The Unlucky Werewolf, Mr. Crelan

Crelan did not wish to consider whether Charles meant to use his daughter Louise as a hostage. But even if that was so, what could they do? Though the Duke of Cornwall warmly called him Uncle Crelan, there was practically no blood relation between them—King John Lackland had been the third king of the Plantagenet Dynasty, followed by the Lancaster Dynasty and the York Dynasty, then the Tudor Dynasty after York, and the Stuart Dynasty after Tudor. Charles I was the second king of the Stuart Dynasty; more than three hundred years lay between them. Yet the Serbian werewolves had unfortunately suffered a double blow from the Church and the Hungarian werewolves. With nowhere else to turn, he had sought out Charles I. All Crelan had originally wanted was a place to shelter in England, even if he had to serve or become the "annuity" the king handed over to the Church.

Charles I did not care much for this pack of werewolves. He looked at Crelan as though he were looking at a clown. Under the crushing burden of state affairs, being able to order a ferocious werewolf about like a hunting dog was indeed a delightful thing. At the time, let alone acknowledging Crelan's status, he probably had not regarded Crelan as a person at all.

Though Crelan truly was not human, he still possessed all a human's pride and self-respect. For the sake of his people, he had no choice but to endure the king's humiliation. And Charles I, perhaps for the sake of the "annuity"—another special tax levied by the Inquisition upon kings and lords, even those unwilling to obey the Church's commands. Put simply, they could hand over werewolves, Wizards, or devils from their territories, dead or alive. If they truly could not provide them, then the king had to pay an enormous fine.

Of course, a king—or any bold lord—could refuse to pay. That was fine. But the Inquisition would immediately withdraw from their territory. Then, even if the king and lords had castles and armies, their tenants and merchants would become sacrifices for werewolves or Wizards.

For the werewolves, driving out the old and weak once a year, or forcing them to willingly die, was not a bad way to solve two thorny problems at once—it reduced the burden on the pack while satisfying the lords' demand for werewolf pelts.

The Serbian werewolves had, in truth, already fallen apart. Crelan had once been a strong and clever leader, but his fault was that he was too indecisive. Or, to put it more kindly, he valued his feelings too greatly. He always did his utmost to save every member of his pack, but everyone knew that was impossible. Especially the young and vigorous werewolves—they had not yet reached the point of needing anyone's pity, and they were particularly dissatisfied with Crelan's methods. Some wanted to fight for the leader's position; others left alone or in groups of three or five.

But once werewolves left the pack and lost its protection, what fate could await them? The wolf pelt beneath the foot of Louis, King of France, provided the best answer.

Crelan had gone to see that wolf pelt as well. In fact, he had not needed to see it; he could smell that it carried the scent of his nephew, who had left not long ago. This young werewolf had not hated Crelan and the old and weak wolves as much as the others who had departed. He simply... did not wish to wait for death alongside a pack walking the road to ruin. Yet unexpectedly, he was the first to die.

Thus, the death of Charles I became the Serbian werewolves' only turning point. Compared to the wily and calculating Charles I, his son Young Charles was only a young man—not cruel enough, still somewhat naïve. He had not even questioned why Crelan had not gone to save his father. Crelan had to admit that he had watched Charles I being sent to the guillotine with great pleasure, but neither did he wish to seek refuge with Cromwell. This Lord Protector was a Puritan; in other words, he loathed werewolves, Wizards, and all people and things connected to devils. He would never cooperate with a werewolf.

So Crelan chose Young Charles. When Young Charles had nearly lost his life, he and his people had rescued the king's son, England's heir to the throne, just in time.

Young Charles firmly believed everything he told him, which was why he called him Uncle Crelan. He had even arranged for Crelan's daughter to become his maidservant, and then his sister's companion. This benevolent prince said that was the treatment due to a county princess. Ah, a county princess—Crelan could swear to his ancestors that he had never entertained such thoughts. All he wanted was a small but peaceful forest, where he and his hundred-odd people could quietly live out the rest of their days.

But that was a matter for later. As Crelan mentally counted through a list of those willing to support the Duke of Cornwall's ascension to the throne, estimating how much genuine support he could obtain, he walked out of Richelieu Residence. Because he wore a guard's uniform, few people paid him any attention. Only at a turn in the street did a bloody dead dog fall from the sky.

Had he merely been an ordinary guard, he would have been struck and his clothes dirtied. But Crelan was a werewolf. The moment he smelled the heavy stench of blood, he became alert. The dead dog landed three or four feet away from him, its intestines bursting from the deliberately slit belly in a grisly mess, the stench unbearable. Crelan heard people roaring with laughter, while others mocked someone for having such poor aim. He had heard in England that the commoners of Paris, France, liked to throw dead cats, dead dogs, or anything dead and inedible at noblemen or royal guards. It seemed that was true.

As he walked, he covered his keen nose. Paris's streets were simply too filthy. The ground beneath his feet was neither stone nor earth. What was it?

Excrement.

Horse, cow, cat, dog, and human excrement. Animals relieved themselves wherever they pleased, while people kept their waste in buckets. Every morning, housewives or apprentices would carry those buckets out, shouting warnings as they emptied everything onto the street. That was why pedestrians tried their best to keep away from houses, or, when gentlemen and ladies traveled together, the gentlemen courteously let the ladies walk closest to the wall. First, to avoid being struck by carriages; second, to bravely reserve for themselves the possible chance of being drenched in "gold."

No one swept up this excrement, nor was there any way to do so. Thus, after people, horses, and carriage wheels had repeatedly trampled and crushed it over the years, after sunlight had baked it and rain had washed over it, the residue naturally became the new road surface.

Breland was not walking on a road, but on excrement. It made him miss the forests of Serbia all the more fiercely.

As he turned the final corner and was about to leave Richelieu Residence behind, Breland almost instinctively cast one last glance at the elegant building. At that moment, a werewolf's sharp vision let him see a boy standing before a window draped on both sides with curtains embroidered all over with fleur-de-lis, his expression grave as he gazed down at the street. For a moment, Breland did not think of the boy's identity, but he quickly guessed it, because the Duke of Anjou, who was about the same age as this boy, still wore skirts to this day.

Breland hesitated for a moment, but in the end, he removed his hat, pressed it to his chest, and bowed deeply to the young king.