Beauty and the Werewolf (20 page)

“Or hers,” Granny reminded her. “It's a perfectly reasonable motive for a woman, too, and women are exceptionally good at hiding it when they come into power. Right now, that is the line of pursuit that Elena and I are taking. It means a lot of tedious work, but we are pursuing that line first, not only because it seems the most likely, but because it is the one sort of curse that
would
have an infection component to it—revenge-curses are always blood-curses. So if you do make the change in three days, we'll be that much further along in finding the way to undo it all. And if you don't become a wolf, it will mean it is less likely that it is a revenge-curse.”

She grasped at that. “So you
can
undo it!”

“Probably. We just have to know who set it and get an idea of how it was set.” Granny reached out and patted her hand. “It's only the true werewolf infection that we can control, but not cure, and only a god-curse, or one set by a person now dead, that we can't undo. So long as the mortal is still alive, anything a mortal has cast, a Godmother can undo, eventually.”

“What if it's someone who stood to gain?” she asked. “The Godmother spoke to me about that—she speculated it was someone who was trying to work out how to do this on more prominent people, and Sebastian was the first experiment. Does that count?”

“I should think it would—but the fact that no one else has turned up with this cast on him argues against personal gain—as in, discovering a way to make someone a lycanthrope and profiting by it.” Granny shook her head. “To be honest, ‘personal gain' out of Sebastian or his property does not seem in the least likely to us. There's no one with a strong claim to the Dukedom, and nobody has suggested Sebastian is incompetent, as they surely would have, if they
wanted this land. This is an insignificant Dukedom—and so far, no one actually
has
gained anything from incapacitating Sebastian. Still, it doesn't pay to rule it out, and that is where you come in.”

“Me?” Bella wasn't sure how to react to that. “But what can I do?”

“The ‘gain' might not be the obvious thing. Considering the title and the lands, the next in line seems uninterested. It might be something as subtle as the curse itself. Perhaps Sebastian was a rival for some choice heiress. Perhaps someone considered him a magical threat. Perhaps his influence was rising at Court.” Granny shrugged. “You are here, with him, and in the best position to draw him out. Get him to talk about the past before he changed. What he can tell you might hold clues to both the ‘revenge' motive and the ‘personal gain' motive.” She sighed. “The lad is charming, but although he is very observant, when it comes to figuring out that someone might have a hidden agenda he is as dense as a stone. You, on the other hand, have been negotiating the dangerous waters your stepmother tries to swim in, and keeping her and the twins off the sharp rocks for some time now. I have great confidence that if there is anything there to be spotted, you will do so.”

Privately, Bella was far from certain of
that.
But that was when Granny gave her a little sign of warning, and switched to the discussion of the things she would be sending Bella, and the various tinctures and potions and essences that she expected Bella to make, and there was no chance to discuss it all further.

At Granny's suggestion they moved the discussion out of the stillroom. “I promised to show you something,” Granny reminded her. “I don't know how much relevance this is going to have, but—well, who knows. You might learn something.” With those enigmatic words, it was Granny who led the way into part of the Manor that Bella hadn't been to before. Eventually she stopped at one of those
dead-end antechambers that had two doors opening into it. Granny opened the right-hand one first.

The room was dark, curtains drawn, and it smelled as if it hadn't been opened in a long time. Granny went to the window and pulled the curtains aside.

This was clearly the room—or suite—of a woman. It looked as if it was still lived in; there was not even any dust.

“This was the Duchess's suite,” Granny announced. “Sebastian's mother. She was only twenty-three when she died, and neither she nor the Old Duke were much interested in Court. The other suite was the Duke's.”

“Sebastian didn't take over his father's rooms….” That was interesting.

“Well, now that you know they're here, you might find something that has a bearing on the curse. I'd look here before I looked in the Duke's room—the old fellow wasn't much for introspection…or, for that matter, observation.” Granny shook her head. “Lucky for Sebastian, he admired in his son what he didn't have himself—intelligence, cleverness, thoughtfulness. All too often, that's not the case.”

“Do you think Sebastian would mind if I went looking in here— Oh.” Granny's wry expression told her what she should have thought of. “I shouldn't tell him.”

“For all we know, whoever set the curse has some way of spying on him, and what you tell him, the spy could learn.” Granny gave her ear a mock cuff. “You need to start thinking like a sly old woman, girl. Time for you to start exercising your guile. Assume the enemy is either here, or has a way of knowing what is going on here.”

“Yes, Granny,” Bella promised. Well, it wasn't as if she wasn't used to practicing guile. How much had she kept from Genevieve?

“All right, then. Time for me to be off. Keep your chin up, girl. No matter what, your old Granny is looking out for you.” The simple words gave Bella a measure of comfort; the Godmother might think of her plight as trivial compared to the fate of Kingdoms—and it was!—but Granny would put Bella first. And in a fight against almost anything, Bella would bet on Granny.

Bella and Sapphire saw her to the gate. “How are you going to get back?” Bella worried. “It's a long way from here to your cottage—”

But Granny just chuckled. “You'll see,” she said enigmatically.

And when they reached the gate, to Bella's astonishment, there was a sled, nicely appointed with plenty of fur robes and blankets, with the ugliest little horse she had ever seen in her life harnessed to it. There were no reins, and that alone would have told her that this whole rig was somehow magical, even without the horse turning his head to give her an obvious wink. Sapphire helped the old woman into it and tucked the furs around her. Granny chuckled. “It's blessed useful to be a Godmother's friend sometimes.”

So it seemed, for as Bella watched the sled move off without any guidance from Granny at all, it seemed to disappear unnaturally fast down the road, as if the sled was going at a much faster pace and for a much longer distance than Bella knew was possible. It was such an unnerving sight that it made her insides feel a bit uneasy.

Mirror,
she thought, as she went inside.
This all definitely calls for the mirror.

The green-faced person in the mirror regarded her benignly. “I regret to say that the Godmother is busy at the moment—and lest you garner the impression that I am putting you off, let me assure you that her physical presence is required at a Royal Christening in order to avert what will certainly be a hideous curse. She has taken her hand mirror with her, and as soon as she speaks with me, I shall tell her of your request. I will ascertain if you are in the presence
of this mirror when she can reply to you, and if you are, you will hear this.”

A silvery bell tone broke the silence.

“Otherwise, please try when you next can.” The face smiled at her. She smiled tentatively back. Once you got used to the fact that it was green…

“She did instruct me to give you some advice. She suggests that you cultivate the Gamekeeper. Eric, I believe?”

“Cultivate the Gamekeeper? Why?” That seemed odd.

“Eric is older than Sebastian. He has also been in a unique position to observe matters within and without the Old Duke's household—neither a servant, nor an acknowledged family member. He may well have seen things that escaped the Old Duke's attention. He managed the affairs of the estate very well as Sebastian's Guardian, and has continued to do so as Sebastian's proxy, so he is scarcely the crude and unlettered Woodsman that he would like people to think that he is.” The green face raised an eloquent eyebrow. “The Godmother believes he can be an important ally for you, but it will take some skill to manage this.”

She bit her lip. Managing her stepmother and the twins was one thing. Their interests were limited, and as long as those interests were satisfied, it was relatively easy to get them to do what she wanted. Or rather, to refrain from doing what she
didn't
want them to do. But…

No, she was fairly certain he would see through any attempt to manipulate him.

“You know,” the face continued, giving her a very penetrating look, “he might just respond to the offer of friendship.”

She almost laughed out loud. Eric? That…rake? He would probably take any such offer as an invitation to her bed! Still, if the Godmother thought it would be a good idea…

“I'll try,” she said.

The face seemed satisfied. “As soon as your mutual circumstances allow, the Godmother
will
be happy to consult with you, mademoiselle. I pledge you that.”

Since that seemed to be all that could be said at the moment, she nodded and thanked him. The mirror clouded, then reflected only her face.

There was still time; she might actually catch Eric at the stable before he came looking for supper. She filled a basket with the sorts of things she thought he might want: syrup for sore throats and coughs; willow syrup for fever and headache; a different sort of liniment, one that warmed instead of cooling; salve for wounds; ointment for winter-cracked skin. She threw on her cloak and hurried down to the stable, and did indeed catch him just coming out.

“I wasn't sure you'd be at supper, so I wanted to be sure you got these things,” she said, handing the basket toward him. He took it, looking very much surprised, then pulled out a bottle and read the carefully printed label.

“Very useful,” he said, without any of his usual sarcasm. “Thank you.”

She shrugged. “I haven't labeled anything yet, and
I
know where everything is, but no one else does. I hate making out the labels; it's tedious. As bad as making out invitations.”

He laughed. “Well, thank you, because I was not planning on coming in to supper tonight. Too much to do. Three days to the full moon, and I'll be going right back out as soon as I get a bite to eat.”

“Is there any way I can help?” she asked, obeying an impulse she didn't quite understand.

He stared at her thoughtfully. “Can you shoot a crossbow?” he asked.

“I can look as though I can shoot a crossbow,” she replied.

“That might be enough. Yes, you can help. Mind, this will be hard riding, not fast, but over difficult terrain. That mule of yours will actually be ideal for such a rough patch. I'm going after someone who has been aggressively persistent in setting traps. I've destroyed them three times in a row and he hasn't given up. I expect an actual confrontation.” He eyed her speculatively. “I found and refurbished an astride saddle, and I would imagine that some of Sebastian's old clothing would fit you. Bundled up, you'll look enough like a man to be of some use, if only as a distraction. Me alone, they might attack. Two men…probably not, and even then their attention will be divided.” He tilted his head to one side. “Think you have the stomach for it?”

“I can try,” she said, as forthrightly as she could. “This isn't exactly anything I've done before.”

“Honest answer. Good. We'll try it in the afternoon. Tell your invisibles to round you up some riding boots and Sebastian's old hunting clothes from when he was about seventeen. Nobody ever throws anything away in this place.” He snorted.

She grimaced. “As well I know. The stillroom—”

“Looked like a mouse nest. Right, then. Be ready at dinner. That will be early enough. And thanks for this.” He raised the basket to her, and strode off.

She watched him go, then returned slowly to the shelter and warmth of the Manor.

Did I just manage to make an overture of friendship?
Maybe not friendship…cooperation, though, certainly.

And there had been nothing in his attitude to suggest he was going to try to take advantage of her.

Now, at least, anyway,
she thought, with just a touch of cynicism.
After— Well, we'll see, won't we?

THE HUNTING CLOTHES THAT SAPPHIRE HAD BROUGHT
to her—and somehow, though invisible, the Spirit Elemental had managed to convey absolute disapproval even as she helped Bella into them—were astonishingly comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that Bella found herself trying to think of ways that she could slip the outfit into her baggage when she returned home again—and into her wardrobe without her own servants knowing she had them. Scandalous, of course; a woman wearing men's clothing? No wonder Sapphire was appalled; this was worse than those dismayingly practical gowns she had brought with her. The hunting clothes were fundamentally identical to the outfits that Eric wore; definitely clothing made for rough weather and hard terrain.

She loved them. Completely loved them. Perhaps best was the freedom of movement the outfit granted her. It was a simple set of clothing: brown leather breeches that were somehow both strong and as soft as velvet, a shirt of some lightweight material that could not possibly be wool but was just as warm, over which she wore a sleeved tunic of the same leather as the breeches. No three or four petticoats, corset, corset cover, bloomers, stockings, garters, un
derdress, overdress…this was something that Sapphire really had not needed to “help” her into, but she hadn't liked to swat the servant's “hands” away.

Matching gloves lined with mink fur kept her hands warm, and if the riding boots were rather too big, three pairs of soft, thick stockings solved that little problem. And she wore a hooded coat lined in beaver rather than a cloak, which was infinitely more practical both on horseback and in the woods. Her hair had been tightly braided and coiled on the top of her head, then hidden under a peculiar sort of close-fitting cap, almost like a hood, that fastened under her chin. Like the sort of close-fitting cap or bonnet that one tied over a baby's head, only made of leather and lined with more mink fur. She had pulled the hood of her coat over that, and fastened it tightly at the throat with a strap and a toggle. Eric, of course, wore his peaked hunting hat, but she would never have been able to hide her hair under such a thing. Besides, she couldn't imagine how he kept his ears from freezing off under such inadequate protection.

Then came the matter of riding. She was not so used to riding that riding astride rather than aside felt all that peculiar—to be absolutely honest, the farther they went, the better it felt. The mule didn't seem affronted by the different shape of the saddle, either, nor the fact that her legs were on either side of it. She could actually grip the sides of the beast, rather than squeezing her legs desperately into the pommel and hoping she could stay on. Eric kept his horse moving briskly, and the mule kept up without any concern on her part.

It had been a gray and overcast morning, but the clouds were breaking up as they left. By the time they turned off the well-traveled track, the sky was cloudless, though the air seemed a good deal colder and she was glad of that fur-lined coat.

There was a crossbow in a sheath at the front of the saddle, and
a quiver of arrows beside it. She hoped she wouldn't have to bluff with it, but Eric had showed her how to pull and load it, and it was a great deal easier to handle than she had thought it would be. Provided, of course, she didn't fumble the arrow she was trying to load!

The change in her garb had wrought an odd sort of change in Eric; there was nothing at all in his manner now toward her that suggested
anything
sexual. There was nothing condescending, either. It was as if, in his mind, she actually had become the boy she was dressed as.

And that was curiously liberating.

He was calling her “Abel,” a deliberate transformation of “Bella,” which she thought was rather clever. This was certainly a side of Eric she had not seen before, and to tell the truth, she liked it.

“Abel, come up here,” he said, turning his head to look back down the trail at her. Obediently, she urged the mule up beside his horse. This was brutal country—the part of Sebastian's lands where the tin mines were, he had explained—rough hills thickly covered with trees and underbrush. Not much use for grazing, even for goats. The few farmers here scratched out such a precarious living in the valleys that according to Eric, their rents were a mere token—once a year, a quart of the truffles that were the only things that thrived here, or a month of labor on the roads. There were a few jobs for humans in the mines, but not many; the mines were owned and excavated by dwarves, who were so much better than humans at such things that there really was no point in competing with them. There was some logging, but the Dukes had been very careful about these forests; some overambitious logging had led to the loss of entire hillsides.

She saw as she reached his side that they had come to the top of a ridge that rose even higher to their left, although the trees were so thick here she could not actually see the hilltop itself through the haze of leafless branches. But from where they perched, the land
fell away quickly, so the valley was visible below them. There were very few evergreens here; mostly, it was oak, beech and chestnut, and their branches looked like a gray smoke covering the valley. It was difficult to believe there were any humans living out here. It was deeply shadowed already; the sky had darkened to a deep blue, except to their left, where the last rays of the sun streaked the west. And it suddenly occurred to her that she knew exactly where she was. They were in the midst of the hills she had seen on the horizon rising above the forest in the distance every time she had been somewhere she could look over the city walls. Why had she never wondered whose lands they were, or what they hid?

Because it never occurred to me that I could climb them myself one day…

What a peculiar feeling…to realize how narrow her world had been. The city, and not even
most
of it, just the parts that held the Guildhalls, the homes of the people she visited, the shops she needed, her father's warehouse. And a little, little bit of Sebastian's forest. And she had never lifted her eyes past that. How much had she missed?

“Down there, our poacher traps that entire valley,” Eric was saying. “Now, as I told you, the land hereabouts is pretty poor. It's mostly no good for the sort of hunting that the gentry do except if they want the challenge of a boar-hunt, and it's been on the orders of the last several Dukes that if the people hereabouts want to take a few fish from the stream, wild goats from the hills, and rabbits and boar from the forest, they may do so. The dwarves mine the tin, so aside from a pen-scratcher or two, and a few mechanical fellows, there's no wages for a man in the mines, and all the folk here have is what they can scratch out of the dirt, cut down and haul away, and catch. Sebastian said nothing was to change, and sent out word of that when he came of age. As keeper of these forests, I abide by what he says, and this makes sense. I don't hold with making a man
desperate. Purely because it isn't practical. The most dangerous man there is, is the one who's got nothing to lose. I can tell when game's getting thin, I give out a few warnings, people move to another valley for a while for their hunting, and until now, everyone's abided by the rules.”

She nodded, silently. That was just good common sense, the sort that the King exercised all the time, and encouraged his judges to use.

“But this fellow—” Eric spat in disgust “—he's a disgrace. He's not a poacher—he's a butcher. He traps anything, and whatever he traps, he skins and takes only the hide, leaves the carcass to rot. He's trapped out three valleys so far, and if I don't stop him,
he
won't stop till he's trapped out the forest, and then what will the folks here do for a bit of extra meat? They'll say it's the Duke's men who took all the game, and never mind Sebastian hasn't any men.”

She nodded again.

“So, that's why we're here. I know he runs these traps just before sunset, counting on me wanting to be back behind the Manor walls by then. I can see three of those traps from here, and when he turns up, we'll have him.”

“Can he see us from down below?” she whispered.

He grinned without looking at her. “If he could, we wouldn't be here.”

Well, he's the Gamekeeper…
.

“And there he is.”

She looked where he was looking, peering down into the shadows, down through the mist of barren twigs. It was only by the furtive movement that she saw him, if indeed it was a man, slipping through the underbrush and then pausing. The only reason she could see him at all was that he was dark against the white snow. If it had
been summer, and all those trees and bushes thick with leaves, he would have been as “invisible” as her servants.

“He'll be busy for a while. That trap has a mink in it, and he won't want to spoil a hide that valuable,” Eric breathed. “Now, follow me, but stay a good fifteen lengths or so behind me. If he has friends, I want you to be a complete surprise.”

Eric eased his horse down the hill. When he was far enough ahead that the only thing she could see in the deepening shadows was the darker shadow of the moving horse, she followed.

The mule wasn't happy about going downhill in such uncertain light, but she picked her way down the slope, anyway. Bella had no real idea of how far down the hill their quarry was, until suddenly Eric's voice rang out in the cold air.

“Hold, in the name of Duke Sebastian!” His voice crackled with authority.

Which their quarry did not seem impressed by.

“Duke Sebastian ain't here,” the poacher replied, sounding as calm as if he and not the Duke was the rightful owner of these lands. “And you can kiss my butt, Eric the Gamekeeper.”

“Brave words for a man with an arrow pointed at his heart,” Eric retorted.

“Man doesn't have to be brave when his partner has a knife to
your
partner's throat.”

What?
she thought—and that was when something dropped out of the tree above her, landed behind her on the mule with a jolt that shook them both and grabbed her from behind before she could catch her breath

“Be very quiet, laddie,” said a voice in her ear, as she felt the cold edge of a blade press into her throat.

A mule's reaction to something unexpected was to freeze, with all four legs planted—which, this time, was not in the least useful.
Her captor had plenty of time to wrap the arm that did not have a knife at the end of it around her, pinning her upper arms to her chest.

Terror hit her like lightning, and just as in the forest, when the wolf had begun chasing her, she acted without thinking.

Her captor's arm didn't quite reach all the way around her; she wrenched her right arm free, but instead of going for the unfamiliar knife at her belt, she grabbed for the quiver. Somehow she got a crossbow quarrel in her hand, and she jabbed behind her with it.

The man screamed a curse as she hit—something, some part of him—with the arrowhead. He flinched away, she felt him start to lose his balance and she shoved harder.

With another screech, he fell off the mule, and she jabbed the point of the arrow into the mule's haunches.

Not hard, but enough to
hurt,
and that, combined with the man's shrieks, was too much for the mule. She half reared, but couldn't get too far up on her heels—just enough so she could pivot and bolt back the way they had come. She dropped the arrow and the reins and hung on to the front of the saddle with both hands for dear life.

Branches lashed her face, cutting her like whips, until she crouched down and hid her face against the mule's neck. She cried with pain and fear, but when the mule faltered, she grabbed another quarrel from the quiver and lashed her with it, goading her into running again. Only when she came to a shuddering halt, sides heaving, head hanging, did she let her be. That was when she raised her face from her neck and saw that the forest around them was nothing but a confusing blur of dark blue shadow and the black trunks of trees.

She had no idea where she was.

She slid down off the mule's back into the snow; scooped up some of it in her glove to apply to the burning welts across her face
and listened as hard as she could. She thought she heard the echo of men's angry voices in the distance, but she couldn't tell the echo from the original. They could be behind her, or in front of her.

The mule's sides slowly stopped heaving; she patted her neck, and clambered awkwardly back into place. It would be an hour, maybe more, until the moon rose, but even then, that would be no help—

What had her father said when she first started to visit Granny?
“If you get lost, don't wander. Stay right where you are. The more you wander, the more lost you will become and the more tangled your trail. Wander too far, and your trail will be lost, and by the time trackers find you it might be too late.”

But was that wise advice to follow when there was someone back there who had put a knife to her throat?

What if
he
found her?

She shook with terror and cold, as the sweat of fear chilled on her body. And when she heard branches cracking behind her just as the moon came over the top of the hill, she had only enough presence of mind to look back, even as her hand reached for another crossbow quarrel to beat the poor mule with.

But the mule stretched her head and neck around and gave a pathetic bray, which was answered by an equally pathetic nicker, and the dark shape that came toward them was far too big to be a man afoot.

“Eric?” she called, her voice strained.

“I don't know how you got that mule to run like a racehorse, but I'm glad you did,” came the grimly humorous reply. “Clearing off as you did gave me a free hand.”

She didn't ask him what he meant by that; the mule shied a little as it scented what she did on him—fresh blood.

“Two untrained curs against me was no odds for them,” he continued. “Though you did half my work for me with the second.”