The Curse of the Singing Wolf by Anna Lord Page B

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.

8
Rockslide
     
    “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.”
    “How long has Sarazan been
terrorizing this region?” asked the Baron, chest-puffing out at the
mention of his illustrious ancestor, Charlemagne.
    “For as long as I have been
here,” replied the Singing Wolf.
    “The French Army should do
something about it,” declared the Baron.
    “The French army regards the
south of France as a foreign country,” said their hostess.
    “That sort of thing would not
be tolerated in Prussia.”
    “Nor Germany,” vowed von
Gunn.
    “The Balkans is overrun with
outlaws,” countered Prince Orczy wryly. “It adds to the romance of
the place. Women find dangerous men and wild places exciting and
erotic. Germany and Prussia lack soul. They are too industrialised,
too urbanized, too sterile. Wolves and bears and lynx are being
killed off in huge numbers…”
    “Speaking of wolves,”
interrupted Moriarty who was not in the mood for a lecture from a
penniless princeling whom he had noticed aiming more than a casual
glance at the Countess. “I’m sure I heard a wolf howling as I was
dressing for dinner.”
    “Do not worry, gentlemen,”
teased