They come in all their finery, their horses bedecked with ribbons and cloth almost as bright as their own clothes. They have nothing but smiles for you, even those who resent your taxes and condemn your failure to join the war, and though you see the falsehood in their masks you have locked your own thoughts firmly behind your own, and have only smiles for them in return. At the gate they dismount, and you embrace them, and render a private prayer of thanks that the seneschal schooled you in their heraldry and names these last days so that you might greet them with enquiries about their land, their wives, their children.
Some have castles and palaces grander than your own – they might well think their power near equal to yours, though they’re too well-trained ever to speak it aloud. Perhaps that might change, were the wolf not at your side, ready to challenge anywho make a nuisance of themselves, and even with your bestial guard, there are some who have yet to learn the art of keeping their opinions to themselves.
‘It’s a pity, really,’ says a young man, not much older than yourself, with the emblem of a raven on his shield. ‘The war, you know.’
‘War is often a pitiable thing,’ you say, carefully, burying one hand in the wolf’s ruff as though it might lend you patience.
‘I’ve men enough eager for a good fight, and they had so hoped it would be their chance. Not enough land for them at home, you know, they would have liked the opportunity to win their fee the old way—’ He breaks off, so perhaps your mask is not as well-fixed as you might have liked, your courtesy failing you. ‘But of course,’ he says, catching himself. ‘No doubt you made a wise judgment, and spared us much grief.’
‘No doubt,’ you say, in the most pleasant tone you can manage, and are relieved when the seneschal appears to whisk the man inside and allow the next to approach you.
Many, it seems, have brought their sons – interchangeable young men, most of them aspiring to knighthood of a brighter sort than any they might find in their father’s service, but some, perhaps, seeking something else. You greet them all the same. You’re introduced to a fair few young ladies, as well; attempts to persuade you into marriage have not yet desisted. Most are models of courtesy, and were your mood brighter you might have found some pleasure in colloquy with them; one, however, has an interest in the beast so careless and claustrophobic that the creature growls and shifts with an impatience you’ve never seen before. You ask her to step back, for you fear the consequences if she doesn’t – and this, of course, only incites her interest further. Adangerousbeast is an exciting one, a story to take home.
You encourage her to leave with her story before it becomes a scar, and turn your attention to calming the wolf.
‘Are there many more expected?’ you ask the seneschal at last, for the air has an autumnal chill and you are growing tired of your position here at the gate.
‘Some,’ he admits, but on catching your expression, adds, ‘It would be perfectly courtly to receive them inside, should you wish it.’
Of course it would be courtly: you on your throne, they on their best behaviour. But greeting them here, before they have had time to arrange themselves after their journey, with all the strains of travel chipping away at their edges, gives you a more honest understanding of them. Some have been months away from court, for you recall them only when you must, and they have no mind to offer service that is not ordered. Their kisses taste of duty, and their words teach you much about them.
‘I will stay,’ you say, ‘though if you might have a cup of wine fetched, I—’
The wolf snarls, furious. You turn, startled by the noise, to see his teeth bared and his hackles raised, and when you follow the beast’s gaze you see a lone man approaching.
It takes you a moment to recognise him. His dress is a little more sober than the rest, and he is mounted on a serviceable courser with an ordinary riding saddle, free of ribbons and bells. His heraldry, though . . .
The wolf growls again, and the man stops, slightly further away than is truly polite, as though unwilling to bring the horse closer to the beast.
‘My lord,’ he begins, as soon as he is within earshot, ‘I am honoured—’
You will never learn what has honoured him, for the wolf is a blur of movement, an arrow from a taut bowstring released, andbefore you have truly registered that he’s left your side, his teeth have closed around the man’s tunic and are dragging him from his horse, stealing his words along with his breath. The baron lets out a strangled yelp of shock and fumbles for his sword, but the wolf bats at his hand, his claws drawing blood, and the panicked horse is rearing, trying to escape, and the man falls, hitting the ground hard.
The man. Bisclavret’s cousin.
When last he came to you at a feast it was to bring you the sweetest of gifts, his kinsman, an offering for which you are still grateful no matter the grief you have borne. But now he is flat on the muddy ground, the wolf’s teeth inches from his throat, paws on his chest. You have never seen the wolf like this before, his wildest self: predator, hunter, killer. For the first time, you might believe that he killed Bisclavret.
That thought breaks the spell of immobility that holds you. You’re on your feet, snatching a spear from one of the guards at the gate, using the wood of it to drive the beast back. He growls and snarls at you with uncharacteristic fury, but doesn’t bite, and you push him away. You glance over your shoulder at his target: he’s bleeding, but from the way he scrambles backwards and heaves himself to his feet, you think he’ll live.
The seneschal has called for help before you might think to do it yourself. Your knights come running, swords drawn. ‘Get rope,’ you spit in their direction, and in the moment of your distraction, the wolf tries to dart past you. He has the scent of his enemy now, and will not let it drop. ‘Leave him, damn you!’ You block his path, gripping his ruff as hard as you dare. You have no fear for yourself – you may never have seen the wolf as wild as this, but he would not hurt you.
Would he?
Somebody has brought a coil of rope. You have the wolfmuzzled and restrained while a servant catches the baron’s fleeing horse and another brushes the mud from the man’s clothes.
‘I wonder what he did,’ says a voice. Your knight in green, you see, turning your head a little.
Still stunned, and shaking now with the aftermath of violence, you manage, ‘What?’
‘The baron. For the wolf to attack him in that way.’
Perhaps it’s the shock of the attack that deprives his words of sense. ‘He is a wolf,’ you say, numbly. ‘It is . . . it is his nature.’
‘He’s lived here the best part of a year,’ says your knight. ‘I have never seen him snap at anyone – much less try to bite. And yet within moments of this man’s arrival, he’s been torn from the saddle? This looks to me like revenge, my lord. Some unknowable grudge of the creature’s.’
You regard the wolf as though you’ll find the answers just by looking at him, but he seems more animal than ever. Bisclavret’s cousin lives close to the forest; perhaps the beast has seen him there. Could the baron have tried before to hunt this wolf, thinking him his cousin’s killer? Does the wolf seek vengeance now for the insult and the injury?
‘The baron is my guest,’ you say finally, ‘and he has been attacked in my presence. I must – I must compensate him for this insult. Excuse me.’
