He has a quick and calculating mind, planning steps ahead. He has taken Bisclavret’s secret into his care as his own and learned to hide it with clever words and keen observations. It is a valuable talent, and a still more valuable friendship. ‘I will still owe him men and service. If there is a war . . .’
‘Then let us hope there will be no war.’ His cousin raises an eyebrow. ‘I did not forsake knighthood only to calculate your rents, Bisclavret. I meant it when I promised to help train your men, though I’m not the fighter you are, and I will be yoursworn man. If such a time comes that you find another steward, perhaps I will be your knight, and wear your livery.’
It is a kindness, and a practical one. But it sits uneasily with Bisclavret. ‘As children we played at knighthood together. As equals. Not one in service to the other.’
‘We were children,’ says his cousin. ‘There was never a world in which that was true. I have ever been the sixth of six and my father poorer in rank than yours. Service or the Church was always my fate and,’ he adds, with a wry smile, ‘I am not suited to holy orders.’
He’s right, of course, but for so long exile seemed the only fate Bisclavret might hope for, and that made a strange parity between them.
‘I will be glad of your service,’ he says at last, ‘and of your friendship, and whatever guidance you might offer me. But when my father’s lands are steadied, when we have unravelled the neglect and made them once again an estate worthy of a baron, and when you have trained another steward to see the currents of power that you see, then, cousin, you will be a knight again.’
His cousin smiles. ‘And I will be glad of it. But there will be plenty of work to do first.’ They ride a little further in silence, and then he says, ‘Will it be difficult, do you think, to say goodbye to your mother’s lands?’
Impossible, and also a relief. ‘They have been all I have ever known,’ says Bisclavret. ‘I will be leaving behind a life. But . . .’ This journey is wringing more truths from him than Confession. ‘But I am also leaving behind a great loneliness, and that is a blessing. And I will have the lands safeguarded, and should I ever have a daughter, they will be hers, and if I ever wish to return, they will be there. It is no true parting.’
None of this will cut the bonds that have tied him to thislife of secrecy and distance; it will only loosen them, slackening the ropes to give the illusion of freedom. He would do well to remember that. It will make it easier to bear, when the wolf robs him of it all again.
As it must. As he has always known it will.
You will be a knight,said the king. It was a promise more than an order, and still it sank into his bones like a command. The king desires it, and it will be so.
But even a king cannot command a wolf.
10
You
Sparring set aflame what was smouldering before; absence fans the fire. Part of you is sure that if you could only act – if you could take Bisclavret by the hand and lead him aside and forget your place and his – it would fade into nothingness, a simple infatuation, and you would be free of it. But left alone, the wanting grows and consumes, until you fear it will burn its way out of your flesh and leave a brand for all to see.
He is gone, in any case. A fortnight without him; a fortnight to have the arrangements made. A fortnight for the bruises he left on you to fade, and your raging blood to still to coolness.
You had no choice but to surrender the fight and give him the victory: he would always have won, and to prolong it would have shamed you. Your body aches still with the memory of blows, and when you undress to bathe the next day, your hip is purpled with bruising and your skin burns for his touch. In the polished bronze mirror, you see the mess he has made of your ribs and arms.
You would have let him do worse, but for your men watching.
The bath eases the aching and tames a little of the heat inside you, but it does not soothe your hunger or make rational your mind. Your disordered thoughts spiral into chaos, interrupted by the memory of him – of his smile, of his sword-work, of thebody beneath his clothes, of the way it felt to be the sole object of his attention. It’s for the best that he’s gone; you can imagine the trouble you might have made for yourself, otherwise, trying to keep a fair distance.
When you are dressed, you proceed to the chapel to make arrangements. The chaplain there is almost as newly raised to his post as you are: he’s a young man, younger than the dour bishop who taught you your letters and Latin as a youth, and far milder in temper.
He is not surprised to hear of Bisclavret’s knighting, which means word has already spread through the castle. ‘A man cannot be knighted until his soul has been made ready for it,’ he informs you. ‘When he returns, I will need to take his Confession. He will profess his faith and keep his vigil.’
‘You think his soul unready?’ you say, with a glimmer of mischief, squashing your disappointment that the ceremony must be delayed another day beyond Bisclavret’s return. ‘Why, he is a good Christian man.’
He could be none of those things and you wouldn’t care. You suspect the chaplain knows this, though he has been your confessor only since your return from exile, and spared the bulk of your sins and indiscretions.
‘It is as much a part of the ceremony as the oath,’ he says. ‘You know this, my lord. You kept your own vigil.’
You did. It was a lonely night spent making yourself right with God and your own heart before taking up the sword. You wonder, still, whether God really minds. If He notices at all. In your father’s day, there were no such vigils; were his knights less holy for it? None of them rode out to answer the call of popes and kings; they had enough to worry about at home without concerning themselves with holy war. But the spectre of it fell heavily over your childhood nonetheless.
‘Very well,’ you say, at last, though you wonder how Bisclavret will cope with a night under the chaplain’s watchful gaze, if he cannot even bring himself to sleep in the hall. ‘Though the man is practically a hermit. He must have done many years’ vigil under the stars before now, and made enough peace within himself for a lifetime. Certainly enough for a knighthood.’
The chaplain’s eyes narrow. ‘Anyone would think you were treating this lightly, sire.’
He has you there. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Mockery is unbecoming of a king.’ Is thatdisapprovalfrom this mild-mannered chaplain of yours? That’s new. You have never crossed him before, happy to let him minister as he sees fit. ‘Even the purest heart must be made ready for service, and I know nothing of this man. When he returns, send him to me, and I will prepare him.’
‘So be it,’ you say, and cross yourself in half-sincere deference. The chaplain raises an eyebrow at that, but he lets you leave without imposing penance for your impertinence. That is a relief: you have much else to organise, and no wish to aggravate him.
