‘Go, then,’ says the king, ‘with my blessing.’ And then he picks up his cloth and resumes his polishing as though the matter is settled and there is nothing more to be said. No warnings or admonishments, no attempts to persuade him away from a course that will inevitably result in destruction. Surely a king, in his wisdom and good-judgment, should be able to see the danger lurking?
But whatever it is the king sees when he pierces Bisclavret’s soul with his gaze, it isn’t the wolf.
Bisclavret goes.
19
You
His wife.
You saw this coming, almost from the first time she spoke to you of him, but still it pierces you like an arrow, startling and painful. You agree before you can think of a reason to refuse – and what reason, truly, could you give that did not also do her a disservice? – and he bows his head and leaves, giving you no opportunity to reconsider. But it would have changed nothing if he’d waited a month for your answer. You wouldn’t take from him his happiness. You’ve seen how the weight on his shoulders lifts when he’s with her; she smooths away the creases in his brow, gives him the comfort you cannot, and no true friend would rob him of that.
And yet.
And yet you watch him leave with the sense of something ending. And yet you know that when he is married, he’ll spend less time at court (it’s inevitable; it is the way of things). He will not want for adventure; he will lose his taste for the hunt, unwilling to travel far from home and his lady. It will become harder and harder to drag him from his bed in the mornings to ride out with you and, eventually, you will lose him.
Not immediately. It’s never immediate, and you have known Bisclavret long enough by now to know that he will not shirkhis responsibilities or break his oaths. He will do his duty and more, and he has exemplars enough to follow – there are others among your knights who are married, and they do not let it keep them from court. But neither are they unchanged by it.
And if he is married, then he is lost to you.
He isn’t yours. He was never yours. He was nevergoingto be yours, but the secret hope was a small lie you could tell yourself without guilt. No more the innocent pleasure of wistful desire: such a thing will always be wreathed in shame for the selfishness and discourtesy of it, for you cannot think that way of a man who belongs to another.
Whatever his lady is able to offer him – her gentleness, her safety, her beauty, whatever it is that draws him – isn’t something you can give. If it were, he would have asked for it, you would have offered it, it would already be satisfied by these oaths and bonds that tangle you in each other’s lives. And if you cannot be what he wants, then you must put aside your jealousy and let him find it where he will. Tohelphim find it where he will, with all of your power and all of your heart.
This, too, is love: a sacrifice made willingly, to ease his darkness and bring him forward into something lighter.
But perhaps even a heathen before a burning altar might, for a moment, regret the blood spilled there and wish once again for the return of the slain beast. Is it not human, to be grieved by this kind of loss, by the knowledge that your beloved loves another? It may be a poor friend who resents his friends’ joys, even when they come at a cost to himself, but you have always suspected you’re a poor friend.
You go, as you find yourself doing too often these days, to see the only man in the castle to whom you can speak freely. Your chaplain is wont merely to look sympathetic and prescribe prayers as though they are the remedy to cure all ills, and yourseneschal has little time for feelings when there is always work to be done; neither will offer you any comfort today.
Your scribe is working intently, his pen in one hand and a knife in the other, carefully shaping trails of neat black letters. Propped in front of him are his wax tablets, filled with scrawled and abbreviated notes on whatever story he is now transcribing. He must have heard it from one of the storytellers, or else begged a glance at a book they carried.
He says, ‘You know, many would frown on a king taking counsel from someone other than his noble vassals. From a peasant and a foreigner, no less.’
‘Is that what you are?’ you say, taking a seat on the bench across from him. ‘Even with all your monastery-learning?’
‘Perhaps in the eyes of God we are all peasants. Or all noble.’ He darts a smile in your direction. ‘Omnes enim vos unum estis in Christo Iesu. Nevertheless, I am no baron, to advise your rule and your choices.’
You consider this. ‘It is not advice I seek,’ you say finally. ‘Only sympathy.’
He doesn’t put down his pen, but he pauses in his writing. ‘That, perhaps, a common scribe might offer,’ he says.
It makes it easier that he isn’t looking at you: you don’t have to hide your expression as you say, ‘Bisclavret is to be married.’
His brow creases for a moment. He resumes writing in silence, and only when he has formed the final letter of the line does he pause, glance up, and say, ‘Will that make him happy?’
Your voice is unsteady as you say, ‘I hope so. I would like to think it will. He – he seems to think so.’
‘But it will make you unhappy.’ This isn’t a question: he can read that much on your face.
‘It has no right to,’ you say. ‘I should be happy for him. Iamhappy for him – and for her. I wanted for her a kind husbandwho will treat her well, and she cannot do better. I want him to have what he needs, and that is not me. I have no reason to feel this way. I cannot resent him seeking out his happiness, wherever he finds it.’
‘Shouldis a dangerous word when it comes to feelings,’ he says, laying down his pen. ‘Should we be sad when an elderly relative, who has lived a long and full life, passes away in their sleep? Should we fear death at all, when we are promised such delights on the other side? Shouldanylove or hate or jealousy or happiness or grief exist? Perhaps not. Perhaps they are never justified. But we feel what we feel, and our hearts are no great respecters of reason.’
‘That isn’t the point,’ you protest.
‘I think it is,’ he responds. ‘You are holding yourself to an impossible standard, my lord. By all means, recognise that your feelings should not be acted upon, but it is no sin to feel them.’
