Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

‘Because you cursed your father and mock him now,’ said one.

‘Because you dishonoured the Wormlord in death,’ said the other.

‘Get away with you,’ said Alfric. ‘Or I’ll come down and thrash you thoroughly.’

‘Oh, it’s you who’ll be thrashed,’ said one of the drunks. ‘The Knights themselves will do it when they get back from the funeral.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Alfric steadily. Then, unable to keep from boasting: ‘I’ve a speech to make at that funeral. It may change their minds.’

‘Change their minds?’ said one drunk.

‘A speech?’ said the other.

‘They won’t hear it from here, you know,’ said the other.

Then both fell about laughing.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Alfric.

Then he guessed.

And was shocked by fear.

He shuddered, as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped all over him.

He left the window and pounded downstairs. He threw open the door and stalked forth to interrogate the drunken yokels. And when he had finished with them he went to the Green Cricket to hire himself a horse. And on the way out of Galsh Ebrek, he stopped at the Stanch Gates to interrogate the guards.

It was true.

The worst had happened.

Guignol Grangalet had been around the town, telling all and sundry that Alfric Danbrog had cursed his father and his grandfather both, and was keeping to his house in insolence, refusing to attend the funeral that was being held by the seashore that very night.

‘Stroth!’ said Alfric.

‘Don’t talk so harsh,’ said one of the guards. ‘You’ll upset your horse. Would your horse like an apple? Would you like to eat, horsey my darling?’

Then, to Alfric’s surprise, the guard produced a wizened old apple and fed it to the horse, which munched it down greedily. At this end of the cold weather, all the horses of the city were on short commons, with the last of the hay close to running out and precious little else for them to eat.

‘My horse thanks you for your kindness,’ said Alfric coldly. ‘And now I must go.’

Then he set off for the shore.

He was consumed by fury.

How dare they!

How dare they stoop so low!

And — what could he do to repair the damage?

Guignol Grangalet was a sober citizen, a man of impeccable reputation. Ninety-nine people in a hundred would believe him. And Alfric? Why, many people feared him to be a werewolf, because his father had long been thought to be such a shape-changer; and, besides, he was a banker, and hence had lived most of his life at a remove from his peers; and ‘Pox!’said Alfric. '

One of the Bank’s teachings came to him, but late, far too late:

‘First secure your lines of intelligence.’

Alfric should have had a spy in Saxo Pall. Who? It mattered not. A guard, a serving maid, a slave who went round collecting night soil. Anyone, anyone. Just one set of ears in the castle might have saved the day for him. He should have known where his father’s body was, and when the funeral was.

And now ‘Faster, blast you!’ said Alfric to his horse.

But the beast had its limits, and all Alfric’s strength of will could not extend them, and long before he got to the seashore he started to meet Knights returning from the bonfire.

‘So!’ said one, recognizing him. ‘Danbrog! You repent of your insolence, do you?’

‘I’ve nothing to repent of,’ said Alfric defiantly. ‘Guignol Grangalet told me the funeral was scheduled for the morrow. He lied as to my reaction.’

‘You call him a liar, do you?’

‘That I do,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ll say as much in public. If he wants to make a fight of it, then that’s fine by me.’

‘If you make a fight of it,’ said the Knight grimly, ‘you may well find that friend Grangalet has heroes to champion him.’

Then rode on, without listening to Alfric’s protestations any further.

Other Knights he stopped. Some, after listening to his explanations, were prepared to allow that there might have been a misunderstanding between Alfric and Grangalet.

‘Perhaps you were drunk,’ said one of them. ‘You sound a little drunk at the moment, if truth be told.’

But none would countenance the idea that Grangalet had deliberately deceived Alfric, or that Grangalet had wilfully besmirched Alfric’s reputation. The thought was too monstrous to be believable.

‘Drunk!’ said Alfric to himself. ‘So that’s what they’ll think, is it?’

Well, yes.

Once Alfric had worked long and hard at salvaging his reputation, the Knights of Galsh Ebrek might be prepared to forgive him for saying foolish things while drunk. That was the very best he could hope for.

And even to achieve that outcome would take time.

And time was of the essence.

‘I don’t have time,’ said Alfric.

At last, Alfric reached the shores of the Winter Sea, and found the funeral was at an end. All the Knights had departed. A huge pyre still smouldered in the dunes; and, by the firelight, Alfric saw the hoofmarks and footprints which spoke of a great gathering. Doubtless, speeches had been made and hearts hardened; doubtless, hard words had been said and curses had been heaped on his throat.

‘She plays hard,’ said Alfric bitterly, speaking of Ursula Major.

But what had he expected?

There had never been any love lost between the two of them.

But whose was the mind which had done the necessary malicious scheming? Who precisely had cooked up Grangalet’s breath-taking untruths? Who had the daring, the wit? Who was ruthless enough? Not Ursula herself, surely; for she was a woman of much beauty but little mind.

‘I’ll find out,’ said Alfric grimly. ‘I’ll find out. Then take revenge.’

Right then and there, he felt every bit the werewolf, a bloody outcast full of hate, rapacious and desperate, bent for revenge upon humankind. He sat down by the smouldering embers' of the fire and began to brood upon his misery.

Right now, Guignol Grangalet…

Right now, Grangalet was in Galsh Ebrek.

— And what would I do if I were Grangalet?

Belatedly, Alfric started to think.

— If I were Grangalet, I’d know young Danbrog had gone riding. I’d know he’d speak to as many Knights as he could. So I’d place myself or my ears at the Stanch Gates to meet the Knights as they returned to Galsh Ebrek. Myself would be best, for then I could meet truth with fresh lies.

— Stroth!

Alfric swore thus, then swore again. He began to suspect manoeuvres within manoeuvres. How had those men come to be outside his house? Had they come there spontaneously? Or had they been paid to go there and throw a brick through his window? And had they really been as drunk as they seemed?

‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said Alfric. ‘Maybe he planned this too!’

Whatever Guignol Grangalet had planned, the outcome was all in his favour. Here sat Alfric Danbrog by the ruins of a big bonfire, leagues away from Galsh Ebrek. Meanwhile, back in the city, Grangalet was free to tell, retell and modify his lies, to soothe doubts and extract pledges of loyalty and allegiance, to tell fresh lies, distribute forged documents, cast doubts upon Alfric’s part in the death of Herself, and do anything else he wished to do to secure Ursula Major’s position.

‘How are you feeling, horse?’ said Alfric, turning to his noble steed. ‘I hope you’re feeling fit and hearty, because we’ve a good long ride ahead of us.’

Then Alfric mounted up, intending to gallop back to Galsh Ebrek and plunge into the heart of the city’s turbulent politics.

But his horse gently subsided beneath him.

‘Get up!’ said Alfric, kicking the beast.

But kicking was no good, for the thing was dead.