Second Tuesday before the Feast of Saint John, 1198

Activity at the gatehouse drew Stephan and Michi over. Johannes had the village smith and a gaggle of peasants labouring on the gate all morning, struggling to work through the rust that had bound the hinges open for two decades at least. But this was something different.

“It’s Vasten!” Wart, a slight, unkempt youth who sometimes helped around the stables, was rubbing the ears of the huntsman’s favoured hound. “But where is Thorold?” The huntsman had set out hours before—nothing strange about that—but for the hound to return alone was an poor omen. Gaspard joined them. “Have you asked the dog?” he said.

The long-legged, shaggy hound’s ears and tail were drooping. “Thorold is still in the wood,” Gaspard reported after a casting of magic. “The dog doesn’t want to go back, but it is ashamed to have left its master.” Stephan stepped up. “Can he take us to where it happened?” “Yes,” Gaspard replied after checking with the hound. “Go, then,” Johannes commanded.

They set out within the hour, as the springtime sun was moving from Sext toward Nones. Cyril led the way with Vasten and a scent hound on leads, with Stephan and Madeleine on horse, despite the promise of forest ahead, and Gaspard behind with Michi, and Wart trailing them. They crossed the great field toward Ville de Haillot hamlet, then the western waste, then entered the forest. Nones came and went, and still the hound led onward.

There was a scream ahead, and a crash through the undergrowth. They were in the woods, but it was not so dense as to force the riders from their horses. Stephan put his spur to Renfrogne, and the destrier leapt forward, but what crashed toward them was neither beast nor warhorse but a small palfrey with a slight rider. Stephan grabbed at the reins as the panicked horse charged past, pulling it quickly to a stop. The rider was Lady Juliana, niece of Etien of Namur, with her servant struggling on foot behind her.

“Dead men,” the young lady sobbed. “In that thicket. Butchered!” Michi investigated, trailed by a curious Wart, as Stephan checked the area and Lady Madeleine calmed Juliana. Four dead men: soldiers, in the livery of the Count. Their encampment was in a little bowl, hidden among rocks and trees in a dense stand of brush. The men had fought against their death; weapons were in hand or scattered about. The fire was cold, but the ashes had not been rained upon: They could not have been dead for more than a day. “An hour before Matins last night,” Gaspard reckoned, employing his spells upon a corpse. He cast another magick, then blanched as he watched events the others could not see. “A thing like a man came upon them, only it was bloated with flesh the colour of rust, like a livid corpse. It chewed upon their flesh after they died.”

Back at the castle, Stephan sought out Johannes. “I don’t know what should trouble us more,” he reported. “This murderous beast, or that the Count is sending his men into our forest.” “South of the Sambre is no part of the Count’s holdings,” Johannes concurred, “even if the forest isn’t truly ours either.”

Madeleine and Gaspard reported to Daria. “Return the girl to the Count’s camp,” she instructed, after hearing their story. “And inform him of his loss. But give him no cause against us—and on the morrow, find out what has become of Thorold.” They escorted Lady Juliana down to her uncle’s camp. Though he received his niece with relief, his face turned red at the story of the dead men. “You murder my men and then bring me this tale of faeries?” he roared, the veins showing at his temples. His knights and footsoldiers were moving to encircle them, but Stephan stared the Count down. But then Wart broke and ran, and suddenly weapons were ringing from sheaths. Juliana stepped up, grabbing the Count’s elbow. “Please, my lord,” she begged. “I know not how this blood was shed, but credit them at least for their aid to me.” The Count’s rage cooled the slightest, but his words were still forced through his teeth. “For the sake of my niece,” he said, turning away.

The day ended as it had begun: with a fluster and flurry at the gate. It was well past Compline, and Refrogne was for once as willing as Roos to be led to the stable. “Thorold has returned,” came a cry from the gate, which groaned on its rusted, but now useable, hinges as the guards pulled it open again. Outside, in a circle of torchlight, Thorold sat on the ground, shaken and panting. “I must have fallen; perhaps I struck my head,” he mumbled. “I do not feel well at all . . . .” Two guards helped him to his feet, but no sooner was he up than he doubled over again with a piteous groan. The now substantial crowd gathered closer for his aid, but when he looked up his face was the colour of brick, his lips drawn back over his teeth.

His first blow drove one of the guards to the ground, and the servants and covenfolk scattered, screaming. Michi drew his sword and charged, with Stephan as well and even Madeleine producing her curved Saracen blade. As they closed the creature lunged at Madeleine, throwing her against the tower wall and driving its teeth into her throat. Stephan and Michi fell upon it, and soon cut it down. “A revenant!” exclaimed Michi, hacking head from body as Gaspard rushed to Madeleine’s aid. “Her wound is not severe,” he reported. “Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t,” retorted Michi, “But creatures like this one, they carry their curse to their victims. That thing was Thorold once—what if the same should befall Madeleine?”