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eventually meet the end of all such creatures. Last night, however, the dead man in dog form returned to life, tore his cage asunder, and escaped. The other two escaped as well, their cages empty, but locked.”
    “The gibbets are empty?”
    Montguillon scowled.
    Lorenzo said, “Apologies, Father, but I’m trying to understand how this could happen. You said you’d burned the witches. And yet these creatures escaped? Including the one who was a dog—who looked like a dog, I mean. Could there be some other explanation?”
    “Yes, of course. There is a third witch. We did not capture her.”
    “I see.”
    “And now let us return to the question of Giuseppe Veronese,” Montguillon said.
    “Yes, what of him? He’s alive? Is he healthy?”
    “Alive, yes. Perhaps not so healthy. Right now he’s languishing in the dungeon of the Lord Gilbert de Nemours, the king’s provost.”
    Lorenzo started. “And when did this happen?”
    Montguillon turned toward the shadows at the heart of the chapel. His hands rested inside his sleeves, and in the flickering candlelight, his cowled face took on a dark, brooding air.
    “A few weeks ago,” he said. “They caught him running naked through the woods. Nemours has a chatelet twenty-five miles north of Paris, near the royal forest.”
    Something pinched his voice. Fear, Lorenzo thought. Why?
    “At first, Nemours didn’t understand what had come over the man,” Montguillon continued. “Madness, perhaps. Or some virulent new plague unleashed by the Turks. The trespasser was raving about the blood of a child. Strange, wiry hair covered his chest and back. His eyes were yellowed, teeth elongated. He walked with a hunch, and his breath came in wheezing gasps. Yet he possessed an unnatural strength. It took four men to subdue him. Nemours threw him into the dungeon, then returned to Paris, giving the matter no more thought. That is, until this morning, when word spread of the escaped prisoners.”
    Lorenzo stared. “And you think that Giuseppe is one of these wolf men?”
    “Not yet, but almost. I believe Nemours captured the man midway into a transition to a loup-garou . We burned his mistress, arresting the transformation. God willing, enough remains of his mind to reveal the identity of the remaining witch. He won’t give it up easily. We’ll force it out of him.”
    The prior believed this preposterous tale. That much was clear from the fervor in his voice. The fear in his tone.
    “Father,” Lorenzo began, “the king is indebted to the Boccaccio for 11,000 florins. Lord Nemours is demanding we loan him another 10,000 to finance his wars. I have no doubt that should I appear at the provost’s chatelet, I will find Giuseppe starved, in a foul mood, and completely sound of mind. Nemours will no doubt agree to release him—once we have notarized a contract for 10,000 florins at favorable terms of interest.”
    Montguillon removed his hands from his sleeves and steepled them in front of his face.
    “My young penitent, I am not so single-minded in my pursuit of justice that I am unaware of the workings of Mammon. I was apprised of this history between the two men. Indeed, I was initially suspicious, having learned that your agent announced his very intention to stop at Nemours’s chatelet after his return from Troyes. Presumably, to negotiate another loan.
    “However,” the prior continued, “the king’s provost never identified his prisoner as Giuseppe Veronese. The man’s appearance was greatly altered. To this moment, Lord Nemours has not made the connection, and I have no intention of telling him.”
    “Then how do you know?”
    “Because in my investigation of the Troyes road in searching for these wolf men, I came upon a destroyed wagon train, together with several bodies. Local thieves had already made off with clothing, goods, money, but left papers scattered in the mud. I was able to identify the dead men as certain merchants and their retainers who had left