But you refrain. ‘You have been as much an exile as I have, then, and for far longer. Your mother didn’t think to bring you to court, and ask for the return of your inheritance?’ Your father might have granted it, if he liked the old baron enough; he was not an especially loving man, but he could be generous to those who pleased him.
Now he does falter, looking to his cousin again. The knight steps in: ‘Motherhood suited my mother’s sister ill, and she was often unwell. I was fostered on her estate for some years in my youth, to give company to Bisclavret and ease the burden on her. She would not have felt able to come to court. It is, as we have found, no easy journey to make.’
And it is the cousin who has prompted him to make it, you suspect, for Bisclavret looks as uneasy here as you feel, his discomfort greater than can be attributed to his wet clothes. But those must be unpleasant enough.
‘Come,’ you say, and gesture to the bench beside you, close as it is to the warmth of the hearth. ‘Sit by me, and tell me of your father, and I will take your oath when you are dry and fed as any of the king’s men should be. Both of you,’ you add hastily. ‘You have both suffered on your travels, and have need of the fire.’
The knight’s eyes widen, for few of his status would be offered a place beside a king at a feast. But he must recognise the invitation as the hollow courtesy that it is, for he bows and says, ‘You have my gratitude, sire, but I must to my lord. I will leave my cousin in your hands.’
‘But—’ Bisclavret begins, as though about to object to his abandonment, but his cousin nudges him forward with an encouraging look and then is gone, off to find his own lord and the comforts of his proper place.
You are not sorry for his absence, for it leaves you alone with Bisclavret, unpolished and lovely as he is. For the first time all evening, you have stopped counting the moments until you can leave.
‘Sit,’ you say again, gesturing to the seat beside you.
With that same bestial grace, Bisclavret circumnavigates the table and sits beside you.
‘Are you hungry?’ you ask him. There is enough food in frontof you for a dozen close companions to dine at your side, and you have only been picking at it, but it is clear he is unsure whether he is allowed to accept the offer. You take pity on his unease and push a dish towards him, so that politeness demands he take a portion. He’s slender, even gaunt – not starving, for he lacks that hollow-eyed look, but still he is thin in the way of a man who burns more fuel than he can replace. And after such a journey as the one he has had, he will be in need of sustenance.
The hearth is warm, and you see the tension in his body begin to ease as that warmth reaches him, tempering the chill of his damp clothes.
‘Tell me,’ you say, when you deem that he has settled enough to answer, ‘are you here to beg me for your father’s lands? Do you come seeking your fortune and advancement?’
There is a moment’s pause while he chews and swallows his mouthful of food, and then he says, in a steady tone, ‘I am here to swear fealty to you, sire. The capacity in which I do so is for you to decide.’
A smile tugs at your lips. ‘You mean if I were to make you a knight and lord of your father’s lands, you would swear to me as such and forget that you had come here with only your mother’s estate to your name.’
He inclines his head in acknowledgment of the remark, both the possibility and the humour in it. ‘I would not forget my exile, for it is all I have known. I think perhaps you are a man who knows what it is like to become yourself away from the lands that should have been your home.’
Is that what you have been doing, these last few years: becoming yourself? Perhaps. You have practised the arts of the chase and the kill enough to satisfy even your father, and if you have also gained an education in the discourses of the scholars and clerics while you were about it, well, he is too dead to knowof it. Mostly, you’ve been learning what it’s like to be alone in the world, away at a court that bears little love for your kingdom and its stubborn refusal to be annexed into a greater empire.
‘Forgive me,’ he says, worried by your silence. ‘I spoke out of turn.’
‘No,’ you say. ‘Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have learned myself in my exile, and I will not readily forget it.’ You regard him for a long moment – so long that he flushes scarlet, as intriguing as it is becoming. He has the sinewy physique of a man not built for inactivity, and you would sooner see him amidst the woodlands of his home than here in this hall, hazy with smoke and drowning in voices and the strumming of minstrels.
You imagine it is beautiful there, this lonely estate of his in the shadow of the hills and the trees. You have long been enchanted by woodlands as more than a home for game and a place of hunting: by the way the spring blossoms and the pale green of new leaves defy the lingering remnants of the winter chill; by the bluebells gathering along the borders to herald the coming of summer; by the rich colours of the autumn, all bronze and brass and candlelight. Bisclavret would look well there.
Impulse stirs your tongue to action. ‘Ride out with us tomorrow,’ you say, before you can think better of it. ‘The hunt.’
He blushes so easily, this interesting young man. ‘I could not,’ he says. ‘I am not . . . prepared.’
Of course – his horse is lame, his clothes filthy from travel, and he will have no hounds or weapons to contribute. But no matter. ‘I will have you outfitted,’ you say. ‘I have many a fine courser for you to ride, and no shortage of equipment.’
‘That is . . . very kind, sire, but—’
You want him on that hunt. You want to know what he is capable of; you want an excuse to ride with him; you have the sense that if you do not press him now, he will slip between yourfingers and disappear, back to his home, for another quarter-century of quiet absence, and you will never see him again.
‘Your father must have ridden out with mine,’ you say, carefully calculating. ‘It would have been a way for him to prove his skill. His fitness for war, should it be needed.’
Do you want your father’s lands?you might have said to him.This is how you prove yourself to me. This is how you earn them.
Bisclavret hears it, and you see his desire warring with something you can’t identify – some fear, some inner conflict. Perhaps a lingering remnant of his exile, a shyness amidst the unfamiliar court.
‘Ride out with us,’ you say again, leaning towards him. ‘Let me see what manner of man you are.’
He bites his lip, and your gaze is caught by it. You cannot look away from his mouth. If he had a courtier’s manners, he would not feel able to refuse you. He would do whatever his king asked of him.
You asked him, in part, because he doesn’t.
