The Wolf Esprit: Lykanos Chronicles 3
Chapter One

Burgundy 1746

“He looks like his grandfather at last. Like a man,” Mother insisted. She ran her hand through my hair to push the wild auburn locks from my face as if to prove it.

Her declaration came when my father declined her proposal I should play the lead in Romeo and Juliet. It was one of three melodramas our minstrel troupe performed on the makeshift stage with which we toured the countryside.

“No one would believe it,” Father dismissed the notion again.

At sixteen, I could play the viol, pipes, and drums, though my greatest talent was for singing. Uncle Guillaume, a talented singer in his own right, had noticed my gift when I was a small child and seen to its development. The raucous applause my singing raised was embarrassing but also immensely gratifying. In silence, I’d decided I wanted it more than anything.

But the actual reason my father declined Mother’s idea went unsaid.

For a year, the man had said little more to me than the impatient barks of a manager’s commands. I disgusted him—he told me this the night he found Henri and me together in our tent. My cousin had let me touch him. The older boy encouraged me to take him into my mouth. And the sight of this act had so enraged Father that he beat me on the spot. But the volley of verbal condemnations and rage-filled vulgarities hurt me far more than his fists could. His words had echoed in my mind since that night, replaying again and again when nothing else came from the man to replace them.

“Of course, they would,” Mother returned. “Look at how his shoulders have grown. A year of building and tearing down the stage has made him strong. The girls will adore the sight of him in Henri’s doublet. Guillaume should write a song for the scene where Romeo courts Juliette after the party below her balcony. Can you imagine how the audience will applaud?”

Father said nothing more and rose from the breakfast table to join the others in preparing for the two-hour drive to Saulieu, the next town where we would stop to perform.

“Don’t worry. I’ll convince him,” Mother insisted in a hushed tone. “Finish up and go join them.”

With a nod, I swallowed the rest of my tea and rose to leave her.

Our camp lay only a few miles from Saulieu, and the men meant to have us break camp and set out within the hour. There was little to do, as we’d only stopped here for the night, and we hadn’t emptied most wagons. Still, each family tent would need to be broken down and secured in a vehicle.

“Esprit,” a girl’s voice caught my attention. “Come here.”

Thérèse Laborde had been my best friend all my life. Mother had let us bathe together as toddlers, and the splashing and laughter that ensued remained my first memory of her.

“What did he say?”

“He said no,” I answered with a small shake of my head. “Mother says she’ll convince him, but I doubt it.”

“Of course, she will,” Thérèse insisted. “Everyone agrees except your father. You’ll see.”

“Good morning, Esprit.”

Monsieur Laborde stepped out of his family tent with a smile in his eyes, though I took an involuntary step back from Thérèse.

“Are we ready to start?”

He nodded at where the other men had gathered on the east side of camp.

With a last glance at Thérèse, I joined her father. I kept my eyes on the ground as we walked, and he gave a small chuckle before placing his arm around my shoulders to draw me closer.

“Don’t act like that,” Laborde said with affection. “It’s just that you’re not children any longer. I know you’re best friends, and I’d be proud to have you as my son, but that isn’t how things are. Nothing’s settled yet, and your father hasn’t spoken to me on the matter since we agreed to wait.”

“I apologize, monsieur.”

“Don’t apologize, Esprit,” he smiled again and ran his hand to tousle my hair with affection. “Just keep your distance from her, as I’ve told you. At least for now. Promise me.”

I nodded my agreement, and Laborde gave another chuckle at my severe expression. But his jovial delivery did nothing to soften the steel of his sentiment. I’d made the same promise before, but found I couldn’t keep away from my best friend, whose confidence and counsel I’d needed more than ever during the past year.

Thérèse was the only one who knew the truth about me, other than my father and cousin, Henri, of course. She was the only one who’d known and guessed the truth of my nature and still loved me just the same, despite it.

“You don’t have to be afraid when you’re with me,” she insisted at twelve years old. I hadn’t believed her, shaking my head to protest her insinuation, but she placed her arms around my shoulders and kissed my cheek before hugging me tenderly. “I promise,” she whispered.

Since that afternoon, we’d rarely broached the matter again. But whenever Thérèse caught me stealing glances at the other boys, her knowing smiles and light giggles let me understand how my secret would never have to be shouldered alone. And that confidence meant everything to me.

The idea I might need to take her as my wife one day, as Mother had once predicted, and as Thérèse’s father had just reiterated, was something I never wanted. I would not start a family with her. I could never sire children with her. But she was the closest person in the world to me.

I joined Father and Uncle Guillaume to visit the magistrate’s office just inside the walls of Saulieu. Every town required us to register and pay the licensing fee necessary for public performance. We could normally set up in a town’s entertainment district, as it was never within five blocks of a church.

“You may perform in the streets near the walls, but your tents and stage must remain outside,” the magistrate declared after he took Father’s coins.

A sigh escaped Father’s chest, but he otherwise kept his composure.

“What time will the gates close?”

“The guards shut them at nine o’clock,” the magistrate answered. “But you needn’t be concerned. There’s a small door for those who arrive later in the night.”

Father swallowed his response with a nod, and Uncle Guillaume bid the man a good day.

As we left the office and returned to our caravan, my uncle did his best to lighten Father’s spirits.

“There’s no call to be upset, Claude. It’s the same in all the smaller towns,” Uncle assured him. “They don’t want us inside.”

“We’re not gypsies,” Father replied with frustration. “We’re citizens. We’re artists, and we pay our taxes. We have a right to camp inside the walls—to sleep under their protection.”

It was a familiar complaint, and one we could do little about. Father sought validation. He wanted the inclusive reception found in larger towns and cities, where people craved entertainment more openly and welcomed our stage on their streets. But the smaller towns all refused to shoulder any sort of traveler, prejudiced by the scourge of Romani, who were all too common in our country. France considered them to be a godless pestilence, roaming wherever they pleased, exhausting resources, and stealing from a town’s inhabitants. Though we were Frenchmen without question, our fair skin so unlike the Romani of Punjab descent, small towns often vilified us just as much.

“We’ll make camp just outside and place the stage at the front,” my uncle added to assure Father. “We’ll do well enough.”

The procedure was the same each time. We’d parade through the streets, playing our instruments and singing to announce ourselves to the townsfolk. Once the people formed crowds to hear our music, we’d stroll them out through the main gates, singing promises of the finest entertainment they’d ever seen. Outside, we’d perform dances and comedy, and the melodramas people were only too happy to pay to enjoy.

Upon returning to our carriage, Mother sighed when Father pulled off the road to a wide patch of grassland just south of Saulieu’s main gate.

“It’s not an issue,” Father assured her when he finished explaining how we’d take the usual precautions to keep the camp safe from bandits.

“Of course,” she nodded in respect. “Did you speak with Guillaume about the song for Esprit?”

A visible agitation sharpened Father’s brow.

“Talk to your uncle when you’ve finished setting up camp,” he said, though he never looked at me. “Let him decide.”

Mother nodded her approval and gave me a private wink.