Mr. Werewolf Crelan

"Uncle Crelan." The Duke of Cornwall called out in a low voice. "What brings you here?"

"They sent me to find you," said the giant wolf. Its voice was deeper than a human's, threaded with a faint, wheezing rasp. "Your Highness."

"Those Church of Scotland members?" Charles said. "I don't trust them."

"You needn't trust them. You need only use them," said the giant wolf. "The most urgent matter before you is to hold your coronation and become king."

"I am still mourning my father."

"Believe me, the best way to mourn him is to hang every last one of those traitors in the square. Of course, if you are so inclined, you may pull out their entrails as well. Every mobster who dared assassinate a king deserves such an end. Not even Cromwell should be spared."

"Of course," Charles said. "But as you can see, I do not even have a horse to carry me out of Paris."

"Have you appealed to Queen Mother Anne?"

"I have."

"And Bishop Mazarin?"

"I appealed to him as well."

"Do they not wish to let you leave?"

"That is precisely what I fear. I hear they are in contact with the traitors' envoys. I do not know whether they will reach an agreement."

"Then appeal to Louis, King of France."

"He is still a child, Uncle Crelan."

"Precisely because he is a child, there may yet be a glimmer of precious light within him," said the giant wolf. "And do not call me Uncle Crelan again. Do not forget that the Surface World and the Inner World do not connect. Those who cross between them without leave will suffer punishment and attack from both worlds."

"Then..." After a moment of silence, Charles said, "Mr. Crelan, I will give it a try."

The giant wolf nodded and "stood" up. In an instant, his body began to change—shrinking and lengthening. The wolf's long muzzle receded, its fur withdrew into skin and flesh, and its bones and muscles crackled. It was not Charles's first time witnessing this, yet he still could not help feeling a faint pain.

When Crelan had finished transforming, there stood only an ordinary man with a resolute face and a tall, powerful build. Had there been a third person in the room, they would certainly have noticed that he bore some resemblance to Charles of Cornwall. This was hardly surprising, for the werewolves of Serbia had originally migrated there from England.

The story dated back to 1216. John Lackland, King of England, had been poisoned by a Wizard and died beyond cure. That cup of poison had contained wolfsbane—which meant that the poisoned man would eventually become a werewolf. Not long afterward, people began to hear bleak, terrifying howls continuously issuing from the king's tomb. The frightened people decided to drag the king's corpse from the tomb and perform an exorcism. The ritual was carried out, but the result was far from satisfactory. Though the new king repeatedly insisted that his father had found peace, people later still saw a werewolf clad in coronation robes and crowned in gold wandering through the forest.

Charles could fully understand why the new king had done so. According to the tacit agreement between the Inner World and the Surface World, werewolves, bloodkin, and Wizards of the Inner World were not permitted to interfere in worldly rule. Likewise, those of the Inner World were not governed by the kings or emperors of the Surface World. If the new king had dared admit that the werewolf was his father, then either the Church and the lords would have stripped him of his place as heir, or he would have died beneath the unending attacks of the Inner World. Even his father, who had become a werewolf, would not have escaped.

Perhaps King John Lackland, after becoming a werewolf, had sensed this as well. Not only had he left England and settled in Serbia, he had also abandoned his former surname and changed it to Crelan. Thus began the Serbian line of werewolves.

The Duke of Cornwall watched as Crelan put on a guard's uniform piece by piece. "Then what was the matter with those werewolves who attacked Louis?"

Crelan's hand paused slightly as he fastened a button. "They did it for you, and for your father," he said. "I hear they were offered a rather generous reward."

The Duke of Cornwall pressed his lips together. He grieved for those werewolves. They could all be considered his kin, and compared with those unruly lords, those wavering ministers, and those insatiably greedy clergymen, the werewolves of Serbia had exhausted their last ounce of devotion for him and his father. Now Uncle Crelan was still moving heaven and earth for him, making every possible arrangement, even risking discovery to slip into Paris. A werewolf attack upon the king had just taken place here; the Church might still have ascetics and holy knights stationed in places no one knew of.

"Your Highness?"

"Ah, what?" Charles raised his head. "What? Forgive me, my mind wandered for a moment."

"My daughter Louise..."

Charles shook his head. "It is nothing. She is still a child," he said. "Of course she would be frightened by a wolf pelt with a wolf's head still on it. No one suspects her."

"I think I should take her away," Crelan said.

"I hope you do not take offense," Charles sighed. "Your present situation is no place for a little girl of five or six. Your war with the Hungarian werewolves has not ended yet, has it? Leaving her with my sister is safest. At the very least, the King of France has not been seized and beheaded."

Crelan hesitated for a moment. "Very well, if you believe this will work."

"She is a good girl," Charles comforted him. "We all like her very much. She will become Henrietta's best companion."

"Let us hope so," Crelan said.