His wife is good friends with Bisclavret’s; perhaps that’s why he’s hesitant to give credence to whatever unkind whispers are spreading. But you would hear them anyway. You turn to the others, and one, at last, answers: ‘The rumour is that his wife mourns him as though he is dead.’
‘That’s only half the rumour,’ says your red-haired knight, and though it’s sharp it’s not vindictive, for he’s not so crude a man as that. ‘The other half is that his cousin is . . . comforting her in her grief. That he’s been recalled because he’s Bisclavret’s heir. That she’ll marry him rather than leave her home.’
As though he is dead. But he cannot be dead. What danger would Bisclavret have met that would have killed him, when he has sought no battles and mustered no hunts? He meets no danger in his own lands that he’s not more than capable of facing down. Unless . . .
You turn away, striding to the stables and calling for a horse. You would speak with his wife before the rumours have a chance to grow wilder. You find it hard to believe that she would bestow upon his cousin any affection beyond that of a kinswoman, when she has always been so devoted to her husband and when you know her to be of good character. And as for the rest . . .
As though he is dead.Bisclavret has been gone too long. He has never stayed away like this before.
You take an indirect path to his home, out through the forest to the point where your hunting ground becomes his, approaching his estate from the east rather than by the cart road. There’s little to mark the boundary, but that your own forest is morecarefully managed, while he has left the flowers to mind their own growth – even now, so early in the year, hints of yellow amidst the green leaves promise the coming of primroses, and spring with them.
You can see the edge of the forest from here, deceptively close without leaves to conceal the light or block your view, and you’re riding hard for it when your horse startles, almost throwing you from her back as she rears. Only your saddle keeps you from falling, and even as you murmur reassurances to ease her fear, you look around wildly to see what it is that provoked such a reaction.
A heartbeat, then two, and then you see it, almost invisible against the grey-brown of the bare trees and the thick mud. The wolf.
The only danger Bisclavret might face here against which he has never proven himself.
Your heart beats against your ribcage as though trying to break bone, and the wolf holds you steadily in that baleful glare, ceding no ground. You spur your horse, but she will go no closer, panicked by the scent of the beast. Cursing, you slip down from her back, freeing your sword from its scabbard as you do, but before you’ve taken more than a step through the mud, the wolf turns tail and flees, loping away through the trees so quickly you can’t hope to pursue it.
No man could outrun that creature. No man could escape it.
No.You knew the wolf was here in this forest. You have known this for months, and never before have you lost a man to him, and never yet, for Bisclavret is too strong a knight to have been bested by a creature like this. You will not let despair overwhelm you without firm proof to support it. You will not let the dread build, though relentless its assault upon your confidence.
Determined, you remount, and urge your horse onwardsuntil you emerge from the forest and come within sight of Bisclavret’s home.
His wife, when you arrive, seems a little unsettled, but perhaps that’s only the natural anxiety of having a king for an unexpected visitor. Bisclavret’s cousin is there, too, giving the rumours weight you wish they didn’t have.
‘Where is he?’ you demand, before they can fall over themselves to offer hospitality.
‘My lord, something to drink—’
‘Where is Bisclavret?’
Gradually, their story emerges: Bisclavret went out late one night. He was inclined towards taking long strolls in the moonlight, but sometimes he would grow lost or distracted – well, you would know of that, of course. Here they pause and look to you for agreement, which you give, for you remember well his cousin telling you of Bisclavret’s wandering. Is that what they suggest is happening now? That he is simply . . . away?
His wife shakes her head. She’s weeping now, such that you’ve never seen her weep, and you almost know what the bundle in her hands will be before she brings it forward. Bisclavret’s clothes, torn and bloody. You recognise the woven ornament on the sleeves. You recognise the lacing of it.
You wish that you did not.
‘The wolf,’ you say heavily. ‘I saw it, in the forest.’
‘You saw it?’ says his cousin, startled. ‘Did you – did you give chase?’
You shake your head, running a finger over the muddied garment his wife has presented to you. Surely a man mauled by a wolf would leave behind more than this ribboned cloth? Surely there would be . . . remnants? You would have seen them. You are sure you would have seen them. You would haveknown.
‘Perhaps he freed himself from the wolf’s grip by shedding his clothes,’ you suggest.
‘Perhaps,’ agrees his cousin, doubtfully. ‘We hope for some miracle of this sort – hope always that he will return. We have been watching for him, but there has been no sign. With every day that passes we have less faith in his safe return.’
‘If he is in the forest,’ adds his wife; she seems entirely overcome, unable to manage the words, ‘how is he surviving? What is he eating? We cannot believe he will find enough to endure there for long. Not in the midst of winter.’
You swallow. ‘You believe him dead, then.’
‘We fear as much,’ says the cousin. ‘Whatever chance remains of his return, it grows more slender by the day.’
‘And you did not tell me?’ you say. ‘He’s been missing for days. We could have mounted a search, scoured the forest for him.’
‘Sire,’ says his cousin, with perfect humility, ‘we had no wish to trouble you with what we hoped was a mundane matter. When he first wandered away, there was nothing to suggest it was anything other than his usual behaviour. By the time I arrived to help in his absence, the wolf had been sighted, and we feared there was little you could do.’
