It appears to be enough. ‘I’ve been told to equip you,’ says the knight, eyeing him, ‘but I note you’ve already got a sword. May I see it?’
Bisclavret draws it from its scabbard and passes it to him, oddly nervous for the judgment. It was, he believes, his father’s sword, but that’s only guesswork based on its place in his mother’s coffer, for she kept it hidden from him and it was only after her death that he took it up. He has had it repaired and sharpened, the wrap on the handle replaced, so that it no longer looks as though it has lain unused for two decades, and it’s a good fit in his hand, but that doesn’t mean it will meet the standards of one of the new king’s knights.
The knight in green considers it carefully and with a murmur of appreciation. ‘A fine blade,’ he pronounces eventually, and hands it back, ‘but you’ll need something blunted for a bout like this, and it would be a shame to dull these edges. You didn’t bring another with you, I’m assuming?’
‘I did not anticipate the need for a second sword,’ saysBisclavret, simply and honestly, and the knight laughs and claps him on the shoulder.
‘And why would you! Come. I will see you properly outfitted.’
To be outfitted means, apparently, passing through a hall crowded with other knights, all of whom eye him with interest; Bisclavret feels hot, and avoids their gaze. It’s foolish, really, to be so shy in crowds, but his mother’s estate is not so large that gatherings like this are commonplace, and he has spent little time among large groups. He half-expects the knight in green to notice and tease him about it, but if the man marks it at all, his only response is to quicken his pace and lead Bisclavret all the more rapidly through to their armoury.
‘You won’t need mail,’ says the man confidently, testing the weight of one sword and then a second. ‘That undertunic will do – are the sleeves well for you? You’ll likely want a cap, though, unless you wish your hair in your face at every moment.’
He’s never liked head coverings, though he wears them when he must. Perhaps that’s the wolf in him, desperate for the breeze in his hair. ‘What does the king expect of me?’ he asks. ‘I know little in the way of proper drills, though I have those of my own creation. I fear he’ll see me as terribly rustic.’
‘Oh, it’s entirely up to you how you warm up,’ says the knight, and hands him one of the swords. ‘How’s this? No – too light for you. I knew the other was a better fit. Here.’ He swaps it for the other sword, and he’s right; this does feel a better match. Only then does the man glance up and see the confusion on Bisclavret’s face. ‘He intends to see you spar, of course. He didn’t say as much?’
Bisclavret swallows. It may be that he can show his skills best when sparring – it is familiar, after all – but unless it is his cousin they ask him to fight, he doubts he’ll be a match for these menof the castle. No doubt they have their own techniques, refined and polished, and he will falter in the face of them . . .
‘Who . . .’ he begins, and has to wet his lips and try again. ‘Who does he wish me to fight?’
‘He hasn’t specified.’ The knight in green seems pleased about this, rather than concerned. ‘I was hoping it would be me, if I’m honest, after seeing you yesterday, but he may have a different mind.’
There are worse fates, probably, than to lose to this man, with his easy welcome and ready smiles. No doubt the king trusts him, or he wouldn’t have sent him to prepare Bisclavret for this test. But he’d hoped . . .
Well. He doesn’t know what he’d hoped. He never truly believed he would find himself in this position, no matter his cousin’s encouragement or the stories he told himself.
‘And if I acquit myself well enough,’ he says, ‘I suppose everybody will be eager to welcome me as his newest knight?’
The knight in green hesitates long enough for Bisclavret to guess the answer. It’s as he expected. Most of these men will have been in the old king’s service since adolescence at the latest, gradually distinguishing themselves until they might be dubbed knights. Bisclavret is a stranger, with no history of service – as yet, he has not even sworn himself to the king. Of course they would resent him.
‘One might wonder,’ he says, sparing the man the effort of explaining this politely, ‘whether he were deliberately trying to aggravate you all.’
At that, the knight laughs. ‘No, certainly not that, whatever grudge any might hold against him. He’s young, and new to ruling, and he has been gone too long to count any of us among his confidants – natural enough that he should find another man with no fixed loyalties and seek to know him. He can’t know ifany among us hold him in the same esteem we held his father. We spent our youth together; we were friends, once, and he trusted my judgment, once, but whether that trust remains . . . it’s hard to say. But I would not hold it against him that he feels adrift, or assume he acts out of ill-will towards any of us.’
There’s a fondness in his voice, and a certain sadness, too, though perhaps his grin is intended to hide it. This is a man who knows the king, in a way that Bisclavret does not. ‘His father sent him away,’ says Bisclavret. ‘Kept him from knowing his own courtiers and knights in the moment of his crowning. Why?’
‘Oh, there was no intention ofthat,’ says the knight in green. ‘I daresay the old king thought he’d rule another score of years, and give his son plenty of time to form his friendships here. No, it was only the usual. A father concerned that his heir didn’t have the mettle to follow in his footsteps. Thought he was a little too soft, inclined towards stories more than swords, and didn’t feel the weight of his duty. That he was tumbling one of the grooms likely didn’t help, though God knows there’s enough of that around and still the kingdom has children to spare, so his father must have known he’d grow out of it.’
This is a startling speech from a knight about his king, even a king newly-crowned whom he knew primarily as a youth. ‘Is that true?’
‘The groom? I wouldn’t say such a thing if it weren’t.’ He doesn’t seem particularly concerned by this, but Bisclavret can’t shake the feeling that he ought to be, that there is something strange and wrong about a king’s son offering himself to a servant, when there is such a gulf between their positions.
In any case, he hadn’t been asking about that. ‘That he’s more for stories than for swords.’
‘No,’ says the knight in green immediately. ‘He’s the bestfighter among us. Always has been. If he likes stories too it’s because he’s human, and don’t we all? It’ll be interesting to see what his time away has made of him, though.’
Bisclavret would like to know that too. To know the measure of the man to whom he owes his fealty.
‘Come,’ says the knight after a pause. ‘He will be here soon, and your muscles will serve you better if they are warm.’
There’s wisdom in this, but that makes it no easier to follow the man out into the courtyard again, where they are acquiring an audience – other knights and grooms and hangers-on, despite the early hour, eager for the entertainment to come. Bisclavret does his best to ignore them, stripping off his overtunic and testing the sword in his grip. It doesn’t feel as natural as his own, but it’s close enough; a few experimental drills, and he thinks he has the measure of it.
And it is . . . welcome. Calming, almost, to have this weapon in his hand, as though he is once again a gangly youth playing at knighthood with his cousin, no weight to the dreams. It banishes the wolf, who knows no weapons but his own teeth and claws, and grants him a firm humanity with each precise stroke through the air, the sword’s blunted edge cutting away his misgivings.
He’s so lost in the drills that he hardly notices the general babble of the crowd falling silent, the air suddenly prickling with tension.
Belatedly, he lowers the sword, and turns.
