And he does, over his armour and his surcoat in the king’s colours. The first time he appears in this array to train as usual, the other knights bombard him with questions and the king wears a strange look, as though he is not sure whether or not he approves. And why should he? Bisclavret’s lands are fine enough,but she is the king’s own ward, and she will marry someone far greater than he, someone better educated and better attuned to the rhythms of courtly life.
He says as much, when the king remarks that he has seen her watching their training. Immediately he regrets it, in case it appears that he is declaring his intention to court her. But the king only says, ‘I promised her that I would be guided by her desires, when it comes to her future. So far she has given none of her time to the men who come angling for her hand. She enjoys walking with you; she speaks of it gladly.’
It’s as good as approval, and yet there is something cool in the king’s tone. He will be guided by her desires, perhaps, but he would prefer them directed elsewhere – is that the truth of it?
Bisclavret tries to push the issue from his mind in favour of thinking about his sword-work, but his preoccupation must be showing, for after they’re done sparring, the knight in the green surcoat announces that he’s taking him into the village for a drink. He’ll acknowledge no objections. ‘You succumb too easily to wine-sickness,’ he says, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. ‘I have appointed myself your tutor, the better to teach you to resist this enemy.’
The castle’s ale-wife brews a fine ale, and jealously she guards the secret of her recipes, but she has fierce competition down in the village, and there’s one woman in particular who is the true mistress of the art. Her husband’s farm is popular with locals and travellers alike, who find there entertainment and a drink and a bed for the night: it’s a welcoming rest-stop for those ragged travellers who dare not beg alms at the castle gate, or those with miles to go and no taste for the austere cells of the monastery to the north. It’s also a popular gathering place for knights in search of cheer and sport, away from the eyes of theirlords, their king, and the castle chaplain – though it would be rare to see them there at this time, scarcely past Sext with the winter sun high in the sky.
Despite the hour, they receive a ready welcome, and there’s an easy humour in the way the knight in green speaks to the mistress of the house. He knows her children by name, and greets the littlest of them, peering out shyly from behind her mother’s skirts. Soon he has secured for them both good-sized cups of ale, and bread, too, to strengthen them after sparring. And, most importantly, a place that they may talk without an audience – save the curious eyes of one child or another, lingering in the doorway to delay their chores.
It seems the knight does not plan to interrogate Bisclavret about his intentions towards the king’s ward, nor to admonish him for his inattention during their training this morning. He speaks instead of the other knights, determined to explain their histories and rivalries, their loves and losses.
‘You’ve already made a fair impression,’ he says, eyes bright with ale. ‘There’s no danger that they’ll see you as an intruder now – but still, it’s never easy to be a newcomer, and most of us have been brothers since we first came to court as children. It’s time you knew more of us than our sword-work.’
‘I have tried,’ begins Bisclavret uncertainly; there have been so many new faces to keep track of, and so little opportunity to talk. He has begun, gradually, to match heraldry to names and names to lands, but every time he thinks he has a sense of it, one man or another will have returned to his estate and somebody else come to court, and he must start again.
‘I’m not reprimanding you,’ says the other knight. ‘I mean to help.’ He begins with a knight with hair like fire and a tongue sharp as a whip. ‘He’s famous for his pride, and well he might be – he was near unbeatable in a fight before you came to court.
I think it’s a challenge to him that a man with so little formal training can rival his skill. But you’ve entirely different styles, and if you praise his footwork, you’ll win him over in no time. And if you see him with a dark-haired lady, that’s his sister, for all they don’t look alike. Compliment her, but not too effusively or he’ll think you mean to woo her. It would not serve you well to have a reputation for treating women lightly – better to avoid any misunderstandings.’
Bisclavret nods, more grateful than he knows how to express. He has felt adrift, these first weeks, unsure of his standing or how to behave among the other men. The knights have their jokes and squabbles, but they also have courtly manners, and their true feelings can be hard to perceive. Even when he is certain that their welcome is genuine, he is lost for how to convey his gratitude without seeming to grovel for their favour.
By the time the knight has finished articulating the foibles and characteristics of his companions, Bisclavret’s head is spinning, both from the ale he’s drunk and the amount of information he’s been given. Every knight, it seems, has victories to his name and stories spun about him; they have saved innocents from harm or defended another’s honour or achieved some noble quest previously thought impossible.
He learns that the knight with the emblem of leaping fish on his shield holds lands contiguous with his own southern border; to his west, his neighbour carries the heraldry of a lion, ‘though little he’s been at court this winter, for his wife’s heavy with child and deathly ill with it, and he mislikes to leave her.’ He learns that most have known the king since he was a youth, and some shared his tutors in arms and learning, though few were as close to him as the knight in green. Before his exile, at least.
‘He trusts me yet, I’d hazard,’ says the knight thoughtfully, ‘inasmuch as he trusts any, but he is still feeling his way. All themore important, then, that you know the currents of power for yourself, so that you are not swept away in his wake.’
All of it is useful knowledge to be given – and all of it seems to confirm Bisclavret’s own inadequacy. ‘I don’t know why the king made me a knight,’ he admits, the confession escaping against his better judgment. ‘Most would have sent me away when I arrived at their coronation feast rain-soaked and hours late, not invited me on a hunt. And then to keep me around . . .’
‘Really?’ says the knight in green, giving him a sideways look. ‘You’ve no idea?’
Bisclavret’s heart sinks. So it’s that obvious, then; he isn’t imagining the way the king looks at him, the banked flame of desire that smoulders in his eyes. No wonder he speaks so coolly of his ward’s care for Bisclavret.He was tumbling one of the grooms. What Bisclavret sees in the king’s eyes feels more dangerous than a youthful fancy. It shears straight through him; the king’s touch, he imagines, would unravel all remnants of his human skin and leave him wild and vicious.
He wouldn’t dare reciprocate it. Doesn’t dare examine his own feelings long enough to know if he would want to; better not to know, when he can’t. Never mind the curious warmth that comes with knowing he’s wanted – this would unmake them both, and cannot thus be countenanced, even in his own imaginings.
And yet – yet he is sworn to the king, sworn to his service, and if the man shouldask. . .
It would be a bitter poison, to lose the king’s friendship that way, but safety would demand the refusal. He couldn’t explain, of course; knowledge of the wolf would only make things worse. But if it is desire that raised him to his place at court, that gave him back his inheritance, then he cannot expect to keep it oncethat fancy fades, or is smothered by rejection. And he cannot pretend he earned this fairly.
The knight must read his thoughts on his face, because the sly mischief fades from his expression. ‘Bisclavret, you were dubbed in recognition of your skill and your lineage. Your lands are yours and nobody doubts your prowess with a blade.’
‘There is more to a knight than the ability to swing a sword,’ Bisclavret points out. ‘Or to kill a boar. Or even, one might think, being born of a noble father. A knight is brave and noble and courageous. Knighthood is about honour, and courtesy, and . . .’ He trails off.
‘On what grounds do you think you fail to meet those requirements?’ asks the knight gently. ‘Courtesy means not the manners of the court, though often we mistake the two. You have shown nothing but respect to your fellow knights; you’ve responded with grace to both victory and defeat. You have skill far beyond the most of us, but no arrogance to speak of, such that it shames those who have thought themselves superior. And if the hunt is any test of your bravery, then none can doubt it, for you slew that boar more fearlessly than any man ever went into battle.’
Bisclavret flushes. It is gratifying to hear his best traits articulated in this way, but it cannot smother his shame. ‘And yet you imply still that the king dubbed me because of his own desire.’
‘I spoke in jest, and shouldn’t have,’ says the knight. ‘Yes, I have seen the way he looks at you. It is clear to me that he harbours some interest beyond the usual. But I have known the king since he was a child, and I not much more than one. I watched him play at knighthood while I dreamed of it myself, and as we grew older, I saw him go from a boy swinging a stick around to a clear-eyed and high-minded young man who handled a sword like the best of them. I would not presumethat I always know his mind,’ he adds, ‘but I’d hazard I know him the best of any of his men, and so I can tell you that while I have often seen him momentarily captivated by a pretty face, I have never known him to act rashly because of it.’
A pretty face. Is that how the knight sees him? Is that how they all see him? ‘And yet he sent his own ward to test me before my knighting.’
The knight shrugs, taking a long drink of his ale. Then he says, ‘He would not have done that if he thought you would fail the test. And he would not allow a man even the possibility of kinship with his own household if he thought that man was unworthy of it.’ He adds, a little sharply, ‘Or is your opinion of the king’s judgment so low that you think him easily swayed to unwise decisions?’
‘No,’ responds Bisclavret immediately, chastened by the accusation. ‘Of course not.’
‘Yet your opinion of yourself is so poor that you doubt any who disagree with it. As though we are foolish, and unable to see for ourselves what qualities a man might possess – as though we have not the knowledge and experience to see your value for ourselves.’
