In their sermons and prayers they speak of man being made in God’s image, but what does that mean when his own shape is so changeable? Is it his soul or his body that reflects the Almighty? For if it is his body, then either the Lord is more strange than has been preached to him, or he spends at least part of his time outside of the glories of creation, some uncreated thing.
And if it is his soul . . . well, he has enough of his mind in wolf-shape to suppose that he keeps his soul, too. He is a human in a wolf’s body, driven by a wolf’s hungers without being slave to its desires, and his shifting does not take everything from him.
‘I am sworn to the king,’ he says finally, ‘and you are his ward. I would need to ask his blessing.’
Her expression has been nervous, earnest, but now it fractures into a small smile. ‘And will you?’
‘Yes,’ he tells her. ‘I will ask him.’
The king has good judgment. The king will know in his heart if this is wise, and if he agrees, then all will be well, and a marriage will be well, and their children will be well.
But in his heart of hearts, Bisclavret fears – wishes? – that the king will see this for the danger it must surely be, and refuse him.
It proves more difficult than Bisclavret anticipated to find the right moment to speak with the king. He could seek an audience as petitioners do, or catch him after their sparring practice in the morning instead of staying to exchange the usual banter with the other knights, but neither feels like the right environment for this conversation. He practises the request alone at night, trying to find the words, and still it seems presumptuous to ask for this and expect it to be granted. Part of him almostbelieves she was testing him when she asked, and will retract her favour if he proves himself so easily led.
The words of the knight in green come back to him:You may not be able to see your own qualities, but please, spare us the discourtesy of assuming we are similarly afflicted.He must trust her to know her own mind and express it honestly.
Still, he’s close to losing his courage when he stumbles upon the king in the armoury. It’s a surprise to see him there, diligently repairing some small damage to his hauberk as though he doesn’t have servants to cater to his every whim. He has the knack of it, twisting rings back into shape and scrubbing away the rust that’s accumulated in the poor weather, and he doesn’t look up as Bisclavret enters, only says, ‘If you’ve a spare hand, would you pass me that cloth?’
Looking around, Bisclavret sees the cloth lying over a bench and hands it to him. It’s only as the rag changes hands that the king looks up, and smiles to see him there.
Bisclavret gestures to the armour. ‘Is it fitting for you to be doing that yourself, sire?’
The king snorts, and it’s hard to imagine a less regal sound. ‘I have hands, do I not? This crown on my head doesn’t render me entirely helpless.’
‘I’m sorry,’ begins Bisclavret. ‘I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.’
‘No, of course you didn’t,’ says the king. He has a wistful look. ‘A season ago, I was an exile who could scarcely persuade a groom to feed my horse without an incentive, so little did they care for me or any power I might one day hold. Now I must evade my own seneschal to be permitted to do anything useful for myself.’
‘That must be . . . strange.’
‘Strange is one word for it.’ The king twists his expressioninto a smile and resumes his work. ‘As it happens, I have a busy mind and idle hands, and this struck me as a useful occupation for them both. Was there something you needed in here? If I’m in your way—’
‘I came to borrow a whetstone,’ Bisclavret admits. ‘I expected to find the place empty at this hour. But now that I have you here . . .’ He pauses. The words are harder to find than ever. ‘There is a matter about which I have been meaning to speak with you.’
The king lowers his work to his lap and sits up a little straighter. Aside from their training sessions together, they’ve talked little these past weeks. Bisclavret has become just another thread in the tapestry of castle life, unremarkable in his presence – and it would be a lie to say it hasn’t been a purposeful act, for the king’s keen interest unsettles him as much as it thrills him, an intensity in it that he doesn’t know how to match.
‘Go ahead,’ says the king.
Bisclavret pauses, whets his lips. How to phrase it? How to make the request seem reasonable, conventional, within the bounds of his oaths and plausible for a man like himself?
In the end he puts it simply: ‘I seek your blessing to take your ward as my wife.’
The king looks at him for a long moment, as though he’s speaking a foreign tongue. Meaning seems to reach him only slowly, until finally he says, ‘Your wife? And . . . and she has indicated her willingness, has she?’
‘She has. It was her understanding that you would allow her to act according to her own desires in this matter. I know . . . I know that perhaps, as she is a member of your household, you might have hoped for a more auspicious match, but I can promise that I, at least, have troubled to know her before thinking of this, and would treat her courteously. My lord,’ he addshastily, trying to remember that he is a knight asking a boon of his king, not merely a cursed wolf-thing begging to be allowed some piece of normality in his life.
The king puts down his cloth and regards his empty hands for a moment. ‘Well,’ he says at last, ‘I can think of no objection, if you are both happy with the match.’
Happy. Is he? Bisclavret is unsure whether he was shaped for happiness, or whether the best he can hope for is to be more content some days than others, but perhaps in the end that’s as close as anyone comes. ‘You truly have no objections, my lord?’
The king gives a strange, jerky nod. ‘If I marry, it will be for the kingdom, not for myself. No reason that she should bear the same burden. I promised her a choice in this matter and I will keep my word. And,’ he adds, with a smile that wavers and fades before it fully takes shape, ‘I can think of no better man than you to ask for her hand.’
Bisclavret swallows the lump in his throat. ‘Thank you, sire.’
‘Speak to the seneschal about her dowry; he manages her inheritance. And you’re best off discussing the practicalities with the chaplain directly. May I trust that you will give her the good news yourself?’ In that moment, he reminds Bisclavret of his cousin: efficient, his mind turning at once to the practical details, carefully skirting the issue of his wolf-sickness, except that it is ignorance, not tact, which keeps the king from the subject.
‘I will. Thank you.’
