You take the wolf, for you would not leave any of your servants with the enraged creature. He is still muzzled, still furious, growling deep in his throat at the injustice of a hunt denied. As you cross the courtyard, he tugs so hard at the rope in your grip that he almost tears free, straining like a hunting hound on the leash, and you must exert all of your strength to haul him back. The baron – Bisclavret’s cousin – flinches where he is walking to the keep, and the servant leading him to the physician does too.
‘Be calm!’ you tell the creature, but you have never learned tosettle him, because you have never needed to. ‘He is my guest. You will treat him as such.’
The wolf’s hackles remain raised, but the rope in your hand slackens a little, and you gesture for the baron and the servant to make haste. Then you take the wolf to your own chamber, and close the door firmly behind you.
‘What is this?’ you ask him, as though he might answer. ‘Will you provoke my barons into rebellion with your teeth? You will stay here, tonight,’ you add. ‘I cannot bring you to the feast if you intend to bite my guests.’ And you will have to seat the baron at your side and offer him some favour if you hope to win back his friendship. Perhaps a gift. His clothes and horse suggest his lands are not flourishing; maybe you might relieve his troubles, and receive his forgiveness that way . . .
The wolf whines, pitiful.
‘Beg all you like,’ you tell him. ‘You have made trouble for me. I have no choice.’ You will have to lock your chamber fast, and leave him scratching at the door. You cannot have him taken to the kennels, for in this mood, there’s no telling what menace he might visit upon the hounds.
But it is not easy, when the time comes, to bid him farewell, and descend to the feast alone. To hear the whispers alone. To know that word has spread already: the king’s wild beast attacked somebody; he is as dangerous as they always said; it is clear proof that you are unfit to rule; you have brought this violence into your castle and allowed him to hurt the very men who serve you.
Bisclavret’s cousin, the scratches on his hand neatly bandaged, is not greatly mollified by his position of honour, and the intended joy of the feast has been replaced by whispers and speculation. The musicians are cowed and quiet; the storytellers lose the thread of their tales, darting nervous glances at you asthough you, like the wolf, might at any moment attack them. Only the jugglers keep their nerve, but then, they are men of daring, tossing knives from hand to hand as though they fear not the blade’s edge.
When the candles have burned down and the entertainments have ceased, the baron at your side stands. ‘My lord,’ he says, ‘I bear no grudge and seek no restitution, but I will take my leave of you. Good night.’
‘Stay,’ you begin, half-heartedly, but he has already walked away.
Amidst uneasy murmurs, others follow suit, each lord and knight bidding you farewell, until at last there is nothing for it but to stand and take your leave, and let those who dare to remain in the castle make their beds and seek their rest.
Inside your chamber, the muzzled wolf waits, plaintive and unhappy.
You unbind the ropes, each loosened knot a whispered apology. ‘I wish,’ you say softly, ‘that I knew what you were thinking.’
39
Other
there’s nothing left but
HUNT
the target found, the monster named
–he is the traitor who helped her steal my skin
I know this the way I know so little–
each day a little more is lost,
the man’s mind mutable and muted.
sometimes there is only wolf
and all I know is
HUNT
but I know him and I know my fury
the hunter’s back, long dormant;
not quite the king’s dog after all,
though the mistake’s easily made.
–I let him feed me
