The Legend Page 9
The constable leaned down and observed as John’s wound healed over, leaving behind little more than a streak of dark blood that ran down his side to prove that he had been injured. There wasn’t a scar or blemish to verify it otherwise.
With his legs still shackled together, he couldn’t run, but he turned to the constable and let out a sinister growl to make his displeasure known. Golden eyes shone through the darkness and the constable held up the iron as if it would protect him from the monster he faced.
John eyed the white-hot tip of the weapon and how it trembled in the constable’s hands.
“Someone get the priest!” he shouted.
The warder that had been tearing into John’s flesh for an hour dropped his whip and scuttled out of the cell. John snapped his fangs at the constable and sent the man scurrying to the cell doors.
“A priest cannot save you from me,” John thundered, a bit of the wolf’s words slipping through in an effort to terrify the humans that gaped at him. For once, they were of one mind. They both wanted freedom and to take revenge upon those who had hurt him.
More than anything, they wanted to free Annalette. It was as if her soul and his were tied together somehow, and until Annalette was in his arms again, he could not rest.
Through the fetid and moldy air of the prison, he could smell her below him in cells where the other prisoners were kept, awaiting their execution or other punishment. He had overheard talk that she and her brother, along with a few other gypsies they had collected, would be hanged at dawn on the gallows by Canterbury Castle. First, they would be processed through the streets for all the townspeople to jeer at them from afar, degrading them to something less than human.
There was no time to waste, and morning would bring with it worse horrors.
“He must be in league with the devil,” he heard the constable whisper to his warder. “The priest will know what to do with him.”
John, on his hands and knees, crawled around to face the men who plotted his fate. He could smell their fear, and his wolf basked in it, relishing his victory over his captors. They were powerless, and they knew it. Weapons would do them no good against a loup-garou and chains could not bind him.
Even though his wolf was ready to tear them apart, his strength had not fully returned. The last hour weakened him more than he wanted them to know. He would use every means at his disposal to dispirit them. He snarled and behaved like a caged beast until the priest arrived.
The man had looked tired as he entered the cell, probably awoken from a deep slumber to come running at the constable’s request. As soon as the holy man’s eyes fell on John, he fished out his crucifix and crossed himself as protection against the profane demon before him.
He uttered Latin phrases that John knew all too well. It was what he had heard each time a priest tried to exorcise the demon from his mortal soul. It failed every time, and this would be no different. What the human didn’t know was that this was no spirit that could be wished away. The wolf was part of him and always would be.
When his words proved useless, the priest shook his head in disbelief. “He must be a witch. He must have given himself to Satan, and he is beyond salvation. No confession is necessary. He must be burned and beheaded.”
At the mention of beheading, John paused and slunk into a corner, daring any of them to try and detain him long enough to even get close to severing his head from his body. He would fight until his claws and fangs became dull, but he would not die that night. Annalette gave him a reason to keep breathing, and he would take firm hold of the hope she had given him.
Chapter 8
It seemed as if half of the town had gathered to watch his execution. John had heard once that they hung the witches before they burned them, but the constable and Justice of the Peace did not impart such mercies. It would have done little good anyway. He had tried to hang himself on the sturdy limb of an elm decades ago, but his neck was too strong and the wolf too determined to live.
He looked to his right where the gallows stood just outside of Canterbury Castle. If his plan failed, Annalette and her brother would be dragged to this very spot in the shadow of the great castle at dawn. If he still had breath within him, he would not allow it.
John’s trek through the center of the city had drawn out the sleeping villagers. Some were roused by the sound of the heavy chains scraping against the stone pavement. Others, however, were summoned upon orders. Wards banged on their doors and called them out to witness the execution, though John had hoped this would be a quiet affair. He should have known better than to wish for such things. The execution of a criminal was an exciting event in quiet towns. Next to gossip, it was something villagers practically lived for.
As the pyre was mounded high with wrapped bunches of branches and dried hay, John silently waited on the platform with his hands tied in chains behind his back. His feet and torso were also bound to the post so tightly that his digits had nearly gone numb, and the links bit into his belly and the crook of his elbows.
An executioner, with his face shrouded in a black mask, stood nearby with his heavy axe in hand. Once John’s body would begin to burn, his head would be relieved of his neck, but he had a plan before the eager axe-man got the chance. The warders and constable should have known that these chains couldn’t hold him.
His keen ears listened closely to the hushed and anxious conversations of the crowd. The women asked why he was being executed so strangely. The men had their own theories before the constable would make his announcement. Children with sleep still crusted along their eyelids clung to their mothers’ skirts, probably wondering why they had been dragged out of bed at such a late hour.
John’s eyes were brown once more, and the wolf paced back and forth within him, just as nervous as he was, but he used such emotions to his advantage. In the Westgate prison, on the other side of Canterbury, was Annalette, who had no idea about her impending death. She depended upon him, needed him to succeed, or else they would all be dead. No one else was going to come to her rescue.
Slowly, he began to look inward, just as Annalette had said. He reached within himself and found the wolf. With his eyes closed, he focused upon it. A primal, savage being that was both willing and ready to come out and greet the people who dared to try and kill him. This time, John would not force him back.
There was no one in the crowd, no one around the pyre that he personally cared for or wanted to preserve. The only person he cared about was the woman locked away in a cell, who neither deserved to be killed nor the persecution she faced. The world had been a cruel and unfair place, and Annalette was his shining star that lit up the darkness inside. He would stop at nothing, until he knew such a light would be his and his alone. The world owed him that much.
John’s lips moved as he silently made supplications to the wolf, making a verbal pact with it. If he could just have control, just for this moment, they would no longer be at war. He recognized the wolf for what it was and vowed to respect it as Annalette had been trying to teach him.
In just a few moments, he would find out if the wolf heard his blasphemous prayer.
“This man,” the constable began as the crowd fell into a hush, “is possessed by a demon. He is in league with the devil himself!”
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Some jeered and shouted insults to John, speaking to the demon as if they had any religious right to do so, but he let their jeers roll off his shoulders. They were just as ignorant as he had been.
“We shall burn the demon from his body so that his soul may be saved by the Almighty God in heaven.” He turned to the priest who was standing by, holding a rosary in his shaking hands. The constable gave a quick nod to hand the assembly to him.
The holy man approached the unlit pyre and turned to John. He could hear the priest’s teeth rattle together as he spoke. “This is your final chance, demon,” he shouted with his pulpit voice. “Leave this child of God now, and you will be spared the fires of hell!”
Those who must have known French shrank back. Those who didn’t were soon given the translation. John was a werewolf, half man and half beast. What they didn’t know was that a meager fire would not stop him, and whatever attempt to save his soul would be in vain. It didn’t need saving.
The priest, with eyes wide, crossed himself and turned away to give the torchbearer the cue to light the pyre. There were cries of fear as John’s gold eyes surveyed the crowd that came to watch his demise. The men stepped in front of their women who clutched their babies tighter. As soon as the fire of the torch kindled the first of the wood bundles, they changed their tune and were grateful that they would be rid of the beast soon.
John felt the heat around his legs first, and then it crept up his chest to warm his face on this chilly night. Sparks and embers floated to the dark sky and faded with the stars as the wood and hay ignited.
He writhed against his iron bonds, but the smoke he inhaled made him weak, and the chains would not budge. He gritted his teeth as he watched the fire spread around the platform. It was only a matter of minutes before his clothes and skin would be licked by the flames.
The crowd cheered, hastening the blaze with their hateful words. Produce like cabbage and tomatoes were thrown at him and tumbled into the pyre, but it would not deter his concentration. He breathed in the smoke and sputtered a cough, as the flames grew higher around him and washed his body in a tawny glow.
He growled in his throat and supplicated to the wolf once more. If it didn’t come forward, they would both perish. He could still see the glimmering of the fire in the metal blade of the executioner’s axe.
When the first patch of skin on his ankle was seared, the wolf came alive. John roared, his sharp fangs bared for the spectators that wanted the monster dead. The executioner flinched, but would not drop his weapon.
John struggled against the bonds until the iron links finally snapped. He stood, free and surrounded by the vindicating fire. To them, he must have looked like the devil himself, but his transformation wasn’t complete.
The wolf melded into the man, amalgamating with his body until they were truly one.
John began to shift.
The pain was intense, but not nearly as agonizing at it had been in the past. He let the wolf have reign and didn’t fight the change. He had spent countless nights fighting against the spirit he should have embraced from the beginning. Now, it was time to make amends.
When it was over, the crowds were screaming and running for the safety of their homes.
John looked down to his new form through the eyes of the wolf. He had been a large man to begin with, but he grew nearly twice in size, and a thick layer of ebony fur covered his body that was slightly singed by the flames.
For the first time, he was conscious of the change. He looked to his hands. His palms and the undersides of his digits were crusted in thick and calloused skin like the paws on a dog and tipped with vicious claws to match. His upper body kept the same structure as a human with arms and a broad chest, while his legs, feet, and head were that of a wolf’s. A tail swung behind him and bumped against the post he had been tied to. His torn clothes were slowly being reduced to ash upon the platform.
John turned to his executioner who had lost control of his bowels and shrieked before darting into the darkness. The priest took shelter in his church while the constable and Justice of the Peace were left standing, ogling at the beast. Wards and militiamen fled to the burning pyre with their flashing sabers in hand, ready to take on the devilish beast.
John was too quick. He bellowed and leapt from the podium to come crashing to the cobblestone square. The brave men rushed forward, but with a powerful sweep of his arm, he sent them and their swords flying. A few blades found purchase and sliced into his skin, but it would not slow him down. Within seconds, his flesh bound itself back together, and not a single drop of blood fouled the ground.
When the immediate threats were pushed aside, he dropped to all fours and galloped his way to the prison. His wolfish head ducked low and lips pulled back into a determined snarl. They could follow all they wanted, but they would not catch him at full speed.
If he thought he was fast on human legs, he was doubly fast on loup-garou legs. It explained why he had sometimes traveled dozens of miles in one night while under the influence of the demon. Now, he had complete control of his destination. Houses and shops flew by in a blur as he retraced his path back to Westgate, following the wild scent of the woman he had to protect.
The warders in front of the prison gates stood their ground with their swords, but once they realized that it was no giant stray dog or a bear barreling towards them, they abandoned their posts without further hesitation.
Instead of taking the path that had been cleared for him, John leapt onto the side of the stone tower where Annalette was being held captive. With his sharp claws latched into the rock, he scaled the wall until he reached the very top, and climbed through the archer’s port.
After slamming aside a few daring guards who had been posted there, John traveled down the spiral stairs to the place where the prisoners were kept. It didn’t take him long to find Annalette, but she was not alone. The wolf balked at the presence, but John remained in control and did not show his displeasure.
When he came to her cell, he found her at the bars, gripping them tightly with her delicate hands. Her lips parted, and eyes widened as she stared at the beast that had come to save her. He detected a trace of fear, but it was soon gone when John stood to face her.
An energy passed between them that stunned him for only a moment. The aching in his soul subsided when he laid eyes upon her, and even though chaos exploded within the prison, his world was perfect now that she was near.
Though he could not speak with a human tongue, he could impart what she needed to know without words. He took hold of the cell door and snapped the lock with a quick tug. It was time to leave.
Annalette did not come at first but turned to the other man in the cell that John didn’t know. The stranger rose to his feet, transfixed by the loup-garou. Only upon Annalette’s bidding, he came to the open door and followed her out.
They were slow in comparison to John’s long gait as they escaped out of the prison. While he bounded down the stairs, six steps at a time, they struggled to keep up. When they arrived at the main floor of the tower, the other prisoners stared and shrieked in horror.
Several guards tried to intercept them in the narrow passages, but John dealt with them easily enough and slammed them against the stone bricks until either the rock or their skulls cracked with the force. They were no match for his strength and size. If they had silver, then they might have had a chance.
Once outside of the prison, they avoided the main thoroughfares, and made their way to the safety of the forest. It was hard to say whether anyone would follow them. Some peasants, warders, and watchers scoured through the trees with their torches and pitchforks to find the beast, but John and his Romani allies were smarter and traveled south, away from the town and river, deeper into the downs. Annalette had mentioned her family was in Dover, and that’s where they would go.
None had spoken a word since their escape, but John deduced that the man in their company was Annalette’s brother, Gallius. They had a similar scent, no doubt from the family blood they shared. He was injured and weak but kept up with the party as they fled far away from Canterbury and the civilization that wanted them all dead.
John would not stop until he could no longer hear the searching villagers or the frenzied warders who were still trying to make sense of what happened back at the castle and Westgate. They were already past the village of Nackington when Annalette and Gallius stopped and collapsed against an obliging tree. They did not have his unending sta
mina to travel for miles on end, especially as tired and weary as they were.
The loup-garou padded to their side and brushed his muzzle against Annalette’s shoulder. The man and the wolf needed to know that she was there, safe and out of danger from the world that hated both of them.
“I’m all right,” she answered to his mute question. “We just need to rest.”
John understood and turned to patrol the area while the humans made their beds in the leaves and slept. They were free at last. Free to stay or to leave the country, but they would not face death at dawn as the law had demanded.
Somehow, the loup-garou was not at ease. Not completely.
After groping into the void, lacking the understanding of what he was, John had finally taken hold of himself, even if it was a loose grip. He felt what it was like to walk as a loup-garou and not a frightened man who thought he was possessed by some evil spirit. The wolf was not evil, only wild and untamed. It needed guidance, but so did John.
Annalette was the one hope for both man and beast. Now that he had held up his end of the bargain, it was her turn. They would roam all of England to find her uncle or another alpha who would be willing to train him. He remembered the baker in Chilham and knew that would be his first choice, but there was a chance that the alpha would not trust a stranger into his pack. If he could find Annalette’s uncle, then the initial meeting might not be so tense. They had the young Romani woman as a mutual connection, which would be something in his favor.
As he stalked the woods, he thought of the world that had opened up to him. Now that he was no longer crippled by ignorance, John felt as if he could live again.
More than that, he wondered how many others like himself were living in darkness. How many more sons had been abandoned by their fathers too soon? How many men and adolescents had been bitten and turned into loups-garous, and had no direction from those that turned them? What were they doing? John had survived a hundred years without knowing the truth, so how many more had been living the same way for much longer? Was it a rarity for an uneducated loup-garou to live as long as he did?