But he’d remember. He would have stopped himself before he hurt them. He has to reassure himself of that, when the memories are fuzzy and disjointed because the geography of a wolf is painted in scents and shapes that mean little to a human.
He is not wholly lost, even in the depths of his wolf-sickness. Only changed.
Bisclavret runs his fingers over his face, as he always does when he returns. He’s not sure what he’s checking for. Perhaps it’s the sheer relief of feeling eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth, the tug of his fingertips against his own lips reminding him that he has a mouth and that he has hands.
He has hands.
He begins to stumble towards the outwood – perhaps there he’ll have a hope of orienting himself and finding some way back to his abandoned clothing. The roots of gnarled oaks snag his feet, threatening to trip him; he’s helpless as prey compared to the wolf’s loping grace. Does he miss it? He’s not sure. There’s always a period, when he first comes back, when his mind isn’t certain whatskin it wants to be in, only that whichever he’s currently in isn’t it.
It’ll pass when he finds his clothes. He hopes. It usually does.
It’s cold, out here in the forest. When the winter comes properly, it’ll bring new dangers: he’ll need to ensure he doesn’t freeze to death while he’s a new-skinned cub stumbling pelt-less among the trees. He survived last winter only through careful planning, never straying far from home, but this year already feels different. New lands, a new home, paths he hasn’t yet learned, and a new resistance to the careful limits he’s built up over the years. The castle and the king and the lady – they’ve tangled the carefully separated threads that form his life, made a mess of it.
He’s almost to the edge of the trees when he hears footfalls.
No. No, they can’t find him here, not like this. Naked and wandering the king’s forest like a witless poacher. He tries to remember whether he hunted last night, and whether he’ll have killed any of the king’s own deer. He hopes not. He may be aknight now, with his father’s hunting rights to some of these woods, but it will still cause trouble.
A knight. What a joke. He’s a naked, terrified man with a wolf beneath his skin that threatens to steal him away. He can feel the shift coming, the aching as his joints prepare to twist inside out, and all he can think is,not again.
The footsteps come closer, swishing through the fallen leaves. They’re making no effort to conceal their approach – most likely, they have no idea that he’s here. He needs to concoct a story before they stumble into his path, but his mind is still half-wolf and ice-cold, and excuses fail him. There is no reason he can give for being naked on somebody else’s land that will make it any better.
The footsteps halt. He stays perfectly still, half-concealed between the trees, and hopes they leave before the wolf comes back, but they don’t move.
After several agonising moments, they break the silence. ‘I brought your clothes.’ His cousin. He sounds wary, and distinctly unimpressed, but not hostile. ‘I thought you might not find them. They were . . . scattered.’
There’s a rustling, as though he’s placed the bundle on the ground. Bisclavret coughs and it’s half a growl, but he manages to say, ‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll wait for you outside the wood.’
His cousin retreats. When he’s sure he’s alone, Bisclavret darts forward to pick up his clothes: his own linen undertunic, only lightly torn, and the fine gambeson his cousin had made for him for the ceremony; simple everyday braies and chausses; his boots, brushed free of mud. His mail and surcoat must be elsewhere. He doesn’t know how he got out of them.
When he’s presentable and the sting of shame has receded a little, he follows the sunlight to the edge of the trees. Hiscousin is leaning against a drystone wall, arms crossed. He looks relieved to see Bisclavret.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d come back,’ he says, ‘without your clothes.’
‘I came back,’ says Bisclavret. ‘But I might not have stayed.’ He thumbs the fabric awkwardly, feeling it brush against his skin, willing his body to understand thatthis is you this is who you are you are human. ‘Thank you.’
‘Here.’ His cousin pushes himself forward, and takes charge of the laces Bisclavret couldn’t manage, just out of reach of his fumbling wolf-scratched fingers. Every fastening he tightens seems to bring his skin a little closer to his bones. ‘You gave me a fright.’
‘Did I . . .’ Bisclavret’s mouth is dry. ‘Was I seen? I don’t remember leaving.’
The other man has changed out of his feast clothes, but he doesn’t look like he’s slept much. ‘You made it to the forest, just. I gathered your clothes before the king or his knights stumbled upon them and started asking questions. I didn’t see you change; you were already amidst the trees by then. By the grace of God, nobody else did either.’
His tone demands reassurance, or at least excuses, but Bisclavret has few to offer. He tries anyway: ‘It was overdue. You know we were lucky, on our journey, that the wolf let me be. After everything, I might have expected it sooner.’
‘Everything?’ his cousin echoes.
‘The hunt, single combat, our journey, Confession, a vigil, the ceremony . . .’ And the lady. And the sights and the colours and the fact that the change was already there, waiting, because he’d been too many days without it. He was deluding himself to think he would be allowed peace for long.
There’s a pause, and then his cousin says, ‘I must say, when Iurged you from your exile, I thought you had more control over it than this.’
‘I know you did,’ says Bisclavret tiredly. ‘I tried to tell you otherwise.’
‘Perhaps I was wrong to push you.’
‘Perhaps you were.’ It’s too late now. He’s sworn his oaths, accepted a blade from the king’s own hand. ‘Perhaps this is inviting disaster. Perhaps it is unsafe. But then, you said to stay in my exile was unsafe, lest the wolf be tempted to roam too far. The truth is that I have never been safe, and I will never be safe, for I can neither escape the wolf nor hope to control it. The best I can do is try to live despite it – which I thought was the philosophy you were encouraging me to adopt. You cannot now drive me back into fearful timidity because the limitations of that idea have made themselves known.’
‘I have no intention of doing so,’ says his cousin, with more patience than his bitter tone warrants. ‘If I wanted to hurt you, I would not have ridden half the length of the forest looking for you so that I might bring you your clothes.’
