The Curse of the Singing Wolf by Anna Lord Page A

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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