Christopher Buehlman - Between Two Fires

“Perhaps the girl will sing,” the priest said.

“I don’t feel like it,” she said in a nasal little mew. She was getting sick. She had no fever, but she sniffled and complained of an ache near her hips. She had been in enough cold and wet that neither man suspected her of plague. “But what kind of music would you like to hear if you could choose?” she asked Père Matthieu.

“Oh. A lute. Most certainly a lute. And you, sir knight?”

“A lute? That’s court music. That’s for troubadours to make wives spread their legs when their husbands are at war.”

“I find it very pretty. If the player is skillful. It takes more training to master the lute, don’t you agree?”

“Than what?”

“A drum, for example. Or a cornemuse.”

“That’s what I’d like to hear. A drum and a cornemuse.”

“Soldiers’ music. That’s for making husbands leave their wives behind for troubadours.”

“Ha!”

As night came on, they fell to telling stories to pass the time.

The priest began, telling the story of a knight who was actually a werewolf, but a very considerate one who removed himself into the forest to change his skin. His wife, however, betrayed him by hiding his clothes so he could not change back; in this way, her husband was thought to have disappeared and she was able to marry her lover.

“Go on,” Thomas said. “Finish it.”

“It is finished.”

“The hell it is.”

“Is it not?”

“No, it is not. You only told half of it.”

“It’s all I know.”

“What the hell kind of story is that? The adulterous wife wins out? The noble werewolf is deceived and banished?”

“Forgive me if I gave offense. Perhaps you should tell one now to instruct me in how these things are properly done.”

“Imagine it’s a sermon. A good story has a lesson. What’s the lesson here? Whores triumph?”

“I don’t know,” the priest said, fidgeting. “Maybe. Something about the deceiving nature of woman.”

Thomas stared intently at the priest in the firelight, and it was difficult for him to tell whether Thomas was being jocular or actually growing angry.

“That explains it, then,” he said. “They tell priests stories about how bad women are so they won’t fuck them.”

“It’s hardly working. I’m the only priest I know without an acknowledged mistress in his village.”

Now Thomas laughed and the priest relaxed.

“I know how the story ends,” the girl said.

“Oh?”

“Father used to tell it.”

“Well, let’s hear it,” said Thomas.

“The knight went into the woods as a beast,” Delphine said, and here she made the sound of a beast. “And one day the king and his hunting party found him. They were about to slay him, but then the big wolf bowed to the king.”

“I like it better already,” Thomas said, nudging the priest.

“Now the king decided to make a pet of him, and he took him home to the castle. Everyone came to marvel at the beast, who was so tame and courtly. Until one day the wife and the knight came…wait, I forgot something.”

“Are you sure you know this story?” the priest said, but Thomas nudged him again, a bit harder.

“Yes,” she said gravely, looking at Père Matthieu until he held his palms up in acquiescence. She sneezed, and started again.

“When the king found the beast, the knight who had married his wife was there, and the beast growled at him.”

She growled and gnashed her teeth, causing both men to laugh.

“They wanted to kill it, and that’s when it went up and licked the king’s hand. So, now we are back at the castle. And when the wife and the bad knight come in, the beast bites her nose…”

Delphine trailed off and the priest knew what she was beginning to remember, so he clapped his hands twice, startling her.

“The story, the story,” he said. She nodded and blinked her tears away, wiping at them with her sleeve and snuffling.

“It bites her. He bites her. The knight.”

“Yes, I think we have it.”

“And they want to kill it again, but the king’s wise counselor says not to.”

“Where do they find these wise counselors in stories?” Thomas said, “for I’ve never met a king who let one speak.”

“So they make the wife tell them why it bit her.”

“I definitely like this version better. Whore wife bitten and tortured,” Thomas said.

“And the king commands the bad knight to bring the good knight’s clothes. Wait…he’s wearing them. So he just takes them off.”

“Now he’s naked.”

“I guess so. Yes.”

“Is it cold in this castle?”

“Of course,” she said, very seriously. “All castles are cold.”

“Exactly how many castles have you been in?”

“I haven’t been in boats, but I know they have sails.”

“Ha! There’s your lawyer father. I knew he’d come visit.”

She sighed sharply in exasperation.

“Do you want to hear this?” she said.

“So we have a shivering knight with a shrinking bitte .”

Both of them looked reproachfully at Thomas.

“Do you want me to finish? Because I can’t when you keep interrupting me to show how clever you are.”

“Ooooooh,” Thomas said. “I stand rebuked. So the naked knight.”

“They give him a robe.”

“So the knight with the robe.”

“The knight is not important now.”

“So the unimportant knight.”

Delphine got up and walked away, folding her arms. Both men, giggling like boys at her irritation, now implored her to come back.

“Sweet Delphine, tell us the story!”

“Don’t take on so! The story, the story!”

At length she took her place again but pointed her small finger at Thomas. He put his hand over his mouth.

“So the king laid out the clothes for the beast, but it just sniffed them and sat down.”

Thomas removed his hand and said, “Did it…?” but she cut him off with a “Ssst!” and pointed her finger again. He replaced his hand.

“The wise counselor said that the knight was ashamed to change in front of them. So they put the beast in a bedroom with the clothes. He went in on four legs and came out on two.”

They both looked at her expectantly.

“What?” she said.

“Finish it,” Thomas said.

“I did. He became a man again.”

“What about the bastard knight and the whore wife? Were they killed?”

“If you like.”

“What do you mean, ‘if I like’? It happened or it didn’t.”

“It’s just a story.”

“Yes, and it has an ending.”

“I told you the ending.”

“But we still have loose ends.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll finish it to your tastes. The knight takes his sword and cuts the heads off both of them. Blood goes everywhere. Blood, blood, blood. Then he cuts the head off the king, too. Bloody blood-blood. And he puts the crown on his own head, so he’s king. And the wise counselor gives him his pretty daughter to marry, even though she’s only fifteen years old, and they have lots of babies, and then die and go to Heaven. How do you like that, Sir Thomas?”

He clapped his hands and hooted.

“Now that’s a cunting story!” he said.

“Uh…I think we have a visitor,” the priest said, pointing at the barn window, where a pair of eyes peeked at them below a mane of tangled, wet hair knotted with grass.

Thomas threw a log from the fire, and it hit the wall next to the window, showering sparks.

“Go on!” he shouted, reaching for his sword, but the eyes just blinked at him. He got up, and the face disappeared; they saw the naked old man run by the door, looking wildly in at them.

“This is MY BARN!” he said, outraged, and ran into the rain again.