‘And he’s found somebody he favours, I see,’ he continues. ‘The rumours hadn’t picked up on that yet.’
You think of telling him that you sent her to Bisclavret, to test his courtesy, but he would only pity you for it. So you say, ‘If I wanted your commentary, I would ask for it.’
‘And if you wanted a distraction,’ he says, voice low, ‘you would ask for that too, I suppose.’
From another man you would think that was a threat, a reminder that he knows too much about you and holds too much power because of that knowing. But he is still a stranger here, and whatever his knack for accruing secrets, he is not the sort to spread them, or to break confidences better kept vouchsafed.
‘I am distracted enough,’ you say. Confess.
He smiles. ‘This isn’t distraction,’ he comments. ‘This is you tormenting yourself. Watch him all evening – it’ll change nothing. He’s happy. You have made him a knight, you have given him a gift, and even your ward is charmed enough by him to braid his hair and dance with him and will no doubt continue to do so for as long as he will let her. We know how this story ends.’
‘How do you know?’ you ask before you can stop yourself.
‘It’s predictable,’ he answers, and swallows a little more wine.
‘Not the story. The hair. How do you know she braided his hair?’
He gives you a pitying look. ‘Was it another of her ladies that you sent to him, then? Or did she ask you if it might be her, to know best whether he was courteous? Permission to flirt and tease and try to draw from him bad behaviour that was not there to be drawn?’
You reel, momentarily stunned. ‘Predictable,’ you echo numbly. A stranger here and still he sees the mechanisms by which the court ever turns, its seasons and its tides.
‘It’s how these things go.’ He drains his cup. ‘Will you dance, my lord, or does that crown on your head come attached to a rod all the way down your spine?’
There is no good answer to that. You cannot dance with a scribe, especially a foreign one, brought home from a kingdom neither of you belonged to. No matter how little you care about inciting rumour, there are some hierarchies that cannot be violated.
‘I would rather not,’ you say, which is a lie and he knows it. He doesn’t challenge you, however, but wanders away, and for a moment you think he means to abandon you, until he returns with a jug of wine pilfered from a servant and uses it to fill your cup again.
‘Tell me about your Sir Bisclavret,’ he says. ‘I know the tale of his father’s lands, but not how you came to learn of it.’
You should have seen the interrogation coming. ‘Poor weather,’ you say. ‘He should have sworn his oaths with the rest, but he and his cousin were delayed.’ You gesture vaguely in the approximate direction of his kinsman, now dressed in fine court clothing as befits a baron’s steward. ‘His cousin begged forgiveness, and I had the story from Bisclavret then. For a man seeking advancement, he was curiously hesitant to ask for it, and when it was offered – well, you saw him, he practically had to be talked into it.’
‘Hmm.’ Your book-wrangler regards them both, knight and steward, with a sly gleam in his eye. ‘If there’s a story there I could learn it, if you wished me to.’
You shake your head. ‘Bisclavret has offered as much truth as he is willing to offer at this time. I would earn his trust and his friendship honestly, and with it the rest of his story.’ In the meantime he is happy, and you are left watching him dance.
You sigh. It’s a deep sigh, and a melancholy one, and your companion looks sideways at you.
‘If this feast is such a trial to you, I’m sure nobody would object were you to slip away.’
‘They’ll notice,’ you say.
‘Noticing isn’t minding. Concoct some excuse about a pain in your head and they’ll not bother you for the rest of the evening.’
‘And then what? Spend the night in my chamber, alone and resentful? A poor occupation for a king.’
‘Nobody said you had to be alone.’ Another man might have said that with a leer. But although there’s an edge of mischief in his smile, his expression is simply kind. He has always been kind, even when you were a prince of nothing, seated by the door at every feast and sleeping far from the hearth at night,heir to too small a kingdom to be worth cultivating as a friend. If he hadn’t been, you would not have brought him home with you.
Still, you should be more careful. Yesterday’s encounter was reckless, exposed, and while a king may do as he likes and have few chastise him for it except perhaps his confessor, there are too many watching to see how you handle these first months of your kingship, and you would rather not start your reign with a reputation for hedonistic carelessness.
You watch for a moment longer, but the joy has faded. ‘Some air,’ you say at last. ‘I won’t leave entirely. But I’ll take a turn or two around the courtyard, and be back before I’m missed.’
‘Do you want company?’
He asks it so simply and frankly, like you’re any man. ‘Yes,’ you admit. ‘I would welcome it.’
And you work your way through the crowd to the door, stepping out into the cool night air and leaving Bisclavret behind with your knights and your ward, your family his and your home surrendered to him.
13
