Philippa Gregory - Changeling

The beast flinched back from the bread as it fell, but then caught the scent of it and leaned forwards. ‘Go on,’ Freize whispered encouragingly. ‘Eat up. Give it a try. You might like it.’

The beast sniffed cautiously at the bread and then slunk forwards, first its big front paws, one at a time, and then its whole body, towards the food. It sniffed, and then licked it, and then gobbled it down in one quick hungry movement. Then it sat like a sphinx and looked at Freize.

‘Nice,’ Freize said encouragingly. ‘Like some more?’

The animal watched him as Freize took a small bite, ate it with relish, and then once again broke off a morsel and threw it towards the beast. This time it did not flinch but followed the arc of the throw keenly, and went at once to where the bread landed, in the middle of the arena, coming closer all the time to Freize, leaning over the wall.

It gobbled up the bread without hesitation and then sat on its haunches, looking at Freize, clearly waiting for more.

‘That’s good,’ Freize said, using the same gentle voice. ‘Now come a little bit closer.’ He dropped the last piece of bread very near to his own position, but the werewolf did not dare come so close. It yearned towards the sweet-smelling bread and jam, but it shrank back from Freize, though he stood very still and whispered encouraging words.

‘Very well,’ he said softly. ‘You’ll come closer for your dinner later, I don’t doubt,’ and he stepped down from the platform and found Ishraq had been watching him from the doorway of the inn.

‘Why are you feeding him like that?’ she asked.

Freize shrugged. ‘Wanted to see him properly,’ he said. ‘I suppose I just thought I’d see if he liked bread and jam.’

‘Everyone else hates him,’ she observed. ‘They are planning his execution in two nights’ time. Yet you feed him bread and jam.’

‘Poor beast,’ he said. ‘I doubt he wanted to be a werewolf. It must have just come over him. And now he’s to die for it. It doesn’t seem fair.’

He was rewarded with a quick smile. ‘It isn’t fair,’ she said. ‘And you are right – perhaps it is just his nature. He may be just a different sort of beast from any other that we have seen. Like a changeling: one who does not belong where he happens to be.’

‘And we don’t live in a world that likes difference,’ Freize observed.

‘Now that’s true,’ said the girl who had been different from all the others from birth with her dark skin and her dark slanting eyes.

‘Now then,’ said Freize, sliding his arm around Ishraq’s waist. ‘You’re a kind-hearted girl. What about a kiss?’

She stood quite still, neither yielding to his gentle pressure nor pulling away. Her stillness was more off-putting than if she had jumped and squealed. She stood like a statue and Freize stood still beside her, making no progress and rather feeling that he wanted to take his arm away, but that he could not now do so.

‘You had better let me go at once,’ she said in a very quiet even voice. ‘Freize, I am warning you fairly enough. Let me go; or it will be the worse for you.’

He attempted a confident laugh. It didn’t come out very confident. ‘What would you do?’ he asked. ‘Beat me? I’d take having my ears boxed from a lass like you with pleasure. I will make you an offer: box my ears and then kiss me better!’

‘I will throw you to the ground,’ she said with a quiet determination. ‘And it will hurt, and you will feel like a fool.’

He tightened his grip at once, rising to the challenge. ‘Ah, pretty maid, you should never threaten what you can’t do,’ he chuckled, and put his other hand under her chin to turn up her face for a kiss.

It all happened so fast that he did not know how it had been done. One moment he had his arm around her waist and was bending to kiss her, the next she had used that arm to spin him around, grabbed him, and he was tipped flat on his back on the hard cobbles of the muddy yard, his head ringing from the fall, and she was at the open doorway of the inn.

‘Actually, I never threaten what I can’t do,’ she said, hardly out of breath. ‘And you had better remember never to touch me without my consent.’

Freize sat up, got to his feet, brushed down his coat and his breeches, shook his dizzy head. When he looked up again, she was gone.

The kitchen lad toiled up the stairs carrying buckets of hot water, to be met at the door of the women’s room by either Ishraq or Isolde who took the buckets and poured them into the bath that they had set before the fire in their bedroom. It was a big wooden tub, half of a wine barrel, and Ishraq had lined it with a sheet and poured in some scented oil. They closed and bolted the door on the boy, undressed, and got into the steaming water. Gently, Isolde sponged Ishraq’s bruised shoulder and forehead, and then turned her around and tipped back her head to wash her black hair.

The firelight glowed on their wet gleaming skin and the girls talked quietly together, revelling in the steaming hot water, and the flickering warmth of the fire. Isolde combed Ishraq’s thick dark hair with oils, and then pinned it on top of her head. ‘Will you wash mine?’ she asked, and turned so that Ishraq could soap her back and shoulders and wash her tangled golden hair.

‘I feel as if all the dirt of the road is in my skin,’ she said, as she took a handful of salt from the dish beside the bath, and rubbed it with oil in her hands and then spread it along her arms.

‘You certainly have a small forest in your hair,’ Ishraq said, pulling out little twigs and leaves.

‘Oh, take it out!’ Isolde exclaimed. ‘Comb it through, I want it completely clean. I was going to wear my hair down tonight.’

‘Curled on your shoulders?’ Ishraq asked, and pulled a ringlet.

‘I suppose I can wear my hair as I please,’ Isolde said, flicking her head. ‘I suppose it is nobody’s business but mine, how I wear my hair.’

‘Oh, for sure,’ Ishraq agreed with her. ‘And surely the inquirer has no interest in whether your hair is curled and clean and spread over your shoulders or pinned up under your veil.’

‘He is sworn to the Church, as am I,’ Isolde said.

‘Your oaths were forced at the time, and are as nothing now; and for all I know his oaths are the same,’ Ishraq said roundly.

Isolde turned and looked at her, soapsuds running down her naked back. ‘He is sworn to the Church,’ she repeated hesitantly.

‘He was put into the Church when he was a child, before he knew what was being promised. But now he is a man, and he looks at you as if he would be a free man.’

Isolde’s colour rose from the level of the water, slowly to her damp forehead. ‘He looks at me?’

‘You know he does.’

‘He looks at me . . .’

‘With desire.’

‘You can’t say that,’ she said, in instant denial.

‘I do say it . . .’ Ishraq insisted.

‘Well, don’t . . .’

In the yard outside, Luca had gone out to take one last look at the werewolf before dinner. Standing on the platform with his back to the inn, he suddenly realised he could see the girls in their bathtub as a reflection in the window opposite. At once he knew he should look away, more than that, he should go immediately into the inn without glancing upwards again. He knew that the image of the two beautiful girls, naked together in their bath, would burn into his mind like a brand, and that he would never be able to forget the sight of them: Ishraq twisting one of Isolde’s blonde ringlets in her brown fingers, stroking a salve into each curl and pinning it up then gently sponging soap onto her pearly back. Luca froze, quite unable to look away, knowing he was committing an unforgivable trespass in spying on them, knowing that he was committing a terrible insult to them and worse, a venal sin, and, finally, as he jumped down from the platform and blundered into the inn, knowing that he had fallen far beyond liking, respect and interest for Isolde – he was burning up with desire for her.