Path of the Wolf

It was early in the spring when Isabeau de Montaigne first met the man who would become her lover.

France was at war with Italy; that very day, the country had suffered another defeat in its continuing conflict begun by their king, Louis, the twelfth of that name. It was also the day when, after an absence of three months, Isabeau’s husband returned to Aux-le-Piémont.

Skirts clearing her ankles so they wouldn’t brush the damp grass making up the untended meadow calling itself their front courtyard, she met François on the path joining

their cottage to the highroad. If the sluggishness of her movements was any indication, she was unenthused in welcoming him home.

Like the bird he bought from a Spanish sailor off a ship supposedly having sailed to the newly-discovered land to the west. Or those exotic flowers that wilted and died as soon as the first cold wind blew off the mountains. Of course, he used the bird in several paintings but after that, it sat in its cage, ignored. Isabeau was the one cleaning its droppings, taking it out and letting it fly around the cottage and sit on her shoulder, until one day it flew away never to return.

She hoped it had made its way over the mountains into the warmer climes of Italy.

Now her husband stood before her again, sweaty and travel-worn, the dust of the highroad surrounding him like a cloud, begrimed into the sleeves of his linen shirt and the shoulders of his doublet.

Briefly, she was tempted to stalk back to the house, refusing him the welcome he expected he deserved, but, as usual, duty overcame anger. What would be the use of turning away? When she looked back, François would still be there and so would that dog or whatever it was.

He stopped. So did she.
The creature dropped to its haunches.
Without preamble or greeting, she said, “Did you find

what you sought?”
Not that she really cared.
“Yes,” he answered. “I did. I found my St. Jean.”
“Where is he?” She looked past him down the track, expecting to see some beautiful boy on horseback, hurrying to catch up. It was usually the handsome son of a noble

family whom he’d entranced with promises of immortality on canvas.

She saw no one. The path was empty.
“Here.” He held up the rope.
Her gaze traveled its length to where it wrapped around

the animal’s neck, only to have her attention caught and held by the oddest eyes she’d ever seen. They were the color of molten copper, flecked with glints of bronze-patina- green, under heavy brows meeting in a single line, looking out of place in what she could see of the mud-bedaubed face.

Isabeau thought, These are not the eyes of a beast.

Frowning, she studied the creature’s face: an odd counte- nance, no snout, no muzzle with a wet bulbous nose, though fur-covered and whiskery. as uncomfortably disturbing as its eyes.

She glanced at the creature’s body, at the coarse, long hair growing in a tangled mane around its neck and down its back, spreading over dirt-bespeckled shoulders. A matted pelt encircled its hips, part of its texture and color seeming the skin of another creature, the rest its own flesh, and the legs . . . hairy but relatively bare as were the feet . . . but so filthy.

With a start, she was certain she was looking not at an animal, but a man, a dirt-caked man, squatting at her husband’s side, his fingers digging into the grass. A man, watching her with curious but intelligent eyes.

Oh, surely not.

As if sensing her unease, he growled, a rough, low grat- ing, deep in the throat. Isabeau took a step backward.

“Steady,” François said, but whether to her or the crea- ture she wasn’t certain. “Don’t be afraid. It’s only he doesn’t know you. Hold out your hand.”

When she didn’t move, he repeated, “Hold out your hand. Let him get to know your scent.”

As if he’s a dog. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t afraid, then thought, Why bother?

Her fear, or lack of it, didn’t matter to François. Defiantly, as if she were dealing with one of her Uncle Étienne’s hunting dogs, she offered her hand to the beast.

He sniffed at it, running his nose along her fingertips and against her palm, snuffling loudly. He barely touched her, a mere brush of flesh against flesh, but it made her skin chill slightly, though she managed to hide its shiver.

With a whimper, he thrust his head against her hand. Automatically, Isabeau’s fingers stroked the filthy hair, creeping around the side of his head to one ear, over its slightly pointed tip, scratching behind it as she’d often done her uncle’s dogs. He grunted with pleasure, leaning against her palm.

His tongue shot out, brushing her wrist. She forced herself not to recoil, made her fingers continue their scratching movement.

“He likes you. Good.” François looked satisfied, as if he had something to do with the beast’s acceptance of her.

She pulled her hand away. The creature stared at her.

Reproachfully, she thought. He’d liked having his ear scratched.

Her hand felt greasy. She forced herself not to scrub her palm against her skirt. She hoped he didn’t carry fleas or other vermin.

“I’m hungry.” François’s belly growled, underscoring his words. “For the past mile, all I could think of was a bowl of Mathilde’s good lamb stew. Is supper ready?”

As if the cook had nothing more to do than prepare a meal to sit and spoil waiting for his return.

“It should be soon.” Isabeau put reproach into her next words. “We didn’t expect you.”

“No reason you should.”

No apology for appearing with no warning. It wasn’t in François’ nature to think of others or show regret at their inconvenience.

“Tend to my pet.” He tossed the rope to Isabeau. She nearly missed it, scrabbling to keep it in her hands.

“What shall I do with him?” She was resentful. As she’d suspected, she was to assume care of the thing.

“Put him in the room inside my studio.” His answer was offhanded, as if every day he appeared leading a creature that might or might not be a man masquerading as a beast. “There’s some chain there. Replace the rope and fasten him to one of the window bars so he won’t run away. He may be restless, being in a new place.”

He took a key from his purse and lobbed it to her.

François always kept the key to his studio with him. As if he didn’t trust Isabeau not to snoop during his absence.

Isabeau caught the key easier than she caught the rope. He continued to the cottage.
“François, wait . . . will he understand me?”
He didn’t respond or look back.

“François?”

Together she and the creature watched him walk away, studying the swagger of his body where the fabric of his doublet stretched across his broad shoulders.

“Come on, you.” Isabeau tugged on the rope.

She started to the building that was her husband’s studio. Rising from his haunches, François’ new pet trotted behind her with that odd, clumsy gait.

Other than le privé, the studio was the only outbuilding on the property, situated to the side and behind the cottage but clearly visible from the path. Originally, it had been a stable. Shortly after they moved into the cottage, François converted it into the place where he created those paintings his patrons declared masterpieces.

Isabeau had no opinion on that score. She was rarely called upon to judge her husband’s talent.

With his own hands, he’d toiled in the broiling sun, sawing, nailing, and hammering to make a home for his paintings. When it came to his art, François didn’t stint.

Isabeau thought it too bad he didn’t do the same where his wife was concerned.

Refusing assistance from his in-laws, he and their one manservant tore out stalls and hayloft, using the boards to make a floor covering dirt and animal detritus. Part of the roof was removed, replaced with windows holding precious panes of clear glass, purchased from the glassblowers of Murano in Italy—this was before the war—and brought to the cottage via ship through the port of Marseilles. They’d gone without meat for two months to pay for that glass, but François willingly suffered for his art and expected his household to do the same.

He also cut out most of two walls and replaced those with floor-to-ceiling windows.

It was fortunate the little building already faced north, else he probably would’ve shifted its foundation to catch that harsh, clear light so necessary for the artist’s canvas.

The storage room was built into the back of the studio. Once where bags of grain and harness were kept, it was entered only by an inner door. There was a single paneless and shuttered window François fitted with parallel iron bars, lest some miscreant attempt to break in, for that was where he now kept his canvases, finished paintings, and drawing supplies.

It also held a cot and blankets. When in a creative fervor, François worked late into the night, sleeping in the store- room where he might awaken and immediately return to the canvas. Since those times generally coincided with his finding a new and pretty model, Isabeau didn’t delude herself he wasn’t sleeping with her, also. She decided that was one of the reasons he didn’t want her coming to the studio.

It was only with the pretty girls, however. François wasn’t concerned with the equally pretty boys. He might paint them but their bodies interested him only in the way they looked on his canvasses.

Privately, Isabeau thought she would’ve been happier if François preferred boys also, to the complete exclusion of his wife, but she couldn’t be so fortunate.