Of the Wolf of Gubbio (or rather, Bobbio).¹

When Canva had resumed her place, Arbonne and Jardiance stood again.

Lady Arbonne curtsied to Lady Ouiser and then said:

‘With your permission, dear aunt, Jardiance and I would like to retire for the afternoon.’

‘Is something the matter, my sweets? Leaving in the middle of the stories would be a breach of courtesy shown to everyone here.’

The ladies were quiet and kept their heads lowered.

‘Your silence makes an answer for you. Therefore, I will hazard a guess. Monsieur Hercules of Brussels has said something that pricks at your conscience. But behold: the man is gone, and he will not return. Therefore, I beg you to at least impart to me what insult you think he bears against both of you.’

‘Forgive us, Your Ladyship,’ Jardiance said.

‘But you have done nothing wrong—at least I think you haven’t,’ replied Lady Ouiser.

‘We have withheld a piece of information worth knowing, however,’ Lady Arbonne said. ‘Matteo de’ Civigni was known to us², too, Aunt—while we prayed at the shrine of Our Lady, the villain approached us with an offer to tender our letters³ to our intendeds, with a consideration of one hundred florins⁴ to see it done quickly. But, seeing as he is dead, we fear the letters will make us appear sinful.’

‘True love is no sin. And if your sentiments are upright, my dears, the constables will see to it that the letters are delivered and your silver returned to you.’

Arbonne wiped away a tear.

‘The shame is too great for us to bear! How can the world proceed in such a manner, when even loving words must be carried in secret?’

‘Oh, my darling nieces,’ Lady Ouiser replied, her voice softened. ‘Your tender hearts know at last a problem that has persisted since the world began.’

‘No one will be insulted if the ladies wish to retire,’ Boulevardier then said.

‘I beg Monsieur to speak for himself,’ Master Xerox then said, closing his book. ‘People paid for a good show. I think we owe them at least a little something for their trouble.’

‘Good shows are rarely that, and not because of the actors,’ Messer Cayenne⁵ then said. ‘Ladies, take your place by Her Royal Highness. We, all of us, are friends. I will not make sport of you⁶ for doing what you thought was best. Matteo may be dead, but your love will survive him.’

‘—And Aunt Becky⁷, apparently,’ replied Abraham of Babka.

Messer Cayenne then swept down before Lady Ouiser.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I beg the indulgence of Your Ladyship to tell a good story.’

‘It is granted, My Lord,’ she replied, and thus Messer Cayenne began his tale.

I have not spoken because it is usually not my place to. I don’t like to mince words very much, either. I am here solely to keep Her Royal Highness safe while she wagers with those who would purchase her freedom. But I am sworn to His Majesty the Duke that it will never happen. Citizens bear a fealty⁸ to those who govern bravely. I would do anything for Her Royal Highness, as you have seen that she is an intelligent, upright and courageous soul. But my primary fealty is to my Lord the Duke. I would, however, put my life on the line for both of them, because love for the intelligence that fires the soul is ever a thing I will cherish.

I shall tell you now of where I am from. My father was born in Imperia⁹, and I in Sanremo¹⁰, but I was educated among Frenchmen in Draguignan. I became a soldier for His Holiness¹¹, but I was gravely wounded, and recovered in Savoy¹². I have lived there ever since, without a wife and with no children as I cannot have any. And because of that, my friends, I have made the State my wife and have adopted her progeny¹³ as if they were my own children.

But to return to my original proposition: ‘good shows’.

There was once a company of players at Alba one Carnival¹⁴. The Lord Mayor and his wife, two lowborn people named Ventimiglia, had bought the Mayoralty¹⁵ after making a killing selling wine to the Court. They went to see the show and were seated prominently with some other notable figures. I happened to be in the audience that day and can fully attest to the enormity I saw—of the audience, not of the players.

But I should mention the show was, oddly enough, a newer treatment of an old chestnut¹⁶—the story of a dead husband and wife in the house they loved, and of their appearance to a new lord and lady who had bought it, and especially their young daughter. To do this, the shades agree¹⁷ to pay a demon of Hell named after an unlucky star to drive them from the place, and there is much hilarity. The whole world loves the older tale, as it does resemble Rumpelstiltskin¹⁸, but, as I have said, with the dead instead of the living.

In any case, this lady and her husband, who were of such atrocious manners and deportment¹⁹, kept on interrupting the show with their commentary. Everyone told them to be quiet, but to no avail. Finally, one of the comedians²⁰ onstage spoke, while in character, and told them both either to be quiet or to leave. The house erupted in laughter and applause.

Then the second act arrived.

This woman was pleasuring her lord through his hose²¹ with one hand while they watched the show. Then, she condescended to the unspeakable while the theatre was dark. Many people saw it and were shocked to see such a dreadful thing. Then the house lights were raised and the couple ejected quietly and discreetly. Some country boys saw the man’s manhood flopping this way and that and this provoked laughter in the theatre.

But what happened next was even funnier. My Lord the Duke then happened to be with some other men of state at Acqui Terme²², and found the story quite juicy. So then he summoned the Mayor and his wife to tell them about it.

The whole Court went silent when the Mayor and his wife paid obeisance²³ to the Duke. Both were of a pallid color, as if they had seen a ghost. They had: the ones onstage at Alba.

‘Well now,’ said the Duke. ‘I thought to tell you both of a funny thing at Alba, and both of you look like you’re no fans of comedy. You happened to be in Alba that evening—surely both of you saw it, didn’t you?’

But both kept silent, and the whole Court knew then what they had done.

The Mayor was put from his post not too long afterward—something about taking money from coffers²⁴ not belonging to him. His son was also in nearly constant legal trouble.

If it is not sex, it is usually money that compounds the pains of state. I will explain what I mean.

There was once a man at Bobbio named Florindo²⁵ Malatesta, of the famous Malateste whom Dante wrote of²⁶. He was a businessman of some note in that town, attached to the Franciscan house where the Seraphic Father²⁷ bade the wolf to stop misbehaving. Because of the tremendous import of the wolf story to Bobbio, the Malateste set up a Veneranda Fabbrica²⁸ to look after the town in case a wolf just as big as the one St Francis stared down returned.

But, wolves being reluctant to enter into Bobbio, the Veneranda Fabbrica took to supplying thrifts²⁹ for all sorts of business matters. People liked the Veneranda Fabbrica because it used the money to repair the church in town and some important dependencies³⁰—mills and barns and the like. In time, it grew to be quite wealthy and well-respected.

‘Wait a minute, Messer Cayenne,’ Father Bunion then said. ‘I fear you’ve got your stories all mixed up. The wolf that St Francis spoke to terrorized the good people of Gubbio. Bobbio is another town entirely.’

Messer Cayenne’s face was as flat as a stone (and how on earth can one do that?).

‘I do not make mistakes, Father. I said what I said.’

‘But this is wholly contrary to the story told in the Little Flowers of St Francis³¹. There was only one wolf story.’

‘—That you know of.’

‘Not just me, Messer. St Bonaventure³², St Francis’s biographer. Would you counter the written record of not just one, but two saints?’

‘You must let Messer Cayenne tell his story,’ Lady Lunesta said.

‘You are forgetting wolves can and often do travel,’ Messer Cayenne said. ‘Why, even coming down here, we had to fire off a few shots to scare them off.’

Then Abraham of Babka shook his head and looked at Princess Calamondin.

‘Didn’t you have four Black guys with you?’

When Princess Calamondin did not respond, the teacher looked to Messer Cayenne.

‘I hope you two aren’t up to any funny business,’ he said. ‘God knows the people reading this whole damn thing will be liable to storm the gates of Heaven for it.’

‘I must continue my story,’ Messer Cayenne then said.

Then the Italian wars³³ took place. The money that the people of Bobbio had put up as security was sent to the armies. Florindo reassured the people that the money would return from the coffers of His Holiness. But then Rome was sacked³⁴, and all of its finery carted off or burnt, and with it, much of the wealth of Bobbio.

Florindo, nonetheless, recouped a portion and saved his hide in the process. Donors and some important Princes made up for the loss with their own pledges, with the understanding that the money would be returned at a future date, with an indult from His Holiness³⁵ excusing the sin of usury³⁶ on the Fabbrica.

But princes and churchmen are just as prone to use any old excuse from His Holiness to their benefit, and Florindo overpromised. He lent money that was neither his to use nor sufficient to build grand palaces, including that of the Bishop of Monza³⁷—a fine house which you can see to this day.

He also built himself and his brothers fine houses, provided them with orchards, gardens and cortili³⁸, along with servants and stables. Finally, he improved Bobbio such that it would both silence his critics and make the brotherhood of the Veneranda Fabbrica happy. But there was not enough money for continued maintenance, to say nothing of funding to repair the roof after a terrible hailstorm one summer day.

In time, Florindo had a wealthy roster of businessmen, churchmen and nobles as associates, such that his name was tossed around in the capitals for all sorts of political and social positions. His pretty wife was also living the high life.

A Jewish man named Ahasuerus of Cinque Terre³⁹ was passing through on the way to Piacenza⁴⁰ and saw Bobbio in a shabby state. So he got off his donkey and walked to the Veneranda Fabbrica, and said: ‘My donkey nearly broke its leg tripping over a pothole in the middle of the road. Everywhere in town I hear whispers of this Veneranda Fabbrica—why can’t they put their money to good use and at least fix the street?’

But the youth he complained to was in the middle of finishing up with a girl he had met that afternoon, and ignored him. So, while the boy made hay with his haymaker, Ahasuerus peered into the books⁴¹.

To his shock and surprise, he found that the Fabbrica was wholly insolvent⁴², and had been using borrowed money on expenditures that clearly were at odds with Christian charity and piety. I can only liken it to threadbare old tapestries which are so worn out that their figures are distended, with the threads so taut one can see the blank wall behind them.

This Ahasuerus then went onward to Piacenza, where he told some influential churchmen and princes, but these men were implicated in the affair. And worse—Florindo was among them, and threatened to denounce Ahasuerus to the populace with a grand story regarding the death of a child in Crema⁴³ whom the populace believed had been murdered on Good Friday⁴⁴. Of course, no such thing ever happened, and the bones of the child martyr were those of a dog. In any case, Ahasuerus was terrified for his life and left the place at once. Florindo and his friends continued to withhold information from the Duke, such that the Duke merely regarded it as a thing not worth regarding.

But in time, such crimes must come to light. The Duke died and, as the new Duke needed a tribute for the royal entry⁴⁵, some of his men went to the neighboring towns, hat in hand⁴⁶, ready to exchange court posts for contributions. They went to Bobbio and found Florindo planning a house for his wife’s lover, a courtier.

This was understandable, but the money used to build it belonged to the Franciscan house and the Veneranda. As these things were plainly irreconcilable, the nobles went to speak with Florindo about the money. He was evasive from the outset. To make matters worse, he was in the graveyard with a local woman, his hose pulled down, with his ass out for the whole world to see, and he was pleasuring her over the grave of a respectable man.

When Florindo said that the Fabbrica, despite his assurances, was flat broke, and had piled loans atop one another like corpses, the nobles had him arrested and the houses seized. The government had no choice but to confiscate all the ill-gotten goods and properties in which Florindo had invested, including that of his wife’s lover.

But worse for him was the fact that the people of Bobbio and the prior of the Franciscan house⁴⁷ found out what had happened to their money for the Veneranda Fabbrica. And when Florindo cried to them that it was ‘all just business’, one fine day after the May revels⁴⁸, he was taken up into the hills and thrown to the wolves. A year later, my grandfather happened to be passing through that town and found a pack of wolves fighting over a torn ermine coat⁴⁹. When he scared off the wolves, he brought the coat into town, but no one would countenance⁵⁰ the thing.

The Fabbrica was boarded up, and Bobbio was worse off than it had ever been. No one was paying their taxes. And as my grandfather was serving as reeve for the new Duke⁵¹, he had to endure the hostile stares of the common folk of Bobbio for merely asking where to bed down for the evening.

When he returned to Milan, the Duke asked him what, if anything, could be done to repair the trust.

My grandfather was a very wise man, and said: ‘My Lord, better that another wolf of Bobbio return to devour the town, than to ask the people to trust their government.’

Then the Duke was shown the ledgers from Bobbio. My grandfather said that the Duke blushed from anger more than shame, and shame more than regret. He ended up meeting the Veneranda Fabbrica’s obligations from taxes already too high for anyone to stomach. And speaking of stomachs, quite a few were empty from then onward, such that the Duke made sure that the Church distributed alms⁵² and food to households that once required neither.

And, having said these things, Messer Cayenne bowed deeply and resumed his place.

Nobody spoke for a few minutes. Then Father Bunion sniffed, sat up and said:

‘I still don’t believe that a wolf terrorized Bobbio. Unfortunately, these things happen from time to time in the Martyrology⁵³. I’ve spent all my life hunting down the best ones to compare stories against one another. Sometimes you read the most absolutely outrageous things. For example, in the Franche-Comté⁵⁴, on the banks of the Saône, it is said that St Peter had a timeshare with St Paul, and that you can still see the place where St Paul pushed down the Prince of Apostles⁵⁵ so hard his butt-cheeks left an impression in the limestone. People from all over France come by in late January to kiss it.’

‘And where did you read that utterly preposterous story?’ Lady Arbonne said.

‘In the Compendium vitæ Sancti Franconii⁵⁶. It quotes a ninth-century Martyrology used by Usuard⁵⁷. It was in the public library of the University of Dijon at Gremlin, but the Huguenots⁵⁸ closed it earlier this year—something about cleaning the windows.’

No one said a thing.

Father Bunion went on:

‘I would have had a chance to meet with the rector of the University⁵⁹ to have a peek at it, but a certain young man wrote to me that he had access to it—for a price, of course.’

Lady Ouiser’s expression changed.

‘I know what Madame wishes to say,’ Father Bunion replied. ‘I may be a simple country priest, but I am not a stupid one. Neither I nor Holy Mother Church have, as he put it, “the straight Gs”⁶⁰ to finance breaking and entering a university library to pilfer a ninth-century martyrology that’s also a cookbook. I mean, it’s tempting but also extremely tasteless.’

‘Are you saying Matteo de’ Civigni offered to steal a book that you wanted?’ Lady Jardiance then said.

Father Bunion lurched forward and glared at Lady Jardiance.

‘Must I repeat myself? Or shall I inscribe it in marble, as the imprecation⁶¹ was at the library—that, in addition to incurring automatic excommunication⁶² with appeal only to His Holiness for not returning a book on time, the sinner will also be fulminated by God⁶³?’

‘But you obviously didn’t pay the fellow. And there’s no telling whether the book is even what you want.’

‘It is a cookbook, and collecting those also happens to be one of my pastimes. Why turn to Livy⁶⁴ when you can peruse De coquina hominum divitum et stultissimorum⁶⁵? Like I said, I’m perfectly fine waiting for the university library to open, and I certainly don’t need villains such as this Matteo de’ Civigni doing my dirty work for me.’

‘Well, he’s not going to be doing anyone’s dirty work any time soon,’ Oura said.

‘Shall we go on with our day of storytelling? Only one story left. And I have yet to hear from the eminent Abbot of Costello. I see him stroking his beard and smiling even as I say these things,’ Lady Ouiser then said.

‘He’s probably thinking about where all the cheese went,’ Master Xerox added.

The Abbot—a grand, gaunt man in a dark grey habit with a splendid cowl⁶⁶—rose gently and gracefully.

‘A cookbook? For stupid people?’ Doktor Scholl said.