skin.
‘Bisclavret,’ says his cousin sharply, and he has the sense that this is not the first time his name has been called.
He pulls himself with difficulty out of his thoughts. ‘Yes, cousin?’
‘So youcanhear me. I thought perhaps you’d left your wits in that stable you slept in.’ Beneath the sharp words, there is relief: he is not entirely joking. He’s ever feared the wolf will take Bisclavret’s mind along with his form. ‘Are you well for the journey? Tell me now if you are not, that I might make arrangements.’
Arrangements. By which he means an alteration of their route to pass by some woods somewhere that he might let the wolf off the leash like an over-spirited hound in need of exercise. Bisclavret appreciates the consideration, but feels nevertheless the humiliation of need.
‘I am well,’ he says, which feels truthful, this time. How he will feel when he bids farewell to the estate that has been his gaol, however, he cannot say. Perhaps that will be what shakes him loose from his humanity.
His cousin makes a noncommittal noise and continues saddling the borrowed horses. Their own will remain here, so as to allow speed without injuring the beasts further.
‘Is there something on your mind?’ Bisclavret asks him, after watching for a moment or two. ‘If you have something to say . . .’
‘I will have several days to say it, while we travel,’ says his cousin. ‘And a lower chance of being overheard.’
That bodes ill for the kind of conversation it might be. ‘Before you say anything, then, let me remind you that you pushed for this. If you have any regrets or concerns, recall that I was on the verge of accepting exile as my lot and knighthood as nothing more than a childhood game.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ says his cousin. ‘I am well aware of that.’
He will say nothing more on the subject until they are on the road – just the two of them, without company, for the sake of speed and cost. It may be the last time Bisclavret travels like this, for there will be expectations of a baron to travel with servants. The prospect of a life of company brings both joy and dread: that he will not be alone, as he has so often been alone, is everything he has wished for, and yet it brings with it the impossibility of secrets. How will he conceal the wolf from them? Will he be known, exposed, shown to the world? He could not bear that.
Some miles from the castle, his cousin says, ‘Tell me truthfully. How much of your fear is habit?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your mother carved shame deep into you. I am aware of that. To my eye, you manage the wolf well enough; I have never known you hurt anyone or anything larger than a sheep. I see no danger in this new life – less, perhaps, than staying on your mother’s estate, which is too small for you, and drives you to hunt too far afield. Your father’s lands will grant you hunting rights, and are far larger, with some good acreage left without the interruption of tenants, such that you may remain concealed.’
It is delivered in a crisp manner, as though he has been evaluating this question all night. ‘But . . .’ prompts Bisclavret, for he knows there is more than this.
‘But you are afraid. You know the wolf better than me, of course; you know your needs. Are you afraid because you have grown used to being so, or because there is some real danger I have not considered?’
It is a mercy to be asked in this way, unflinching and honest. If only Bisclavret had an answer. ‘I have been afraid all my life,’ he says. ‘I have not known how to protect those around me exceptby withdrawing. This change threatens to unbalance me, and what effect that will have on the wolf, I cannot know. Perhaps it is perfectly safe. Perhaps the king invites disaster, and does so unknowing, and I would not put that on him. That he offered me this at all . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘Still I cannot fathom it.’
‘They are your father’s lands,’ says his cousin. ‘Had he waited a few more weeks to die, you would have had them all along.’
‘You know it’s more than that.’ Would he have been a knight, if that had happened? Would he have ridden beside the king, hunted with him, sat beside him at a feast?
‘I know that you have the king’s favour,’ says his cousin, and though his tone is even, there’s something in it that catches Bisclavret’s attention.
‘What does that mean?’ he asks.
‘That he looks at you like a starving man looks at a feast. That is a dangerous position to be in, Bisclavret.’
‘I have no intention of—’
‘What do your intentions matter? This is a king we’re talking about. A new king, his friendships at court not yet solidified. The man is alone – any fool can see he’s desperate for friends, to win the love of his father’s retainers, to know which of his knights are loyal beyond their oaths and which are looking ever for fairer weather. He is a crowned exile, and his attention is on you because you, too, are an exile and an unknown and have no prior loyalties with which he must compete. You were never sworn to his father. You underestimate how much that means to a man still finding his footing in a kingdom that no longer knows him.’
Bisclavret is stunned into silence. After several wordless moments, he manages, ‘Why give up your place as a knight to be a steward to me? You could advise kings. You have a canny eye for politics.’
His cousin laughs, some of the tension broken. ‘I am the youngest son of six brothers,’ he says. ‘My life has been an exercise in observing needs and alliances, and positioning myself to best catch the favourable winds. I know how to watch a man for his intentions, and I am telling you that the king is adrift. A baron who could situate himself as a reliable support at a time like this would profit well from it, but if the king proves rash, profligate, quick to make enemies, then that will be a difficult bond from which to extract oneself with honour. And he is young, untested. It is hard to know what manner of king he will be.’
One unlike his father, Bisclavret suspects, though having never met the old king, this is a supposition based on hearsay. The king does not seem rash, but that he is so intent on knighting a man he hardly knows – and surely no man of his father’s type would have brought a scribe as friend and ally upon returning from exile.
‘And yet you manoeuvred me such that I must accept the honour he has done me,’ he points out.
His cousin shrugs. ‘It is your inheritance. If this life truly suits you so ill, you will return to your mother’s lands and plead infirmity, and the king will remember that we warned him of your fragile health and accept this excuse.’
