier, the most aggressive of the
lot, was pressing forward now while the others moved to support him.

This powerful beast was snow-white and had learned to trip quarry
by grabbing the hind leg and tossing.  As soon as the game was down,
the other hounds would rush in and finish it.

The levrier was trying to pull down Silver, but Courtaud kept
between him and the little female.

The wolf baron swerved suddenly to the right.  The levrier on that
side put on a burst of speed to cut him off, but as the hound came up,
Courtaud gave a flirt of his head.

The levrier shot into the air, turned over, and hit the ground.

It said much for his pluck that he regained his feet and tried to
go on, although now on three legs.

A quickset thorn hedge grew here by stones yellow with lichens and
a line of beech trees alive with screaming crows.  Here Courtaud and
Silver halted, their hindquarters protected by the hedge.  Far away,
the head piqueur saw the hounds eddy about the spot, knew what it
meant, and sounded the "I'hallah"; the quarry had turned at bay.  He
had only his hunting knife and would prefer one of the gentlemen
equipped with sword or spear to close with the wolves.

The raches swarmed about, calling down curses on the wolves, but
none dared to close.  The white 16vyier charged in.  He and the wolf
met jaw to jaw, their teeth clicking, as they fought for a hold.

Suddenly the lvrier folded his forelegs under him and made a
plunge for the wolf, sliding in on his belly.  He fastened to
Courtaud's foreleg and began to shake.  Courtaud rolled with him.  Two
of the other lvriers came to their leader's help, but Silver fought
them off.

The white hound lost his grip and they broke apart.

Courtaud stuck out one of his forelegs.  The levrier made a lunge
for it and Courtaud seized him by the muzzle.  In his efforts to fight
back, the hound drove one of his own teeth through his upper lip and
could not get it free.  He was helpless.  The fearful jaws clamped down
on him and the lvrier, kicking wildly, died.

The head piqueur came up.  He looked around and found he was
alone.  There was one dead hound and there soon would be more, even if
the wolves did not break out of the encircling pack and escape.  There
was no help for it.

He dismounted and, drawing his dagger, forced his way through the
raches, now mad with excitement and ready to close on the wolves since
the man was here.  The remaining le'vriers rushed in as the piqueur
raised his dagger, sighting along it.  Courtaud saw the motion and
charged.

The raches shrank back while the livriers tried to hold the wolf
and Silver strove to protect Courtaud's exposed flanks.

In the tumult, the piqueur was knocked off balance and fell.  As
he went down, Courtaud's teeth locked on his face.  Smothered under the
struggling hounds, the man was unable to use his dagger.  When Courtaud
could no longer take the punishment of the teeth tearing at him from
all sides and let go, the man no longer moved.

The raches and the livriers were now fighting among themselves.

The two wolves broke out of the melee and sped away together just
as the foremost riders appeared and sounded the "vue."  But not a
single hound could be found to follow them as they vanished over the
next rise.

SEVEN Paris

it was not until long after nightfall that Courtaud dared to give
the long assembly cry of the pack.  After the first few notes, Silver
raised her muzzle and joined him, tired as she was.  They howled
together for a few minutes and then stopped to listen.  For a long time
there was no response, and then so faintly that even their ultra-acute
hearing could barely catch it came a dozen short, barking answers.

Courtaud waited nearly half an hour before he howled tinct.  He
could recognize the individual animals nowWhite Mane, Gray, Brownie,
and the Cubs.  By dawn nearly all of the remnants of the pack had
gathered around their leader and his mate.  Most were limping, several
had been savaged by dogs, and three showed spear or arrow wounds.  They
were so weary that they collapsed and lay like dead animals for five
hours.

Although the wolves had no way of knowing it, the humans had paid
a disastrously heavy price for their victory.  A score of horses were
dead or foundered; half that number of men were crippled by falls.  The
head piqueur was dead.  The count of the pays lay in his castle
helpless with a broken collarbone, never to ride again.  Not even the
head berner knew how many hounds were lost, dead, or crippled.  The
serfs were too exhausted to do more than token work in the fields for
the next month.  The game was so scattered that hunting would be almost
impossible for weeks to come-and game formed a vital part of the
nobles' diet.  The cost and damage of the battue was a hundredfold
greater than the ravages of the wolves justified, and with the
dispersing of the wild game, all the local wolf packs were virtually
forced to live on the humans' y livestock.  Also, the quality of the
surviving game would be permanently injured.  By their careful
"testing" of prospective quarry, the wolves tended to take only the
oldest or weakest animals, thus culling out the herds and eliminating
the unfit.  Human hunters showed no such discrimination; in fact, they
deliberately hunted only the best beasts, as these provided the finest
trophies and gave the best meat.

On castle walls, for generations after the gran battue, the great
hunt, the poor quality of trophy antlers bore silent witness to the
degeneration of the herds.

Still, despite its fantastic cost, the battue accomplished its
purpose.  Courtaud resolved to leave the district.  It was proving too
dangerous.  The other wolf packs also were forced to migrate.

Courtaud's pack had long ago given up depending on game.  Human
stupidity and persecution had forced them to turn to stock killing and,
when the opportunity offered, to be man-eaters.  Now the other packs
were being compelled to follow the same course.  As if by common
consent, the packs began to leave the pays and drifted south, following
roads now largely deserted because of the ceaseless war.  But after a
few days traveling, they began to pick up the scent of herds of cattle,
flocks of sheep, and droves of pigs all being driven toward some common
point.  They followed the enticing odors hopefully, Courtaud's pack
always in the lead, until one morning the great wolf-dog led his
followers to the top of a little hill covered with boulders among which
they slipped like ghosts.  From their height, they looked down on a
city bisected by a slowly flowing river.

The city was protected by a double fosse or system of moats-the
outer fosse being dry and the inner floodedand by a tall wall studded
with towers.  At the center of the city in the midst of the river was
an island shaped like a boat.  Here stood a fantastic cathedral with
twin towers that speared the sky.  Walled bridges ran from the island
to the mainland where stood the greater part of the city, crossed by
two great streets at right angles to each other, which ran straight as
lances through the tangle of buildings.  The pack looked down over
a'umble of roofs covered with green mold, chimneys sending up blue
plumes of smoke, a cat's cradle of twisting streets overhung by
balconies that projected so far out that people could carry on
conversations from one to another, tiny squares, Spires of carve ' d
stone as fine as lace, black-pitched market sheds, mansions with
gardens, and an occasional round tower topped with a leaden cone.

There were two great fortresses -one known as the Bastille and the
other called the Louvre, meaning "wolf den," so named because it had
once been the site of a pile of rocks , where wolves made their homes
before the expanding city engulfed it.

Between the city and the hill where the wolves lay was a low
section of land, now swampy from the spring rains.

A paved road ran across it, starting at one of the city gates and
vanishing among the pollard willows, poplars, and alders that marked
the beginning of the forest.  A gallows stood by the city gate with two
bodies hanging from it.

There were a few farms that reached to the foot of the C hill.

Near the forest w re piles of seasoning cordwood, waiting to be
hauled to the city.  The hill itself was so rocky and inhospitable it
was largely left barren, except for a few vineyards and a number of
windmills scattered about where grain brought from the outlying manors
was ground.

Human observers would have been impressed by the sight, for
fifteenth-century Paris was one of the great cities of Europe, but the
wolves were concerned only with the odors coming from the place.  From
the slaughter pens of the Marche' Palus rose the delightful scent of
fresh meat, and the whole place reeked with the tantalizing smell of
food.  The hungry wolves licked their thin muzzles and yearned after
the rich harvest, but the city seemed impregnable.  The elaborate
fortifications of Charles V could have withstood the assault of an
army.

Although the wolves could both see and scent herds of kine being
driven along the highway to the city, they hesitated to attack the
helpless creatures and their handful of drivers.  The terrors of the
battue were still too vivid in their minds and they were in unknown
territory, always an uncomfortable sensation.  Fortunately, they found
that the hill was full of rats, part of the overflow from the city that
teemed with them as a carcass teems with magots.

z,9

Rats were hardly a satisfactory quarry for wolves, yet they made
do.  Somewhat more substantial were the martens that inhabited the hill
and lived on the rats.  These giant weasels were usually arboreal, but
they had left their trees to prey on the rats, which were far easier to
catch than squirrels, their ordinary prey.  The martens were trapped,
in turn, by woodsmen, who sold their beautiful soft pelts as miniver.

So many martens lived on the hill that it had been named after
them and was known as Montmartre.

The martens had an unpleasant odor and soon the wolves sought more
satisfactory food.  At night they drifted like shadows through the
farms, moving so softly that they seldom disturbed the sleeping dogs,
and always going upwind so they could tell what lay ahead.  They were
able to catch ' a few frogs along the banks of the river.  On special
occasions they were lucky enough to find sleeping wildfowl.  They
always moved in single file, each stepping in the footprints of the
leader.  Perhaps they had developed this habit in the mountains when it
was easier to go through snow if the trail was already broken.

They soon came across the signs of many other wolves, for Paris
was a magnet for all the packs within miles.

Trash, offal from the stockyards, and not infrequently a stray
corpse were disposed of by being thrown over the walls.  The wolf packs
acted as a garbage disposal system.  Indeed, the city would have been
in a bad way without them.  They kept the surrounding area reasonably
clean.

The resident wolves knew the hours when the garbage would be
thrown out and timed their visits accordingly.

Courtaud and his pack did not, and so for a time they did not
meet.  Then early one morning near the Porte SainteAntoine, Courtaud
came on a scent post that made him bristle, growl, and scratch backward
angrily with his hind feet.

It was clearly the scent post of a dominant wolf baron who had
marked out this particular territory for himself and his pack.  An
ordinary wolf leader would have respected the property rights of the
incumbent pack, but Courtaud, with his alaunt blood, was not
intimidated.  What did give him pause, however, was his rival's size.

He had to exert himself to fling his urine as high on the stone
gatepost as had the other.

The old varlet-the outcast wolf bullied by even the weakest of the
pack-had long since disappeared and his place had been taken by a
small, two-year-old male who had joined the pack a few months before,
exactly when or i how none could remember.  This new varlet was quite
clever and acted as court jester.  When there was a kill, the varlet
would rush forward, growling savagely as though he meant to take on the
whole pack.  One of the young males, eager to show his authority, would
promptly charge him, whereupon the varlet would pretend to go lame,
limping about on three legs and moaning pitifully, yet all the time
drawing closer to the meat.  When his attacker hesitated, the varlet
would limp close enough to snatch a mouthful and then, his leg
miraculously healed, go racing off.  The varlet was not content merely
to trail the pack; he skirted around them and not infrequently made
important discoveries.  Courtaud was so busy effacing the boundary
marks of the strange leader-and the pack were so occupied in watching
him-that the grew careless.  Suddenly the y y varlet plunged into the
midst of them, tail between his legs, yelping in terror.  Only a matter
of the gravest importance would induce the varlet to force his way
among his superiors, and every wolf knew it.  Instantly the wolves lost
all interest in the gatepost and stood rigid, every sense alert.

The varlet's mane was bristling and he snarled.  Something was
coming.

A 'hundred paces away, the frogs had stopped croaking.

The-frogs ninety paces away became silent, and then eighty.

Whatever it was, it was coming toward them.

There was n'owind and Silver, the cautious, was repared to flee,
but Courtaud stood his ground.  The nearby frogs hushed and .  now the
pack could see figures in the low-lying morning mist.  They instantly
recognized them as wolves.

A moment later, they could scent them and Courtaud promptly
identified the scent of the leader who had marked the gatepost.

The resident pack came on, either unconscious or indifferent to
the strangers.  They did not move in single file, but were scattered
about in a disorderly fashion behind their big leader.  They behaved,
looked, and to a certain extent smelled more like dogs than wolves,
because for months now they had been scavengers, living off the city's
refuse, and as a result had lost much of their wild nature.

There were many more of them than Courtaud's pack, but ordinarily
the forest wolves would have made short work of these mangy
carrion-eaters.  Unfortunately for Courtaud and his followers, they
were weak from their long trek from Champagne and half-starved.

The leader of the pack, who had a black streak across his muzzle,
was almost on top of them before he paused.

There were so many wolves about Paris that he did t at first
recognize these as a new pack.  When he did, his mane rose and he moved
forward stiff-le ged, with his tail raised higher than the level of his
back to show his superiority.

Much to his surprise, Courtaud approached him in the same way,
instead of lowering his tail and cringing.

The two males came together slowly, both sniffing audibly to gauge
the other's potentials.  They circled each other head to tail, neither
allowing his anus to be sniffed, while trying to get a whiff of the
other's scent glands which would carry so much information.  Courtaud
stood higher than Black Streak although he was not as heavy.

Black Streak was clearly an experienced fighter.  He had lost one
ear and was heavily scarred from numerous battles.  He recognized in
Courtaud a younger, more active animal, but also knew he was
half-starved-the poor quality of his scent showed that-and tired, for
he moved stiffly.

Black Streak seemed to give up, for he turned his head away-always
a sign of cowardice.  For an instant, Courtaud relaxed, and it appeared
as though the two packs could come to an understanding without
fighting.  Abruptly and with astonishing quickness, Black Streak spun
sideways and struck Courtaud on the shoulder with all his weight.

Courtaud reeled and nearly went down.  As he staggered, the
resident pack moved forward as one wolf; they had seen other wolves who
challenged their leader go down in just this manner.  Courtaud managed
to keep his balance and snapped at Black Streak's throat.  Black Streak
was forced to twist around to parry the bite, and as he did so,
Courtaud in his turn swung sideways and hit Black Streak with the full
force of his body, instantly reaching for his opponent's neck.  The big
leader threw his head backward to avoid the bite and for a moment went
off balance.

Courtaud closed and threw him on his back.  Now it was the turn of
Courtaud's pack to sway forward, but Black Streak regained his feet.

He feinted first at Courtaud's foreleg and then at his throat,
forcing the wolf-dog to jerk his head back and forth to meet the
thrusts.

Courtaud gave back and they stood facing each other and snarling,
neither willing to resume the struggle.

Suddenly there came the vicious whir of arrows and sullen "plunks"
as they embedded themselves in the ground.

The wolves were off and running even before the twanging of the
bowstrings reached them.  Archers were amusing themselves by releasing
at the wolves from on top of the wall.  Back on the hill, Courtaud's
pack counted noses, or rather checked scents.  An old female was
missing.  The pack howled in unison until the sun came up.  It had an
especially doleful note, unlike the cheerful music of a howl before
hunting or a conversation with other packs.  They seemed to be mourning
their dead.  Perhaps they were.

From then on, Courtaud and his pack avoided the city and its
tempting garbage.  Instead, they explored the surrounding country far
more carefully than human scouts could have done.  Not only did they
observe marks and signs that even the most acute woodsman would have
missed, they memorized dozens of scents.  By the end of a week, they
knew every stone wall and every hedgerowenclosed field, and had learned
to check certain bushes where sometimes they found a thrush caught in a
snare baited with berries.  They also knew the pens where the cattle
were kept and where the chickens and ducks spent the night.  They never
touched so much as a pullet, for this was their home range and they did
not wish to draw attention to themselves.  With any luck, next spring
they would dig their dens among the rocks of Montmartre and-zraise
their pups here.  No wolf, no matter how stupid, ever dreamed of
killing within several miles of his home den area.

The wolves soon learned to watch all that went on along the road
that led north from Paris through the forests.

Paris was the great market of France, and along this road was
driven daily enough food to feed all the wolves in Europe.  Only for a
few miles was the road paved.  Then it turned into a dirt path that was
a mire in wet weather.  Still, the pack continued its patrol, for they
sometimes found sick or dead animals that had been left behind.  The
varlet proved surprisingly useful here.  He turned out to have an
excellent nose and was often the first to discover some abandoned horse
or cow.  If the animal was dead, he took care to get a full gorge
before bringing over the others.  If it was alive, he relied on the
pack to kill it for him and then, by crawling on the ground and
whimpering like a hungry puppy, managed to get his share.

Once the pack got to know the country and became more confident,
they stopped relying on abandoned animals for food and openly attacked
the cattle, sheep, and pigs.  The herdsmen were peasants, usually
dressed in undyed sheepskins with galligaskins wrapped like leggings
around their legs.  They were armed with staffs, spiked clubs, or at
least le pardou, the peasant's short knife.  Even Courtaud preferred to
leave these men alone, but the driven animals were another matter.

They could be easily stampeded, often simply by the wolves' scent,
and once scattered were easy prey.  So regularly did Courtaud's band
patrol the highway and so ruthlessly did they extract their levy, that
the herdsmen learned to hamstring one old cow and leave her for the
wolves.

Thus distracted, the pack would allow the rest to pass in safety.

The herdsmen told each other, "It is better to sacrifice one
animal that the rest may go clear."

These were good days for the pack.  Courtaud overcame his
man-killing propensities, to Silver's relief.  She had learned to eat
human flesh when the pack followed the Free Company, but deliberately
attacking humans always bothered her.  It was not normal wolf behavior
and therefore disturbing.  After feasting on whatever animal had been
given them for tribute, the pack would return to Montmartre, terrifying
the women cutting rushes for baskets by the river and making the
curlews fly up before them as they crossed the little valley between
the hill and the city wall.  Once on the hill, they would sleep among
the boulders until it was time to go forth again.

This golden period was suddenly brought to a close.  In the nearby
town of Meaux was an English garrison, composed largely of bowmen with
a few men-at-arms.  They collected taxes from the townspeople and the
local peasants, but not in unreasonable amounts, and so were not
especially disliked except for being foreigners.  They were not strong
enough to be a threat to Paris, nor did the Parisians care much what
happened to Meaux, so an armed neutrality existed between them.

A group of butchers, who objected to the toll Courtaud's pack took
from the cattle driven to Marche Palus, hired a small group of the
English bowmen to guard the herds while they were passing through the
wolf king's domain.

The next time Courtaud confidently intercepted a herd of steers
headed for the Porte Saint-Antoine, he was astonished to find arrows
flying past him, singing their deadly wasplike buzz.  The wolves fled
and took refuge'in a thicket of dense gorsebush.  Later they made
several other tentative attempts to cut out steers from the herds, only
to be met with more arrows.  Finally they were forced to give up and
return to rat and marten hunting on the hill.  The city dwellers were
still kind enough to throw their garbage over the walls, but Courtaud
was not a garbage eater except through necessity.  He prepared to take
his band on a search for a new home.

Then, one morning in July, Courtaud and his followers were
awakened by the sounds of kettledrum and trumpet, and, raising their
heads, they saw the sparkle of armor as a procession rode out of the
Porte Saint-Antoine.  At the head flapped the banner of the Count de
Richemont, governor of Paris.  Actually, the count was the leader of a
band of icorcheurs-the grisly "flayers" who spared no one, French or
English.  The count lived for loot and, as long as he was able to
enrich himself, it was a matter of indifference to him whether Charles
VII, Henry VI, the Duke of Burgundy, or the devil ruled in France.

Although his ecorcheurs were officially the Parisian garrison, and
maintained at public expense to fight the English, the count used them
solely to protect the wealthy corn factors who had a monopoly on grain
brought into the city, which they sold to the people at enormous
profit.  However, the price of bread had reached such exorbitant
heights that the people were rebelling, and the count had decided that
it would be wise to distract them.  Meaux with its little English
garrison lay only twenty-five miles away.  The count decided to make a
token attack on Meaux, then return to Paris and announce a brilliant
victory.

It must be admitted that the icorcheurs had their side of the
question.  Most were either former peasants driven off their land by
the never-ending war, wandering mercenaries who knew no other life, or
the fragments of feudal levies who could now exist only by looting.

Whenever it was pointed out to them that they were little better
than bandits, the corchezirs invariably replied, "We must I've."

It was an unanswerable argument.  The wolves were in much the same
situation.

It was a long time since the pack had seen a war party, but they
recognized it instantly, remembering the time when they had followed
the Free Company.  Ordinary wolves would have been terrified by the
sight, sound, and smell of so many men and horses- these welcomed it.

The armor flashing in the sunlight, the forest of tall lances, the
nected with food.  Driven from their home range, prevented from hunting
their natural prey, they had learned to depend on humans.  They had no
other choice.

The wolves were not the only animals to recognize the significance
of the men.  Ravens, croaking with anticipation, material red from
barren hillsides where two crows would have been a crowd.  An eagle
appeared, floating on rigid wings with the long flight feathers spread
like the fingers of a hand to feel for the slightest updraft.  He, too,
was a scavenger, for all his noble appearance.  Foxes slipped noiseless
as cats through the furze.  They would follow the men for a while at
least, but the ravens would follow it for days, trailing it as in the
Ardennes they had trailed the wolf packs.  The wolves also followed,
and made little attempt to conceal themselves.  They knew the men had
other matters to concern them besides wolves.

Courtaud's pack was the only true pack-in-being around Paris at
this time.  There was a good reason for this- The 'dent wolves had
split up into small groups or breeding resi pairs as they did every
summer.  Because they had been driven out of their range, Courtaud's
pack had not bred that year and had remained together, not knowing the
country well enough to separate.  However, they were foi lowed by a few
loners and strays.  Some mated pars whose I pups were old enough to
make short trips also tagged along at a discreet distance.  When the
pups grew tired, they would be left in a group at some easily
identifiable spot under the care of an old "auntie," who watched over
them until the parents returned, hopefully with food.

The little expedition with its hidden attendants made a brave show
as they rode down the valley of the Ourcq.

The wolves trailed them slowly, stopping to eat berries and some
of the sharp grass that acted as a tonic.  A few of the louvarts amused
themselves hunting voles, but the older wolves kept close to Courtaud.

The pack poured themselves through the willows and padded across
the patches of flowering heath, conscious only that the irritating odor
of the flowers tended to stifle important scents.

Then ahead of them came the smell of pines, arrowheads, iris, and
above all the coolness of water.  They had reached the Marne, which
flowed past Meaux.  Animals and humans stopped to drink.

By mid-afternoon, the spires of the cathedral of Meaux appeared
above the poplars.  Here the men halted and the wolves did I'kew'se.

The count's strategy was simple.  His icorcheurs would make a
surprise attack on the serfs' huts that surrounded the walled and
moated town.

They would seize everything worth taking (which meant mainly
livestock, for the serfs had little else of value), kill as many of the
peasants as possible, burn their huts, hayricks, and standing grain,
and then go through the motions of laying siege to the town.  They had
no real chance of taking Meaux, so after a week or so they would return
to Paris.

This was the standard pattern of medieval warfare.  By destroying
the serfs, you cut your enemy off from his source of food without
endangering yourself.  From the point of view of men-at-arms, this was
the perfect way to fight wars.  It was also perfect for the wolves.

One of the corcheurs had been born in Meaux and he acted as a
guide.  After the horses had been rested, the men left the shelter of
the forest and charged forward at full gallop.  They were not wearing
the enormously heavy armor recently adopted as a countermeasure to the
murderous bodkin shafts of the English longbows, and their horses were
the light, fast barbs and roussins.  The surprise was complete.  In
their excitement, some of the raiders rode into the peasants' huts, the
better to cut down their victims, but most devoted their efforts to
rounding up the livestock.  Meanwhile the bells in the cathedral tower
were ringing the alarm and the town gates were shut, but the raiders
paid little attention to that.  A crowd of miserable captives was
herded to the village square, where the count sat on his powerful
hackney surrounded by his personal bodyguard.  Another contingent of
the corcheurs was busy firing the huts.  Soon the watching wolves saw
the pale flame of burning thatch and smelled the smoke.  The odor of
blood was even stronger and far more exciting.

Several of the louvarts grew restless and began to move forward.

Courtaud ignored them, but Silver and some of the older males sent
them back with growls and nips.

These young wolves were always a problem.  Too old to be
considered pups, they took pride in their independence, yet lacked the
discipline and experience of the full-grown animals.

The corcheurs then attacked the convent of Saint Agaire, which
stood outside the town walls.  The convent had witnessed many sieges
and never yet been harmed, better protected by fear of the saint than
by the stoutest walls and moat, but now its time had come.  The nuns
were dragged out to be raped and murdered, the altar torn apart in the
hope it might contain treasure (it held only the bones of the saint),
and the treasury looted of its gleaming candlesticks, which turned out
to be merely gilded, much to the count's disappointment.  One of the
icorcheurs, a savage from the Baltic, climbed the tower to tear loose
the glistening weathercock, which he thought was a golden idol.  Others
slaughtered the livestock, and soon half-raw shoulders and 'Joints were
being devoured.  The convent's wine cellar was emptied and the drunken
men fought with each other and played games with the saint's bones.

The ravens were already at work and Courtaud rose and moved toward
the feast.  The varlet, the only wolf not subjected to pack discipline,
as he was an outcast, had been dartin about for some time, grabbing
whatever he could find that was eatable.  Suddenly they saw him racing
back, his tail as usual between his legs, and leaving splashes of
yellow urine as he ran.  The pack stopped and it was well they did.

Unnoticed, the gates of the town had quietly been opened and the
drawbridge dropped.  Out poured a little men of men-at-arms, supported
by arrow hail from the walls.  Although the force was less than a
quarter of his own following, the count was taken aback.  Most of his
men were sc I attered, many dismounted, not a few drunk.

Fortunately, he had kept his own bodyguard mounted and beside him.

Shouting "Saint Denis for France!"  he drove his spurs into his
hackney and the bodyguard leveled their selves between the two forces
and barely managed to escape.  A minute more, and they would have been
trampled.

The enemies came together, each shouting its own war cries.  The
shock was terrible.  Men and horses went down and in that press, those
who fell never rose again.  e lances splintered or had to be dropped as
the work became too close.  Swords were drawn, the sharp steel
shivering on bone or sliding through soft fat.  The dust rose and
covered the scene, while under the pall a series of individual fights
continued.  Young pages hovered outside the melee with daggers in their
hands, ready to dart in and dispatch any fallen man with a stab through
the visor slit.  The wolves waited beyond the pages for their turn.

Horses ran from under the dust cloud with broken girths and
trailing reins.  The temptation was too much for Courtaud.  He sprang
after a horse and seized it by the tail.

The horse struggled to free itself, kicking.  As the ironshod
hoofs struck close to him, Courtaud let go the tail.

The abruptly released horse fell forward on his head.  Instantly
half a dozen wolves, led by Silver, were on him.  He was torn to pieces
while still struggling.

The dust cloud was lifting now.  Tired men leaned panting on their
swords, their armor smotheringly hot in the sun.  They tried to come
together again, but the ground was so slippery with blood they kept
falling.  Some of the most determined tore off their shoes of jointed
mail and fought barefooted.

The dismounted and scattered e'corcheurs were beginning to rally,
and formed ranks for a charge.  From the town walls, a trumpet called
once-twice-urgently.  Of the English force, all those who could ride
heard the warning and turned back.

The e'corcheurs had reformed and now launched their charge, but
before they could overtake the diminished group of Englishmen, they
came within bowshot of the town walls.

At once a black blizzard burst from the ramparts and the air was
filled with the drone of the arrows.

The raiders gave back as saddles emptied and horses, running mad
with feathered shafts sticking in them, stampeded through the press.

At the gate, a group of knights dismounted and held the way while
their squires led their horses into the town and the rest of the men
crossed the bridge.  Then it was raised with a clang and the French
heard the English give their traditional three cheers.

Not for many months had the wolves eaten as they did that evening.

Flies covered the corpses like freckles but the scavengers did not
care.  The riderless horses were so exhausted they stood with their
heads down and could be easily hamstrung by even the most inexperienced
louvart.

The parent wolves often crippled the helpless animals first and
then watched while the young wolves duplicated their actions.  None of
the men watching from the walls doubted that the wolves were taking
advantage of the situation to teach their young how to kill, although
it is quite possible that the older wolves were not consciously giving
the pups lessons.  They were drunk with blood as the icorcheurs had
been drunk with wine.  Never with wild game would the pack have
considered for a moment such pointless, wholesale killing, nor would
the opportunity have ever occurred.  They gorged that night until many
of them literally could not move and lay as helpless as the drunk
icorcheurs.  They had found a paradise for wolves.

The count's force had been so badly mauled by the unexpected sally
from the town, that the next morning he prepared to depart.  The tired
wolves were awakened at dawn by the clank of armor being donned and the
neighing of horses.  They listened without interest.  There was enough
food here for a week at least.  Then came a sound that made Courtaud
and Silver, at least, lift their weary heads.  It was the rumble of
horses' hoofs on the hard ground.  These newcomers consisted of a Free
Company under the leadership of a man known as Tete-Noir.  They were
mainly German and under ordinary conditions would have proved as great
a threat to the French corcheurs as did the English.  Tete-Noir and
his men had been pillaging the already pillaged countryside when they
had seen the smoke of the burning village and decided to investigate.

There was no use in their attacking the corcheitrs, for the
raiders had no loot except a few pigs and chickens.  So a truce was
struck.  In Meaux there was plenty of loot and The-Noir had two men who
knew how to construct catapults that could throw a two-hundred-pound
stone 350 paces.  Using the captured peasants as labor, they could also
construct scaling ladders and pavois, the wooden shields supported by
props that could conceal two men and be carried close enough to the
walls so the crossbowmen could reply to the English archers.

But first a leader had to be decided upon.  Because of their
proximity to Paris and the chance that the city might send the Count de
Richemont help, The-Noir swore an oath of allegiance to the count.

Kneeling, he placed his joined hands between the count's hands and
swore to obey him.  Now the count was the acknowledged head of the
combined forces.

Meanwhile, more and more wolves were leaking in through the forest
and along the deserted roads.  They could smell the carnage five miles
away when the wind was right, and also many had been watching the men
ever since it left Paris.  These new arrivals presented a problem.

The various packs were suspicious of each other and quarrels were
frequent.  Last to come was Black Streak with his followers.  So well
fed and so confident had Courtaud become that he contemptuously allowed
the impressed Black Streak to sniff his anus.  Black Streak knew that
this lordly animal-who had also been first on the ground-was his
master.  He lowered his head and Courtaud majestically took the upper
jaw between his teeth and shook it firmly.  It was the sign of
dominance.  Black Streak would now recognize Courtaud as leader and
obey him; at least until they returned to Paris.  The other wolf
leaders c arne forward, lowered their tails, and held out their
unresistant muzzles to be gripped in turn.  When the ceremony was over,
Courtaud was the king wolf of all the packs.

For the next two weeks, the besiegers busied themselves with
preparations for the attack.  The captured serfs were set to binding
together great bundles of faggots to serve as fascines to fill in the
moat; those who had some skill with an axe were employed cutting down
trees to fashion the ladders, pavois, and catapults.  The women were
also useful.

Their hair was cut off and twisted into ropes for the newly
constructed catapults.  Human hair had proven to be the best substance
for this purpose.

The wolves had greatly increased in number.  The men swore that
there were over two hundred of them.  Perhaps this was an exaggeration,
but in any event they were growing constantly bolder.  After they had
devoured the corpses of men and animals killed on the first day, they
haunted the camp.  Armed guards had to be put on,er the horse lines and
cattle pens.  It seemed as though the wolves, once accustomed to the
idea that men were there to provide food for them, became resentful if
the men did not oblige.  In any event, they became more aggressive.  As
they staged their attacks principally at night, the French arbalisters
with their powerful but clumsy crossbows could do little against them.

Even when the arbalister was able to see a wolf, it took him
nearly a minute to wind and cocic his crossbow and the wolf seldom
waited.

At last the day came for the assault on the town.  The serfs had
filled in part of the fosse with their fascines and many had died in
the process in spite of the covering fire the arbalisters gar,e them
from behind their pavois.  Now the newly constructed catapults
destroyed much of the hoardings that covered the ramparts and provided
the archers with shelter.  The moment for the supreme effort had come.

The Germans led the advance on foot, for no horse could have been
controlled under the English arrows.  With their spurs removed to keep
them from tripping and their lances shortened to five-foot length, the
Germans plodded forward, their heads lowered against the arrow storm.

Their armor was so heavy that if a man tripped, he was unable to
rise again without help, but nothing but a steel quarrel from a
crossbow could pierce it.  Still, it had its vulnerable points.  If a
man, stifled by the heat, removed the steel gorget protecting his
throat, he drank his own blood as a broadhead tore through the chain
mall which had once been considered adequate protection.  Meanwhile the
more lightly clad icorcheurs followed under cover of , the pavois while
the catapults and arbalisters cleared the walls.

A battering ram on wheels was brought up, protected by a shed
covered with raw hides so the besieged could not set fire to it.  The
ponderous contraption was rolled into place and the ram began to crash
against the town gates.  As it did so, from the machicolations-covered
stone gutters that ran down the walls-boiling oil was poured on the
attackers.  Alen were broiled alive in their armor.  On the parapets,
the English archers discarded their bows and flung down paving stones
that the town's inhabitants pried from the streets.  Women tossed
burning hoops dipped in tar around the heads of the attackers.

The corcheurs ran forward with their scaling ladders and swayed
them up against the walls.  One group was able to get grappling hooks
caught in the drawbridge and pulled it down by main strength, breaking
its rusty chains.  The gates collapsed and the heavily armed Germans
waddled in, moving like sleepwalkers but unstoppable.

Courtaud dared to rush forward, with Silver half a length behind
him and the rest of the pack following.  They found dead and dying men
behind the abandoned pavois and Courtaud, wild with excitement and the
smell of blood, attacked them with an almost hysterical fury.

Courtaud's pack joined him, and Black Streak, after a little
hesitation, i led the city wolves forward.  The wolves rushed in, tore
off great hunks of flesh, and then ran back to swallow them before
returning for more, but Courtaud refused to retreat.

He gorged himself where he stood.

In the marketplace, the English were making a last stand.

At their head stood a young knight, waving his sword.

He raised his hand too high, exposing the "difaut de la
cuirasse"-the weak spot under the arm.  A crossbow quarrel struck him
and he fell.  At the sight, the English surrendered-with the condition
that their lives and persona I property be spared.  The victorious
besiegers agreed, as there was no advantage to be gained in overcoming
the little knot of desperate men.  Instead, they looted the town.

It was a great victory for both the icorcheurs and the wolves.

Neither realized until much later that with the English bowmen
gone, the herds of domestic animals driven to the Paris market would no
longer have bowmen guardians.

EIGHT The Capture of Courtaud

The hut was hidden deep in the forest and so rickety that one
would go outside to sneeze, yet it had an air of comfort.  It was made
of crossed laths chinked with hardened mud and possessed a chimney
rather than allowing the smoke the seep out through the thatch, as with
most peasants' homes.  There were two rooms, one for the family and one
for the beasts: the yoke of oxen, the cow, ten sheep, and the pigs.

There was horn in the windows that let in light while keeping out
the cold in winter, and there were even shutters.  The mother had blown
up the fire in the ingle and set her copper kettle on to boll.

Meanwhile, she nursed her baby while spinning with her distaff.

Because the house was so isolated, it had escaped the Free
Companies' raids, and on this August evening everything was especially
calm.

Under the apple tree in the tiny yard, two little girls were
spreading dried dung on the vegetable beds and working it into the
soil.  There would be time for another crop of lettuce and peas before
the first frost.  They had been chattering together.  Now they became
silent.  An uncanny hush had fallen over the woods.  No bird sang or
insect chirped.  Even the stones and trees seemed to hold their breath.

The children looked about nervously and wished that their two
older brothers had not taken Roland, the dog, with them when they went
to drive home the cow.

There was a stone wall surrounding the yard.  A stone fell from
it.  The children were about ten paces apart and the one nearest the
house looked up.  She was 'Just in time to see a giant wolf with a
short tail spring down from the wall and seize her sister.

At the children's screams, their mother put down the baby and,
still clutching her distaff, rushed out.  She screamed too when she saw
her oldest daughter's head almost engulfed in the wolf's mouth.  Half
insane with terror, she attacked the murderer with her distaff.  So
furious was her assault that Courtaud dropped the girl and retreated.

The mother snatched up the unconscious child and held it
protectingly to her breast.  Courtaud circled her and sprang on the
other child.

This child was smaller, and in spite of her screams the wolf
dragged her off toward the wall.  Still holding the limp body of the
older child, the mother tried to pursue him, but Courtaud sprang over
the wall with his prey in his mouth.

He would have made his escape had not the two boys come up with
the cow and Roland.  For a few moments the boys saw only their
hysterical mother, clinging to the senseless body of their sister, and
did not realize what had happened, but Roland scented the wolf.  He
bounded over the wall and in a few seconds caught up with the
kidnapper.  Roland was only a sheep dog and weighed less than half as
much as Courtaud, but he attacked Courtaud refused to drop the chid and
was at a disadvantage.  He tried to run, but the gallant Roland forced
him to turn.  Brave as the dog was, he dared not come to grips with the
wolf.  Instead, he barked as loudly as he could.

Now the boys came up.  There had been rumors of maneating wolves
that had reached even this lonely cabin and one boy had a homemade
bayonet, made by tying his peasant's knife, the pardou, to the end of
a stick.  He 1

charged Courtaud with his crude weapon.  The wolf ducked and ran,
still carrying his little victim, with Roland in PurSuit.  This time
Roland grabbed the wolf by the leg.

It was a fatal mistake.  By the time the boys caught up, Roland
lay dead and Courtaud, with his victim, had disappeared.

The boys hesitated.  They could not bring themselves to go into
the tangled underbrush, especially as they had no means of trailing the
man-eater and did not know how many other wolves might be about.

Weeping, one boy carried the corpse of poor Roland back to their
home while the other wiked backward with his bayonet at the ready.

There they had to help their mother with their other sister, who
had recovered consciousness and would not allow anyone to touch her.

She thought that she was still in the wolf's grip.  At last by
main strength they dragged the shrieking girl inside and laid her on
the communal bed.

Meanwhile, Claudette, the cow, had run off and without Roland to
help, they were a long time finding her and bringing the frightened
animal home.  It was almost dark by the time they returned and found
their father there with the yoke of oxen and a cart piled high with
wood.

In spite of the hour, once the oxen and Claudette were safely
bedded down inside the house and the wattle door made as fast as its
leather hinges would permit, they set out to follow the wolf.  The
father took his axe, the oldest boy his bayonet, and the youngest a
pitchfork.  The father held a torch made of strips of fir bound
together with flax and soaked in grease.  They found the spot where
Roland had been killed and then proceeded more slowly, the youngest boy
carrying the torch so the man could have both hands for the axe.  They
found some traces of blood and then some shreds of clothing caught on a
gorsebush.

A few paces further on, they came on the head of the child.  There
was no sign of the body.

All three stood sobbing around the pathetic remains of the child,
for in those times people made no attempt to hide their emotions.  Yet
they were practical also.  It was now almost pitch-dark and there were
rustlings in the bushes that made them think the wolf had not gone far.

Peasants might mourn their dead, but they had to think also of the
living.  The little head was reverently gathered up and they returned
to the comparative safety of the hut.

As soon as it was light the next day, the boys set out to get
help, each taking some weapon.  The father stayed with his wife, as she
needed his help with the mauled girl, who kept dozing off, only to
awake screaming that- the wolf had her.  By noon, over a dozen men had
assembledwoodcutters, charcoal burners, simple serfs, every man with at
least one dog and some homemade weapon.  The dogs were put on the line,
but the scent was cold now.

They did make one discovery: a pile of freshly turned earth.  With
their knives the men dug up what was left of the child's body and
returned with this poor trophy.

When Courtaud came back that evening with Silver and found his
cache robbed, he was furious.  He growled, tore up the ground with his
hind feet, and went into such a rage that Silver, trying to lick his
mouth to quiet him, was afraid to go near the maddened animal and
kissed the air a foot away.  Courtaud trailed the posse back to the
hut, even jumped the wall and stood on his hind legs looking in at a
crack in the horn of a window, trying to find what the thieves had done
with his kill.  Frustrated, he went away at last with Silver following.

On the path, they came on an old woman spinning with her distaff
as she walked, followed a few paces away by her husband with a mattock
over his shoulder.  Without hesitation, Courtaud in his rage charged
the woman and tore her throat out before her startled husband could
come to her help.  Then he and Silver dove into the broom and vanished
while the frenzied man tried to staunch the flow of blood from his
dying wife's jugular.

i Not only Courtaud's pack learned to prey on the livestock being
driven to Paris; the other wolf packs ')mined lied of man, had learned
that, if a wolf took a few precautions, men were comparatively
harmless.  With the English longbowmen, it had been a different matter.

An archer could discharge twelve shafts a minute and hit a wolf at
250 paces with each one.  An arbalister could discharge his crossbow
only once in the same period and the weapon was, by its very nature,
not as accurate as a longbow because the fletchering of the bolt
scraping along the flat of the bow affected its flight.  The French had
short bows but they were weak things, the archer drawing to his chest
rather than to the angle of his jaw, which made aiming difficult and
limited his range.  The French had never learned the art of making the
powerful longbow.

It was Courtaud who taught the city wolves how to outwit the
arbalisters and handle the stubborn cattle.  The cattle must never be
allowed to form a defensive ring.

Wolves, with their ingrained habit of testing all prey before
attacking, tended to approach the driven cattle slowly, watching for
weaklings, slinking to and fro and hoping to cut out some likely
prospect.  Courtaud attacked instantly.  He had discovered places along
the road espec lally suitable for ambush-a particularly dense patch of
elder, a pile of rocks, a stand of pine and spruce that had grown up
where the woodsmen had cut down the hard timber and in such places he
lay up with his followers.

When a herd was driven past, he would suddenly attack, scattering
the cattle in all directions.  Before the arbalisters could cock their
weapons or the mounted men level their lances, wolves and cattle were
inextricably mixed and spread through the forest.  The wolves would
then cut off a small group and drive them to a safe place for the
slaughter.  The wolves showed amazing aha'ty to herd hoofed prey, an
ability they had often used in the past to drive deer into a cul-de-sac
so they could be the more easily killed.  So selective did the packs
become that they would kill only the best and tenderest heifers, and
then eat only the choicest bits, leaving the rest behind.  Once having
selected a victim, they would knock other cattle oat of the way to
reach the chosen animal.  Courtaud himself had little interest in the
cattle.  His target was the humans, but he enjoyed panicking the herds.

Courtaud became increasingly wedded to human flesh.

He seemed to become addicted to it, as a man might to drink or
drugs.  He had to be careful how he approached the well-armed men who
guarded the cattle, but shepherds driving their flocks to Paris were
generally unarmed and helpless.  The wolf king was known to run over
the backs of the closely crowded sheep to get at the shepherd.  B'g and
powerful as the wolf-dog was, he was actually no match for a man armed
with a stout cudgel or even a knife, but his size, ferocity, and the
legends that began to attach themselves to him usually paralyzed his
victims with terror.  It was said that he was not a wolf at all but a
bear, a lion imported from Africa by some noble, or a demon.

As the arrows discharged by nervous bowmen invariably missed the
swift-moving animal, it was believed that they bounced off his hide and
he was invulnerable.  It was said that he had power to strike men dumb
so when they encountered him they were unable to call for help.  Men
were, indeed, struck dumb at the sight of Courtaud-dumb with fear.

The drovers listened anxiously for the howling sessions the wolf
packs indulged in before starting out on a raid.

They learned to recognize Courtaud's deep voice from among the
others.  If the wolf king howled, they abandoned their flocks and ran
panic-stricken for the safety of the city walls.  Yet in spite of the
terror that the king wolf inspired, there were still men and women
brave enough to visit the fatal hill of Montmartre to collect the
wolves' droppings.

These droppings brought a large sum in Paris, for it was well
known that wolf dung, mixed with honey, was a sovereign cure for sore
eyes.  The wolves even rew used to these human scavengers as they did
to the ravens and foxes, and ignored them.  The scavengers, in turn,
were grateful to the wolves and hoped they would never leave the hill.

Also indebted to the wolves was the Count de in 'derable sum to
protect their able to si i interests were crease enormously the price
of meat under the plea that the wolves were preventing all but a few
scattered herds of livestock from reaching the city.

Other wolves besides Courtaud learned to become ManEaters, but
because of his great size and short tail, he was easily identified and
all kills were credited to him.  A mother sent her little daughter to
bring in the cows.  When the child did not return, the mother went to
look for her.  She fell over the child's sabots, the crude wooden shoes
handcarved by the peasants.  Farther on, she found the remnants of her
daughter's clothes, but of the child herself, no trace was ever found.

In this case, Black Streak was the murderer.  He had eaten what he
wanted of the child and then buried the rest deep in the forest, yet
Courtaud was blamed.  On another occasion, an old woman saw cows
feeding in her wheat field.  She dispatched her young son to drive them
away.  The boy used his sling to send the cows running and then
returned home-to find the partly eaten corpse of his mother lying
Across the doorstep.  Here again, other wolves were responsible, but to
the peasants it was all the work of the werewolf of Paris-Courtaud.

At this time Charles VII, King of France by the grace of God and
the courage of Joan of Arc, whom he had left to die at the hands of the
vengeful English, came to Paris, although he disliked the city which
had been so often hostile to him.  The king was a little man with small
-eyes and a large nose, thick lips and a sallow skin.  He was
suspicious of everyone, and with good reason.  Charles had been a weak,
futile young man and was in many respects a most unkingly king, yet he
still felt a certain responsibility toward his people.  Among other
matters, he heard the story of Courtaud, or rather what by now might be
called I the legend of Courtaud, and listened astonished.

"Is there no louvetier that can rid us of this monster?"

he demanded.

An old courtier who in his youth had been a famous hunter spoke
up.  "There is Boisselier, captain of the city guard, my lord.  He is
part English and therefore part I wolf, so he can think like a wolf."

This seemed reasonable to all present.  It was well known that the
English were related to wolves: their names bishop of Canterbury had
been a Wulfheln and the archbishop of York, Wulfstan.  So Boisselier
was summoned.

He was a tall blond man, with hair the color of a cornfield, who
kept to himself, and if he had been in paradise would have left it to
hunt wolves.  Although he was a bastard, he was allowed to fly a
tiercel gentle, a male peregrine falcon, as his father had been a
gentleman with a coat of arms, but, strange man that he was, he
preferred to fly the peasants' goshawk rather than the noble's
peregrine.  This was because flying falcons required open countr and a
large retinue of mounted followers, while y a single man could wander
through the fields and woods with a goshawk on his gloved fist and fly
it at any prey that appeared, whether rabbit or swan, and Boisseller
liked to be alone.  Though he hunted sweet game-that is, the hart, the
hind, and the fallow deer-he was especially famous for his skill in the
pursuit of foul game-which is to say the boar, the sow, the fox, the
otter, and above all the wolf.  Unmarried, he was rumored to have
sexual relations with female wolves who told him all their secrets.

Indeed, so closely entwined with wolves was he that he even used
his nose like a wolf, sniffing at scent posts and getting down on his
hands and knees to smell the earth where a wolf had lain.  Some said he
was a werewolf who could change into a wolf at will and run with the
packs.

That Boisseller loved and admired wolves was well known, yet no
one thought it strange that he devoted his life to their destruction.

It was natural for a man to kill what he loved.  There was a close
bond between the English and French nobles who intermarried, praised
each other's skill with arms, visited at each other's castles, and
equally despised the common people.  This mutual attachment did not
prevent their constant wars, and, indeed, neither would have known what
to do without the other to fight, for fighting was the only career for
a gentleman.

As was suitable for the eldest, Boisselier's older brother was a
man- at-arms and had fought on both sides.  It was equally proper that
the second son should be a hunter.  If there had been a third son, he
would have been a priest.

Such matters were arranged by custom, which was to say by God.

So Boisselier was summoned to come before the king and knelt
before his sovereign.  He had thought about Courtaud often and knew
what had to be done.  He was convinced that unless Courtaud was indeed
a werewolfand Boisselier considered this quite probable-he could be
taken, if not at the first attempt, then on the second or third.

"He must be trapped in his den of Montmartre, my lord," said the
master huntsman respectfully but with the authority of an expert.  "It
is a notched, knuckled crag where the devil might say his matins at
midnight, yet there is no other way.  When he kills it is generally
late in the evening, and so great is the fear he inspires that no man
will venture out at night to bring me the news.  By the next day, the
scent is cold.  The attack njust be made on his castle shortly after
dawn whe the dew still holds the scent and he and his men are still
asleep."

The campaign was discussed in detail, exactly as though Courtaud
were the captain of a band of icorcheurs.  Silver was always referred
to as his "chatelaine," Black Streak as the "seneschal."  The dominant
males, most of whom were well known not only to the louvetier but also
to many of the nobles present, were called "seigneurs," "men-at-arms,"
or "squires," according to their supposed rank.  There was even some
question whether anyone not of gentle blood should be allowed to attack
Courtaud, as this would be discourteous to the wolf king, just as no
base-born man was i permitted to kill a royal hart of ten points or
more.  Under the circumstances, Boisselier thought it permissible for
anyone to kill the wolf, though several nobles considered this as
outrageous as the English custom of allowing yeoman archers to take
nobles prisoners.

Some even sneeringly suggested that it was Boisselier's English
blood and illegitimate birth that made him favor such an idea.  The
king was forced to intervene.  He pointed out that as wolves are
creatures of evil and therefore pagans, they are to be classed with
Saracens.  The great Pope Urban 11 had said that any device used
against the heathen was allowable.  This settled the question.

vetier.  "And two thousand deniers to pay them.  Otherwise, it is
useless to make the attem t."

p The Count de Richemont looked hopeful.  He had no wish to see
Courtaud killed and his pack broken up.  The wolves were such a
convenient excuse for keeping the price of meat high and increasing his
profits.  Charles was known to be tightfisted.

However, the king had a simple solution to the problem.

"Count de Richemont," he said, addressing the smug icorcheur, as
governor of my city of Paris, you will supply the money and the
beaters.  The audience is at an end."

Boisseller set about his plans with his usual care.  With his
goshawk on his fist, he spent many hours on Montmartre flying at
rabbits and martens until he knew the ground well and where the wolves
were likely to lie up.

The next consideration was the hounds.  In general, French hounds
had good noses and strong voices (the last an important consideration
in dense cover) but little stamina.

They had to be used in relays.  As it was difficult to tell how
the wolves would run in the rocky slopes of Montmartre, relays would be
difficult if not impossible.  Still, Boisselier did not despair.  First
it would be necessary to find the line of the king wolf himself.

Boisselier resolved to use for limiers several couples of Talbots,
English blackand-tan bloodhounds.  Once the line was clear, he would
slip the chiens fauves de Bretagne.  There were long-coated, tawny
hounds with inferior noses and poor tongues which were apt to riot,
that is, chase any game they encountered instead of being "staunch" and
staying on the scent of the chosen quarry.  On the other hand, they had
one great attribute: they were brave and determined.  Once the 'Wolf
king had turned at bay, the chiens gris de Saint-Louis would be
released.  These great brutes were rough-coated and their thick hair
served as armor in a jaw-to-jaw fight.

According to legend, they had been imported from the Near East by
Saint Louis because he so admired their courage.

Two weeks passed before Boisselier was ready to make his attempt.

Some wolves were killed by crossbow quarrels from the city wall,
and Boisselier cut them open, putting dead sheep and pigs inside the
carcasses before throwing them to his hounds, to encourage them to
attack the otherwise unappetizing quarry.  Beaters were collected, some
through bribery and some by threats, and equipped with rattles and
other noisemakers.  Peasants were ordered to burn all dry fields around
Montmartre and cut down brush along waterways where wolves might lie
up, so the pack would be sure to be on the hill.

Then came the morning for which the louvetier had prayed.  The
hill was shrouded in a morning mist as thick as milk.  No one could see
three paces ahead and, what was more important, the fog held the scent.

There was such a profound calm that the mist hung like a
motionless white veil.

The beaters were assembled and sat around fires waiting until the
more tardy nobles could mount their horses and 'Join them.  The men's
feet were wrapped in rags, as their sabots would make too much noise on
the stony slopes and the wolves were not to be alarmed until the right
moment.  Priests moved among them, blessing the men and the hounds.

The fast livriers were taken around to the open group on the far
side of the hill where it was expected the wolves would break.  When
all was ready, the beaters spread out and began their advance.

As the sun rose, the mist began to curl and roll.  The valets de
louvitiers went ahead to the brisies, the rough, uncultivated country,
with their Talbot bloodhounds, watching the ground intently as they
moved up the hillside.  They were looking for Courtaud's great fore.

The first man to find it was pronilsed a gold ecu.

So far they had moved in silence.  Now there was a little
disturbance.  A peasant was sent back to find Boisselier.

He returned in a few minutes with the louvetier.  The remains of a
woman had been found, partly buried.  The loose soil was scraped away
and the gnawed body, wrapped in a cloak, was sent back.  Then the
advance continued.

The mist was rapidly dissolving now as the heat of the countered
some underbrush and the beaters refused to enter it for fear of the
wolves.  Yet it was vital that each patch of cover be beaten as they
went forward and all the men keep to their appointed places, else there
would be holes in the net being drawn around the hill.  Boisselier went
from beater to beater, ordering, cajoling, begging.

It was no use.  The fear of Courtaud and the sight of the torn
corpse was too strong.  At last, a priest was brought up.  He promised
them an indulgence if they pressed on.

Reluctantly, they consented.

Boisselier sounded his horn to signal the advance, as with the
hill surrounded, silence was no longer necessary.

From all around the base of Montmartre, other horns answered him.

The beaters shouted and swung their rattles.  The valets de
Iiiniers could be seen only occasionally now among the boulders and
twisted trees.

Back in the city, bells tolled a dirge.  It was for the dead
woman.  The beaters crossed themselves and muttered prayers as they
pressed on.

One of the Talbots spoke, for the English hounds were not trained
to run mute like the French limiers.  The beaters glanced back at
Boisselier, who was coming behind them wit h the berners, each man
leading two of the chiens fauves coupled together.  The beaters hoped
to see the hounds slipped, which would relieve them of the hard,
dangerous work ahead, but Boisseller refused to uncouple the pack.

The Talbot had probably picked up the scent of a wolf, but it
could be any wolf.  The louvetier was interested in only one.

Another Talbot spoke.  Then silence.  Then still another hound
gave his deep, bell-like cry.  Then baying broke out all along the
line, punctuated by the blowing of the valets' horns.  They had found
Courtaud's fore.

The chiens fauves were straining at their leashes, but I e I to
release a number of mongrels Bo'ssel'er gay the signa that were yapping
and wriggling with excitement.  There was a good chance that the wolves
would make a stand of it among the rocks-at least until they saw the
men.  It was better to have mongrels killed than valuable hounds.

Boisselier sounded his horn and shouted "Haleile, Id!

Tayau velleci allier!"  ("Get going, there!  Into the cover, come
on, keep together!") Thus encouraged, the curs dashed forward,
Boisselier following close behind them.

One of the valets de ll7iiiers was waiting to show him the I fore,
marked by a broken twig stuck beside it.  Boisselier needed only one
glance to know it was truly Courtaud's.  A man could put his whole hand
in the giant paw mark.  He gave the valet his gold ecu.

The mongrels had disappeared among the rocks, but their frantic
yelling could be heard.  Boisselier gave the order to slip the chiens
fauves.  They were put on the line of the great fore while Boisselier
chanted "Barlow, chiens!

Barlow, velleci, allier!"  "Hark, dogs!  Hark!  Come on, keep
together!  ") For a few moments the hounds cast about, their tails
wagging madly as they caught tantalizing wisps of scent without being
able to own the line.  An eager yap.

Another.  Still another.  Then the pack streamed away in full cry
after the curs.

"Hay fuit, la', chiens!  Hay fuit, la', Id, la'!"  ("Seek 'em,
dogs!  Seek 'em there!  There!  There!") cried the beaters.

Ahead of them was an explosion of sounds.  Every man knew what
that meant.  The foremost dogs had engaged the wolf.

Courtaud had been awakened shortly after dawn by ilver's
whimperings.  She had been hurt in the left leg a few days before by a
stone from the sling of a shepherd, and still limped.  He had been
bringing food to her, but he could not bring water, and she had been
forced to limp to the moat to drink after nightfall.  She had borne her
suffering with a wolf's usual stoicism, so it was unusual for her to
make any complaint.  He lifted his head to listen, although the mist
smothered all noises.

Then he felt vibrations through the earth.  A great number of
creatures were coming.  The other wolves were on their feet now,
nervous and puzzled.  They looked to him to lead them away, not
realizing that he would not leave Silver.

Black Streak came over and fawned.  Courtaud ignored him.

Finally, Black Streak turned away, disappearing in the mist.

Other wolves followed him.

Silver stood and managed to hobble on three legs a little
distance.  The mist was dribbling away down the-hill.

Courtaud saw the distant line of dots that was the beaters.

He lay down again.  Perhaps they would miss him.  He saw the
hounds too.  Still, they might take after the other wolves.  It was
better to do nothing.

There were men on horseback and these he watched carefully.  He
cared little for the hounds.  He was supremely confident that with
Silver at his back, together they could beat off any number of dogs.

The men on foot were too slow to overtake him.  Even Silver in her
crippled condition could easilyoutrun them.  But in open country,
horsemen could ride him down while he was hampered by the hounds.

He did not know that the horsemen were finding it impossible to
ride among the rocks of Montmartre.  Even Boisselier, seeing the
situation, had called up his head piqueur and turned over the handling
of the hunt to him.

The accompanying nobles were amused.  They thought Boisselier was
afraid of coming to grips with the werewolf.

They did not know that the louvetier had other plans.

Quiet as the mist itself, Courtaud and Silver glided away among
the rocks.  They did not try to leave the hill.  Instead, they made for
a certain rocky defile they knew.

Here they took their stand, Courtaud at one end, Silver at the
other.  Nothing except armed men could dislodge them from this
position.

They heard the Talbot give tongue, and Silver shivered while
Courtaud prepared to go down fighting.  Neither had any doubt that the
limier was on Courtaud's trail.  Next came the horns and finally the
screaming of the mongrels on the hot scent.  Courtaud's mane stiffened
and rose at the sound.  It would not be long now.  Then the foremost
dog appeared.

The mongrels swirled around him I'ke crows around a hawk.

Courtaud killed one so quickly that the dog following did not see
what had happened until his own head was crunched by the wolf's jaws.

The rest gave back, screaming with rage and excitement, not daring
to close.  A big animal that looked as though he might have some alaunt
in him became hysterical at the sight and smell of the wolf that stood
there with his lips pulled back to show his fangs, yet making no sound.

The mongrel hurled himself forward, and at the sight half a dozen
dogs followed him.

Courtaud slashed with his left fang and the big dog reeled back,
one eye gone and his cheek laid open.  Courtaud chopped left and right
among the dog's followers and at each chop there was a yelp or a death
scream.

Now the chiens fauves came up.  They swung around the defile,
hoping to take the wolf from behind, only to find Silver guarding the
pass.  She was smaller than Courtaud, yet not a hound dared to close
with her.  Many were bigger than she was, yet none had her terrible,
punishing jaws.  Behind him, Courtaud heard the battle raging.  He
wanted to come to his mate's assistance but did not dare to ' turn
away.  Anyhow, by the sounds, Silver was doing quite well for herself.

The fierce chiens gris were slipped.  In their eagerness, they
knocked to one side the other dogs, who were only too happy to let them
through.  Courtaud retreated so only one hound at a time could reach
him in the narrow pass.  He broke the jaw of the first of the chiens
gris to engage him.

The second locked jaws with him and they went down together, while
two more of the chiens gris managed to crawl over their comrade and
attack the wolf.  Biting hard, Courtaud still could not rise against
their combined weight.  He crushed in one hound's chest, disemboweled
another with a slash of his canines, and then managed to struggle to
his feet.  He heard the shouts of the men, "Bon velleci aller, velleci
aller!"  and blasts on a horn.  They were hurrying to the hounds' help.

The chiens gris had not as yet discovered Silver, and the other
dogs had left her alone to 'Join in the attack on Courtaud.  Standing
alone, spittle running from his mouth as he snarled, with a half-circle
of dead or dying dogs in front of him, Courtaud saw her slip away.  He
saw the form of the head piqueur struggling over the rocks, holding a
boar spear, and heard the man shout, "Forward, for the love of Saint
Hubert, or we lose every hound!"

With Silver gone, the wolf king was no longer hampered.  He
charged through the pack, scattering them, although two or three tore
hair from his sides, and, avoiding the man, bounded over the rocks and
was gone.

Behind him, the piqueur's horn warned the fewterers waiting with
their leviers that the wolf was coming.  Courtaud dodged among the
boulders, crossed the hill, and burst out of the broom so unexpectedly
that the fewterers were caught off guard in spite of the horn call.

The greyhounds were dressed in armor to protect them, and this
armor slowed them down.  However, as the wolf would have to run through
them while the greyhounds were slipped in his face, with the chiens
gris coming up behind, it was thought that they could delay him long
enough for the mounted men to use the' lances.

ir Courtaud was out of the cover and halfway down the hill before
the startled fewterers could slip their hounds or the horsemen could
mount.  Here a miracle occurred, later attributed to Courtaud's
supernatural powers or possibly those of his father, the devil.  There
was one last patch of mist in a little hollow.  Into this Courtaud
vanished and the greyhounds, unable to see their quarry, plunged in
after him only to lose the grey shape in the mist.

The chiens gris were pouring down the slope, running the
breast-high scent with their heads well up, throwing their tongues like
trumpets.  They would have no trouble in the mist but before they could
reach it, the wolf would be through and away.

Boissclier was there riding a palfrey, a curious mount for a
hunter.  But wait!  Sitting on a pillion behind his saddle was a great,
spotted cat twice the size of the ljuriers.

The strange creature resembled a leopard but with much longer legs
and a small head.  It had an elongated, slender body and, although
clearly a cat, was built more like the greyhounds than a feline.

Strangest of all, the animal was hooded like a falcon.

Boisselier shook the reins and the palfrey cantered forward.  She
was single-footed and moved so smoothly that the blind-hooded cat had
no trouble keeping his balance on the broad platform.  Boisselier rode
toward the far side of the mist pocket from whence Courtaud must
emerge.

Several horsemen raced past him on their fleet barbs, some with
lances, others waving swords, yet Bo'sselier seemed wi undisturbed.

They were still a long way from the mist pocket.

Two of the levriers came out of the mist, looked about, and went
back in.  Until the scenting hounds came up, they were helpless.

Cries went up from half a dozen voices and there was much blowing
of horns.  Courtaud had exploded out of the mist and was headed for the
distant forest.  Between him and the first of the trees lay a broad,
freshly plowed field.

The steeds of the mounted men who tried to follow him bogged down
in the soft mud, and in any case the wolf -had too long a lead.  From
all sides men were shouting "Le uepard de course!  Le guipard!"  ("The
hunting leopard!

the leopard!") Boisselier reached back and slipped the hood from
the cat's head.  As the animal stood up, balancing carefully on his
pillion, it could be seen that he had a black streak running from the
corner of each eye to his mouth, exactly the same lines that falcons,
the fastest of all birds, have.  For a few seconds the great cat looked
around, until he spied the fleeing wolf.  Then he lowered his head,
crouched, and somewhat gingerly sprang to the ground.  With his feet on
a firm surface, he lost all hesitation and started after Courtaud at a
long lope that did not appear fast, yet covered the ground at an
amazing speed.

The men whooped and the horns cheered the spotted one on.  Quickly
the cat built up speed.  His great bounds now took him clear of the
ground and his yellow eyes never left the form of the speeding wolf.

Rapidly he gained on his quarry, yet refused to close with him.

The men roared with disappointment.

"Wait!"  said Bo'sselier confidently.  Courtaud was still I going
downhill.  The cat did not dare risk springing on him when both might
roll down the slope and one of the hunting leopard's long legs get
broken.  He contented himself with running by Courtaud's side almost as
Silver would have done.

Courtaud could clearly see and smell his pursuer.  He had no idea
what the creature was but it did not seem especially formidable.  He
was much bigger and the animal appeared to regard him curiously rather
than aggressively.

It did not snarl, spit, growl, or show other symptoms of rage.

Courtaud put on an additional burst of speed to leave it behind,
yet it kept easily at his side.  Then they reached the level ground.

One quick look showed Courtaud that he had far outdistanced the
mounted men.  Of hounds and levriers, there was no sign.  He had only
to dispose of this strange creature that refused to leave him.  He spun
around and slashed.

The cat reared like a horse and, so rapidly that the eye could
barely follow the motions, struck left and right at the wolf's head
with his forelegs.  The claws on the cat's feet were blunt but on the
inside of each foreleg he had a dewclaw that was usually folded flat
against his fur.  Now the dewclaws were extended almost at right
angles.  Each claw was nearly as long as one of Courtaud's long
canines, hooked and terribly powerful.  Courtaud went down, yet kept
his head in spite of the strangeness of the attack.  He bared his
teeth, expecting the cat to follow his assault by biting.  Instead, the
cat stood back with one paw upraised, watching.  Courtaud rolled,
trying to seize the cat by the other leg.  The cat leaped clean into
the air and then struck again, a raking blow with both claws.  Fur flew
and Courtaud tried to rise, but the cat was mad with rage striking
repeatedly with incredible speed, and Courtaud could not regain his
feet for the fury of the blows.

He managed to twist around and grab the cat by the shoulder.  At
the same moment, the cat grabbed him by the back of the neck, not
shaking him as a dog would have done, but crouching down and sinking
his teeth deeper and deeper.  So powerful was the strange animal that
Courtaud could not break the grip, although he felt the pounding of
horses' hoofs and heard the riders' yells as they came up.

It was not Boisselier, but one of the lighter men on a faster
horse who arrived first.  Hardly touching the reins, but throwing his
weight back in the saddle, the man slid his mount to a halt, kicking
his feet out of the stirrups at the same instant and leaping to the
ground.  He forced the metal handle of his riding whip between
Courtaud's teeth and used the thing to bind his jaws together.  Other
men cam e up and ted the wolf's legs together with their leather
points, the laces used to t'e their hose to their doub ets.

Courtaud, the wolf king, was at last a prisoner of his enemies.

None of his pack, not even the devoted Silver, could help him now.

NINE The Trial of Courtaud

The torture chambers were in the don'on of the Bastille.

This one was entered by a trapdoor in the ceiling which led to a
narrow stone staircase built against the wall.  It was lighted by three
deep loopholes.  In the center of the domed room was a stone pillar
with chains riveted into it, the stone worn away in places by the
rubbing of the prisoners' backs as they writhed in pain.  Hung from tho
ceiling were two iron cages large enough to hold a man.  The floor was
covered with sand to soak up blood and along the wall were arranged the
terrible instruments of torture, painted red or black.  There was a
fireplace with a grill for heating irons.

Behind a long table sat three figures wrapped in black cloaks with
the hoods pulled so far down over their faces that they seemed to be
masked.  At one end of the table sat a pale-faced, thin man with a pile
of books and manuscripts before him.  He was the clerk; the three men
were judges.

The torturers, naked to the waist and wearing masks, stood among
the fearful tools of their trade with folded arms.

Seated on benches were a number of men and women who had borne
witness against the accused.  One of these was Boisselier, captain of
the city guard and newly appointed head louvetier to the king.

The strangest sight of all was a wooden trestle, equipped with
winches, to which apparatus Courtaud was tied.  He was dressed in a
tight suit of flesh-colored cerecloth with a chestnut-brown wig and a
long white beard.  His muzzle was tied together with leather thongs.

His forelegs were tied to ropes passing over a revolving drum at
the top of the rack while his hind legs were similarly secured to
another drum at the bottom.  Both drums could be rotated by the
winches.

Courtaud had long since ceased to struggle.  He lay still, staring
at the copper-colored light thrown b the smoky cressets set in iron
sconces fastened to the wall.  The central judge, who was seated on a
wooden throne somewhat higher than the others, began to speak.

"'Wolf who hest here at our mercy, can you speak?"

Courtaud made no response.

"It may be that you are a warlock or magician and if so you can
understand my words.  Does not Holy Scripture tell us, 'For without are
dogs and sorcerers and whoremongers'?

"Revelations, twenty-first chapter, eighth verse," intoned the
clerk.

"Do not attempt to deceive us, for we know well that it is
possible for men to assume the bodies of wolves and other animals.  Did
not Baron Plato say that a man who eats a human entrail becomes a wolf?

Did not Petronius in the Satyricon tell of seeing a man take off
his clothes and make water around them so that he might become a wolf?

Was not Sir Actaeon turned into a stag?  And lastly, did not the
great Pope Innocent 11 change Hugues de Champ-d'Avesne into a wolf for
his wickedness, and has not William of Auvergne, bishop of Paris, left
records of diverse godless men who became wolves?  So we are not to be
tricked in this matter, wolf."

"Bestia laedens ex interna malitia" ("The beast suffers from an
inherent wickedness"), added the clerk.

"Know too that thou art a beast born evil.  Zephaniah says of a
sinful city, 'Her judges are evening wolves."  The blessed Apostle
Saint Paul has told us, 'After my departing shall grievous wolves enter
in among you, not sparing the flock."  Our Lord Himself has warned us,
'Behold, I send you forth as lambs among wolves," and again, 'Beware of
false prophets which come to you in sheeps' clothing but inwardly are
raveming wolves."' "Zephaniah, third chapter, third verse.  Acts of the
Apostles, twentieth chapter, twenty-ninth verse.  Saint Luke, tenth
chapter, third verse.  Saint Matthew, chapter seven, verse fifteen,"
added the clerk.

"Know, too, that it is useless for you to plead that this curse
was laid on you by some witch or other worker of magic, for the learned
Benedict XIV has said that in such cases the witch or magic-worker has
but laid a fresh sin on his or her conscience."

"Nec eniiii ratione7n patitur nec ulla aequitate mitigatur, nec
prece ulla flectitur esuriens populus" ("For the hungry people neither
submits to reason, nor 's it appeased by any I equity, nor is it
persuaded by any entreaty"), explained the clerk.

There was a pause, but Courtaud still said nothing.  At length the
judge continued, "Wolf, your food has been ever you walked, the earth
rotted away.  Your breath poisoned the air for a hundred leagues.  As
animals are subject to man, they are therefore subject to the same
canon law as man which now condemns you."
("The penalty is that he be beaten as often as he has been
frequently disobedient"), chanted the clerk.

"The Mosaic code orders that an ox which has killed a man be
stoned to death, so what shall be your fate who have ridden so in this
country that it be all wasted?"

Excommunication affects the
soul, not the body, unless by a certain consequence it is the body's
cure"), the clerk pointed out.

"So after hearing the testimony of these witnesses [here the judge
indicated the little group on the wooden benches], I therefore condemn
you to have your privy members torn off and burned in front of your
face, your snout cut off and a human mask substituted for it, and you
are to be hanged on the gallows by the Porte Saint-Honore' at noon
tomorrow as a warning to all evildoers."

The judges rose to show the trial was at an end, but before they
could leave the room, Boisseher had sprung up.

"Now in the name of Christ who made His image to float to Locques
on the waves, I would rather be stark naked in Russia than endure such
a sight.  You show the poor brute no gentleness.  Let him die, for he
is more wicked than Judas, but let him die like one of gentle blood by
the axe or the sword."

The judges glared at him, while the clerk looked shocked.

I "You love the church but little to doubt her wisdom," snapped
one of the underjudges.  "This is close to heresy.

Your words demand the fire."

"I know not if they deserve fire or water.  I speak the truth.  Be
pitiful and show mercy."

The head judge said angrily, "And what of the people he has
slaughtered?"

"He is a king.  A king is worth nothing without he be feared."

The Count de Richeniont was present as a witness and now spoke up.
 "I believe this animal to indeed be a seigneur among wolves.  I have
it on good authority that he inherited his position not from his
father, la beite de Saint-Riquieire, but rather from his mother, la
demoiselle La Vende, whose mother in turn was a loup-garou of note and
seizin of these forests by her liege lord, the devil himself."

The judge hesitated and considered the point.

"Yet an example must be made to warn the other wolves not to
molest us," suggested the third judge.  "They must depart from hence
and go to their own fief.  It seems that every month more come to the
walls of Paris."

"The wolves will stay as long as they are fed by wars and by men,"
retorted Boisselier.  "Not a night goes by but half a score of bodies
are thrown off the walls-b&ggars who have died of hunger, men killed in
tavern brawls, whores whose pimps need them no longer.  We are baiting
the packs in and then training them to like the taste of human flesh."

"These are sore words," reproved the head judge.  "I for i one
refuse to receive this brute to mercy."

"Sir, saving your displeasure, I am a mean man without enough land
to rub down a pack horse, yet I know wolves.

It is the wars that encourage them.  If my lord the Count de
English at Meaux, there would be bowmen to guard the livestock on the
highways and the wolves would have been starved out."

"See how this bastard adventures himself!"  retorted the I count.

"My lords, you should be grateful to my icorcheurs, for without
them your serfs would leave your fiefs.  It is only fear of my men that
keeps them on the land."

"That answer pleases me nothing," angrily replied the head judge.

"Let the sentence be carried out at noon tomorrow."

Everyone bowed as the judges left the room.  Boisselier followed
them soberly.  He separated himself from the other witnesses and was
broodingly walking along one of the corridors of the old fortress when
he felt de Richemont touch his sleeve.

"Do not let my words set you in a pride," said the icorch ' eur
softly.  "For I swear to you by Him who turned water into wine, I wish
no ill to old cut-tail.  How could 1, for is he not of my trade?  No, I
would not seek his death for all the gold of Ponthieu!

"You lie falsely.  I tell you so to your teeth!

"Think you so?  Then now is the time to take bit in teeth.  Hear
my plan."

Boisselier decided to listen.

So it happened that that night, under cover of darkness, Courtaud
heard men enter the don'on.  He was cut loose from the rack, wrapped in
a cloak, and two men carried him up the stone stairs.  14ere a warden
stood with a cresset but there was the 'Jingle of money and he let them
pass.

Courtaud did not struggle.  Once he had been tied, all spirit of
resistance left him.  He seemed resigned to his fate.

Courtaud smelled fresh airr air that was fresh compared to the
don'on.  It was full of smells he did not bother to identify, most
unusual for him.  He was carried down the silent streets to a postern
which again was opened after money clinked.  Boisselier bent over him
and with his dagger cut the bonds that held Courtaud's feet.  At last,
the wolf began to struggle.

"Quiet, wolf, your succors have not failed you," whispered
Boisselier.  "Yet hear me, wolf or king or demon or whatever you may
be.  Take your pack and go elsewhere, for by the Apostle whom the
pilgrims seek in Nero's meadow, if you remain here killing more
helpless folk, I will play a tune on your ribs that you will not care
to dance by."

"Nay, not so," came de Richemont's voice.  "Stay, Sir Wolf, and
take your toll of the kine along the highway.

Both you and I must make a living.  Yet spare the humans as
Boisselier says.  Surely there are enough fat beefs and tender sheep to
stay your hunger."

Courtaud felt the strap confining his muzzle cut, yet he remained
lying motionless on the ground.  He was too weakened and dazed by his
experience to run and too cowed by his captivity to showspirit.  To the
men, he appeared to be listening and they explained at length what they
expected of him.  Even the experienced Boisselier believed animals
could understand human speech, at least to some extent.  He never
willingly killed a large animal like a stag or a bear without first
explaining to the quarry why he had to die.  He did this for the same
reason his broth man-at-arms, allowed a prisoner to say an act o before
killing him, when it was convenient.  It the code of chivalry and then,
too, there were as ghosts, both human and animal.  Many men t( granted
they would meet a favorite horse, or ho hawk, in heaven.  Some animal
ghosts returned to e they had been unjustly treated, so why take
chances?

Even after the men had left him, Courtaud remained motionless.

Gradually his nose began to distinguish scents and his eyes to
pick up impressions.  Finally he rose stiffly and walked away.  He
tried to run but he was stiff.  Slowly, he hobbled down to the moat and
drank deeply.

After several attempts, for his hindquarters were weak, he jumped
into the moat and swam clumsily On the far side he had trouble climbing
out and fell several times.  At length he grabbed a tuft of grass with
his teeth and pulled himself up the bank.  After resting a bit he went
on toward Montmartre.

Among the boulders, he came on the cache of one pack, marked with
a squirt of urine.  Courtaud hesitated.  To disturb another wolf's
cache was against all wisdom, like taking meat away from a fellow pack
member but he was starving.  He dug up the cache, which turned out to
be part of a sheep, and bolted it.  He had no food for three days.

Then he went on.

He came on one of his own scent posts and sniffed suspiciously.

His own scent was strong.  Still, Black Streak had also wet the
spot more recently.  Courtaud growled and scratched with his hind legs.
 He noted, however, that Streak had taken care not to obliterate his
mark.

In the number-two male had wet on the ground beside like a female.

This showed that although Black Streak had ideas about taking over
conmand of the pack, he was still hesitant and not sure if Courtaud
would return.  The wolf king scratched more fiercely and growled
louder.  He wished he felt stronger after his captivity.

The moonlight lacquered the leaves of the dwarf oaks as he
advanced.  There were signs and scents of the pack everywhere.

Suddenly overcome by a desperate loneliness, Courtaud lifted his
long muzzle and gave the assembly cry.  He walled it several times and
then paused to listen.

There was no answer, yet he felt sure he had been heard.

He howled again.

A white form materialized among the rocks.  Courtaud could not be
sure what it was, so he stopped.  The form came closer, moving
doubtfully.  Then it also stopped.

Courtaud half-lifted one of his forelegs and waved it in the
recognition signal.  The form squealed-a most undignified sound for a
wolf to make, but there is no other word to describe it-and rushed
forward.  It was Silver.

She went half-mad with excitement and Courtaud was almost equally
delighted.  She nipped his lips, licked him, rolled on her back in
delight while he embraced her with his forelegs and, taking her muzzle
between his jaws, gently shook it back and forth.  Unable to control
her ecstasy, Silver left him and tore in great circles around and
around the spot, going all out.  Courtaud tried to chase her but he was
too weak.  He was forced to wait until she stopped.

Now the other wolves began to appear.  For the last three days,
the whole pack had n in mourning for their lost leader and badly shaken
by the hunt.  They had not eaten and hardly drunk.  Now they went from
despair to an insane joy.  This sudden transition from utter depression
to wild delight, from confident aggression to utmost timidity, from
anger to contentment, was typical of them.  They surrounded their
leader, pushed him with their noses, licked his face gently, bit his
lips.

For once, Courtaud did not stand rigid, accepting these tributes
as though made of stone.  He returned their caresses, hugged with his
forefeet, frolicked with them in the moo and acted more like an
overgrown cub than a king.

Black Streak was the last to approach him and the male was
obviously nervous.  Courtaud did not treat a possible threat to his
position as casually as he had the( members of the pack.  As Black
Streak came up, he met him with bared canines but was careful to strike
the heavily furred, thick-skinned shoulder region Streak instantly
whined, cringed, and pulled back in what looked to be a snarl but was
really a grin of submission.  Courtaud took his muzzle between his
teeth considerably harder than he had handled the other wolves at last
released him.  Black Streak slunk away, relieved to have gotten off so
easily.

This happy homecoming was marred by one thing.

One of the females came up to Courtaud to express pleasure at his
return, which she did rather more than had the others.  To make matters
worse, Courtaud responded to her antics with more than formal
acknowledgement.

Although she was not in estrus, he went through the motions of
mounting her while she moaned with pleasure.  Suddenly this play was
interrupted by the return of Silver.  Without so much as a snarl or
warning growl, she went for the other female.  In an instant they were
fighting in deadly earnest, the other female trying to defend herself
and escape.

Silver would have killed her had not Courtaud intervened, and when
the dominant males saw him spring on the raging females, they added
their weight and broke up the fight.  Silver and Courtaud went off
together and spent the rest of the night lying side by side, Silver
giving him little love nibbles until he fell into an exhausted sleep.

The next morning, while Courtaud still slept, Silver went looking
for the treacherous female.  The female had vanished and very wisely
never returned.  Silver kept a sharp lookout for her during the next
few days until convinced that she was gone for good.

sur-Yvre, near Bourges, and so knew nothing of Courtaud's
mysterious disappearance.  When the chief judge learned that the wolf
had vanished, he was alarmed but not overly surprised.  He had long
suspected that Courtaud was a loup-garou possessing supernatural
powers.  He regretted not having sprinkled holy water on the animal's
bonds and having forgotten to attach some miraculous relics to the
beast's fetters to render him helpless.  Next time he would be more
careful.

To the Count de Richemont's indignation and Boisselier's delight,
Courtaud stopped his man-killing and even ceased to bother the herds of
livestock driven into the city.  Boisseller was convinced that Courtaud
had heeded his warning and was now a reformed character.  De Richemont
felt that the wolf had betrayed him.  As herd after herd was driven in
safety to the black sheds of the Marche' Palus, it became increasingly
hard to convince the angry populace that the high prices charged for
meat resulted from the ravages of the wolves.  The count was sorry now
he had not let Courtaud die on the gallows, for Courtaud had had enough
of men-at least for a time.

Autumn was fighting with summer.  The dwarf oaks had turned bronze
and the vineyards that cloaked the lower slopes of Montmartre were
golden, for the peasants had not dared to strip them as usual for fear
of the wolves.

belling of stags sounded on the frosty mornings.  It will be a bad
winter, from all signs.  The swans migrated early and one morning a
white-tailed sea eagle perched on a dead linden by the hill.  Sea
eagles came south when the weather was extremely bad in the north.

Courtaud and his band had taken up deer hunting.  Deer, especially
the fallow deer, were starting back, now that the wars made it
difficult for the nobles to practice their destructive battues.  Fallow
deer were feet prey for wolves.

The pack set out one night when the birches were silvered by
moonlight and the damp mist had come down.  In a long fine Courtaud led
his followers hill toward the woods where the deer loved to soft
grasses that grew in little glades.  So quietly did the pack move and
so still was the night that they heard the drip of water from the
leaves in the mist.  Al'" care to move into the light breeze, the pack
checked glades without success, until they finally saw the white spots
that glimmered like stars against the grass.

Cautious as the wolves were, the deer were more cautious.  When
the crickets stopped chirping, the deer stopped feeding.  Then as the
pack spread out to surround the quarry, the deer caught their scent.

Every deer raised his head as one, and a visible shudder of fear
ra through the herd.

The leader snorted and was gone in bounds, with the rest streaming
after him.

Furious, Courtaud gave chase.  The wolves could not equal the
speed of the quarry nor could they run it down.  That would take hours,
and the deer could put them off by swimming a river or taking to a lake
their scent would be lost.  Yet for a while the pack pressed the herd
hard.

They saw some of that spring's fawns begin to drop behind.  The
anxious mothers tried to wait for the offspring encouraging them to run
faster, and the strongest responded, but the weaker continued to lag.

Some of the oldest deer were also finding it hard to maintain the
pace.

Gradually the wolves gained on these, the very young and the very
old.  The despairing mothers saw it was useless and were forced to save
themselves, while none bothered for the old animals.  Within a few
miles of the glade the pack had killed all it needed and settled down
to feast.

Unlike their usual custom with domestic animals, they killed no
more than they needed.  Chasing deer was too hard work; it was quite
different with sheep or cattle.

On their way back, they heard an anxious bleating and Courtaud
automatically moved toward the sound.  Standing alone, looking about
anxiously, was a lamb which somehow or other had gotten separated from
its mother and the flock.

As soon as it saw Courtaud, it ran toward him hopefully.

The wolf stood quietly and let the lamb approach him.

The pack did not dare to move without the leader's permission.

The lamb went up to the wolf, basing, and sniffed at him.

Courtaud sniffed the lamb.  Finding that Courtaud was not its
mother, the lamb went from one to another out the baron's consent.  At
last, the lamb returned to Courtaud and the wolf baron put oat one
forepaw in a playful manner and touched it.  For a while the lamb
forgot its hunger and romped with the giant wolf.  Then, tiring of the
play and remembering that it was alone and lost, it ran off.  Courtaud
continued on toward Montmartre with the pack after him.  The lamb was
fortunate that the wolves were well fed, and also lucky that it had run
toward them instead of running away.  The sight of a fleeing animal
always triggered the wolves' hunting instinct, while to have the quarry
come to them was confusing.

Not long after this the wolves were driven from their beloved
hill, not by man but by an even more ferocious enemy.

The deer were not the only wild animals to benefit from the
constant war.

The wild pigs also profited.  Highly adaptable scavengers, the
pigs, even more than wolves, had increased enormously in number.

Completely omnivorous, they grazed in the fields abandoned by
terrified serfs, ate the fruit from the orchards, and whatever
livestock was too young or weak to escape and, like the wolves, feasted
on the bodies of horses after every battle.

Highly prolific-one might have twenty piglets in one farrow and
they littered twice a year-they might almost be said to have no natural
enemies.  A bear might attack a sow if he found her alone, and wolves
might manage to steal some' young pigs, but no wild animal dared to
attack a sow or herd, of wild pigs, and not even the largest bear could
engage a full-grown boar.

Even men feared to kill an old "solitary," that is, a boar that
had grown old and so big that he was expelled from the sound alone, was
considered a greater feat than killing an armed knight.

Under natural conditions, the wolf packs and sounders avoided each
other by mutual consent.  The sounders continued to remain in the
forests while the wolves preference liked the more open country, so
they seldom met.

Even though both species had increased to uiir able numbers, they
did not conflict.  Then iiatlire in a freakish way.  For one month
there was almost constant rain.

On their well-drained hill, the wolves found the rain only a minor
inconvenience, but in the forests, the pigs were seriously incommoded.

Their sharp hoofs sank deep into the soggy ground.  They were
continually drenched by the wet underbrush.  Many of their best feeding
places were washed out.  Migrations on a large scale were common with
the sounders.  Hunters have a saying, "The wild boar is only a guest,"
meaning they never stay long in one place.

Now the sounders began to move.

Thus it was that Courtaud, returning with his pack from a hunt,
became aware of a particularly heavy, musky odor.

He had no trouble tracing it to a certain scrub oak.  Some three
feet up the side of the tree the bark was frayed by a large, powerful
animal rubbing against it.  There were several wiry black hairs caught
in the wood and a patch of black gumlike substance from which the smell
was coming.

The entire pack instantly recognized the odor of wild pig and knew
this was a rubbing tree where the boar had stropped his massive back,
leaving a deposit from his musk turbing.  Although there was no
competition over food between a sounder and a pack, still, having pigs
move in was unpleasant.  Courtaud wet against the oak to mark the spot
as his territory and the other males duplicated his action.  Silver and
some of the dominant females wet on the ground.  The intruders would
know that they had a lakge pack to deal with.  Still, pigs were
stubborn creatures, and the pack lay down to sleep feeling concerned.

Courtaud awoke at dawn and saw, far below him on the edge of the
forest, a number of moving objects.  They were too far away for him to
see them clearly, but he would be able to tell much from their actions.

If they were cattle, they would move solidly on.  If they were
fallow deer, they would cross the open fields in a mad rush.  If they
were red deer, they would bound away.  These creatures went slowly,
halting every few yards with heads up to look for danger.  No doubt
about it.

They were swine.

Courtaud rose with a low growl.  Soft as it was, the sound brought
every wolf to his feet in an instant.  The sounder disappeared in a
little grove of willows and now the pack could scent them.  As the
wolves were much higher than the sounder, the pigs could not scent the
pack as yet.

. A heavy boar stalked out of the willows and stood looking
around.  His scent identified him to the wolves as the pig that had
marked the oak.  He weighed close to four hundred pounds and stood over
three feet at the shoulder.

His ivory tusks gleamed dully in the morning light; they were
nearly a foot long.  He had two tusks in his upper jaw and two much
longer ones in his lower.  Each time he champed his jaws, the upper and
lower tusks honed against each other so they were kept dagger-sharp.

These tusks could slay a wolf-or for that matter a man-at a single
stroke.

The long-legged boar moved with a slow, lordly walk.

He had a silver-gray head, black ears, black legs, and a black
muzzle.  He held the stump of his tail straight out behind him; most of
it had been bitten off in a fight.  After him came a group of younger
boars two to three years old, called ragots by the peasants.  These
acted as a sort of advance guard for the sounder.  Then came the sows
and after them the six-month-old pigs, of a reddish color, which the
people called beites rousses.  At the end were a few sows that had
farrowed late and their broods of piglets, known as iiiarcassins, still
with their baby stripes.  It was most unusual for so many age groups
and sexes to be together, but the mass migration had upset their usual
mode of living.

All the animals were covered with mud from a wallow and now they
paused under a stand of oaks and beech trees to eat acorns or beech
mast.  Their long, flexible noses, driven by their wedge-shaped heads,
rooted like amated gimlets in the soft soil, leaving furrows that
looked as though they had been made by a plow.  Slowly they worked
their way up the hill, vanishing among the boulders.

Courtaud decided to investigate these intruders.  He slipped down
the hill, careful to keep the breeze blowing from the pigs to him.  The
pack glided after him.  It was, in a sense, a fight for territory.  If
the pigs moved in, they could make it so unpleasant for the wolves that
the pack would be forced to move out.

Courtaud had no desire to meet the sounder head on.

Instead, he swung around behind them.  He came on a pile of fresh
pig droppings and rolled on them, rubbing his shoulders in the soft,
malodorous dung.  For some reason unknown to humans, the smell
attracted him and he wanted to take it with him.

There were so many trails here and so much pig-scent that the
wolves became confused.  They cast around like a cially noted for her
skill at trailing, found the line.  Courtaud did not have a
particularly good nose and for once'he was not at the head of the
pack-but some distance back, with Silver.

Suddenly ahead of them was an outburst of sound as stantly dashed
forward.  The leading wolves had come unexpectedly on the rear members
of the sounder, the little 7iiarcassins.  The young pigs promptly set
up the shrill call that all swine recognize.  The anxious mothers to
their offsprings' help.

Not only the mothers were coming; the btes and the much more
formidable ragots were chargin the roll of their hoofs sounding almost
like a charge.  A wolf had grabbed a sow by the ear, quickly released
her to face one of the boars.  They charged with open mouth.  Unlike the
wolves, who f in silence, the pigs gave their war cry of short, deep
that were actually low roars.  At the same time.

champed their jaws so that the foam flew.  and the g.

of their tusks gave off an ominous "click!  click!  " as menace as
the roars.  The wolf fled.

One of the younger wolves unwisely threw him ward, swerving away
from the ragot to attack a be't The red boar lowered his triangular
head, dove un wolf, and then jerked upward.  The wolf went into turned
completely over, and came down on the b upside down.  Instantly two
other pigs attacked trate wolf.  They trampled him with their hoofs was
dead and then one pig rolled on the flattened co The old boar had now
come up, the bristles on standing up so that he looked half again his
real pawed the ground like a bull, bit at a fallen bra plowed up soil
with his tusks, foam from his ch jaws flying left and right.  True to
his usual tee Courtaud went for the broad nose, his hindquartere up as
his head went down in typical wolf las jaws closed on the flexible mass
of bristle and he I jaws.

The boar gave a shrill scream and instantly severa pigs came to
his help.  One would have ripped Co from neck to rib cage as the wolf
king refused to release his grip on the big boar, had not Silver rushed
in and grabbed the attacker's hind leg.  Courtaud could barely see what
was happening around him, half-blinded as he was by the boar's bristled
head and choked by the stifling stench of musk, but the noise was
deafening.  He was in a maelstrom of grunts, screams, growls, snarls,
the click of tusks, the pounding of the pigs' hoofs, and the crash of
bodies as a wolf managed to pull down one of the sounder.

Courtaud found he could not make any impression on the boar's
muzzle.  It was like chewing leather.  He let go and tried slashing the
boar's shoulder.  He could not have made a worse mistake.  The boar's
shoulder was protected by a shield of fat and muscle, so thick that the
pigs could and often did feed on vipers, the snakes' long fangs useless
against this armor.  Again the boar charged him, this time not dropping
his head to give Courtaud the chance for the nose hold but keeping his
head up, trusting to slashing with either his left or right tusk.

Courtaud sprang to one side and the boar tore past him, unable to
turn.  The boar was so heavy and unwieldy that he had trouble both
stopping and turning.  Courtaud turned his attention to a smaller pig,
a three-year-old ragot.  Before he could close with it, he saw another
wolf spring in and try to get the pig by the throat.  He never got past
the defending tusks.  The boar went under him and with a choked grunt,
flung the wolf into the air.  A burst of hair flew up and the wolf fell
heavily.  Instantly the boar was on him, trying to get his tusks under
the wolf for another toss.

Seeing that the pig was occupied, Courtaud grabbed one of his hind
legs and crushed it.  The pig screamed, struggling to free himself
while Courtaud tried to throw him over on his side.  Finding him too
heavy and seeing that other pigs were hastening to their comrade's
help, he let go and retreated.

All about him the melee was raging.  The sows shrieked, the boars
roared, the younger animals squealed.  Courtaud passed a boar lying so
still beside a rock that the wolf did not notice him.  Suddenly
Courtaud found himself flying into the air.  The boar had a broken tusk
or the wolf king would have died there.  Instead, he managed to land on
h' is feet, and ran.  The boar trotted off, looking over his shoulder
at the wounded wolf.

The combat was breaking up now.  The sows were retreating, the
little ii arcassins trailing their mothers by scent like miniature
hounds.  The wolves also withdrew.  After the first hysterical
excitement of combat, nether s'de wanted to prolong the battle.  The
pigs never had any designs on the wolves; they only wanted to be let
alone in the security of a dry, well-drained hill with easy access to
the oak and beech groves and plenty of water in the swamp at the foot
of the rise.  The wolves never willingly engaged any opponents that
would stand and fight.  They had learned that pigs were the most
ferocious opponents they had yet encountered and they wanted no more of
them.

Still, the pack was highly reluctant to leave Montmartre.

It suited their purposes exactly and they had come to regard it as
their home range.  For several days, they managed to coexist with the
sounder, the pigs avoiding them as they avoided the pigs.  But things
were no longer the same.  The hill slowly became polluted with pig
droppings, and their overpowering scent masked all other odors.  The
wolves hated not being able to scent as much as they hated not being
able to see.  The local peasants heartily shared the wolves' aversion
to the pigs, for the sounder destroyed their vineyards.  They begged
the nobles in Paris to allow them to kill the pigs or at least drive
them away, but the nobles refused.  Wild boar were noble game and could
be hunted only by the nobility.

Unfortunately, the nobles were not willing to hunt the pigs
themselves.

On the rocky slopes of Montmartre, riding was impossible, and the
nobles did not care to go on foot against such adversaries.  Boisselier
offered to go with a small following and evacuate the sounder, but his
offer was refused.  It was felt that this English bastard was taking
too much on himself.

It was during this strained period that the wolves and pigs met
again, quite by accident.

The wolves had come on two red-deer stags fighting.  By a most
unusual chance, the stags had locked their antlers so they could not
separate themselves and were helpless.

One stag was already dead and his opponent stood with bowed head,
the body of his rival dragging him down.  He too would die in a day or
so, but the wolves put him out of pain.  The pack gorged themselves and
were returning to the hill in a contented mood when they happened to
stumble on the sounder going around a pile of rocks.

How it happened, neither side knew.  There was no breeze, a cold
snap had frozen the scent, and both groups were going silently on the
mass of dead bracken that muffled all sounds.  The first intimation
that Courtaud had that the sounder was anywhere around was when the
panic-stricken varlet tore past him, going so fast that he nearly
knocked the wolf baron over.  Before Courtaud could recover himself,
there was an explosion of sound.  Silver leaped on a boulder to be out
of the way and the next instant Courtaud found himself under a mass of
screaming, grunting, maddened pigs.  The sharp hoofs cut him like
knives and only the press of the animals saved him, for in the
confusion none was able to use his tusks.  Biting and writhing,
Courtaud managed to get clear.  As he pulled himself out of the tangle
he saw a big sow grab a wolf by the leg, lift him clear of the ground
with a heave of her massive shoulders, and shake him as he would have
shaken a marten.  The sounder seemed to have gone mad.  The wolves had
come upon them while they were rooting for rats among the stones and
they felt themselves trapped.  Courtaud came on the body of a louvart
trampled into an unrecognizable mass of bloody flesh and shredded fur,
his intestines draped like red ropes over the rocks.  Half a dozen
boars charged the wolf king and he ducked around the boulder where
Silver had taken her stand.  In doing so, he ran full into another
group of pigs.  Using all his speed and agility to avoid them, Courtaud
gave a sixteen-foot bound, but a young boar, in striking contrast to
the powerful but clumsy old males, spun around on his hind legs,
turning within his own length, and gave an even longer leap, knocking
the wolf off his feet.

Courtaud lay helpless, but Silver leaped down in front of the
boar, bit him in his rubbery muzzle, and then raced off with the raging
pig after her.

Among the rocks, the wolves had no chance.  Their only hope in
fighting the pigs was to come from behind and hamstring them or crush
the bones in their legs with a quick bite.  The pigs knew this, as they
had fought both wolves and dogs before, and took up their positions
with their backs protected by the boulders.  After a few minutes the
wolves retired from the field, more than one limping badly or suffering
from the knifelike slashes of the tusks.

They left the hill and lay up in the woods that night, licking
each other's wounds.  They were beaten and they knew it.

The hill was in possession of an enemy who could not be dislodged.

The next question was, where would they go now?

TEN + Death on Swift Wings

Winter was warring on autumn.  The forests had d for winter.  The
wind blew colder and stronger.

rime on the wolves' fur in the mornings.  They to grow their
winter coats, with six-inch guard ha deep cream-colored fur and woolly
undercoat, white ice lay on the furrows and the pack could sen coming.

There were swans swimming in the Seine, stol their migration
south.  Silver amused herself tryl them in.  She had stumbled on this
trick when those days, she was well fed by her parents and terested in
playing with the big white birds than them, although her hunting
instinct was active.  It would have been difficult for any wolf pup to
know when play stopped and killing began.  Their games with each other
consisted of growling, practicing grabbing the loins as though
crippling prey, seizing muzzles, and trying for the throat hold.  These
were techniques the pups would later employ when hunting.  Still, when
little Silver first frolicked down to a pond in the Ardennes, attracted
by the sight of the floating birds, she had meant them no harm.  She
only wanted them to play with her.

She had rolled on the bank in her most enticing way, picked up a
pebble in her small, white teeth and tossed it in the air, and played
with her tail.  These were the same motions she would have gone through
to induce another wolf pup to romp with her.

The wolf's actions fascinated the swans.  They had swum closer and
closer.  When Silver ran along the shore, they followed, only a few
yards from the bank.  When Silver stopped to roll and bat at her brush
with her forepaws, the swans were so curious at the sight they swam to
within a few feet of her.  This temptation was more than Silver could
resist.  She made a sudden bound and her snapping )jaws came within an
inch of the nearest swan's outstretched neck.  The swans promptly fled,
with thrashing wings and wildly beating webbed feet, but Silver had
made a discovery that she never forgot.  From then on, she made a
practice of luring swans within reach by pretending to play.  The trick
worked only once on each flock, but as she grew more expert, she nearly
always caught one bird.  Some of the other wolves had also learned this
system, either picking it up by accident as cubs, like Silver, or by
watching her, but none was as clever at it as the little female.

Perhaps her white coat also acted as a lure to the not especially
intelligent birds.

It was well that the pack had found a supple source of food, even
though it was only ten there was every sign of a hard winter.  The
early that year.  At first it was only a pale, on Montmartre.  Then it
spread slowly d( river, enveloping the city on the way.  It drizzle.

Then bigger and bigger flakes began everything was blotted out.

It was soft as lo wolves were afraid to go into the low, marshy
tween the hill and the city where the snow drift When snow got to be
much more than a foot c was soft, they mired down in it.  So the pack
sta shelter of the goblin-shaped trees twisted by the grew along the
lower slopes of Montmartre.

strides away ran the highway from Paris to t pays, and the wolves
could hear and smell the it.  The travelers' horses could also scent
the they nickered and blew as the ominous scent rea Sometimes the
wolves left their lair to walk along stepping in the horses'
footprints, but as Ion game available, they did not molest the hL
livestock.  Boisselier and his hounds had give bad fright that they
avoided any contact with When the storm finally stopped, the wor white,
and when the sun rose, the glare hurt Each pine wore a white gown and
each hill had hat.  Somewhere the deer were yarded up in the f they
were safe from the wolves, for the snow ",as for the pack to move
about.

The ravens soon located the pack and waited for them to provide
food.  When the wolves did n, the black birds became indignant.  They
cawed and when that produced no response, dove at the sionally even
striking a wolf a blow with their beaks.  Finding that there was enough
crust on the snow to hold them, a few of the more daring birds lit near
the pack and, mincing over the slippery surfacepulled the wolves'
tails, squawking with obvious delight when a furious wolf tried to
chase them, only to flcunder about in the snow.

They would deliberately wait until the wolf was only a few feet
away before flying off, croaking d' da'nfully.

I is I Then it turned cruelly cold, so cold that men-at-arms
guarding the convoys along the highway found that a sword hilt burned
the hand.  To the wolves, the cold came as a relief.  Insulated by
their heavy coats, they did not mind the murderous chill except that it
killed the scent.  During the day, the sun had melted the surface of
the snow enough so when the sudden drop in temperature came, it froze
hard and the wolves could walk on it.  As soon as they discovered that
the drifts would bear their weight, they set out looking for food when
darkness came.

Softly as the shadows of clouds, they moved through the white
birches, silver in the moonlight.  They could make out the ribbon of
the road, trampled by hundreds of hoofs and scores of feet.  Then they
heard the squealing of a pig.

Instantly the whole pack froze.  They stood testing the air and
listening.  They could smell nothing-the cold was too intense for
that-but again came the squealing.

Courtaud promptly swung around and made for the sound, the rest
following.

It was a very noisy pig indeed.  It kept up its squealing and the
sound seemed to be moving.  It was a domestic pig, not one of the
savage wild boars, as the wolves could tell from the sound.  Besides,
the wild pigs never squealed except when they were tiny babies.  Silver
moved up until her head touched Courtaud's flank and whimpered a
little.  A lone pig was so unusual it worried her, but Courtaud kept
on.

They saw a sleigh drawn by a single horse trotting along the road.

This, too, was unusual, for humans seldom traveled at night.  It
was from the sleigh that the squealing was coming.  Even Courtaud,
usually so reckless, hesitated.  His experience with the hunting
leopard and later in the torture chamber had made him cautious where
men were concerned.  He was close enough now so that he could smell the
pig and also men.  There were at least two of them.

In spite of the feeling that there was something wrong here, the
smell of food was too tantalizing.  It was not only the pig: there was
also the horse.  Perhaps the men, too.

allele to the road so he could watch the sleigh for any possible
danger.  He continually tested the air for any scent of the spotted
cat, an animal he had no desire to meet again.

Before long, they were joined by other wolves, including Black
Streak and his band.  Taking their cue from Courtaud, they also
paralleled the road without approaching it.  The horse had stopped
trotting and was plodding slowly along, the driver slumped over in his
seat, asleep.  The pig had stopped squealing but his scent was still
strong.

Abruptly a wolf broke from among the trees and rushed the sleigh.

He was probably the leader of one of the lesser packs that had
taken to haunting the city, for he was promptly followed by half a
dozen gray shapes.  So swiftly and silently did they move that they
seemed to float rather than run over the snow, the moonlight making
their shadows leap and bound with them.  In seconds they had overtaken
the slowly moving sleigh and appeared about to leap on it.

From the rear of the sleigh came a sound Courtaud and his pack
knew too well: the flat crack of a crossbow.  One of the wolves spun
around, biting at a quarrel lodged in his shoulder.  The rest scattered
for the safety of the dark woods.  A man rose to his knees from a
barrel padded with soft straw where he had been lying in the back of
the sleigh.  His movement started the pig squealing again.  The pig was
in a cask with his tail sticking out of the bunghole, where it could be
easily twisted whenever the man wanted the little creature to cry out.

The sudden report of the crossbow had an unexpected result.  The
horse, which had been walking in his sleep, came awake with a shock and
started to run.  his sleeping driver also awoke and tried to find the
reins.  Before he could do so, the sleigh had hit a small pine and
turned over, spilling both men and the pig into the snow.  The horse
ran a few yards, dragging the sleigh on its side, before it pulled him
to a stop.

The sight was too much for Courtaud.  Now he charged with the
eager pack behind him.  He paid no attention to the horse or the pig
but went for the man, who was still clutching his uncocked bow.  The
arbalister dropped his useless weapon and tried to ward off the wolf
with his gloved hands.  The great jaws of the wolf champed down and the
man screamed.  His right hand hung crushed.

The driver was shouting for help.  Above his cries came the
screams of the horse as it was devoured while still alive and the
squeals of the pig, now squealing its last.  The arbalister turned to
run, futile as such a gesture was.  He had not taken two paces when
Courtaud gripped him by the leg and he went down.  Instantly half a
dozen wolves, led by Black Streak, were on him and he died as had the
horse.

The pack fed well that night.

They retired to the woods to sleep off their gorge and returned
the next evening.  Men had been there and removed everything except the
bones of the horse and the red snow, red from the sunset where it was
not red from blood.  The wolves were furious.  Anything they killed
they regarded as their own property, and removing it outraged them,
like the digging up of a cache or a territorial violation.  They
patrolled the road, trying to find out what had happened to the remains
of their prey, and in doing so encountered a sleigh drawn by a single
horse with a single occupant on his way to Paris.

Courtaud held back, remembering the crossbow, but Black Streak and
his following charged in.  It appeared that they would have an easy
victory, for the terrified horse shied so violently when he saw the
oncoming gray forms that he nearly turned the sleigh over.  The driver
kept his head.  He shouted to the frightened animal and beat him with
the reins until he broke into a gallop.  Down the rutted road they
went, the horse seeming to fly while the wolves came on behind in a
long line.

Confident now that there was no danger, Courtaud and his pack
joined the chase.  The wolves were fast, but inspired by the ghastly
fate he knew was hard behind him, the horse was faster.  Slowly he
managed to pull ahead of his pursuers.

The towers of Paris appeared ahead, black against the starry sky,
and the driver began shouting for the wardens to open the city gates.

He was almost safe now and some of the wolves, seeing the city so
close, dropped out of the chase.  Black Streak and Courtaud kept on.

Now they came to a little rise, the beginnings of the slope of
Montmartre.

The horse's speed started to slacken as he breasted the rise.

Seeing it, the wolves increased their tireless lope.  In a few
minutes they were up to the now exhausted animal.  Black Streak
hamstrung him while Courtaud sprang into the sleigh for the human
victim.  The wardens heard his cries and the screams of the horse.

They dropped the drawbridge and opened the gates, but none was
daring enough I to venture out.  It was not until morning light that
they saw what was left of the animal, still in its harness.  Of the
man, nothing remained except the head, and most of that had been eaten
except for the staring eyes.

From that day on, Courtaud and his pack haunted the north road.

Even by day, travelers were not safe.  Parties that set out were
surrounded by armed guards and any attempts to bring livestock into the
city by that route were abandoned.  A common farewell to anyone taking
this accursed way was: "May God protect you from Courtaud!"

Starting with the kill made almost at the very gates of Paris
itself, there was not a mile of this ill-omened highway that was not
marked by one or more of the wolf king's victims.  The Count de
Richemont was delighted.  No one dared to question the price of food,
as all knew the dangers involved in bringing it to the city, and the
count's icorcheurs could set their own prices as guards to wealthy
merchants traveling north from Paris.  Boisselier did penance by
putting a black patch over one eye and swearing he would not remove it
until Courtaud was dead.  He attributed the disaster to his having
dared to question the wisdom of the ecclesiastical judges.

Unquestionably, Courtaud was a demon and God had used him to teach
the louvetier a lesson.  However, demon or not, Courtaud could and must
be killed.

When the wolves found that they could no longer depend on the road
to provide them with food, they were forced to wander wider afield.

The situation had become acute because the packs had so increased
in number.

Ordinarily, only a few wolf couples raised litters an most of the
young wolves did not survive their first year.  The wars had changed
that.  By following the living on the dead, both animal and human, they
found food easy to obtain, and so the packs had grown in proportion to
the food supply.

Now that suddenly had being shut off.  The wolves were desperate.

Courtaud often went off by himself to search for communities still
unravaged or, better yet, isolated cottages such as the one where he
had killed the little girl.

On a morning of peculiar clearness when the light seemed filtered
through a giant blue diamond, he came on a place.  A group of huts were
huddled around the church, but there were other, separate huts
scattered ed the fields.  One of these especially interested the cause
the woods came almost to the fence made twigs that surrounded the
house.  Here was a sheer sides also of osier twisted between stakes,
and a roof to protect the woolly inhabitants from the The top of the
osier sides did not reach to the roof, wolf could clearly see the sheep
within, as well as them.

The peasant had taken his pigs to an oak grove distance away and
was throwing a stick into the t knock down what acorns were left for
his herd.  He have been easy to kill, but Courtaud wanted nothing with
pigs, even domestic ones.  There was a line of hives, each with its
frosting of snow, bundles of f and a dozen black-and-white magpies
picking at Lyra side the fold.  It had begun to snow again and the wolf
could hear the whisper of the sleet on the thatch.  From within the
cottage came the hum of a spinning wheel.

A group of children came from the village, driving a flock of
sheep ahead of them.  They paused by the tall, cylindrical dovecote
near the gate and called.  After a brief pause a boy of about fourteen
in a coat of badger skins came out.  He was carrying a crude bayonet
made by tying a knife to the end of a stick.  He let out the sheep and
they joined the others in the flock.  Then the children set out to
drive the combined flocks to the fields.  The wolf noted that they had
a dog with them.

Courtaud let the little party get well away from the cottage
before he moved.  Then he swung around in a long curve to intercept
them.  He knew that as soon as he struck, the dog and children would
set up such a commotion that men would come running speedily to their
help, so he wanted them well away from the village and the houses.

He was in no hurry.  They could not escape him.

The children went on, laughing and talking, while the dog drifted
to and fro, herding the sheep.  They came to a field where there were
several haystacks covered with thatch tops made of the woven hay to
protect the stacks from the elements.  The peasants must have had a
good year indeed, with their barns filled to overflowing, to have left
these stacks in the fields.  The children began pulling out armsful of
hay and scattering it for the sheep, who butted each other in their
eagerness to get at the fodder.  It-was easier to bring the sheep to
the hay than the hay to the sheep.  The dog, his part done, stood back,
watching to see if he would be wanted.

Courtaud had been crouched down, watching intently with his great
yellow eyes.  Now he gathered his hind legs well under him, gauged the
distance, and charged.  He flashed across the snow like a crossbow
bolt, but the dog saw him.  He barked a warning and then leaped in
front of the oncoming wolf.

The dog was an exceptionally big animal, as big as Courtaud.  The
wolf tried to brush him aside, snapping as he hurtled past, and tore
off the dog's ear.  With almost the same motion, he scored the dog
heavily across his shoulder with a slash of his fangs and flung him to
one side.

This should have settled the matter.  By all reason, the dog
should have been out of the fight.  But this animal was as determined
as Courtaud, and as brave.  He reeled back and then sprang forward,
seizing the wolf by the throat.

For an instant, Courtaud was alarmed.  He had not expected such
resistance.  Fortunately for him, the dog did not have the long,
punishing jaws of a wolf and could not penetrate Courtaud's thick
winter fur.  Dropping his head, Courtaud fastened his jaws on the dog's
leg.  He heard and felt the bone crack.  The wounded animal was forced
to let go of the wolf's throat and instantly Courtaud had him by the
back of the neck.  One crunch and it was over.

The children had stood horrified spectators to the tragedy while
the sheep tore away in a compact mass, their bells ringing wildly.  One
of the girls made the sign of the cross.  The others stood motionless,
numbed with terror.

With the dog out of the way, Courtaud charged the children.  He
seized the smallest, a little boy, and started to drag him away.

At this hideous sight, the boy in the badger-skin coat made a wild
rush at the wolf, stabbing with his feeble weapon.  Always far braver
when attacking than when being attacked, Courtaud dropped the child and
retreated.

He circled the little group, who tried to keep behind their
champion, and, springing in, seized another child by the arm, this time
a girl.  He started to drag his captive off, keeping one eye on the boy
with the bayonet.

One of the children muttered in terror.  "Let him have Jeanne.  We
must run."  The boy with the bayonet replied bravely, "No, I could
never face her family if I ran.  Be'des, he does not dare to face the
steel.  He is nothin but si 9

a big dog."  So saying, he ran at Courtaud again.  Now several of
the other children, ashamed of the coward's suggestion, began shouting
and, having no other weapons, pelted Courtaud with snowballs.  Missiles
of any kind alarmed the wolf.  He knew some were deadly and he had no
way of gauging their effectiveness.  There was a deep dip in the field
here full of soft snow, and seeing that the wolf had trouble in the
drifts, the children tried to drive him into the dip.  They were so
successful that Courtaud was forced to drop the fainting child.  The
older boy lunged with his bayonet, trying to drive the point into one
of the wolf's eyes.  He missed the eye but struck the head and the
knife point grazed on Courtaud's skull.  -ne wolf seized the blade in
his teeth and for an instant it seemed as though he would tear it from
the boy's grasp.  Then the sharp edge cut his lips and Courtaud was
forced to let go.  He stood back, snarling with frustration and rage,
while the boy stood between him and his intended prey.  Meanwhile, in
the distance, came shouts, and Courtaud could see men hurrying to the
rescue.  The odds were turning against him.

He turned and ran.

Courtaud's defeat was to have far-reaching effects.  The fame of
the boy who had, virtually single-handed, driven off the loup-garou
spread through the countryside.  A local wise woman had already
attended to the children's injuries by putting on poltices made of
crushed nettles.  The executioner from a nearby town, whose profession
made him an expert on the human anatomy, condescended to see the
children and rub on their wounds his standard panacea for all ills-the
fat of a hanged man.

Either the nettles or the fat was effective, for the children
recovered, although badly scarred.  The little girl would always walk
with a limp and the boy bore Courtaud's teeth marks in his shoulder to
the grave.

The now-famous children were brought to Paris under special guard
and paraded through the streets before cheering crowds to the cathedral
of Notre Dame, where they were blessed by the bishop.  Several noble
families wanted to adopt the young hero who had beaten the famous wolf
with his puny bayonet, and it was finally decided that he was to be
admitted as page in a wealthy household.  True, his peasant manner of
speech and behavior caused his benefactors later to change their minds,
but he was still allowed to stay with the family and trained to be a
man-at-arms.

Most important of all, the populace lost much of their
superstitious fear of Courtaud.  If the wolf could be defeated by a boy
armed with nothing but a knife on a stick, the monster was no
loup-garou.  Also, the sight of the two eater as no tales of his
attacks could have done.  A large reward was put on Courtaud, and
Boisselier was told that either he came back with the wolf's head or
his own would be in danger.

Boisselier needed no threats to make him anxious to take Courtaud.

Not only was he revolted by the man-eater's crimes; it was a
matter of personal pride with him to show that he could capture the
famous outlaw.  The problem was, he had no idea how to do it.  His
wonderful hunting leopard was useless in the deep snow.  He still had
his hounds and they still could track, but he knew it would be
impossible for them to drive the wily wolf into an ambush.

After much thought, Boisselier decided to mortify his personal
pride and let another take the credit for the capture -a man he knew
who possessed the only weapon capable of taking the great wolf.

By special messengers, he sent word to a fellow huntsman who lived
on the edge of the Black Forest in Germany.

There had been another heavy snow.  The lower branches of the
trees were so laden that they touched the ground.

The forests shone silver in the sun.  By keeping to the ridges,
the pack had managed to get about and were fortunate enough to come on
the body of an old hind that had foundered in a drift.  They discovered
her, not by sight or scent, but by watching the ravens-a reversal of
the usual method in which the ravens watched the wolves.  They fed up
and slept in a patch of ground-growing 'juniper.  The i next day they
picked the bones.  The snow had become hard-packed and they moved about
fairly easily.

Shortly after daybreak, they were awakened by the sound of horns
blowing the lancer, the call to uncouple hounds.  They listened without
too much interest.  The hounds were probably after some other quarry,
and if not, they were confident that they could outdistance the dogs.

It would have been different if they were surrounded and relays of
hounds could be slipped in their faces, but they were on a ridge with
an open view of the countryside and could see all about them.

Some of the city wolves raced past them and over the ridge.

From the way the hounds were running, Courtaud was quite sure they
were on these wolves' trail.  That meant they would pass too close for
comfort.  He rose and shook himself, pausing to bite the ice from
between his toes, the rest of the pack imitating him.  Then the pitch
of the baying changed.

From the excited, eager note, the hounds could see their quarry
and it was not a wolf.  The deep bay of respect mixed with apprehension
that they used when trailing a wolf was missing.  They had probably
jumped a hare.

Dimly, the wolves heard the cracking of whips, the angry shouts of
men, and the repeated notes of the horn calling the recheat over and
over.  Courtaud settled down in the bed he had made for himself among
the 'junipers.

After a brief pause, the rest of the pack also relaxed.

For a while they heard nothing.  Then the hounds broke into song a
nd at the same time there came the call of the iene'e meaning that the
pack were on the true line.  The wolves could not identify the various
calls-although in a tient, often repeated recheat and the excited bien
allerso they lay listening.  Before long, they realized that the hounds
were on the trail of the city wolves and coming their way.

Courtaud gave the impression of giving some soundless order to the
pack.  Whether or not he actually did, the pack rose and went off in a
different direction than that taken by the city wolves, Silver pausing
to lick her mate's muzzle before she went with the others.  Then
Courtaud turned and trotted to a position where he would be sure to be
seen by the hounds.  Boisselier, riding a steady old cob, was watching
from a grove of paper birches with a single companion: the German
huntsman from the Black Forest.  To Boisselier there was no doubt of
Courtaud's intentions.  He had deliberately chosen to take the hounds
off on his own trail to protect'the others, especially Silver.  Often
Boisseller had wondered by what madness he had 'Joined with the Count
de Richemont in releasing the wolf king.  Now he knew.  Ah, Courtaud,
he thought, why did you betray me by killing men again?  Surely when I
freed you, you knew it was not ransom or no ransom, but on your kingly
word that you would depart out of this country or at least not kill
man.  Now you are lost.

The German spoke.  "Is that the man-eater who must be destroyed?

" "It is he."

"I thought as much.  He is a very great Krieger, yet now his time
has come.  He will kill no more, eh, my beautiful Brynhild?"

The German spoke affectionately to a great golden eagle gripping a
tall perch shaped roughly like the letter T, one end of which rested in
a leather socket attached to a belt around the man's waist.  The other
end, somewhat higher than the man's head, had a crossbar padded with
sheepskin, and on this the great bird perched.  Her talons were as long
as a man's finger, dagger-sharp, and backed with a grip that equaled
the force of Courtaud's jaws.  The bird turned her head at the sound of
the man's voice, but she could not see, for her head was covered with a
leather hood, embroidered with gold and silver thread.  At the top was
the tip of a wolf's brush that stood up like the plume in a knight's
helmet.

Her owner was a middle-aged man with a face so hard it looked as
though it had worn out three bodies.  He' wore red hose and turned-down
top boots of the finest leather.

He had on a close-fitting doublet and a surcoat with undersleeves.

On his head was a round cap with upturned brim, embroidered with
gold arrows and a crown, for he was of royal blood although a bastard.

No one not of the blood royal was allowed to fly an eagle.

Boisselier was far more simply dressed, in a belted tunic reaching
below his knees and a cloak fastened at his throat with a single
button.  Behind these two men was a wretched-looking half-grown boy in
buskins and a 'jerkin of tanned deerskin, riding a rincon.  The boy was
wearing a coat of wolfskin.

The German lifted the perch out of its socket and lowered it
sufficiently so he could grasp the leather thongs at the back of the
hood with his mouth and free hand.  He pulled them so the hood was
loose and, taking the wolf brush, slipped it off.  At once Brynhild
roused, shook herself, and then looked around with her piercing stare.

She did not see Courtaud, as he was momentarily hidden by a patch
of heather.  Instead, she focused her attention for a moment on the
hounds.  Not that she had any designs on them.  She had been raised
among hounds ever since she had been taken as a young eyess-a
nestling-from her parents' eyrie on the shores of the Baltic.  But she
could tell from their actions that they were on the scent of some
quarry, and she knew that when that quarry emerged, she would be flown
at it.

Fastened to the eagle's legs were two leather straps known as
jesses and at the ends of the straps were varvels, metal rings.

Through the varvels a leash was passed.  The falconer pulled the
leash free of the varvels and held the bird on the perch by the jesses
alone.

She was now ready to be released whenever the quarry might appear.

The jesses would remain secured to her legs, even when she flew.

They were the mark of a trained bird of prey as a collar is the
mark of a domestic dog.

Courtaud did not appear as they expected.  The wolf allowed
himself to be seen by the pack and then turned and headed for the
Seine, with the hounds in full cry behind him.  He quickly outdistanced
them-they were Talbots with good noses but little speed-and ran down to
the edge of the water.

Then he turned and sped along tracked and then sprang into the
water and started swimming for the far bank.

Both Boisseller and the German laughed in appreciation.

They knew what would happen.

The hounds came roaring down the slope to the water's edge.  Then
they turned and followed Courtaud's line along the bank, still eagerly
throwing their voices.  When they came to the place where Courtaud had
doubled back they kept on a dozen paces, still giving tongue and
carried on by their own momentum and the belief that this was only a
dead spot in the line, where for some reason the scent had not held.

When they finally came to a check and started to cast around, they
were far past the place where Courtaud had taken to the water and, as
the water carried no scent, they had no means of telling where he had
gone.

If they had used their eyes as well as their noses they might have
seen the swimming wolf, but bloodhounds were so highly specialized that
they never raised their heads.

Brynhild had seen the wolf and was bent over, like a racer on his
marks, waiting to be cast off.  She would not fly without the
additional impetus of a toss from the krakel, as the portable perch was
called.

Glancing up at his eagle, the German saw that her gaze was locked
on the wolf.  With a shout, he raised the krakel, and with the full
strength of his arm snapped it forward, hurling the eagle into the air
and at the same time releasing his hold on the jesses.  Even with the
force of the throw which catapulted her forward, the huge bird was so
heavy that she had to make several slow flaps before she built up
enough speed to make herself truly airborne.  With each flap she
steadily increased her momentum, until she was sweeping along at a
speed no land-bound creature could hope to I emulate.  As she swooped
down the hill, she banked sharply to bring herself into position to
strike the swimming wolf, the tip of the long flight feathers on her
left wing coming so close to the ground that they touched a patch of
broom reaching above the snow.  Then she leveled off and glided like a
skipped stone over the water.  On the distant hill, the two men shouted
with delight and excitement and even the miserable boy set up a feeble
cheer while wiping his red, wet nose on his ragged sleeve.

Courtaud was totally unconscious of the winged doom rushing down
on him.  The eagle made no noise and there was no scent.  Perhaps even
worse, never in his life had he been attacked from the air, so he was
completely unaccustomed to the idea.  Still, the falconer, for all his
experience, had made one serious mistake.  It would have been better
for him to have held his bird until the wolf reached the far bank.

Brynhild had killed many wolves; in fact, her master derived a
considerable income from the wolf pelts she provided, yet she had never
attacked a wolf in water before.

So as she came in, she struck at the wolf's head with her short
but very strong hind talons, ripping open the flesh but not inflicting
a killing blow.  Then, reluctant to bind to the animal under such
unusual circumstances, she checked off, turning sideways as she came
around to renew the attack.

Courtaud s .  aw the bird wheel and then come for him a second
time.  Dazed as he was by the blow, he retained enough sense to duck
under the water.  He did not entirely submerge, but the eagle was going
too fast to grasp the shifting target.  Again she shot up, turned on
her side, and came in for the third time.  Learning from experience,
she backed with her eight-foot wings, throwing her talons out in front
of her.

Courtaud had been forced to come up for breath and she nearly had
him, but a sudden tail wind carried her too close to the wolf's head.

Brynhild had learned from experience it was not wise to seize a
wolf by the head, although she might slash it in passing.  She veered
off, and now tired, glided ashore and lit on a rock.

Courtaud reached the bank, climbed up, shook himself, and looked
around for his foe.  Brynhild sat motionless, watching him, getting her
breath back.  Not seeing her, Courtaud started across the snow-covered
fields, making for a distant wood.

Brynhild took off, but without the impetus of the krakel toss she
went slowly and ponderously, having considerable trouble picking up
speed, especially as she was now flying uphill.  As Courtaud could see
behind him fairly well, he caught a glimpse of the giant bird toiling
along, gaining speed with every wingbeat.  Courtaud waited until the
eagle was almost on him, then abruptly spun around and, leaping into
the air, snapped at her golden-brown breast.

The movement was so unexpected that only by a quick twist did
Brynhild manage to avoid the bite.  She swung off, made a long circle,
beating upward so she could come down in a swift dive, and when she had
gained enough height, hung for an instant motionless in midair while
with turned head she watched her adversary, planning her stoop.

This time there would be no mistake.

At the instant before the eagle began her dive, Courtaud, running
through a frozen mass of bracken, put up a hare from its form.  The
hare bounced away over the hardpacked snow, its broad furry feet acting
as snowshoes.  The temptation was too much for Brynhild.  Hares were
smaller than wolves, much easier to catch, and tasted better.  She went
into her dive but directed it at the hare.  As she was about to strike
him, the hare dodged, and Brynhild hit the snow.  Panting and
discouraged, she remained where she was, sitting with half-open wings,
ignoring the fastvanishing wolf.

Boisselier and the German falconer had been delayed finding a
means to cross the river.  They had finally located a fisherman, who
rowed them and the boy over, although it meant leaving their horses
behind.  They came up on foot in time to see Courtaud vanishing into a
pine plantation and located the disgruntled Brynhild, brown and black
against the snow.  The German said angrily to the boy, "Konrad, lure
the bird in."

This was why the unhappy Konrad was taken along on these
expeditions.  He acted as a human lure to entice the eagle to return.

Brynhild hated him.  Konrad was a mewsboy whose duty it was to
clean out the house where the eagle and hawks were kept and carry the
birds on his gloved fist to their blocks in the garden during good
weather so they could bathe and preen themselves.  One day, while he
was carrying Brynhild, the eagle in a fit of irritation had struck at
the boy's face and torn his cheek with the tip of her beak.  Konrad had
lost his temper and slapped the bird.  Brynhild had an astonishing
memory and never forgave him.  From then on, the bird's main ambition
was to get her talons into Konrad.  The falconer soon discovered
Brynhild's hatred for the boy and turned it to good advantage.

Whenever the eagle failed to make a kill and it was necessary to
retrieve her, Konrad was sent out.

No matter how exasperated or tired she was, the eagle would attack
the boy.  Once she had fastened to him, catching her was simple.

Having received his orders, Konrad rubbed his damp nose, gave a
sob, and set out on his thankless task.  He was plodding through the
snow when Brynhild saw him.  She knew that if she made a direct attack
on the boy, he would run back to the falconer.  With an effort, she
rose from the snow and flew, not at Konrad, but toward a distant
cottage near which the boy was passing.  Keeping the cottage between
herself and her intended victim, she circled around, dropped low, and
then abruptly shot up and over the low building.  Before Konrad knew
she was anywhere around, she was on him.  The boy could only throw
himself on the snow, covering his head with a heavy leather hood while
the eagle locked her talons in his thick jacket of wolfskin.

Boisselier and the German ran up and the falconer took off the
bird, although he had to tear her loose from her captive.  Konrad was
weeping as he rose and wiped the snow from his body.  One of the
eagle's talons had gone through the jacket, inflicting only a slight
wound, but the bird's grip had been so powerful he was bruised and
sore.

Meanwhile, Boisselier's piqueur had managed to cross the Seine
with ten couples of hounds by means of the fisherman's boat.

Boisselier pointed out to him the wood toward which Courtaud had
been headed, and he set out with his hounds while the falconer tossed
off Brynhild in the direction of a tall oak.  The eacle lit on one of
the upper branches, bare now in winter except for a few withered
leaves, and looked proudly around.  From this height, she could control
the whole area.

When the hounds hit Courtaud's line, they broke into cry.

Courtaud, half-dazed by the blow Brynhild had given him, and for
the first time in his life terrified by an attacker, had found some of
the city wolves lying up in the cover and dropped exhausted near them.

He heard the vinced that somewhere out there his terrible winged
pursuer was awaiting him.

Alas for Boisselier's belief in Courtaud's chivalry having made
him show himself to the hounds to lead them away from Silver and the
others!  If that had indeed been Courtaud's purpose, he had learned the
folly of such noble gestures and, besides, these wolves were not
members of his pack.  He selected the smallest and savagely attacked
him.  The frightened wolf bolted out of cover, swerved to avoid the
oncoming hounds, and began to run.

Brynhild saw him.  To her, one wolf was as good as another.

Diving headfirst from the branch, she swooped across the field,
hardly moving her wings except slightly to alter the angle of the
widespread flight feathers to guide herself as she steered with her
open tail.

Her victim never had a chance.  Brynhild swept down on him at the
last moment, braking by dropping her bank of secondary feathers so at
the moment of impact she was hardly mon,ilig, and seized the wolf
across the loins with one fearful mailed fist.  The wolf turned to snap
at her as Brynhild knew he would.  She met his open jaws with her other
foot, clamping her talons around his muzzle.  The tortured animal tried
to leap into the air to throw her off, but Brynhild spread her great
sails and, bracing herself with them, held him down.  She gripped first
with one foot and then with the other, kneading her struggling prisoner
like dough, and every clench of her foot drove the lono, talons deeper
and deeper into his flesh.

The wolf arched in agony and went rigid.  Brynhild released her
loin hold and fastened on his chest, crushing it.

The wolf became limp.  He was dead by the time the hounds had come
up.  They sniffed at him and then rolled in the bloody snow, ignored by
the eagle.  She had begun to tear pieces of fur from her kill's body
with her hooked beak, and when Boisselier and the falconer arrived, she
was gorging herself on the red meat.

Courtaud had not stayed to watch the results of his strategy.  He
had quietly stolen away and was now deep in the forest with Silver and
his pack.

ELEVEN The Siege of Paris

Not even the oldest could remember such a cruel winter.

The weather was enough to make wolves weep and ravens ' h for
pity.  As the four stars of the Swan rose higher and slg higher in the
bitter heavens, the snow and cold increased.

The roads were drifted shut and Paris was shut off from the rest
of the world.  At first, only the poor really suffered.

When communications with chilly, a town a few miles from Paris
noted for its bakeries, were stopped, there was no more white bread on
the tables of the rich; only maslin.

For the poor, there were no more beans, milk, eggs or cheese.

Instead there was bread made of acorns and beechnuts and not much
of that.  No crocks of ale with crab apples floating in the hot flu'd
stood by the ingle.  There was weak, stale wine and then nothing except
water.

Taxes increased.  Every steer sold in the marketplace was taxed
four sous.  The tax on a pig was eight blancs.  A sheep, four blancs.

Only the very wealthy could afford any meat, and that seldom.

Every house was taxed.  If the tax was not paid, the count
billeted some of his icorcheurs on the premises.  Then the tax was paid
and paid quickly, especially if there were women there.

Fires had to be kept going night and day or people would be found
in the morning dead and frozen rigid.  The supply of wood was exhausted
and the trees in the parks and gardens were cut down.  When that supply
gave out, the city reeked with the smell of dried dung burning.

In the early part of the winter, gulls in large numbers had been
seen along the Seine, blown inland by the wild storms at sea.  Now the
gulls were gone.  For a while the city had been filled by the rustling
flight of starlings.  Now they were gone also.  People gambled a few
handsful of precious grain spread around twigs covered with lime made
from mistletoe berries, in hopes of catching some of the pigeons that
still found shelter among the gargoyles of Notre Dame.  A rat sold for
ten sous.

Then came a blizzard that lasted three days.  The snow came
straight down, each flake as big as a man's hand.

When it ceased, there was a rosy glow in the sky but no true
light.  Landmarks vanished in the white shroud.  Drifts the size of
hills appeared.  The roofs of the city wore shawls of snow and people
began to die-, first the very old, then the very young.

The wolves were able to endure the weather better than pervious to
the cold.  The wild pigs had deserted Montmartre when the storm came,
so the packs moved back there.  Some slept together in caves for mutual
warmth.

Those who could not find a cave slept under the snow, which formed
a blanket over them.  As long as the snow was soft, they could not
travel, but when t froze in the intense cold they were able to go
anywhere.

It soon became necessary for the beleaguered city dwellers to
bring in food or perish.  From the city walls, they could see the gray
shapes of the wolves that seemed to drift rather than walk over the
snow.  The wolves were wary now and stayed just out of bowshot except
at night, when they came in to eat the bodies thrown over the wall.

No ordinar expedition dared to force its way through those scores
of silent sentinels.  A man or a horse would be mired in the drifts
over which the broad-footed wolves moved easily.

Finally the Count de Richemont sent out a picked band of
corcheurs, supported by his best bowmen.  The wolves watched them from
the hill and made no move to attack.

After the men had passed, they came down to smell the tracks but
did not attempt to follow the party.  People burned candles thanking
the saints, and in Notre Dame a special High Mass was said.  Then the
city settled down to await the men's return.

Days passed and still there was no sign of the men.  It was
impossible to send messengers.  Nothing less than a small army could
get past Courtaud and his hordes.  Holes were chopped in the ice of the
frozen river and people fished through them.  One man caught a fish
seven feet long.  It was regarded as a miracle.  Others, risking their
lives, slipped out at night to set snares for rabbits along the forest
edge or collect what nuts they could find still on the trees.  If there
were no nuts, they stripped the bark from saplings.  One man had an
eagle owl he used to decoy birds.

He hid in a blind, and when the birds came down to attack the owl,
he knocked them over with a long, flexible pole.  He was able to do
this only twice.  The third time he did not return.  When his brother
went to look for him, he ' found the feathers of the owl and bloody
snow, stamped with Courtaud's great fore.  The brother fled back to the
city.

In one week, fourteen people were killed and eaten by the wolf
packs between Montmartre and the Porte SaintAntoine.  Men prayed before
leaving the city as though going into battle.  For a while, no one
ventured out.  Then the wolves disappeared for a time.  In desperation,
a few of the more daring, or the more hungry, slipped out to search for
anything edible.  The wolves returned in a wave and killed four women.

People standing on the walls could hear their screams as they were
torn to pieces and devoured.

In spite of this terrible lesson, the next Friday seventeen men
made the same attempt, for by now people killed each other over an
apple so rotten that the few remaining pigs would not eat it.  The men
armed themselves with homemade weapons and swore to stay together.  Six
got back alive.  No one tried again.

Then one morning the cathedral bells rang out joyfully.

The men had been sighted and, wonder of wonders, were driving
ahead of them a herd of beef cattle.  The drawbridge was lowered and
the gates opened.  Paris was saved.

Then the wolves attacked.  They seemed to materialize like evil
spirits around the little group of men.  Before the archers could notch
their arrows or the horsemen draw their swords, the mighty Courtaud had
flung himself into the midst of the herd.  The herd exploded in all
directions, the clumsy beeves floundering in the drifts, bawling with
terror.  The wolves were everywhere, killing at will.  In the confusion
the archers' bows were useless and the bowmen drew their knives.

Courtaud paid no attention to the cattle.  He left them for is h'
followers.  Instead, he attacked one of the mounted men.  The man drew
his sword as his horse's hoofs slipped and squelched in the snow, the
frightened animal sidling to avoid the wolf's charge.  The man struck
at the wolf, leaning far from his saddle, and his sword blade struck a
snowcovered rock and snapped off.  The intense cold had made the steel
brittle.  Full of battle joy, Courtaud sprang for him, ignoring the
horse, but the horse did not ignore Courtaud.  Utterly uncontrollable,
the animal reared, striking with his forefeet and baring his teeth as
he lunged at the gray ghost.  His rider slid to the ground and faced
Courtaud with his broken sword, the sunlight running like water on the
blade.  Courtaud, trying to get behind him, tripped, rolled over, and
came back on his feet.  Black Streak and two other wolves were
attacking the horse, one leaping in front of the animal to distract its
attention while the others moved in from behind to hamstring.  The
horse, in its efforts to escape, collided with its master, knocking him
down.  Courtaud sank his teeth in the man's face, tore part of it away,
and sprang back.  He had severed the jugular vein, for gouts of blood
squirted out.  The man struggled to his knees, each of his gasps
spraying the snow red.  One of his friends came to his help and with a
lance forced Courtaud to retreat.  A little knot of archers gathered
about them and with this protection, the man heard his friend's
confession and, for lack of a Host, put a straw he pulled from the
padding of his helmet in the dying man's mouth.

They did not dare to stay, for the wolves were everywhere, with
more coming up every second, drawn by the smell of fresh blood.  They
were forced to abandon the cattle and even leave the dead man.  When
one looked back a few minutes later, all that was left of the corpse
were the head, intestines, and feet on the trampled, bloody snow.

That was the last time any men attempted to break Courtaud's siege
of Paris.

Boisseller was sent for, but the louvetier was as helpless as the
rest.  He had no more tricks that might serve to outwit Courtaud.

Except when the rage of battle was on him, the wolf king had grown
cautious.  Hunger never made him reckless.  He never went twice over
the same path.  He always studied an area carefully with eyes and nose
before leaving cover.  When returning to the hill, he always circled
around into the wind so he could scent anything there.  When possible,
he took care to carry off his prey before eating it.  So thoroughly did
he and his followers invest Paris that a bird could not leave it
without their knowledge.

Plague broke out in the starving city.  The corpses were thrown
over the walls in the hope that the wolves, by eating the bodies, would
contract the plague.  Eat the bodies the wolves did, and grew fat on
them, but they appeared immune to the plague.  Courtaud also feasted on
the plague victims, yet was always careful to come only at night or to
keep out of arrow range.

There was no handsel, the traditional giving of New Year's
presents, that year in Paris.  At dawn of the first day of the year
1440, when the shivering watchman on 'the battlements sounded his horn
and the bells of Notre Dame rang the mating there were few who bothered
to listen except the waiting wolves.

Yet that was to be a day famous in the history of France.

It began simply enough.  As usual, the wolves slept until evening
when Courtaud awoke, yawned, stretched, and went around waking the
other members of the pack.

There were many nose-to-nose conferences and much tailwagging.

The younger wolves played tag.  Silver came up to Courtaud, waving
her tail happily.  She was coming into estrus and both of them knew it.

Perhaps this year they could mate and raise a litter of wolf pups
in a special cave they had found, well hidden in the highest part of
Montmartre.  Silver wanted again to feel wolflings nursing at her side.

None of her first litter still lived.

The pack started down the slope toward the city to see if any food
had been thrown out for them.  The wind blew a scud of rain in their
faces and they were grateful for the cover of the rustling aspens.

Once, when a playful raven dove at Courtaud, the wolf king jumped
nervously and ducked into the 'juniper scrub.  He still remembered
Brynhild.  Angry and humiliated, he snarled at the black bird and
continued on toward the outer fosse.

The plague had abated and there were no bodies.  There had been
none for several days.  Nor was there any garbage, for the starving
people devoured every scrap and boiled the bones for soup.  The deer
had yarded up deep in the forests where the wolves could not find them,
so the packs had become entirely dependent on the city.  Furious,
Courtaud threw back his head and gave his ghastful cry, in which a few
of the others joined.  Within the city, people heard him and shivered,
thanking God for the safety of the great walls.

It was a miserable night.  Squalls blown by an east wind threw the
snow in their faces as they circled the city.

Whenever the wind blew the snow off a leaden bough, the bough
would spring up, making the wolves leap with alarm.  The wolves slipped
through a patch of elder bushes, floundering on the soft snow, and then
found themselves on the firm ice of the frozen Seine.  They crossed the
The Louvier where there were still a few trees, passed the bishop's
tenement on the lie Notre-Dame, and sniffed under the gate of the Porte
Saint-Martin.

Still they found nothing to eat.

They came to the Hotel de Nesle, where a tower stood that marked
the limits of Paris.  They passed several quays, heavy with the smell
of fish, and paused to sniff longingly at them.  Then they came to the
quay of the king's palace, fenced with a heavy iron gate that projected
a few feet below water level.  They were about to pass it by when
Courtaud paused.  There was a space under the gate.  The intense cold
had frozen the sources of the Seine-the Aube, Yonne, Loing, Essonne,
and the Marne.  So the river level had dropped sharply, leaving the
bottom of the gate higher than the ice.

Courtaud investigated.  It was dangerous, but from under the gate
came all sorts of maddening, alluring odors of food-animal and human.

Still, the wolf king hesitated, still sniffing.

What decided him was a watcher on the walls.  The guard heard
noises below and, thinking they were humans, released an arrow at a
venture.  It struck behind the wolves and the man cried, "Tell me who
thou art.  My bow is stretched and I will not miss again."

Feeling that his enemy was behind him, Courtaud took the lesser of
two evils and slipped under the gate.  Silver was at his tail and the
rest of the pack silently followed.

A nightmare had become reality.  The wolves had breached the walls
and were in Paris.

They skulked along streets black as caves, for the swallow-nest
balconies that overhung the narrow ways almost met in the middle and
cut off all light.  Occasionally they ' encountered chains stretched
across the way to trip running thieves.

Down the center of each street ran an open drain.  The wolves
avoided the drains as delicately as cats, although humans often
splashed through them.  They passe d the street of the goldsmiths, the
street of the armorers, the street of the cloth workers.  None of these
interested them.  In most of the buildings, the shops were on the first
floor while the people lived in the second, so there was no scent of
food.  In the wealthier section, the air was heavy with the scent of
pepper, cinnamon, and cloves, which those who could afford to burned at
night to purify the air while they slept.  The red light of fires
gleamed in the windows.

Silver was moaning softly to herself.  She hated anything new and
strange.  The pack followed the only paved street and suddenly came on
two men and a girl returning from their labors in a distant part of the
city.  Courtaud attacked instantly.  The men were armed with staffs and
they tried to beat the raging animal off, thinking it was a stray dog.

They soon learned differently.  With the help of his followers,
Courtaud pulled them down.  The girl, by a strange freak, managed to
escape.  She had a scarf draped around her neck and the wolf attacking
her grabbed the scarf.  She tore it off and ran, screaming, while the
pack concentrated on the men.

The noise awakened the street although most people were afraid to
open their doors.  The first man out was a man-at-arms, one of the city
guards, who had just come off watch and had been on the point of
retiring, his gambeson undershirt showing the rusty stains of his
armor.  He had a torch in one hand and a drawn sword in the other as he
came shouting, "Out, harrow, what mischief is this?"

The wolves gave back before him.  At first, the man-atarms also
thought that they were dogs, but the loping gait and lower tails told
him the truth.  "By Saint Richicr, the wolves have come to Paris!"  the
man shouted.  "Stay back, you devils, or I'll put a cold wind in your
guts!  " At the cry, the guard's partner rushed out, brandishing asp
ikcd mace known as a "holy water sprinkler."  He went at Courtaud, who
ran before him until, finding himself in a cul-de-sac, the wolf king
turned.  There was a cresset set in an iron sconce on the wall, and by
its light the guard saw the reddish-gray form with the white chest and
the short tail.  For the first time he realized what he had been
chasing.  He dropped the club and fled back to the house, half fainting
from terror.

Lights were springing up in house after house as the wolves tore
great gobs of flesh from their two victims, bolting the mouthfuls
without bothering to chew, while keeping an eye and ear on the rising
excitement around them.  They ran, some still carrying pieces of flesh
in their jaws.  The street led into the Parvis, the great open square
before the cathedral.  There had been a mass at Notre Dame to pray for
the city's deliverance and the congregation was just leaving the great
building.  The wolves attacked with great bounds.  One of their first
victims was a butcher, perhaps because he smelled of blood.  Courtaud
tore the arm off a child in spite of the parents' efforts.  One man
happened to have an axe, for he had been chopping a little wood that
remained, and he put his back against the stone arade of the church and
held off his assaants.

Several people were scalped as the wolves tore at their heads.

Manyescaped but forty were killed and partly eaten.  No one dared
to challenge the pack even when dawn came and the wolves were still at
their feast.  Silver, alone, remembered the way back to the water gate.

Once she had eaten her fill she had been trying to induce the
others to throw off their blood glut and leave the city.  Now, with
daylight, they recovered their customary caution and followed her to
safety.

This raid was the wolves' greatest triumph.  They had penetrated
into the heart of Paris, killed at will, and escaped unscathed.  The
people were close to panic.

The king had returned to Paris and he sent for Boisselier.

The louvetier found the monarch on the ground floor of his palace,
as the king had a phobia that upper floors would collapse under him.

One once had and he had never gotten over it.  Two men-at-arms
stood on either side of the throne, both as stiff as their halberds.

Boisselier knelt, already knowing what his orders would be.

The king rubbed his big nose and stared at the kneeling blond
giant with the patch over his eye.

"Louvetier, this beast is an enemy of God, pity, and mercy.  What
think you, is he possessed of the devil that he can defy my hunters and
soldiers and even the walls of my city and 'scape away alive.?"

"My lord, he is only a beast and I have no more respect for him
than I have for Mohammed.  Make me high constable of the city and I
swear to you that within a month either he or I will be dead without
remedy."

The king pulled his heavy lower lip.

"It is said that a white wolf is always at his side.  Think you
that he is a witch and the other is his familiar?"

"Nay, sire, the white wolf is his mate.  Wolves ')oln for life and
are always together, never being unfaithful to each other."

"You seek to deceive me, bastard.  Is it not a saying, 'No wolf
knows his own father," for they couple like,-, dogs?  And do not men
say of a bastard, 'He is like a wolf, for he knows not his father'?"

"These sayings are lies, my lord.  Every wolf knows his parents,
who together raise and nurture him.  He owes them obedience and through
them he serves the pack, dying if need be that the pack may survive."

"My noble cousin, the Duke of Burgundy, has three wives,
twenty-four mistresses, and sixteen bastards.  Do you tell me to my
teeth that a wolf is nobler than a duke?  " "The duke is a Christian,
my lord, and can hence receive gence beforehand.  Wolves could not
survive if they behaved like humans, for a pair must stand together
against the world and in defense of their offspring."

The king considered this.  "Is it true that every wolf in the pack
must obey his king?"

"It is, my lord.  Otherwise, they would be lost, for their
strength is only in him, for he provides them with food."

"I would that my nobles had as much loyalty as wolves and also as
much intelligence, for now each man thinks only of himself and can defy
me at will."  The king sat musing for a time.  "It may be, Boisselier,
that if the English are ever to be driven from this land, it will be by
an army of men-at-arms composed not of nobles but of any man who is
willing to make a living by fighting and knowing how to use arms.  That
will be the end of the feudal levies that come and go as their various
lords wish.  When that day comes, the king will be greater than any
duke, or even greater than all the dukes together, and this whole land
will be known as France rather than only the small pays about Paris."

"If Your Majesty can see that so clearly, then Courtaud is not a
demon but has been sent to you by God."

"It may be.  The church says that Joan, the A4aid, was a witch,
but she won me my throne.  Perhaps this wolf will win me France if I
but follow his lead.  There is one other matter.  We must find a weapon
stronger than the English longbows.  It may be we have it in the new
bombards, or as they are being called, cannon.  There is now even a
light bombard that can be held to the shoulder, called a gonne.

The English despise them and retain their bows, much as our
chivalry refused to change their way of fighting even after Crecy,
Poitiers, and Agincourt, and continued to charge English bowmen
standing in their accursed 'herce' formation."

"They would have thought it cowardice to do otherwise."

"Yes, yes, they were willing to die to the last man-but they died.

I have been thinking of these wolves and how they hold my whole
city of Paris at naught.  What think you of a men made of men who
depend on the king and the king alone for their bounty, who think of
war not as a game or a means of gaining ransom, but as a way of life,
and are armed with bombards and gonnes?

"Once in derision Your Majesty was called 'the King of Bourges'
for that was your only domain.  If you can bring about such a plan, I
say you will be known as 'Charles the Victorious."  " The king smiled.

"It may be, it may be.  Yet here I am shut up in Paris like a bird
in a cage, and at this rate few of us will see the spring.  Can you
destroy this beast?"

"May I never know God's forgiveness if within a month he ever
feels heat or cold again."

"Then for one month you are my high constable.  Give what orders
you will."

Boisselier's first order was to seal the river gate by which the
wolves had entered the city.  His next was that no one, man, woman or
child, was to leave the city for any purpose whatsoever.  His third was
that nothing was to be thrown over the walls.

Two weeks the louvetier waited.  Meanwhile, the packs grew
increasingly desperate.  For the first time, if a wolf became too weak
to defend itself, the others would tear it to pieces.  This showed that
the packs were starving indeed, for it was their custom to bring food
to an injured comrade and do all they could to help one in trouble.

The watchers on the walls observed this and told each other that
wolves were ruthless even to their own kind, forgetting that
cannibalism was not infrequent in the starving city.

From the walls, the Count de Richemont and Boisselier stood
watching the gray forms.  Courtaud was easily distinguished by his
great size and short tail.  As usual, Silver was with him.

"He has made many orphans," remarked the count.

"Many an entrail has been strewn and many a brain scattered by
him."

"The same is true of you and your corcheurs," remarked Boisselier.

"True.  But what would you?  If God Himself were a man-at-arms, He
would be a cutthroat.  But old Short-Tail has gone too far.  How shall
we get rid of the wolves, louvetier?  Tell me the secret and I will
give you whatever you wish."

"Stop the wars."

The count laughed.  "I would enrich you, not spoil my honor," and
he walked away.

At the end of two weeks, Boisselier ordered a number of the few
remaining beeves in Paris to be brought to the Parvis and there
butchered.  The entrails were left in the square and all streets were
blocked except the one leading to the water gate.  The gate was raised
a few feet that evening.

No wolves came that night nor the second.  On the third, the smell
of the meat was too much for them.  A few crept in, fed, and then stole
out again.  Boisseller let them go.

The next night there were more, and still more on the fifth night.

Now Boisselier ordered twenty beeves slaughtered in the Parvis.

Even humans could smell the strong odor of blood and fresh meat.

That night, scores of wolves passed under the lifted gate and
feasted on the carcasses.  There still remained the question, was
Courtaud among them?

In the dark, no one could tell.

Boisselier gave the order to lower the water gate.  He himself
made sure all streets leading into the Parvis were blocked.  There were
twenty-one churches overlooking the square as well as the Hotel Dieu.

Boisselier stationed archers in all of them.  He took up his own
position in the Hotel.

When dawn came, the Parvis was packed with the slinking gray
forms.  People watching from rooftops chattered like magpies.  As
usual, when the wolves found themselves trapped, they lost all spirit.

A child could have killed them.

Boisselier saw Silver first.  The female's white pelt made her
stand out.  She was crouched by a fountain with a broad basin supported
by four pillars.  Looking more carefully, the louvetier saw the wolf
king squatting under the basin.

When it was fully light, Boisselier turned to his piqueur and
said, "Sound 'Aux alviers."  " The piqueur raised his horn and blew the
signal, which meant to man the ramparts.  The archers bent their bows
and the arrow storm poured down on the helpless animals.

Many ran for a long time before bleeding to death from the
broadheads that sliced through veins and arteries.  When Silver was
struck, she refused to run and died beside Courtaud.

The wolf king was safe from arrows, shielded by the basin.  When
there were no more wolves left alive in the Parvis, Boisselier drew his
Poltevin dagger and told the piqueur, "I am going down to him."

"Nay, my lord, loose the alaunts on him or at the least, if go you
must!  go in armor.  Better yet, remain here and let the men-at-arms
finish him."

"Few of my calling die in bed.  I would hold myself a coward to
stay here."

"Then guard your gullet, my lord."

Boisseller descended the stairs and the door was opened for him.

Slowly he walked across the Parvis, now littered wit ' h the
carcasses of the slain beeves and the dead wolves.

Courtaud watched him but did not move.

"Come, wolf king, you who know so well how to kill should also
know how to die," Boisselier told him.  Still Courtaud did not move.

"Beast, you will kill no more."

The louvetier approached the quiet animal, his daffier held point
foremost before him.

The wolf king had been lying with eyes wide open, a sure sign of
fear.  Boisselier was confident he would make no resistance to the
steel.  A pure-bred wolf probably would not have done so, but Courtaud
was part alaunt.  Abruptly, Boisseller saw the eyes narrow to slits and
the tail stiffen and rise.  He knew what that meant, but before he
could recover himself Courtaud was on him.  For the last time, Courtaud
was able to clamp on his famous head grip.  As his jaws locked,
Boisselier stabbed him.  Man and beast fell dead together, the black
patch over the louvetier's eye slipping off.  After all, there was no
further need for it: Boisselier's oath had been fulfilled.

The siege of Paris was over.

From the cathedral, the choir set up aTe Deum.

An enterprising bourgeois had two men hoist Courtaud's heavy body
into a barrow, propped open the mouth to make him look more terrible,
and took the corpse through the streets of the city, charging ten
francs to anyone who wished to touch the famous monster.  Silver was
flayed and her rich, white pelt sold to a wealthy lady for a large sum.

Boisseller would not have approved of that had he still been
alive.  He would have wanted them to be buried together.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Daniel P. Mannix, who has been writing nature
books for fifty years, was born on the Philadelphia Main Line in 1911.

After a year at the United States Naval Academy, he graduated from
the University of Pennsylvania and since then has traveled in Mexico,
Alaska, Europe, Africa, India, and the Middle East on assignment from
magazines and publishers.  He first heard of Courtaud while stag
hunting with hounds in France and did his research at the Biblioth'eque
Nationale and the Saint-Hubert Club de France.  Daniel P.

Mannix has been awarded the Dutton Animal Book Award (1967), the
Athenaeum Medal (1967), the Safari Club Gold Medal (1971), and the
citation of the American Academy of Arts and Letters (1973) for his
animal books.