Philippa Gregory - Changeling

Ishraq came out of the inn to find Freize, reaching down into the bear pit to give the beast a morsel of bread and cheese.

‘They are certain to kill it,’ she said. ‘They have not come for a trial; they have come to see it die.’

‘I know,’ he nodded.

‘Whatever sort of beast it is, I doubt that it is a werewolf.’

He shrugged. ‘Not having seen one before, I couldn’t say. But this is an animal which seeks contact with humans, it’s not a killer like a wolf, it’s more companionable than that. Like a dog in its willingness to come close, like a horse in its shy pride, like a cat in its indifference. I don’t know what sort of beast it is. But I would put my year’s wages on it being an endearing beast, a loving beast, a loyal beast. It’s a beast that can learn, it’s a beast that can change its ways.’

‘They’re not going to spare it on my word or yours,’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘Not on any word from either of us. Nobody listens to the unimportant. But the little lord might save it.’

‘He’s got the bishop against him, and the bishop’s scholars.’

‘Would your lady speak up for it?’

She shrugged. ‘Who ever listens to a woman?’

‘No man of any sense,’ he replied instantly and was pleased to see the gleam of her smile.

She looked down at the beast. It looked up at her and its ugly truncated face seemed almost human. ‘Poor beast,’ she said.

‘If it was a fairytale you could kiss it,’ Freize volunteered. ‘You could bend down and kiss it and it would be a prince. Love can make miracles with beasts, so they say. But no! Forgive me, I remember now, that you don’t kiss. Indeed, you throw a good man down in the mud for even thinking that you might.’

She did not respond to his teasing, but for a moment she looked very thoughtful. ‘You know, you’re right. Only love can save it,’ she said. ‘That is what you have been showing from the moment you first saw it. Love.’

‘I wouldn’t say that I. . .’ Freize started, but in that moment she was gone.

In a very little while, the head of the village, Mr Miller, hammered at the gate of the inn and Freize and the inn servant opened the great double doors to the stable yard. The villagers flooded in and took their places on the tables that surrounded the outer wall of the arena, just as they would for a bear baiting. The men brought strong ale with them, and their wives sipped from their cups, laughing and smiling. The young men of the village came with their sweethearts, and the cook in the kitchen sold little cakes and pies out of the kitchen door, while the maids ran around the stable yard selling mulled ale and wine. It was an execution and a party: both at once.

Ishraq saw Sara Fairley arrive, a great basket of wolfsbane in her arms, and her husband followed behind, leading their donkey loaded with the herb. They tied the donkey in the archway and came into the yard, their boy with his usual sprig of wolfsbane in his hat.

‘You came,’ Isolde said warmly, stepping forwards. ‘I am glad that you are here. I am glad that you felt you could come.’

‘My husband thought that we should,’ Sara replied, her face very pale. ‘He thought it would satisfy me to see the beast dead at last. And everyone else is here. I could not let the village gather without me, they shared my sorrow. They want to see the end of the story.’

‘I am glad you came,’ Isolde repeated. The woman clambered up on the trestle table beside Ishraq, and Isolde followed her.

‘You have the arrowhead?’ the woman asked Ishraq. ‘You are going to shoot it?’

Without a word, the young woman nodded and showed her the longbow and the silver-tipped arrow.

‘You can hit it from here?’

‘Without fail,’ Ishraq said grimly. ‘If he turns into a wolf, then the inquirer will see him turn, he will tell me to kill him, and I will do so. But I think he is not a wolf, nor anything like a wolf, not a werewolf nor any animal that we know.’

‘If we don’t know what it is, and can’t tell what it is, it’s better dead,’ the man said firmly, but Sara Fairley looked from the beast to the silver arrowhead and gave a little shiver. Ishraq gazed steadily at her and Isolde put her hand over the woman’s trembling fingers. ‘Don’t you want the beast dead?’ Isolde asked her.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know for sure if it took my child, I don’t know for sure if it is the monster that everyone says. And there is something about it that moves me to pity.’ She looked at the two young women. ‘You will think me a fool; but I am sorry for it,’ she said.

She was still speaking as the doors of the inn opened and Luca, Brother Peter and the bishop, the scholars, and the priests came out. Isolde and Ishraq exchanged one urgent glance. ‘I’ll tell him,’ Isolde said swiftly and jumped down from the stand and made her way to the door of the inn, pushing through the crowd to get to Luca.

‘Is it near to midnight?’ the bishop asked.

‘I have ordered the church bell to be tolled on the hour,’ one of the priests replied.

The bishop inclined his head to Luca. ‘How are you going to examine the supposed werewolf?’ he asked.

‘I thought I would wait till midnight, and watch it,’ Luca said. ‘If it changes into a wolf we will clearly be able to see it. Perhaps we should douse the torches so that the beast can feel the full effect of the moon.’

‘I agree. Put out the torches!’ the bishop ordered.

As soon as the darkness drowned the yard, everyone was silent, as if fearful of what they were doing. The women murmured and crossed themselves, and the younger children clung to their mothers’ skirts. One of them whimpered quietly.

‘I can’t even see it,’ someone complained.

‘No, there it is!’

The beast had shrunk back into its usual spot as the yard had filled with noisy people; now, in the darkness it was hard to see, its dark mane against the dark wood of the bear-pit wall, its dark skin concealed against the mud of the earth floor. People blinked and rubbed their eyes, waiting for the dazzle of the torches to wear off, and then Mr Miller said, ‘He’s moving!’

The beast had risen to its four feet and was looking around, swinging his head as if fearful that danger was coming but not knowing what was about to happen. There was a whisper like a cursing wind that ran around the arena as everyone saw him move, and most men swore that he should be killed at once. Freize saw people feeling for the cobbles they had tucked into their pockets, and knew that they would stone the beast to death.

Isolde got to Luca’s side and touched his arm; he leaned his head to listen. ‘Don’t kill the beast,’ she whispered to him.

At the side of the arena, Freize exchanged one apprehensive look with Ishraq, saw the gleam of the silver arrowhead and her steady hand on the bow, and then turned his gaze back to the beast. ‘Now gently,’ he said, but it could not hear his voice above the low curses that rumbled around it, and it pulled back its head and hunched its shoulders as if it was afraid.

Slowly, ominously, as if announcing a death, the church bell started to toll. The beast flinched at the noise, shaking its mane as if the sonorous clang was echoing in its head. Someone laughed abruptly, but the voice was sharp with fear. Everyone was watching as the final notes of the midnight bell died on the air and the full moon, bright as a cold sun, rose slowly over the roof of the inn and shone down on the beast as it stood at bay, not moving, sweating in its terror.