The Curse of the Singing Wolf (9 page)

“Chateau de Chanteloup is not a
chateau according to the romantic French imagination,” explained
the Singing Wolf when the Countess enquired about the history of
the ancient fortress. “None of the Cathar fortresses were grand or
impressive, apart from Carcassonne, which is really a large village
or town. Half way up the mountain, as we ascend the path to the
north gate, we will pass a clutch of stone cottages built into the
hillside. My servants live there. I confess to being a recluse. I
prefer my own company when I am in residence, and for the four
months when I am not in residence Chanteloup is completely cut off
from the world. I retain just two caretakers year round. The other
servants arrive each day at first light and return to their homes
when darkness falls. The castle gates are then locked to keep out
wolves. I think you will find it comfortable enough, though to be
honest I have never stayed during the winter months. Between
November and March I always stay in Biarritz. Chanteloup has no
radiators, just open fires, no electric lights and no gasoliers,
just candles. You may find it Spartan compared to what you are
accustomed...”

Bang!

A rifle shot rang out. Everyone
dropped what they were doing and dived for cover. Velazquez jumped
like a jack-in-the-box and ended up with cold coffee all over his
crotch. Milo and Desi clung tightly to each other as they huddled
behind a bush of spiky thorns and tried not to get stabbed in the
eye. Spooked by the loud noise, several of the horses might have
bolted but Baron Reichenbach and Dr Watson had made sure they were
tethered as soon as the riders dismounted.

More rifle shots rang out. The
shots were coming from a group of rocks to the left. Dr Watson and
Baron Reichenbach, stationed further back than the others, managed
to return fire, and when one of the bandits was brazen enough to
raise his head above the rocky parapet a bullet from the gun-barrel
of the Baron found its mark and the outlaw plummeted down the side
of the rock-face.

For a few minutes no one moved
a muscle. Colonel Moriarty was the first to break cover, drawing
fire in order to flush out the hiding places of the bandits.
Several shots were exchanged as Moriarty shift around to the right.
A hail of bullets suddenly rained down from above and another
careless bandit fell to his death.

Without warning a rifle shot
rang out from behind them. One of the bandits had positioned
himself on a rocky ledge to the rear of their temporary encampment.
The danger was immediately evident to everyone.

“Sarazan!” cried one of the
Bogomils when a man appeared at the top of the ridge.

The Countess was in the best
position to take a shot and did not hesitate. Sarazan leapt back in
surprise and cried out but appeared unharmed because a few moments
later he could be seen signalling to someone down below to hold
fire. In the meantime one of the bandits had managed to scramble
closer to where the donkeys were tethered. He was about to cut them
loose when a dagger flew through the air and found a home in his
chest. He cried out and crumpled in the dust. Velazquez, crouching
behind a rock, took credit for the timely kill.

With three bandits down and a
stand-off stretching into a cold November night looking the
likeliest scenario, Sarazan, to everyone’s astonishment, suddenly
gave a whistle. His men fell back then began to retreat. Colonel
Moriarty, astounded by this turnaround, and thinking it might be
some sort of ruse, quickly clambered to the top of the ridge and
managed to wound another brigand as he and his cohort fled on
horseback. Fedir followed and brought down a fifth.

Gradually, the party of
travellers crept out of hiding and re-grouped near to where the
horses stamped and pawed the dust. Velazquez was limping. He had
twisted his ankle when the first shot rang out and he jumped in
fright, landing awkwardly. One of the Bogomil boys suffered slight
concussion when he fell and hit his head on a rock. Milo had
pinpricks of blood all over his face from the thorns. Dr Watson
tended to the injuries as quickly as possible. Reichenbach ordered
Velazquez and Milo to collect all weapons and ammunition from the
dead brigands. Desi retrieved the dagger. The ambush had set them
back and they needed to get underway as soon as possible.
Travelling after dark in these parts was nothing short of a death
wish.

They soon began the ascent,
following a narrow snaking road that had been gouged out of the
rock centuries ago. The wind grew stronger the higher they climbed.
The temperature dropped dramatically. Collars were raised, scarves
tightened and hats firmly secured. When they reached the place
where the cottages of the servants were tucked into the hillside
they dismounted, took stock of their surrounds, and paused for
breath. There did not appear to be any brigands pursuing them or
lying in wait to ambush them a second time.

From this point on the road
zigzagged sharply up the slope, making it impossible to stay in the
saddle, so the rest of the journey was completed on foot. The pack
donkeys struggled with the steep incline and everyone breathed a
sigh of relief when a raised portcullis came into view.

It led them into the outer
bailey, now a grassy courtyard where the stables were situated. The
horses and donkeys went no further. A set of stone steps took the
intrepid travellers higher. Through an open arch was a smaller
courtyard, the inner bailey. At the far end yet another archway led
them even higher. The fortress was stepped up, built on several
levels for defensive purposes, and because it was easier for the
original masons to follow the natural contour of the rocky
terrain.

The Countess looked back down
the mountain through the open gate and then up at the thick stone
walls and vertical towers rising steeply at her back. Did men ever
climb that high? What drove them to place one rock after another
with such painstaking perfection that this bastion was still
standing strong today? Chanteloup was an extraordinary structure, a
monument to place and time and suffering. It sat halfway between
earth and sky, neither in heaven nor in hell, yet there must have
been many times in its long history when it was viewed as one or
the other. What was it now, she wondered, heaven or hell?

Heaven, decided the Countess
when she ascended one last set of stone steps and found herself
inside great vaulted hall with a fireplace big enough for ten men
to stand upright. It devoured not logs but entire tree trunks and
threw out an enormous amount of heat which was just as well for the
dimensions of the hall were immense. This was the donjon, the keep,
the most secure part of any castle, with the thickest, sturdiest,
strongest walls. In the middle of the hall, stood a massive stone
column that resembled a giant palm tree. It fanned out across the
vaulted roof with each frond of the so-called palm tree branching
off to form a separate vaulting. The donjon was so vast it served
as entry, sitting room, dining room, library and chapel. A series
of lofty lancet windows invited thin beams of oblique light to
enter which illumined the vast chamber and dispelled the gloom
between dawn and dusk. The windows also helped to vent wisps of
smoke which might otherwise have gathered in the cavernous vaults
of the ceiling. The furnishings were reminiscent of the provincial
Spanish and French furniture found in the Hotel Louve. There were
no actual timber doors in the donjon; instead the doorways were
hung with tapestries depicting scenes from the
Chanson de
Geste.
There were four in all, leading to the east and west
wings, a spiral staircase, and the kitchen stairs. They also served
to keep out unwanted
courants d’air
.

The travellers congregated by
the fire and fortified themselves with a local Muscat de Rivesalles
while the Singing Wolf slipped out of sight.

“I say,” began Dr Watson, “that
was a damn good bit of knife throwing by Velazquez.”

“Incredibly accurate!” agreed
von Gunn.

“Must be a skill he honed as a
toreador,” supplied the Baron.

“Lucky for us he spotted that
blackguard by the donkeys or it would have been curtains to our
luggage,” added the Prince.

“Well, gentlemen,” interrupted
the Countess, gazing up at the multitudinous vaulting of the
donjon, “what do we think of Chanteloup?”

The response was unanimous:
“Staggering! Stupendous! Splendid! Breathtaking!”

“No wonder our hostess keeps it
to herself,” summed up Dr Watson. “It was certainly worth the
arduous trek.”

Had our travellers not been so
weary they might have explored the castle and found that the east
and west wings spanned the length of the plateau, adhering to no
formal design, jutting in and out, rising and falling, according to
the lay of the land. The long corridors lit by flaming torcheres in
fixed iron holders supplied both light and warmth. Every window
faced inwardly onto paved courtyards. The un-breachable outer walls
were all windowless. The rooms with fireplaces had been converted
into comfortable bedrooms. Copper hip-baths full of hot water sat
ready and waiting beside the hearths. Tucked into the thickness of
the end walls were garderobes - cloakrooms that doubled as medieval
latrines - still doing the job they were built for.

On a lower level, between the
stables and donjon, they would have discovered the domestic rooms.
Here were the kitchens and storerooms where sacks of grain, barrels
of wine and jars of oil were kept, plus the all-important well-head
that allowed access to a massive cistern, vital in times of siege,
protected in an enclosed space of its own. Some of the rooms might
have been workshops for weavers, leather workers and boot-makers.
The old caretaker couple, Almaric and Hortense, slept in what had
originally been the bakery. It had a large fireplace and a hive of
bread ovens. An adjoining scullery now served as their
bathroom.

Underground, they would have
found the armoury and dungeons, along with a torture chamber fitted
out with all the usual grisly playthings.

The young Bogomils scoffed down
some bean soup and crusty bread and hurried back down the zigzag
path to the cottages before darkness fell. It was the Chanteloup
servants who saw to the unloading of the luggage, settled the
guests in their rooms, and then likewise retreated to their
cottages despite it already being dark for they knew every zig and
zag in the path.

“I say,” began Dr Watson when
they all reconvened refreshed and in high spirits in the donjon
dressed in formal attire prior to dinner, “our hostess has proved
herself to be remarkably well organized.”

“She dashed off a telegram to
Lourdes straight after she invited us to come to Chanteloup,”
explained von Gunn as he offered the doctor a German cigarette. “I
overheard her giving directions to Felipe. She entrusted that El
Lopes fellow with organizing transport and provisions and
instructing the servants to ensure every comfort was in place upon
our arrival.”

“Well, she thought of
everything,” approved the Baron, helping himself to a generous
measure of Muscat. “My bones welcomed that hot bath. I didn’t
expect such luxury.”

The Countess didn’t want to
sound unappreciative. Her bedroom was comfortable but hardly
luxurious. Perhaps she just had higher standards. “A view of the
surrounding countryside would have been the icing on the cake,” she
offered solicitously.

“Here! Here!” came the
chorus.

“Merde! What the hell was
that!” The Prince leapt to his feet so abruptly his dining chair
crashed to the floor.

“It sounded like an
earthquake,” exclaimed von Gunn.

“Yes!” agreed Dr Watson,
sounding alarmed. “I felt the tremor.”

“I did too,” said the Baron,
replacing his knife and fork in preparation for flight.

Colonel Moriarty’s eyes darted
up to the stone vaulting, searching for cracks in the masonry. He
resembled the biblical Samson, head shorn, bracing himself for
imminent doom.

“Do not be alarmed, gentlemen,”
said the Singing Wolf with apparent unconcern. “It was merely a
rockslide. They are frequent hereabouts, especially following a
heavy rainstorm. My servants are constantly clearing rocks from the
track.”

Prince Orczy and Colonel
Moriarty retook their seats, feeling suddenly foolish for
over-reacting. Both men took a gulp of local Gaillac wine to settle
their nerves, and then refilled their own glasses to save the
servants the trouble. The other men followed suit.

“Is this region known for
earthquakes?” pursued Dr Watson tensely.

“Not particularly,” replied
their hostess reassuringly. “There is the odd tremor but you must
remember that Chanteloup has been standing for hundreds of
years.”

“I’ll drink to that!”
pronounced the Prince to lighten the tone.

They all laughed and the
Countess decided to change the subject. She broached a question
that had been niggling since the ambush.

“Is it my imagination or did
the outlaw who attacked us from behind appear to be
dark-skinned?”

“Sarazan, you mean?” clarified
Moriarty.

“I thought the same thing,”
concurred von Gunn.

“Yes, definitely dark-skinned,”
agreed Prince Orczy. “I was standing front-on and a shaft of
sunlight broke through the cloud and caught him full on the face.
He was much darker than the Spanish gypsies who inhabit the
Pyrenees.”

“But not as dark as Desi,”
added the Baron.

“Yes,” confirmed the Singing
Wolf. “Sarazan is of Moorish descent. The original ruler of Lourdes
was called Mirat the Moor. Mirat, so the legend goes, was attacked
and besieged by Charlemagne. Legend also has it that when an eagle
appeared in the sky and dropped a trout in his compound, he
interpreted the act as a bad omen, surrendered at once, took
himself off to pay his respects to the Black Virgin of Puy, and
immediately converted to Christianity.”