Somebody touches your arm, startling you from youryearning. You turn to see the chaplain, whose joy, it seems, is tempered by concern. ‘Be careful of him, sire,’ he says.
You frown. ‘What do you mean? You think he intends harm to me?’
‘Not at all. I bid you take care not for your sake, but for his.’ The chaplain looks across at Bisclavret, being slapped on the back, kissed, embraced by all the other knights. ‘I do not think life has been easy for that young man.’
You follow his gaze. It stings a little to see the easy brotherhood of the knights, which once you hoped might be yours. Now their friendship comes ever with the added weight of favour, of service: it is wholehearted and impossible to return. They would see no insult in sleeping on the floor at the foot of your bed, that they might claim such intimacies with their king, and whatever you may offer them in return is nothing compared to the whole of their life and body and honour, as they have given it to you.
Bisclavret will not even sleep in your hall. And yet he offers himself nonetheless into your service.
‘He seems hale enough to me,’ you say at last, remembering that the chaplain awaits a response.
‘Not all bodies that appear whole are as strong as they look. He is . . .’ A polite hesitation, pausing before disclosing secrets given in confidence. ‘He has a more delicate nature than perhaps you are used to, in a knight.’
You nod. He said as much himself. ‘He has, perhaps, a wilder soul than most, unsuited to a cage,’ you say, as though you believe it’s as simple as that. ‘But his father’s lands – his lands – are close enough that he may keep his own seclusion and sleep under his own roof, should he need sanctuary away from the court. He seemed to think that would help.’ You would give him that distance willingly, if it will keep him here by day.
‘Sire,’ begins the chaplain, but whatever reprove he’s about to utter, he thinks better of it, and simply says, ‘I will keep the both of you in my prayers.’
You suspect, coming from a priest, that that is a barbed statement. But you thank him and move away to join the feast, and you do not have to pretend merriment when Bisclavret is there, when Bisclavret is a knight, when he catches your eye and smiles, just once, without hesitation.
The musicians begin a jauntier tune, and there is a cheer as those assembled gather themselves for dancing. Your knights have brought their wives and sisters to this feast, and the colour and laughter of the women illuminates the hall. Pairs and circles form organically, lines interweaving; the knights join the dance as merrily as the rest, heedless of the weight of their mail.
Bisclavret is dancing with your ward.
She stands out, even amidst all the finery of the court on a feast-night. Her long braids of fair hair have been neatly woven with silk ribbon, and her bliaut is resplendent with gold, all buttercups and sunlight. The embroidery around the cuffs of her sleeves is so fine it must have taken a dozen women to complete, and all of that pales beside the joy of her laughter as she spins, hands clasped in Bisclavret’s.
A moment later, a second laugh joins the consort, a sweet-voiced lyre to her bright flute. Bisclavret.
He is no skilled dancer, clumsily fumbling the steps as though it is the first time he has ever danced them. And well it might be: you assume his mother hosted few dances, and he would have had no call to study this footwork with the solitary diligence he dedicated to the sword. But he is gaining confidence as she leads him, as the circle joins, as the people swap partners and come together and break apart again.
His laughter warms you. The sight of him happy, when he hasworn a crease between his brows like a jewel since the moment you met him, is balm upon a sore you had hardly noticed. But something cracks, too, at the sight of that happiness being found in the crowd while you wait alone by the side of the hall, afraid to join lest your crown ruin the fraternity of the dancers.
You would have him happy. But for a moment you wish that happiness were to be found with you, and not in the arms of a woman, however bright her sunshine smile.
You find yourself with a cup of wine in hand, and don’t remember calling for it. It’s welcome now that it’s here. You take a sip and retreat to stand against the wall, out of the way of the dancers, so that you can better watch their revelry. There’s pleasure to be had in watching the patterns they weave, spotting the unexpected pairings among the dancers – some reluctant, fleeing each other as soon as a tune ends, and others coming together for dance after dance as though they can’t bear to let go of each other’s hands.
‘That’s quite the storm-shadow on your brow,’ says a voice beside you.
You glance up from your wine. ‘Have your books spared you for the evening, then?’ you say. ‘How sporting of them, to release you for a feast.’
‘I came to give your seneschal the charter that will restore to Bisclavret his land,’ replies your scribe, with a wry smile. ‘But I would not have missed a knighting, in any case.’ It is odd to see him here, when never at that court of exile did a scribe have a place at a feast. ‘All the kingdom has turned out to see the man who has won his spurs from you. And there are rumours aplenty about him.’
You scowl. ‘There’s no call for them.’
‘No call for rumour about a man who came from nowhere to slay a boar and save your life, only to then defeat you incombat? You underestimate the human appetite for stories.’
‘That is a story grown in the telling,’ you protest. ‘The boar was a long way from goring me, and friendly sparring is hardly combat.’
‘I’m only telling you that which the people are whispering to each other. A king should know the mood of his subjects.’
You narrow your eyes at him. ‘You’re mocking me.’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Then speak plainly, or go back to mouldering with your books.’
He pretends affront, but his smile is back before you’ve had time to miss it. ‘He’s a beautiful man, my lord. Wasted in exile. How lucky for the both of you that he has been restored to his proper place.’
And that’s a sly remark and no mistake, but it’s not as though he’s wrong. There’s something striking about the way the torchlight catches Bisclavret’s profile as he whirls his lady around in a wild circle, laughing all the while. You didn’t know he had it in him to be so carefree.
