Free The Silver Wolf by Alice Borchardt Page A

from under the debris in the cart. The thing, though stained at thehem, was beautiful: an overdress of blue brocade trimmed in white fur. The cloth seller dangled it before her.
    “How much?” Regeane asked suspiciously.
    “Six coppers only,” the cloth seller said, placing it in her hands.
    Yes, it was in good condition. Her knowing fingers explored the fabric. Not pure silk, but that wasn’t to be expected, not here. If the stains didn’t wash out she …
    The world vanished. She could feel the garrotte around her throat and even before it closed, she knew herself a dead woman. The man’s hands tightening the wire and twisting the wooden dowels at the back of her neck were too strong for her to challenge. Even though she ripped into them with her nails, felt the skin peel, and her fingertips slick with blood. She knew the hands would not release the wire and even probably took some satisfaction from the proof of her agony.
    The steel thread crushed her windpipe. Sight was gone. Air was gone. Life was gone. The only thing remaining was the scream … silent … only in her brain and it went on and on and on and …
    Regeane threw the dress away from her.
    “What? Are you sick?” the cloth seller shouted. “Are you pregnant?”
    “Why is it?” Regeane replied acidly. She was leaning on the cart, trying to get her stomach under control. “Why is it when a woman turns pale or seems ill—if she’s below seventy years—the nearest man asks her if she’s pregnant?”
    “Because she often is,” a musical voice answered. “But in your case, I believe you to be unusually perceptive.”
    Regeane turned and looked at the speaker. She was dangling the luxurious robe by one finger as if it were some filthy discard. “Take this … thing,” she said to the cloth seller, “and dump it into the unmarked grave where she lies. I’ll pay you.”
    “Oh, God!” Regeane said. “That’s foul.” She was wiping her hands on her mantle. She felt contaminated.
    The cloth seller tucked the robe deep into the rags on his cart.
    The woman continued lazily. “Its previous owner betrayed her lover to a man named Paul Afartha. He pulled the strings on our late Lombard pope. Her lover belonged to the presentpope’s party. Paul had him tortured but—unfortunately for her—not to death. He was released when Hadrian became pope. He’s blind in one eye and lacks some fingers, but he still has one good eye and two hands. He strangled her. She was wearing that dress at the time.”
    “It’s a good piece of cloth,” the man grumbled.
    This time the imposing woman spoke sharply. “Bring the thing to my house. Apply to my maid, Susanna. She will pay you and burn it. Sacred blood, man! Stains from her last natural functions discolor the hem. Do as I say.”
    “Yes, my lady,” the man replied meekly.
    Regeane felt disheveled. She was. Mantle at her feet, veil on her shoulders. The speaker, a tall woman, was fingering her hair.
    Regeane had an impression of rich clothing and silky exquisite perfume. Two large men who flanked the lady prevented forward progress. Regeane tried to ease backward. Impossible. She was caught between the cloth seller’s cart and the furniture man’s. They were pushed together at the back. She was wedged between them.
    “What’s a beautiful creature like you doing fumbling through trash like this? I could easily find you a … protector who would buy you better gowns,” the lady said.
    “I wouldn’t … I don’t think … I don’t know …” Regeane stammered, trying to push past the lady and her escort. The two men planted themselves like boulders and refused to let her by. The lady blocked the passage between them. They all looked amused.
    Regeane had never been so close to anyone as well dressed or as clean and sweet-smelling as this woman. The wolf was charmed and half in love already.
    “Cluck, cluck, cluck.” The furniture seller mimicked Regeane. “Stand up and speak to