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Still Life with Wolves and Canvases

Written by Bradley H. Sinor and Tracy S. Morris

 

"Werewolf?"

Denis Sesma caught himself chuckling as he retied three small strips of leather on his horse's saddle. This was not the first time that his traveling companion, Elizabeth "Betsy" Springer, had asked that question. Actually, it was more like the fifth time in the last two or three days, that the tall redhead had said the same thing.

The first time, Denis had grabbed for the pistol that hung from his saddle, only to hear his friend's laughter coming from just behind him.

This whole "werewolf" thing was one of those "movie quotes" that Betsy seemed inordinately fond of repeating. Denis wasn't all that sure just what "movies" were—other than they were something like theater. But he had a hard time grasping just exactly how.

He'd tried ignoring Betsy when she started spouting these lines, but there was one thing Denis had learned in the last five months since he'd met Elizabeth "Just call me Betsy" Springer in the offices of the Grantville Times: that was a nearly impossible task.

Betsy was a tall, thin girl with her shoulder-length red hair tied back in a pony tail, dressed in a red woolen work shirt and the blue trousers that Denis had learned were called "jeans." Denis had been in Grantville for just over six months and was still not accustomed to seeing women wearing what were normally considered "men's" clothes. His cousin Mirari had told him it was the Americans' way of doing things, and that he'd better get used to it.

Without even turning toward her, Denis replied "There wolf, there castle."

"You're learning," she said. At that moment, a wolf's howl rang out. It could have been anywhere from fifty feet to five miles away; the heavy forest and mountains here in southern France tended to play tricks with sound.

"Now that was timing." She looked in the direction the noise seemed to have come from. "I couldn't have planned it better myself."

"I'd be happy to take credit for it, but somehow I don't think you'd believe I was responsible," said Denis. "I think we had better find someplace protected to camp, or an inn. I am not fond of the idea of waking up and finding myself in the middle of a wolf pack."

"I told you: wolves are more afraid of humans than we are of them," Betsy said.

"Yes, but you also said that there are going to be a lot of wolf attacks in the next hundred years or so."

"Werewolf attacks," Betsy corrected.

"Wolf attacks," Denis restated firmly. He cleared his throat and began to recite. "'Over three thousand people were killed in France between 1580 and 1830 by wolves. And over a thousand of those were not rabid.' That's a statistic that they don't mention in your Time Life Books: Mysteries of the Unexplained, I'll wager."

"You read that?" Betsy blinked. "But . . ."

"You Americans were allowed to hunt animals," Denis cut across her argument. "Your wolves learned to be afraid of humans. Here a wolf knows who the predator and who the prey is. And when his natural prey runs out—" He threw a sly glance up at her red hair. "—Red Riding Hood looks quite tasty."

"Ha, ha. Very funny. I think I would prefer not to put wolf prey on my resume." Betsy sounded less sure of herself than she had a moment earlier. "Remember, it was not exactly a fortune in expense money that old man Kindred gave us, so we might want to consider camping."

A wolf howled again. The sound was closer this time. "If we can find an inn, it might be safer," Denis said. "I have the distinct feeling that we are being followed."

Betsy immediately turned in her saddle. Denis winced and shook his head as she made a grand show of studying the terrain behind them.

"I don't see anyone," she reported.

"Nor will you. Especially since you've just alerted whoever it was to the fact that we're aware of them. Trust me, with some hunters there is no way you would see them if they were following you."

"Did you see a signpost anywhere to give us some clue where we are?" she asked.

"No. Nothing since we passed the crossroads."

"As long as there wasn't anyone playing a fiddle there, we're fine," said Betsy. "This is where Rand McNally would be a big help."

"Rand McNally? Who is that? A Scottish guide of some kind?"

"No, they're maps. Sometimes it seemed like it took a year for my father to get one folded back properly," Betsy said. "And he'd never let me do it. It always had to be folded back just the way it came."

"Well, there is no reason not to respect the wishes of your father," Denis deadpanned. "Until then, draw an X on the map and label it 'Here be Dragons.'"

"Werewolves," Betsy muttered.

"Those, too."

"We could stop and ask for directions at the first farmhouse we come to," she suggested.

Denis looked sideways at her. "One look at you and they will think we're mad. And that will be before you even open your mouth."

"So? Just tell them the truth. We're looking for missing blacksmith apprentices."

"Then they'll know we're mad for certain. After all, who would come all this way to find people that they aren't related to and don't even know? Should I leave out the part where we are on the road because you're fleeing from your engagement to Sven?"

"I'm not engaged to him and his name was Albert, not Sven," Betsy said. "And it was all a big cross-cultural misunderstanding."

"The kind that can only happen after one too many pints of Thuringen Gardens' best . . ." Denis trailed off and shook his head. "I'm not the one that you should be explaining things to; more like Sven . . . excuse me, Albert. I don't see why you didn't just let him ask your father's permission for your hand. Surely things would have been straightened out then."

"You don't know my dad like I do." Betsy rolled her eyes. "I love him, but he's hopeless. Besides, Albert should have figured things out by this point."

"And if he hasn't?"

"I'll just tell him that I eloped with you." Betsy batted her eyes at him.

"God save me!"

Another wolf howled off to the west; the sound was much closer than before.

"You may be right about us getting off the road." Betsy nodded in concession.

Denis pointed toward a small thatched hut that was set back from the road. It was a sturdy looking place with earth and wood walls. Its presence was masked by the trees and brush so that it was easy to miss if you weren't looking directly at it; though it looked like no one had lived there for many years.

"Great," muttered Betsy. "Just great, first werewolves and now this."

****

The hut was old; the air inside heavy with dust, its former owners long since gone. There were only two rooms, one that had served as kitchen, living and sleeping area for the residents, while the other had been for storage and possibly a pen for small animals.

This was not the first place that Denis had seen in this condition; he was fairly sure it wouldn't be the last. While war might have stayed away from this part of France for several years, the conflicts between Huguenot and Catholic were going strong. Any kind of unrest usually meant that bandits would come out to play and there were times when you couldn't tell them apart from the latest local authorities.

"I wish this place were big enough to bring the horses in with us," Betsy said. "If there are wolves around here I don't want to leave them out as a temptation."

The two horses they were riding were ancient beasts, only one or two steps removed from plow horses or someone's next meal. "Tempting morsel" would not be a description Denis would have used for either animal.

"Don't worry; I tethered them on the other side of this wall. If anyone or anything shows up they should make enough noise to alert us," he said.

"And we can't even have a fire. Wonderful."

Denis would have liked a fire as much as Betsy. It might be almost May, but there was still a chill in the air. A fire would scare away wolves, but it could also be a beacon to whoever might be following them, if there was actually someone out there in the darkness.

Betsy pulled herself to her feet and went into the hut's other room, where they had stored the saddles and other tack.

"Denis, come here a minute," said Betsy in a strange tone of voice.

Picking up his pistol, Denis went through the door in a half dozen steps. Betsy was kneeling down near a stack of refuse next to the wall.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Look at these. I almost tripped over them in the dark."

A heavy blanket had been pushed to one side and there were a good dozen rolls of canvas bundled together and piled one on top of each other. Betsy sat back on her heels and held the topmost roll out for Denis' inspection.

His questing fingers brushed the surface, enticing memories of the dried oil paint, the rough feel of canvas to the touch, and the hand of his old master on his shoulder as he worked on an under painting.

"Paintings? Who in their right mind would store paintings out here in the woods?" he asked.

"A good question. Perhaps you can ask my captain. But for now, if the two of you want to live long enough see the sun come up again, I suggest that you not move," a strange voice said.

****

"Papers! My Great Aunt Lilibeth has papers! It just depends on whether or not I believe your papers are real. And even if they are real, whether or not they actually belong to the two of you."

Denis looked around the room that was serving as the office for Captain Marcus Pohl. It was certainly not as opulent as he would expect to see occupied by someone who commanded the dragoons that served the bishop of Mende. But he was a military man, and these rooms definitely had the plain, Spartan look that went with that profession.

The region that governed Gévaudan, known as Mende, was at the crossroads of several major pilgrimage routes. Since bandits loved to prey on pilgrims, Pohl and his dragoons found much to keep them occupied.

"I've explained who we are: my name is Denis Sesma, and my companion is Elizabeth Springer," said Denis. "We work as writers for the Grantville Times. Why have we been arrested?"

"You haven't been arrested, just brought in for a friendly little chat. When my men find strangers lurking in the forest, I start asking questions about why they are there and who they are," said Pohl. "And I keep asking them until I am satisfied with the answers I receive."

When they had been brought before the captain, he studiously ignored them for a half an hour as he continued to sharpen a formidable looking sword. Once he was satisfied with his work, the blade had been resheathed and now lay on the desk in front of him. Once he looked at Denis and Betsy his scowl seemed to indicate that he knew that they were trouble, and wanted very little to do with them before beginning his questions.

"I . . ." Betsy stood up, a look of irritation on her face.

Denis automatically put a hand to Betsy's arm to stop the sarcastic reply that he knew she was about to make.

"Judging by your manner of dress, you are Americans."

"Actually, I'm not American. I'm part Belgian and part Basque," Denis started to explain. This was the third time he had told the story since the three dragoons had found the two of them in the hut. "A handful of blacksmith's apprentices who worked for an American company vanished in this region while transporting raw goods and our editor thought that it might be a good story."

"And you've come all this way for a newspaper story?" Pohl shook his head. "Why?"

"Because the last reports of them were in Gévaudan," Betsy cut across Denis' explanation. "And there have been and will be reports of a lot of wolf killings in this area."

Pohl raised an eyebrow at that. "Wolves have been killing in this area for years. There have been rumors of wolves and men who turned into wolves all over this part of France for decades. What's different now?"

"Nothing, unless you happen to be a crazy, red-haired conspiracy theorist," Denis muttered.

The dragoon captain nodded. With a wave of his whetstone, he pointed at the rolls of canvas on top of their bags. "Very well then, explain that. My men said that you had those with you."

"We found them in the shack we were sheltering in," Betsy said. "Think about it, genius. Does our baggage have room for this stuff? Where are the bags that we carried it all in? Those nags we were riding had the extra space on their saddles for all of this?"

"Elizabeth," Denis said. "It might not be the smartest idea to offend someone who could have us killed and not have to worry about the paperwork."

Betsy went over to the canvas rolls, and untied the topmost one with fingers that shook in anger. Then she held it up for Pohl to see. "Caravaggio, if I'm not mistaken," she said.

Denis blinked at that. "What? Caravaggio? Let me see."

"It is," Betsy insisted. "It's called Fortune Teller. The subject is a gypsy girl."

Denis said, "I remember seeing it. It caused quite a stir in the art world. My old master had me study it." He gave Betsy an apprising look. "How do you know this?"

Betsy rolled her eyes. "I took a lot of art classes before the Ring of Fire. I switched to geology after that. My father wanted me to have a real career instead of knowing just enough to ask if you want fries with your burgers. Besides, I went through a phase where I thought that I couldn't possibly be related to the rest of my family. I was hoping I was a gypsy left on my parents' doorstep. So I studied everything about gypsies that I could get my hands on. That way when my real family came back for me, I would be ready."

Pohl looked at her, arching his eyebrows in surprise. "You wanted to be taken by gypsies?"

"Captain, on this trust me. Once you get to know her, that will make complete sense," Denis said. He reached for the next canvas in the roll, and surveyed the panting of seven men bowling. "I don't recognize this one."

"Game of Skittles, by Jacob Duck," Betsy said. "I think it is supposed to be painted sometime in the next year. These are all Baroque paintings."

"They look fine to me, nothing seems broken," Denis said.

"That's Baroque, not broken. Who's on first?" Betsy said. "That's what art teachers call art from this time period when they want to lump it all together."

It was Denis' turn to scoff. "I've seen books of your up-time artwork. Christo? Thomas Moore? If you ask me, modern art can stay in the future where it belongs. I don't understand how your Thomas Kinkade can be known as the painter of light when your people knew of Rembrandt."

"I think that's a marketing thing . . ." Betsy began to unroll a second bundle of canvases; there were a dozen bound tightly together. Her eyes went wide as she lifted the corners of first one and then another.

"The ones in this bundle are exactly the same as in the first one," she said, pursing her lips. "I'm going to make a bet that there are more of the same in the other batch. They are all Baroque. I think that whoever did these is good. Very good."

Denis groaned. "Copies! I was afraid of that. I know for a fact that the original Caravaggio is elsewhere."

"Since there are more than one, I don't think I am going to go out on a limb to say that we're looking at more than just the copies that art students make," said Pohl.

Denis and Betsy both jumped, and looked at each other guiltily. In the excitement of their investigation, they had forgotten about the captain. Now they looked at the man. In the space of just a few words he had gone from a menacing force ready to lock them up to someone sharing the same experience.

"You know about that system?" asked Denis. He remembered how he had sweated blood over copying any number of works by Rubens and the Carracci brothers. The only comment he would usually get from his late master was a growl and to have him point out where he had gone wrong.

"I'm not a total idiot who only knows that you put the pointy end of a sword into people," said Pohl. "My nephew is apprenticed to Jusepe de Ribera, and in exchange for giving him patronage, I get long detailed letters from him telling me all he has learned."

"Ribera? He was one of my old master's pupils."

"You studied with Francisco Ribalta? I heard of his passing," said Pohl.

"Yes. Unfortunately, I'm just not as talented as Ribera," said Denis. "After Master Ribalta's passing, I could find no other master to take me on. Thankfully, my cousin found me work as an illustrator for the Grantville Times."

Pohl walked over to where Betsy was kneeling and bent down next to her. "M'lady, if I may?"

"Of course, Captain." Betsy cast a quick glance over to Denis who simply shrugged. It wasn't as if either of them were in any position to stop the dragoon captain from doing what he wanted.

The captain pulled out one of the canvases.

"I know that one as well," said Betsy. "Landscape with Apollo and Mercury. I don't remember the artist's name, but I know the painting. I also am fairly certain that it won't be painted for at least another ten or twenty years."

Pohl looked at her oddly. "I don't really understand what is going on, but I do know one thing. I have seen this painting before, and within the last few days."

"Where?" asked Betsy.

"At the home of His Eminence, the bishop. He was showing off his latest acquisition."

****

Betsy held her compact mirror out at arm's length, trying to use the small surface to get an accurate picture of how she looked in the dress Captain Pohl had provided.

Hours ago, the captain had escorted them to a building located near the dragoon barracks, and requested that Betsy disguise herself as a member of the bourgeoisie while he made arrangements for her to meet with the art dealer who had sold the bishop the possibly forged painting.

Now she wore a gown that was edged in lace with a double layer collar. Betsy stuck her tongue out at her reflection as she dressed, ...