Through this cloud of apathy you make your absent way to the stables, and there he is: Bisclavret, looking pale and drawn and very much as though he has been ill, a half-healed cut on one hand. His hair hangs loose around his face and he has a nervous, darting gaze, unwilling to meet your eye even as you ask earnestly after his health. It’s not the behaviour of a man recently married who has been enjoying the delights of the marriage bed. It is the behaviour of a man who is afraid.
‘Bisclavret,’ you say finally, losing patience with his evasive answers. ‘Something is wrong. Tell me what it is.’
He cannot disobey a direct order. Even so, he considers it. Tries hard. Eventually manages to say, ‘I’m sorry, sire, but it’s not something I can explain to you. It’s . . .’ He trails off. ‘A matter of personal importance, not for the ears of others.’
‘I did not judge you harshly when you spoke to me of madness,’ you remind him. ‘What else can there be that you cannot explain?’
‘Too much, I fear, sire. I’m sorry.’ He brushes his hair out of his eyes with a hasty, thin hand. The bones in his wrists are more prominent than they were four days ago, and you worry for him. How ill has he been?
‘At least assure me that your wife is taking care of you,’ you say finally, expecting that, at least, to be a request he could grant. But Bisclavret avoids your gaze, and it strikes you then that his dishevelled appearance means he came here without hiswife’s knowledge. ‘In the Lord’s name, you’ll kill yourself if you don’t rest. You shouldn’t have come to court.’
‘Maybe not,’ he says. ‘But now that I’m here, I hear rumour of a hunt?’
‘Yes, they’ve spotted wolves in the forest, but—’ You break off. The colour has drained from Bisclavret’s face so fast you fear he’ll faint from the rush of blood away from his head. He staggers and leans against the stable wall for support, coughing to cover the movement. ‘Are you well?’
‘Wolves?’ he repeats faintly. ‘But there aren’t – there can’t be . . .’
‘You have a fear of them?’ You’re surprised by that. You didn’t think he was a coward, to be brought to near-swooning by the mere mention of wolves. A hunter of his prowess is more than capable of protecting himself. ‘I know they have been nearly gone from these woods for some years now, but my huntsman assures me we’re plagued with them once more. Three deer have been found dead so far.’
Bisclavret looks ever more alarmed. ‘Three?’ he says. You wonder if his illness has damaged his hearing, or addled his brains in some way. ‘No, that can’t be, there can’t be, there are no wolves in the—’ He glances up at you. ‘Where were they found?’
‘In the royal forest,’ you say, ‘a little west of here, and— Oh.’ You’ve begun to grasp the nature of his fear, for that forest adjoins his own land and any wolf might well slip from one to the other, poaching Bisclavret’s animals and threatening his tenants and his household. ‘I did not hear that they were as far west as your border, but well you might think to fence in your animals.’
‘Yes,’ he says faintly. ‘Yes, that I might.’
‘Are you sure you’re quite well? What is it that worries you about these wolves?’
‘Nothing,’ he says hastily. Too hastily. ‘That is, nothing that wouldn’t strike fear in the heart of any man. I did not think there were wolves in your forest, and as for my own lands, I’ve walked them enough times now and never seen hide nor hair of them. It alarms me to think they could have returned without my knowledge, for I felt I was a better steward to the woods than to have allowed something like that to pass me by.’
Perhaps that’s all it is. But there’s more fear in his expression than you’d expect from a man of his boldness and courage.
‘Will you join us on the hunt?’ you ask. ‘You might rouse your men to ride with us, since it concerns your land.’ You think you would feel safer with Bisclavret at your side.
He shakes his head. ‘I cannot. I’ll send men, if you desire it, but I’m too weak myself to be hunting wolves at present, and you cannot wait until I’m recovered if you’re to catch the culprits before they poach more from you.’
Of course he’s in no fit state to ride out – he should be in bed. Had you been thinking straight, you’d have forbidden him even to contemplate hunting until he has recovered his strength. And it’s true, you cannot wait, or else you risk attracting the rest of the pack to the easy pickings of your forest.
‘Of course. You must rest.’ You give him half a smile. ‘Not hide here in my stables as though trying not to be found by your wife.’
A flicker of discomfort crosses his face, as though the joke strikes a little too close to the truth. ‘Yes, sire.’
‘And ensure you speak to my physician before you leave. Perhaps there is something he can give you to speed your recovery.’
He nods. ‘I’d be grateful for it,’ he says, and kisses your hands before taking his leave.
You remain in the stables, because it is a relatively secludedplace for a king to submit to the maelstrom of his thoughts without being observed by a bevy of servants and hangers-on.
Bisclavret did not seem happy, nor did he look as though marriage agrees with him. It’s early days, of course, but such a rapid decline bodes ill. If his wife were not your ward, and you were not certain of her virtues, you might wonder if she poisoned him, for him to fall ill so quickly after their marriage.
A small, cruel part of you is perversely pleased to see him so weakened, and you despise yourself for it. If he were happy, content, it would be a wound and a reminder that he never needed you. If he is unhappy, perhaps she cannot offer him what he was looking for, either.
But you don’t want him to suffer. You gave him up so that he would be happy. If it were within a king’s power to grant him that happiness, you would do so, but all the jewels in your crown cannot buy you such influence over Fortune.
Instead you send a messenger to his cousin. He is rarely at court, now, taken up with his duties, and Bisclavret’s estate thrives in his hands, but when summoned, he rides hard to answer it. He arrives flustered and a little less put-together than usual, and is shown into your presence.
You pour him a cup of weakened wine, because he is still panting from the journey, and while he drinks, you say, ‘Bisclavret has a condition.’ There is no point beating around the bush. ‘Some kind of recurring illness. This is why he was so hesitant when he thought he might be obliged to stay at court, because the strain would worsen it. Following his marriage, he has suffered a bout of this illness, and now returns still suffering the aftermath of it.’
His cousin contemplates this pronouncement for a moment and then says, ‘That is more or less the truth of it, my lord.’
